#abigail is so hard to draw goddamn

[evgar]

sadie and abigail studies

(+ some lil drawings from arthur's diary that i really like)

[quesoarts]

hey there i'm still fucked up about them <3

[queenxxxsupreme]

Aftermath (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

A/N: Here is my masterlist and here is the link to go to if you’d like to be on any of my taglists! My latest rdr2 fic was a Charles fluffy piece called The Chase if you want to check it out :)

Warnings: mentions of falling off a train, hurt reader, descriptions  of wounds and blood, but mostly fluffiness

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: After a heist ends badly, Arthur cleans you up and chastises you for not being more careful. 

***

Your horse came to a stop in front of the hitch post just outside of camp. You paused for a moment to breathe now that you were safe. 

Your heart was still racing from the events of earlier and your hands gripped your horse’s reins so tightly that your knuckles hurt. But that pain was nothing compared to the rest of your body. 

“Need a hand, Y/N?” Lenny asked, tying his horse up and moving towards you. 

“Get me down before Arthur-,” You stopped, the sound of hooves pounding against the earth making your stomach clench up. You knew it was him. 

Lenny helped you down from your horse, catching you as you slipped down from the saddle. You tried to put weight on your left leg, but the pain in your ankle was too much. You nearly collapsed. 

“Easy there, Y/N.” Lenny kept his arm around you. 

Your eyes caught sight of Arthur and John coming into camp. 

“Go, Lenny.” You urged, letting him go and giving him a push away from you. 

“Are you sure, Y/N? You can’t even stand on your own.”

“I’ll be fine, Lenny.” You assured him, leaning against the hitch post for support. “He’s angry and I don’t want him yellin’ at you.”

“Tie ‘er up.” You heard Arthur tell John, no doubt talking about his horse. You couldn’t bring yourself to look in the direction of his voice. 

You took a deep breath and started to make your way across camp to yours and Arthur’s tent. You gritted your teeth together. Your nails dug into your palms from how tightly your fingers were curled up. But you pushed through the pain and kept going. You just needed to make it to the tent before Arthur could make a scene in front of everyone. 

“Y/N!” Susan gasped. “What in the hell happened to you, girl?”

You wanted to shake it off, to tell her you were fine, but you knew if you opened your mouth you’d make some sort of pained sound, something that would alert a certain outlaw that you were more injured than you let on. 

“Don’t let her walk away from you, Mrs. Grimshaw.” Arthur spoke, his voice deep and devoid of the usual teasing tone he had when he spoke towards you. 

“What happened, Arthur?” Hosea moved towards you both, wanting to make sure you were okay. 

You shook your head, still hastily walking in the direction of the tent.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t acknowledge Arthur. 

“Don’t you walk away from me, woman!”

You were so close to the tent, maybe another six steps and then you’d be able to—

A large hand grabbed hold of your arm and he pulled you around to face him. You lost your balance, stepping on to your left leg. You cried out in pain and your knee buckled. 

Arthur caught you, one of his arms wrapping around your torso while the other grabbed your hip. 

“Let me go, Arthur!” You pushed against him, your hands flat against his chest as you tried to put as much space between yourself and him as possible. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Y/N. Ya got a busted ankle. Shouldn’t be walkin’ on it.”

“I can handle it my-damn-self!” You protested, still pushing against him. You tried to pry his hands away from you, to break his firm grip on you by grabbing his fingers and pulling away but he wasn’t letting go. 

“Quit being so goddamned stubborn, woman.” Arthur growled through clenched teeth. “Ya just fell off a fuckin’ movin’ train! Stop tryin’ to act so tough!”

“Get your hands off of me, Arthur Morgan!”

“Enough!” Dutch boomed, sending a wave of silence across the whole camp. It was only then that you realized everyone was watching you look like a fool. 

Arthur released you. The second he did, your weight was naturally distributed to both of your legs. You winced and lost your balance, using a crate by John and Abigail’s tent for support. 

Arthur flinched as if he’d catch you, but you caught yourself before he could come to the rescue. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Dutch asked, a furrow in his brow. 

“M’fine.” You forced through gritted teeth. “Wish people would stop askin’ me that.”

“Looks like you got into a bad fight at the saloon and lost.” Micah commented. 

“I’ll fucking show you a bad fight, you fucking inbreed-,”

“You better watch your mouth-,”

“I might be torn to hell but I will beat your ass into the ground-,”

“Cool it, both of you!” John intervened, stepping in front of Micah. 

“You can barely stand on your own, and you’re covered in blood.” Dutch said.  

“S’not my own.” You muttered, but he didn’t bother to listen to you. “Least I don’t think it is.”

“We don’t need you dyin’ off from an infected wound, Y/N. If you won’t let Arthur help you patch yourself up, have one of the girls do it.”

You nodded, locking your jaw tightly. 

Hosea shooed everyone away, knowing very well you’d pick Arthur. You were thankful that he’d give you guys some privacy. It was hard when the only walls you had in camp were made of canvas. 

“Are ya gonna stop bein’ a stubborn ass so I can help you?” Arthur asked. 

You nodded, keeping your eyes down. 

He moved towards you, carefully scooping you up bridal style. You winced, eyes squeezing shut. The way you were moved created a sharp pain in your ribs. 

Arthur took you to your shared tent and sat you down on the cot. 

“Start taking off your clothes.” He moved away from you and began to unravel the sides of the tent to give you privacy. 

Your hands were too heavy. Your muscles ached. Even the thought of moving brought on pain. You knew very well you wouldn’t be able to undress by yourself. 

Arthur glanced over his shoulder to look at you and saw that you were just staring at the picture of his mother he had framed on the chest next to the cot. 

“Pumpkin?”

“Hm?” You didn’t tear your eyes away from the picture. He could see it in your eyes. You weren’t really there with him. You were in your head. Arthur let out a gentle sigh, rubbing the side of his head, and moved to kneel down in front of you. The movement caught your attention, drawing your eyes to him. 

You took in a little breath, straightening your posture as your eyes focused on him. 

“M’gonna go get some things to clean you up with. Get some of your clothes off so I can see what we gotta deal with okay?” His voice, though deep and rumbly, was sweet and gentle. “Maybe put on your little gown, okay? That way we can see everything without you bein’ so uncovered.”

You said nothing, but you kept your eyes on him, on his lips more specifically. He wasn’t sure if you were actually getting everything he was saying, or if you were still zoned out. 

“Can you do that for me, pumpkin?”

You nodded your head a little. 

He rubbed the outside of your thigh before standing up and leaving the tent. 

You watched him go and for some reason seeing him leave made your heart beat harder and faster. Tears stung your eyes and you quickly brought your hand up to wipe them away. 

The events of earlier that day flashed through your head.

It was supposed to be an easy train robbery. Dutch and Hosea had planned it out with Arthur taking the lead. You joined him with Lenny, John, Javier, and Sean. 

Everything went smoothly until another group of eight men on horses showed up with plans to rob the train themselves. And as luck would have it, you used to run with one of the men. He was anything but a nice guy and definitely not someone you wanted to run into during a heist. 

When Arthur returned to the tent, he found you sitting on the cot hunched forward with your head in your hands. You weren’t changed out of your clothes and it appeared that you were crying. 

He placed the bowl of warm water down on the chest by the cot and put the other supplies in his arms down as well. 

He knelt down in front of you, large hands wrapping around your wrists to pull your hands from your face. Your cheeks were stained with tears and your eyes were red. 

“Are you cryin’ cause I was yellin’ at ya?”

You shook your head. 

“Are you hurtin’?”

You nodded. 

“Where at, pumpkin?”

“Everywhere, Arthur.” You cried quietly. “I-I’m so-sorry.”

“Don’t start that now.” He shook his head. “Won’t do you any good to start apologizin’ while you’re upset like this. It’ll just make ya even more upset. Don’t want ya makin’ yourself sick. Now let’s get you outta these clothes.”

“I-I can’t-Arthur, I’m just-,” You couldn’t seem to form sentences even though you knew what you wanted to say. The adrenaline had worn off and you were exhausted. You just wanted to sleep, but you knew Arthur wouldn’t let you do that just yet. 

“S’alright, pumpkin. I’ll help ya.” He reached up and began to unbutton your shirt. 

You fell silent, sniffling every now and then. 

Once your shirt was unbuttoned, he carefully pulled it off of your shoulders. 

“Shit, Y/N.” Arthur cursed under his breath. With your shirt gone, the bruising on your arms and chest could now be seen. 

There were hand-shaped bruises along your upper arms and a few cuts on the back of your right forearm. Your chest had a long bruise across it too. It was an odd pattern and Arthur couldn’t figure out quite what it was. 

“I-I didn’t….” Arthur reached out to tentatively trace his fingers over the bruising on your bicep. “Did I….?”

“No.” Your voice was raspy. “That’s not from you. There was a man on the train. He caught me off guard. He’s the one who gave me a busted face.”

Arthur pressed his lips together in a firm line. You could see the anger festering behind his eyes. His large hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across the corner of your cracked lips. You winced a little. He apologized softly. 

“What about the one on your chest?”

“There was another feller, he used a metal bar to clothes line me.”

He pulled his hand from your face, eyes lingering on the nasty bruise on your chest. 

“The second I got my footing, I put a knife between his ribs.” 

“That’s my girl.” He praised, making your heart race. 

Arthur reached around you to find the strings to your corset. With one effortless tug, the corset loosened and you took a breath. 

“I know you’re happy to be outta that.” Arthur tossed the corset to the foot of the cot. “Ya think you could stand so we can get your jeans offa ya?”

“I can stand on my right, but not my left.”

“I’ll be on your left. You lean against me. How about that?”

You nodded. Arthur stood up and helped you to your feet. You slipped an arm around his shoulders, grabbing a fistful of his jacket to brace yourself. He put an arm around you too. 

“How am I supposed to get my jeans off when I got one arm around you and you got one arm around me?” You asked him. 

He paused for a moment and you watched as he thought about it. 

“Well, I gotta hand and you gotta hand. Why don’t we use ‘em both?” He suggested. 

You giggled. 

It took some effort, but the two of you worked together to unbutton your jeans and get them down. 

Arthur nearly had a heart attack when he saw the cut on your thigh. How did he not see it before? 

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

“M’fine, Arthur.”

He got you into your nightgown and then sat you back down on the bed. 

He started with the thigh wound, cleaning the dried blood and then wrapping a bandage around your leg. From there, he looked down at your ankle. A bruise had already formed and around the joint was swollen. 

He sighed out, then turned his attention to the bowl of warm water. He dipped the clean rag into the water and rung it out. His eyes flickered up to your face. He paused for a moment. 

Your nose had been bleeding but now the blood was smeared across your cheek, dried. Bruising trailed from underneath your eye down to your cheekbone where a cut was from a fist. Your lips were busted and split open. The corners of your eyes were black and blue. Your nose didn’t look broken, so that was good. 

He let out another sigh. You knew he was trying to keep his emotions at bay. 

“I…. Arthur, m’sorry.” You whispered, your voice breaking from how quiet you were. 

He shook his head. His jaw ticked as the muscle tightened. He was gritting his teeth together. 

“How could you be so stupid, Y/N? Told you to wait for Javier or John. I knew there were men coming but you didn’t listen.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

“But I wouldn’t’a been thrown from the goddamned train.”

“You don’t know that.” You mumbled under your breath. 

Arthur took hold of your chin, turning your head so you had no choice but to look at him. 

“Don’t get that way with me, pumpkin.” He started to wipe blood from under your nose. “You could’ve died today. I…. I could’ve lost ya.”

You fell silent. 

He cleaned the blood from your face, using soft, gentle brushes with the rough rag. 

“Arthur? Y/N?” Mary Beth spoke from outside of the tent.

“It’s alright, Mary Beth.” Arthur dipped the rag into the water. “You can step in.”

You looked to him then down at his chest. 

“Just wanted to bring Y/N some supper. Thought maybe she’d be hungry.” Her eyes found you and she gasped softly. “Oh, Y/N. You….” She trailed off. 

“I’m okay.” You assured her, offering her a little smile.

“Thank you, Mary Beth.” Arthur took the bowl of soup from her and placed it down on the chest by the cot. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” She asked softly.

“Get me some fresh water in this bowl please, would ya?” Arthur asked her. 

“Of course.”

As she slipped out of the tent, Arthur returned his attention to you. 

“The man who threw me over….” You started, but trailed off, unable to finish. 

“I’m gonna find him and kill ‘em.”

“No, Arthur.” Your eyes widened as you looked up at Arthur. “Please. You-You have to promise me never-to never go after him. I’m-I’m fine. Just a little beat up is all.”

Arthur furrowed his brows together. 

“Do you…. You know that feller, don’t you?”

“Used to run with him.” You answered quietly. “He’s not someone you play with, Arthur. He’s worse than Micah.” 

Arthur sighed through his nose. 

“And you didn’t think to tell me back there that you knew him?”

“It wasn’t really high on my list when we had fellers shootin’ at us, Arthur.”

He rubbed his brow.

“I know you’re mad at me.”

“M’not mad at ya, pumpkin. Just…. I was scared that I was gonna lose you.” 

You turned your head away from him but he wouldn’t let you look away for very long. With two fingers beneath your chin, he turned your head back to him. 

“When I saw you go over the side of that train, I-I fuckin’ lost it. Nearly beat the piss outta poor Lenny ‘cause he was in my way. Couldn’t get to you fast enough.” Arthur shook his head. He brushed a tear from your cheek. “When we finally stopped the train and I found you….” He trailed off. 

“It don’t matter now, Arthur. I’m here.” You reminded him, turning your head to kiss his palm. 

“Yeah, but that’s not the point, Y/N.”

“We got dangerous lives, Arthur. You can’t protect me from everything.”

“I can damn sure try.” He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You mean the world to me, pumpkin. Ain’t gonna let shit happen to you. Even if that means I gotta stop you from doin’ stupid shit.”

You smiled a little, leaning forward to tuck your head underneath his chin.

Taglist:  @doggone-cowgirl @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @gabstaroc @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm  

If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[a-libra-writes]

are you still doing that kiss prompt thingy?? if you are, how's about '50. In Secret kiss' with Micah Bell? ((if youre not then dont worry!)) pleases and thank yous :0)

hECK YEAH (sorry i took ten million years yall aggghhh). i went rlly fluffy with this bc my self indulgence is always at MAX

The shot brushed the bottom of the empty whiskey bottle. It shook from the force, but didn’t fall over or break. Micah had seen the mark it left on the glass, but he didn’t have time to look twice. Another shot rang out, and the glass shattered.

“Well, it looks like that peashooter can get the job done,” He said to Y/N. As he anticipated, she gave him that look, then gestured to the four hares she’d tied to her horse.

“I recall you used mine to get that doe.” Micah inclined his head to the doe strapped on top. He missed the shot on that one - a rarity in itself - and Y/N took his rifle, downing the animal before it could run away. By the way the corners of her lips were twitching, she was remembering that.

It was hard to care about his wounded pride when she almost-smiled, because he knew it was more than anyone got out of her in the two … no, was it three years she’d been with the gang? “That one’s Y/N, she doesn’t say much. Leave her be.” Dutch had said to Micah during his first week. There was an odd protectiveness in the man’s voice, one Micah hadn’t heard given to others, besides maybe Jack and Tilly.

‘Not saying much’ was a great understatement. Y/N never spoke. She didn’t laugh or smile, or furrow her brows or cry. The camp acted as though she wasn’t there, with some exceptions. Tilly would chatter beside her as they did chores, she and Mary-Beth traded books, little Jack would trail after her if Abigail was busy, Hosea would bring her along for this or that job. There seemed to be a divide between those who worked with her silence, and those who were unnerved by it.

Micah didn’t want to admit he was in the latter camp. The first time he finally said something to her, he was drunk, and it came out stupid. Completely stupid. He remembered waiting for the usual reaction: Disgust, maybe a slap, storming off angrily. Some women shrieked when a rat scurried across the floor, some reached for an iron skillet. Y/N only looked at him with those sharp eyes, the shadows of the campfire bouncing off her face. 

She walked away, and he breathed out, not realizing how nervous the whole interaction made him. Never in his life had a woman made him shiver like that.

It was sunny now, not a cloud in the sky, and it was hard to believe this sunshined-kissed face was the same one that unnerved him months ago. Y/N took aim, and the next shot sent a glass bottle flying off the rock. She lowered the gun and clapped happily.

Shit. It was so endearing. Micah stood up from where he was sitting - on a goddamned blanket she spread out, because after hunting all morning and afternoon they were both tired, and she wanted to sit with him and rest. Then he suggested the game, and she wanted to play. Who was he to refuse?

Y/N walked up to the bottles and picked up the skinniest one. She walked several feet away and placed it, then ran back. When she pointed at it, Micah squinted.

“What, you gonna shoot that?”

She shook her head and pointed to him.

Micah scoffed. He retrieved his revolver, the right one. “Darlin’, I can do a lot better than that.”

He lifted his gun, put the bottle in his sights, and almost squeezed the trigger. He stopped, although he could already hear the sounds of the glass breaking.

“You try it,” He said suddenly. “With a proper gun, not that old thing.”

Micah was too anxious to look at her, or wait for a refusal. He all but shoved the revolver in her hands. Y/N blinked at it, then held it properly. He watched her fingers curl around it, how easily they fit into place. The gun wasn’t made for her hands, but it looked right. A swell of excitement went up his spine when she touched the barrel and noticed the engraving.

He cleared his throat, coughed a bit and stood behind her. “You shot one of these before, right?”

Y/N turned back to face him, giving him an ‘obviously’ sort of glance. He placed his larger hands around her’s, trying to fight the urge to pull away immediately. It was like her skin was fire, and his chest was hurting. He moved her smaller fingers into a better grip, so the recoil wouldn’t be as hard, and let her lift it to her line of sight.

“It’ll kick,” Micah said. “Every revolver got a different kick.”

Y/N didn’t squirm out of his arms, or look uncomfortable, so he selfishly stayed put. She was concentrating on the shot.

And she took it. She had flinched, but the glass shattered.

He couldn’t hide his grin. His next words spilled out. “Next time there’s a job, I’ll get you a better gun, an’ take you with me.”

Y/N smiled, and he had a sudden sensation of being both punched in the gut and choked out. He stepped away and cleared his throat. Micah felt something tugging at his side, and realized she was putting the revolver back in its holster. He immediately thought of her hands being somewhere else.

To distract himself, he looked at the sky. He was surprised at the late hour, and pulled out his pocketwatch to confirm it. Had they really spent most of the day in this forest? The discomfort growing in his gut was getting worse, and in an attempt to control it, Micah almost offered that they ride Baylock together. To his disappointment, Y/N had already swung up on her horse. He comforted himself with the fact she probably wouldn’t have agreed, anyway. It was a sheer dumb miracle she’d gone along with the hunting and shooting, given how she normally was.

“You better not be bothering that girl, Mr. Bell,” He could hear Grimshaw’s voice echoing off in his head. It was the first or second week he arrived, and her voice was low and dangerous. He’d just been looking at Y/N, and the old bitch was on him at once. “She’s don’t need the likes of you distracting her.”

He had a few choice words for the woman now, but Y/N clicked her tongue to get his attention. She was waiting on him, probably wondering what he was spacing out for. On the ride back, he wondered what Grimshaw, or anyone, would say if they noticed them coming back together.

No one said anything. It was still early in the evening, and there wasn’t much of the gang around. Micah could’ve split off and left to town if he wanted; he almost never came back this early. To his dismay, Y/N returned to that passive face he’d seen so many times before. He felt like something had slipped out of his grasp.

He could at least help her dismount, even if she didn’t need it. It felt stupid to offer his hand, like he was some goddamned storybook prince, but she took it. He relished that brief contact as he helped her down, wondering when it’d come again… if it ever would. This day seemed like one of those that was too good to be true.

“You come get me if ya need help, with the uh, the huntin’,” Micah mumbled. The words sounded stupid again, but they were far better than the first ones he said to her. “Or shootin’. Ya got a good eye.”

Y/N didn’t let go. She looked at him with those big eyes, now not so passive, and the old gunman had to will himself not to look away. He couldn’t, feeling rooted to the ground with both her gaze and her touch.

Then she kissed him. It was on the cheek, but he froze. From how close she was, he could smell the forest, the dirt, the gunpowder.

“Sure.”

He could have missed it with how his heart was beating, how the horses around them nickered and the distant gramophone crooned. She squeezed his fingers and smiled. The sun had set now, but she was so, so bright. 

Y/N turned away and led her horse to Pearson’s wagon. That simple word ran across his mind at least a dozen times by the time she was too far away to call to without drawing attention, and then Mary-Beth ran up to her, and then Charles offered to help with the doe. She nodded and gestured and pointed, the language she used with everyone.

Micah wondered if they’d heard anything she said, if she ever shared that smile. Something told him - something hoped - that wasn’t the case. He watched her until that gut-punching and throat-squeezing became too much, and he swung up on Baylock to head to town. Maybe come morning, he’d find a gun, a smaller one with not much recoil. Maybe he’d hear more words after that.

[littlestarofthewest]

*spoilers* pls spare some angsty John's toughts after he left Arthur at that mountain 🥺

Sorry this took so long to answer, I need to be in a certain mood for angst. Since I suck at HCs, a short ficlet it is 😄

See You In Hell

John can't help but look back again and again, having to force himself to keep going forward, away from Arthur. His breath is burning in his lungs, his throat dry from shouting, from begging Arthur to come with him. 

"Brother" he called him, and John still abandoned Arthur, letting him face a swarm of enemies all on his own. The sounds of shots ring in John's ears, his mind coming up with cruel images. Arthur on the ground, riddled with bullets, so much blood.

Another step and an invisible string is pulling at John as if it wants to drag him back to Arthur, ripping through his stomach. John throws himself against it, taking each step by force.

It hurts so much, more than being mauled by wolves, more than gunshot wounds and torture in prison, more than being left behind by a man who called him a son.

John still keeps going through the pain and storm of noises all around him. The guilt is burning like acid in his chest, but he promised Arthur to run. He can't let him down, have his death be in vain. 

Arthur's voice is ringing in his ears, blocking out everything else. He told John to be a man, to be loyal to what matters. Pictures flicker in John's mind. Jack playing next to him or asking him for candy. Abigail shouting at him in anger, and also her brightest smile. 

She'll be furious with him for leaving behind their best friend. John's not sure she'll understand that he's doing this for her, for Arthur. It's one last chance to make things right. We ain't both gonna make it. One of them can, he has to.

John stumbles through the trees, unsure where he is, his shoulder burning, and his arm going numb. He leans against a tree, forcing air into his lungs. 

A sound, hooves on the mossy ground. Adrenaline surges through John's veins, and he lifts his gun, aiming at the approaching rider. His muddled mind needs a moment to understand that it's just the horse, no man in sight.

John tries to talk to it, but can't make a sound. He swallows hard, his throat protesting. The horse makes nervous turns, unsure where to go. John lifts his hands, drawing its attention.

"Hey, calm now," he says, his voice raspy but slowly growing stronger. Be calm, confident, let it feel safe. Arthur taught him that. "We're both out here on our own. Let's help each other out."

He keeps talking, taking tiny steps towards the horse. It lets him approach, and he taps its neck. "There you go, that's it. All good."

It takes all the strength John has left to get up into the saddle, searing pain shooting through his shoulder under the strain of his own weight. He feels dizzy, lights flickering in front of his eyes.

"Keep going, Marston," Arthur's voice says in his mind. 

John looks back, the mountain still calling to him, letting him know that it's keeping his brother. Everything goes quiet, dull. A soft wind caresses John's head like a soothing hand as he watches the sun. 

Looking back years later, John still can't tell how, but at this moment, he knows. Arthur's gone.

"I'm sorry," John whispers, hoping against hope that Arthur found peace in the end.

His hand wanders to Arthur's bag, gripping the fabric tight as he takes a shaky breath. All that's left of a person, in one small object. The hat on John's head feels heavy now as if he's taking on everything that Arthur's been carrying on his shoulders.

"I'll make you proud," John says, his voice giving out as tears burn in his eyes. "Got no goddamn idea how, but I'll try."

Before John turns the horse around, he tips his hat at the mountain. "See you in hell, brother."

[heart-of-gold-outlaw]

Welcome Home: Arthur Morgan x Modern!Reader (3/?)

Chapter Three: Dirty Rotten Bastards

Ao3

Wattpad

"So," Dutch says as he walks over to where you're sitting by the campfire. His expression is borderline unreadable. "Hosea told me about your hunting trip."

You wiggle a stick in the air, trying to make it look like a piece of string. "Yep."

"And Arthur told me about what happened in Valentine. With George Foreman."

Snapping the stick in half, you toss it into the fire, watching it ignite with a strange sort of fascination. "Uh-huh."

Dutch sighs and moves until he's standing in your line of sight. "Y/N," he says, voice low and entirely too serious, "you need to be more careful, darlin'. You ain't from here. What'll happen when Hosea and Arthur aren't there to keep you from getting into trouble?"

You shrug. "Guess I'll die."

Of course, of course, the meme goes right over Dutch's head. He stares at you, mouth slightly agape as concern immediately floods his eyes. You internally groan. You'll have to keep reminding yourself that morbid humor doesn't mean the same thing in the past as it does in your time. Still, you stick to your guns and don't elaborate. Let Dutch figure it out for himself.

"And Hosea," he eventually grinds out, "told me about that kind of talk from you."

At this point, you decide to check out of the conversation. If he's just going to lecture, you'll wait for him to climb on his soapbox again. Thankfully, Dutch seems to get the hint and leaves. You sigh. You know he's just looking out for you, as he looks out for everybody else in the gang. Still: it's annoying. You don't need a father. Not right now.

The sun rises over the mountains off in the distance, and you go about getting ready for the day. Abigail and John argue about who knows what, and you find yourself drifting toward their conversation. You know John doesn't do nearly enough to help with Jack. Abigail does most of the work. The thought alone makes your blood curdle. John's a goddamn father. The least he can do is take some responsibility and act like one.

Speak of the devil, John finishes arguing and goes off to sulk. You glare at him as he passes. He doesn't seem to notice, though, which is probably a good thing. Sighing, you decide to check on Abigail. She's furiously scrubbing something or another, but looks up at you when you approach. You watch her try her best to put on a facade.

"How you doin', Y/N?" She asks, straightening up and setting aside the wash. "I know this's gotta be confusin' and all."

"He's a fuck-off," you blurt, jabbing a thumb over in John's general direction, completely ignoring her attempt at small talk.

Abigail blinks, clearly taken aback. For a moment, you wonder if you've said too much, but then you decide it doesn't really matter. You're only speaking the truth.

"No seriously," you continue. "What the hell's his problem? First of all: he completely ignores his kid, then has the audacity to get mad at you—you—when you're the one doing all the goddamn work!"

Briefly, Abigail looks so shocked, you almost want to apologize. But then her shoulders slump and she sighs before leaning heavily against the wagon.

"I don't know," she says. "I guess that's just the way he is."

You feel your eyebrows skyrocket. "Oh now that's some bull. Motherfucker's gonna get a piece of my mind—and my foot—if he doesn't square up."

Abigail blinks again, then laughs. "Now that's somethin' I'd like to see."

Before you can continue, you spy Arthur riding into camp. You immediately shut your mouth. Abigail frowns, then follow your gaze... and you're mortified when her eyebrows shoot up in amusement. A knowing grin spreads across her face, much to your chagrin.

"Well now," she says, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you fancy a certain rough-and-tough outlaw, Y/N."

You snap your eyes to hers. "Not even," you deny, though you can feel your face burning. "Not. Even."

Abigail shrugs and goes back to doing her wash. You look at Arthur as he feeds and waters his horse, then stare at your shoes when he glances your way. When you finally muster the courage to look up again, the corners of his lips are twitching. This, you've come to realize, is about as close to a smile as he gets.

"Y/N," he says in greeting when he walks over.

Your brain freezes momentarily, but you quickly recover. "Hey Arthur... nice weather, huh?"

If there was ever a time you wanted to die, actually die, that was it. Still, you don't bother trying to make a comeback. And lucky for you, Arthur chooses to let it go. Instead, he shrugs it off and starts walking toward the edge of camp.

You follow without really thinking. Surprisingly, you find yourself standing behind him a few feet away from the tied up O'Driscoll. Kieran, if you remember his name right. Arthur gives him a look—and you're suddenly grateful you're not on his bad side. Kieran leans away. You can see him shaking, and the stench radiating from him makes your nose scrunch up.

"Ready to talk yet, O'Driscoll?" Arthur asks as casually as if they're talking about the news.

Kieran groans. "How many times do I gotta tell you? I ain't an O'Driscoll."

"Really?" Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Ain't how it looks to me."

At that moment, Dutch walks over, followed by Bill Williamson. You're not too sure how you feel about Bill. He hasn't outright treated you poorly, but he's not the nicest guy in the gang. Then again, he is an outlaw. "Nice" isn't exactly a requirement.

"Oh who am I kidding?" Dutch says, getting close to Kieran's face. "This boy's not gonna talk. Not yet."

For the first time, Kieran seems to notice you're standing just a few feet away. His eyes find yours, wide and pleading, and your heart breaks just a little bit. You've never really paid him that much attention since Arthur found you in the Grizzlies. He was just some unlucky bastard who got mixed up in a bad scene.

"You want him to talk?" You say as you take a step closer. "Then let's make him talk. Gimme five minutes with him."

Dutch, Arthur, and Bill all stare at you like you've suddenly grown a second head. Kieran, though, just watches you warily. You can tell he can't quite figure out what game you're playing, so you give him your best smile. Honestly, you don't know what game you're playing yet, either. You're just making it up as you go.

Eventually, Dutch shrugs motions for Arthur and Bill to move away. "What've we got to lose?"

He and Bill stalk away, but Arthur lingers for a moment, glowering at Kieran with everything he has. Kieran shrinks back as far as the tree will allow.

"Try anything," Arthur warns, "and we'll have ourselves a dead O'Driscoll."

With that, he walks away. You catch him throw a glance over his shoulder, but he doesn't say anything else. Once you're sure he's out of earshot, you turn back to Kieran.

"Not an O'Driscoll, huh?" You plop down in the grass. "Me neither."

He watches you. "Then what are you?"

You shrug. "Just from the future. I know how this all ends."

It's one hell of a bluff, but you hope Kieran will take the bait. You've got a lot riding on this. Not only do you want to look good in front of the gang, you want to impress Arthur. And this seems like a good way to do it.

"H-how does it end?" Kieran, much to your delight, sounds like he believes you. The tremor in his voice is a telltale sign.

You shrug again, deciding to draw it out. "For them? Not too shabby. For you..." You give him a look. "Well... I don't think you wanna know."

// // // // //

Five minutes later, you casually approach Arthur, Bill, and Dutch. You twirl a few blades of grass between your fingers, then let them go and watch them fly away in the wind. Then, you turn to meet everyone's questioning stares.

"Y'all ever heard of Six Point Cabin?" You ask. "Kieran says that's where Colm O'Driscoll's hiding."

Bill nods. "Yeah, I know it. Ain't too far from here."

"How in the hell," Arthur says, "did you get him to talk?"

You shrug and absently draw a circle in the dirt with your foot. "I told him I'm from the future and that y'all kill him and cut up his body into fourteen pieces, then scatter them all around the Grizzlies so nobody can ever find him."

Three pairs of eyes widen as the outlaws gape at you. Eventually, though, Dutch lets out a bark of laughter and pats your shoulder.

"Nice work, Y/N," he praises. "Guess we can count on you to get things done around here."

You find yourself smiling. "Just takes a bit of skill and a whole lot of lying."

"Well then." Dutch glances around at Bill and Arthur, then back to you. "Why don't you tag along with Mr. Williamson and Mr. Morgan, see if you can't pay ol' Colm a visit?"

At this, Arthur shoots Dutch a look. "You sure?" He asks, giving you a once-over. "They still don't know how to shoot, Dutch."

You know he's right, but the last thing you want to do is stay cooped up in camp any longer. And besides: how hard could shooting a gun be? All you have to do is pull the trigger.

"Take the O'Driscoll with you," Dutch is saying, "and have Y/N watch him. Any luck, we can catch Colm unawares."

Arthur still seems uncertain, but eventually nods. "Fine." He turns to you. "Sound alright?"

"Oh absolutely." You give him a wide grin. "Let's go."

A/N: So, I know that it's been a while between updates, but life got a little hectic with the whole quarantine business. Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! Likes and comments are much appreciated!

Next Chapter: In Progress

Previous Chapter: Lionheart

Inspired Playlist Track: Green Day - “Dirty Rotten Bastards”

[mylittlemarston]

Hi, I have a request! I’d love to read Arthur x f!reader with #79, 65 and/or 4 from that prompt list. I just think all three of those lines go well together, so I’d be happy with just one of them or all of them ;) Thank you so much, keep up the good work!!

Thank you so much!!!

I’m sorry that this took me so long to write, but I really enjoyed doing it and I even went back and spaced out the speech lines so that it’s (hopefully haha) easier to read !! I really hope you enjoy!!!

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

Arthur Morgan x female reader

Warnings: gore, violence, swearing, torture, abuse  

Summary: After reader goes missing, Arthur starts worrying about her whereabouts, despite being told everything was fine. 

word count: 3063

_______________________________________________________________

          Those damn O’Driscoll’s

     June 16th, 1899

18:17

       “All right Jackie. You ready for me to get ya back to mama?” I ask Jack. I took him into Valentine today to let him get out of camp for a while and get him a few things, my treat. Poor kid needs to get out every now and then.

 “Yeah! Thanks aunt y/n!” He says with a big smile, hugging my waist. I rest my hand on top of his head, rubbing it gently.

 “No problem kiddo. Come on.” I say, getting on top of my horse, cooing at him. I hold my arm out for Jack and pull him up, putting him behind me. 

“Ride fast aunt y/n!” He cheers.

 “Hold on tight!” I say speeding up. 

-------------------------

      “Thank you so much, y/n. He really needed it. I appreciate you even offerin’ to take him out. I would’ve but-“

 “Abigail, it’s fine.” I say. “Anytime. I love that boy like he’s my own, you know that. If you ever need anyone to watch him, you know I’m here. I needed to get out anyways.” I tell her with a smile. She smiles back and takes Jack by the hand.

 “Did you have fun with Miss y/n?” She asks him.

 “We had a lot of fun Mama!” 

I smile, kicking my foot around in the dirt for a short moment before heading over to Arthur to let him know I’m leaving. “Hey Arthur. I just wanted to say goodbye.” I say, heading into his tent.

 “Well where  you goin’?” He asks me, walking closer with his brown hair shining gold in the faint evening sun. 

“Just gotta do a few things. I’ll be back soon.” I tell him, walking out of the tent. Getting on my horse, I head out of camp.

 “Be safe y/n.” John says, guarding the camp.

 “I always am John.” 

-------------------

I ride for a few minutes when a man on a horse charges into mine, knocking me off and onto the ground. “What the hell! Watch where you’re goin’, you son of a bitch!” I stand up, wiping the dirt off of my knees.

 “I wouldn’t talk that way missy.” The man says getting close to me. Before I can do anything, he pulls out a revolver and hits me with it, knocking me unconscious. 

      June 17th 

03:17

            “Wake up, bitch!” A man yells, his voice deep and heavy. He kicks my side, forcing me to cough. I cry out in pain, and the man just laughs.

 “What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice angry.

 “We want Dutch. Your leader. Whatever the hell you call him.” He says. I try to move, but realize I’m tied up with rope and reinforced by heavy chains. They’re as tight as they can go around my wrists and ankles, every subtle movement causing me to wince. He gets closer to me and I try to back up but am greeted by a cold wall.

 “You’ll never get a damn word outta me! They’re my family!” I say, anger growing within me at the thought of whoever these people are scarring poor Jack and hurting anyone within the camp. The man doesn’t take no for an answer, and I’m greeted by a hard smack on my cheek. I forget about being tied up and try to lunge at him, the rope digging into my wrists. I feel something wet drip down from them, and when I look back behind me, I see blood on the rope and my wrists cut to shit. Tears start to fall down my cheeks, dripping onto my shirt that has been torn and dirtied. I try to ignore all the pain I feel in my body, but it’s too unbearable.

 “Let’s try this again, girlie.” I wince at the pet name, wanting so badly to kill this pile of shit.

 “I already told you. I’m not tellin’ you a goddamn thing! You can keep me here forever and I wouldn’t tell you!” I fire back at him, my voice going hoarse from all the yelling. The man gives me a cold smirk before grabbing me by the throat and squeezing down hard on it.

 “We’ll just have to do this the hard way then.” He says. “Boys! The boss said we can do what we want to her. Get the knife.” He lets me go, and I cough while trying to catch my breath. Another man walks up to me with a knife while two more men stand on either side of me, the original man who kidnapped me undoing his belt.

 “What are you doing?!! Stop! Get away from me!” I thrash around, the rope digging deeper and deeper into my skin as I scream and kick with all my might. Tears are flowing down my face, my throat sore and my head pounding. The man with the knife holds it to my throat, putting a little bit of pressure down onto it. Just enough to draw blood, but not enough to make me bleed out. While trying to pull away, I slam my head against the wall, making everything fade to black. The last thing I saw was the two men standing beside me undressing me. 

09:32

      I wake up in more pain than I was before; my eye swollen, lips bloody, stomach and legs bruised, and an ache in my lower abdomen. Another man walks up to me, forcing my head up to look at him. His thumb brushes over my lips, the cuts on them burning as he does.

 “Good mornin’ sweetheart. Hope you got yourself a full nights rest. We got a lot of fun things to do to ya.”

 “Who the fuck are you? Why do you have me here?” My voice is a little hoarse, but nothing I can’t handle.

 He flashes a cold smile as he licks his lips greedily. I look away, thoroughly repulsed. “I’m Colm O’Driscoll. I’m guessin’ you  know who I am?” 

I meet his eyes again, tensing at his name. I make as much distance between us as I can but am not very successful. His face is inches from mine, his hot breath laced with alcohol and tobacco.

 “Yes, I do. But why do you have me here? If you’re gonna kill me, just do it already.” He chuckles, stepping back.

 “I don’t wanna kill ya, honey. I want Dutch to come find you.” It was my turn to laugh at him.

 “Then what. He and the boys  kill you? You don’t stand a chance.” I say, laughing a bit harder than before. Colm’s eyes go dark and cold, his face showing pure anger. 

“I won’t stand a chance… if they come for you. If they don’t… well…” anger pools inside of me again. 

“You hurt anyone in that camp, I’ll find you and kill you myself! Don’t you go anywhere near it!” I smirk at him, realizing what I said. “Oh wait. You can’t. You need me alive to tell you where it is, right? So you wouldn’t kill me anyways.” He gets close to me again, his hand going across my face with a hard slap. 

“You’ll tell me where he is. Trust me.” He turns and walks away, grabbing a gun and vanishing into the shadows. I drop my head down, tears stinging my eyes. Maybe he’s right. What if they don’t come for me?

14:48

Arthur’s pov

      “What if she’s in trouble, Dutch?” Arthur asks, his voice gruff.

 “It’s only been less than a day, Arthur. We’ll wait another day or so and go from there.” Dutch says, lighting a cigar and taking a puff from it. Arthur walks away from him, going to sit on a log by the fire. He rubs his face, his mind only producing thoughts of you and your safety. John joins him on the log, sighing.

 “Arthur, what’s wrong?” He asks, sitting up and examining Arthur’s slouched position. 

“It’s y/n. I’m really worried about her. What if she’s in danger? With the amount of people after us, anything could’ve happened.” He sits up, staring into the dancing flames.

 “She’s strong. You know that. She won’t deal with our bullshit, let alone anyone else’s.” John tells him, chuckling. Arthur chuckles too, loosening up. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Dutch said to wait a little longer and if she doesn’t show up, we’ll go find her.” John nods, patting Arthur on the back.

 “She will. And if she don’t, I’ll go with you.” He says standing up. Arthur nods, staying on the log and sighing. What if she really isn’t okay…? He asks himself, the anxiety only growing within him.

June 18th

07:53

      I can barely lift my head up from yesterday’s torture. I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this. I try to swallow, my throat in so much pain from screaming. My eye is even more swollen than before, forcing a wince from me when I try to look up. I lick my dry lips, greeted with the taste of blood. There’s no telling if it’s from my mouth or my nose at this point. I can’t imagine what I must look like; bruised and battered to hell. If only Arthur could see me… he’d kill every one of these monsters. I smile weakly at the thought, even though it hurts. I force my head up, leaning it against the cold stone wall. A heavy door swings open and a silhouette approaches me. “Colm.” I can’t be bothered to try to look at him as I say his name.

 “We found the camp. Turns out we didn’t need you after all.” I forget about the pain and take every ounce of energy and might that I have to look at him.

 “Don’t you dare…” I say angrily.

 “Calm down girlie. We’re only givin’ ‘em a warning. No harm from a warning, right?” He sneers.

 “From you, who knows. Anythin’ could happen. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat and you know it.” I say. He chuckles, getting close to my face and caressing my cheek. I try to pull away but can’t.

 “Let’s just see how that goes, hm?” He walks away.

 “Let’s see…” I say quietly. 

19:23

Arthur’s pov

      Arthur finished his bowl of Pearson’s stew, setting it down on the ground and walking to his tent.

 “Arthur,” Hosea calls out for him. “we need to find her.” He tells him while Arthur rummages through his things, throwing a bag together. 

“Yeah we do.” He says, turning to the older man. 

“There’s no telling where she is. But we need to look.” Hosea tells Arthur solemnly. Arthur nods. They head out of the tent and into Dutch’s for a game plan.

 “What are we gonna do, Dutch? We can’t just sit around while she’s out god-knows-where with god-knows-who, getting hurt or lost or whatever the hell she’s going through.” Arthur says angrily. 

“I know, son. We’re leaving first thing after we come up with a plan and get everyone who’s goin’ with us together.” Dutch says, clearly exasperated. Arthur rubs his face again as he tries not to let his emotions get the best of him. He’s truly worried about you. Just the thought of someone ‘having their way with you’ vexed him. How could someone so monstrous harm such a fragile, delicate flower such as you? His mind raced with thoughts as the other men conversed in front of him about what they’re next move will be. Suddenly, Miss Grimshaw rushes into the tent.

 “Dutch! It’s those damn O’Driscolls! They’re here!” She whisper-yells. 

His face flushed red with rage and he storms out, everyone in camp forming a line with the men in the front. Colm walks up to them, three men of his own behind him with their guns out. 

“Van der Linde.” He says, leering.

 “O’Driscoll…” Dutch says, his hands moving to his hips. The only sound between them is the wind blowing between the trees, rustling the leaves on them this warm summer night. The smell of firewood and thick atmosphere that made it hard to breathe.

20:37

I woke up peacefully from a painful nap, having only terrible nightmares of what might happen if I never make it out of here. I lift  my head up slowly as to not bring myself more pain then I’m already experiencing, but it’s no use. I groan, letting my head gently hit the wall behind me. I hear the door open again. That goddamn dreaded sound of a creak and heavy footsteps. It’ll take a while to not hear them in my mind at night when I close my eyes. I whimper and try to get as far back as I can before my body meets with the wall. The man who entered mumbles under his breath angrily about something, quickly taking the shotgun by the door and practically running out of the room again. Even when I’m not talking, my throat is in agonizing pain. God what I would give for a hot bath right now. Then again, I would give anything just to get the hell out of here. There’s audible yelling outside followed by a couple of gunshots. There's footsteps above me, and I can’t help but hope that Arthur came for me. That they all did. Then I hear it. That familiar gruff voice that only seems to soften when near me. 

“Where is she?!”

 It’s muffled, but I know that voice from anywhere. I lift my head up too quickly for my liking, groaning at the discomfort. “Arthur…” I try to croak out, but it forms into a whisper. I hear another gunshot from where I heard his voice before, along with heavy footsteps headed towards the door. I sit up straight, tears welling up in my eyes. “Arthur!” I say louder, this time making it audible for him to hear. 

He busts the door down, looking at me while he slowly and gently places his gun in his holster. “Y/n…” He says softly, freezing up as he looks at me with sorry eyes and a mournful expression. 

“Please… Arthur please get me out of here… I wanna go home…”

He rushes over to me, freeing me from the restraints that held me to the wall. 

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m gonna getchu outta here. You’re safe now, I’ve got you.” He says with his voice as sweet as honey wine and as soft as silk. Oh how I missed it. He picks me up and slings me over his shoulder, retrieving his gun from his holster once more and holding it to his side. He opens the door, walking up the stairs. I grunt at the subtle movements that make my pain even worse. “Shh… You’re alright… You’re with me now.” 

I can’t help but start to cry softly at his sweet words. I hold onto his shirt, missing the way his eyes lit up and the faint flush that rose to his cheeks. 

Arthur’s pov

How could he not feel sorry for you? How could he not freeze up when he entered the room where you sat with dull eyes and blood on multiple wounds on skin that was once clean and soft. Lips that he so badly wanted to kiss that were now bloodied and chapped. The image of you with Jack while inside of camp and the way you would play with him. The kind, loving smile you would give him when you spotted him across camp that made his day a hundred times better. You had held onto his shirt as you cried onto it, and he had never felt so protective of anything or anyone before. He swung the door that led outside open, looking around for many O’Driscoll’s. Thankfully there weren’t  any, thanks to the rest of the gang that had tagged along. Dutch and John rush up to the both of you, John turning his head away when he sees your face. 

“Christ… we need to get her back to camp immediately. You two go on ahead. We’ll meet you back there.” Dutch says with eyes locked on you. Eyes of guilt.

----------------back to reader----------------

The ride back to camp was anything but enjoyable. Everything hurt. Arthur laid me down in the medical tent, fetching a bucket of water while I changed into the clothes he brought me from my tent. He came back with the bucket and a rag, smiling at me  sadly as I tried to sit myself up on the cot. He brought the bucket next to me, sitting in the chair that was next to the cot. He dunked the rag in the water, squeezing it and gently placing it to my busted lip. 

“You can’t keep doing this.” He says after minutes of silence. 

“What’s that?” I ask him, a whisper being the loudest I could speak. 

“You can’t keep getting yourself into trouble like this. I worried about you so much. You really scared the shit out of me, y/n.”

A weak smile spreads across my lips as I fidget with the blanket laid on top of me. “I’m sorry. But goin’ through all this made me realize… Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Arthur pulls the rag away from my face, laying a gentle hand on my forearm. 

“Y/n, what is it? Talk to me. You can tell me anything.” 

I smile down at the blanket, watching my fingers play with the soft pelt. “It’s a silly thought, really. I don’t know why I even thought I could say it out loud… it only makes sense in my mind.” He takes a gentle hand and turns my head to look at him. My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest and my cheeks feel red. I shift so that my face is just mere inches from his. I put my hand on his cheek, looking deeply into his blue eyes that shine like the ocean on a midsummer day. I lean forward and place a kiss on his lips ever so gently. He very carefully wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into a sweet embrace. I bury my face in his neck, smiling against his skin as he places a gentle kiss on my neck.

/////fin~/////

Sorry if this isn’t lined up either haha I tried

[the-awkward-outlaw]

can you write arthur and his s/o taking care of their child while in camp pls, just a bunch of fluff

Hello, Anon! This turned out really short but very sweet (in my not so humble opinion). Anyways, enjoy!

Masterlist

Read on AO3

Clemens Point. Hot, humid, but at least the lake offers a reprieve. You sit at the base of a big tree, a book in hand as your daughter Laura plays in the water. She's only three, and she flings the water particularly hard, making herself squeal. 

"Mama!" she giggles. 

"Was that fun?" you say with a smile. 

She runs back up the shore towards you, her underclothes soaked. As she walks a bit clumsily towards you, she looks up and her eyes widen. 

"Papa!" You turn and see Arthur walking up to your spot, a big smile on his face. 

"There she is! Hi, sweetheart." He picks her up and hugs her. When you stand up, he folds an arm around you and gives you a big kiss. You pull away, happy to see him. He’s been gone a few days after he and Hosea went and sold the Braithwaite’s moonshine at the Gray’s saloon and got chased out of town by the Lemoyne Raiders. You’ve been worried about him, but Hosea said everything went fine. 

“Hmm, I missed you, Arthur.” 

“I know, darlin’. I wanted to come home, but had to lie low for a while.”

Laura pats his chest, wanting his attention. He turns to her and rubs noses with her. 

“Papa, the doggy licked me!”

“Oh, he did, huh? You like that dog, huh?” 

Laura starts going off on a tangent, but you and Arthur can only make out a few words throughout. Arthur just smiles and chuckles a bit.

“Well, sounds like you had quite a day.” He puts her down and she waddles off, giggling. 

You smile and hug Arthur, laying your head on his chest as he wraps his arms around you. Arthur is truly an exemplary father. The best, in fact. When you got pregnant with Laura, you’d been a little afraid to tell him because you know this life shortens longevity. Hell, it was no life for a kid to live either. You’d seen how difficult it was juggling Jack sometimes, and to be honest, you were afraid that Arthur might react the way John did. 

However, that was not the case when you finally told him. You’d been almost two months pregnant and knew that in a few weeks, you’d begin to show. There was no way you could hide your baby bump. Not only that, but most of the gang was starting to catch on to your weird behaviors, including Arthur. You’d been trembling when you told him, but when you finally got the words out, Arthur had gone pale. As you prepared for him to tell you there was no way it was his or something worse, he pulled you into a hug, tears in his eyes. He said it was the greatest gift you could ever give him. 

You knew about Isaac and Eliza, of course. You’d known shortly after the two of you got together, so you knew his fears about being a father a second time. He was extremely protective when you were pregnant, to the point he could be a nuisance, and when you finally went into labor, he didn’t leave your side for a second. He stayed by your side, letting you try to break his hand. When Grimshaw showed him Laura, he openly cried. You still remember the peace in his eyes as he held her for the first time. 

As Laura grew older, Arthur became an even better father. Of course, the two of you spent many sleepless nights together, trying to get her to quiet down when she was still a baby. When she got old enough to sit up, Arthur would hold her on his lap and read snippets of his journal to her and show her his drawings. He still does that, and it’s one of your favorite things to see him do. He’s already told you when she’s old enough, he’s going to teach her to ride a horse. 

You and Arthur have already discussed possibly leaving the gang to give Laura a safer life, but the opportunity has never come. These past few months have been particularly hard on the both of you, but Arthur’s been so careful and mindful of her, never once did you worry about Laura’s wellbeing. Well, except for up in Colter shortly after the gang fled Blackwater. 

You’d been helping Abigail with John after Arthur and Javier brought him back, half dead from a wolf attack and the cold. Arthur was out with Charles hunting for food and you let Laura out of your sight for one second. That was all that was needed though, and she vanished. You panicked and by the time Arthur returned, you were hysterical. He tracked her down and found that Micah had taken her, claiming he just thought she could use a walk. 

“She’s three years old, you goddamn bastard!” Arthur had roared. “You don’t take a three year old out in four feet of snow!” 

Micah started to argue with him, which resulted in Arthur putting a bullet in his head. Dutch was angry, of course, but Arthur wasn’t going to let anyone who was a threat to his girl stay in camp. No one seemed to mind that Micah wasn’t around anymore though. 

You look up at Arthur, knowing how stressful everything has been on him since Blackwater. Having a child has been hard too, but he says it’s actually been good for him. It helps him center himself and gives him an even greater reason to come back to camp, even when things get bad. 

He looks down at you and smiles. “She been good while I been gone?” 

“Of course. She and Sean even found a dead rabbit, but he told her this cute little story and she wasn’t so sad.” 

“Hmm, I got a lot of things to say about Sean, but at least he has some redemptive qualities,” Arthur says before kissing your head. 

When night falls and the three of you have eaten dinner, Arthur sits on the log near the fire with Laura on his knee. She’s clearly tired, resting her head on his chest with her eyes closed. A moment of silence falls around those sitting at the fire, and then Arthur speaks up. 

“I know I been… kinda hard on all of you. I just… I’m scared. Scared that we might not all make it. Times are tough. For all of us. And because of that, I been hard on you. But just know that I’m sorry, a’right? I’m sorry. I want everyone to come through to the end of it. But… I’m so thankful for you all. I couldn’t ask for a better family to help me take care of my little girl. She… she means the world to me, and I know I can’t always be around to take care of her. So thank you, all of you, for helping step into my shoes. This life ain’t a good life for kids, but you’ve all helped me make it work.” 

You smile and grab his free hand, squeezing it. Sure, you’d love to retire the outlaw life, find a home to settle into. That’s unlikely to ever happen though, and you feel the same way as Arthur about everyone else helping out. 

When most of the gang decides to turn in for the night, you snuggle into Arthur’s cot, packed up against him. Laura has her own little cot near the table under the canvas. You look up at Arthur and kiss him. 

“Arthur. I just wanted to tell you that… well, I love you so much. I couldn’t ask for a better man, or a better father for Laura.” 

He smiles and kisses you back. “Trust me, darlin’, I’m far from perfect.” 

“I don’t want you perfect. I want you, exactly as you are.” 

He smiles and pulls your head down to his chest so he can hold you close. You slip your hand just under his shirt to rub his bare skin, knowing he likes the physical touch. His fingertips draw patterns into your back, and that, along with the steady thumping of his heart, lull you to sleep. 

[haledamage]

Breakfast at Haley’s

A coffee date between two detectives just before the start of Book 2, OR two best friends sit in a cafe and talk about boys. Kira Kingston is mine, Abigail Jenings belongs to @queen-scribbles <3 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CAIT!!! I was going to post this tomorrow for your actual birthday, but my internet’s gonna be down, so have a slightly early present :)

It was late morning, but quiet enough in Haley’s Bakery that Abigail and Kira managed to grab a window table. They sat in companionable silence, watching the town go about its business like nothing had changed, the murders only a couple months ago already fading from collective memory. Only the two women at the table truly knew just how much had changed.

Haley delivered their drinks and pastries before wandering off to take another order, and once she was gone Kira finally broke the silence. “It’s too fucking quiet here now,” she admitted reluctantly.

Abigail grinned, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug to let the warmth seep into her fingers. “Kira Kingston, complainin’ about th’ quiet! Wonders never cease.”

“Oh, sod off, Red,” Kira said, but there was no heat behind it. “You know what I mean.”

“You miss ‘em.” AJ didn’t need to say who ‘they’ were. Neither of them seemed to be able to think about much else besides ‘them.’

“Maybe,” Kira muttered to her lemon scone. “I didn’t say it.”

Abigail chuckled at her friend’s sour tone. “I miss ‘em too. Apartment’s too empty now, with just th’ two of us.” She took a bite of her chocolate chip muffin and glanced subtly around the bakery, making sure no one was close enough to listen in. “Have y’ heard anythin’ since…”

Kira shook her head. “No. Not even from Mum.” She leaned across the table, dropping her voice. “It’s all very suspicious, innit? What do you think they’re up to?”

“Dunno,” Abigail said with a shrug, tugging idly at a loose curl. “They said they’re stayin’ in town, right? T’ keep us safe. So they’ll be back soon.”

“I hope so. Though not as much as you do, I think,” Kira said slyly, taking a sip of her tea to hide her grin as she added, as casually as possible, “So you and Nate, hmm?”

“What?!” AJ sat up so quickly the table wiggled, making her coffee slosh in her mug, though it didn’t quite spill over. Her face turned almost as red as her hair. “How did--what are--did he say somethin’?”

“He didn’t have to. I hope you don’t think you’re being subtle, the way you stare at each other. I can see the little cartoon hearts in your eyes. It’s adorable. And nauseating.” Despite the bite to her words, Kira smiled warmly at Abigail and her clear infatuation. If anyone in the world would ever be good enough for her in Kira’s mind, it would be Nate. Still, someone had to say it and she knew Agent Jenings wouldn’t, so she added, “If he breaks your heart, I’ll kick his arse. Vampire superhealing be damned.”

“He wouldn’t,” AJ said immediately.

“No. But if he does.” Kira nudged the toe of Abigail’s boot with her own. “C’mon, AJ. Spill. You’re dying to talk about him, I know it.”

“Alright, you asked for it.” Abigail chuckled and took a drink of her coffee and then the floodgates opened. “But, I mean, you know him, Kir. He has t’ be th’ sweetest person I’ve ever met. He’s so nice--genuinely nice, not fakin’ or anythin’--t’ darn near ev’ryone I’ve ever seen him meet, an’ he’s so charmin’ and sincere about it. An’ he really cares about people, doesn’t want them hurt. He’s so empathetic, ‘specially with those eyes…” She sighed wistfully, her own dark blue eyes shining. “He has the best eyes, Kira. They’re all warm an’ carin’ an’ the most beautiful brown on God’s green earth, an’ when we’re talkin’ he looks at me like I’m th’ only thing that matters, an’ he makes me feel all special--which no one’s ever done before, not like this.”

Kira nodded encouragingly, though she knew AJ didn’t need encouragement on this particular subject.

Sure enough, she continued, a wide and happy smile spreading over her face as she did. “An’ the looks don’t hurt--you know I like tall guys, an’ those shoulders--but they’re just icin’ on th’ cake. He’s gorgeous an’ strong an’ that plays second fiddle to him bein’ so open and sweet. It’s the kindness an’ compassion an’ deep brown eyes that got me. Oh, an’ his smile. His smile makes me all warm an’ gooey inside, an’ not just ‘cause I’m fallin’ for him harder’n a rotted tree in a storm.” 

She paused long enough to take another drink of her coffee. “It just…. immediately puts you at ease, makes you feel safe, yeah? Safe an’ valued an’ like you have his undivided attention however long you want it. An’ I want it a real long time. He’s just so wonderful, Kir.” She gestured to the huge, giddy grin still on her face. “Can’t stop smilin’ whenever I so much as think of him. An’ I don’t want to, neither.”

Kira chuckled, unable to keep from smiling herself at Abigail’s infectious joy. “Oh, is that all? Don’t hold back on my account,” she teased.

AJ blushed, drawing a random pattern on the tabletop with her finger. “Well, there’s also th’ way he always knows what t’ say when people are mad or upset or other… emotionally fraught situations and checks with me if he thinks he’s makin’ me th’ least bit uncomfortable--he never is--oh, an’ his hands.” She flexed her own fingers almost subconsciously, like she could almost feel Nate’s hand in hers, but she didn’t elaborate further.

Kira was grateful. She hadn’t given much thought to Nate’s hands before, it seemed like a weird time to do so now.

“Wow.” She smirked and made a show of checking the time on her phone. “You sure that’s it, Red? We’ve still got a few minutes before we’re due to be at the station.”

Abigail chuckled, curling her hands around her coffee mug again. “You asked. Twice.” Her sweet, smitten smile turned playful. “An’ now that I’ve let m’ mouth an’ heart run away with me again, your turn, yeah? What about you an’ Adam?”

Kira scoffed, but she blushed at the same time. “Don’t be daft. There’s no me and Adam. He’s made that very goddamn clear. Doesn’t matter what I feel about it, it isn’t up to me.”

“You don’t see the way he looks at you when y’ aren’t lookin’,” AJ said encouragingly, trying to get her normally closed off friend to open up a bit. She knew she needed to, and just as much she knew that it would take a bit of a push for it to happen.

“Well, no, I wouldn’t, would I?” Kira said, a little sharper than she intended. Then, in a tiny voice, speaking more to the table than to her friend, she added, “How… how does he look at me?”

“Th’ same way I look at Nate.”

“Really?” Kira hated how hopeful that single word sounded. She scowled at no one in particular - or at least, no one in the bakery; it wasn’t hard to figure out who she would be scowling at, if he were there. “Ugh. He’s the most pig-headed, arrogant bastard I’ve ever met. I’m glad you shot him. I should have fucking shot him.”

“An’ you’re in love with him,” Abigail said plainly. One of them had to say it.

“And I’m in love with him.” It took a second for the words to sink in, and when they did Kira covered her face with both hands and groaned. "Oh fuck, I am, aren’t I? How do I make it stop?"

Abigail reached across the table to pat Kira on the arm. "I don’t think it works like that."

Kira was quiet for a long time, long enough that AJ started to wonder if she was going to say anything at all, but she waited her out, eating her muffin in silence while she put her thoughts together.

"He’s got the prettiest eyes," Kira muttered all of a sudden, as if the words escaped against her will. But once she started talking, she couldn't seem to stop. "You know wintergreen’s always been my favorite color. I didn’t know eyes came in that color. And have you seen his arms? Those are good arms to have. And his jawline might as well have been chiseled out of marble, just… fucking perfect." She paused, chipping restlessly at her nail polish, leaving a neat pile of black lacquer on her napkin. "And I… feel safe with him. Like nothing bad could happen as long as he’s there. Obviously, that’s not true, if it was, Murphy wouldn’t have… but it still feels that way, you know?"

"It’s just--I’m--he’s--fuck!" She dropped her head onto the table with a dull thud, but only stayed there a second before sitting up again. "When he looks at me, it’s like the rest of the world just disappears. Like it’s just him and me. And sometimes it’s so intense I can barely breathe. Just from him looking at me! If he ever touched me--like, actually touched me, with intention, not just when he’s trying to protect me--I might literally combust." 

She closed her eyes and sighed. "I could live a thousand years and never feel as special as I do when Adam smiles at me." She covered her face again. "Oh god, that’s awful. If I start reciting poetry, hit me with something."

“Y' know I'm not gonna do that,” Abigail chuckled. She bit her lip in an attempt to hold back a smile. “It's not such a bad thing, havin' feelin's for someone. Y' might even like it if y' try.”

“It doesn’t bloody matter anyway, does it? He doesn’t want me. Or he doesn’t want to want me. There was a moment when I thought, maybe…” Kira’s light brown eyes were distant, full of something an awful lot like longing. Then she shook her head, and it was gone, “but nevermind. Whatever. I think he’d be happy if he never saw me again. If he didn’t have me around complicating things for him.”

AJ shook her head. “You don’ believe that, Kir,” she murmured gently.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s fine, I’ve accepted it.” Kira combed her fingers through her hair as she slouched down in her chair. “Can we go back to talking about you and Nate? Or, like, fucking absolutely anything else?”

“How ‘bout Felix an’ Mason?” AJ finally unleashed the smile she’d been holding back.

“Felix is great,” Kira said immediately, relieved in the change in subject. “He’s what you’d be if you woke up one day and stopped caring about what people think about you.”

“Funny.” Abigail arched an eyebrow playfully, her grin widening to match it. “I was gonna say the same about you an’ Mason. Y’ even dress alike.”

Kira smirked and rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I’ve seen him wear at least one red shirt. That’s too much color for me.”

Abigail’s phone beeped and a second later Kira’s buzzed as well. They reached for them in sync. “That’ll be Tina, I s’ppose. Looks like breakfast is over.”

They quickly finished their coffee and tea and pastries. AJ took their empty mugs and plates up to the counter while Kira took their trash to the bin and then Kira held the door for them both as they waved goodbye to Haley and stepped out into the cool morning streets.

Abigail linked her arm into Kira’s as they fell into step together for the walk to the police station. “Thanks for listenin’, Kir.”

“Anytime. Really. You can talk to me about Nate anytime you want, as much as you want.” She squeezed her arm fondly. “I’ll bitch and moan about it, but I won’t mean it. I’m just jealous you won the emotional availability lottery when it comes to hot vampires.”

AJ lit up with a bright smile and an even brighter blush. “I did, didn’t I?” They walked the rest of the way to work in comfortable silence except for occasionally greeting people who said hello as they passed. Only when they arrived at the front door did she draw Kira to a stop, waiting until she met her eyes to gently say, “Y’ know you can talk t’ me about Adam anytime too, yeah?”

“I know.” Kira smiled warmly, then slipped her arm out of Abigail’s to wrest the door open. “But don’t get your hopes up, Red, I doubt there’ll be anything worth talking about.”

Abigail chuckled, her smile knowing as she followed Kira into the station. “We’ll see about that.”

[clareguilty]

No Matter Any Weather, We’re Together

John Marston/Abigail Marston - Pure Domestic Fluff Word Count: ~2100 Rating: M | No Warnings

How did he used to do it? Gone for days or weeks on end away from the gang, living rougher and wilder than he did now. These days, even a night or two away from Beecher's Hope made his heart ache. All those years on the run, now John could hardly bear to be away from home. He’d never imagined it would be like this. Never imagined he would make it this far. The relief washes over him the second he spots the house. He had never once felt like that when riding into camp.

Abigail is flying down the porch steps before he can even hitch his horse. He swings out of the saddle and straight into her arms. She wasn't usually like this.

"Something happen?" he asks, eyes scanning the horizon. Things had been quiet, but John knows from experience that quiet times could be dangerous too.

"Just missed you. That's all." Abigail squeezes him once more before letting go. "Jack, take the horse in for your father," she ordered.

Jack doesn't complain, but he frowns and kicks the dirt. John reaches out and drags him in for a quick hug, ruffling his hair.

"Pa, quit it," Jack whines, but he laughs a bit as he squirms away from his father. Jack is everything like John and nothing like John all at once. He could see himself in the boy like a strange reflection, but he could never understand him. Still, his heart thrums with pride as Jack feeds the horse a few sugar cubes and leads her towards the barn.

Some kind of fatigue John still isn’t used to begins to set in, but Abigail is dragging him inside and pushing him into a chair. There’s a plate of food in front of him a few moments later, and he doesn’t even need to be told to begin scarfing it down like a last meal.

Abigail’s cooking has improved greatly over the years. She’s better far better than Pearson -- if not as good as Charles -- and John hums appreciatively around every bite. He doesn’t even have to ask for seconds. She’s already heaping more onto his plate, and all he can do is stare at her with the same stupid adoration he’s been wearing for years.

“Whew,” John leans back once he’s cleared his second plate, “I think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“Nuh-uh, John Marston,” Abigail stares him down. “You are goddamn filthy, and I’m getting you clean if I have to tie you down to do it.”

John’s heart picks up, and he knows his heated cheeks give him away. "I wouldn’t be opposed to being tied down by you," he winks. She scoffs and hides her smile as she clears off the table.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” she orders, pressing a bottle of beer into his hands. She sits John on a stool in the bathroom while she heats the water. He watches her, amazed anyone would ever do so much for him.

“Stand,” she pulls him to his feet. He smiles down at her, still wearing that dopey look he’s sure of it. “Strip,” her fingers are already at the buttons of his shirt. He helps as much as he can, but she works fast. She all but tears his clothes off, shoving John towards the steaming tub.

"Geez woman,” he can’t hide his grin, “you could be a little gentler."

"And you could be a little cleaner."

John does relax into the hot water, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. No more looking over his shoulder, no more constant fretting. The second he crossed the threshold of his home all of his anxiety seemed to melt away. Abigail hasn’t left the room, and he hopes she never will. He needs her near him, needs to know she’ll still be there when he opens his eyes.

"Thanks for this, Abigail."

He's surprised when her hands dips into the water and begin scrubbing him down. "Abi- you don’t gotta do that."

"It's the least I can do, John." She washes him more thoroughly than he's been cleaned in years.

Her hands are strong, nothing like the dainty caresses of a saloon girl - not that he's been touched by another woman in almost a decade. Rough callouses from working right beside him. He watches her, furrowed brow, slight frown, sleeves rolled up but still soaked as she scrubs over his hip and thigh. It's juvenile, he knows, but the way her wet shirt clings to her breasts makes his heart race. It's been days since he saw Abigail, since he was able to hold her in his arms and feel her skin against his.

"Really?" She raises her eyebrows and gestures a soapy hand to John's hardened cock.

"Just happy to see you, darling," he smiles.

Abigail huffs and shakes her head, but John has to bite back a groan as her fingers knead into his inner thighs, tantalizingly close to where he's twitching under the water.

She skims her fingers across his abs, across the softness that's filling out across his stomach after a few years of eating regular meals. They've finally escaped the sharp bite of hunger, and John looks all the better for it.

He would say the same for Abigail. She's no longer rail thin from years of giving her portions to Jack. Even now, John can appreciate the shape of her curves under her skirts.

"Get in here with me," he says before he can stop himself. Idiot John. Always speaking without thinking.

"We both won't fit," Abigail chides, but that doesn't stop her from closing her fingers around John's shaft and stroking him slowly.

"Please," is all he can manage.

She pulls away and John suddenly wants her right back where she was. It takes too many tantalizing moments for her to undress, but then John is pulling her into the water with him, her back to his front. His legs are too long and they look ridiculous bracketing Abigail as she goes back to washing him.

He buries his nose in her hair, running his hands over her chest. Even after all this time, he doesn't think he'll ever get used to just having her, holding her. He’s almost lost her so many times - a fear that still chases him.

Her thighs are soft, and he spends far too long pressing his fingers into her soft flesh, tracing the criss-cross of stretch marks and digging his thumb into the crest of her hips.

"You alright, John?" Her voice is softer than it should be. She's worried about him.

"All good." He pulls himself out of his head, drawing his hands up and back to rest on her shoulders. "Geez, woman, you're tense." He digs his knuckles into a knot in her back.

"Maybe if I weren't so worried about you, I could actually relax once in a while," Abigail quips, but she lets out a soft sigh as John targets another knot.

He leans in close enough she can feel the scrape of his stubble against the shell of her ear, "Let me help you out, darling," and she hates that his words make her shudder. She should be stronger than this.

John's fingers dip below the water and between her legs. Even then, he can tell how wet she is. It makes him swell with pride, the fool -- his own wife, aroused by his touch.

He's comfortable enough with Abigail's body that he knows exactly how to get what he wants, how to make her gasp softly and claw at his arm, how to make her head fall back on his shoulder so he can nip and suck at her neck. His fingers are long, and he knows just where to press to have his wife shaking and panting against him.

He holds her close as she catches her breath, taking advantage of her orgasm and cradling her in a way she would usually never let him do. She's too prideful for that, too strong, but sometimes John just needs to know she's safe. To know that she still loves him after everything he's done.

"The water's cold, you fool," Abigail smacks his thigh and he almost laughs at the loud, wet sound. She struggles out of the tub and attempts to drag John out after her. "Get outta there before you get sick," she scolds him.

"Only if you promise to come to bed with me," John barters.

"Of course. I'll do whatever you want; just get out of the damned bath."

They dress just enough to make it to the bedroom without scandalizing Jack or Uncle, and then Abigail is pushing John back onto the bed, pinning him in place with her knees. John watches, paralyzed, as she strips naked once more and drags his own pants down and off. Her lips close around the head of his cock, and he groans and tangles his fingers in her hair.

"God, I love you," he says and hopes she doesn't tease him for it.

She can't. Not when her tongue is doing that and John's hand is guiding her down towards the base of his cock. He wants to come down her throat, or across her lips, or over her breasts or wherever she'll let him because she could ask anything of him and by God he would do it.

Abigail is very much a professional -- "retired" she always insists -- and she brings John to the brink hard and fast and then keeps him there. He's not usually very bright, but he can't form a coherent thought at all as Abigail turns her blue eyes to him and hollows her cheeks.

He shakes all over and arches his back, knuckles whitening as his fingers curl into the quilt beneath them. It's still not enough to finish him off, and tears threaten to spill at the corners of his eyes.

It happens all at once. Abigail pulls off of John's cock and tugs on his balls in a way that makes him want to scream. From everything to nothing in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, fuck,” John groans, nearly growls, “Abi- please.”

There’s a certain gleam of delight in Abigail’s eyes, knowing she’s capable of wrecking such a strong man. She leans over him, bracing herself on one arm so she can prepare herself with the other. John watches her expression change and lightly drags his fingers over her cheekbone. He’s a lovesick fool and he knows it. Abigail knows it too, yet she still puts up with him.

She sinks down onto his cock, and his world goes white. “ Fuck, ” he groans. His hands fly to her hips. She moves slightly. “ Abigail .”

It’s hoarse and desperate, his cry. Abigail looks down on him with pity in her eyes. She brushes his hair out of his face and trails her fingers down his chest. “John,” she sighs.

He twitches inside her, and her eyes widen. The quiet, easy moment is replaced by Abigail’s soft sighs and John’s choked off groans as she rides him. He hopes it feels as good for her as it does for him, hopes she feels the avalanche of pleasure racing through her.

She must feel it. The way her lips part and her back arches. He pulls her to him as he comes, hips lifting both of them off the bed as he thrusts up into her. Her lips find his -- barely. She drags them over his scars before kissing him deeply. He doesn’t remember the last time she kissed him like this. He wants her to do it more.

He finishes and she collapses on top of him, breathing hard and flushed dark pink. It’s another excuse to hold her and he’s not going to pass it up. His hands run across her back, over her ass, back up to the nape of her neck. He feels the mess they’ve made between them and worries that she’ll make him get back in the bath.

The sunlight is turning orange around them, and night is always quick to follow even out in the prairie. John presses his lips to Abigail’s temple and forces himself out of bed to wash the both of them. He considers going out to check on the animals, but Abigail’s slender fingers catch him before he can get too far.

“John,” her voice is gentle but still commanding, “get some rest. Please.”

He nods and settles into bed beside her, wrapping her in his arms and burying himself in her presence.

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 47)

Reunion

So here is a tender chapter of reader and Arthur’s first moments together after such a difficult period apart. I’d been waiting to write this part for so long, I hope you enjoy ❤

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

I crossed the room, sitting down on the chair beside Arthur. I perched awkwardly on the edge of it, my knees pointing towards him, just barely touching his outer thigh. It felt weird not just throwing my arms around him and completely showering him in kisses and affection, telling him over and over that I loved him and that seeing him alive was the most relief I'd ever felt in my entire life and I missed him so goddamn much and I never wanted to lose him ever again–

But there were people around. I couldn't do that with so many eyes not-so-subtly watching, perhaps expecting that precise reaction. Oh, but I longed to.

"Arthur, I'm so glad you're okay. These past few weeks, not knowing what happened, I've been– I was a mess. Awful to be around. Just ask any one of 'em," I spoke very quietly, just so he could hear. He looked up at me from his stew, wiping at the hair of his beard that kept trying to go into his mouth along with the spoon. 

"I can't imagine you'd ever be awful to be around," he said, his usual flattery and charm filling me with a sweet sense of familiarity, "I'm sorry, beautiful. If I could've come back sooner, I would've."

"I know," I breathed, putting my hand on his thigh. He glanced down at it once, then started guzzling his food quicker. 

"I missed you," he told me once he was finished, putting his hand atop mine, "every day I did, was almost all I could think of; coming back to you. That's why I came first. Dutch wanted to send Micah but I made sure I got my way," he added, the corner of his mouth lifting with a hint of mischief. 

"I think we'd all rather see you riding in than Micah," I snorted. He smiled at me, his eyes so unmovingly focussed on mine. 

"I was nervous coming back. Wondered if there was even a gang to come back to," he admitted. "I saw the letter from my darling niece Caroline, back at Shady Belle," his smile widened. 

"That was Sadie's creative streak," I giggled. He exhaled a laugh through his nose then dipped his head, drawing my hand up to his lips to kiss the back of it. 

"I missed you," he repeated softly. 

"I missed you too," I whispered, hunching over and leaning close to him, the tops of our heads touching. "I kept your satchel and your journal safe. They're by my bedroll. I had to go inside to toss some bad food, I hope you don't mind," I told him. He made a small sound of appreciation. 

"Did you look inside my journal?" He asked curiously, not at all stern or disapproving.

"No, I promise," I answered honestly. He lifted his head to meet my eyes. 

"I'm a little surprised. Not even to see my drawings of you?" He queried. 

I shook my head. "It's yours. I didn't want to invade your privacy, not while I still had hope that you'd be coming back to me."

"That's sweet," he chuckled, "though I wouldn't've minded." 

I was touched by the admission. We parted only when Susan appeared before us, smiling at the sight of us despite her attempts to seem like she hadn't noticed our position. 

"There's a bucket of warm water waiting for you in the other shack, Mr. Morgan," she told him, "I got out your clothes and shaving things too, so you can get that thing off'a your chin," she added sternly. I couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes ma'am," he said, groaning as he pushed himself to his feet. He turned to me and twitched his head towards the door, gesturing for me to follow. I did so without question. 

We left the overcrowded shack and crossed the camp to the other one, all the while Arthur was looking around the place. 

"Quite a camp you've got here. I particularly liked the skulls on sticks over there, noticed 'em on the way in," he waved towards the entrance and I tutted at his dryness. 

"Those were my idea, I thought they made the place look homey. I'm glad you like them," I smiled sweetly at him. He shook his head in amusement as we entered the other building, ducking out of the still pouring rain. The bucket was there as promised, sitting atop a storage crate next to a chair that had a fresh change of clothes hanging off the back, and Arthur's shaving kit on the seat.

Arthur immediately began to strip, kicking his soggy boots off then pulling his shirt open, not bothering to undo the buttons. A couple popped off. The thing was completely ruined anyway, so I didn't blame him. Even his union suit hadn't escaped the grime, blood and dirt caked that too, but it seemed salvageable so he actually took the time to unbutton it. He peeled it from his shoulders, with his back to me I could see bruises and scrapes mottling his skin, purples and pinks and faded greens. A lump formed in my throat and I closed the gap between us, finally allowing myself to wrap my arms around him. 

I made him jump, and he froze for a moment before letting his hands come to rest on my arms where they wrapped around his front. I buried my face in his back – gently, to avoid pressing on any tender spots – smelling stagnant sweat, musk and sea on him but not caring one bit. 

"I ain't bathed in weeks," he murmured ashamedly, but it didn't stop me. 

"I don't care. I need this, just let me– I gotta hear your heartbeat for a while," I told him, turning my head and pressing my ear to the middle of his back. It was thrumming away in his chest, elevated but steady, there, undeniable. "I've been full of dread ever since I read about that boat going down." 

"I'm so sorry you had to go through all this," his voice was small. 

"I'm sorry about what you went through! I don't care about how these weeks have been for me no more. All of that's gone by, you're back now."

"Baby, I wanna leave with you, get you away from this," he began, making my heart squeeze, though I sensed a but coming, "but we lost all the money we stole from the bank. Most of it's in the ocean."

"It's okay. It don't matter," I whispered, closing my eyes, "you're here." 

After a moment I let go of him so he could finish getting undressed. He turned to face me before he did anything, pinching my chin and bringing me close for a slow, languid kiss that felt like everything was right again. His beard tickled me, even more so when he moved his mouth to my neck, pressing his lips to the puckered scar across my throat. I giggled and squirmed, and he moved back.

"I really gotta shave," he sighed with a grin. 

"Come on," I whispered, reaching for his trousers, popping open the buttons as his breath hitched. I didn't mean to do anything inappropriate, so I quickly let go and allowed him to undress himself. 

He dropped his pants and union suit together, getting completely naked without a hint of shyness in front of me. I watched and admired as he turned to the bucket and started washing himself, using the bar of soap Susan had provided to cut through the dirt and grime he was covered in. I ended up helping him, taking a soapy washcloth and scrubbing at those hard to reach spots in the middle of his back. He groaned when I rubbed circles into his shoulders, and I took some time to give him a little massage, loosening the muscles there. 

I noticed that his bones were more prominent than they used to be, less cushion between them and his skin. 

"You haven't been able to eat much, have you?" I mused to him softly. He hummed in acknowledgement. 

"The only restaurant on the island did seafood, the boys and I never fancied it," he murmured. I resisted rolling my eyes at his sarcasm. 

"What happened there?" I asked carefully. He sighed, pausing to scrub at his face and hair. 

"Nothing good. We got captured, wrapped up in some bullshit with a sugar plantation owner and all the workers there. It's a long story, it ain't particularly interesting, either," he told me begrudgingly. I picked up on the hint that he didn't want to talk about it and stopped prodding. 

Once I'd got his back clean, I put the washcloth back in the bucket and slipped away from him, allowing him to wash himself. I rounded him, crossing the room and leaning on a table up against the wall. I could see more bruises on his front, hiding beneath his chest and stomach hair and painting his skin a blotchy blue-green. He didn't seem to mind me staring, meeting my eyes across the room as he scrubbed the bar of soap up and down his arms, under his armpits. It was silent save for the sploshing of water and the pittering of droplets hitting the floor. The room seemed to grow smaller.

"Uh, how were things here? You all get out okay, no Pinkertons caught up with you?" He asked after a moment, then averted his eyes so he could bend over and give his hair a proper wash. It was shoulder length, by then. 

"Yeah, we packed up when Abigail came back, figured we'd probably be moving. Then when Charles came back, Strauss mentioned this place. I showed Sadie and Charles the way, we ain't far from where I grew up. We cleared out the gang who lived here before," I told him, eyes dropping to the floor. I heard a splash and sensed him looking at me. 

"We? As in you too?" 

"Not… not really. I had to shoot one guy, he was going for Sadie," I told him. He let out a sad breath. 

"You okay?" He asked. 

I shrugged. "I had to do it. I gotta be okay." 

"Don't worry. We'll get out of here soon, you won't have to do any of that no more," he assured me quietly, prompting me to look at him. 

"You really still wanna go, after all that?"

"Especially after all that," he nodded, "Dutch is… well, he's starting to scare me a little."

"Why?" 

"Killing folk… no good reason to," he mumbled, almost like he didn't really want me to hear it. 

He finished washing up then turned to his shaving stuff, not bothering to dress first before he started trimming his beard to a manageable length. I didn't speak to him while he was working on it, not wanting to make him talk. He cut it back to a short stubble, turning his head back and forth in the mirror. 

"What do you think; even this up or just shave the whole lot off?" He asked me. My mouth rose at the corner involuntarily. 

"I always liked a little stubble on you," I told him, and with a nod he set to work trimming the hair more neatly, until it looked like a few days' growth, more like his usual self. 

"How's that?" He asked, rubbing his hand over his jaw, feeling for inconsistencies. I smiled and crossed the room again, closing the distance between us and taking his chin in my hand, tilting his head from side to side to admire him from all angles.

"I think you're just perfect," I told him and he was flustered, turning pink in the cheeks. I slid my hand down, resting it on his chest, his heart thumping fast under my palm. "Kiss me, I gotta make sure it feels right, too." 

He obliged instantly, pressing his mouth to mine, his lips working gently against mine as he turned his head. I opened my mouth to accept his tongue and moaned softly into his mouth, indulging in the familiarity of his taste. I'd missed him so much. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pressing myself up against him, getting my clothes damp from his skin in the process. His hands played at the back of my head, pushing through my hair. I trailed my hands up and down his bare back, fingertips sinking in just a touch, feeling the solidness of his muscles, the firmness of his being, revelling in his physical presence and his touch that I had missed so terribly. 

We broke away panting, mouths touching as we shared breaths. I kept my eyes closed as I allowed the words to slip from me with an exhale. "I love you." 

I felt Arthur go rigid in my arms, stopped feeling his breaths puff over my lips, his fingers stilling at the base of my skull. My heart sank and I didn't dare open my eyes. I'd longed to say those words to him in his absence and it felt so natural to tell him once he was back, I no longer had to fear the prospect of him never knowing how I felt about him, but I'd expected a different response. Perhaps even in my wildest dreams; to hear those words spoken back to me.

A sound something close to a hiccup came from Arthur and my eyes flashed open, I edged back a bit to see him better. His lips were pressed together and they trembled noticeably, his eyes were squeezed shut and his brow was heavily furrowed. I froze for a moment. 

"Arthur?" I whispered, moving my hands to his face, cupping his cheeks. "What is it?" My voice shook. 

It shocked me to see a tear roll down his cheek, followed by a sob that shook his chest and a stuttered, ragged breath sucked in through his teeth. He wrestled his way out of my hands and turned away, dragging his forearm across his eyes as he cleared his throat.

"Arthur, I'm sorry, I didn't mean– it's okay," I murmured, my arms limply reaching for him.

"No, I'm fine, I'm–" his voice was twice as gravelly as it usually was, like he was trying to hide the emotion in it. 

"Look at me. Please. I shouldn't have said that, maybe it was too fast," I breathed, shaking my head, ignoring the shameful tears wanting to well in my eyes. My cheeks burned and I felt mortified. I had reduced the man to tears.

He turned to me, holding a reassuring hand towards me. "No! That's not– princess I– I don't know why I'm crying, I just couldn't– everything's so–" he stammered, unable to string a sentence together as the floodgates opened and more tears spilled down his cheeks. 

"You've been through so much, I'd be more confused if you didn't shed a few tears," I admitted, realisation hitting me as everything flooded my mind at once. Just in the last couple of months he'd watched a man get drowned by Dutch then torn to shreds by an alligator. He'd barely escaped the law after a bank heist gone wrong during which he'd watched Hosea, the closest thing he had to a father, get killed right in front of him. Then he'd almost died in a shipwreck and washed up on an island where God only knows what further trials he'd been put through. 

I wrapped my hand around his and pulled him towards me, throwing my arms around his shoulders and squeezing him into my chest. That seemed to pull the thread of his control until he unravelled, and he sobbed and shook and released everything. I shuffled us through the doorway into the other room, sitting us down on the bed. He hunched over and buried his face in my chest, so I combed my fingers through his wet hair and let him cry, pressing my wavering lips together and tried my damnedest not to join him. He needed me to be solid for him.

"I'm sorry," he told me through his tears and I made a quiet shushing sound. 

"Don't be. It's okay, Arthur. It's okay, you need this," I whispered, looking down at him. My hand shook as it slid over the back of his head, down the nape of his neck before starting at his crown again.

"Ho-Hosea, and–" he managed to choke out, and that was it for me. I was crying too. 

"I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry," I told him, sniffing and blinking my blurry vision clear. 

"I can't– I don't wanna do this–" he inhaled jerkily, choked on his own spit, I shushed him soothingly again. 

"It's okay, breathe," I reminded him. Tucking his hair behind his ear, straining to bend down and kiss the top of his head. 

"I can't do this!" His sob made the words come out loudly and my heart broke for him. 

"Baby, you're okay. I've got you, you ain't gotta do nothing just now," I tried my hardest to bring him some comfort but I knew nothing I could say would erase his lifestyle, the things he'd seen and the things we both knew he would likely keep on seeing. "I love you so much," I told him, my fear over saying it dissolving after seeing him in such a vulnerable state. I hoped knowing that would bring him some semblance of comfort, even if he could not say it back. He was loved. 

"I– I–" he choked, but each time he tried to speak he was interrupted by jerky inhales, and he gave up. 

"Just relax, breathe, baby," I whispered, finding myself rocking from side to side a little as if I was soothing a baby or something. 

It seemed to do something, though, because after a moment his breaths gradually slowed down, though they still came out stuttered. I whispered that I loved him over and over, relieved to feel him relaxing in my arms, eventually his breathing returned almost to normal, only hiccuping on his deeper breaths. He was soon quiet and still against my chest, and I kissed the top of his head again. 

"You're okay," I repeated, too dumb to think of anything with more substance to say, but wanting him to know it. 

We stayed like that for a long time, his face pressed between my breasts but in a way that felt the furthest thing from sexual. I continued to stroke his head, my hand travelling further down his back each time, my nails lightly tracing over his skin in a way I hoped felt nice. After a while, I felt him shift, moving to sit back up. He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, dragged his arm across his nose and sniffed loudly and wetly. 

"Okay?" I cooed gently, my hand against his upper back, tracing small circles. I waited patiently for him to say something, letting him go at his own pace. 

"I'm– thank you. I got a little… overwhelmed. Sorry you had to see me like that," he finally said, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head. 

"Don't apologise. I'm here for you, Arthur, don't be ashamed of having emotions," I reassured him, leaning over to kiss his shoulder. 

"Thanks," he breathed, wiping away the remaining wetness on his face. 

My shirt was damp from his tears – probably snot too – and I didn't mind. I felt glad that I could be there for him for such a release, everyone needed to cry once in a while. I dried my own eyes too, hiding the few tears that had escaped before Arthur could see them. 

"When– when you said that… please don't think you upset me," he turned to look into my eyes, "when you said that, it made me real happy. For a second everything felt like it was perfect, and then I suddenly remembered everything else. The Pinkertons, Dutch, the money… Hosea," his eyes looked wet again but he blinked it back. 

"Arthur," I breathed almost silently, tilting my head at him. 

"All I want now is to be with you and to make you happy but it feels like everything else is always caving in, making it impossible. I just want you, that's what's important, I see that now clearer than ever and it just makes me feel so–" he shook his head, giving up on finding the right word– "that I can't just make it happen."

"Don't put that on yourself. I ain't expecting anything, things are more complicated now than they've ever been," I shook my head. 

"My darlin', I'm sorry I never said, I couldn't do it while I was all snotty and foolish. I love you too," he sniffed, looking up at me. Hearing those words from him was all I could ever hope for, I felt something close to euphoria, goosebumps rose on my arms. "So much. I was so happy to hear you say it but everything just came to the surface, you know? Just tipped me over." 

"Maybe I should've warned you," I murmured sheepishly and he let out a breathy laugh, his eyes shining. 

"No, you did nothing wrong. You're perfect," he closed in on me, cupping my cheek and kissing me. He pulled back to murmur against my lips, "look at me, I'm a mess. Sittin' here crying with everything hangin' out. What do you see in me?" 

"You're everything to me," I told him seriously, and he kissed me again. 

"You're too good to me," he shook his head. 

"You deserve so much love," I asserted, caressing his face. He closed his eyes and released a long, peaceful breath. 

"It feels so good to be back, even in this hellhole of a swamp where everything constantly wants to eat you," he said, I wasn't sure if he was referring to the alligators or the bugs, or both. "I was terrified I'd never see you again." 

"Me too," I nodded. 

"I ain't ever had a worse few weeks, but seeing you again makes me feel like the luckiest man alive," he said, and I shook my head at the bold statement, especially considering the terrible luck that had plagued him recently. 

I pressed my lips to his, wrapping my arms around his neck, leaning into him. My fingers threaded through his long hair, tightening in his locks, he groaned quietly against my lips when I pulled slightly to tilt his head more. We broke away breathless after a few moments, and Arthur's eyes dropped to my mouth.

"I should probably put my clothes on, 'case someone comes in," he said half-heartedly. 

"I don't think anyone's coming. Probably think we're making up for lost time," I shrugged one shoulder, lips curling into an amused smirk. Arthur's eyes flickered up to mine at that, holding them for a few long seconds. Our communication was wordless, and he pulled me in for another kiss. 

[splat-dragon]

She’d learned to trust her instincts.

 And something was very, very, wrong.

 Her bones itched more than they ached, and her blood boiled in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. Not for the first time that day, she heaved herself to her paws with a groan, and took to pacing again.

 Was tonight the night? Were the Pinkterons coming?

But it was storming outside, odd rumblings that rattled her bones and clattered her teeth together, sheets of rain that hit the roof hard enough to be loud even to her ears, and she was sure that they were not that foolish.

 She walked from one end of the room to the other, grumbling in discontent, her hips aching even as she kept her lame leg off the ground. “Gin, girl, c’mere,” Abigail beckoned, stooping down and sloshing around the bowl of stew she’d put down for her that morning to try and make it enticing. It was little more than broth, the meat so cooked through that it was all-but liquid so that she could eat it with dull and missing teeth, but like that morning it failed to draw her interest. Unease curdled her stomach, tore away any appetite she might have had. Something was wrong, and she wouldn’t be settled until she knew what it was.

 “Crazy dog,” she grumbled as she returned to her sewing, but her scent had soured some with concern.

 God, but she hurt, and for a moment she tried to lay down, to take some weight off of her joints, but agitation had her on her paws in moments. Thunder cracked, and she could feel it in her bones, aching and throbbing, and she couldn’t help but to whine, rising to hobble back and forth, back and forth.

 Oh, she wished John and Uncle were home. They’d left earlier in the day, and weren’t back yet. Something was going to happen, she could feel it deep in her bones, and the fact that they weren’t home yet made her fur stand on end.

“What’s wrong with Gin?”

 At least, though, Jack was home.

 The boy frowned at her, shifting his book to hold it in one hand, scratching between her ears with the other before slouching down on the couch. It felt so familiar, and something niggled at the back of her mind - she should know this. She shook her head irritably as though trying to cast away a fly; normally she’d do anything for a bit of affection, but she didn’t want to be distracted.

 “Dunno,” Abigail said, attention on her sewing, “she’s been like this all day. Maybe it’s the storm?”

 She scoffed at the thought—as if a storm could scare her! She doesn’t like thunder, sure, but she wasn’t afraid of a little storm.

 This, though, didn’t feel like a normal storm. It had been pouring all day, and the thunder was all around odd, didn’t sound right even to her ears, and the lightning looked strange through the window.

 “A little storm’s never bothered her before,” Jack frowned, flipping open his book and beginning to read.

The living room went quiet, broken only by Abigail’s murmuring, the clicking of her needles and the rasping of the pages of Jack’s book as he flipped them, engrossed in… whatever it was he was reading.

 God, did she miss reading. Sometimes he read aloud to her, but not nearly as much as he used to, and she missed it.

 Her ears pricked up and, although her hearing wasn't what it used to be, it was still good enough to pick up the sound of hoofbeats outside, thumping beneath rattling wagon wheels. She hoped it was John and Uncle, and it should be them, but it could have been anyone, even the Pinkertons and, with how the day had felt so far she wasn’t risking it, so she stumbled over to the window, feeling awful sorry for herself as she wobbled up onto the windowsill, struggling to balance on a leg and a half, squinting out into the storm.

Oh, she knew those horses! That Paint, Jack called her Beatrix after an author he liked, and that Appaloosa, John had named her Axle, and they made an odd pair but worked well together. And yes! There was John clambering out of the wagon but—where was Uncle?

 And why was this so familiar?

 Reassured that it was just John, she dropped from the windowsill with a groan, glad to take the weight off her hips. Still though, agitation rolled through her gut and she couldn’t help but to pace and pace, starting to frog hop, drawing her hindlegs together and stepping with them both at the same time - it hurt less.

‘Oh, John’ll kill you for that,’ she snorted as Jack kicked his feet up onto the couch, shoes and all. But Abigail saved him from a hiding, chastising him into putting his feet back down right before John stepped inside. She wagged her tail at him, then wagged it even harder when he agreed “Something funny’s going on out there.”

  “Thank you!” she whuffed, “Finally, someone with some sense!” and then she realized she’d said that John had sense and wondered if she’d lost her mind. He reached down to pet her, “Hey Gin,” stroking his hand down her spine and then between her hips.

 She squealed, a sharp pain shooting through them, and they buckled, sending her crashing to the ground. It was humiliating and, even as he said “Oh shit, (“Father!” “Is she alright?”) sorry Gin,” bringing his hands under her to scoop her back onto her feet, she hid her face in her paws.

She wobbled on her paws, hips feeling weak, praying that they didn’t give out on her again, that she could last through the end of the year, took a step and decided to lie down when they ached, hiding her muzzle between her forelegs. She still wanted to pace and pace and pace, but her hips wouldn’t allow it.

 “Damn Rufus’s gone crazy, wolves howlin’ and birds flyin’,” John grumbled, stooping to scratch that spot behind her ear apologetically before walking up behind Abigail, who dismissed it as ‘just the storm, John’ again.

 “Uncle make it back yet?” he asked, and she groaned, knowing that it’s not just that storm, dammit! and, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, wished that she could speak.

 She shoved him away, and Guinevere panted a laugh at the wounded expression on his face, though her words sobered her. “I thought he was with you, off drinking in the fields,” she’d been dozing when they’d left, so hadn’t known where they’d gone, and something about it struck her wrong, “I mean working, as you call it now.”

 There was a funny noise outside, and she raised her head from her paws to look at the window. Something moved, but the storm was pelting down so hard she couldn’t pick out much more than the movement itself, the rain so heavy it was little more than a curtain of grey. It was there and gone so fast, though, that maybe she imagined it?

 “No, he went into town a few hours ago, after we busted that hammer workin’ in the meadow.” John was kneeling, tossing wood into the fireplace from the sound of it, but her attention was still held by the window. What had that been?

 She startled, yelping when something wrapped around her, only to look up and find John carefully scooping her up. Abigail made a joke about Uncle waiting out the storm in a whorehouse as he set her down by the fireplace, and she stretched out with a groan and a thankful thwap of her tail, laying so she could stare out the window, basking in the heat that soaked into her bones.

There was that sound again!

 She jolted her head up, barely hearing John agree with her in a roundabout way, squinting: what was that? There was something resting on the window, brownish-grey, there and gone in a heartbeat and if she didn’t know there wasn’t a tree there she would have thought it a tree branch.

There was movement in the corner of her eye and she jumped, flinching, turning only to see Abigail getting to her feet. She snorted, sniffing the air, but the building was, admittedly, well-built and well-insulated and so the only smell was John, filthy and reeking of horse-sweat, and the offness of whatever Abigail had spent the day cooking.

 She walked away to work on cooking it and John slumped down into her chair, while Jack remained absorbed in his book. She paid half an ear’s worth of attention as she stared at the window, trying to figure out what she’d seen before, her fur standing on end. Something was very, very wrong, and how only John could feel it was baffling.

“What you readin’?” John asked, and she fought down a groan. Bless his heart, but he couldn’t bond with Jack to save his life. Bless him, really, but he was trying.

 “Just some book about monsters,” Jack grunted, and she frowned, feeling as though she’d heard this conversation before.

 There was an awkward silence, long enough that she turned her ears back to the window, slowly and carefully stretching out onto her side, keeping as much of her weight off of her hip as she could, until John finally said “Tell me about it,” and she grinned, “Good job John! That’s how you dad!” He was actually showing interest in something Jack was doing!

 “It’s kind of dumb,” Jack grunted, and she groaned, “Come on Jack, he’s giving you an olive branch! Stop being such a teenager!”

 And holy shit, John actually made a joke back at him, “Well that should suit me just fine,” and she couldn’t help but to laugh, huffing loudly.

 “Well, it’s all about in ancient times how Aztec warriors worshiped the sun but, during full moons, some of them worshiped the moon instead.”

 Her brain stuttered to a stop. Hold on, freeze frame, pause the movie. Did he say Aztec warriors?

 Oh, oh no. Now she knew where she’d heard this conversion before (“and upset the equilibrium of things.”)  There was no way, absolutely no way at all. She’d accept being turned into a dog. She’d accept time travel. She’d even accept falling into a different goddamn dimension.

 But zombies, no, zombies were too far! There was no such things as zombies, and there was no way she was in Undead Nightmare!

 No way, no how, never ever. She refused to accept it. She was weak, she was old, she couldn’t even protect herself from an angry bunny.

 What would she do if there were zombies of all things shambling around in a world where there was no respawning, only horrifically final Game Overs?

[yeet-or-be-hawed]

“Attempts For Attention” Arthur Morgan x Reader

A request from @notursdutch!

Arthur is trying to throw hints your way that he has feelings for you, but he’s a little shy and you’re a lot oblivious. 

“Whatcha drawin’?” You were pulled from your concentration and looked up to find Arthur standing over you. You handed him the journal as sat down in the grass beside you. 

You were sat under a shady oak tree overlooking camp; it had the perfect view, you could see everything from up there, plus the shade was welcome on the hot summer day. 

Arthur smiled as he looked down at the drawing. The sketch took up two pages. It was Clemen’s Point, complete with undetailed little drawings of the inhabitants and the horses at the edge of camp. “This looks great, Y/N.” Arthur’s finger pointed down at the small figure with the horses. “Kieran?”

You nodded and smiled as you pointed out all the people. Lenny was just below Kieran, brushing his own horse. Tilly, Karen, and Mary-Beth were by the laundry bucket, and you had captured Charles mid swing of his axe. Arthur smiled down at his own figure, leaned against the back end of his caravan, his own journal in hand. Arthur loved your art style, your lines were softer and your shading was a little more defined. “I don’t know how you do it.” He said, eyes still focused on your drawing. 

You laughed, “Sure you do, you could put me to shame with your drawing skills any day!”

He shook his head, “Nah, I’m too heavy handed, I can’t quite get my shading just right.” 

You smiled. “What were you workin’ on down there?” You asked as you pointed to the small Arthur you had drawn. 

“Just doin’ some writin’. Its been a few days since I had enough time to actually open my journal.” He flipped the page and frowned. “Looks like those were your last pages.”

You sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been checkin’ every town we’ve hit since we left Blackwater tryin’ to find somethin’ new but I guess the folks this far east ain’t as refined as we thought.”

Arthur laughed. “I’ll see what I can do next time I’m out.” 

You beamed up at him, “You would do that for me?”

He smiled down at you. “Course I will.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly. “Oh thank you Arthur, you’re the best friend a girl a can have!” 

This took his by surprise, but he slowly wrapped his arms around you, returning your hug. You felt so warm and soft in his arms he felt his heart lurch when you pulled away. Your face was towards the ground, but Arthur caught the slight shade of pink in your cheeks. “I should probably go before Grimshaw finds me.” You stood and looked down at Arthur, “If you ever want to practice with me, I can show you some techniques to keep your wrist loose, that should help you with your shading.” 

Arthur’s eyes followed you as you went down the hill and joined the other girls at the laundry station. Your smile was contagious as you reached the other girls they greeted you happily. You seemed to have that effect on everyone, but Arthur seemed to fall prey to your charm worse than anyone else around camp, the trouble was you had no idea. 

He had been crazy for you since you first arrived, it took him damn near a month and a half to even say hello to you, every time your eyes shifted his way and you gave him a smile he would turn redder than a tomato. Hosea eventually had to be the one to introduce the two of you, and he still gives Arthur hell to this day for turning to a nervous blundering mess when you first stuck out your hand and said, “Nice to meet you Arthur, my name is Y/N.”

Arthur was lucky you were just as outgoing as you were oblivious because he never had the nerve to talk to you, but you had no problem with joining him beside the fire or barging into his tent for conversation, but you never noticed how flustered you made him. At first it was a relief, but now Arthur wasn’t quite sure. He wanted to tell you how he felt, he wanted to grab you by the waist and sweep you off your feet, but that required a level of confidence he just didn’t have. He looked down and noticed you had left your journal beside him. He grabbed it and headed down towards you. 

“So,” Tilly began mischievously. “What were you and Arthur talkin’ about up on that hill?”

You rolled your eyes. “Nothin’, Tilly. He just wanted to see what I was drawin’ that’s all.”

“And you showed him?” Karen asked with a raised brow. “Why is it Arthur is the only one allowed to see inside that journal of yours?”

You tried to hide the blush forming in your cheeks. “He’s an artist, so I like his opinion, okay?” You tried to sound assertive, but your voice came out meeker than a barn mouse. 

“Mhmm, I’m sure that’s what it is.” Mary-Beth said sarcastically. 

“It is!” You shot back, a little more defensively than you meant.

“Oh please,” Snorted Karen. “You’ve had eyes for him since you got here, you can’t deny that.”

You looked down into the suddy water. “Yeah so?”

“Yeah so, he’s definitely had eyes for you too!” Karen rolled her eyes. “I mean it’s so obvious!”

“He gets all fidgety when he talks to you,” Said Tilly.

“And he turns bright red.” Added Mary-Beth.

“That’s not true.” You pouted into your laundry bucket. “He just-”

You looked up to see Arthur coming down the hill towards you. “Shut up the lot of you.” You hissed quickly.

“Wha-” 

You cut off Karen. “Hey Arthur!”

The women looked in the direction you were facing and each one shot you a look, and you tried to ignore it. 

“Hey Y/N, you forgot this.” He handed you your journal. “Thought I’d bring it back to ya.” He rubbed his neck and wouldn’t meet your gaze. 

“Thank you, Arthur. You’re too kind.” You tried not to look at the women around you.

He tipped his hat to you and turned towards his tent. “No problem.”

You turned back towards your water bucket, “Not a goddamn word.” You said as Karen opened her mouth. 

The four of you finished the laundry in silence.

Arthur’s eyes scanned the camp and they landed on just the man he was looking for. Hosea was sitting at the small table in the middle of camp. Arthur took the seat across from him. “Hosea.”

He looked up at Arthur, “Ah, hello my boy. How are ya today?”

“I’m fine, I got a question for ya. You know this area pretty well right?” Arthur fiddled nervously with his thumbs.

Hosea raised an eyebrow towards him. “Guess you could say that, I spent a good bit a time down here with Bessie years ago.”

Arthur nodded. “You know anywhere I could get a new journal?”

Hosea tilted his head, confused. “You already filled that journal you got in Blackwater?”

Hosea was sharp as a tack, “No, I...its for someone else.”

A sly smile curled on Hosea’s lips. “I see. It wouldn’t happen to be for a certain young lady would it?” 

Arthur’s eyes shot up to meet Hosea’s and his face went hot. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

“Don’t play coy with me Arthur.” Hosea said flatly as he crossed his arms. He lowered his voice. “You think I don’t see how you look at her?”

Arthur huffed, he knew there was no point in lying to Hosea. “Okay yeah it’s for her. I ain’t tryin’ to pull a move on her or anything, she just used up the last page in hers and I offered to pick her up a new one if I found one.” 

Hosea leaned back in his chair. “I see. But why aren’t ya makin’ a move then?”

This caught Arthur off guard. He sputtered and tripped over his words. “I-I can’t...I don’t know.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t think she’d have me. She’s too good for me anyways.”

Hosea stood. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. When ya think like that you’ll be alone forever.” He turned to leave but threw a final glance at Arthur over his shoulder. “Saint Denis. It’s a big city not far from here. If I remember correctly they have an art supply store down there. It’s been years since I’ve been, but it’s worth takin’ a look into.”

Arthur nodded. “Thanks Hosea.”

Hosea threw up his hand in a wave and wandered off. Arthur took one final glance at you, your face was straight and focused as you did your work quietly. Even with Hosea’s words replaying in his mind, he still couldn’t seem to find himself worthy of you. You were breathtaking, and the kindest soul he had ever met. No one made him want to be good, not even Eliza or Isaac. Not even Mary made him want to be better, but when your kind eyes meet his, he wanted to feel like he deserved the genuine kindness behind your eyes. He nodded to himself and headed towards his horse. 

You wiped the sweat from your brow as you stood. You waved to the other women as you left, finished with your work for the day. As your eyes searched the camp, you felt a little disappointment as you noticed both Arthur and his horse were gone. You sighed and joined Abigail beside the fire. “You see where Arthur went?” You asked, trying to seen as nonchalant as possible. 

“I didn’t,” She responded, she took a sip of her coffee. “He rode out not too long ago after talking to Hosea. Probably got a tip off or somethin’.”

You nodded, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Why ya ask?” You could tell by the look in her eye she knew exactly why you were asking.

“No reason,” You said quickly.

“Mhmm.” Abigail had a sarcastic tone. 

before you could respond, Micah and Dutch approached you. “Good afternoon, ladies.” Dutch said smoothly. “Either of you in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned stage coach robbin’?”

“Sure!” You responded quickly and stood. “Who all’s goin’?”

“Micah and Lenny.” 

You nodded and followed behind the two men. “I’ve been itchin’ to get outta here.”

“I thought you would be up for the job.” Dutch smiled down at you. “Go grab your pistol and meet the boys at the hitching post.”

“Yes sir.”

It was early evening when Arthur got back to camp. He hitched his horse quickly and pulled his satchel from his horse. His eyes searched the camp for you, he didn’t even see Dutch until he walked right into him. 

“Oof! Watch where you’re goin’, son.” 

“Sorry Dutch, have you seen Y/N? She asked me to pick somethin’ up for her in town.” His eyes were still searching as he spoke. 

Dutch had to stop himself from picking on Arthur, just like everyone else in camp, he knew Arthur had it bad for you. “I sent her with Micah and Lenny on a stagecoach job.” He said easily. 

Arthur’s eye shot up to Dutch. “Micah? Why the hell did you send her with Micah?”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “She’s the one who wanted to go, I didn’t make her go. Besides, it’s not like they’re alone. Lenny will keep him in line.” 

Arthur huffed in frustration. “Ya know, I coulda gone instead of Micah.”

Dutch barked a short laugh. “I know.” He turned and walked back to his tent.

Arthur tried to push away the jealousy creeping into his stomach. He saw the way Micah looked at you and it made his stomach churn. He wouldn’t trust Micah with a wet sock, let alone you. But Dutch was right, Lenny would keep him in line from touching you and in turn your company would keep Micah from harassing Lenny over the color of his skin. It was a good trade off, but it still made Arthur uneasy. He pulled the journal he bought for you from his satchel and headed towards your tent. It was simple just like your old one, but it was a little bigger and the paper was a better quality. He spent a pretty penny on it, but it was worth it. You were worth more than all the money in the world to him, and he wanted to let you know. He gently laid the journal down on your neatly made bed. He also pulled out the candies he grabbed on his way out of Saint Denis. He remembered you telling him they were your favorite one day when he shared a bag with you. 

When he exited your tent, Abigail was standing there waiting for him with her arms crossed, looking suspicious. “Whatcha doin’ there Arthur?”

“N-nothin’. Nothin’ at all to concern yourself with.” He stuttered. 

“So, I shouldn’t be concerned that yer just sneakin’ around in some girl’s tent, huh?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He groaned. “Come on Abigail, you know it ain’t like that.” “Do I?” She challenged.  She peeked behind his shoulder before he could move to block her vision. A knowing smile crossed her lips. “What’s that?” 

“What’s what?” Arthur responded, moving his body with hers as she tried to peek behind him again. 

“What’s that layin’ on Y/N’s bed?”

“It’s nothin’!” Arthur groaned. 

Abigail turned away. “Fine then, keep your secrets.”

Arthur sighed in relief and just as he took a step away from your tent, Abigail turned back around quickly and made a beeline for the tent. Arthur couldn’t react fast enough to stop her. 

“Oh Arthur, this is beautiful!” She said as she picked up the journal. 

“Yeah, I know.” He said sheepishly as he rubbed his neck. “Don’t go tellin’ her about it when she gets back, I want it to be a surprise.”

Abigail gave him a look when she walked out of the tent. “When are you gonna make a move Arthur?” His whole face turned beet red. “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.” She responded sarcastically as she walked away. 

Arthur yawned as he made his way back to his own tent. He laid down on his cot and began doodling in his journal. His eyes grew heavy and he didn’t even feel himself fall asleep. 

You pulled into camp riding between Lenny and Micah, the lot of you were still excited from the rush of adrenaline of a successful job. As you unmounted your horse, you turned to the two men you were with. “You boys did great today, let me know next time you wanna do this again and I’ll gladly ride with you.”

Micah turned and headed off towards Dutch’s tent, but not before you caught the rose color blooming on his cheeks. Lenny gave you his classic smile. “Anytime, Y/N. You did good today too.”

You smiled, “I appreciate the compliment, but stoppin’ a wagon and playin’ the damsel in distress don’t take much effort.”

Lenny looked at the ground, “Yeah, well it sure does help when you gotta a pretty lady playin’ the damsel.”

You laughed and patted Lenny on the back as you passed him, “Thanks Lenny.”

You spied Arthur asleep on his cot, journal still in his loose hands. It made you giggle, he looked so cute. You decided not to wake him as you headed towards your tent. When you looked down at your cot, you noticed the brown leather journal and the bag of candies laying there. Your heart skipped a beat as you picked up the journal and opened it. On the first page there was a message in Arthur’s hand writing. 

To: Y/N

I hope you like it, I thought of you when I saw it and had to grab it. 

Yours, Arthur

Your fingers lightly brushed the scrolling words on the page and you could feel your cheeks getting warm. Your fingers traced the words, ‘Yours, Arthur.’ It made you feel warm inside and your stomach fluttered. You grabbed the journal and the candy and headed out of the tent quickly. 

When Arthur woke, the day had fully transitioned into night. He stretched as he stood and noticed a folded piece of paper and a small pile of candies on his night stand. He smiled as he unfolded it. The paper was from the journal he had bought you and on it was a beautiful sketch of him, sleeping peacefully on his cot with his journal slack in his hands. He pinned the drawing up with the pictures above his bed. He grabbed the hand full of candies and headed towards your tent. When he looked inside, you were already curled up asleep, the new journal on the nightstand beside your bed. He found himself with a pang of disappointment, he was hoping he would get to see your reaction when you saw the journal, but he could ask you about it tomorrow, and he turned back to his tent. 

You woke early the next morning and made your way to the coffee kettle. You looked around confused when Arthur wasn’t there preparing the morning coffee. You looked over to his tent and he was still fast asleep. You rolled your eyes and headed his direction. As you entered his tent, you noticed the sketch you made him yesterday pinned up with his photos. You couldn’t help but smile. You gently put your hand down on his and shook him gently. “Arthur, it’s time to get up.” You cooed to him softly. “Come on Arthur, I’m ready for some coffee.”

His breathing hitched as he slowly opened his eyes. “Alright, alright I’m up.” He said groggily. 

You squeezed his hand and turned to leave. “Good, now come get the coffee goin’.”

He yawned as he pulled on his boots. “Don’t you know how to make coffee?”

You stood just outside his tent with your arms crossed, “Yeah, but I like the way you make it better.” 

As he stepped out of the tent, he put a hand on your lower back. “Yer right, you never make it strong enough.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned into his hand. “I know.” You looked up at him, “Thank you, for the journal by the way. It’s so pretty! How much was it? I’ll pay you back.”

Arthur scoffed. “It was a gift, I don’t want yer money.” 

You pouted, Arthur found it devastatingly cute. “Are you sure? I feel bad, you spendin’ yer hard earned money on me.”

He smiled down at you sweetly. “I tell ya what, you can just pay me back with those drawin’s like the one ya left me last night.”

You beamed at him, “It’s a deal.”

Arthur began buying you more gifts over time, it started small as candies and pencils and other little things he found on his journeys. In return, he would find a folded piece of paper on his night stand, always a lovely drawing usually of him or his horse. His caravan was slowly becoming covered in your sketches and he admired them often. His favorite was payment for the explosive ammo he crafted for your pistol. It was one of the most detailed one you had done. It was a picture of him, brushing his horse. You had caught the expression of his face perfectly, and the detail stunned him. It was one of your best works, he wondered how long you had been working on it. 

With time, Arthur gained the courage to give you the softest of touches. A hand on the small of your back here, an arm around your shoulders there, he even began complimenting you more, determined to show you how he felt, but to his disappointment, it seemed as if you were oblivious to his advances. 

He huffed in frustration as he watched you walk away from him. He had handed you a bag of your favorite candies and a new brush for your horse. His heart jumped in excitement when you hugged him tightly, but the excitement was short lived when you said, “How sweet! How did I get so lucky to have such a great friend?” And with that you turned and walked away. Friend? He was tired of being just friends. He thought he was being obvious about that and you weren’t picking it up. He sat down at the table in front of Hosea. “What’s eatin’ ya boy?”

Arthur rested his chin in his hands as he watched you walk up to your drawing spot under the oak tree. “I’ve tried everything, Hosea. What am I doin’ wrong?”

Hosea looked in the direction Arthur was gazing and he turned back. “Ah, I see. So have you told her how you feel?”

“God no,” Arthur grunted. 

“Well then how have you tried everything?” Hosea raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I’ve given her gifts, I compliment her just about every time I see her, I don’t know what else to do.” He said in a gloomy tone.

Hosea scoffed, “Listen, you ain’t gonna get anywhere beatin’ around the bush, just tell her how you feel.”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah what if I do? What if I tell her and she laughs in my face. I don’t think I could live with the rejection. Plus I don’t want to ruin what we have now.”’

Hosea stood. “Well you’re never gonna know until you try. And between you and me, I think you got a pretty good chance with that one.” He winked and walked away, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. He looked up at you again, your nose was buried in your journal and your head tilted up, you squinted, and then it went back down.With a gulp, Arthur steeled his nerves and stood. 

You were so focused on your picture that you didn’t hear Arthur approach. You about jumped out of your skin when he cleared his throat. “Jesus!” Your hand came up to your chest. “Damn it Arthur, you know better than to sneak up on me like that.”

He laughed as he took a seat beside you. “What are you workin’ on today?” 

You pointed down to Dutch, sitting on a crate puffing a cigar. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy. He looked down at the drawing, “Wow, this may be your best one yet.” 

You had captured Dutch’s likeness perfectly. The way he slumped on the crate looked so natural, but the puff of smoke coming from his mouth was what really impressed him. “This looks so realistic, how did you get this talented?” 

You smiled, “My ma really enjoyed painting. I guess I got my base talent from her, but I guess it’s just practice.” You looked up at him. “Give yourself some credit though, you’re just as good as me, if not better.”

He pulled out his journal and flipped through his various sketches. “I don’t know about that.” 

“Wait, what was that?” Your finger caught the page before he could flip passed it. He turned blood red as you opened the journal to the page your finger had caught. “Oh Arthur,” You whispered as your looked down at the drawing in awe. It was a drawing of you, slumped against the tree asleep.”This is beautiful.”

He gulped, “Well, it helps when the subject matter is beautiful.” 

You looked up at him and he quickly averted his gaze. He cleared his throat, “Can you show me how you do your shading?”

“Sure.” You whispered as you handed his journal back to him. You scooted close to him, your shoulders were touching. You explained your process as you sketched Cain, moving your pencil slowly so he could see every move you made. When you finished you looked up at him, “Think you can do that?” 

He smiled as he flipped to an empty page. “Think so. Didn’t look too hard.”

As he begun, you leaned your head against his shoulder. This sent chills down his spine. He didn’t look at you, but he did lean his head down against yours. He held his wrist like you taught him, and as his own sketch of Cain came to life, his markings were lighter, allowing his shading to look more realistic. He held it out to you when he finished. “Whatya think?” 

You lifted your head and smiled. “Wonderful!” Your eyes met his and it seemed like time stood still. Your face was inches from his, and he felt your thumb gently graze his hand. This was it, this was his chance. You, looking up at him in awe, the golden rays of sunlight poking through the trees made you look angelic. He found himself beginning to lean into you, but then a voice came from the back of his head, she doesn’t want you like that. The voice whispered. Go on, kiss her. After you do she’ll go running and she’ll never come back. A girl like her could never love a degenerate like you.

Arthur sighed and stood. He put his hand out towards you, “Pearson should be done with supper soon. Let’s head back.”

Your eyes had a strange glint to them, something Arthur had never seen in them before. You looked back down into your journal. “You go ahead, I’ll meet you down there.”

Arthur kicked himself as he went down the hill. He chickened out, and found himself hating himself. Hating himself for not having the guts to tell you how he feels, hating himself because he knew you deserved better than him, hating himself for letting himself fall so hard for you. 

You watched Arthur as he left, was it just your imagination, or was he about to kiss you? You shook the thought, Arthur was your friend, as much as you wish he did, you knew he didn’t have feelings for you. You were a plain girl, not a single special thing about you, and he was...well he was Arthur. The most handsome man you had ever seen, and by far the most interesting man you had ever met. He had such a tough exterior, a badass gunslinging hunk of a man, but he also had a more sensitive side. The side that loves to draw and write, the side that sings silly songs when he’s drunk and always makes time for you.  He made your heart throb and most days it seemed like he was all you could think about. You sighed as you immersed yourself back into your journal. 

You had become so focused on your journal, you didn’t realize night had began to fall until you were squinting down at your journal. You looked up, and the next thing you noticed was the rowdy amount of noise coming from the camp. As you walked down the hill, Ms. Grimshaw greeted you and handed you a bottle of moonshine. “Courtesy of the Braithwaites, drink up, my dear!” 

You nodded and smiled as she walked away, you brought the bottle to your lips as you walked to the campfire. Most of the men were already quite drunk. even Arthur to your amusement. You could hear him loudly singing as you approached the campfire. When he looked up to you, he gave you the biggest grin you had ever seen. “Y/N!” He called drunkenly. He stumbled from his spot over to you and you laughed as he tripped over his own feet. You caught him before he could fall. “My hero!” He slurred. 

You laughed as you wrapped an arm around him. His arm looped around your waist and it felt so natural to hold him like this as he led you to the fire. “Found ma lady!” He announced as you joined the group at the fire. He sat back down and before you could move to sit on the ground beside you, he pulled you down on his lap. Your face was bright red and you hoped the fire wasn’t bright enough for anyone to see. “This okay?” He whispered. 

All you could do was nod your head yes and he wrapped his big arms around you tightly. Your head was swimming at his touch and as more liquor entered both of your systems, the nervousness melted from your bodies. By the end of the night, the pair of you were drunk as skunks. Arthur got a bit more handsier, his big palms slowly moved down your waist and by the end of the night his hand was cupping your ass. You were so drunk you didn’t care. You had one arm looped around his neck, playing with his hair. After awhile, it was just the two of you, Javier, and Charles at the fire. Javier strummed his guitar as Charles played the harmonica. Arthur took your hand and stood. Neither of you noticed Javier and Charles exchange glances as you walked away together holding hands. 

You swung the arm that had his hand, as you laughed and stumbled through camp. You found yourself on the hill under the shady oak tree. 

Arthur’s vision was blurry, but he could still see the look of desire in your eye as you looked up at him. “I gotta tell ya somethin’ but you can’t get mad.” He blurted. 

You laughed, giddy with alcohol. “No promises.”

Arthur let out a shaky breath and took your other hand in his. Before you could process what was happening, Arthur’s lips came down on yours. His lips were soft and he tasted like alcohol. As he pulled back, you loooped your arms around his neck and brought his lips back down to yours. You could feel his smile against your lips as you kissed him hard. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him tightly. When you broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours and let out a breathy laugh. 

“What?” You asked self consciously. “Am I a bad kisser or somethin’?”

He put a hand on your cheek, “Not at all, just laughin’ at myself for how long it took me to do that.”

You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”

“Okay” He whispered, and his lips came back down on yours. 

[rfjackaby]

something of an open book

title: something of an open book chapter: 1/6 words: 2054 summary: There are stages of intoxication: six, to be precise. Jackaby discovers four. Not that anyone is counting. (But he is definitely counting.) a/n: this fic was prompted by the jackaby discord server and is extremely self-indulgent. enjoy!! includes HEAVY SPOILERS for the dire king! ao3

pre-intoxication

There’s already a pretty pink blush spreading unevenly across Hank Hudson’s cheeks as he extends an arm and shakes an open bottle of ale in Jackaby’s general direction. There’s just enough amber colored liquid inside that it sloshes over the glass rim and forms small, bubbly puddles in the dips of his knuckles.

Scowling, Hank reaches across the kitchen table —  newly purchased, at Abigail’s plea — and uses his hook to snatch up a hand towel and dry himself off. He flings the towel behind him, and judging by the several thuds that follow, Jackaby suspects it must have collided with the fruit cauldron.

His suspicions are confirmed as an orange or perhaps an apple rolls across the floor, quickly disappearing from his line of sight. He gathers himself up to collect it, but is interrupted as Hank begins to whine.

“Come on, R.F.,” the hunter sighs, eyes widening to adopt a look more akin to a puppy than a 50-something year old man.

Jackaby arches an eyebrow, and there’s an amused hum from the far corner of the room. He glances over —  meets a sparkling pair of warm, soft eyes. Jenny grins as they lock gazes, her spectral hair twisting and turning around her in slow waves. Realistically, he knows his heart does nothing but begin to pound just a little bit harder in his chest, but he could swear it genuinely skips a beat at Jenny’s smile. Warmth floods his cheeks. After a moment, Jackaby purses his lips. He feigns annoyance in regards to Hank's begging, but narrows his eyes in what he imagines is thinly disguised amusement.

Dragging his attention back to Hank, Jackaby pushes himself away from the counter where he had been leaning. He shoves one hand into the depths of his pocket and uses the other to wrangle with the nest of black hair atop his head.

“You know I don’t drink —”

“To keep a clear head, blah blah blah. But ya’ don’t even need to have a clear head anymore, though, do ya’?” Hank leans forward in his chair, his hooked-arm resting on the table, and points rather dramatically to his widened eyes. He’s trying to make a point.

As if Jackaby doesn't already know.

Hank cocks an eyebrow when Jackaby neither says nor does anything in response, and then falls heavily back against the chair, folding his arms across the chest. Jackaby shakes his head softly, ignoring the weight in his chest. He backs up slowly until he's once more pressed up against the counter, then drops his attention to his shoes.

To his right, there’s a soft huff somewhere between amusement and consideration. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks toward Charlie, sat upon the kitchen table despite Jackaby’s complaints.

("That's where some of the faeries collect their honey!"

"We'll, there aren't any faeries here now, are there? Oh, I suppose you wouldn't... er, that is... there isn't any honey out, anyway... Abigail? Can I sit here?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Do you think wine? Or champagne?"

“Miss Rook! Please! "

"Both...? Both.")

Now, atop the counter, Charlie grins sheepishly. It has been nearly five months since the man died (quite traumatically —  one of the things they have in common) only to be revived a few days later by the Twine.

The first few weeks of his revival had left Charlie drained and sickly, with an ashen quality to his skin. Stomaching food had been hard for him, and there had been several occasions where his canine side had abruptly appeared unannounced, startling the entire household. Abigail had refused to leave his bedside over those weeks despite Jackaby’s reassurances that this was normal, that he would be fine.

Apparently, there was something off about his aura.

Not that he understood what that meant anymore.

Charlie has long since recovered. His cheeks are now flooded with tipsy warmth and, as he leans over the edge of the counter toward Jackaby, strength ripples in his forearms. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to… but one bottle won’t hurt.”

“And,” cries a new voice from the doorway, “this is a celebration!”

The four of them turn to watch as Abigail swans into the room, clutching a bottle of red wine in one hand and champagne in the other. There’s a slight sway to her step and a flush to her cheeks as she hurries to the table and sets the bottles down with perhaps a bit too much force. She had insisted she wouldn't drink too much, but he suspects she's perhaps overestimated her abilities.

Jackaby looks away as she spins on her heels in an attempt to meet his gaze. Yes, he thinks, hunching his shoulders, a celebration. A celebration for another closed case…

He thinks he hears a huff of frustration, but if it was ever there at all, Abigail cuts it off just as quickly as it began. “You should relax a little,” she says softly.

Behind her, a gun fires off.

Or rather, the champagne bottle does. The cork shoots across the room with impressive force. It cuts straight through Jenny, who has floated to the opposite side of the table of Hank, and collides with the large skeleton hanging from the ceiling. The bones sway for a moment, and although Jackaby doubts it would ever fall, he still tenses up.

Hank breaks the silence with a snort, bubbles flowing from the mouth of the bottle in his grasp. With his hook, he pulls a glass across the table towards him, and begins to pour.

Jenny whips around, her face burning grey in anger; Abigail carries on the conversation before Hank loses his other hand.

“Really, sir,” she says, reaching for a bottle of wine and a clean glass. Jackaby watches the liquid splash around the rim, but ultimately settle back into the cup. Abigail holds it out to him; he eyes it with wrinkled nose. “We’d love to have you join... and, I don't know, you might enjoy it?”

For a moment, he considers it. Hank is right in saying he doesn’t technically need a clear head any longer. But then, there’s the cases —  he says as much. Charlie blows out his cheeks, a quiet but incredulous laugh following close behind.

“You don’t help with cases anymore, though,” he mumbles into his bottle of ale. It isn't a bitter comment; it's just a drunken statement, not meant to attack or accuse. Regardless, Jackaby feels the blow as if Charlie had physically struck his chest.

Abigail glares at Charlie, her jaw clenching. The latter avoids her gaze, ducking his head in regret.

Charlie’s right, anyways —  he doesn’t help with cases. But the next case —  he’ll help with the next one, for sure.

(Or at least, that’s what he's been telling himself for the last five months)

…It isn’t that he doesn’t want to help with cases —  honest, he does.

Fae knows he’d love to be back in the New Fiddleham streets. Hell, he might even enjoy speaking with Marlowe again. But ever since the battle with the Dire King… ever since his entire goddamn world shattered he passed the Sight on to Abigail, the idea of facing the world makes his stomach twist into knots and his throat clench until he can't breathe.

Instead of going out, he occasionally sorts through and organizes files while Abigail and Charlie run off to investigate. But if that isn't an option, which he often finds it isn’t, he typically spends the day in his chair with a cup of tea and a novel (enjoyable enough, but he can only read Wuthering Heights so many times) or he'll sleep the day away (the much preferred option —  it’s quiet, and he doesn’t have to think).

The thing is, when Jackaby was young, he adopted his job as a private investigator in order to put his role as the Seer to good use. It was his abilities that saved humans and creatures alike. Jackaby himself had been... a puppet, almost. As much as he loves being able to sleep, as much as he loves the lack of nightmares… he's nothing without the Sight.

Jackaby swallows around a thick lump welling in the center of his throat. His eyes flutter shut, his lips press together into a thin line.

“...Fine.”

The word comes out weaker than he intended, but if he’s being honest with himself, it really could never have come out any other way. What follows is a heavy silence that makes the wretched knots twist in his abdomen. His fingers dance impatiently at his side, and he nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot, hollowing his cheeks.

Hank finally breaks the silence, first with a short series of laughter, then with a hiccup. Then, finally: “What.... really?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Jenny drift towards him. He feels the weight of her palm on his shoulder. “You really don’t need to, dear,” she murmurs, squeezing once —  twice. The pressure is calming, and he leans into it ever so slightly.

When he looks up, he looks up at her; she almost seems to be more solid than usual. Jenny cocks her head, blinking at him and twisting her lips in uncertainty. Jackaby draws in a subtle but deep breath; holds it; releases.

“Of course I don't need to,” he agrees finally, plastering on a lop-sided grin. "But like you said, Miss Rook... time to relax a little."

At first, he tries to look Abigail in the eyes. But her stormy grey gaze cuts into him, and his heart plummets. Although he's beaming at her, he looks just over her shoulder. If she realizes this, she doesn't comment on it. Perhaps she's used to it by now.

At his side, Jenny makes a small noise in the back of her throat, giving his shoulder a gentle but insistent shake. He looks to her, hoping his eyes don't betray the hard rock that has formed in his stomach.

Her eyes search his; it always make him squirm when she does this. Before, his eyes were a locked door. Somehow, he lost that security, and became something of an open book. Before Jenny can find what she’s looking for, he twists on his heels, examining the options before him.

The left of the table offers him only one option. He tasted a drop of wine as a child; it had made him gag. Granted that was nearly 20 years ago now, but he still finds he's in no hurry to repeat the experience. The right side provides champagne, ale, and a half empty bottle of rum Hank brought. After a moment of consideration, Jackaby gestures to the bottle of ale that had started this mess in the first place.

Everyone likes beer, right?

Hank sits up a little straighter. It appears that he tries to adopt a stoic, or perhaps cautious look, but his eyes are dancing in anticipation. Jackaby can’t count the amount of times Hank has tried to get him to drink —  the hunter is finally getting his wish.

“You sure?” Hank asks gruffly, grabbing the bottle perhaps a little too eagerly. Jackaby starts to respond, but cuts himself off. Hank is already lurching to his feet and swerving around the corner of the table. Stopping by his side, he shoves the bottle into Jackaby's hand, then claps him firmly on the center of his back. The impact sends Jackaby stumbling forward; he catches himself on the table, huffing softly in amusement. He steadies himself, then looks down at the bottle in his hand, giving himself a final chance to back out.

If this had happened six months ago, he would never even have gotten this far.

He was a good person back then; he did things, he helped people.

What was he now? An empty shell?

If he scowls right now like he wants to, he suspects Jenny, or perhaps even Abigail, might snatch the drink out of his hands. They’re both watching him with furrowed brows —  he’s not used to people being able to read him so easily. No one ever used to be able to read him unless he wanted them to.

Well.

That’s not true.

She could.

In a few swift motions, Jackaby downs the entire bottle of ale.

[tiredcowpoke]

TITLE: Rise and Falls [4] PAIRING: Arthur Morgan/OC REQUEST: Unprompted. BLURB: Ida O’Donnell, no more than a petty thief, realizes that her life really comes in a series of firsts, and some unfortunate seconds and thirds. WARNINGS: None. NOTE: Here’s the fourth part of this and much earlier than expected. I was pretty motivated this weekend, and I’ve managed to plan some things out more so hopefully things might be coming a little more consistently if life and writer’s block allow! ALSO: since this is a series, I do have it posted on A03 for people who want to read the next chapters I post or missed a couple, feel free to ask for the link!

Ida’s first impression of camp was how big it was compared to what she had been told all those years ago by Dutch, and she couldn’t help at how impressed she was about how quickly they managed to pack it all up. 

Tents became poles and boxes, things being tucked and stacked away in caravans to head off into who knows where. She certainly didn’t, not completely. She’d heard about Dutch needing to move on from a failed investment out in their current part of the country, some debate between him and Hosea about where to go next. Toward some mountains, further into the heat and out west, Ida wasn’t sure and she tried not to pry into their conversations. 

She had been stationary for most of her life outside of the short bit she had managed to break away from the family. She could still see the figure of her father, stumbling over some of the rocks of his home when she had mentioned heading out on her own for a while. 

“Family’s all ya got, girl, and you’ll realize that soon enough when ya come crawlin’ back ‘ere. All we ever damn well needed and it’s gonna be on MY terms on if yer gonna be seein’ that again after all this.” 

The memory put a bitter feeling in her gut, but she didn’t get to linger in it long before Grimshaw had come up behind her, voice stressed and harsh. 

“Free ride’s over, missy! Time you get to work, there ain’t no time for standin’ around!” 

Much as the tone made her want to snap back at her, Ida found herself once again grateful to not have the distraction, so she just gave her a tight lipped (barely there) smile before nodding and heading toward where Tilly was working on packing up the wagon she had been sharing with them. Really, they had the place in wagons by the time Dutch decided they were going to head out toward some trading post Hosea was talking about. 

Blackwater, New Austin. 

Actually riding out toward their destination was another thing Ida had never really experienced. A group this big, moving around without much suspicion? Well, she had her doubts. She had rode out with her brothers every now and again, but it was rare for the whole family to actual leave home. Her father had made that known throughout her life, either too drunk or angry at them to stomach a ride with them all. 

So, Ida really was all too happy to ride along back on Tyrant, giving the horse the chance to move his legs and get some energy out. She was nervous about him, admittedly, and it didn’t mix all too nicely with her irritation over how this whole thing was pulling all her thoughts about her family to the surface. It felt that ever since she had agreed to join them, it opened up a gate to let all of that through and she was growing exhausted. 

However, for once, Tyrant seemed to relent to being ridden for the most part. There were a few shifts and almost tantrums, but for the most part he hadn’t decided to kick her off his back wholly for once. Really, he seemed like a sturdy horse, keeping up behind one of the wagons easily enough as Ida tried to keep up with the conversations that faded in and out around her as people moved up and down the line. 

It was busy but lacked chaos, it was something to watch in her opinion. 

The whole thing was new and much like she had learned through pick pocketing, you tend to learn quite a bit by just letting people move about you. She could see the hopefulness with the other women, Ida trying her best to give an opinion when asked but for the most part she wasn’t sure where they were going to end up. Wasn’t her place, she figured, considering how recently she agreed to ride with them all. She didn’t see Arthur, Dutch, or Hosea much, the three of them leading out in front with the wagon and seemed to be in conversation about something. 

Despite the uncertainty about the whole thing, she found herself just taking in everything as she leaned against the horn of Tyrant’s saddle and kept her eyes around herself as they continued to ride. 

“Goddamn bastard ‘f a man…” 

Abigail was all clenched teeth and harsh tugging against the thread and needle she had all but almost tore apart boxes to get to, the camp not settled by any means as Dutch had declared at their small stop in order to sort some things out. With weather and location permitting, they had stopped for a day or two, Ida wondering if it had to do with the newcomers that had appeared along their journey. A woman they had found along the road, and a man that Dutch had found at one of the local saloons before they had left. 

Ida figured she should consider herself among the two of them, considering her being yet another recent addition. Still, she had given an answer and she didn’t see much of a reason so far to change her mind on it. 

However, it appeared there was still no shortage of drama as Abigail had saught them out after a while, her young son in tow, who now took up drawing in the dirt with a stick as his mother seemed to be taking some aggression out on some unfinished project that she had found among their things. 

“He’s bein’ a drunk fool…” Tilly supplied around a small sigh, Ida keeping her head down as she just continued to listen as she worked on repairing a blanket for Tyrant’s saddle. 

“Oh, I know. It’s nothin’ new,” Abigail returned, “Just wish he’d not have to carry on like that in front of the boy, he’s broken his heart enough.” 

Ida found her gaze lifting toward Jack who was sitting on the ground, his back to them as he seemed to have his attention on what he was making in the dirt. Initially, she had been rather surprised to see a child wandering freely among them, most people greeting him like family. No doubt he had it rough in an environment like their current, but she hadn’t seen too much of his father. John, as she’d been introduced, but she had yet to really talk much with the man. 

It was a big group, it had her struggling to keep names and faces together, much less trying to form bonds with people who she had yet to know the personalities of. Though, it felt like the women had welcomed her in enough, outside of the distant Molly but...well, she had a feeling that was a different thing on its own. 

“Y’all do me a favor,” Abigail continued after a pause, Ida turning her gaze toward her a moment, “Don’t go runnin’ off to get married anytime soon, it’s not worth it.” 

Despite herself, Ida found a bitter scoff escaping before she felt eyes on her. She glanced up to some curious gazes, realizing that had been louder than she intended. 

“Oh, I’ve been down that road,” she explained, “I agree, it’s not something I’ve been looking to approach again.” Anytime soon. 

“You were married?” Mary-Beth asked from where she had been sitting behind them on a box, Ida not really enjoying the door this conversation was opening. Still, she spoke up…

“Well, no, but almost,” she replied, “Some men don’t need drink to act like fools. There’s...a story to it all, but it’s not one I enjoy going over, but I can say I can relate to the frustration. I was...sold on one idea presented to me when the reality was not even close to what I had been believing.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Abigail stated, shaking her head as she glanced back down at what she was fiddling with in her lap. 

“Oh, you’re both so cynical,” Mary-Beth stated, “Well...I guess I can understand why, but there’s nothin’ wrong with hopin’ for somethin’ better.” 

“It’s not some romance novel, Mary-Beth,” Karen stated, Ida shrugging. 

“It’s not her fault,” she replied, glancing over at Mary-Beth, “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with hoping for something better, but I know I’m not really hoping for it in that part of my life. I’m more hopeful about where it is we’re traveling to.” 

“Does this mean you’re stayin’?” Tilly asked, shifting so she could meet her gaze as Ida glanced over at her, “I mean, I noticed Miss Grimshaw pressing a little harder on you than before.” 

“I suppose,” Ida stated with a nod, “She told me...the free ride’s over, much as she made sure it didn’t really feel like one, but...well, I told Dutch and Hosea I would ride with them to this new town. New town, new opportunities.”

“Well you better be gettin’ used to new towns,” Karen stated, making Ida let out a short chuckle. 

“They were looking to hang me in the previous one, so it’ll be better than that regardless of how this turns out.” 

Would it? Well, time would only tell. Still, she had made some sort of decision regarding where she was wanting to stay, it wouldn’t do much use to doubt it completely. Still, she was a bit of a doubter by nature, considering how she was raised. Gut feelings had kept her alive thus far, the rest was left to turn over in her head with indecisiveness. It was something to work on, but…

Well, she never had such a wide range of company before. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed in some way. 

Still, she was hopeful about her situation, which was a first in a long while.

 As exhausted as she felt, it was hard not to really take a bottle when it was offered. 

Spirits were high, if not a little impatient, but Dutch moved about the space with confidence and his ambitions for them all were not hard to miss. He seemed to be happy with their direction, the uncertainty gone and it allowed for people to relax some. They’d be moving again within a day or so, Ida taking that statement as fact and found herself trying to keep her mind on that and not the feelings and memories the situation brought about, not to mention the earlier conversation with the other women. 

It wasn’t hard to take a bottle when it was offered. 

Still, it also wasn’t hard to fall into similar spirits as the people around her, sipping on the beer as she listened to the stories and songs. In moments like this, it was easy to forget that they were a group of outlaws, but she figured she didn’t have room to judge with all she had done. Really, it was rather enthralling to listen to the stories, believable or not. All she really had were the ones her brothers and father liked to boast about, and her own but...well, she had a hard time sharing as it were. 

She watched the faces around the campfire that had been set up, taking in the expressions and conversations. Ida found her gaze lingering on one of the more familiar faces, not having seen Arthur much throughout the move but she couldn’t help but watch as she seemed to be joking (or mocking) something Sean had mentioned. She had seen the odd amused look or chuckle tossed her why when they would have the chance to talk before, but the grin on his face this time was different. 

He looked relaxed, but tired at the same time. It was something that had her stare lingering for a moment too long before she caught herself, letting out a small sigh through her nose and finishing off her beer. She could feel something twisting in her chest and gut, Ida doing her best to shove the feeling down. 

Bidding a good night to Karen, whom she had been sitting beside, she made her way toward the wagon again where Abigail lay asleep with Jack at her side, the earlier conversation echoing in Ida’s mind as she let out a sigh. 

If only she was better and shoving aside her thoughts, it felt like in the dust of the wagons it kicked up more than just dirt and sand. 

Useless thoughts, anyway.

[rheyninwrites]

Old Friends Part 17

A week later, I still hadn’t gone back. I couldn’t face it. Either he cared for me and I didn’t deserve it, or he didn’t, and our friendship would probably be over. He called a few times, and I always declined it. I deleted his text messages without reading. When one of the gang tried to tell me what he had said, I left the room. I guess I wanted to be alone with the pain for a while. The truth was, I felt like I deserved it. Funny thought from someone who was claiming someone else did wrong.

After the first few nights, I semi-moved in with Sadie. She worked odd hours here and there, and that meant that almost any time she was home, she was sleeping. As long as I didn’t disturb her, I was fine, she said as much, frequently. There wasn’t much I did those days that could have disturbed her, though, unless I cried too loud. That was pretty much all I did. Other than that, I just sat in whatever room I was in, staring straight ahead. For a change of pace, I might lie down instead.

I had nightmares. Ones where Arthur rejected me in the harshest manner possible, or ones where he got hurt, or died. A few where I needed his help, and he laughed at me instead. I guess some people might have said that was a sign. I just looked at it as the punishment I deserved. I barely ate anything, no more than a couple of bites a few times a day, as a result, my pants would barely stay above my hips. I drank water only when my throat felt so dry I thought I would choke on it.

After the third week, Sadie, Tilly, and Abigail all grouped around me, almost begging me to talk to him. They said he wasn’t doing well either, losing weight and refusing to do anything other than sleep and go to work. Even then, his performance at work was slipping. They said he was lucky he was friends with his boss, or he might have lost his job by now.

Not for me. This is not about me. He wouldn’t care for me this much. He couldn’t.

Charles came to visit. He brought me some pencils and a sketch book Arthur had sent with him. I wouldn’t touch them. There wasn’t anything in me to draw, except a page full of black. I’d almost stopped feeling anything at all.

One by one, and in twos and threes, they visited me. Texted me. Talked to me. It was always the same thing.

“Please. He misses you. Just talk to him. Just see him.”

No. I can’t. I don’t deserve it.

I was punishing myself more than trying to punish him at this point. My world had broken down, shrunk to a single point, a single thought.

How dare I think I deserved to love him at all.

One day, Sadie kicked me out.

“You are just too much sadness right now. I can’t take it.”

I didn’t know where I would go. I didn’t care. I let Tilly put me in her car, drive me away. I just looked down, unfeeling, uncaring.

Maybe this is where I die, finally.

It looked a hell of a lot better than living right then.

The only thing I noticed when Tilly stopped was that Charles’ car was there. I heard the door close, my door open. I might as well have been a plastic doll, for all of the reaction I gave. She and Charles opened the door, pulling me to face them while they talked. They encouraged me to talk, open up. They said Arthur wanted to see me. Still no response. Why would I? What did it matter?

A distant front door opened, then closed. They’d left. Just me out there. Who cares? I let my eyes close and got used to the new silence. Front door opened again. Whisper of my name. Why did I look up? I don’t know. Maybe that part of me that automatically reacts to my name hadn’t died just yet. Maybe I recognized the voice.

Arthur.

All I remember is thinking that I must be dead, I had to be dead to be seeing him. But seeing him meant I was in heaven and I knew I didn’t deserve that.

Suddenly his hands were on me, all over me. Touching my sides, my face, my shoulders. Caressing my skin. Saying my name, saying other things to me, things I couldn’t understand because my brain was still trying to work out what was going on. Touching the back of my head, trying to pull it to his, trying to pull me into a hug.

I looked at him, but I didn’t see him, not really.

Tilly’s voice in the air.

“She’s been like that for weeks. Won’t eat. Sadie says she barely sleeps. We didn’t know what else to do.”

I felt his hands grabbing my face, bringing my forehead to his lips.

You’re not real.

It couldn’t be real, this feeling seeping into me again. I didn’t want it- feelings meant hurting, I didn’t want to hurt. I had more than enough hurt for a lifetime. My hands found his against my face, and he gripped them tight and brought them to his chest. More words.

“I know you can’t forgive me. I don’t either. But I got to say I’m sorry.”

He pulled me up into his arms, then guided me into the house. Thanking Tilly, thanking Charles. Charles closing the door, leaving us alone.

He walked over to where he had left me sitting on the couch, kneeling in front of me. For the first time, I looked up, taking in his face.

They hadn’t been kidding about him not doing well. His face was gaunt, all sunken cheeks and dark eyes , rimmed with red, probably like mine. He hadn’t brushed his hair, and I’d guess he’d probably been showering with the same frequency I had, which was not much. He must have been wearing the same clothes for several days. Just like me. He took my face in his hands again and started talking.

“I know I made a mess of things. It seems like I don’t know how to do nothing else. Look at what I done to you.”

He stopped, taking a few moments to trace his fingers over the lines of my jaw, my cheekbones. His calloused thumb ran across my dry and cracking lips.

“I made a real mess of things.”

My eyes met his, and I saw the tears threatening to spill over, his hands shaking. Slowly, like the drip of a faucet, feelings and awareness were returning.

“I know I don’t deserve you. If I didn’t know it before, then I do now, because what man worth anything would do this to someone. Least of all someone he loves.”

Loves?

“I know I don’t deserve you and I feel it every day, every time I see this scarred, ugly face I’m reminded of just how hard it’d be, how impossible that you could love me. Look at how beautiful you are, even in this state. Even when I have touched you and damn near ruined you.”

I slapped him, right across his face. I slapped him hard. Hard enough it rang out through the room and made my hand hurt. Hard enough that I could already see the marks on his skin. Feelings had come back in a giant rush, and now I was goddamn infuriated. I leapt from the couch and stood over him.

“You shut your goddamn mouth right now Arthur Morgan, I WILL NOT HEAR THAT KIND OF TALK!”

He stumbled backwards against the coffee table, then lifted himself to sit on it, opening his mouth to speak.

“Oh no you don’t, I ain’t finished with you yet. You say you love me? Really? Because if you can love me, and you can look at me and see beautiful, then I don’t know how you can look in a goddamn mirror and see anything else! You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, Arthur Morgan, and I ain’t just talking about the pretty packaging on the outside! So if you wanna love me, you’d better goddamn start loving yourself as much as I do!”

My energy was spent, an I flung myself backwards onto the couch, crossing my arms. I was still angry, unable to believe he could think that way about himself. Why couldn’t he see himself how I saw him? For as long as I’d known him, he’d been kind, always ready to help anyone who needed it. He’d been treated cruelly by his father, by life, but he was still soft, and in my opinion that made him all that much stronger.

He looked up at me, almost afraid, but not quite. Then he shifted down to the floor, kneeling in front of me like he had been before. Moving slowly, like he was afraid he could scare the moment away, he reached for me. With one arm he pulled me to him, while his other hand reached up to touch the side of my face, softly, like I might break. I leaned into him, sliding my hands over his chest, his arms, his neck. Placing my legs on either side of his, I slid towards him, aligning our bodies, and his mouth found mine.

Our mouths were dry, and our lips were cracked. To anyone else, the lack of showers would probably have been obvious . Neither of us had eaten anything substantial in weeks. Yes, there were things that still had to be talked about. But right then, the only thing either of us needed was each other.