#Dutch x fem!Oc

[flw3rrr]

A broken Promise

Characters: Dutch x OC

summary: Dutch meets a girl in Saint Denis. His attempts to swoon her over in order to get any kinds of amount of money he needs for his High mighty plan to leave for Tahiti.

OC name: Audrey evermore

Warnings: manipulation, angst, Taking advantage of use of money, Age gap, (Please let me know if anything else i missed!)

A/n: second time writing a long one. This man is like tough to write for.

Words: 4,732

It was just a normal day in Saint Denis. The workers were heading to their jobs to earn money for their homes, to keep food on the table, or to pay for their families. For the rich, perhaps. They mostly went to gamble, head to the offices, or even go on the boat and play more poker. That’s what Audrey’s Father did. he would spend but somehow win enough money to still gamble it away and keep his family together and rich. For her mother…. She spent her time gossiping with her lady friends, mostly discussing clothing or the events happening in town.

Audrey kept to herself and stayed quiet, as she didn't really have any friends. She would talk to the maids or any worker she saw or spend time alone when she wasn't forced to hang out with her mother and listen to gossip. Audrey would take walks around Saint Denis, taking in the atmosphere and admiring the flowers as she walked by. All the walks were normal. She gave a kind nod to those who greeted her with a good morning or afternoon. Nobody reading made Audrey interested in them.

That was until she met him. Dutch van der Linde... A famous outlaw across the states. He was charming and seemed smart just from his looks, especially with that grin he had. Audrey was memorized by him, but they only offered small waves and glances when given such an opportunity, but he was rarely seen in Saint Denis.

That was until she was walking her newly dog down the streets her father gifted to her, she noticed Him. but he was with two other men walking to Angelo Bronte’s house. She didn’t think much as she still continued to walk down as the new dog sniffed everything in her path. Audrey thought things on why on earth he was going to Brontes house, nobody really messed with him.

As she strolled back home, she suddenly heard a voice speak to her. It was hard to describe, but it sounded charming and strong. Audrey turned around to face the man, her eyes widening as she saw it was him. He stood right in front of her, a smile upon his face.

“I can see you have a new friend to join your walks miss.” He spoke with such confidence in his words. Almost as he seemed he was always right. Audrey was temporarily speechless, unable to process the fact that he was actually speaking to her. As she noticed he was awaiting a response from her, she eventually began to speak.

“Oh, yes… My father gave him to me as a gift. I named him Argus” Dutch loved the sound of her voice - it was soft and calming, almost as if it could soothe a crying baby immediately. He knew he wanted to get to know her better, so he made a mental note to take advantage of any future opportunities to do so.

“Well, isn't that kind gesture of your father. Rich I presume?” He only asked this, of course, to see if she would be any help for him and his gang with money. possibly scam them out of anything. “Well, you could say that I just don't usually like using the word rich. wealthy mostly.” Audrey said with a small smile.

Bingo, he thought. He knew that all he had to do was get closer to her, meet her parents, and get on good terms with them, especially her father. His goal was to ultimately swindle them out of as much money as he could. “Well, I'll let you head home miss… Perhaps I can walk you?” he said kindly.

Audrey was still staring at him in awe, almost hypnotized by his spoken words. After a moment's silence, she finally replied, "That's very kind of you," and began walking back home with him by her side. They both continued to speak as they walked back to her place. Dutch was sure to be careful of his questions, or answers. He didn’t want to scare her off quickly. The sun was slowly setting making the streetlights slowly turn on to light the roads and areas for the dark.

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

Over the past few days, Audrey and Dutch had started to stop on the street and having their own little talks with each other. She noticed that it was he who was mostly finding her, rather than the other way around. The chats would begin with him bringing her gifts - a small ring or a flower - which were all part of his plan to win her over and get the money he wanted from her father. Despite his motives, Audrey would always blush over his gestures, almost feeling hypnotized by him.

Though when he attended the party with Arthur and some of the other members, he found himself in a conversation with Bronte when suddenly a man in a well-fitting suit walked onto the balcony. "Ah, Mr. Evermore," Bronte spoke. Dutch was surprised, but at the same time, he was excited to be introduced to Audrey's father for the first time. He now had the opportunity to talk to him alone or convince Bronte to help him in his scheme to get money from her father. They were already discussing the subject of money, so it could be an easy sell.

"I apologize for being late, Bronte," Mr. Evermore said as he approached the balcony. "My wife was having difficulty deciding which necklace to wear, and she didn't want to leave our daughter at home alone." He nodded to Dutch, who was already standing there. "Women," Bronte said in response. Dutch was finally introduced to Audrey's father - learning that his name was William. The three continued to speak for a while, until Dutch joined Arthur to send him on a little mission.

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

A week had passed since the party, and Audrey hadn't heard anything from Dutch since their last spoken moment. She wondered if he had gotten tired of her already. She took a moment to brush her hair with a hairbrush she had gotten during a trip to France. After getting dressed for the day, she decided to take her dog on a walk to enjoy the nice weather outside.

As she walked around the small park near her home, she once again heard that familiar voice say, "Well, it certainly has been a while since we last spoke." She smiled to herself and turned around to face him, and Dutch could see the happiness on her face. He loved it, knowing that his tactics were working on her.

“It has," Audrey replied eagerly with a hint of happiness in her tone. "It's been a while since we've seen each other. I hope everything is alright?" Her voice started slow and monotonous, but it picked up its pace, and now she felt as if it had never sounded better.

Dutch couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at her concern for him. He admitted to himself that he had developed some feelings for her. His plan had originally been to befriend her so that she would introduce him to her father, but he had already met him at that party.

However, no matter how much he liked her, he had to keep his focus on earning enough money to move to Tahiti. “I’m fine, Though I had a quite a head injury, Ive healed fast.” he nodded. Audrey's expression filled with shock and concern as she heard the news. She took a step closer to him, wanting to touch his face gently, but she didn't, knowing that it might be inappropriate.

"Oh, well I'm glad you've gotten better," she said with concern in her voice. “But enough talking about me.. How have you been..?” he asked plainly.

They had their regular conversation, which, to an eavesdropper, would likely have been dull and uninteresting. Dutch talked about Evelyn Miller and his books, but Audrey didn't find the subject material particularly captivating. He also mentioned meeting her father at the ball, describing how well her father had a way with words when speaking his mind or giving opinions.

Audrey, in turn, talked about how her father enjoyed gambling. Despite their lengthy conversation in the park, they failed to notice that very few people were present. The ones who were still quite far away, but enough that they couldn't be seen.

As they both sat on the bench, with Audrey's dog resting near her feet, they shared a sweet, slow moment that felt like a fairytale for Audrey. She felt as if she had just met her soulmate, and for Dutch, he didn't feel anything in particular, but he did notice how she looked at him with so much admiration in her eyes.

"So, you mentioned that your father likes to gamble so much? How does he manage to keep such money to keep his family stable?" questioned Dutch, his tone laced with curiosity. He didn't mention at all how her father along with Bronte had told him about the money stashed at the trolley station, and he didn't like that one bit.

Being played like a fool and angered him, but he shouldn't blame Audrey for she wasn't aware of what had been happening in his life lately. "Yes, he still manages to find a way to keep some money to provide for us," Audrey answered, her tone suggesting that she didn't care to discuss her father at length.

Dutch couldn't help but notice that she seemed reluctant to talk about him, even though he had given her many gifts over the years. He made a mental note to tread carefully with the subject of her father in the future.

With the conversation hitting a standoff, Dutch decided he needed to make a move to get things going again. He thought for a moment and then acted, pushing a piece of hair back into place and carefully caressing her cheek with his hand, allowing it to linger there for a beat.

Audrey was shocked by his touch, but she pushed the thought aside. His hand felt rough to the touch, but she tried not to let it bother her. Dutch looked Audrey in the eyes, taking a deep breath before asking a daring question. "Have I ever told you that you are beautiful?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of flattery and determination.

It wasn't just about winning her over anymore; now he had to convince her to give him the money that he now knew her father wouldn’t give, He needed to persuade her without coming across as if he was using her. Audrey's face instantly flushed with a bright shade of crimson, her cheeks glowing with a warm blush.

Normally, when men paid her compliments, she would shrug it off and go about her day, feeling flustered and uncomfortable. However, with Dutch giving her this compliment, she felt like she had won the world. She suddenly felt important and special, her heart skipping a beat at the thought that someone valued her beauty so highly.

Audrey's eyes darted to the side, trying to avoid direct eye contact with Dutch. She felt suddenly shy and flushed, not knowing how to respond to this sweet compliment. But then Dutch took hold of her chin, gently forcing her to face him once more. Her heart skipped a beat as she was caught off guard by this sudden and tender gesture, and she felt a surge of flutters and nerves inside her chest. The excitement and anticipation she felt was overwhelming.

“Now there’s no reason to get so nervous now?” Dutch's smirk broadened as he took in the effect his words were having on Audrey. He was proud of himself for being able to manipulate her so well and put her into the position he wanted. He was so close to achieving his goal, and the thought of it was almost enough to make him burst with pride.

He just had to keep playing his cards right and the money would be his. Audrey hesitated for a moment before responding, feeling utterly flummoxed by her own reaction to his charm. She couldn't find the right words to say, so she resorted to the quickest one that came to mind: "I realized it's getting late. My parents must be wondering where I am." She rose from the bench, holding the leash for her dog, and offered Dutch a quick goodnight before leaving. As she walked home, mind occupied by the thoughts of their encounter, she found herself daydreaming about him.

Dutch's smirk stayed firmly in place as he watched Audrey leave, feeling like he was on top of the world. He had everything he wanted and felt like he was the best in the universe. His ego was on a high, and he couldn't wait to get his hands on that money. He knew he would only need to bide his time, and soon it would be his. The power he had over her was overwhelming, and he savored it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Audrey's mind raced with thoughts of yesterday's events, and she couldn't help but giggle with excitement. She kicked her feet with joy, imagining what it would be like to kiss Dutch's lips. She found herself deep in thought, unable to focus as she relived every moment of their encounter over and over. The thought of ever being with him filled her with such excitement that she couldn't contain it, especially knowing how close he had gotten to her yesterday. She was sure that this was the start of something great, and she couldn't wait to see where it would lead

Audrey was jarred from her thoughts by a knock at her door. She leaned up to see her mother walk in, her eyes filled with concern as she took in the giddy expression on Audrey's face. "Daughter," she said, sitting on the couch beside her bed, "if I may ask, why are you so…giddy?" Audrey's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she shifted her gaze away from her mother's piercing eyes, unsure of how to respond. She didn't want to give away her secret, but at the same time, she couldn't bear to disappoint her mother.

Audrey's gaze shifted away from her mother's intense stare, feeling embarrassed to have been caught in the middle of her giddy mood. "Oh, it's nothing, mother. I promise," she said with a smile, attempting to conceal the truth about her secret friend. She didn't want to disappoint her, so she tried her best to feign ignorance. However, her mother was far from convinced and simply looked at her with disbelief before shaking her head and leaving the room, wondering what her daughter was so giddy about.

Audrey stayed inside the house all day, left alone with only the butler who was in his office presumably working on other things. Suddenly, a loud knock on the door echoed through the house, catching Audrey by surprise. She approached the door to investigate, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected interruption. She reached for the doorknob and opened the door, unsure of what to expect on the other side. With such surprise it was him, Dutch. she blinked a couple of times before she spoke.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, confused. It's easy enough to find her house if you just ask a couple of people, but why is he here? She wondered.

“I noticed you hadn’t taken your daily walk, so I worried a little. Is it a bad time to be here?” he asked, a soft grin crossing his face.

Audrey looked at him with confusion and adoration, touched by how he had worried for her. His concern for her was reinforcing the beliefs she had developed for him over time. "No," she began, "it's not, but if my parents were home, they'd certainly be confused as to why you're here." She giggled slightly before opening the door wider to let him in.

As Dutch entered the home, his eyes took in the elaborate decorations. The house wasn't massive, but it was clearly the residence of someone with money, such as Audrey's family. Couches were placed against the walls, with paintings of ballet dancers or other random subjects hanging nearby. Some rooms even had grandfather clocks in the corner. It was clear that the family had a particular taste in interior design.

Audrey pointed out, "You came at a good time, actually. My parents are at a party, and our butler is busy in his office. He can't hear very well, so you don't need to worry about being caught being here." She was feeling nervous, given the fact that he was standing right in her home. She couldn't help but wonder what might happen and prayed for the best.

Dutch chuckled lightly and responded, "Oh, I'm not worried, sweetheart. I've handled worse…." He strolled around, taking in the room, then stopped and gazed at her. His eyes seemed to brim with admiration, or perhaps even desire or need. She couldn't quite decipher his intent.

"Can I get you anything?" Audrey inquired with a warm smile and kind tone as she approached Dutch, offering her assistance. Dutch politely declined, and they made their way to the sitting room, sitting on the soft couch next to each other in comfortable silence. The ticking of the clock reverberated in the background, adding to the peaceful atmosphere.

Dutch noticed a piece of paper on the table, addressed to Audrey. His curiosity piqued, he asked, "What's that letter for? Some secret lover?" He offered the comment with a dark chuckle, turning back to her for her response. Audrey's eyes widened, and she hurriedly dismissed his suggestion by replying that she had no lover and the letter didn't concern him.

Dutch continued his line of questioning about the letter, disguising his true intent as a lighthearted banter. He acted as if he were merely joking, but deep down, he truly desired to know the contents of the letter. Audrey, giving in to the temptation, finally spoke about the letter's significance, revealing its importance to Dutch.

"There was an ad I found where the church asked for donations to feed those who couldn't afford to do so themselves," Audrey explained, detailing her generous gesture. "I sent a letter with a check for a thousand dollars - it's the best I could do. My parents were part of the effort to donate such a sum, meaning this letter is them thanking me." She wondered why he was so interested in knowing the contents of the letter, but she pushed the curiosity aside for now, determined not to make a fuss about it.

As she spoke, Dutch's eyes lit up with delight, amazed that Audrey could be so generous. He realized that he could explain his situation to her, hoping that she would understand and be willing to help. He then moved his body closer to her, carefully drawing her into his arms and cradling her close. He made certain that she was comfortable with his embrace before proceeding, ensuring that any physical contact was consensual and mutually desired.

Audrey inhaled sharply at the sudden turn of events, her heart pounding harder than ever before. She looked at Dutch directly in the eyes, and for a moment, she was rendered speechless. Dutch's charm had once again gotten the better of her, leaving her feeling vulnerable yet intrigued at the same time. She let her hands rest on his chest, taking comfort in his embrace.

Dutch spoke softly to her, "Not only are you beautiful, but you also have a kind heart. You are truly a gem among women." He then took one of his hands and gently caressed her cheek with care, making sure not to frighten or overwhelm her. He desired to keep her calm and at ease in his embrace, which he hoped she felt comfortable and safe in.

she noticed her head and his were slowly leaning into each other slowly, then in a blink of eye both of their lips touched. the taste of whiskey and cigars came off of him but she didn't mind it. her mind was going crazy on how carefully he was kissing her. with such passion. he now had both of his hands on her face holding her into the kiss more as her hands wrapped around his neck.

Audrey withdrew abruptly from him after several moments of sharing an intimate embrace, breathing heavily as she looked back to the clock on the wall behind them. Her face took on a blushing hue as she became flustered and shy, recognizing that this was her first-ever kiss. "My parents are probably on their way home; it's best you go now before they arrive," she spoke softly, trying to gather her thoughts and recover from the encounter.

Dutch left the house after taking one last look at Audrey, his expression soft as he contemplated what had just transpired. That very evening, he disclosed his plans to the gang, detailing his encounter with Audrey. Meanwhile, Audrey remained in her room, grinning with joy, as if she held a well-kept secret from everyone else. Her parents entered the home mere moments after Dutch had departed, inquiring as to why their daughter looked as if she were harboring something.

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

A week had elapsed since then, and Dutch had secretly made his way into Audrey's room on two separate occasions. During those visits, they spent time simply conversing, and there was even some kissing involved. However, he was confident that he had caught Audrey's interest, as she consistently displayed affection towards him, including during their current rendezvous. She sat beside him on the bed, leaning into Dutch with a playful smile on her face, awaiting his next move. Dutch was aware that the moment was ideal, and he thus prepared to ask her the question that weighed heavily on his mind.

"May I ask you something?" Dutch inquired, eyeing the wall decor that sported a floral motif. Audrey lifted her gaze from him to follow his line of vision to the flowers on the wallpaper. She nodded, inviting him to proceed with his inquiry.

"You likely have a fair idea of my identity and the actions I must take in order to sustain the safety of my gang-family," Dutch remarked, clenching his fist while resting it near his chest. "We have been running and hiding for years, and we are simply growing weary," he lamented, then shifting his gaze away from the wallpaper to face her. Dutch was finally prepared to broach the subject on his mind, looking towards Audrey expectantly.

Audrey lifted her head upwards as he continued to speak, her interest piqued by his revelations. Although she was well aware of his identity and the deeds he was known for, she couldn't bring herself to push him away. Audrey was too infatuated with Dutch, even despite her opposition to the violent nature of his gang's activities. She remained intent on listening to the rest of what he had to say, still seeking an understanding of the nuances of his situation.

Dutch expressed a sense of desperation as he implored her, "We are making efforts to save money in the hopes of permanently relocating to Tahiti. I was curious if you might be able to lend me financial assistance in this pursuit, my darling..." He held her hands between his own, kissing them softly and gently, demonstrating a clear plea in his eyes.

Audrey gasped upon hearing Dutch's plea for financial aid in leaving the country. She was concerned at the prospect of him leaving her behind, but before she could voice her opinions, Dutch began to speak again. "And I cannot bear the thought of leaving you here by yourself," he elaborated, planting a kiss on the back of her hand in an attempt to persuade her. "We can become an item, my cherished," he declared, continuing to try and convince her of the merits of his proposal.

Audrey's eyes lit up as she listened to Dutch's assurance that he would take her with him to Tahiti. She yearned for a simple life, and the thought of being loved by a man who adored her greatly was exactly what she desired. She expressed her gratitude and acceptance of his offer, expressing her worries of what her life would have been like without him. Audrey hugged him tightly, grateful to have found a companion who cherished her and intended to share a life with her.

Dutch exuded a sinister expression as Aubrey embraced him, aware that he had achieved ultimate success. He realized that all he needed was the money she possessed, and he could leave the country with confidence, finding safety for himse- his gang and him with ease. Once he acquired the means, he could flee without any impediment, and his path to Tahiti would be paved without resistance.

"You have my utmost gratitude, my dear," Dutch declared, placing a kiss on her forehead, and then swiftly making his way out of her bedroom, making certain not to draw undue attention to himself. Audrey promptly returned to her bed, eager to ensure that the funds were at his disposal by the start of the following day. She allowed herself to drift off to sleep with anticipation, wondering if they would make new friends once they touched down in Tahiti.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the following morning, Audrey awoke early, and hastily proceeded to the bank, having made a firm decision to gather the necessary funds to support Dutch's plans of leaving the country. Walking down the city streets, she then reached the Cathedral and noticed him approaching her with a sense of satisfaction and pridefulness. His weapons seemed to glitter in the morning sunlight, and he exuded an air of confidence as he confidently moved towards her.

Audrey's hand swiftly moved upwards, and she placed bills of money in Dutch's hand, who eagerly took hold of them without even hesitating. A feeling of joy washed over Dutch's features, and he flashed a satisfied grin in her direction. "You have done splendidly, my dear," he complimented before adding, "I possess pressing duties to carry out, but I will return to you as soon as possible to finalize our escape." He then nodded to her and proceeded to disappear into the alleys, eager to get started with his preparations.

A day later…….

two days….

three going onto weeks.

As the days passed, Audrey had not heard from Dutch. Her worries began to consume her, and she soon harbored a strong sense of uncertainty, considering that he had perhaps simply abandoned her, leaving without a trace. She was heartbroken at the idea of being cheated and made a mockery of, having granted him a hefty amount of money only to have her hopes shattered. Audrey cried into her pillow, her sorrow compounded by her parents' scolding once they learned about the financial situation she was in.

In time, she was left alone to stew in her emotions of anger and disappointment, incapable of finding any means to vent or relieve her anguish. She felt like she was left in the dark, and the realization of the broken promise and broken heart became too much for her, leaving her with a myriad of feelings that she struggled to express.

he had broken his promise….

[red-doll-face]

Out of the Morgan Brothers, ironically, Abel Morgan is the one with the worst reputation. His twin brother, Arthur, is often the shining star of morality between the two. Though very different, unfortunately their taste in women is much the same, landing on poor you. 

High Honor Arthur Morgan x fem. reader x Low Honor Twin Brother (Abel Morgan) (OC??)

This has probably been done before but I love this idea and I think having two sexy cowboys chasing after you sounds like too good a time to pass up 😊😊😏😏😏😍😍 i just think naming arthur's licheral evil twin abel is so funny, sorry... thanks for reading ! and lemme know if you guys like it bc i definitely have a part 2 ready to go LMAO i wrote like 7 pages of this but thought it was too long 😔😔😔😭😭😭

Warnings: low honor arthur (or his twin i guess) as a warning, some mentions of blood and violence, alcohol

You had never met twins before the Morgan boys, it was a little surreal, the same eyes, the same hair color, the same face and body. But they were extremely different. Arthur was sweet, kind, and patient. He can act the grump that his brother is but he softens much quicker. You like how he greets everyone politely and asks how they’re getting on, does all of his chores. Never have you seen him be rude or perverse with the women, he’s nice to the girls as well as you. He takes after Hosea more than he does Dutch, whom you’ve always preferred, his almost grandfatherly attitude was much more welcoming than Dutch, who liked to act like a lord amongst his servants.

Arthur may still be an enforcer but he gives people second chances, and is more forgiving. However, he doesn’t let people mistake his kindness for weakness.

Abel is the one who is more Dutch like. All power, all strength, he is every bit the brutal enforcer Dutch wants him to be. He gives no quarter, he has no qualms. Nothing about his attitude is put on, he really is mean spirited. If you annoy him, he’s more than grumpy, he becomes irritated easily. Insults and threats are mostly used to keep people at arms length but sometimes it feels as if he’s genuinely having fun, taking advantage of people’s insecurities. You do your best to stay out of his way, keeping your nose down around him. It’s hard to avoid people in a shared space, once or twice he’s perhaps nudged you out of the way and told you to move, no ‘excuse me’ comes from him. But nothing like his harsh criticism for everyone else. Maybe he thinks you are a ditzy girl always standing in his way but you can never be sure.

The only way for you to tell Arthur and Abel Morgan apart is their facial hair and their clothes. Arthur wore cooler colors and wore his facial hair a bit neater, and he wore an old gambler hat that had certainly seen better days. He’s always covered in a layer of fine dust and dirt, working more often than not. Abel dressed several shades darker, deep reds, dark browns, and a pitch black stalker hat. His hair is always just a bit longer than Arthur’s, his facial hair a little more scruffy. Though you don’t get to see him much, it’s obvious he gets into many more physical altercations, always coming home with rough knuckles and blood stained shirts. Sometimes you think he wears red so the blood doesn’t show as easily. But you always know when you’re washing his clothes, the water always turns a deep rusty color.

You like Arthur a lot more anyway. You can tell he has a soft heart under his thin shell, which cracks so much more easily, for those in need, for people he cares about. He never fails to greet you nicely and when he sees you, he tips his hat.

You don’t notice if Arthur likes you, you just think he’s sweet to all the girls the way he is with you but your easy kindness and soft smile pull him in. You catch a peek of him drawing and you compliment his pretty landscapes. The awe in your eyes is making him fall even deeper.

Arthur really takes the courting stance towards trying to get you to notice him and he spends a long time pining after you first. He takes his time talking to you in the morning, bringing you things you mention in passing. He loves to see you smile and hopefully laugh even if it’s at him. He loves to hear you compliment him, he's ready to die happily when you tell him how good he is at something, while spectating a game he’s playing with Lenny, or if he wins a hand of poker.

Abel probably doesn’t even notice you until he sees Arthur talking to you more and more everyday. He doesn’t spend a ton of time around camp so he won’t catch it at first.

All you know about Arthur’s twin brother, Abel is that he’s…different. You probably won't pay him much mind either. You’re just happy he doesn’t spot with you his sharp eagle-like stare. He’s aggressive and evasive. You don’t think he has any of the softness you can see with his brother.

He spends most of his time outside of camp. The chores he does are not many, mostly robbing and hunting. Sometimes, he comes back, covered in blood and drops a stack of bills in the box full of money in the center of camp.

He’s nowhere near as terrible as Micah; in fact he butts beads with Micah more often than not, but the camp air feels lighter when he’s not there. He’s mean and can snap like an alligator at anyone but he mostly treats you like you don't exist. You haven’t seen him be as bigoted or perverse as some of the other men but he has a way of picking people apart, wearing them down. Grating on people’s nerves. He thinks it’s funny when they lash out, especially when he gets into tussles with the other men, he relishes in a good fight.

Abel thinks all of Arthur’s pining and his mooning at you is sort of pathetic, thinks it takes his attention from where he needs to put it; robbing and stealing and killing. It was bad enough with that Mary girl, he can hardly stand to listen to him sigh and watch him send wistful gazes at you. He tries to ply Arthur with alcohol and some broad over at the saloon but Arthur still refuses, fussing over the girl at camp, sweet little you. How you’re always there to say hello to him, how you love to look at his pictures.

Arthur gets drunk and just about starts crying thinking of you. Rambling about you, asking Abel if he thinks he has a chance with you. Abel sighs and takes Arthur back to camp. He does silently wonder what his brother sees in you. You’re not much different from the other girls in camp, perhaps not as boisterous as Karen and you don’t have your head stuck in the clouds like Mary Beth. You aren’t angry and snappy like Sadie or as resourceful and brave as Tilly. In fact he doesn’t know much about you at all.

Abel starts to investigate this woman his brother is getting sweet on. He’s had enough of seeing his stupid grin and his hand bashfully rubbing the back of his neck while he talks to you. He sees how you smile at Arthur, touch him softly on his arm to show gratitude. Let him sit with you when you eat. Arthur’s soft look he gets when he makes you laugh makes Abel want to throw up.

Maybe he wants to see if you’re the kind of girl who’s sweet on everyone, just to get a bit of attention. But you don’t greet him like you do Arthur, perhaps a shy strained smile is all he’ll get from you. You certainly don’t touch his arm, or laugh at him. Sure, you’re polite but you don’t talk to him like you do his brother. It sort of pisses him off. What’s so different between him and his brother? ( a lot ).

Arthur tells you that he’s going out today, he offers to take you with him but you say you have chores to do today and you’ll get in a heap of trouble if you don’t get them done before the end of the day. He nods and he just about explodes when you thank him for the offer and kiss him on the cheek. You’re shy about it but not as bad as Arthur who clears his throat and turns bright red. He keeps turning around before he rides away.

Abel’s been waiting for this, a moment alone without Arthur looming over his shoulder, watching over you like some old hound dog. He stomps on the cigarette he was smoking, pouncing on the opportunity.

He finally has the moment to come up to you while you’re doing some mending. He’s thinking maybe if you’re giving out kisses, he might get in line. The gentle ‘Oh…hi, Abel,’ from your lips and he's under your spell, right next to his brother. You look so cute, looking up at him from where you’re darning some nasty piece of clothing that if it were up to him, you wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. So pretty on your knees, nervous that he’ll lash out at you. He’s immediately thinking of you doing other things on your knees.

His name sounds so nice from your lips and your sweet voice. If he were Arthur he’d be smitten, greeting you politely, asking about your day. Too bad he's not. When he kind of just stares at you, you're confused. You expect him to say something, at least a good afternoon. You prick your finger while nervous and whine but he just smirks and exhales something of a laugh underneath the shadow of his hat before stalking off.

He hadn’t intended to like you as much as he did but he can’t help himself. Abel can’t figure out if he’s just more like his brother than he thought or if he just wants to try his hand at stealing you away from him to wreak havoc on Arthur’s life. Either way, he’s stuck with his brother, chasing after you, Arthur will just have to deal with it.

Thanks so much for reading! any feedback is appreciated 🥹🥹🥹

[willardsrestwidow]

❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.

Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.

Word Count: 5,3k

Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.

Please only read if you're +18!

A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!

Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.

When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.

Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.

In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.

Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.

“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”

“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”

“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”

Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking — which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.

Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.

“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.

An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.

From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”

“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”

The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”

Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.

And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.

Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.

“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”

A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.

“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”

And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.

It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.

“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”

To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?

Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.

✤ ✤ ✤

Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.

You were to resume the laundry you left behind.

“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.

Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.

For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…

…no one.

The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.

You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.

For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.

Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.

Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.

“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”

“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.

“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”

The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.

“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”

Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.

“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.

“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”

“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”

The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.

“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”

“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.

“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”

A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”

“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”

“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"

"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”

Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.

Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”

“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”

It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.

“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”

O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.

“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”

✤

Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.

But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.

What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?

You began to taste blood.

Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?

The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”

“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”

“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”

“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”

For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.

It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.

The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.

“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, ��he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”

Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”

Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”

“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”

Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.

“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”

You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.

The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”

“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”

“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”

Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.

As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.

“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.

O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”

“And to me? What’ll you give?”

Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…

“Everything.”

You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.

Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.

You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.

“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.

Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.

Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.

Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.

You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.

“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.

“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”

“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”

“Mhmm.”

It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”

Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.

On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.

With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.

The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.

Yes.

Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.

Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.

It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.

[selfishpresley]

Masterlist!

Works In Progress: 21 (1 is a twilight fic)

Completed Works: 11 (and i'm proud of that, ok?)

All are on AO3, linked below!

updated as of: 10.26.24

Fem!Checo series — (Sergia 'Checo' Pérez)

Checo x Carola x Max [7 stories within]

Sergia "Checo" Pérez hates the media, loves her wife, and loves/hates her team.

In the darkness, hearts aglow — (Rosalía 'Manu' Marroquín - Rally Driver)

Charles Leclerc x woc!oc, Carlos Sainz x woc!oc

Her career started like this. Her first taste of the road started like that. If she had to choose a moment where her career began. It was under her father’s eye. ___________ Charles wasn't particularly religious. Not like his grandmother, but he could see the appeal when he saw the intense eyes of a young rally driver carving her name into motorsports history.

The Points That Matter — (Challengers!AU)

Checo Pérez x black!Reader x Max Verstappen

She knew in that final set that they understood. When neither boy would relent. When they asked her again after everything. She would admit, "It's like a dance. An intimate dance." An allegory to sex maybe. "You could never feel closer to a person until you're across from them."

Chestappen X Reader/OFC (left as reader but I have been referring to her as Tashi!Reader in my head)

venus as a boy — (sugar baby!Checo)

Checo Pérez x Max Verstappen

Sergio Pérez lives his life as a college student and a sugar baby that tries to cope with the fact that he can't race anymore for reasons known. With many past loves and potential sugar daddies, it's up to him to find his own footing in his life. Main: Chestappen, side checo x multi, minor Glance

like out of a film series -- (Cléo Sélène- fem!woc!OC)

Max Verstappen x woc!OC

French Opera-

As an assistant to Mexico's son, Formula 1 driver, Sergio 'Checo' Perez; Cléo navigates her own debut into the world of motorsports. All while falling for handsome man-whore drivers, gentle Spanish princes, and a very irritating Dutch a-hole. Contains: minor Charles x OC, and beginnings of Carlos x OC. Sequel is Baroque Opera.

Carlos Sainz x woc!OC

Baroque Opera-

In the wake of a devastating heartbreak at the hands of a Dutch manchild, Cléo finds herself falling for a Spanish driver this time. A man that seemed she was always meant to meet. As Checo's assistant and public relations secretary, she tries her hardest to hold onto her sanity and heart as Carlos tries to prove to her that she deserves to be loved. Sequel to French Opera.

Charles Leclerc x woc!OC

Un hombre busca una mujer.

Charles AU of French Opera continued from Chapter 18.

Mark Mateschitz x woc!OC

Empress

Cléo met Mark at the end of May. She, like everyone else, thought that Mark was working with the owner of the team. When she realizes that he's the heir of a very lucrative corporation, she'll have to navigate the media (for herself for once), the people around her, and her own shortcomings. An AU of French Opera.

The Spy Who Loved Me -- (Judith - spy!OC)

Sergio 'Checo' Pérez x spy!OC

Heaven or Las Vegas

He didn’t think it was stress when he spied a young woman dropping a small pill into a man's whiskey. And it definitely wasn’t stress when the man collapsed later that night clutching his chest. It was the first time that Sergio had seen someone die in front of him. And it was the first time that he saw the face of the killer.

Cuando Calienta El Sol/Hentai/Desafió

As Sergio has finished the season, he still kept on with his routine. Adamant that he build up strength, he forgot about the muscles that came with it. He gets to find out how much his partner appreciates the change in physique on their vacation. Can be a standalone but it was made with my spy x racer fic Heaven or Las Vegas.

Canned Heat -- (Omegaverse)

Carlos Sainz x woc!OC (Cléo Sélène)

Like a Tattoo by Sade 

Being a romantic was hard. Being an omega was hard, too. Both would be stupid. Finding her mate while she was craving donuts was stupid and lucky.

Lance Stroll x woc!OC (Beatrice Jones)

Le Temps D'amour

Lance Stroll already made his peace with never finding his mate. As he fell for the charming beta that presented for a sports network that he found himself watching more and more. Until her already lemonade-y scent shifted and everything fell into place.

Brooklyn Baby, Chelsea Girl -- Sugar Baby!reader or OC.

Susie Wolff x reader, Jenson Button x reader, Mark Webber x reader, Susie x Toto x Reader, multiple pairings.

Brooklyn Baby

A sugar baby gets involved with Australian driver, Mark Webber and gets caught up in his life as his dear friend and companion. She also cannot stop thinking about the older blonde woman that looks at her with hatred and disgust in her eyes because of her profession. Could be read as a Reader x Character due to the main character going unnamed. (Though this is a plot device on my end.) Includes Sebastian Vettel, Kimi Räikkönen, Sergio Pérez, Lewis Hamilton, Vicky Piria, Nico Rosberg in the pairings.

[m-oddinsdottir]

DARK COLD NIGHTS • 🐺🌙🐺🌙

John Marston x Fem!Oc

Words: 2,385

Warnings: slightly angsty, wounds, fluff

Summary: After Jude managed to tend to John’s wounds from the wolf attack, she waits for her husband to wake up while the guilt and sorrow slowly hunts her down.

A/N: here’s the part two nobody asked for, sorry if there are any mistakes (english isn’t my first language <3) feel free to correct me or give me some advise/ feedback

Part One. Masterlist

•••

She felt embarrassed.

That was a rather simple and invalidating way to describe the way the knot on her stomach had been making her feel like throwing up the remains of the awful stew. That awful stew made by Pearson that Jude had managed to eat for lunch the day before.

Jude had created a list of words that could explain why her lungs seemed to refuse to receive oxygen each time she looked down at John Marston.

Guilt was the one that headed the list. Guilt for assuming the worst, guilt for believing her husband had abandoned her when he was slowly dying out in the cold, guilt for not having asked the others to go look for John earlier, guilt for not being able to tend to his wounds on her own…

Uneasiness followed it pretty close. Every time she decided to look up from the comfort of her novel’s page and into the ripped off skin of her husband, she felt that damn feeling of not knowing what was going to happen next. Her eyes usually landed on his eye first on that and on the blood stained cloth that covered it. Maybe he could never see through that eye again, maybe its tissue was dead, maybe the nerves had been affected. Maybe, maybe and maybe.

Unworthiness stood out between most of them. That made her chuckle bitterly every single time the feeling invaded her hunting her down like the wolves did with John. Jude found herself unworthy, useless, a burden. She was supposed to be the nurse of the gang, the only person everyone should resort to in case of an emergency. But when the moment of truth arrived, she wasn’t even capable of tending to her husband’s injuries.

It certainly didn’t help that the cabin was filled with other members of the gang. She hated hearing the surprisingly sober reverend constantly quoting verses of the Bible. Not only that, but Ms. Adler’s constant crying was driving her mad and so did Ms. Grimshaw’s strict commands that only served for the women to became more irritated. Jude included.

A few times a day, Charles’ silence presence would keep her company while he checked on John’s wounds. He didn’t even know her husband, he didn’t care about him but it was an excuse to make sure Jude was doing alright.

She would just smile weakly at him before closing her eyes and gently caress John’s hair almost as if her touch could wake him up. Charles would look at her, his brows burrowed together and then he would leave, wait for some hours to pass by and then repeat the same silent process. A silent process that comforted Jude more than she could ever admit.

The only three others who had also checked on John and, therefore, on her were Dutch who had used his enviable gab to comfort her. A hand placed on top of her shoulder as he told her how strong she was for remaining by John’s side and how better times were to come.

One of the two others was Hosea whose gentle souls would reassure her by saying that John loved her and that he would come back to her; apart from highlighting patience as one of human’s most valuable but at the same time most rare virtues.

And finally, Arthur, who had just visited her once. A small frown over his chapped lips from the cold as he looked down at John and pointed out how the bastard of her husband would become even uglier after that. His words apparently cold, yes, but he was the only person that had managed to get an amused smile out of her before nodding in her direction and then leaving.

At least they didn’t look at her with pity.

A strained growl brought her back from the bundle of thoughts that were making her feel lightheaded.

John found himself lying on a bed in a small cabin, wrapped in a warm blanket. The chill of the room was only slightly lessened by the fire lit in the fireplace, the cracking sound being the first thing that fought to fill his ears. The pain of his injuries made each movement a challenge, but the stinging agony in his face was enough to keep him still. ‘Damn, I need a smoke.’ He muttered, the words barely audible as he spoke through the pain.

Jude’s eyes widened as she heard his voice. A shaky sigh of relief escaped her lips as she made herself visible for him and a small frown appeared over her lips before her gaze sharpened like daggers. ‘You need shit, John Marston’ Jude mumbled shakily as her trembling hand moved down to hold his hand as her eyes filled with tears. ‘Must be feeling better if you ask for a cigarette before asking to see your wife first, huh?’

A sense of relief washed over John as his eyes met Jude’s. ‘Can’t a man ask for a cigarette after almost dying?’ He asked while trying to grin which only made him wince in pain. ‘Don’t grin, you idiot… God, John’ She scolded him, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

‘Hey, hey… I’m alright, don’t cry” Marston managed to move his hand up throughout the pain to cup her jaw. The simple gesture made Jude sob as she leaned into his touch.

Footsteps creaked the wooden floor behind them as Ms. Grimshaw commanded everyone to leave the cabin and go to one of the others they were occupying at the moment.

‘Alright?! You were attacked by wolves, John… If Arthur and Javier hadn’t found you-’ Jude trailed off as she roughly wiped away the tears that now stained her flushed cheeks.

‘Don’t’ He spoke, his voice (usually raspy) sounding more strained than ever as he wrapped his hand around her wrists to prevent her from basically hitting her face as she was wiping away the tears that had unavoidable began to fall.

John had never seen Jude cry.

He had seen the sorrow in her eyes before, the way she stubbornly stopped the stinging feeling of her tears as she raised her chin up and held her breath until it would hurt.

Another kind of pain. She had told him once in one of their fights when he frustratingly demanded the meaning behind that behavior. It drove him mad but seeing her cry now… John didn’t know what broke him more. The sight of his wife crying or the sight of her wife trying to hide her despair from being obvious.

John called her name softly and Jude looked into his eyes again. Even like that, a crying mess, her lips broken from the cold, her state deteriorated due to the course of the days in the mountains; Marston couldn’t help but find her… ‘You’re beautiful’ He mumbled.

A bitter chuckle made its way through her crying as she leaned slightly into his touch, turning to rest her forehead against the arm that was holding her wrists.

‘The wolf must have stomped on your head, huh?’

‘For finding my wife beautiful? How am I supposed to find you then?’ John’s thumb began tracing gentle circles around her wrists.

Jude didn’t answer to him as she backed away from his touch to be able to look into his eyes. She sighed and changed her position to lay beside him, a strong scent of blood that was woven into the fabric of the cloths and the bandages around his head immediately flooded her sense of smell. ‘You gave me the warmer coat…’

Marston hummed as an answer, he overlooked the pain to tilt his head on her direction. ‘That I did’

‘We had fought before that’ She whispered and the man’s eyes shined for a second.

‘We did’

The tone he used to say those simple sentences were driving Jude mad. He sounded calm, in peace almost as if nothing of what happened had affected him.

‘Stop doing that’

John’s lips tugged upwards slightly despite the pain. ‘Stop doing what exactly?’

‘Acting as if I… Uh-’ Jude trailed off not really knowing how to describe it and maybe the tears and the headache they had provoked didn’t help either ‘As if I was the best thing you have ever seen in your life’

‘You’re the best thing that I have ever seen in my life’

Jude frowned when his voice sounded again relaxed. He and his calm behavior. The same trait that usually made him come across as serious. An attribute he indeed had, as well as his lack of patience and his cold overall attitude.

But not with Jude. With her, his cold facade was long gone.

‘I thought…’ Jude’s tears threatened to fall from her eyes once again. ‘I thought you had left us… Again’

After her admission, John’s brows burrowed together and he groaned when the sharp pain of the scratches shook his body ‘You really thought I would do that?’

More tears pooled on her eyes as she leaned in closer to bury her face against his arm knowing that there he wouldn’t feel any pain if she rested against it. ‘I should have asked Arthur to go search for you before… Maybe that way you could recover earlier and maybe…’

John interrupted her quickly and despite his pain he managed to encircle his arm around her waist locking her on a tight hug. ‘You couldn’t have known I was attacked by wolves, dear’

‘No, but the first thing I assumed was that you had left when you were out on the cold bleeding out and—’ He gently squeezed her waist to stop her incoherent trail of thought that all ended in her blaming herself.

‘My love… I— This isn’t your fault.’ John moved his hand up from his waist towards her hair, his hand getting tangled between her locks ‘And I… I would never leave the gang again. I would never leave you again’

‘John…’

‘No, Jude. Do I have to get on my knees again for you? I love you. That’s the only thing that matters to me.’ The way he was talking… He was being more serious than ever and those were big words when describing John Marston ‘I go where you go, Jude… Even if that means freezing in the cold with you’

‘Which is why I’m feeling even more guilty for thinking otherwise!’ Jude unconsciously raised her voice at him and then she sighed moving one hand up to rub it against her eyes and prevent more tears to fall.

Her husband groaned and he held her hand pulling it away from her eyes and squeezing it in a tender manner. ‘I’m just trying to do things right… But you have every right to don’t trust me completely, my love’

He was being honest, she knew he was. But a part of her wanted to scream at him, to punch him, to walk away from him due to his understanding behavior. John was trying to reassure her and lord was he succeeding at doing so.

‘I trust you. I do.’ Jude whispered back at him and her hand held his which was still tangled on her hair ‘I really do’ She repeated softly ‘It’s just been a lot… And I couldn’t even—’ She pointed at the injuries over his face ‘I couldn’t even help you properly, Charles did… And I dare to call myself a nurse?’

‘But I remember…’ Marston trailed off trying to think about what had happened. He recalled getting to the cabin with the help of… Someone. Maybe Bill? Or was it Uncle? No, his lazy ass wouldn’t move a finger to help him. He remembered being laid on the same bed he was right now, same ceiling when he looked up and same dusty smell that was now overpowered by the scent of his own blood. And he remembered seeing her, talking with her, feeling her before he eventually passed out.

‘After you lost consciousness, I couldn’t keep going. You were bleeding and your eye looked really bad and I… I guess I didn’t have the stomach to do it’

It wasn’t that Jude didn’t have the stomach. She had seen worse, even attended an arm’s amputation when she lived back with her father. That damn psychopath would slowly saw a limb by the opening of the joint in front of an eight year old.

The reason why she couldn’t keep going was because it was John. The fear of losing him was too much for her to even begin to handle but the idea of losing him due to one of her mistakes or because she couldn’t do enough (or be enough) was unbearable.

‘The fear froze me’ Jude admitted and John gently began to massage her scalp making her close her eyes with comfort.

‘So you love me that much you froze, huh?’ Marston asked teasingly almost in a way to lighten up the mood, Jude smirked before chuckling and then hiding her face in his neck.

‘You idiot’ She whispered back.

‘Your idiot’

‘My idiot’

John chuckled ignoring the pain that shook him as he cupped her cheek and pulled her back to be able to look into her eyes. ‘When did we turned into one of those clingy couples? We looking like Arthur and Mary back in the days…’

‘Maybe it was when your face was ripped apart by a wolf?’

‘Fair enough, darlin’…’ Marston leaned in closer to her, his shaky breath brushing against her lips. ‘Fair enough’

He cradled her face, thumbs rubbing against her cold skin, wiping away the tears that had streamed from her eyes. He leaned down just enough for his lips to meet hers tenderly, his lips barely brushing hers. His wounds stopped him from deepening the kiss, they stopped him from giving in to his desires.

John broke the kiss just to raise his chin and press another kiss against her forehead. ‘So you can’t be that mad at me if you’re lettin’ me kiss you…’

‘You want me to leave, love?’

John’s cheeks flushed as he hesitantly leaned in closer to press another quick peck against her lips, when he pulled away a smirk tugged at the corners of his also harmed lips. ‘Hell no…’

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and Found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Word count: 3,5 k

Notes: Next Chapter the gang will start getting more involved I promise 🙏

Jolene awoke with a jolt, someone’s boot nudging her leg repeatedly. She scrambled to sit up, her heart pounding from the sudden disturbance. Squinting up through sleep-heavy eyes, she recognized the scowling face of the Sheriff looming above her.

“This ain’t a bed, boy,” the Sheriff grumbled. “You’d best find yourself somewhere to sleep where you’re not botherin’ honest folks.”

Jolene bit back a retort, knowing better than to mouth off while the Sheriff was still in a mood from the night before. Instead, she sighed and picked herself up, brushing the dust from her clothes. Without another word, she turned and trudged out of the alley, her stomach growling softly. Morning sunlight barely stretched across the street, and Jolene guessed it was still close to five in the morning. Too early even for the shopkeepers to start setting up.

With her thoughts drifting back to yesterday, she found herself absently fingering the coins in her pocket, feeling the remnants of the previous night’s meal warming her. It had been good to go to sleep feeling full, and for once, she had enough coin to make that feeling last a bit longer. She stifled a yawn and decided to head out toward the river. A quick wash would do her good, and the early hour meant she’d have some privacy.

The walk took her out past the town’s edge and along the riverbank, her worn boots leaving faint prints in the morning dew on the path. She followed the water until she reached her favorite secluded spot, where she could clean herself up away from prying eyes. Glancing around to make sure she was alone, Jolene stripped off her shirt and pants, exposing her feminine teenage figure, and setting them on the bank beside her boots. Only her necklace stayed on—a long, thin chain with a golden ring hanging from it. She always kept it hidden under her shirt, the one thing she’d never part with.

Wading into the cool water, she shivered as she scrubbed away the dirt from her arms and neck, then dunked her head, fingers scrubbing her scalp with determination. Days on the road and nights on the ground left her feeling grimy, and though the river water wasn’t exactly soap, it would at least rinse some of the dust away. Her fingers brushed the bruise on her jaw, still tender from the chubby man’s punch last night. She sucked in a sharp breath at the pain, her face darkening at the memory. But the water was cold, numbing the ache as she washed the dirt from her skin.

After a few minutes, she stepped out, water dripping from her lanky frame. She tugged her clothes back on, wet fabric sticking to her uncomfortably. The necklace glinted briefly as she tucked it back under her shirt, and she rubbed the ring absentmindedly before pulling her collar up over it. Feeling a bit refreshed, she started her walk back into town, taking the long way through the forest.

As she strolled, Jolene picked up a smooth stone and began flipping it in her hand. Her thoughts wandered to Dutch and Hosea, the strangers from last night. She wondered what sort of life they lived, drifting from town to town. They intrigued her, those men—confident, daring, unbothered by the rules she always found herself breaking. She felt a twinge of envy and wondered what it might be like to live that way, with nothing to lose.

The crunch of hooves on the forest path pulled her out of her thoughts. Glancing up, she saw two men on horseback approaching. They were deep in conversation, one of them speaking in low, annoyed tones. Jolene slowed her steps, curious.

“This ain’t how it works, you gotta stay, help her,” the larger man was saying, his voice gruff but steady.

The other man, younger with dark hair and an irritable expression, glared back. “Just keep to your own business,” he snapped, his tone sharp.

Jolene kept her head down, not wanting to draw too much attention, but as they passed, the larger man dipped his hat and muttered, “Good morning.”

Startled, Jolene gave a quick nod. “Mornin’,” she replied quietly, watching as they continued on, their voices fading as they disappeared down the trail. She wondered briefly who the “her” was they were talking about, but her curiosity quickly waned. In this town, everyone had secrets, and some things were better left unknown.

As she made her way back, Jolene debated what to do with her day. If she lingered in the forest, she could avoid trouble with the Sheriff. Sometimes she spent hours out here, crouching by the water, watching for fish, or tried carving small animals from wood scraps she picked up along the riverbank. The solitude wasn’t so bad—sometimes she even welcomed it.

A sudden rustle in the bushes made her freeze. She crouched instinctively, watching as a fox darted out onto the path, its bushy tail flicking behind it. It paused, eyeing her with as much curiosity as she felt, before bounding off into the trees. Jolene exhaled, feeling a strange peace in that brief encounter. It reminded her of how she felt last night, sitting across from Dutch and Hosea, eating warm food and feeling… almost seen.

Eventually, as the sun rose higher, she made her way back toward the edge of town, deciding she’d risk the streets a bit longer. It was quiet enough at this hour; most folks would still be at breakfast. Jolene wandered down an empty road, fingers tracing the coins in her pocket, as she kept her eyes peeled for any signs of trouble—or opportunity.

Jolene made her way to Johnson’s shop, already savoring the chance to pester the calm, steady shopkeeper. Johnson never raised his voice, not even when he caught Jolene slipping a piece of candy into her pocket or trying to haggle for half the price. The man had an endless well of patience, which only made Jolene want to test him all the more.

As she strolled into the shop, Jolene caught sight of the two men from before, standing by a shelf in quiet conversation. The taller one, the man with the black hat, glanced at her briefly, giving Jolene a small nod of acknowledgement before turning back to whatever he was inspecting on the shelf. Jolene nodded back, moving on toward the counter, where she leaned forward, her hands braced on the smooth wood as she peered over its edge, hoping for something new or interesting to catch her eye.

After a moment, she heard the familiar footsteps approaching. Johnson appeared from the back room, an eyebrow raised at seeing Jolene yet again. “What do you want now, kid?” he sighed, though a small, reluctant smile hinted at his amusement.

“Just checkin’ in,” Jolene said, grinning. “How you doin’ today, Mr. Johnson?”

Johnson shook his head with a long-suffering sigh. “If you’re that bored, why don’t you go on and bother the folks over at the church? I’m sure the sisters’d be happy to fill your head with a sermon or two.”

Jolene groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “They’re no fun. All they ever talk about is God and what’s proper and how ‘the good Lord is always watching.’” She slouched against the counter, hoping she might at least drag out a few more minutes of conversation. “Not my style.”

Johnson gave her a gentle shove toward the door, still chuckling. “Well, I’m too tired to be dealin’ with you right now, and unlike some folks, I actually got customers who pay.” He gestured toward the two men by the shelf, and Jolene, feigning offense, put a hand to her chest.

“Fine, fine, I’m goin’,” she muttered, putting on a show of reluctantly dragging her feet as she shuffled to the door. She could feel the eyes of the two strangers on her back as she left, their gaze lingering as though she were worth more than a passing glance. It sent a slight shiver down her spine, though she couldn’t say why.

Out on the street again, Jolene squinted up at the rising sun, considering her options. Johnson had been half-joking about the church, but the idea of a free meal and maybe a sip of wine to warm her belly made her mind up for her. Bread and wine, she thought, chuckling to herself as she crossed the street. She didn’t like the taste of the wine, really, but it made her feel grown up, in a way, and that was enough for now.

As she walked toward the little church on the edge of town, Jolene thought about God—or rather, about how she wasn’t sure she believed in Him, or any of it. Still, there was something about the place, the quiet hum of hymns, the light filtering through the dusty windows, that felt safe. And right now, that was all she needed.

Jolene pushed open the heavy church doors, letting the quiet hush of the sanctuary settle around her. Morning sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting patches of vibrant colors onto the wooden pews and stone floor. She looked around, taking in the rare peace, and saw Sister Amelia emerging from a back room. She had a kind face, framed by a white wimple, her expression softening as she spotted Jolene.

“Joel,” she greeted warmly, stepping closer. She ruffled her hair, eyeing her with an amused but gentle concern. “You don’t come by too often, do you? How are you doing, child?”

Jolene gave a small shrug, not quite meeting her eyes. “Been better,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her bruised jaw absentmindedly.

Her brow furrowed as she leaned in to get a closer look at the purpled skin. “Looks like you’ve had a rough time,” she said, sighing. “Come on, say a prayer or two. The Lord listens, even when you don’t think He does.”

Jolene knew what this meant—a quick prayer, and she’d get some bread for her trouble. She nodded, heading toward the altar and dropping to her knees, muttering the only prayer she could remember. Satisfied, Sister Amelia watched her, a small smile tugging at her lips.

When she finished, she slumped back onto the pew, stretching out her legs a little. Sister Amelia gave a nod, pleased, then looked at her with a glimmer of encouragement.

“How about you step into the confessional while you’re here?” she offered, gesturing toward the wooden booth.

Jolene stiffened. “I, uh…don’t think I got much to say.”

But at that moment, Reverend Thomas appeared from the hallway, giving Jolene a warm, expectant look. “It never hurts, Joel,” he said, his voice gentle. “If you’re here, might as well. Come on now.”

With a reluctant sigh, Jolene trudged over and stepped into the confessional, the wooden seat creaking as she sat down. The small, cramped space was shadowed, with only the thin screen separating her from Reverend Thomas.

Jolene cleared his throat, feeling awkward. “Uh…bless me, Father, for I reckon I’ve sinned.”

The reverend’s voice was calm, inviting. “Go on, Joel.”

Jolene took a shaky breath, then the words tumbled out. “I steal a lot. I take from people ‘cause I don’t got anything. I lie all the time, too. Just…tryin’ to survive, y’know?”

There was a moment’s silence, then the reverend spoke. “And you feel like there’s no other way?”

Jolene’s voice was barely a whisper. “Ain’t nobody out there helpin’ me, Father. Gotta do it all on my own.”

The reverend’s voice softened. “Remember, child, even in the darkest times, the Lord is watching over you. He understands your struggles, and there’s always a chance to choose a better path.”

Jolene wasn’t entirely sure she believed that, but she nodded anyway, feeling oddly lighter for having said the words. She shuffled out of the confessional, where Sister Amelia waited with a small piece of bread. She took it eagerly, not bothering to ask for the wine she usually hoped for. The bread alone was a treat enough.

She sat in the back row, chewing the bread slowly as she gazed up at the colored light filtering through the stained glass, studying the way it painted the floor in patches of blue, red, and green.

A moment later, Sister Amelia walked over and sat down beside her, watching her with a gentle smile. “Something on your mind, Joel?”

Jolene shrugged. “Just lookin’ at the light, I guess. Pretty colors.”

They sat in a companionable silence, and then she said softly, “I need to fetch something from the ranch. Would you like to walk with me?”

Jolene’s eyes lit up at the thought of getting to look at the livestock. “Yeah, sure,” she said eagerly, stuffing the last of the bread into her mouth as they stood.

They walked side by side, the morning air fresh and the town just beginning to stir behind them. Jolene started talking, telling Sister Amelia with enthusiasm how she managed to evade people when they chased her, darting into alleyways, scaling fences, and slipping away into shadows before they could catch her. She enjoyed recounting it, her voice quick and animated as she described near-misses and the thrill of outsmarting grown-ups.

Sister Amelia listened patiently, smiling but also frowning slightly. “Quite the little escape artist, aren’t you?” she said, her tone amused but tinged with concern. “But Joel, you shouldn’t have to live like this. It’s no life for a child.”

She shrugged, trying to brush it off, but the Sisters words gave her pause. She looked at Jolene with a sad smile. “I’m sorry you’ve had to face so much hardship, child. No one should have to grow up alone.”

Jolene nodded, but said nothing.

She reached out and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “God has His plans, Joel. Sometimes life feels unfair, but remember, everything has its purpose. One day, all the challenges you’ve faced will lead you somewhere. You have to trust in that.”

She didn’t fully understand or belive that, but something in her words felt reassuring. They walked in silence for a while, Sister Amelia’s presence a steady comfort as they strolled through the quiet woods.

After two long hours of walking, they finally reached the small ranch on the other side of the forest. Jolene’s legs ached, but the sight of the sprawling fields, livestock, and warm sunlight brushing the landscape made her forget the stiffness in her limbs. Sister Amelia moved toward the ranch house, her long skirts swishing with each step, while Jolene lingered behind, her gaze roving over the faintly familiar surroundings.

She thought briefly about telling the sister about Dutch and Hosea, but something held her back. It felt like a secret she should keep to herself for now, so she stayed silent, watching as sister Amelia made her way toward the rancher and his wife, exchanging quiet greetings and a few words.

Nearby, Jolene spotted a group of pigs rooting around in the dirt. Their snorts and grunts filled the air, and she couldn’t help but grin at their comical faces and muddy snouts. They smelled terrible, a thick, earthy stink that even the open air couldn’t quite carry away, but she didn’t mind. She leaned on the fence, enjoying their silly little dance as they rolled around and nosed each other, completely oblivious to her.

After a while, Jolene moved to another pen, where a large horse stood still as a man crouched near its hooves, carefully lifting one to check its shoe. The horse was a beautiful, sleek bay with a coat that shone like polished wood in the sunlight. Jolene felt a tug in her chest as she watched the animal shift and nicker softly, its big brown eyes calm and gentle. Horses had always fascinated her, but she’d never had the chance to ride one. There was something about them—their power, their quiet strength—that made them seem like creatures from a different world, untamed but loyal, wild but willing.

The man tending to the horse looked up and noticed Jolene watching. “Like horses, kid?” he asked with a hint of a smile.

Jolene nodded, almost shyly, not wanting to seem too eager. “Yeah. I…never got to ride one, though.”

The man chuckled, patting the horse’s neck affectionately. “They’re somethin’ else, that’s for sure. This here’s Daisy, strong as any horse I’ve known.” He gave Daisy a pat, and she nickered softly in response.

Jolene took a tentative step closer leaning against the fence, feeling a thrill in her chest as the horse’s massive head turned toward her. “She’s real pretty,” she murmured just loud enough.

The rancher smiled, nodding his encouragement. “Come here, give her a pat. Just be gentle.”

Jolene quickly jumped over the fence and jogged over letting her fingers brush against Daisy’s nose, and she felt the warmth of her skin, the velvety softness beneath her fingertips. She could hardly believe it. She nuzzled her hand, and she couldn’t help but grin, a quiet, rare moment of wonder lighting up her face.

“You’ve got a way with animals, don’t ya?” the rancher said, watching the gentle exchange.

Jolene shrugged, her eyes still on Daisy. “I guess.”

Just then, Sister Amelia returned, a loaf of fresh bread and a jug of milk laid in her basket. She looked over at Jolene with a soft smile, seeing her reach out to the horse, and for a moment, she didn’t interrupt, watching the quiet moment unfold.

“Joel,” she called gently after a moment. She looked over, reluctantly pulling her hand back from the horse.

“Got everything we need?” she asked, a bit sheepish as she met the sisters gaze.

“All set,” she said, and together they turned back toward the forest, the morning shadows now stretching toward afternoon. But as they walked, Jolene kept glancing back over her shoulder, her mind lingering on the horse and the feeling of its warm, gentle breath against her hand.

As they walked back through the forest, Sister Amelia glanced over at Jolene, noticing the way her eyes sparkled with a lingering excitement. “Did you like that horse?” she asked, her voice warm and inviting.

Jolene nodded, her smile wide. “Yeah, she was real pretty. I always wanted to ride a horse, but I never got the chance.”

Sister Amelia smiled knowingly. “You’re still young, Joel. There’s plenty of time ahead for you. One day, I’m sure you’ll have the chance to ride.”

Her heart lifted a little at her words, feeling a flicker of hope. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s important to dream, you know?”

“Dream?” she echoed, tilting her head slightly.

“Yes,” she said, looking thoughtfully ahead as they continued down the path. “What do you dream about? What do you wish for, beyond a warm bed and a full stomach?”

Jolene thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. She often wished for those basic things, for a place to call home and enough food to fill her belly. But something deeper tugged at her—a desire she couldn’t quite articulate. “I guess… I wish I had a family,” she admitted slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s hard because I’m an orphan.”

Sister Amelia’s heart ached for her, but she smiled softly. “That’s understandable, Joel. Family is a precious thing. But what else? Something bigger, perhaps?”

She thought hard, her mind racing through fleeting images of her past—faces of people who had come and gone, the fleeting warmth of kindness, and the painful loneliness that sometimes enveloped her. “Maybe to fly?” she said unsure, but her voice gained a hint of excitement.

“Fly?” she asked, laughing lightly. “How do you mean?”

“Yeah,” she said, her enthusiasm building. “I just feel like birds are so free, especially the eagles. They can go so high, unbothered, just do whatever they want, go wherever they want.” She looked up at the sky, imagining the vast expanse above them, a world where worries and fears didn’t exist, where she could escape from the life she lived.

Sister Amelia chuckled at the innocence and honesty of her dream. “That’s a lovely thought, Joel. Flying does sound wonderful. The freedom of soaring through the sky, looking down at the world below. You’re right; eagles are magnificent creatures.”

“Yeah, they are!” she exclaimed, her excitement spilling over. “They can just glide and catch the wind. I wish I could do that.”

“Who knows?” Sister Amelia said thoughtfully, looking at her with encouragement. “Maybe one day you’ll find a way to make your dreams come true. You’re resourceful, and you have a good heart. That counts for a lot.”

Jolene felt a warmth spreading through her at the words. For the first time in a while, she felt seen and understood. “Thanks, Sister,” she said quietly, a small smile forming on her lips.

As they continued walking, the sun filtering through the leaves above, Jolene couldn’t shake the feeling of hope growing inside her. Perhaps one day she would indeed find a way to soar, to break free from the constraints of her life and reach for something greater. For now, she took comfort in the small moments, like sharing dreams with Sister Amelia under the dappled light of the forest.

[sir-walton-goggins]

Seeking Warmth

Summary: After a rough escape from Blackwater, Kris and Arthur take refuge in Colter on a stormy night. Exhausted and shivering from the cold, they find some warmth in each other.

Rating: Mature (+18)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem oc

2.9k words

Thank you @raevennsge for being my beta reader and general counselor :3

The storm hissed violently in Kris’s ears as she pressed forward, begging her mare to resist just a little bit longer in the brutal, relentless blizzard. She neighed nervously, dragging the woman’s body as well as her own tiredly through the thick wall of snow.

“We’re almost there, girl” she reassured Cloud, weaving her fingers through the candid mane and across her long, speckled neck. Kris shivered, a breath of icy wind infiltrating down her neck through an opening in her thick scarf. She really hoped they were close: it was damn near impossible to tell, with that thick wall of fog and snow making everything disappear into a white, shapeless hellscape. Her face felt like it was being burned off, if she even had any sensation left on her skin. She curled into a ball, desperately trying to gather any remaining body heat to keep going.

Cloud pushed through the snow stubbornly, following the caravan before her. The stagecoaches carried the rest of the Van Der Linde gang in a bunch of neat little frozen packages. Kris felt like she was headed to Bethlehem to give birth to the next Messiah. If they had snow in the Middle East, that is.

‘I have my donkey’, patting on her mare’s back;

‘A cow’, she bitterly scowled at Susan Grimshaw, whom she recently had a very heated argument with;

‘Even the three wise men… each with their own unique, extravagant brand of wisdom…’

Uncle, Reverend Swanson and Simon Pearson all sat huddled together in the back of the coach, leaning against the food provisions. The cook had neglected to get most of them, so they were basically running out, and it wasn’t like food was gonna sprout up from the snow… He was gonna get an earful as soon as everybody else found out.

The baby was young Jack Marston, even though he himself had claimed that now, having reached his fourth year of age, he was ‘all grown up’ and ‘basically a man’, as Abigail liked to tease him. Still, he was the only one of them small enough to fit in a manger, so that made sense.

What about Joseph, the father? Easy: the father was her husband. Arthur Morgan, handy worker much like Joseph. And much like the surrogate father or the Lord, he went door to door to find a place for Mary to give birth… or for the gang to camp out.

He’d been gone for what seemed like hours. Kris was starting to get worried the blizzard had made him lose his direction.

Suddenly, a loud, muffled cry coming from the road up ahead.

“I found something!”

She could’ve recognized that voice everywhere.

A warmth of relief spread across Kris’s chest as she saw her husband trot closer to the first wagon, telling Dutch about the dilapidated shelter he found up ahead.

And dilapidated it surely was.

The half rotten wooden sign that greeted them read ‘Colter’. Apparently, it was an abandoned mining village, decked with empty, old wooden shacks the gang could temporarily use to wait the snowstorm out.

Kris made sure nobody was following them, staying behind in case any Pinkertons or lawmen showed up to surprise them. In the meantime, everybody got off the coaches and brought the few belongings they’d managed to snatch inside the shacks. A few fires were lit in the vacant fireplaces as the young woman hitched Cloud next to Arthur’s Boadicea, assuring they were fed and at least somewhat repaired from the sharp wind. She stood behind the two mounts, satisfied by the order of things: the married couple’s horses, resting next to each other. As it should be.

“Kris, go inside” Arthur materialized behind her, making her flinch, “They got a fire started. Go warm up, honey.” He laid a gloved hand on her shoulder.

She spun around to face him. Arthur stood in front of her as tall as ever, as broad as a wooden armoire. He was a comforting sight in times like those: he was always her rock, her buoy in the storm through all her troubles. His cheeks were particularly red, his rosacea not mixing well with the frigid cold of the Grizzlies, and his beard was overgrown from the many months on the run. He still managed to look dashing, tough.

She leapt in his arms, cringing from the initial coolness of his thick blue coat, but soon warming up against his torso. Arthur chuckled, cradling her head with his hand.

“Did’ya think you would get rid of me that easily?” he joked, taking in his wife’s warmth and secretly relieved to see her again.

Kris didn’t respond, all too focused on feeling Arthur’s body under her touch, taking in his smell, as if making sure he wouldn’t be torn from her again.

“Come with ,” she pulled him towards the shack, but Arthur had other plans.

“Sorry, Kris. Gotta deal with Dutch and Hosea first” he said, reluctant. Kris pouted and flashed him her signature doe eyes, so he rushed to add that he would join her as soon as he could.

“Fine” she conceded, letting go of his hand and striding towards the orange glow coming from the small shack.

Kris crouched next to Mary-Beth and Tilly in front of the fire, hovering her icicle fingers towards the wholesome, crackling heat. The women checked up on each other, making sure they were still in one piece.

Kris inquired about Davey Callander, the gravely injured gang member they had managed to patch up and bring over with them on the run. She couldn’t believe he had managed to survive the trip, but he laid there the whole time, hanging between life and death, resisting. He was a tough one, that Davey.

“I’m afraid Davey didn’t make it, Kris. I’m sorry.” Mary-Beth announced. Such a gentle soul to give such grim news.

“Oh god… poor Davey” Kris lamented, bowing her head, her eyes closed in mournful respect. She immediately thought of his brother, Mac, who got separated from the rest of the group back in Blackwater, after the massacre, along with that young boy Sean. He would be devastated… She really hoped that they were okay.

The departed Callander brother wasn’t known for his kindness: in fact, he made several passes at Kris before Arthur started courting her, so she fended him off fiercely. Despite that, his ego wasn’t bruised for long. He made sarcastic remarks and was always running from one job to the next. He was a great asset for the gang, a hard worker. But if Kris needed help with something, or fancied a friendly late night chat by the campfire, he was there. In those rare moments, softened up by the liquor, Davey had opened up to her about his past. Needless to say, he had a rough childhood, like most of her brothers and sisters did.

She would miss those talks with him.

Mellowed out by exhaustion and made talkative by the comfort of a heat source, the three girls reminisced about their favorite moments with the fallen man.

“Oh Tilly, remember that time you mended one of Davey’s shirts wrong, so when he wore it, he came to you with a huge hole poking through his chest?” Mary-Beth snickered.

Tilly laughed out loud at the memory. “Oh yeah, and then he joked that he should gift that shirt to Abigail, so she could breastfeed Jack easier!” the three all laughed, basking in a simpler time, when the gang had it easier and they weren’t on edge all the time.

The youngest woman smiled, staring off into the hearth. “I had just started learning how to sew,” she reminisced, an unspoken melancholy in her usually cheerful drawl, “and Davey didn’t make me feel bad about making a mistake. He was a good one.”

After that, nobody had much to add to the conversation. They simply sat next to each other, Kris laying her head on Tilly’s shoulder and Mary-Beth imitating her, the only background noise the popping and sizzling of the flames consuming the lumber.

They all instinctively turned their heads as the rickety door swung open.

Arthur walked in, wind whipping inside the room violently before he shut the door behind him.

“Sorry to intrude, ladies” he announced, still shivering from the cold, “but I gotta whisk Mrs. Morgan away to her lodgings.”

The girls snickered playfully as Kris walked to the door, wishing them a good night. The couple reached the main building of the establishment, a slightly bigger cabin with two bedrooms and a small living area with a chimney. Arthur led his wife to their room and shut the door, propping the only chair against it to make sure they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Kris shivered violently, adjusting to the room’s slightly less frigid temperature. Arthur was quick to embrace her, the warmth of his body slowly reaching her through his thick winter coat. He wiped the leftover snow off her hair, careful not to tangle his fingers in her waves, and stroked her back energically to shield Kris from the cold she had endured.

“Thank you” she sighed happily. “It feels much better already.”

Arthur hummed, satisfied. “Ready to turn in?”

Kris nodded, a big yawn emerging from her throat. She suddenly felt exhausted.

They both squeezed themselves in the tiny bed the room provided, snuggling together fully clothed. They had removed their hats and scarves and gloves, but that was the extent of what could be taken off inside an unheated room.

The young woman’s head rested on her husband’s chest, his heartbeat pumping regularly in her ears, Kris finally felt safe enough to relax and unwind. Arthur’s chest rumbled as he spoke to her.

“Today was a lot,” he inquired, “how are you feelin’?”

“Tired. And sad” Kris replied, all the day’s emotions stirring up inside her like a whirlwind. Lately, things seemed to only be falling more and more apart for the gang. She had a bad feeling she couldn’t shake off.

Arthur sighed and sniffled. “Yeah… me too.”

“Didn’t think Davey was gonna make it… but it’s still tough to accept he’s gone.”

“I know.” Kris rubbed his back, giving it a scratch here and there. She knew Arthur loved back scratches. It was her silent attempt at comforting him. “I’ll miss him too.”

They laid there in silence for some time, grieving the loss of their brother, wondering where the missing ones were now. If they had made it out of Blackwater safe.

“Man, what a mess…” Kris whispered, defeated, recounting the events that had sent them on a desperate escape through the snowy Grizzlies.

Arthur shifted, laying flat on his back with a groan. His back hurt more and more often lately, probably because of him getting older and living off the land so often. He was starting to think he wouldn’t be able to put up with that all throughout his forties. Hell, if he even lived to see his forties.

“Let’s not think of that right now,” he said, shifting the conversation elsewhere. “Let’s try to get some rest, darlin’.” The last sentence came out pained and the “darling” was distorted by a whimper.

Kris sat up, worried. She asked if his back hurt again, and Arthur nodded, sporting a new grimace on his face.

“Let me handle it” she gently maneuvered his torso towards the wall, so his back would be in front of her. Arthur gladly complied: Kris’s massages were the only thing that could soothe his back pains. He could’ve sworn her hands had some sort of miraculous healing property.

Kris rubbed her hands together, doing her best to warm them up before laying them on his exposed skin. She lifted his shirt and got to work on those sore muscles and ligaments, stirring up some moans and groans from Arthur as she worked to undo the knots and inflammation he had gathered in the last few weeks of work and travel. Eventually, the moans were replaced by sighs of relief.

“You are such a blessing” he laughed, feeling the pain ease up already.

“Yeah, a regular angel” she scoffed, urging him to roll back over so she could lean down to kiss him on the lips.

God, she had missed him.

She put all her feelings, the relief of him coming back alive, of them being still together, of finally having found shelter, in that kiss. Arthur’s chapped lips felt familiar and comforting in this new, strange environment.

He kissed her back, grateful he got to keep their little family intact amidst such troubles and death. As long as he had Kris, Arthur was content.

His beard scratched and tickled her, rough against her sensitive skin, but Kris didn’t mind. One hand on his chest, the other gently pressed against his unshaven cheek, she kissed him and everything else simply ceased to exist.

Kris pulled back just for a moment to catch her breath.

“I’m glad you weren’t swallowed up by the blizzard” she murmured on his lips. He laughed softly, looking up at Kris adoringly.

“Me too.” Arthur circled his fingers on her cheek, noticing it was quite red. He frowned, caressing it ever so gently with the back of his hand. He asked if he was hurting her, already cussing himself out internally for being so rough even when he didn’t mean to.

“I don’t mind” Kris reassured him, placing another soft peck on his lips. “I would never ask you to shave in this tremendous cold, honey.”

Arthur appeared conflicted for a second. The shaving kit was one of the many things that had gotten lost when they fled, so he couldn’t shave even if he wanted to. The cold was terrible and he despised it with all of his being, but Kris always came first to him, and he would’ve made the sacrifice.

He was torn between just trying to shave with his knife and cold water and stop kissing his wife… No. that wasn’t an option. Simply unreasonable. How could he not kiss her, when she was laying there next to him, so warm and soft and inviting...

He was seriously considering the knife, when Kris stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Don’t even think about that” as if she read his mind. The woman was something else.

“I’ll tell you when it’s too much, alright?”

“Alright.” Arthur decided he would try to be as gentle as he could. He turned her over so he was on top, and got to work with the gentlest kisses he could manage, all over her face, lips and exposed neck, watching her carefully for any sign of discomfort. She giggled, delighted, and enjoyed the ticklish, new sensation. Soon her cheeks were flushed, but not because of the cold or the irritation.

The rickety bed squeaked with their every movement, untimely reminder of what husband and wife usually do in bed together to make it that squeaky. An overwhelming warmth spread in her lower abdomen, and she bit her lip, conflicted.

If they took their clothes off, they would’ve froze their asses off. Plus, Dutch and Molly were just on the other side of the wall and, outside the door, sleeping on the floor on his bedroll, was Hosea.

Arthur recognized the look in his wife’s eye. It was familiar to him, having seen it many times when they were alone: that twinkle of desire that always made his guts turn inside out and stomach fill up with butterflies. He had an idea.

He whispered something in Kris’s ear which turned her from slightly flushed to a full tomato red in seconds. But she nodded in agreement, already suffocating a moan as Arthur pressed himself against her, rocking back and forth in a slow pace.

She instinctively lifted her hips to meet his, rutting against them, every movement sending lightning bolts and pangs of pleasure towards her pubic area. But there was an unwanted obstacle between them: their coats.

Already feeling much hotter, they got rid of them, throwing them haphazardly to the side, all the while continuing to dry hump each other, picking up the pace fast as they both got desperate, huffing and puffing and swallowing most of their moans and whimpers to avoid being heard.

The friction became even more delicious without an extra layer in between them, and they slid effortlessly on each other. A loud groan escaped Arthur’s lips without him even realizing, as he was quickly approaching his climax. He was trying to resist, but the sight of Kris all sweaty and grinding against him was making it even harder (no pun intended).

The creaks of the wood and mattress springs multiplied as they sped up, racing towards their orgasms, which swept them both off their feet quickly, taking them to a much sweeter place for a few, wonderful seconds.

They laid still and breathless, limbs weak and limp against the mattress. Arthur collapsed heavily on Kris, exhausted but content, and he wrapped her in his arms, but not before gently kissing her lips, as he always did after.

She exhaled happily, enjoying the pressure of Arthur’s weight pinning her down to the bed. It made her feel safe, and loved.

“Guess you ain’t so cold anymore” Arthur breathed shakily, making Kris laugh out loud. The ironic emphasis he always put on words never ceased to tickle her.

“Not a problem we’re gonna have, when we’re together” she joked back, patting him on the back and giving his butt a playful squeeze. He let out a surprised gasp, but didn’t protest.

Instead, he rolled over, wrapping himself around Kris’s waist, head on her back as they both drifted off into a restful slumber.

[deathmybride]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ the craving | jack conroy *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

ship: Jack Conroy x fem!OC

warnings: mentions of death, brief description of healed frostbite

summary: Jack meets a musher girl on his first day in Alaska.

word count: 2826

a/n: I am actually extremely proud of this so I hope somebody reads it haha

Living in the Yukon, you get used to craving. You crave warmth, food that doesn’t come from a can, a bed with a real mattress and a roof over it, the sight of a fresh face and fresh conversation. I had been out there for nearly seven years by the time I met Jack Conroy, and nearing my seventeenth birthday too. I stood at the edge of our camp, watching the prospectors stumble out of the narrow passage at the top of the pass, like rats spewing from a drainpipe. He caught my eye then, beet-red and fresh of face, dressed warm, but not warm enough, his eyes glazed with exhaustion and wonder. He reminded me of myself the first time I climbed the Golden Staircase, back when snow still glittered like pixie dust, and my father’s promise of a gold seam to call our own didn’t ring hollow as the wind through an empty mine. I knew Conroy instantly; the mirror of his father, the man who raised me better than my own. I kept my head down as he looked around, knowing he was there for Alex, but not wanting to face it. The Yukon would turn that boy hard as ice before long, and I didn’t want to watch it happen.

As he traipsed over to us, I crossed my arms and glared at him. Go home, Conroy. I thought. Go shack up somewhere warm, and be happy. He didn’t look at me once, so consumed with his mission. I shielded my face and retreated to the tent. The coffin was easier to face than Alex breaking his heart. Despite my reluctance, I knew I would not have minded taking him on. There were few young people so far into the mountains, except the few kids at the Tlingit village along the trail, but we never stayed long enough to get to know them. The boy could become my companion, of sorts. We would take him north-west from Dyea to Klondike, then set him loose to find his way to the Conroy claim to spend a few months frantically digging into the hill; and go home colder, hungrier, and poorer in spirit. I wouldn’t even have to see it break him. Alex wasn’t like that. He was a pragmatist. He and Skunker knew how to mush, and they took me on because I was the best scout you’d ever need, thanks to my daddy’s training. This boy was a city slicker, and the best he could offer the team was a morale boost, and Skunker was already too cheerful for Alex’s liking. We couldn’t take him. He’d be a dead weight. I tried to close my ears to his charming, eager voice as he tried to butter up old Larson. Soon enough, Alex stepped into the tent and nodded for me to help him lift the coffin. I set my teeth and heaved it. ‘Heavy’ doesn’t begin to cut it.

“Who’s in there?” Conroy asked, puffing a white cloud as he tried to catch his breath.

“Name’s Dutch.” Alex caught my eye and nodded in acknowledgement. I said nothing.

As sweet as his cold, dead daddy, Jack Conroy helped me lift the box. He waffled on in a voice tense with effort, about maps and letters, and gold dust in an envelope his father sent him on his deathbed. My heart ached at the thought of kind old Scotty, dying alone in his claim with that grey lump of diphtheria in his throat. We found him frozen one winter a few years past, and I left a bundle of purple lupines on his grave. My eyes started to burn and something in my throat thickened as I finished tying up my corner of the sled. I pushed past Jack to tie his side. He stumbled, his shoes struggling for purchase on the packed snow. Wolfish fury passed over his face as he regained his footing, then he calmed and went back to pleading his case.

“Everybody finds a little gold dust.” Alex assured him. “That’s what keeps you digging. But you have to strike it, and your father didn’t. Go home and find a regular job. You wouldn’t last a day out here.”

Something odd happened then. I caught the boy’s eye, still glimmering with hope, and realised three nuggets of truth at once: one; this boy was no stranger to craving adventure, glory, and a namesake, but craving food, craving heat? He had never wanted for these things in his life. Two; he had that grit in his teeth that showed the true conviction of his words. He would try to journey to the Conroy claim, with or without our help. And three; I had never known craving until I craved him.

“I’m a good worker, and I just want what’s mine.” He insisted, his soft voice strained in earnest as he trailed Alex’s heels. “I’m asking you to give me a chance.”

“Skunker!” I slapped the old man’s feet, sending him thrashing into wakefulness. You better back me up here you stinkin’ old bastard.

“Damn, what is it?” He exclaimed, limbs flailing as he leapt to his feet. “Alex!” He breezed past both Jack and me, still dazed with one foot in a fancy. “I was dreaming you, me, and Dutch was livin’ it up in Frisco! ‘Lil Quinn at a real college, the works!”

“Get the dogs ready.” Alex said coldly. This was his way.

“I hope Dutch appreciates this ride.” Skunker bemoaned, ignoring Alex’s crotchety comment and making no attempt to hide his annoyance for my sake. I damn well agreed with him. “‘Cause you shoulda died at your digs!” He hit the coffin with his fist. “Saved us a trip back.”

“Are you going near my father’s claim?”

“Scott Conroy’s son!” I called after Skunker. He turned on his heels, a half sceptical look on his face.

“What? Lemme see that face, kid.” He got up in the boy’s face and grabbed him by the chin, inspecting him close with beady eyes. Jack held his breath against the smell. “My God, Alex, he’s the spittin’ image of his old man! And I knew ya pa well. Clarence Thurston.”

“Jack Conroy.” Skunker slapped him into a frenzied handshake.

“You throwin’ in with us?” I knew I could trust old Skunker to have my back. I didn’t even have to plead a case for him.

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

“No.” Alex said simply. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.

“No? You’re taking him with you and you’re not gonna take me? He looks half dead already!”

I giggled. The first laugh I’d had since my daddy kicked the bucket. I slapped a mitten over my mouth to hide it and slipped away to wake up the dogs while Skunker bartered some gum out of him as an apology. Our wheelers, Fritz and Fatty, stirred and wagged their tails as I ran my hands through their fur, whining and baring their teeth in greeting.

“Hey, don’t worry about him.” Skunker assured him, waking up Digger and George, our swing team. “He’s just tired, that’s all.”

“Yeah, or he knows there’s gold out there and wants it for himself.”

“Woah, boy! You got the harness on the wrong dog.”

“Conroy.” I spoke up, meeting his hostile stare and forcing a calm over my body despite how flustered I felt. “If there’s one man you can trust in this damn place it's Alex Larson.”

He scoffed, seeming to ignore my words entirely, and rounded on Alex.

“Listen, if you don’t wanna take me, I’ll go by myself. I’ll get rich by myself too.”

“I think he’s crazy enough to do it Alex!”

“Skunker’s right.” I left the wheelers and sidled up beside him. “The Yukon will swallow him whole, we gotta take him.”

“Quinn, we can’t take him just because you think he’s cute.” Alex put on a shit-eating grin and tapped my arm with his glove.

“It’s not jus’ that.” My face heated up, but I saw no sense in denying it if it was already that obvious. “He’s got a musher’s spirit in him, even if he is green as snow peas, and I don’t wanna find him dead in the woods come summer and know we killed him.”

“Come on, Alex, he’s Scott’s boy!” Thank you Skunker! “Look at him, huh? How much trouble could he be?”

He cast a final sceptical glance at Jack, but conceded. Skunker winked. I stared him down for a second, admiring the swoop of his dark blonde hair, then let my lips twitch into a curt smile.

“I’ll take you as far as Klondike. Fall behind, and I’ll leave you where you drop. Understand?” Alex was all talk, as usual. Even if he wasn’t, he would realise soon enough that leaving this boy in the snow would mean signing two death papers at the Klondike post office.

“Yes, sir.” Jack beamed. At the sight of his smile, I felt the craving stir again, paired with a healthy portion of despair. I knew a virile young man like that would never make do with a musher girl who had lived amongst men so long that she had nearly become one, and often felt more dog than person; but to travel beside him for a while would be a gift.

Alex retreated to the tent to nurse his regret, and Skunker went out to the tuck tent to get some minced meat for the dogs. I went back to playing with the pack, settling beside them and letting the six team dogs crowd around me and vie for my attention. Jack came to sit beside me, eying me as cautiously as the dogs. The thin, agouti bitch who laid at the edge of the group got to her paws and came to watch him with her ice blue eyes. Her body was relaxed, though she let out a deep rumble

“Connie.” She turned her ear to me, but kept her eyes hard on the boy. “He’s a fine boy, he won’t hurt me. He’s Scotty’s boy.” Her ear twitched back up at Scott’s name. “Heel, Connie.” She stepped over to me, eyes always trained on Jack. “Sit now, girl.” She did. I reached over and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder, stroking it like I would a dog. “Now do the same to me.” His eyes flickered to me, hesitant, but he did as I said. Connie cocked her head, then pinned her ears back and wagged her tail. “See girl, he’s alright.”

“Can I touch her?” His voice was full of wonder.

“You have to ask her. Give her your fist. Gentle now.”

Slowly, he raised his fist to her. Their eyes met. Connie froze, and for a long moment I thought she might bite him, but then her body relaxed and she licked his hand, then his arm, and soon she had climbed all the way on top of him to lick his chops. He giggled and squirmed under her weight and collapsed onto his back.

“Connie! Settle down, girl, he ain’t for eatin’! I know he looks tasty.” I wrapped my arms around her middle and lifted her off him.

“Thank you,” He puffed, clambering off the snow. “Um…”

“Quinn.” Meeting his eyes was almost painful. They were so blue, like a clear day when the sky reflects on the snow so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Ah, thank you, Quinn.”

I looked away and stroked down Connie’s hackles. Setting my teeth together to keep from chattering. Nerves make the cold so much harder to bear.

“How’d a girl like you wind up out here?”

“You noticed, huh?” I raised my eyebrows. “Not many folks do these days. I got used to being called ‘son’ years ago, on account of my boyish charms.” To his credit, Jack chuckles, though I was sure that must have been the first joke I’d told anyone but Connie-dog. “Doesn’t help having a boy’s name, neither.”

“I think Quinn’s a fine name for a girl.” He said it earnestly enough that I managed to spare a glance at him. “And I knew you were a girl as soon as I saw you.” I said nothing, only squished some snow between my fingers to hide my squirming. I almost wished he hadn’t seen me at all. “‘Cause I’d never known a boy to be that pretty.”

“Now, Jack-” I started, my embarrassment trying hard to fester itself into anger. Well, ain’t you living proof to the contrary?

“It’s the truth!” He shifted closer to me, and I shifted away in return, bringing my knees up to my chest and pulling my scarf over my nose. “So how did you end up out here?”

“Mushin,’” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Been out here with my daddy since I’s ten. It’s how I make my living.”

“Who’s your da- your father, who is he?” His face reddened, making me giggle. I hid my face in my knees to cover it.

“Who’s my daddy?” I lean a little closer, enjoying being the one to make him squirm. “Well, he’s a fella by the name o’ Ysbrandt Maarschalkerweerd, but ain’t nobody this side the Atlantic can pronounce that, so they jus’ called him Dutch.”

“Oh.” He took a moment to digest it. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, that’s life.”

“I-I suppose?”

“It is. People just up and die out here sometimes.” I pushed away one of the team dogs from licking up my ear without checking who it was. “It’s not so bad.”

“You don’t miss him?”

“Not as much as I miss yours.” I admitted. “He was more of a father to me than my own ever was.”

“Really?” He leaned in, brow furrowed in contemplation.

“Yeah. He checked on me a lot, and one time- musta been about thirteen- I stayed with him at the claim for nearin’ six months while daddy and Skunker mushed supplies up to Nome. That’s when he bought Connie-dog for me. We went down to Klondike a fair bit to watch the fiddlers, see, and one time there’s a little boy sellin’ puppies. Turns out ol’ Colton’s lead bitch got knocked up by a wolf while they were out in the woods. Cost your daddy a whole dollar, but she’s been an asset ever since.”

“Wow.” He stroked the brindled fur between her eyes with reverence.

“It’s right we take you to Klondike. I think if you live an honest life out here- you stay true, you never rob, or hurt your dogs- your bones turn into a new gold seam when you die. Your pa never struck gold, but he might have made some for you.”

“Huh.” He looked thoughtful.

“Don’t let this place kill your kindness, Jack. You might leave some gold behind.”

“I won’t.” He noticed the scepticism on my face and added more emphatically: “I won’t.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen and still a green lil’ bean.” I shook my head. “You need better gear ‘n this. C’mon.”

He followed me dutifully to the sled where I dug around in my pack and produced my spare scarf, wool trapper hat that I usually wore under my coonskin, and a spare pair of fur cover-gloves to wear over his mittens.

“When you’re out in it, keep a scarf around your nose and mouth.” I pull the glove off my left hand with my teeth and show him the stub of my pinky finger, the missing tip on my index, and the hollow gouged into the pad at the base of my thumb. “‘Else you’ll lose ‘em like my fingers.” His eyes widened. “Wear these gloves over your mittens. I don’t have another coonskin, but you need more’n a baker’s cap to protect your ears. Tie it under your chin so it don’t blow off. You do that, you keep up with the sled, an’ you respect these dogs, and you’ll make it to Klondike with nothing missing.”

“Will they bite me?” He casted a nervous glance at the pack.

“No, but if you try anything abnormal I’ll bite you. They call me Dogtooth up at the Tlingit camp ‘cause a boy tried it on wi’ me and I bit square through his pecker.”

“Really?” He cringed, taking a step back.

“No.” I put my glove back on, smirking. “But you believed me, which gotta count for somethin.’”

“Did not!” 

“Did too!”

“Fightin’ already?” Skunker called out, hobbling along with two buckets full of fish.

“No, Skunker!” I waved him off. “Did too. Now come feed the puppies ‘fore they starve, get in their good graces.”

I turned to walk away, but Jack caught my shoulder and pushed himself flush against my back. I felt my heart quicken in that terrible, delicious rhythm as his lips brushed my ear. Every inch of me trembling with a craving like I had never felt.

“Did. Not.”

[mentally-a-slut]

Hello!

I'm not new to tumblr by any means, but I am restarting my blog and (hopefully) keeping up with it. I've had many blogs in the past where I've written fics for different fandoms, but always ended up mass deleting them out of embarrassment. (Stupid of me, I know.)

But I am returning and instead of dedicating my blog to one specific fandom, I'm going to just ride with whatever hyper fixation I fall into. Right now, it's Baldur's Gate 3 and Red Dead Redemption 2.

I write for female readers, simply because I feel most comfortable doing so, and I love doing OC fics. I have a few long fics in the drafts that I'm working on that I may post if this blog gets enough interest with some OCs, so we shall see!

I will write fluff and smut, but there are some things I will not write. I don't really know exactly where I draw the line, at least not enough to explicitly list my yes and no's, so just be mindful of the fact that I have boundaries and that sometimes I'm not comfy writing certain things! Just use common sense and it should be fine.

I will not write for certain characters, simply because I either do not like them, or don't know how to write them yet. I can confidently say I will never write for Micah Bell, because that makes me severely uncomfy (sorry Miach simps!)

I'm not so sure about writing for Dutch, but if enough people are interested I might give it a go. I mostly write for Charles and Arthur (and yes, I will write them together with reader.) In fact, I'm working on a long fic rn that's poly Charthur x fem!OC, so if I ever finish that and anyone is interested, lmk!

For BG3, I'm mostly into Gale, but I will write for Astarion the best I can. I love Rolan as well, and would LOVE to see some requests for him. I'll try my best to write for multiple people, but I am specifically interested in certain characters, so sometimes I won't want to write for others.

Please send requests, and feel free to ask me questions! I'll likely write up some quick blurbs so y'all can get a feel for my writing style and decide if you're interested.

By the way, you can call me Azi, or Z!

Much love! <3

(I have started tagging my posts for better access. Any reblogs will be tagged with #azi's bs, fic recs will be tagged #azi's fic recs, and any original works of mine will be tagged #azi's creations.)

[outsders]

іᥒ𝗍r᥆ძᥙᥴ𝗍і᥆ᥒ ⍴᥆s𝗍

she/they/it ◞ sixteen ◞ dutch ◞ INTP-T

pansexual + aromantic/fictoromantic ◞ asd

main / yume blog : @ aftongf ( if I follow you / interact it's with this account .ᐟ )

ᥕіᥣᥣ ᥲᥒძ ᥕ᥆ᥒ'𝗍 ᥕrі𝗍ᥱ

will write :

gender neutral & fem reader

wlw/gl & m/f4a

chubby / plus size reader

autistic reader

fluff , crack & angst

scenarios , drabbles , oneshots

etc. might add more

won't write :

male reader & mlm/bl

smut / nsfw

cheating / infidelity themes

oc's or character x character

anything else im uncomfy with I will lyk

requests are always open ,, unless stated so here otherwise. I will get to them asap ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

𝖿ᥲᥒძ᥆ms і ᥕrі𝗍ᥱ 𝖿᥆r

Five Night's At Freddy's :

Glamrock Freddy

Glamrock Chica

Roxanne Wolf

Montgomery Gator

Sundrop / Moondrop

William Afton (movie William)

Michael Afton (Mike Schmidt)

Vanessa / Vanny (Vanessa Shelly)

Carlton Burke

Charlotte Emily

Jessica

Glamrock Bonnie

Gregory (platonic ONLY)

Cassie (platonic ONLY)

Stray :

Momo

Doc

Clementine

Zbaltazar

Jacob

Seamus

Obey me! One master to rule them all :

Lucifer

Mammon

Leviathan

Satan

Asmodeus

Beelzebub

Belphegor

Diavolo

Luke (platonic ONLY)

Thirteen

Solomon

DC Universe :

Edward Nashton

Harley Quinn

Poison Ivy

Barbara Kean

Jerome Valeska

Jeremiah Valeska

My Hero Academia :

Katsuki Bakugou

Izuku Midoriya

Tamaki Amajiki

Kirishima Eijirou

Denki Kaminari

Ochaco Uraraka

Toga Himiko

Mina Ashido

Sally Face :

Sal Fisher

Larry Johnson

Ashley Campbell

+ possibly other characters / fandoms soon !

[seconds-not-decades]

Step {Back} In Time

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Fem! OC

Author's Note: Hello and welcome. This is my season two fic (and sequel to Time and Chase). I will be posting daily. *Please note that I am well aware that Elliot Page portrays Viktor, but due to season one being before his transition, that is why his character is still Vanya. I am not deadnaming him and I sincerely hope I don't come across as such. I will transition when I write season three.*

Warnings: cursing and violence.

Previous | Next

Valhalla

~ * ~

On April the 1st, 2019, the Earth was destroyed in a cataclysmic event.

Billions of people were wiped out in a matter of minutes.

Ironically, the seven survivors of the apocalypse were the very family members who brought it on.

~ * ~

Diego, Five, Karina, and Lila watched Sir Reginald's car disappear into the night.

"You know, I'm starting to get the feeling Dad's avoiding us," Five commented rather bitterly.

Lila sighed as she looked around. "Hate to be the boring one, guys, but, uh, it's time we get the hell out of here."

"When you say "we," who exactly are you referring to?" Five questioned in her wake.

"Not a lot of ambiguity in that sentence," Lila looked at him.

"Listen, I don't know who you are or where you came from, but whatever it is, I'd advise you return posthaste," Five snapped.

"She's right, Five. We gotta get outta here," Diego agreed.

"I just saved your life and your precious wife's life, you kinder-shit!" Lila was in disbelief. "If I hadn't stepped in, all that would be left of you is a blazer and some bloody socks and your wife would have been beaten to a bloody pulp with her pretty head split in two!" she was glaring him down.

"And that's the problem," Five bit out, grasping Karina protectively and supportively. "You're too good. You ask too many questions. You know too much."

"And you fight like you know what you're doing," Karina weakly added, coughing some.

"They've got a point," Diego admitted.

Lila scoffed in disbelief. "So I know how to handle myself, and that makes me the bad guy? Come on. Though she may have gotten bested a bit, Karina was holding her own pretty well."

"Leave Rina out of this," Five seethed. "Whoever you are, you're in our way. If I see you again, I will kill you."

Lila watched them walk past her and then once they were in the clear, Five blinked out with Karina back to Elliot's place to get her healed.

~ * ~

Luther was cooking eggs the next morning and the sun was shining. Five, Diego, and Karina looked as rested as could be.

"No, no, no, I don't understand. They keep following me," Diego was pacing.

"Wait, who?" Luther wanted to know.

"Those Dutch sociopaths."

"They're Swedish, you idiot," Five corrected him in exasperation. "Hired guns paid to eradicate us before we do any more damage to this timeline." He waved his cup of coffee around.

"Yeah, but why now? I mean, I'm-" he snapped his fingers aggressively as he continued, "Fine for three months until you two showed up!"

"Yeah, I was here for a year and no one messed with me," Luther added nonchalantly.

"Even if it was my fault-which it isn't- we only have six days before the end of the world, and the closest anyone's gotten to Dad was that driveway at the consulate," Five defended himself.

"Well…" Luther trailed off with a sigh. "That's not exactly true."

Everyone slowly turned to look at him.

"What do you mean?" Five questioned, stalking over to Diego's side.

"I saw him," Luther answered.

Luther recounted his story, starting with after he landed in the alley. He explained that he saw Sir Reginald once and took a bus to his home to see him, but Sir Reginald didn't recognize him and kicked him out. Then he came back to Dallas after that failed mission.

"That's pathetic," Diego commented, sitting across from Luther who was busily eating his eggs.

Luther scoffed, his mouth full. "Yeah, well, at least he didn't shank my ass."

Diego leaned forward. "No, bro, he shanked your heart."

Five and Karina looked at him in confusion and exasperation.

"Mm," Luther shoved another spoonful of eggs into his mouth.

"Is that my bathrobe?" Elliot pointed to him.

"No."

"Look, who cares what he shanked?" Five got everyone back on track. "He knows something about time travel."

Elliot raised his arm. "Um…wait, why don't you just do your thing and, uh, time travel us out?"

"Anyone care to explain?" Five scoffed, getting to his feet.

"First time he tried, he got lost in the apocalypse," Karina began.

"Second time, he ended up without hair on his balls," Diego continued.

"Last time I tried, I scattered my family across three years in Dallas, Texas, possibly triggering a doomsday," Five poured himself another cup of coffee and refilled Karina's cup of tea. "Any more questions, Elliott?"

"Uh, no," Elliot shook his head quickly.

"Sorry, you'll have to excuse him. He's the personification of an angry chihuahua," Karina told him casually, taking the cup of tea from Five.

"You're missing the big picture. Dad is the ringleader of a sinister cabal that's planning to kill the president," Diego told Luther.

"A cabal?" Luther had his mouth full again.

"Ignore him," Five cut in. "Look, the way I see it, we only have one option."

"Oh, yeah? And what's that?" Luther wanted to know.

"It's time to get the Umbrella Academy back together," Five answered.

"Hell, yeah. Family meeting," Diego grinned.

"Okay then, can one of you get Allison, please?" Luther requested.

Diego glanced at him. "You two still a thing?"

Luther motioned with his head.

Diego leaned forward and whispered, "Do we need to talk?"

"No, she's married," Luther replied.

"Whoa. Dude, that's rough," Diego said.

"I can handle it," Luther sarcastically chuckled.

"Rina and I will get her," Five spoke up. "Can you get Vanya without, uh, squeezing her to death?" he eyed him.

"I'll try."

Five nodded and blinked out with Karina.

~ * ~

Five, Karina, Allison, and Klaus entered the building from below.

"Hello?" Allison called out.

"Le petit mort, le petit mort," Klaus repeated himself.

Allison eyed him. "What? You don't speak French."

"It's "the little death"."

They both chatted indistinctly and Allison laughed as Diego, Luther, and Vanya came out from above.

"Oh, wow. Look at this old stuff," Klaus looked around at the TVs and radios. Everyone looked at one another in astonishment. "Oh, wow. I know this is impossible, but…did we all get sexier?" he asked.

Diego, Luther, and Vanya came down.

"Vanya," Allison went over to her with Karina.

Vanya smiled. "I can't believe I have another sister."

"I missed you."

"Thank God someone did," Vanya chuckled softly and they both chuckled before hugging it out. Allison grinned and pulled Karina into the hug.

Klaus grunted while he hugged Diego.

"Oh, you are drunk," Diego pulled back.

"Yeah. No, just a little. Just a few-oh, that's so sweet," Klaus saw Allison, Vanya, and Karina hugging.

He went over and flung his arms around the trio.

"No. Jesus!" Allison grunted and Vanya giggled.

"Hi," Vanya greeted.

"Hey, Vanny," Klaus returned.

"Klaus," Five spoke up as Karina rejoined his side. He softly smiled and wrapped his arm around her waist. "Is Ben here?"

"Oh, uh…no. No, unfortunately, ghosts can't time travel," Klaus lied airily.

"Are you kidding me?" Ben was sitting behind them.

"All right, then. Let's get down to business," Five went upstairs with Karina.

Klaus looked at Vanya. "So, Vanny, what's new?"

"Hey, Diego," Allison peered over at him, but he was going up the stairs. "Can't say hi to nobody?"

"Hi, Allison," he grumbled.

"What was that?" she prodded from her side of the staircase.

"Hi, Allison!" he yelled.

"Thank you!"

Everyone settled down, looking at Five, who was standing.

"All right. First off, I wanna say I'm sorry," he began. "I know I really screwed the pooch on this whole going-back-in-time-and-getting-stuck thing. But the real kick in the pants here is we brought the end of the world back here with us."

"Oh, my God, again?" Klaus complained, causing everyone to stare at him. "All of you knew? Why am I always the last one to find out about the end of the-oh, my God." He gasped dramatically. "My cult is gonna be so pissed. Five! Karina! I told them we had until 2019!"

"We have until Monday," Five sighed.

"We have six days," Karina added solemnly.

"Is it Vanya?" Klaus took a sip of his drink.

"Klaus!" Allison scolded him.

"What? It's usually Vanya."

"Do you have any leads, Five?" Vanya looked at him.

Diego handed him a file.

"Yeah, we have one," Five passed the file to Allison.

"Holy shit, is that Dad?" she asked, shocked.

"Yeah," Five nodded.

Vanya peered over. "That's him?"

"Standing on the grassy knoll," Diego put in.

"Diego and I have been trying to talk to Dad about what exactly this means," Five continued. "So far, we've got nothing."

"Not nothing," Diego disagreed. "He's planning to kill Kennedy."

"Maybe," Five remarked. "But we don't know who or what sets doomsday in motion. Could be Kennedy, could be something entirely independent."

"But if we know something changes the timeline, we have to make it right," Luther spoke up.

"Yeah, but how, if we don't know what's broken?" Allison pointed out.

Diego scoffed. "Come on. Do the math. We know Dad's having shady-ass meetings with some shady-ass people. We know he's on the grassy knoll in three days to kill the president. So I think we all know what we have to do."

"Find Dad," Five said at the same time as Diego said, "Kill Dad."

Everyone shot Diego a look.

"None of us are supposed to be here, right?" Vanya asked. "I mean, what if it's us? Has anyone here done anything to screw up the timeline?"

There was a moment of silence as everyone exchanged a look.

"Diego's been stalking Lee Harvey Oswald," Luther shot.

"And you're working for Jack Ruby!" Diego shot back.

"Allison has been very involved in local politics," Klaus casually stated.

Allison whipped to glare at him. "Okay, you started a cult."

"Thank you!" Ben agreed.

"I'm…I'm just a…a nanny on a farm," Vanya admitted while Klaus growled and hissed at Allison like a cat.

"I don't have anything to do with all of that," Vanya said.

"Well, maybe you do, we just don't know it yet," Karina gently returned.

Diego whistled sharply. "Listen to yourselves. Everything in our new lives is connected to Kennedy. That can't be a coincidence," he began listing off, "Luther works for Ruby, Allison is protesting the government, Dad is on the grassy knoll, Klaus is…doing something weird and pervy but probably related. See, clearly, we were all sent back here for one special reason: saving John Fitzgerald Kennedy."

Here came the overlapping arguments. Five just stared at his family in regret and exasperation. Karina rolled her eyes at the bickering siblings, going over to Five's side. He wordlessly wrapped his arm around her, looking down as he lightly rapped his fingers against her ribcage. She watched the arguments continue as Five thought over the memories of the war he and Karina saw when they first landed here.

"Five? Five, are you there?" Karina's voice echoed and snapped him back to the present.

"This is bigger than all of us!" Diego exclaimed.

"Guys, you all die," Five interrupted the family, his grasp tightening around Karina's waist.

Everyone ceased their fighting and looked at him.

"Rina and I were there. We saw it," he continued solemnly, feeling his voice catch. "And I wanna forget it, but I can't. We saw Russian nukes vaporize the world with all of you in it…in a war that never happened until we brought it here."

"And Hazel gave his life to save us, so you may need to shut up and just listen to him," Karina spoke.

"I don't know if the things we've experienced here are all connected," Five sighed. "I don't know if there's a reason for everything. But Dad will. We need to talk to him before everyone and everything we know is dead."

"Okay, I'm out," Luther immediately shot to his feet with a sigh.

"Did you even hear us, Luther?" Five stared at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. I heard a 58-year-old man who still wants his daddy to come and fix everything," Luther remarked. "Well, you can count me out. It's time we all grew the hell up."

"Luther!" Karina followed Luther out.

"Come back," Diego chased after him.

"Where you going?" Klaus asked.

"Save it, Diego," Luther snipped.

Five blinked out and reappeared in front of Luther. He sighed.

"No one leaves until we figure this out," Five told him.

Luther stared down at him for a second before he grabbed a fistful of Five's shirt and tossed him over the railing. He yelled and blinked out before he fell onto the floor.

"FIVE!" Karina shouted and shoved her way past the two. She whipped around to Luther angrily. "God, you are such an asshole! You try watching your family die twice and see how easy it is to try figuring out to save them and the world with a limited amount of days!"

Before Luther could react, she ran out of the building and rushed into the alleyway where Five was.

"Five, are you okay?" she asked him, checking him over briefly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine, love," he reassured her. "Jeez…when did the monkey learn to fight dirty?" he wrinkled his nose.

Suddenly a rock fell down near them and they looked up to see Lila on the roof, racing off and then appeared on the street.

"Son of a bitch," Five breathed out.

The two exchanged a look, glancing back at the building. Then the two raced off to track Lila down.

~ * ~

The two followed Lila to a seemingly old abandoned building.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Karina whispered to Five.

He sighed. "Well, we'll see how this goes first."

He blinked them inside to where Lila was. She turned around to face them.

"What's your game, crazy lady?" Five shot.

"Who cares? You said if you saw me again, you'd kill me," Lila sarcastically shot back. "I see you brought your back-up. How sweet."

"Oh, I remember," Five sarcastically said.

"Well, come on, big talker. Let's get this done."

"All right."

Five blinked to her other side and she punched him, knocking him to the ground with a grunt. Lila swung to kick Karina, but she ducked beneath her and slid past, watching her run off. Karina helped Five up as they ran after her.

Five blinked them out and in front of Lila before flipping around and kicking her across the face. Lila dodged punches and gave punches, alternating between the two. She kicked Five back and shoved Karina into a crate, taking off again.

The two scrambled to their feet and looked around.

Lila chuckled from behind them. "I'm waiting."

Five blinked them to her but, Lila was nowhere to be found.

She laughed when they whipped around to face her. He blinked to her again but she was gone. She was casually standing behind them again.

"Fed up yet, Five? Karina?" she arrogantly shot.

Five grabbed a nearby pole and blinked to where she was, smashing the pole against an electrical box.

Five turned as Lila kicked him down. Karina punched her and blocked her arm, uppercutting her in the stomach. Lila tried to kick Five, but Karina swung from below and knocked her leg out, making her fall on her back. Lila grunted when she landed and Five immediately stepped on her throat, making her  cry out. She grabbed his foot, fighting against him.

"You two are better than I thought," she wheezed out.

"And you are entirely average," Five shot back coldly. He clenched his jaw as Lila softly choked. "You can come out now," he called.

The one and only Handler appeared, her heels clacking menacingly on the floor. "Well done. You two figured it out."

"Well, it wasn't very hard," Karina coolly stated.

"She fights like every one of you Commission drones," Five added.

"Hmm," the Handler mused. "No matter, here we are. Together again. And you brought your darling wife, too, how sweet. I've gotta ask…did you miss me, you little shits?"

Lila coughed, laughing as Five and Karina death glared at The Handler.

~ * ~

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬   𝐖𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇, 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒

rating: Explicit

pairing: Arthur Morgan x Stephanie Miller (Fem!OC)

summary:  Arthur and Stephanie mix like fire and kerosene—deadly and explosive. The only catch, they can’t stand each other. But when an almost perfectly executed robbery turns south, they have to work with each other in favor of evading the law and getting away with the money. 

warnings: violence, blood and scars, bank robbery, guns, smoking, unresolved sexual tension, rivals or whatever they are to lovers, Arthur and Steph being idiots, threatening lives, smut, (relatively) rough sex, low to neutral honor Arthur, pre-canon

word count: 8,359

a/n: In this story Steph has been part of the Van Der Linde gang since she was eighteen, she and Arthur had always been rivals but they had feelings for each other (they’re just stupid). The knife that makes an appearance was gifted to Steph by Hosea on a past robbery, the one Arthur mentions in this story. Anyway, please enjoy it guys, I spent too much time on writing this.

MASTERLIST    |    ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

1897

It's old family money. 

Tucked carefully away in the town bank behind metal bars and mean safes. It's perfect for a small heist. 

Or, it would be, if Dutch didn't send Stephanie with him. 

The town's main street is quiet, only the drunken singing and piano music bleeds onto the muddy cobblestones from the saloon. A few men sit at the storefronts, trading cigarettes and stories, not batting an eye at the foreign rider. There's a woman sweeping the porch at the gunsmith, a bit farther away a butcher letting his meat rot in the late afternoon sun. Arthur slows his mare to a slow trot, pats her on the neck. It's been a long ride from camp, and it felt even longer knowing Stephanie was tailing him. 

He tried to lose her when he could. Dug her heels into Boadicea's sides when he was hidden by trees or sharper turns in the road and galloped away. 

Sadly for him she's a real good tracker, and his destination was no secret either. 

He suppresses an annoyed groan when he hears her stallion cantering through the street, too soon, too goddamn soon. She slows him to a trot and her horse falls in step with Boadicea, greeting her with a small nicker. 

"You shoullda told Dutch you wanted a solo job," Stephanie huffs, a bit breathless, and turns towards Arthur, her cheeks rosy and her hair a right mess. 

"I told him," he groans and turns his mare towards a small patch of grass at the end of the main street where a few hitching posts stand. "Guess he couldn't stand you complainin' anymore."

"The last time I was on a job was the stagecoach robbery back in march," she stops and gets down from the saddle, pats her appaloosa on the neck and ties him to a post. Thankfully, she can't see Arthur rolling his eyes. "Grimshaw made me scrub my damn fingers off while I was washin' your stinky clothes. I can barely pull a trigger with them," she pouts, puts a hand over her jacket, just where her revolvers are hidden. Arthur sighs and does up the top two buttons of his worn duster coat. 

"Ya ready?" he turns towards her while he pulls up his gloves and pats his shoulder where the saddlebags are hidden under his coat. 

"I'm the distraction?" She almost grins and it twists something inside Arthur. Stephanie loves playing the damsel in distress; maybe because she ain't one. Jesus, she's the exact opposite. Tall, burly, fits just right into the gang, into the group of killers and robbers and no-good bastards. She makes his blood boil—and he doesn't know if it's the right kind of fire or not. 

She ignites the spark and Arthur burns. Always. Fuse and dynamite.

"Guess you are," he nods. 

They walk through the street and the mud feels like it could swallow him. The loud wet sounds that surround their every step echoes inside his mind. He's usually like this during a robbery: hyperaware of his surroundings, blood pumping fast in his ears and toes almost curling inside his boots. The presence of Stephanie just heightens those sensations. 

They hide behind a general store and he can just look through the windows of the bank from here. Perfect.

"Alright," she smiles again, puts a cigarette between her lips. She pats over her hair, trying to look somewhat decent. "Light this for me, will ya?" 

She leans closer to him, holding the cigarette between her teeth while Arthur fishes out a match from his pocket and lights it on the side of his boot. 

She puffs out two small clouds of smoke when the cigarette is lit, unbuttoning the top three buttons of her jacket. She doesn't have a décolletage like Karen, but hers will do the trick too. Men don't really care. Just gotta play the lost girl.

"Pinch here?" she points to a small patch of skin at the crook of her neck, under the ribbon she tied around her throat to hide her scars. 

Arthur hesitates because even though he could strangle her sometimes, he doesn't really want to hurt her. He carefully pulls away her jacket and shirt and does as she says, pinches the skin until it darkens into a deep red. Stephanie hisses and he feels just a little bit pleased with himself. 

"How do I look?" she asks, all hopeful, just like every time she's allowed to come on a heist—giddy like some one year old filly. 

"Like a desperate working girl," he shakes his head and she smacks his shoulder for the comment. 

Stephanie walks closer to the windows, tries to spot whoever is inside. 

"Looks like it's just the manager and a lawman," she smirks.

"It's our lucky day then."

Arthur has a good feeling, even though he wanted this job alone. Stephanie's a lot to handle, but when it comes to playing her part she does an excellent job. They always pulled off robberies successfully when they worked together. 

That doesn't mean they don't mix like kerosene and fire.

"Wait outside, I'm gonna take care of the lawman," she smiles and puts her half-burnt cigarette into Arthur's mouth to let him finish it. 

"Alright."

Arthur leans against the wall next to the bank's door, smoking Stephanie's cigarette that still got the taste of her lips on it. He tosses it into the mud. He can’t be distracted, not now. 

She enters the building, getting right into character with a painful sob, fake tears already forming in the corners of her eyes. Arthur shakes his head, nibbling on the edge of his bandana with his teeth, suppressing a small smirk. It would have been easier to send in Marston dressed as a lady, than Steph with that terrible fake crying of hers. 

Or, maybe not.

“Please Mister, help me! I got—I got… A man grabbed me, on the other side of the hotel, I barely escaped with my life and my decency!” Stephanie sputters, hiccups coloring her plea. The smile on Arthur’s face widens. 

“Alright Miss, calm down.” It’s the lawman or whoever he is. 

“Oh, no! No! What will I do now? I can’t go home like this! My husband, may God bless him, passed away last week and I’m with child and I—I can’t face my family like this,” Stephanie almost wails and Arthur hears rustling, steps. 

“Come, Miss. Sit down, breathe. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Arthur almost feels sorry for the man, especially when he hears them sitting down on something. Perfect. 

"Do you think it'll bruise badly Mister? I can't go home like this, what will my daddy say?"

"It's not that bad Ma'am."

Arthur hears more steps inside so he pulls up his bandana, reaches under the sides of his coat to grab his revolver and kicks open the bank’s door with a long exhale. 

The lawman’s facing Stephanie, still in a half-sitting position when Arthur puts the barrel of his gun to the man’s spine, cocking it and snarling under his mask. 

"But it's gonna turn real bad for ya Mister. Don't move, or the lady blows your head off.” His voice is deep, rumbling, like a predator and Steph smiles at him. She pulls out her own guns, pointing one at the lawman and one at the manager. 

“You can handle him darlin’?” Arthur’s grin reaches his eyes under the bandana and Steph nods, a bit too soon, too eager. 

He called her darlin’. Christ, he totally lost his mind. 

“‘Course.”

The manager tries to lock the iron door, fumbles with the key for a second and it’s enough for Arthur to kick on it, sending the handle straight into the man’s face. The manager’s glasses crack in, bending at the side and blood splatters along his thick mustache. Arthur probably broke his nose. 

He tries to pull a gun on the outlaw, but Arthur’s quicker and he grabs the manager’s wrist, twists it until the six shooter hits the tiled floor. He pulls the man to stand and pushes him towards the vault, eyes glinting dangerously sharp under the brim of his hat. 

"Open the goddamn vault!"

The manager staggers, wipes the blood from his nose with his free hand.

"I—I don't know the…"

Arthur shoves him against the door. 

"Don't give me your bullshit, open it or I'll put a bullet in ya!" 

"Alright!"

Arthur puts his gun against the other man’s nape and keeps it pressed there until the lock of the door clicks and it slides open. Three safes are inside, each of them locked. Arthur groans and drags the man with him, grabs him by the neck and presses him against the safe in the middle. "What's the combination?"

"I—I don't know,” the manager stutters, frightened. His toes barely touch the ground. 

"What do you mean you don't know?"

There’s no answer. 

The manager earns himself a bullet in the leg. He shouts, struggles in Arthur’s grasp, but he doesn’t say a word. Arthur can see the deep hate in the other man’s eyes, telling him that he’s a no-good bastard, an outlaw, a killer son of a bitch. 

So Arthur slams him against the safe, knocks him out cold. 

"Shit," Arthur grumbles. 

He fumbles with the lock for a little, but the street comes alive outside and the blood roars in his ears a little bit too loud. There’s no way he’s gonna crack these open like this. Not with the little time they got left before the law shows up. 

Speaking of the law...

Steph comes runnin', hair even a bigger mess than before, guns aimed at the door. Arthur wants to scream. 

Again. She did it again. 

He’s so gonna give Dutch a huge shit talk after this—if they don’t get themselves arrested, that is. 

"What happened?" Arthur hisses between his teeth, pulls down his bandana to catch some air. These goddamn summer afternoons make his skin crawl. 

"I took care of the lawman. He's knocked out," Steph answers with just a little bit of breathlessness in her voice. She watches the main door with too much attention. Arthur’s gut twists. 

He slams the grip of his gun against the safe, but it’s a fruitless effort. 

"Shit! It's not movin'."

Arthur’s furious. He tears open the buttons on his coat, puts his hands to his hips and looks at Steph. She rolls her eyes and comes closer, shoving him away by the shoulder.

"Step away, I have dynamite."

"Are you crazy?" Arthur whisper-shouts, but steps away, dragging the still bleeding fool of a manager into the other side of the room. He doesn't really care if the man lives or not, but seeing a blown up body is never good for his stomach.

"You have a better idea? Folks gonna notice anyway. One of them is already running for the sheriff," she says matter-of-factly, pulling out three dynamite sticks from the satchel she was hiding under her jacket until now. 

"What did you do?" Arthur snarls, props the manager's body against the far wall, hoping the sturdy desk in the middle of the room will protect him enough. Or not. 

"Guy came in, got a bit nervous. You know I have a meaner right hook than most men," Steph shrugs and puts the dynamite in place. "You have a match?"

"Jesus, Steph," Arthur wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his palm and steps beside her, pulling out the last match from his coat pocket and shedding the too warm piece of clothing, dropping it onto the floor. "Alright, alright! I'm doin' it. Gimme that," he yanks away the fuse of the dynamite from her hand and strikes the match against the safe in front of him.

"Thank you!" She pats him on the shoulder and leaves the room, keeping an eye on the front door instead.

"And Dutch wonders why I never want to do a run with ya," Arthur mumbles, annoyed, and he retreats into the cover of the walls, too, waiting for the explosion.

And what an explosion it is! Few of the windows break, more of them crack in. The sound is deafening, but looks like it got the job done, after all. 

"Guess we gonna have to shoot our way out of here," Steph shouts for him when he steps back into the vault, already opening the saddlebags on his shoulder and stuffing them with money bills, jewelry and family heirlooms. 

"Shit."

"Arthur, hurry up!" 

"I'm almost done!" 

Arthur shoves the rest of the riches that remain into his satchel, all bags on him full to the brim. This is a real decent take, and if they manage to pull it off without getting arrested or dying—

"Come out of there!" The voice comes from outside. 

Great.

Arthur pulls back his bandana and the saddlebags, cocks his revolver and walks out into the main room.

"Get down!" Steph warns him, but the shots are already raining through the front windows. 

"How many?" 

"Five, one of them's the sheriff," Steph puts one of her guns into the corner of the window and blindfires, hoping to distract the outsiders enough so they can sneak through the door. "How do you wanna do this?"

"There’s a wagon outside for cover.”

So they run. 

Steph keeps firing, shoots one deputy in the shoulder. The man falls into the mud and Arthur can see her smirking. She’s really enjoying this, the sick woman. She wanted the shootout. 

Arthur’s back slams against the wagon and he reloads his weapon, aims at the sheriff. 

“I’m the sheriff of this town. You can’t escape, you’re outnumbered, so I suggest you give up now and maybe we try not to kill ya!” 

“I suggest you run before you all die,” shouts back Arthur, and to emphasize his words he shoots a deputy in the thigh, and another in the belly. “Now it’s a fair fight, Mister!”

“Goddamn thieving bastards!” comes the answer from the sheriff, all laced with venom and anger. “You won’t leave this town alive!”

He tries, he really does. 

A bullet whistles away next to Arthur’s ear, but it’s useless. He’s a gunslinger for a reason. They fire back when the sheriff reloads his revolver, and Steph takes down another deputy. 

“Hands up, and you’ll live, Mister!” Arthur points his gun at the sheriff, Stephanie helping him with her own six-shooter. 

“You shoot up my town, my deputies, and you think you have a say in this matter?” The sheriff is furious and he moves fast, but not fast enough. Steph takes him down with a bullet to the knee and the man falls onto the filthy cobblestones with a desperate cry. 

Arthur whistles for Boadicea and the horses come running while the streets fills with life again. The reinforcements arrive with galloping horses. 

Steph grabs the horn of her saddle, hangs onto her stallion until she can pull herself onto its back, heels already digging in, urging the horse to go even faster. She looks back above her shoulder, at Arthur who slings himself into his saddle just then, grabbing Boadicea’s reins and clicking his tongue. 

The chase is long, longer than any they were part of lately. The lawmen fire at them with rifles and revolvers, barely letting up before the bullets start rainin’ again. The horses almost pant, tiring out after a few miles of full speed running. 

"I knew it was a huge mistake letting you come," Arthur comes up to Steph, passing one of the saddlebags to her. She flings it over her stallion’s neck. 

"You ain't a saint either, Arthur.” There’s a serious look in her eyes and their gazes meet. It’s no for long though, they have to duck down when a bullet wheezes through between them. Boadicea neighs unhappily.

"This is on you, Steph!” 

"Oh shut up and ride," she rolls her eyes and fires back at the lawmen with her revolver, trying to at least scare their horses. 

Arthur pats Boadicea’s neck, murmurs her soft words to encourage her, but they have to stop or at least slow down soon or the horses will get hurt. 

The mountains near closer and closer, thick pine forests covering the land in every direction with steep hillsides and cliffs and slippery rocks. It’s perfect to hide. 

Arthur whistles to Steph to get her attention and he points her towards the trees with a wave of his hand. They have to hold back the horses a little, because evading the pines in a thick forest as this is even harder than evading the law. 

Arthur’s hand burns from the glove, his hair sweaty and messy under his hat. He pulls down his bandana when the deputies finally disappear from behind them. puffing out tired breaths and guiding his mare deeper into the woods, deep until the canopy over them seals together, until the low sunlight turns into a greyish-purple darkness. 

No gunshots have been ringing for a while now. 

They dismount at a small clearing where the treeline opens a bit. Arthur leaves the horses with the money bags and his satchel and hat to let them rest and graze. Steph finds a nice patch of bushes they can hide in—raspberry vines and oak saplings and Arthur flops down in the cover of them, into the patch of moss and bead of leaves that had fallen last autumn. It’s soft. Softer than any surface he has laid on in a very long time.

Steph unsheathes her knife and clutches it in her hand in case the deputies try to search the bushes nearby, but the threat never comes. The blade lays flat between her and Arthur, the sharpened bone edge facing her. Their chasers ride on, up towards the steeper terrain and they wait, until the sun dips behind the mountains, until the lawmen turn back and disappear in the evening darkness. 

"You always snap at me like you had never made a mistake in your sorry life," Steph’s voice is barely a whisper but it makes his blood boil all the same. 

Arthur turns towards her with a raging fire in his eyes and she has to swallow. He wants to punch her, wants to make her bleed. He wants to give her a headache as painful as she gave him. He wants to give her a blackeye to match his bruised knuckles, but he doesn’t act on it in the end. He’s not that asshole who punches women. 

So he turns away instead, and sighs. "Best we don't speak for a moment."

They lay like that, unmoving and their bodies dipping into the soft bed of fallen leaves and moss that damps their clothes and makes them stick to their skin uncomfortably. The knife's untouched, placed perfectly in the middle between them.

"I always wondered what it'd be like to kill ya," she murmurs and despite the harshness of the words, they have no real edge. 

Arthur just huffs, flicks away an annoying piece of dried leaf from his face. 

"Why haven't you tried?"

The question is honest, there's no hint of his usual sarcasm. Stephanie's gaze wanders to the blade where a dying stag and thorned rose vines are carved into the bone. Arthur's eyes follow hers.

"I wanted to. But folks was always 'round," she answers quietly and the low moonlight catches on the white of her teeth. They look sharp; canines of a snarling wolf. Arthur could swear even her pupils are glinting golden when a firefly buzzes away above them. 

"No one's here now."

He knows they're playing a dangerous game but he can't bring himself to stop. He wants to push her to her limits, wants to corner her, wants to watch her growl like a wild animal. He wants her to finally break, wants her, he wants, wants—

It's a dangerous, stupid challenge, but it's only one of many they've made during their time spent together. And most importantly, he knows she won't refuse. Can't. 

Arthur smirks but the smile is a fleeting thing. 

It turns into a breathy gasp as Stephanie rolls and grabs the blade off of the ground. She's on him already, pressing down on his chest with her full weight and holding the knife to his throat. Arthur is both frightened and mesmerized at the same time. 

"Goddamn you woman," he hisses and she presses the blade harder, nicking his skin.  She watches as a crimson drop of blood slips down the blade and finds rest on the carved dying stag. Arthur's hands fly to her wrists but she holds firm and steady and he can't pry her hands away that easily.

"Ain’t a soul ‘round here," she whispers, leaning close enough that her mouth almost touches his cheek. "Only me and you and this knife, Arthur."

"And what do you wanna do?"

He knows the law's long gone, that they ran back to whatever backwater little town they came from. Above Steph's shoulder the horses are visible, saddlebags full to the brim with money bills and gold and jewelry. He's not gonna die here. Not like this. Not by a hand that doesn't wanna kill him. 

Stephanie leans even closer, so close, her lips almost brush his and Arthur can't help it, he opens his own. He waits, and Steph draws closer, fits herself right above him and she quietly asks, "This okay?"

And Arthur's gone. 

He shakes off one of her hands from his arm with great force and presses his palm to her nape. He pulls her in, grabbing the hair there, not minding the blade still at his throat—albeit not pressing now—and their lips finally touch. 

It's so hungry Arthur can't even decide which one of them opens up sooner, he just feels Stephanie exploring him, tasting him, kissing with so much pent up passion that their teeth clink. She's wild like this and Arthur almost wants to bite into her lip and draw blood. 

He doesn't know if they're still fighting or this is something else completely. He twists his hand in her hair, enjoys her groan on his lips anyway. 

Steph lowers the knife and puts it carefully down in the moss next to his head—a patch of white clovers are blooming there. She leans on that hand and lowers her body fully onto his. Arthur groans into their kiss, lets her know he really enjoys feeling her like this, close and heavy and warm and soft. 

He twists his hand in her hair again, makes her pull away with a shuddering breath. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothin', just wanna see ya like this," he murmurs, tilts her head back and plants a kiss on her exposed neck where the scars are still prominent and puckered. Stephanie scrambles for a moment, then she grabs his throat and squeezes, right until Arthur's breath hitches. 

His eyes are hazy, pupils blown wide and his hair is full of little leaves and moss and dirt. A blush creeps up his neck, taints his face a deep rosy red. Stephanie's lips almost open around a moan. 

They stare at each other for a few seconds until Arthur releases her hair, makes his hand settle on the small of her back instead while the other slides down too, grabbing into her thigh. Steph's hold loosens on him and she drops her head into the crook of his neck, kisses a small patch of skin there, and then bites. 

Arthur squeezes her tighter. 

"Steph?"

"Hm?"

"What do you want from all this?" he asks quietly, unsure, even though she still kisses and nips on his skin like only lovers do. Christ. 

"Wanna feel good. With you," when she looks up at him there's a haziness in her eyes, a fire burning low and hot and he doesn't know if he wants to get scorched. 

Arthur's still drunk on the thrill of the heist but he feels mesmerized for an entirely different reason. Steph smiles into the space where his neck meets his shoulder and presses her thumb to his throat, grins winder when she feels him swallow. 

Jesus, he wants her to burn him. Brand him, mark him like ranchers do with cattle. He wants to feel her, even after the sun came up and the week passed. 

So he pushes his hand into her hair again and pulls her into another bruising kiss. It's Stephanie's turn to be breathless. Arthur forces her lips open, licks into her mouth and she's lost. His touch turns firmer, grabs her with intent and need and she lets him, urges him even with quiet sighs and hastening kisses. 

When she pulls away Arthur’s teeth still keep her bottom lip trapped between them for a second. He looks at her with a different kind of fire in his eyes, all dark and raging sea and the moonlight flashes in his dilated pupils like lightning during a midnight storm. 

He rakes his hand through her hair, fists it higher, at her scalp where the touch is most welcome. 

She grabs his collar, pops open the top two buttons, fumbling, but still quicker than Arthur's other hand that reaches for her wrist to stop her. 

“You wanna stop?" she asks, her voice sweetened and quiet.

"No, I jus'... I just don't want you to do somethin' you'll regret."

"I won't, Arthur— Jesus, I won't." She's so breathless the words come out raspy. "I want you."

"Christ, Steph," his breath hitches and he squeezes her tighter to him, arms curling around her back and waist until there's no space left between them. "You sure?"

"'Course," she kisses him again, all tongue and teeth, and pries his shirt even more open, just to feel over his chest with a weathered hand. She seeks his heart, he realizes, but it's hers already, she just doesn't know yet. Hell, he would cut his chest open just to carve it out and place it in her palm. 

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Arthur pulls the hem of her shirt upwards, finds her completely bare underneath. He kneads the soft flesh that is revealed and she moans into their kiss. 

"You was still sweet on Mary, I didn't wanna ask."

Arthur literally growls, grabs her by the hips and at the top of her spine and they turn. She lets him settle between her opened legs, lets him pull them apart even further until they're like stretched out butterfly-wings. The forest-floor is soft under her, damp and mossy. It doesn't matter.

"I don't wanna think about her," he pecks her lips and bucks his hips into hers and oh, he's getting harder with every touch—the jeans getting uncomfortable and the gun-belt a literal torture. "All this time," he rasps and pesses open-mouthed kisses down her neck. "All them years you was sweet on me and didn't say a thing?"

"I was not sweet on you," she answers in one breath, grinds her hips into his to seek that gorgeous friction. Arthur aches. "Not until that robbery down west." 

"That was two years ago."

Arthur pulls her thighs even more open, guides them higher on his waist and she shudders into their next, barely-there kiss.

"I wish I was less of a coward," he mumbles, his lips shying away for a second to breathe a wordless apology onto her cheek. 

"What, you wanted me too?" 

"Sometimes I wanted to kill ya, and sometimes… Sometimes I wanted you screamin'," he's quick with his words and quicker with his hand even more, unbuttoning the top buttons of her shirt until he can slide a hand over one small breast. 

"What kind of screamin'?"

He grins, and pulls his smile over her throat. He could bite there, on the ragged scars—on the memories of her brief romances with the hangman's noose. But he doesn't. He just kisses them, pulls away the neck of her shirt instead, and sucks a bite into the tender skin just above one barely visible collarbone. 

"The lovemakin' kind."

An obscene sound gets trapped in Stephanie's throat, and Arthur answers her with a buck of his hips; his wandering hand sliding over her thigh and grabbing one leather boot. The spur clinks as he tugs the boot down, tosses it into the mossy bed of leaves near the forgotten knife. 

His kisses turn into sucks and nips on her neck, making another kind of necklace around it. It's not made of pearls or fleshy scars of past hangings—they're love-bites, still flesh and blood and skin, just prettier. 

Steph grabs his hair again, turns him away when he blows a hot breath over the fifth bite. Arthur smiles, more with his eyes than his lips and lets her do the same to him—to kiss and nip and bite, to mark him like he wanted to.

While she's distracted like that, Arthur undoes the buttons on her jeans and pushes her gun belt higher, to her belly. 

"Wanna stop?" he asks with his hands lingering at the waistband of her pants. 

"No!" It's almost a whine.

Arthur's smile widens into a grin as he eases her legs down from around his hips. They manage to pull down one pant leg and half of her bloomers, but the rest hangs around her other calf, wrinkled over the boot that is still on her foot. 

It doesn't matter. 

Arthur's palm curls around her mound and his fingers come away wet. 

Stephanie moans into his neck from the barest of touches. He presses two fingers to her again, coats them in her wetness and guides them down to her opening, not sliding in yet, waiting for another reassuring gesture. 

"Don't toy with me Arthur," she hisses and shivers when one finger presses inside, followed shortly by another. 

"I'm not playin' darlin'. Just makin' sure." 

She reaches down for his pants, manages to push off his suspenders and toss away his gun belt, but her movements are halted when he acts on his promise and thrust his fingers deep. Steph trembles, scrambles with her hand to try and grip something solid. It's a fruitless effort, but Arthur catches one of her hands in his, entwines their fingers together and pushes it into the damp moss.

"Jesus Christ, Arthur." 

He curls his fingers inside her and her leg starts to shake. 

Steph's fingers are at his jeans again, and this time she manages to unbutton it, their hands bumping into each other between her thighs. Arthur groans, pushes into her more urgently while she finally pulls down his pants enough to free his aching erection. 

It's his time to tremble. 

"Steph—," he mutters into one gentler kiss, a high contrast to his mercilessly pumping fingers. Stephanie moans and sighs over and over, not bothered with keeping quiet. Arthur wishes he could draw her sounds so he could collect them in his journal and remember them forever. 

She strokes him, a bit fumbling at first, but she has goddamn clever fingers, trained quick on the trigger of a revolver, and Arthur wants to howl. 

"That's it darlin'," Arthur praises, peppers her lips with barely-there kisses. He curls his fingers again, enjoys the breathless gasps that slip out of her mouth. "So pretty and wet for me."

She groans and releases his cock in favor of grabbing his hand instead, pulling it away until he rests his palm on her inner thigh, smearing her wetness on it.

"C'mon Arthur!"

“You sure?” His hand digs into her thigh, and the other wraps around her nape, all gentlelike, and he touches his forehead to hers for a few seconds. 

“Yes! Yes, Arthur—” she pants, brings her fingers to his mouth. They’re slick with his own precome, but he doesn’t mind when she pushes them past his lips and makes him coat them with saliva. “C’mon…”

“Alright… Goddammit, alright, jus’—” Arthur looks down, where her hips cradle his own. There’s not much to be seen from all of their clothes, but just enough to make his throat go dry and his guts catch on fire. “Alright.”

Steph slicks him up with his own saliva and the wetness on her mound to ease his way. He wants to scream. 

All this closeness… It feels so real, so good it makes the things under his ribcage ache. It’s a good kind of pain, like the relieved shaky breaths after crying. He never wanted something this much. Never was this afraid of something either. 

She guides him to her entrance and Arthur’s vision whites out for a heartbeat. 

He pushes in slowly, captures her lips in a bruising kiss. Stephanie whimpers into his mouth while her hands fly to his shoulders and back, fingers digging in until pleasure turns into pain. She tenses at his grunt, clenches around him and shakes.

He stops then, leans back to look at her proper. 

"Alright?" he asks softly, nuzzling her cheek and raising his hand to her temple, gently brushing away strands of sweaty hair that already sticks to her skin. 

"It's just—It's big," Steph is breathless, almost overwhelmed and Arthur's chest aches with concern. "Feels good though."

He’s fully inside but doesn’t dare to move. He lets her adjust and waits until the hot tightness of her doesn’t wanna crush him anymore. 

"Have you ever done this before?" 

Stephanie swallows, averts her gaze and her cheeks flush an even rosier color.

"No."

The air wheezes out of Arthur before he could stop it. "Shit." 

He looks down at her apologetically, the fire in his eyes turning softer. He caresses her jawline and pushes back her fringe from her forehead. 

"Jesus, Steph, you shouldda told me that," he leans down, buries his face in the crook of her neck to kiss and nip and lick, just to distract her from the stretch. "Am I hurtin' you?" 

He can feel her shaking her head and she pulls his head back by his hair, waits for him with opened lips. He kisses her, soft and warm and sweet, nothing like before, trying to ask for forgiveness even though she moans when he shifts inside her a little. 

"Feels good. Don't stop Arthur, please." 

The next one's louder, damn music to his ears, and his heart skips a few beats when he finally starts to move and a beautiful string of sighs tumble out of her throat. 

Steph still holds him close, her hands snaked around his shoulders and she tightens her hold on him when he kisses her again, more urgent this time. She licks into his mouth, just a little, but it's enough to turn him stupid. 

When the stretch isn't as burning as before, Stephanie raises her hips up, meets him in the middle of a harder thrust. Arthur's struck and his open mouth slides over her cheek, down into the crook of her neck where he can muffle a too-loud groan.

"Sweetheart—" he mumbles, reaches for her thigh to cradle it tighter around his hip. Step's legs are thick and heavy and wonderful wrapped around him, and they tremble when one of his hands snake down between their bodies to pleasure her with his fingers too. 

"Ah—Arthur—," she grabs his hair, yanks his face back to hers a bit too harshly, kisses him with a renewed fire and hunger he never felt before. 

There's a burn inside him, spreading like he had touched hot embers and let them light up his clothes. Every vein, every muscle inside him sings and aches for her, with her, and he realizes that this is that insatiable hunger he always felt before. That hunger he ignored and suppressed and hated until he couldn't contain it anymore. 

Steph kisses him again, pulls on his hair like they would be fighting still. Arthur growls into her mouth, presses his fingers harder on her clit until she pulls back her lips with a gasp, shaking and coming hard on his cock. "Ar-Arthur. Shit—"

The hunger inside him feeds on that, on the beautiful way her lips part, on the way her eyes get all hazy and dreamy-like, on the way she squeezes him, keeps him deep inside until she can finally suck in another breath.

"Yeah, there you go." 

"Jesus, that's—That was so good," she pants, almost grins, and Arthur's stomach fills with desperately flapping butterflies. 

He thrusts into her again, shallow but harder this time and he knows he's not gonna last. Not like this.

"Arthur," she pulls his hair, to bring his face closer so she can whisper her words onto his lips. "Arthur. Don't hold back. Please?"

"I just wanna make sure you'll be able to sit in a saddle tomorrow."

Stephanie hits his shoulder and he actually chuckles, then kisses her to apologize.

"I don't care. Please," she's clinging to him, meeting his thrusts with her hips, so eager Arthur is still surprised she never had done this. 

"You're gonna curse me to hell," another kiss, this time above her pulse. He slides a hand over her breast, strokes the curve of it with one thumb through her shirt. 

"Ya sound like a coward," she grins, again, and Arthur's done.

"I didn't think that sweet mouth o' yours is gonna run this much..."

"Gonna shut it for me?"

"I ain't sure."

"Arthur!"

"Kiss me, for Christ's sake." 

And she does. 

They end up even more tangled in each other than they were, with Stephanie's heels—one still in her boot, one bare—pressing into his thighs, her hands all over him, greedy to touch, to caress. 

Arthur's greedy too. He steals kisses like jewelry from around rich folks' necks. Grabs the soft parts of her, leaves his fingerprints there in forms of heat and fire and maybe bruises too. His movements turn needy, fast and hard, but she doesn't complain. She wants him like this—let loose like a mustang, free like only broken men can be free. The fire from his belly spreads and burns right through him, bleeds into her veins, ducks under her skin to combine into a coupled inferno. 

She lifts her hips more, allows him even deeper. 

"C'mon Arthur," it's only a whisper, breathless and so pretty Arthur can't see straight. "I'm not gonna break."

A far gentle caress on his nape and that's all it takes. He pushes her down, lays a hand flat between her breasts as he leans back, glances down to the space where he presses into her. The hair on his navel is wet. She's flushed, eyes barely open, her soft belly visible under her shirt, and Arthur can't hold back his sounds anymore. 

She tangles her fingers with his, pulls him back on top of her, flush until there's not a breath of distance between them, and then he moves.

Arthur fills her mercilessly, taking and taking, so lost in the beautiful warmth of her he almost faints. The metal parts clink on her gun belt with every movement, drowning the messy rhythm of his heart. His ribcage feels so tight he wants to rip it open, wants to dig up space for her to crawl inside. 

"That's it cowboy," she murmurs onto his lips, kisses him soft and proper, like lovers do—and they're making love, he realizes, souls stripped bare and hearts laid out into the moonlight.

For all his sins, for all the killings and robberies, this heaven is not deserved. He wants to tell her this, wants to apologize, wants to wash away those crimes, but Steph just looks up at him and she knows. The same blood sticks to her hands, the same stolen money is in her pockets. She's no high society lady, she's no vulnerable woman. She's killed and she never tried to hide it.

She still wants him like this.

His lips dip to her neck, where the scars are and he kisses her there, lets the loud snaps of their hips meeting drown the shaky sounds of his breaths. He thinks he loves her, always did. 

Steph clings to him until his thrusts become too much and not enough. Arthur can feel her end nearing, and his own too. It was never meant to last long, not the way they hastily move, not with this fast give and take. He can't have his chest open for too long, can't be vulnerable for hours. 

He's afraid, but she somehow senses it and soothes him with a comforting kiss, nothing like the ones before. Now he understands what it means to be loved back. 

Arthur's hand slides between her legs, urging her on until she's trembling, coming around him a second time. 

He kisses her once more, long and deep, and then she's empty, clenching around nothing when Arthur pulls out and spends himself on the fallen leaves and the moss underneath with a broken moan. 

Steph watches him, how his eyes go all half-lidded, how his chest flushes red under his opened collar, how his hand remains on her thigh, squeezing, just to ground him to reality. She's never seen a prettier sight than him on his knees, cradled by her legs, all breathless and blushin'.

Arthur's eyes slowly open, all dark in the absence of the moonlight. He's vulnerable like this—cut open like a wound, still bleeding secrets and wants. It's her job to tend to it, to reach for him and pull him back onto her body. 

He falls, and just barely catches himself on his elbows. Steph is warm, soft under him and he nuzzles her cheek, seeking a gentle kiss after. She gives him that and even more, pulling him into her embrace and carding her fingers through his sweaty hair. A lonely thunder booms in the distance but it still can't drown out the rapid beating of their hearts. She cradles him closer. All that rage, all that suppressed want is gone now, from his once tensed shoulders, from the deep of his eyes. Only tenderness remains.

A gentle tapping starts on the canopy above them, in rhythm with his blood, ringing so loud inside him that he can barely hear Stephanie. 

"Shit, rain's here."

Arthur suppresses an annoyed groan and slowly kneels, pulling up his jeans and tucking himself away almost sheepishly. Steph can't help but catch a glimpse of him beforehand, following his hands with her eyes, almost mesmerized. 

She quickly pulls up her pants too, and Arthur helps her with her missing boot before the rain really starts pouring, pulling it gently on her foot and kissing her knee through the rough denim afterwards. He grabs his gun belt and the knife off the ground, sheathing the weapon on Stephanie's own belt while clasping the buckle on his own. 

"We have to camp here," Arthur sighs, standing up and reaching for Steph with a hand, helping her up on still wobbly legs. Jesus, she's gorgeous like this. 

"Better hurry then." 

They build the camp in the pouring rain onto gravel and stone, stumbling in the almost pitch darkness. Arthur ties the canvas to old, crooked pine trees and hopes for the best, while Steph uses the mostly dry horse-blankets to cover the floor of the tent. When they're finally done, the rain's stopped, but everything is sopping wet, including their clothes and bodies. 

Arthur places the bedrolls inside their shelter, overlapping at the sides and pushes the saddles into the back of the tent to let them dry. Steph comes back with a few twigs after disappearing into the trees as a sorry excuse for firewood. 

They make do with what they have. She builds a small campfire, shuddering as the damp wood finally catches and the firelight paints the campsite a warm orange. Arthur ties the horses nearby.

"Miss Grimshaw's gonna kill me if we get sick,” she sigh while she puts her hands above the fire, trembling from exertion and the cold. Arthur comes up behind her, his touch as cold as her own, but he puts his lips to her knuckles and they’re warm. 

“We should strip down these, there’s no point in sleeping like this. I have spare blankets.”

“Alright.”

They shed their clothes, everything except the boots and hang them around the fire on sticks to let them dry. 

Arthur was never shy when it came to being naked in front of others; he was living in a camp half of his life with barely any privacy. But being bare in front of her, that is entirely different. His body not well cared for. Weathered, scarred, marked with his past mistakes. 

But then she looks at him, there’s no shame. She just walks up to him, as bare as the day she was born and she offers him a cigarette she just lit. Arthur accepts it, puts it between his lips. He doesn’t wanna throw this away when it still got the taste of her on it. 

They smoke in silence, sharing the cigarette and comforting each other with soft touches. Arthur senses that she’s as insecure as him, as scared to let him see her, all of her like this as Arthur’s scared of her wandering eyes. 

Steph puts out the butt of the cigarette in a patch of mud when they finish it. 

The blankets are a bit coarse but warm when they crawl into the tent, exhausted but warmer than before, bodies cast in the all-revealing orange and yellow light. Arthur thinks she’s gorgeous like this, as vulnerable as he is, flesh torn open and heart laid bare. 

They sleep tangled in each other on the bedrolls and dusty horse-blankets, and he feels the most peaceful he has ever felt, even after the robbery and the wild manhunt the law chased them on. 

The morning comes swiftly with a lingering smell of wet earth and pines and the early mist. 

Arthur cooks some beans for breakfast in the can over the fire he stroked alive recently. When Steph comes to he’s already dressed up and led the horses to a nearby stream to let them drink, and he brushed them down as good as he could with a handful of dry grass. 

She stumbles out of the tent, still wrapped up in a blanket, and he passes his canteen to her that he filled recently with fresh water from the stream. 

“G’mornin’.”

“Mornin’.”

They eat quietly, sitting close and not speaking a word, but this silence is comfortable, welcome even and Arthur’s grateful for it. Steph dresses after they shared another cigarette and she’s not ashamed anymore when she catches him staring. 

They sit by the fire until it burns down and loses its heat, until the sun crawls higher on the sky and its light filters through the surrounding old forest’s canopy. 

She hugs Arthur around his middle, lays her head on his chest, just above his heart. In her arms he feels soft, flayed open for the sun to see under his skin and reveal his sins. He’s not a good man. Never was. He never deserved good girls, ladies with homes and stuck-up families and riches. He’s glad now. He belongs into the wilderness, into the open plains and forests and mountains. He can’t be reined, just like a wild horse. Old habits die hard, and sometimes they last for eternity. Living a gunslinger’s life won’t end in him peacefully growing old in a cabin somewhere, he’s gonna die violently. But being with her, Jesus—

She’s a mirror, a long lost piece of himself. She wants him like this, like no sane person ever would, and Arthur loves her for it, truly does. He can’t say it yet, not like this, not after a messy tumble in the forest, not after robbing a bank, but he will, someday, he will. 

“I’m sorry that I put a knife to your throat,” she apologizes softly, interrupting his thoughts. Arthur just pulls her closer, kissing her temple. He would die the most merciful death by her hand. 

“I had it comin’ I guess,” Arthur smiles, lips still lingering on her skin. He feels like he's been tamed. Branded, like he wanted. “But I don’t mind.”

“What, you liked it?” Steph grins, slides her hand up to his throat to press on his skin where she can feel him gulp in a quick breath. The little cut where she nicked him is barely visible, but she swipes her thumb over it anyway. 

“I liked what came after.”

“I liked that too,” she whispers, already close to his lips and then they’re kissing, warm and hasty and hard. By the time she’s pulled into his lap, Arthur’s tongue is already tasting her mouth, demanding kisses like he can't get enough. 

They don't shed their clothes, just what's really necessary. There are little bare spots, like opened collars and pulled up shirts, and it's enough for now, enough to let them join together again, enough to have each other on the dusty horse blankets and gravel and stone. 

But this time it's different. Slow, well… slow like a quick affair in a forest can be, and gentle. 

When it's over Arthur helps her with righting her clothes, and when they finish packing up he helps her into the saddle too. He laughs when she winces.

"Hey, don't kill me with that look. This was on you," he adjusts his body in Boadicea's saddle after he's mounted up, smirking. 

"Me and my big mouth," Steph mumbles as they turn back towards the road, keeping a slow pace to go easy on her. 

The ride is long, or it feels long for Stephanie, but this time she and Arthur fill the space between them with conversation and comfortable silence, and when finally a familiar patch of trees and the caravan emerges in the distance, Steph lets out a relieved sigh. 

At the edge of camp, Hosea greets them with a wave and a knowing grin on his face.

"Last time we could hear you bickering from a mile. What happened?"

[jj-babebank]

Camp Willowdale / JJ Maybank AU / PART 6

Synopsis: Camp Willowdale is buzzing with new campers. It’s Caroline Windsor’s first year as a camp counsellor after attending the camp as a camper for ten years. Little does she know that this year Willowdale Lake is going to be a little different from what she is used to it being…

Warnings: future chapters may include curse words, mentions of drugs, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sexual activities, mentions of death.

Pairings: JJ Maybank x fem OC Part 1 ; Part 2 ; Part 3 ; Part 4; Part 5 ;

Masterlist

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

Part 6 -

49 days of camp left

“The thing I don’t understand is,” said JJ, taking a sip of his coffee several days later at breakfast, “How is everyone so chill about all of this?”

“Yeah, everyone except for us,” said Caroline.

“And Topper,” mumbled Sarah.

Her three friends all looked up at her, eyes wide.

“What?” she looked back at them, eyes equally as wide in confusion, “Why’d you think he’s been moping around camp, face looking like a slapped ass?”

“Sarah, why didn’t you say anything at the campfire?” Caroline asked angrily.

“Um, I did,” defended Sarah.

“Um, no you didn’t,” clapped back JJ, getting visibly annoyed.

John B nodded and mumbled quietly, “They’re right, you didn’t…”

“Not now, John B,” snapped Sarah at him, turning towards her other friends, “What do you mean I didn’t?”

“When we asked you about what Topper said, you literally said ‘oh nothing of importance, he doesn’t care about the bitch either’ and then you went back to glaring at those girls goggling at John B,” said JJ.

Sarah scoffed, “I was only glaring because they refuse to listen to me and only do whatever he says,”

“That’s beside the point, Sarah,” sighed JJ, “If you weren’t too busy doing that, perhaps you’d have mentioned that Topper doesn’t buy the whole boyfriend story either, which could mean that we’ve got an ally amongst all of these lunatics!”

“Sorry,” Sarah shrugged, “I guess I just got distracted,”

Caroline shook her head sighing, “Anyway, it’s almost 9,” she looked at JJ, “What’s on our schedule for today?”

“Funny you ask,” JJ responded, “We’ve actually got swimming until 11, which means the kids have swimming until 11 and we can just chill by the lake,” he wiggled his eyebrows, “If you know what I mean,”

In the days since camp began, the whole Madison thing had died down and since there was no new occurrences and, well, no new leads, Caroline and JJ decided to put their primary focus on their teens. They’d made a small rule that every time their schedule indicated that they’ve got an activity where their physical participation is not directly required, Caroline would sneak some whiskey in their thermoses and they would quietly drink it in secret, just to spice up their day.

So far Caroline was doing a pretty good job at hiding her crush on JJ, which was somehow becoming bigger by the day. For some reason everything that JJ did was attractive. Whether it was him running, or teaching the boys how to tie a noose, or eating (pretty messily) his food, or not to mention swimming practice when he was required to get naked – Caroline could just stare at him all day. She was somewhat happy about their newfound tradition of taking over some of their daily tasks while tipsy because the alcohol was somewhat helping her seem more confident and less shy.

Caroline tied her long brunette hair in a Dutch braid and smeared the tiniest bit of mascara on her lashes, just to seem effortlessly pretty, of course. She adjusted the straps of her swimsuit and grabbed her and JJ’s prefilled thermoses before heading out to meet the boy and their group in front of the camper’s cabin.

“There she is,” said JJ, unable to hide his excitement, “We ready to go?”

The campers all agreed and they made their way down towards the lake, where Caroline and JJ sat at one of the benches while their campers hurried into the water.

“Now, now, Teens 2,” said JJ after them, not too bothered about sounding strict, “Usually our timetable says swimming, but since we’re all grown ups here, we can all do whatever we want, as long as we don’t go too far away from me and Carrie’s eyesight, alright?”

Everyone agreed and JJ sat back down next to Caroline, who handed him his thermos.

“I’ve gotta give it to you, Maybank,” she said, taking a sip of the spicy liquor in her flask, “You’ve got a way with kids,”

JJ smiled down at her, taking a sip too, “I mean they’re hardly kids, C,” he said, “Besides, I try my best, I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you,”

That blush that Caroline was all too familiar with crept back onto her cheeks, “In front of me?” she repeated, surprised.

“Yeah,” nodded JJ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I don’t see any other pretty girls around here,”

Caroline looked in the opposite direction, too shy to look at JJ, as she took another rather large sip of her drink, “JJ…”

“What? Can’t a guy give you a compliment?” he smirked, “Hey, come on now, we’re in this together, besides… your mom did say -”

Just as Caroline was about to turn towards JJ with a panicked look in her eyes, fearing what exactly her mom had said to him, two of their campers began screaming their names, diverting both of their attentions.

“Carrie! JJ! You’ve gotta come see this!”

JJ shot up, helping Caroline up as well, as they ran towards the dock. Bobby and Eli, the two campers who had called out for them, were hastily swimming back to shore.

“What is it?” Caroline asked, worry filling up her nerves.

“We found something dope!” said Eli, reaching the dock, “But we can’t reach it without you guys’ help,”

“What did you find?” asked JJ.

“That,” Bobby pointed in the direction they’d just swam from. There, a good distance away, in the middle of the body of water, stood an abandoned-looking stilt house.

“The old lake house,” JJ and Caroline said in unison.

“That’s just an old building, it’s been there forever and there’s literally nothing in it,” explained JJ, his nerves calming down after the initial jump scare, “Trust me, we’ve looked,”

Bobby rolled his eyes, “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious,” he moaned, “That place looks wicked!”

“Yeah, if you watch a lot of horror movies,” said Caroline, “JJ’s right, there’s nothing in there. I’ve been numerous times, it looks way cooler in your imagination, believe me. Reality is underwhelming,”

Eli crossed his arms, “If it’s so underwhelming why don’t you wanna take us there?”

JJ sighed, “Eli, taking you there would require taking the boats, which we’re not allowed to do unless it’s on our schedule, which it’s not, and if we take you there, we’d have to take everyone there, and -”

“Take everyone where?” came Jennie, another one of their campers’, voice suddenly.

“Yeah, JJ,” more campers gathered around the dock, “Where are you taking us?”

JJ and Caroline sighed in defeat as they shared a defeated look, making Bobby and Eli high five in victory.

“Change of plans, kids,” said JJ finally, giving in, “Swimming’s cancelled, looks like we’re going to be learning how to row today,”

_________________________________________________________

“You sure about this?” JJ grabbed Caroline’s hand as she was stepping off the boat and onto the back deck of the abandoned stilt house.

Caroline turned towards him and gave him a reassuring smile, “It’ll be just like the old days,” she said, her tone sounding promising.

JJ followed her onto the deck and they helped their campers tie their little boats on the deck’s cleats.

“Looks like y’all were really paying attention during our noose tying workshop,” JJ said proudly as he double-checked that all the boats were securely tied, “I’m gonna make sure to bring that up to Miss P and we might have a shot of winning at the Will-all-hail banquet,”

Caroline snorted at the name, “So tacky…”

“Come on guys, follow me and Carrie and watch your steps,” JJ signaled, catching everyone’s attention, “This place is crazy old so be careful! One wrong step and you may end up in the water,”

Carefully, the group entered the old creaky building. It was all too familiar to Caroline and JJ, the smell of mold and condensation hitting their nostrils as the single dusty dark room they had secretly lurked into numerous times as kids presented itself in front of them. Part of Caroline had always secretly wished for the old lake house to serve as a passageway to a parallel universe, or to hold some great big secret, or even to be inhabited by the not-so-friendly ghost of whoever built it back in the day, however unsurprisingly, nothing seemed out of the ordinary yet again. The room was empty, other than the numerous spider webs which decorated almost every corner and crease.

“There you go,” Caroline said, turning to leave, “Nothing to see here,”

JJ agreed, “As always, underwhelming and empty,”

“If it’s so empty,” spoke one of the campers, “then what’s that?” the teenager pointed in the direction of where there was once a door leading towards the front deck.

Everyone’s heads turned in that direction and sure enough, on one of the old nails sticking out of the door frame, was hung a piece of red fabric, barely noticeable from the inside, let alone from where the shore to camp was.

“Stand back,” said Caroline, slowly stepping forward towards the fabric. She peeped her head through the door hole cautiously, checking if there was anyone on the front deck, holding her breath as she did so. She breathed out in relief once she saw that the coast was clear and analyzed the fabric, “Hey, J, can you come over?”

JJ, half-impressed, half-paralyzed, snapped back to reality as he walked over to the girl who now looked so brave in his eyes, mentally slapping himself for not being a man and volunteering to go instead of her.

“Why does this look familiar?” Caroline said once JJ came over to piece of clothing. It turned out to be a dress.

JJ shrugged, pulling at the material and taking a sniff, “Whoever’s it is was here recently,” he said, “Smell of perfume is fresh,” he sniffed again, “And super strong,” he scrunched his nose, a look of disgust on his face.

Caroline took a sniff too, “Yeah, that smell is so familiar, but where from…” she sniffed again, closing her eyes in an attempt to figure out where she recognized the scent from.

“Probably one of the girls from your cabin,” concluded JJ, “I’d put my money on Jenna Kinley, she seems like the type to sneak around,”

Caroline smirked, “Sounds about right, she was probably up here sneaking around with Barry, I hear her talking about him all the time,” she unhooked the dress from the nail, “I’ll bring it back to her, she must think she’s lost it,”

JJ nodded and they led the campers out of the stilt house and onto shore again. Caroline tucked the dress in her bag along with her thermos and waited until after everyone’s daily activities were over to meet Sarah by the showers and tell her about her and JJ’s scandalous little discovery. Ever since they’d arrived at Camp Willowdale and had their phones taken away for the rest of the summer, the only source of news and gossip was whatever was happening around camp, and since it wasn’t all that much, every little bit of spice counted.

“So how was archery?” she asked Sarah as she folded her underwear and turned the water in her shower on.

Sarah followed in after her, not bothering on going into a neighboring shower stall. They had developed his habit of showering together about three days into camp, with Sarah seemingly having separation anxiety and insisting that “they’ve both got the same bits and pieces” and that how “any guy would be lucky to be in the position Caroline is in,”.

The blonde groaned as she squeezed some of her purple shampoo in her palm, foaming it up and working it into her hair, “Horrible,” she said, “How do you see me with a bow and arrows?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” teased Caroline, mirroring Sarah’s actions and washing her hair.

“Whatever, C,” Sarah rolled her eyes, “How was your swim date with your boyfriend?”

“Okay, first of all, he’s not my boyfriend,” said Caroline earning a smug look from Sarah, “And second, you’ll never guess what we found,”

“Oooh, is it the incessant lust you have for each other?” teased Sarah.

“No, it’s better,” said Caroline, ignoring her friend’s words, “We went to the old lake house and we may or may not have found what we believe to be Jenna’s dress just hanging there,” Sarah’s eyes widened at her words, “Yeah, we assume she’s sneaking around with Barry, how fucking scandalous is that?”

“Shut up!” gasped Sarah.

Caroline nodded excitedly, “Right? She’s been yapping about him nonstop and we just put two and two together,”

“Who’d have thought… little miss perfect and Barry,” scoffed Sarah, “D’you have the dress? It’ll be so embarrassing once you give it back to her, I can picture her face already,”

“You bet I do, it’s in my bag,” said Caroline, “Must’ve done the deed recently, it still reeks of her,” she scrunched her nose at the thought of the horrible smell.

Sarah raised an eyebrow, “What’re you pulling that face for? Does she smell that bad?”

Caroline shook her head, “It’s her perfume,” she explained, “Smells like what I imagine Miss P’s underwear drawer smelling like,”

Sarah scoffed, “Now you’ve got me intrigued,” she quickly rinsed her hair and body off, hurrying for her towel, “Where’d you say this dress was?”

Caroline nodded her head in the direction of her bag, “Somewhere in my bag,” she said, “But I’m being serious – you’ve been warned,”

As she continued rinsing her hair, Sarah dove her hand into Caroline’s bag, searching for the dress in question. When she finally felt it in her hand, she pulled the piece of clothing out pressing it against her nose to take a sniff. Her eyes widened in horror as realization consumed her.

“Carrie…” she mumbled not loud enough for her friend to look up, “Carrie, this isn’t Jenna’s dress,” she spoke louder.

This time, Caroline looked up at Sarah with a look of confusion in her eyes.

“The perfume you’re talking about,” said Sarah, “It’s Guerlain Shalimar, I’d recognize it anywhere,”

“Your point being…?”

“This perfume doesn’t belong to Jenna,” Sarah turned to look at Caroline, her eyes still wide in horror, “It’s Madison’s,”

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

A/N: chapter 6 is upppp!! I hope you like it!! let me know what you think and if you want to be added in the tag list for future chapters, tell me!! xxx

tags: @k-k0129 ; @hayleyy-l ; @marvellover04

Part 7 here

[lorna-d-m]

Lights Out: Ch. 24

Summary: Roxanne, recently graduated and unemployed, gets a call from her childhood friend and hero: her cousin James hunt. In need of a social media manager after one too many scandals, he can think of no one better than Roxanne for the position. Excited about a fun job and getting to know more about her cousin, she jumps at the chance. However, amongst all the bright lights of both the circuit and the media, Roxanne falls in love with his rival: Niki Lauda.

Pairing: Niki Lauda (Rush 2013) x fem!OC Roxanne Hunt

Word Count: 4,633

CW: speculation/talk of the accident, fear of another, one mention of a shotgun wedding, explicit sex

A/N: Hello, I hope y'all are doing well. I'm in the burnout portion of the semester, but writing is how I cope sometimes. My exams are coming up soon so I may not write/post as much, but I will be working on this story when I can. Thank y'all so much.

previous chapter

Maranello

August 2021

A month after the accident, the doctor finally cleared Niki to drive. Just three days after the Dutch race he was annoyed, but he focused all his efforts on the Italian Grand Prix. They spent a lazy week in Austria before flying to Maranello. The team insisted on a test drive before the next race to assess Niki’s abilities again. He grumbled the whole time, saying it wasn’t as if he forgot how to drive, but complied with the order.

The morning of his test, Niki kept his arms wrapped tight around Roxanne, his face nuzzled into her neck, and his body pressed close to her back. It wasn’t until he laid beside her, but not curled up with her, that he realized how much he missed the floral scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her body. His early alarm had yet to go off, and he snuggled closer to her. Roxanne woke up at the soft touch, and enticingly wiggled her butt against him. One of his hands left her waist and slid under her shirt, cupping her breast as he brought his lips to her ear. His breath was hot against her neck.

“Were you trying to wake me up?” he teased, his hardening member pressing firmly against her butt. She giggled in response, shifting again to tease him instead of answering.

His other hand slid down and pushed her underwear off her hips, surprised she wore any at all. Niki’s deft fingers swiped through her folds and noticed the slick already accumulating there. He chuckled in her ear, calling her a needy wife, before teasing her clit. She let out a soft moan, melting into his touch before he properly began, and sighed contentedly into the pillow.

“Look at you, grinding yourself against me like a good little wife.” Roxanne clenched around his fingers and hummed in agreement. His cock flexed against the curve of her ass, proud to call her his good wife. She praised him enough the first time he ate her out after they married, calling him a good husband, that he came on the sheets as he brought her to orgasm. Now, it was Niki’s turn to turn her into a blushing, giggling, moaning mess in his arms.

He continued to fuck her with his fingers as she throbbed around him, and her head fell back against his shoulder. Niki kissed her exposed jaw and nibbled her ear. “You just want to come for your husband, don’t you?” He nipped her ear then. “Go on, be the good hausfrau you are and come for me,” he whispered darkly.

Roxanne cursed as she came around his fingers, and she arched her back. Niki’s firm hand on her breast held her close to him and kept her in place so she could feel him still sink into her with three fingers and twitch under his thumb on her clit. His name fell from her lips as her only prayer, and he kissed down her neck. Finally, he removed his hand from her and used it to grab her thigh, bringing it into a comfortable but stretched position, and holding it there as he entered her in one smooth move.

Her moan was obscene as he entered her, and she quickly rocked back against his hip. Niki groaned as he moved his hand from her thigh, no doubt leaving little prints in the shape of his fingers, and slid up her abdomen, noting the soft mound of himself pressing inside her. “Such a good wife,” Niki murmured, “taking all of your husband.” Then he nipped at her shoulder, a sharp contrast from the kisses on her neck, as he thrust in and out of her.

His hand moved back to her clit, teasing it in time with his deep thrusts. “Fuck, Niki,” she whined at his expert touch. He knew exactly how to bring her to the edge, and would sometimes leave her there just to listen to her whine.

“Yes, who fucks you this good, Schatz?” His breath was hot against her neck.

“You, Niki, you,” she panted, feeling the tension build again. He bit her shoulder at that, clearly not the answer he wanted, as he continued to stroke her fluttering walls. She could feel every inch of him, and it took her a moment to cry out the correct answer. “My husband!” Roxanne arched hard against his chest again as she gushed on his cock. Niki’s hips stuttered as he continued to fuck her through her orgasm with his so near. When she muttered his name again, he came so deep inside he claimed every part of her.

Roxanne gasped and panted when he finally stilled, and she could feel the racking of his chest against her back. Before he could move to pull out, the alarm on his phone rang and buzzed in anticipation of a busy day.

“Hell of a way to wake up.” Niki kissed her cheek before rolling out of bed to start the shower.

***

Roxanne sat in the Ferrari garage, aware of everyone’s wary looks, and tapped her foot on the floor. Niki, his race suit tied around his waist as he puttered around the garage, didn’t seem to mind the nervous tension amongst the team. Today’s test had one question to answer: Can Niki drive? And not just drive, but quickly, steadily, and like a champion? Old man Ferrari was keen to fire Niki, rip up his contract, and let Carlos Reutemann race for him if he couldn’t.

Niki insisted he wasn’t nervous, but she could tell by the way he crossed his arms and stalked through the garage he was. The mechanics gave him a thumbs up, telling him they were ready for him, and he circled back to her. He slipped off his ring and watch for her to hold and gave her a kiss, quick but affectionate. She smiled at the gesture and nodded at him to instill confidence. They couldn’t spot it as he climbed into the car, but under his racing boot, he hid a compression sock to help him. He didn’t want to give them any reason to scrutinize him, and if the little sock helped him feel more comfortable slamming on the brakes then it was necessary.

The first few laps Niki drove were slow. Incredibly slow. Eyebrows were raised as he circled the track, and people glanced from him on the screen to the stopwatch. No one was surprised when he radioed to come in after those paltry laps. He came into the garage and the mechanics leaned in to listen. They came back with knee pads, per request, and tightened the safety harness around him. Satisfied, Niki left again.

Now, Niki started to fall back into form. One by one the lap times became faster as he shaved away time. One by one, the mechanics perked up. As Niki did more laps around the circuit, taking off milliseconds each time, Roxanne smiled wider. She knew Niki could do it, he only needed to get out of his damn head about it.

At one point, he nearly beat the Fiorano track record. That in and of itself ought to be enough to prove he was fit to drive. After a full day’s driving, testing, and data recording, Niki returned to the garage for good. The tires squealed as he came to a stop, and they lifted up the car with jacks and brought it back in. Dutifully, Niki climbed out of the car and came ambling back to Roxanne.

“Well?” he asked, cocksure of himself. “Good?”

“The best, baby.” Rox grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him closer. “The fucking best,” she whispered in his ear.

Niki kissed her again, greedier and needier than the first time, earning them a wolf whistle from the mechanics. Blushing, Rox placed a hand on his chest and brought his ring and watch back from her pocket. He eagerly slipped his ring back on, missing its familiar feel after driving, and kissed her cheek again before talking with the mechanics. They needed to know how the car felt under him again, and what they could do to make it better.

Monza

Thursday, August 26th, 2021

The press and reporters swarmed around Niki and Ferrari like flies to a horse. Niki even swatted at them from time to time, brushing them off with a snarky remark or a snippy statement. He didn’t want to answer any questions or rebuke any comments until the press conference where he could address what he wanted and ignore what annoyed him.

“Niki!” James stopped him in the paddock on his way to lunch. He moved quickly to avoid attention, but James’s insistence on talking stopped him. Niki turned to face his friend and sometimes enemy with a cheeky smile.

“You know, Niki, I tried to call you at the time, to apologize.” Niki nodded slowly and faced away from James for a moment, hoping he could have avoided this conversation. “The drivers’ meeting in Germany, before the race, I swayed the room.”

Niki didn’t hesitate to say “Yes, you did.”

“That race should never have gone ahead,” James continued, clearly feeling the need to apologize properly to him.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“So in many ways, I feel responsible for what happened and…”

“You were.” Niki didn’t pull any punches in how he felt, and James expected nothing less. “But trust me, watching you win those races while I was sidelined, you were equally responsible for getting me back in the car.”

James didn’t know what to say, staying quiet for once. Niki took his silence at face value and continued on his way to meet Roxanne for lunch. He didn’t want to be late, leaving her alone in the cafe and anxiously looking around for him, so he walked away.

***

The FIA paired him with Clay for the press conferences, a natural Ferrari pairing for the weekend at Monza. Indistinct murmurs filled the room, cameras clicking and chairs scraping against the floor. Niki sat at the table, his closed fist pressed against his cheek, and he spotted Roxanne in the back against the wall. She gave him a little wave, enough for him to know she was there and supporting him, and she blew a kiss. Comforted, he gestured for the conference to begin.

“How are you feeling, Niki?”

“Fine,” he nodded, short and to the point. His press manager glanced at him, indicating he should speak more, and he rolled his eyes.

On to the next question. “Niki, can you confirm to us exactly what your injuries were and any procedures you may have had?”

“Sure,” Niki nodded affirmatively. “I had a number of cracked and broken ribs,” he gestured to his chest with his hands, “as well as a sprain in my right ankle. Now, that made it difficult to do anything for a few weeks, but I’m back and ready to race.”

Unbeknownst to Niki, James crept into the press conference. He stayed in the back of the room, away from Roxanne who Niki kept a careful and loving eye on, and listened to Niki’s responses. Niki had the ability to amuse James even when he wasn’t joking.

“When they heard about your condition, Ferrari immediately hired a replacement driver, Carlos Reutemann.”

Niki pinched his lips together during the question, and sweat a little under his spare Ferrari jacket. Roxanne wore his usual one, surprised by the breezy afternoon. “Yeah, before even reaching the hospital,” he stressed with a wagging finger and a glare at the Ferrari representatives.

“Is Reutemann driving today too?”

“Yes,” Niki admitted, causing them to snap pictures and take notes, “and keen to make an impression. So let’s see where Mr. Reutemann finishes and where I finish on Sunday.” He chuckled a little, confident he would outperform Carlos and put him to shame. The crowd snickered too, eager to laugh with the sitting World Champion after he’d been away for six weeks.

“James Hunt and McLaren have caught up a lot while you were away,” a reporter baited.

“Yes,” Niki waited. “So is there a question now or are you just trying to piss me off?”

The crowd laughed again, and James in the back couldn’t help but crack a smile. Niki’s brutal honesty might turn some people off, but for many it puts them at ease. They could count on him to say what he thought.

“You still think you can win?”

“Yes, of course. I have the better car,” he turned to acknowledge the team, “and I’m possibly the better driver. But he’s a clever guy and he’s used his time well while I was side-lined to win some points.”

Audience members laughed awkwardly, eager to bring the lightheartedness back to the conference. James accepted the “clever guy” compliment but remembered the remark hidden in there. Niki clearly insinuated that had he been there those would have been his points.

“And why did you marry Roxanne Hunt so quickly? Was it a shotgun wedding?”

Niki’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. His head snapped to face the accuser, who knew of his wedding despite no announcements, and dared to insinuate it was only because she was pregnant, which wasn’t even true. He pressed his lips together and blinked a few times, struggling to decide what to say. Niki glanced at Roxanne in the back of the room, all color drained from her face, and he chewed on his bottom lip.

James couldn’t help but look at his cousin, and he was only one of dozens of eyes studying her like an animal at the zoo. They all checked her face for any signs of confirmation and her stomach for any indication of pregnancy. Poor Roxanne looked as if she wanted to fall through the floor.

“We married quietly to avoid pointless and slanderous questions exactly like that. We married privately because we love each other and did not need to involve anyone else in our relationship.” Niki cracked a nervous smile, hoping his answer would please the press, the team, and Roxanne who didn’t deserve any more embarrassment or harassment. The crowd snickered, wanting to move on from the obviously tense moment, but the reporter refused to accept that answer.

“I’m being serious. Why else would you marry so quickly and privately at a courthouse? Did James force you to get married?”

Burning anger showed on Niki’s face, and he leaned into the microphone. “And I’m being serious, too,” he practically spat. Niki pointed at the man, “Fuck you. Press conference over.”

Niki ripped the microphone wire off and sat up from the table. He stormed through the room, ignoring the rising chatter and quick clicking of cameras, to grab Roxanne by the waist and take her out of the room. She hurried along behind him, eager to get out of the room. James remained on the back wall, suddenly the object of everyone’s attention, and frowned.

Friday, August 27th, 2021

Niki worked diligently to keep his surprise, well, a surprise. He designed his special helmet in secret, careful to keep the emails out of view on his laptop, ensuring the package was delivered to the team rather than to Niki himself, and keeping it from obvious view Friday morning. Now, with practice soon approaching and the team waiting for Niki to be ready, it was time for him to reveal his hard work.

“Can you hold my phone and record?” Countless times, Roxanne captured moments of Niki in the garage, catching Niki off guard, Niki goofing around, and now it was his turn to flip the script. He wasn’t going to post it like she did with several of her videos, but having a record of the moment would be nice. Niki handed his phone to the mechanic, who instantly knew something was happening and tapped his friend beside him to watch.

“Rox,” Niki noted she was near the shelf, it was just above her head, but easily within her grasp. “Can you hand me my helmet? It’s up there.”

The mechanics and crew stopped working to admire the scene. They nudged each other with elbows and pointed over to the little cluster, shushing each other when someone tried to interrupt. As much as Niki argued with Ferrari management, the mechanics and the crew loved him. They could wait a few minutes for Niki to get into the car and start his test runs.

She reached for it without a second thought, having handed him his gloves, balaclava, and helmet countless times, but hesitated when she held it in her hands. It wasn’t just Niki’s signature red helmet. It was a collage of their relationship.

Roxanne spotted their first picture together, a group snapshot after they all went golfing together, and noted his hand firmly on her waist despite James, Jody, and Ronnie in the picture. There was a collection of pictures from their trip to the amusement park, including one of them on the ride just before the drop where Niki held her hand until his knuckles turned white. That was placed under the signature Niki on the side. She found a selfie she’d taken of them at the beach where they wore each other’s sunglasses, Niki teasing the heart-shaped glasses endlessly, but admitting he loved how she looked in them. Finally, right underneath the Lauda on the side, there was a picture of them standing outside the courthouse, Niki in his checked suit and Roxanne in her white dress.

She blinked back tears as she held the helmet, some still managing to spill down her cheeks, and she turned to look at Niki. Roxanne held it firmly in her hands, refusing to hand it over to him just yet. “Did you design this?”

“Just for you, Schatz,” he said with a smile, his little teeth showing. “I may not have a shiny ring for you or something special like that, but I want to show you how much you mean to me.”

She had enough sense to set the helmet on the table nearby before grabbing him by the race coverall and kissing him. He blushed as crimson as his suit, knowing he was very watched at the moment, but relished it all the same. Niki wasn’t the type for too many grand gestures and insincere words, but he wanted to do something special for her. Roxanne and her unwavering support helped get him back in the car, and he wanted her to know how deeply he loved and appreciated her.

Roxanne released him from the kiss, and he slipped on his balaclava and helmet before climbing into the car. The helmet became a talking point for the commentators when there wasn’t anything exciting happening on track, and Roxanne was amused to listen to them trying to decipher the pictures. At high speeds and odd camera angles, it became difficult to differentiate one from another, but Roxanne knew what each one was and each moment it captured. She tried to think of which shelf in their house she could put the helmet on after the race.

Sunday, August 29th, 2021

Niki qualified fifth on the grid. Not the front row position he grew accustomed to, but not the worst considering his circumstances. Roxanne reminded him that night after the qualifying session that he needed to be reasonable with himself. Yes, he could push himself hard and win, but this was also his first race after crashing. She knew he had nightmares after the crash, she woke up enough times to him shaking and panting beside her, so she knew how deeply it affected him. Hell, she knew how quickly he got out of the car again after practice and qualifying as if he was afraid to sit in it any longer. He admitted she had a point, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of needing to do better. Niki was a race car driver, after all.

A lot of talk surrounded Niki and the weekend, could he live up to snuff, could he race, would he be a danger to others on track, and she reminded him to push all of that out of his head. “Just drive. Don’t worry about the speed or the skill or anything else. It’s you and this car.” Roxanne assured him of that with her head on his chest, hearing the consistent and steady thud of his heart.

“That’s why I married you, isn’t it?” Niki couldn’t help but tease her. “The advice and the sex?”

“And a few other things I hope,” she smirked.

Now, waiting near the grid before the formation lap, Niki took a deep breath in, counted, and let it out. It was him and the car. Nothing else mattered in that moment, not the commentators, not the reporters, not Enzo Ferrari, nothing.

***

The stands were a sea of red, white, and green Italian flags, as well as the vibrant red and yellow for Ferrari. Roxanne remembered the excitement last year for Monza, but it couldn’t hold a candle to this. The return of the Ferrari world champion, at their home track, brought hundreds of thousands of fans to the temple of speed.

“So Niki Lauda, just 42 days after his terrible accident at Nurburgring, will race here today at Monza.”

Roxanne spotted Niki walking through the grid, his helmet and gloves already on. No doubt he was working hard to ignore everyone around him. He walked in a very determined straight line with people practically jumping out of his way. More than anything she wanted to be there, to hold his hand and tell him it will be alright no matter what happens, but she couldn’t. It was almost time for the formation lap, and then it would be lights out.

The crowd cheered when he climbed into the car, his right foot first and then his left before sitting down. Further back, James watched the crowd cheer for his championship rival, friend, and now relative. Roxanne considered for a moment how funny life could be, pitting her husband and her cousin against one another on the track.

“Please clear the grid.”

Mechanics and team members scurried from the grid back to their garages and the pits. The engines roared to life, echoing in the temple of speed, and reinvigorated the audience. They eagerly awaited the moment the lights would go out, while Roxanne knew her breath would hitch and her heart would skip a beat.

“What a race today, there’s Jacque Laffite on pole, Jody Scheckter beside him, followed by Carlos Pace and Patrick Depailler, and yet all eyes are on the man in fifth position on the grid: Niki Lauda.”

“He certainly knows how to make headlines this season.” It wasn’t as if Niki wanted to, she thought bitterly.

“It’s lights out, and away we go!”

“It’s a bad start for Lauda, he’s slow away!”

Roxanne couldn’t refute the commentators. Jody Scheckter took the lead after getting a good start on the grippier side of the track, but Niki stayed bogged down in the midfield.

“The returning Niki Lauda seems overwhelmed.”

Niki could do test runs, practice sessions, and even qualifiers, but none of that compared to being behind the wheel during a race. Anything could happen at any moment, and if he had an ounce too much worry, he wouldn’t go for the position. He wouldn’t be as brave as he might have been before. He wouldn’t be the driver everyone counted on him to be.

“He’s being overtaken by car after car.”

“A terrible start for the Austrian. It’s perhaps too soon for him to be racing again.”

Roxanne resisted the urge to cry in the Ferrari garage. Did he push himself too hard? Did his anger and his frustration, his senseless need to be the best, push him into the car before he was ready? Just because the doctor cleared him didn’t mean he would be without pain. Was that why he suffered a slow start and was stuck in the midfield?

“Lauda’s off line! He runs wide into the grass!”

She resisted the urge to throw up. Roxanne kept one hand covering her mouth, hiding the frightened look on her face, but all the mechanics knew. One of them tried to comfort her, but it couldn’t soothe her. The last time one tried to console her, Niki had just crashed into the wall.

“He wrestles it back onto the track, but that was a bad moment for Niki. Niki Lauda’s the reigning world champion, but maybe in his current state he’s a danger out there to himself and the rest of the field.”

“And Stuck has collided with Mario Andretti’s Lotus!”

When the cameras panned to show the incident, the first thing Roxanne saw was Niki’s Ferrari behind them. He was boxed in with nowhere to go, and yet, he found a way through the wreckage. Her heart beat out of her chest, she swore she could feel her stomach drop, and she watched with wide eyes through the replay.

“Lauda is actually making a move. He’s on Brambilla’s tail.”

And just like that, he went around the outside and past Brambilla. He used the slipstream to build enough speed and easily overtook him.

“Lauda’s starting to find the form that early in the race we believed he’d lost.”

That had been on lap 23. For the next 20 laps of the race, Niki never gave up. He performed his best when he had a clear goal or target, and with Ferrari’s mistreatment of him, he had one.

“Lauda’s now lapping faster than Reutemann and closing the gap ahead.”

“Lauda closing on Carlos Reutemann, the man called in to be his replacement in the Ferrari team.”

Just as Niki overtook Reutemann, James Hunt’s McLaren was found on the side of the track, smoke pouring out of it. Niki gave a little wave, unseen by James at the time.

“This is bad news for Hunt’s championship hopes.” And yet, it was brilliant news for Niki. He could finally earn back some of the points that he missed.

“It’s Ronnie Peterson who comes home the winner here at Monza. But all eyes are on the man who finishes a brilliant fourth!”

Niki Lauda.

Spectators roared, mechanics celebrated, Niki waved to the crowd and pointed. He didn’t need to win that day, he just needed to beat Carlos Reutemann, which he did. The Argentine finished in ninth place, earning a paltry two points, whereas Niki brought in much more for Ferrari and for the driver’s championship. Excited fans stormed the track after the drivers stopped in parc ferme, and the team practically dragged Niki along. Literally. They hoisted him up and carried him on their shoulders since he wouldn’t be on the podium. Roxanne had to fight through the crowd to catch a glimpse of her husband.

***

Niki, who didn’t like being picked up and paraded around, looked for his wife in the crowd. He wanted nothing more than to ice his ankle, eat a good meal, and fall asleep with his wife beside him. Two exhausting hours of slamming on the brakes and regulating his breathing left him beat, more than he would admit to anyone else but her.

At the end of the day, they did just that. Roxanne drove them back to the hotel, knowing without Niki saying it that he was in pain, and ordered room service for the two of them. She elevated his ankle with a pillow while they ate pasta in bed, and he fell asleep with his hand just under her chest and his face buried in her shoulder.

There were three races left, and Niki intended to give it his all.

Tag list: @scuttle-buttle @lieutenantn @fictionlandslanddreams @danielbruhlswife @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @hardlyinteresting

[m-oddinsdottir]

DARK COLD NIGHTS • 🐺🌙🐺🌙

John Marston x Fem!OC

Word Count: 1,706

Warnings: slightly angsty, wounds, blood, medical intervention

Summary: When Jude, the nurse of the gang, asks Arthur to search for her husband the least she had expected was him coming back with the injuries of a wolf attack.

A/N: English isn’t my first language so please feel free to correct me if something is wrong <3 (+ I haven’t been writing lately, this is the first thing I write in months)

Part Two. Masterlist

•••

The cold made her bones feel like small branches being torn off by the hooves of horses under their steps. It only seemed like yesterday when they were riding in a warmer climate, brown leaves falling behind them and a tolerable breeze that made her hair be pulled back revealing the wide smile that usually decorated Jude’s lips.

Now, that smile was long gone. Stuck on that wooden cabin over the snow filled mountains. Her cheeks red due to the cold and her hands rubbing together as she tried to warm herself up. Her body was wrapped around one of her husband’s coats, he had decided to give her the warmer one before leaving… Despite their previous fight and her cursing towards him, he had handed her the warmer coat.

Jude frowned as she pulled the coat closer to her body, trying to catch a hint of his scent. Two days. Two days had went by since John had left in a course that was supposed to last half a day. He was supposed to go north… But what if he had went farther? It wouldn’t be the first time John abandoned the gang. Now, he was married to her, yes but her heart couldn’t help but clench with fear at the mere thought.

Jude didn’t trust John.

It’s been like that for a while. Jude didn’t dare to admit it but deep down she knew the man hadn’t earned her trust. She loved him and even though he knew, he had left her… No, he had left them all for a year. Loyalty. The only virtue Dutch Van der Linden praised his gang to own. And the only virtue her now husband seemed to lack of.

May truth be told, Marston was on his knees for her the second he had got back to camp, her hand wrapped around his and his lips kissing her empty ring finger over and over… and over again. Asking for her hand in marriage.

She loved him and he loved her. It didn’t matter they had tried to bury those feelings under the snow before. Snow always melts.

And that’s why she had almost pleaded to Arthur for him to go look for John. And despite his reluctance, he had ended up agreeing. Arthur may not be keen for Marston but his wife occupied a special spot over his rotten heart and that’s the reason why he ended up agreeing.

Through the loud crying of Ms. Adler, Jude managed to hear two male voices calling out for help outside of the cabins. The girl picked up her lower skirts as she rushed outside, the sight and not the cold making her freeze. Her eyes observed as her husband was helped to dismount a horse.

A trail of crimson in the white snow lead her to his trembling form as the others helped him walk. His face… His face was bleeding out of multiple scratches a wild animal seemed to have pierced on his skin. A wolf, Jude supposed as she feared those weren’t his only wounds.

Her eyes quickly analyzed his frame, a visible wound over his elbow, face bleeding out and limping. ‘Bring him inside’ Jude commanded before quickly entering the room again, she rushed everyone to get out of the way before preparing a small bed for her to tend his wounds in.

Jude was considered the nurse of the gang. She had basic medical knowledge, thanks to her father being a doctor. Probably, the only thing Jude was grateful for regarding to that man. Usually, everyone reached out for her when it came to basic injuries like cuts but she had also tended to bullet wounds before. Now, she had to take care of her husband whose face has been ripped open.

Jude didn’t allow herself to even shiver when she began taking out her supplies and John was carefully placed on the small bed. She didn’t even look up to thank the people who had brought him inside but she smiled at them even though the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

With a groan, John moved his hand up to try and caress his wife’s cheek. ‘My love-’

‘You're a moron, John Marston.’ She interrupted him coldly however her face betrayed for a second her vulnerability as she struggled to thread the needle. ‘Lay down and don’t bother me’

A bitter laugh broke through Marston’s raspy voice and it made him wince with pain so Jude smirked triumphantly. ‘I love you too’ He answered back before he choked on a scream that threatened to leave his lips when she began to clean the wounds over his face. ‘Careful, woman! Goddamnit…’

Jude raised a brow at him as she continued to clean the cuts over his face. ‘I'll be careful when you stop being so damn reckless’

Her voice clearly showed her concern and her frustration as she began to try and thread the needle again. She quickly stood up to burn the needle over the fireplace to sterilize it before sitting down beside him again. John growled while he shifted again to be able to place one hand over her thigh reassuringly. However, he didn’t say a word as Jude approached the needle to his fresh wounds, she held the skin of his face close before making the first stitch. John squeezed her thigh with pain as he clenched his jaw.

‘It’ll be over soon, you’re probably going to pass out in a minute’ She mumbled under her breath, her face contorted with concentration as John’s eyes widened and looked up at her.

‘Pass-?! What do you mean pass out?’ His voice sounded gruffy in his attempt to not blur the words together. A small smile appeared over her lips as she moved her pinky up to brush his hair out of his face in a gentle gesture that made John close his eyes.

A gentle chuckle escaped her lips before she pierced his skin again with the needle. ‘Don't act all dramatic with me now, love. You’ve been through worse’

‘Can’t you at least be more gentle?!’ John snapped at her which made her raise a brow at him before she pierced his skin again.

‘Speak to me like that again and I will ask Arthur to bring you back to the cold mountain where he probably found you’ Jude responded in an almost teasing tone before he groaned and squeezed her thigh again.

After a few more stitches, the man passed out in her arms and she frowned with worry before putting a finger underneath his nose to feel his breathing. A shaky sigh escaped her lips before she continued tending to his wounds.

One tear escaped her eyes as she noticed the extent of the injuries and she damned herself for that, she wiped them away roughly in an attempt to clear her sight as she pierced his skin again with the needle. ‘Damn it’ Jude whispered.

She had tried to remain her composure while John was awake… But now, she was slowly beginning to loose it. Guilt run through her blood, clouding her senses and making her hands begin to tremble. She had supposed John had abandoned her, she had supposed he had run away after their fight, she had supposed he had left her alone… And all that time, he was alone in the cold, injured, waiting for the death to arrive and with a lighter coat. Because he had handed her the warmer coat… He and his damn stubbornness. Jude shivered and she pulled the blanket up over his body.

‘Ms. Marston…’

Jude didn’t bother looking up as she wiped her tears away again and made another stitch. ‘He's going to be alright if that's what you want to ask’ She stated before one of her tears fell over John’s face, wiping away some of the blood that still covered his features.

Noticing the way Jude had suddenly frozen, the person talked again, this time approaching her slightly. ‘I have some knowledge about taking care of animal inflicted wounds like this… You don’t have to do it’

Jude immediately looked up into the unknown’s eyes. She recognized him at the indigenous man that had joined the gang a few days ago… Charles? She believed that was his name.

‘I… It’s okay- I just…’ The long haired man shook his head before kneeling down next to her and gently grabbing the needle from her hands.

‘Please, allow me’ He just whispered before beginning to carefully finish some of the stitches around the wounds that needed them the most on John’s face.

Jude remained still as Charles helped taking care of her husband’s wounds. Her hands were shaking over her lap before she moved them slightly to brush them along John’s hair being careful not to move his head. After a few seconds, she stood up and checked on other wounds around his body… ‘These don’t need any help’ Jude informed to Charles with a strained voice before he hummed and she cleared her throat. ‘I… I’m worried about his eye’

Charles looked up at her before checking on his bloodied left eye. He separated his eyelids with his fingers to be able to look into it ‘I don’t see any scratches on the globe’ Charles just whispered back and she sighed softly before nodding.

The man handed the needle back to her when he was done and a gentle smile appeared over Jude’s lips. ‘Thanks’ She mumbled not daring to say his name in case she was wrong. ‘I'll… Uh, I'll just wrap him up’

Jude didn’t look back at Charles as he walked away handing her the needed space with her husband as she began to wrap a bandage around his head and specially into his left eye where she placed a few gauzes to soak up the blood. When she was done, Jude gently placed John’s head over her lap while she rested her back against the wooden wall.

All there was left to do was wait. Wait for her husband to wake up, wait for her to not be buried on her own guilt and wait… For them all to not die in the snow of the mountains.

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Taglist: @photo1030 @radio96

Word count: 3,5k

Notes: I know this took forever, I just couldn’t get it to sound right. I kept fighting with myself on how to write it properly and make it work the way I wanted.

The camp was nestled in a hollow by the familiar trickling creek, its waters weaving a gentle melody that mingled with the fading light of the evening. Shadows stretched long and soft against wagons and makeshift tents, as though the day itself were reluctant to surrender its hold. The low murmur of voices carried through the air, interspersed with bursts of laughter and the rhythmic scrape of metal against wood.

Jolene walked a step behind Arthur, her small frame taut with unease. Her eyes darted nervously from one figure to the next, catching glimpses of rough-hewn faces and the glint of weapons at every hip. The air was rich with the aroma of stew bubbling over a fire, blended with the sharper tang of horses, leather, and faint traces of tobacco smoke. Her stomach growled softly, a reminder of her hunger, but she ignored it. The sheer strangeness of the camp—the energy of the place, so raw and alive—was enough to drown out her body’s needs. These people were unlike the townsfolk she was accustomed to: bold, loud, and utterly unrepentant in their manner.

Arthur said nothing as he led her deeper into the camp, nodding occasionally to familiar faces. Jolene startled as a voice—rich and unmistakable familiar—called out to them.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said a man standing by the largest tent. His words were accompanied by a slow, bemused smile that deepened the lines around his mouth.

Dutch.

“Well, if it ain’t Joel. Thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Arthur, puzzled, glanced at Dutch. “You know the boy?” he asked, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Yes, we met before.”

As Dutch launched into the tale of how they first met, his booming voice laced with theatrical flair, Jolene's attention wavered. Her gaze drifted past him to the grand tent rising prominently behind the man. It was larger than any of the others, adorned with subtle flourishes that hinted at its occupant's importance. For a moment, her eyes caught on a peculiar contraption inside-its brass horn gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight.

She'd seen one like it once, sitting in the window of a shop back in a town she could no longer recall. It made music somehow, though the mechanics of it were beyond her understanding.

Her curiosity lingered, but the weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her thoughts back sharply to the present.

Jolene turned her head slightly, startled to see Dutch grinning down at her, his hand firm and commanding.

"Ain't that right, Joel?" he said, his smile widening like a predator's, his charm as much a weapon as the revolver on his hip.

Jolene hesitated, her gaze darting between Dutch and Arthur, who stood a few paces away. Arthur's expression was inscrutable, though his eyes betrayed a quiet scrutiny as they rested on her. She couldn't tell if he was amused, suspicious, or something else entirely.

Unsure of what else to do, Jolene nodded faintly, her face a careful mask.

Dutch erupted into laughter, joined by Arthur’s deep chuckle. Their laughter felt like a verdict, though she couldn’t tell what crime she’d been accused of. Jolene forced a smile, but a prickling unease crept up her spine. She’d known from the moment she stumbled into this camp that these were no ordinary folk. Criminals—every one of them. Guns hung from hips as casually as belts, shotguns leaned against barrels, and the air carried a tension that spoke of lives lived on the edge.

“Alright then,” Dutch said, waving them off with a smirk. “Go on, get to your business.”

Arthur started walking again, and Jolene hurried to follow. As they wove through the camp, she asked, her voice low, “Where’s Hosea?”

Arthur muttered without turning back, “Probably out huntin’ or something.”

Jolene nodded, though he couldn’t see the gesture. The camp’s atmosphere pressed down on her, and she startled again at the sound of another voice.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

A woman approached, her bearing stern and her plain dress immaculate. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun that seemed to amplify the sharpness of her gaze. Jolene instinctively straightened, feeling suddenly small beneath the woman’s scrutiny.

“You brought a boy, Arthur?” she asked, her tone carrying a note of exasperation. “We ain’t runnin’ an orphanage.”

Arthur grunted, clearly uninterested in engaging, and wandered off without so much as a backward glance. Jolene was left standing alone, dwarfed by the woman’s commanding presence.

“You reek,” the woman declared, wrinkling her nose. “When’s the last time you saw a bar of soap, boy?”

Panic shot through Jolene like lightning. Bathing was a dangerous proposition, one that risked revealing the secret she’d fought so hard to keep. Dropping her gaze, she mumbled, “Been a while, ma’am.”

The woman pursed her lips but said no more on the matter. “Long as you keep your stink away from me,” she said curtly. Then, narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Joel,” Jolene muttered.

“Joel what? Or d’you not have a last name?”

Jolene’s throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to lie, but her mind blanked under the woman’s unrelenting stare.

“Joel Winslow”

“Winslow,” Grimshaw repeated, her sharp tone laced with skepticism. After a moment, she straightened, seeming satisfied enough. “Susan Grimshaw,” she said. “Miss Grimshaw to you.”

Jolene nodded, a weak gesture of acknowledgment. The woman’s scrutiny lingered a beat longer before she finally turned and strode off with purposeful steps, her back as rigid as steel.

Left alone once again, Jolene exhaled shakily. Her gaze flickered to the campfire, its glow comforting yet insufficient to dispel the growing sense of isolation. Arthur had vanished, leaving her adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and dangerous intentions.

As she resolved to search for him, determined not to stand idle and draw further attention, another voice called out behind her.

“Hey, kid. Over here.”

She turned to see a tall man with sandy hair sitting on a crate, his grin and relaxed posture offering an unexpected reprieve from the tension. A small toolkit was spread out on another crate beside him.

“Name’s Mac,” he said, waving her over. “Arthur says your chain needs mendin’.”

Jolene watched as he inspected the broken chain. The firelight caught its broken link, the gold glinting faintly like a wounded treasure.

Mac whistled softly as he examined it. “Not too bad. Where’d this come from?”

“It was my mother’s,” Jolene said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Mac’s expression softened. “A fine piece. The ring goes onto it?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It was hers too.”

Mac nodded, his hands steady as he picked up a pair of pliers and a small hammer. He began threading the broken ends of the chain together with care.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, “a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link. But lucky for you, this one’s got plenty of life left in it.”

Jolene managed a faint smile, though she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Still, his words brought a flicker of warmth to her chest, momentarily pushing aside the sting of recent memories.

“Don’t look so glum,” Mac said, glancing up. “Things’ll work out for you, you’ll see.”

Jolene frowned slightly, her thoughts drifting to the sheriff’s harsh slap. “You can’t know that.”

Mac shrugged with an easy grin. “Sure I can. You’re scrappy, ain’t too ugly. And you’re lucky—Dutch and Hosea don’t just take to anyone. You must’ve done somethin’ right.”

She didn’t reply, but his words stirred an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. Mac studied her for a moment, his tone light when he spoke again.

“You’re all alone right?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Thought so. You’ve got a look about you—like trouble’s been a close companion. But trouble’s the best teacher there is, so maybe that’s not all bad.”

Jolene cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was teasing or sincere.

“Almost done,” Mac said, holding the chain up to inspect his handiwork. “A little polish, and it’ll be good as new.”

When he finally handed the repaired chain back to her, Jolene felt a surge of relief and gratitude. The links gleamed in the firelight, and the ring swayed gently from the end.

“Good as new,” Mac said with a grin. “Go on, take a look.”

Jolene turned the chain over in her hands, her fingers trembling with excitement. She wanted to leap with joy, to hug Mac and thank him profusely, but instead, she simply said, “Thank you.”

Mac’s grin widened. “Don’t mention it, kid. Take care of it. I reckon it’s got plenty more stories to tell.”

Jolene nodded, clutching the chain tightly. For a moment, Mac’s gaze lingered, but he said nothing more.

“Go on now,” he said, waving her off. Jolene slipped away, the chain held close to her chest like a fragile piece of hope.

After a few more moments of careful inspection, Jolene slipped the repaired chain around her neck, feeling its familiar weight settle against her chest. She tucked it securely into her shirt and exhaled, her fingers lingering briefly over the fabric before she dropped her hand.

Standing near the horses, she took a moment to survey the camp. The animals were unsaddled, most of them nipping lazily at the ground, their tails swishing in the dim light. Her gaze lingered on them, drawn to their quiet, grounded presence. Among them, she spotted Boadicea, Arthur’s steadfast mare—the first horse Jolene had ever ridden. A faint smile ghosted across her lips at the memory, the sensation of the animal’s strength beneath her still vivid in her mind.

Her attention shifted to the camp itself. She stood cloaked in the shadows, unnoticed by most as she observed the scene before her. Arthur sat at a table, a bowl of stew in hand, speaking in low tones to a pair of unfamiliar men. His manner was calm, his movements steady. Further off, she spotted Mac, the kind man who had mended her chain. He was perched on a log, a plate of food balanced on his knee, his hearty laugh carrying faintly through the evening air. The firelight caught the sauce that clung to his thick beard, and Jolene’s lips twitched in an involuntary smile. Around him, a small group of people sat, their faces warm with the camaraderie of shared stories and laughter.

The crunch of footsteps startled her, and she turned quickly to see a woman standing beside her. She was young and strikingly pretty, with black hair swept into a loose braid and a soft glow about her—likely the result of her pregnancy, which was unmistakable in the way her belly curved beneath her dress. Despite her condition, she carried herself with a quiet strength, leaning down slightly to meet Jolene’s gaze.

“I saw you earlier,” the woman said, her voice kind and curious. “Are you stayin’ with us?”

Jolene hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know. After Mac had fixed her chain and sent her on her way, no one had told her what was next. Should she leave? The thought of returning to the town—the sheriff’s cruelty and the pain of earlier events—made her stomach twist. But staying felt uncertain, too, like stepping into a world she didn’t fully understan. “I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging her small shoulders.

The woman sighed, a sound more empathetic than exasperated. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I’m Abigail. And you?” Her tone remained gentle, encouraging.

“Joel,” Jolene replied quickly, sticking to the name she’d given before.

Abigail nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Well, Joel, you look thin as a rail. Come eat with us.” She straightened with some effort, extending a hand to Jolene.

Jolene hesitated for only a moment before accepting. Despite everything, she was grateful for being small for her age—her slight frame seemed to invite less scrutiny. Abigail’s hand was warm and firm, and together they made their way into the heart of the camp.

Abigail led her to a quieter corner, where a nearly empty table stood. A young girl, her skin a deep, rich brown, sat there already, eating her stew with measured bites. Abigail gestured for Jolene to sit. “I’ll bring us two portions,” she said, her tone decisive.

“Are you sure? I can carry them,” Jolene offered, her voice tinged with worry as she glanced at Abigail’s pregnant form.

Abigail smiled, brushing off the concern with a shake of her head. “I’ve got it. You sit.”

With that, she left, leaving Jolene alone with the other girl, who paused mid-bite to look up and smile warmly. “What’s your name?” the girl asked, her voice light and friendly.

“Joel,” Jolene replied, keeping her answer brief.

“Tilly,” the girl introduced herself. “Tilly Jackson.” She smiled again before returning to her stew, her demeanor calm and unassuming.

Jolene sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Abigail returned soon after, balancing two bowls of steaming stew with practiced ease. She set one in front of Jolene and the other for herself before settling into the seat beside her. The aroma of the hearty meal was comforting, and Jolene felt a flicker of gratitude as she picked up the spoon. For now, she was safe, and that was enough.

Jolene ate her stew with unrestrained joy, her spoon diving eagerly into the bowl with each bite. If she’d been alone, she might’ve wriggled like a happy worm, her body unable to contain the sheer delight of warm food. It had been so long—years, even—since a hot meal had been anything but a rare treat. In recent times, she’d been lucky to taste such comfort once a month. Now, with the savory broth warming her insides, she allowed herself a moment of peace, the harsh edges of her world temporarily dulled.

The table was quiet as the three of them ate. Tilly offered the occasional friendly glance, but no words were exchanged. Abigail seemed preoccupied, her thoughts elsewhere as she methodically spooned stew into her mouth. Jolene appreciated the silence—it gave her time to savor her food without distraction.

That peace was interrupted when Dutch approached, a bowl of stew in hand. He greeted them warmly, his voice carrying the easy charm that seemed to envelop everything he did. Without asking, he took a seat at their table, nodding to Abigail and Tilly before focusing his attention on Jolene.

“So,” he began after taking a few bites of his meal, “how’re you likin’ it here, Joel?”

Jolene froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Her instincts warned her to tread carefully, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “It’s nice,” she replied simply, keeping her tone neutral.

Dutch chuckled, his grin widening. “Nice, eh? Well, I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He leaned back slightly, the firelight dancing in his sharp eyes. “But you’ve seen enough of the world to know nice ain’t always easy to come by. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jolene nodded hesitantly, unsure where this was going. She studied Dutch closely, her mind racing. She wasn’t dumb—uneducated, yes, but not stupid. She couldn’t read or write, didn’t know what came after 109 in a count, but she could piece things together quickly enough. It didn’t take long to understand that Dutch was the leader here. The way people deferred to him, the way he carried himself—it was clear.

At first, Dutch had struck her as charming, even kind. But now, sitting at this table with him, her wariness grew. He was the leader of a gang of criminals, after all. Her world had taught her that someone like him wasn’t to be trusted. The sisters at the church had drilled it into her head—outlaws were cruel, violent, and wicked. Yet here was Dutch, smiling and polite, offering her food and a place to sit. How many people had he killed with those same hands that held her shoulders so warmly?

Arthur, too, didn’t fit the mold of the villains she’d imagined. He’d gone out of his way to help her, had been patient and kind, even when she’d had little to offer in return. And Mac—he’d mended her chain with a fatherly sort of care, as if her small troubles mattered to him. These people baffled her. Their camaraderie, their apparent contentment—it all clashed with the stories she’d been told. Were these the same “nasty, mean” outlaws the sisters had warned her about?

Dutch’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He leaned forward, his expression warm yet commanding, as though he could see the questions swirling in her mind.

“Joel,” he began, his tone softer now, “I imagine you’ve been through your share of hard times. Most folks like us have. You don’t end up out here without a little trouble behind you. But that don’t mean trouble has to follow you forever.” He gestured toward the camp with a sweep of his hand. “Look around. What do you see? You see folks who’ve been given up on by the rest of the world. People like Arthur, like Tilly, like me—forgotten, left to fend for themselves. And yet, here we are. Together. Strong. Safe.”

Jolene listened, her stew forgotten as his words washed over her. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he spoke, his voice weaving a picture of safety and belonging that was hard to resist.

“This here,” Dutch continued, “isn’t just a camp. It’s a family. A real family. One that looks out for each other, that fights for each other. You’re young, but you’re sharp. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got potential, Joel. And out there?” He nodded toward the darkened world beyond the firelight. “Out there, the world’ll eat you alive. But here? With us? You’ll have a chance. A chance to make somethin’ of yourself.”

Jolene felt her heart beat faster. His words were persuasive, tugging at something deep inside her—a longing for security, for belonging, for a life that wasn’t just survival. And yet, a small, skeptical voice in the back of her mind whispered warnings.

Dutch leaned in closer, his gaze steady and intent. “It’s your choice, of course. I’d never force you to stay. But think about it, Joel. Think about what you want. Safety. Family. Opportunity.” He smiled, a gleam in his eye. “Those are things worth fightin’ for, don’t you think?”

Jolene nodded slowly, unsure of what else to do. Dutch sat back, satisfied, and returned to his stew. But his words lingered, weaving their way into her thoughts as the night wore on.

Jolene’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind as she continued eating the stew, her spoon moving mechanically as the weight of Dutch’s words settled over her. She wasn’t Joel, wasn’t eleven, wasn’t a boy—her mind felt like a maze, full of walls she couldn’t climb, paths she couldn’t see. She kept eating, her hands trembling a little, but she couldn’t stop the questions that churned in her chest. Would it be different if they knew?

Would they trust her?

Her mind flickered with terrifying possibilities. What if they found out? What if they kicked her out, just like the town had? Or worse, what if they decided she wasn’t worth keeping around—what if they killed those they couldn’t trust? A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck, her stomach tightening with fear. She felt the panic start to rise, a knot in her throat as her heart raced faster than she could think.

But as the panic swelled, it started to subside, her breath evening out. They wouldn’t kill a young girl, right? she told herself. She was just a child, barely fifteen. Surely, that was enough to save her, to make her inconspicuous enough that they’d never think to harm her. The lie she’d told, that she was Joel, would be harmless, right? After all, Dutch had said it himself—he knew what it was like to come from hard times. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? He might even appreciate it, the way she was just doing what she had to, surviving the best she could.

A small, quiet voice in the back of her head told her she was fooling herself, but she pushed it down, focusing instead on the plan beginning to form in her mind. Hide it at first, she thought. Let them think she’s Joel. They’d never question it. And when the time was right… she’d tell them the truth. When she was bigger. When it wouldn’t matter so much. Maybe they’d accept her then.

She could leave once she was older, stronger, but still not manly. She’d make a life of her own, maybe find a place in this strange, chaotic world. And maybe—just maybe—there’d be a place for her here, among these outlaws.

As her thoughts continued to churn, her nerves slowly calmed. The swirling confusion settled into a plan—fragile, uncertain, but a plan nonetheless. She finished the last spoonful of stew, forcing herself to keep calm. She could do this. She just needed to keep up the charade for now. Keep it hidden. They didn’t have to know the truth. Not yet.

Tilly stood and carried her empty bowl away, breaking Jolene’s reverie. She watched the girl go, her movements easy and familiar, and then turned her attention back to the camp around her. Her mind was still racing, but her thoughts were sharper now, more focused on the idea of not just surviving but living. If she stayed, she felt like she actually had a chance.

Jolene set her bowl down, the warmth of the stew still lingering in her stomach as she looked up at Dutch. Her hands were steady now, her heart still pounding but with a newfound resolve. She swallowed her fear and, in a quiet but firm voice, said, “I want to stay. With you… with the gang.”

The words felt strange, almost foreign on her tongue, but they were true. The offer, this chance, was something she couldn’t let slip through her fingers. This was her chance to survive, to find something better than the streets, the town, the constant fear.

She might not understand everything, but she knew one thing for sure—she wouldn’t let this chance pass her by. She couldn’t.