#and dutch and hosea are barely concealed

[pinkysberg]

molly o'shea being a lesbian w comphet resonates w me. love dutch? no! deeply crave the affection and approval of this man? yes!!!

furthermore dutch van der linde being a closeted gay man? love molly? no! appreciate the way she looks next to him and makes him feel accomplished as a man? yes!!!

at the end of the day we all know who they'd rather be cozying up with and it is NOT each other.

[idyllghost]

I’m stoned but you wanna know a headcanon I have that has the potential to hurt; Arthur slipping up and calling Miss Grimshaw mom.

Like I just know in my heart during his upbringing Arthur would accidentally call Miss Grimshaw mom. With every question, her demands for him to wash up, and general concern for him it would just slip from his lips. A simple “Okay mom.” And an immediate embarrassment as Miss Grimshaw smiled. And it comes so naturally to call her that, because despite his limited memories of Beatrice Morgan something about the way Miss Grimshaw’s warm hands would stroke his hair during fevers and stern voice reminded him of her. She reminded him of something so intrinsically tied to home. Regardless, he’d get embarrassed over his slip ups but, Miss Grimshaw’s heart would soften every time it happened because in the end, just like Dutch and Hosea, Arthur was her son. It was evident to anyone who watched them closely for a while that she held a soft spot for Arthur; honestly for both her boys and young Tilly. She raised that boy right along with Dutch and Hosea. That very fact is what made what Dutch called ‘Arthur watch’ so hard for her.

Everyone was vaguely aware of Eliza and Isaac. It wasn’t ever really a secret. Arthur, despite being scared shitless at the prospect of having a child and sporadic visits, it was evident Arthur was proud to have a son. Which is why when Arthur came back early from visiting Eliza and Isaac everyone’s stomach sank. His eyes were hidden behind the shadow of his hat as the sun began to retire for the day. Arthur didn’t have to speak a word that night for everyone to gather what had happened; that he’d lost them.

He’d hidden in his tent for days, barely eating and only crying faintly in the night when everyone else should have been asleep. Eyes red rimmed and glazed as tired hands clumsily made coffee in the mornings. He’d also gotten careless during jobs, getting injured more frequently and spacing. Miss Grimshaw herself suspected that was only the surface of what was going on in his head, after all he was always a quiet child so bottling up his emotions so tight they’d struggle to surface would only be second nature. It’s knowing this that made Dutch implement ‘Arthur Watch’. A way to, as Dutch put it, “make sure he’s safe”. A way that had the tension in the room spiking and Dutch’s voice shaking as he explained it.

 It had to have been midnight with the way the moon glared in her face when Hosea shook Miss Grimshaw awake to replace him in watching Arthur. She was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes when she approached his tent, barely comprehending the sounds that faintly escaped it. But once the last bit of sleep left her mind she was able to fully hear it; fully understand. It was soft cries, muffled in an attempt to conceal them, and her heart broke. Her movements halted and her breath hitched as her heart broke at the pain she heard. But, she steeled herself, lifted his tent flap, and entered. She let out a soft and raspy“Arthur?” And she inevitably heard rustling and a mumbled curse as he lit his lantern. With the light illuminating his face she saw every sharp curve and edge, the thin skin below his eyes almost bruised from restless nights. The red rim around his eyes combined with their puffed up state. His cheeks ruddy and damp. 

“Oh Arthur,” before she realized it she was sitting on his cot and patting his shoulder and he slumped into her touch. His body and mind tired. She pulled him closer to her, a way reminiscent in the way she’d pull him to her when he was barely 15 and waking up screaming from night terrors. With his heavy head on her shoulder she combed through his hair with her hand. “It’s okay son, you’ll be okay.” With those words the floodgates opened as he sobbed into her shoulder and all she could do was hold him through the pain. He only lifted his head up to gasp for air and croak out, “It hurts… Mom it hurts.” And her heart broke even more as she held him closer to her. 

[nexionswild]

IN WHICH you reminisce on the romantic time you've spent with arthur during the aftermath of his death.

includes: arthur morgan x reader [red dead redemption x dangerously yours]

content warning: angst, major character death, widowed!reader. [GN]

a/n: oh my god, i'm so sorry.. i don't know i felt a little silly today. hoping ya'll will enjoy it.

word count: 1, 094

You will look into the face of passersby.

Your mind went blank after Arthur's death, and ever since that day, you've been aimlessly wandering from city, how long has it been after his death? You barely know what time it is, you just knew it was around the afternoon since the sun refused to set yet. You've been thirsting for revenge, you've longed for the death of Micah and Dutch after they were the sole reason for the gang to fall out like that. But was it really worth it? You'd tell yourself, yes of course it is. But in the end, it brings no one back. It doesn't bring Susan back, or Lenny, or Hosea, or Arthur. Your beloved, Arthur.

The annoying yet hard working cowboy you've come to love from the very core of your heart. The cocky bastard who'd make fun of your sardonic personality, but essentially admiring your confidence and enthusiasm.

— hoping for something that will, for an instant..

You believed that somehow, in some miracle magic, that he came back to you. That he survived his attack, that he made it out alive and is just waiting for you somewhere safe and sound. Somewhere warm, where you'd picture him peacefully drinking a cup of coffee as he sat on the rocking chair by a fireplace. But each time you looked into the eyes of a stranger or when you stopped to take a good look at someone, it wasn't him. He never returned. He will never return. You just couldn't accept it.

Bring me back to you.

You couldn't believe how incredibly lonely you felt each night you spent on your own, you couldn't even get to prepare your camping correctly because of how your hands were shaking in nothing but pure emotional agony, you were devoid of all comfort and joy. The only time you felt some kind of positive emotion was when John invited you to his wedding with Abigail for celebration, but you couldn't help and think to yourself: if he had more time, would we be married? Would we be dancing the way John sways with Abigail? Would we share our drinks and taste each other's food?

The lack of noises, the sounds of the crickets and animals of all species ruffling and jumping around your area were the only noises that filled that aching silence. Not the sound of laughter, or bottles clinking, or Javier's songs with the melody of his guitar in the back as he sang.

You will find moonlight nights strangely empty because..

And each time you'd think about Arthur, his name escaped your quivering lips, dry from how you've been dehydrating yourself and concealed any type of self-care treatment. You were miserable, beat up like an old dog. You wanted him back.

"Arthur."

Your voice echoed in the empty valleys that you've been camping in for quite a while. But nothing made you cry more than the awful silence of your environment, and it only made you bring your knees up to your face, embracing your legs with your arms as you dug your head in between them.

Passersby would've heard your sobs and sniffles, but you made sure you were quiet enough not to be spotted by anyone.

When you call my name through them, there will be no answer.

You missed the way he touched you so lovingly, as if you were his world, and all his care bestowed upon you made you feel special than any person in this god forsaken country. The idea of his cuddles would put your throbbing heart at ease as you thought about it, the way his muscular arms would keep you warm the way the campfire would make you melt like a puddle of lava. You missed how he'd teasingly press his lips against yours as a hum resonated through your intimacy, or how he'd land a few pecks on the nape of your neck before eventually leaving in the intention of gaining money, whether it'd be through bounty hunting, debt collecting or robbery. You didn't mind his wrong-doings, to you he was a good man.

He was a good man because he loved you like you were the only woman in the world, and he stared at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his, admiring your beauty and smile. He was a good man, because all he's ever known is the life of an outlaw and his gang, he was simply the consequence of growing up in a bad environment. He wasn't perfect, but he was the perfect amount of imperfect. And when he made you understand that you'd certainly be doing a mistake loving all over him, a little voice in your told you he may not be wrong. And he wasn't wrong. Not because of the way he treated you, but because he's plaguing your mind and thoughts like a disease. He's spreading all over you to the point where you'd feel body tense and your fingers getting numb.

He's the cowboy you love, oh so much.

Always your heart will be aching for me.

And while you've been traveling with no objectives or not purpose, you could only reminisce about those long roads you and Arthur had taken together. Then, you think about the time he told you to leave him while he would've been on his own against a bunch of your enemies.

He knew the outcome if you swooped in, trying to be heroic. He'd lost so much, he didn't want to lose you, and for his sake, you only ran because he told you to.

He told you to go and don't look back, yet you keep making the grievous mistake of always looking back, in hopes of seeing him. You can't stop looking back, because that's all you know. You only know how to remember and miss, you only relied on Arthur because he taught you everything you know, and now that you're left without guidance or a voice of reason, what else can you provide? How useful are you, now?

He's been reassuring you that you could be a use for something, and he kept including you in missions although you weren't a part of Dutch's plan, and now that he's gone, what are you? A sad widow?

And yet you still convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, because that's what Arthur wants you to think. That you did the right thing.

And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did, a brave thing.

[thenaughtynorth]

Untold Admiration

Javier Escuella was such a beautiful, yet extremely dangerous man. Evelyn certainly learned that the hard way.

Javier Escuella (RDR2) x original female character

Warnings: Violence, swearing, slow burn and yearning for each other, eventual smut

—

Chapter 4:

"Escuella?" Javier sighed at the mention of his name. He played around with a spoon in his oatmeal. He wasn't fully ready for a new assignment, not after what had happened the night before. His entire body was sore after the unnecessary fight he'd had with a Braithwaite. Not to mention the slight cuts he had gotten down his chest were stinging him with every move he made. The only positive factor was the fact that it was a constant reminder of his alone time with Evie - and the sight of her bare breasts, of course. Javier couldn't help himself as he grinned from ear to ear. "Javier?" He sighed again, "Yes, Williamson?" "Come rob a stagecoach with me" Javier was not in the mood - at all - but he needed to get away from camp, away from her. He wasn't sure what he'd do to her if he'd have to be around her all day. Robbing a stagecoach with Bill and Sean? What could possibly go wrong? Todo. Javier dumped his plate next to the wash station and went to saddle up his horse.

"So I shot the bastard right in the chest, I tell ya'!" Sean bragged, much to the displeasure of the company he was keeping. Javier would normally be quite annoyed after an hour of Sean's mindless blabbering, and he certainly would have been, if it wasn't for the alternative that waited for him back at the camp. He wouldn't have been able to get anything done back there. Not with her being so devilishly .. beautiful. Her long, black, and adorably frizzy hair, her golden caramel skin, and her warm and welcoming brown eyes. Her lips were full, and always slightly parted, ready to be kissed. Evie always bit her lip when she was thinking too hard or when she was in deep concentration. He couldn't stop picturing her, couldn't stop picturing her underneath him. He imagined how her eyes would look, when she was full of lust, or if she'd also bite her lip, when she was trying not to conceal pleasure. He wanted to touch her in all the right places and it was killing him. He was so thankful he was wearing his poncho, because he was rock hard for her.

Javier was distracted by his own thoughts, and only looked up to join the conversation, when he noticed the mention of her name. They had successfully robbed a stagecoach for 2,000 dollars, and they were all in a good mood. "Karen and I were a one time thing, she's too much of a handful for me, if you know what I mean" Sean cheekily joked, "but Evelyn! She's grown into quite a woman." "She's beautiful, I guess. She just ain't my type" Bill retorted back. Javier was sure it was because Bill thought she was too dark-skinned. He didn't care though, as it probably meant he could have her completely to himself, which was all he wanted. Evie wouldn't go for someone as coldhearted as Bill Williamson. But did that mean she wouldn't go for someone like himself? They rode back into camp, dismounting at the farthest hitching-post. "Because she's a mulatto?" Sean asked, "but the tits on her!!" "Enough!" Javier yelled, stepping closer to Sean with a threatening glare. "What?! You have to admit she's a sight for sore eyes. The things I'd do to her. I bet you she would take it like a good girl!" Sean teased him, Bill laughing behind them. Javier grabbed him tightly by his shirt and jabbed his knife to his throat. "I will cut your dick clean off your body if you ever speak that way about Evelyn again" Javier coldly whispered, "and then I'll feed it to you."

Javier was sitting on the edge of camp. He had already gotten reprimanded by Dutch and Hosea - even if they had found it a little bit funny. He wasn't embarrassed because he had threatened Sean, he was embarrassed because it was because of her. He should know better than to lose his temper over a girl; even if she was an amazing girl.. Sean was family and he probably owed him an apology. Bill and his racist ass? Not so much. Javier couldn't understand why he was so smitten with Evelyn. She was there when he joined the gang. She had simply always been there, so why was his affection for her blossoming now? He had always seen her as a girl, but he understood now that he was very wrong; she was a woman. A grown woman. It had been so long since he'd seen her in action, and he almost couldn't remember a time where she wasn't just one of the girls who helped around the camp. All he recalled was the horror that had spread all around camp when they'd brought her back, her body being all torn and open. He recalled the scene and remembered how Abigail Marston had grabbed her son, shielding him from the gore. She survived though, only god knew how.. He should have helped her more - he realized that, but it was all too late. He should have been there for her, he knew he should have! But the horror and blood had only reminded him of the place he once knew as home, and he had escaped camp until she was all better. It reminded him of the gruesomeness he'd witness in his hometown, and god forbid he'd ever have to experience something like that again. Javier had been selfish and terribly arrogant, thinking he was better than the rest of the gang. The truth was that he absolutely wasn't - he owed them his life. And after the previous night, he owed her his life.

He cursed himself for thinking about Evie all day, but he couldn't help himself, no matter how hard he did try. It was getting dark outside. He noticed her by the scout fire, chatting with Kieran and making arrows. She was always making arrows, Javier thought to himself. She looked beautiful. She was wearing black jeans that clung to her long legs and a red shirt that exposed a sneaky amount of her chest. He enjoyed seeing her like this, she looked so pleased. Her black hair was braided and she was wearing a worn hat, Arthur's old, Javier believed. Javier made his way over to the two of them. "Kieran," he greeted, "Evie". Kieran had a careful smile on his face, while Evelyn ushered him to sit down with them. Javier didn't mind Kieran - one of the only one's who didn't - but he wasn't too fond of Evie spending her time with him. Mierda, you're being selfish again, Javier thought.

"Something wrong, Javier?" He shook his head. But there was something wrong. He felt guilty. "Actually.. May I talk to Evie alone?" Kieran nodded and left the two of them to talk. Evelyn looked at Javier anxiously. "Okay, here goes," he nervously rubbed his sweaty hands together, "I'm sorry Evelyn. For not being there for you when you were almost killed. I should have. We're all a big family, but I took a step back. I probably made everything extremely hard - much harder, in fact - for everyone. I don't hate you. I never have. The whole episode reminded me of my country and I didn't want to deal with such a thing again. I'm sorry, I really am." He genuinely spoke to her, forgetting all about his masculine and vain façade. She looked at him with such softness in her eyes, he almost melted. "I didn't know it was so hard on you, Javier.." "I was an ignorant asshole. I was selfish and arrogant, and I'm sorry" "Thank you, Javi. For the apology. But I don't think you're an asshole. Selfish maybe. Arrogant.. Yes." She laughed, accidentally snorting in the process. Javier chuckled at her words, "In my defense, we're all a bit selfish and arrogant!" "Excuse me," she joked, "I am NOT arrogant! Sometimes I'm selfish, but never arrogant". She stuck her hand out for him to take, "Now c'mon, let's join the others". Javier was relieved beyond words. He took her hand and they walked the short distance back to the main campfire. Evelyn let go of his hand, when they approached the others, making Javier frown. He had expected she would let go of his hand. What he didn't expect, was her leaning up and whispering in his ear; "I'm only arrogant in bed."

All chapters

[joanie-writes]

Daniël

Calling Dutch by his real name.

Dutch x GN!Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+

Word Count: 596

"Really? I never knew Daniel was your real name." You spoke softly, your hand overtop of Dutch's that lay on your knee, "Well, now you can say you know, my dear." He smiled at you, the afternoon sun hitting his amber coloured eyes beautifully. "But nobody calls me that, and I'm pretty certain only you and Hosea know." Dutch says, causing you to smile, "I like it. Maybe I'll start calling you by your real name." You say, causing Dutch to chuckle, "There is no need for that, darling."

"Daniel." You call from your secluded sowing spot. It had been a few days since Dutch had informed you of his real name, and at that moment, it just sort of slipped from your lips. Dutch laughed as he looked over towards you, making his way over. "My dear, I thought I told you that isn't really my name." "I know," you say still smiling, "I really didn't mean too, just sort of happen." He chuckled again and shook his head. "Anyways, Daniel, what are doing to busy yourself today?"

You had just finished dinner, and now sitting around the crackling fire with John, Hosea, and Javier. The mood in the camp was rowdier than usual, most of the gang a bit tipsy over at the other side of camp. Javier strummed his guitar as you sipped your own drink. A little loose, but still together, you chatted with Hosea. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dutch finally slide out of your shared tent, heading over to you. "Evening folks." Everybody around the fire nodded at him in greeting as he places both his hands on your shoulders. You lolled your head back against him, smiling brightly up at his face. "Daniel, I keep telling you that you need to come out here and relax more often." The other men's attention perk up to the two of you at the unfamiliar name. John's face slowly turned to a grin, "Daniel, who the hell is Daniel?" John says, barely containing his scratchy laugh. Dutch shakes his head, "y/n I said you don't need to call me that, my name is Dutch." "Oh but Daniel is just so cute!"

Your eyes were shut and your legs were wrapped around Dutch as he rocked into you at his usual pace. His face was pressed into the crook of your neck, concealing his moans slightly. "Oh y/n, you feel wonderful." Your bated breath was causing a lack of words from you, only able to pant and moan softly. You ran your hands down Dutch's warm back, purely focused on the pleasure you were experiencing. With a final thrust, and a heel to his leg, you unraveled, "Yes, mm Daniel, yes!" With that, Dutch was spent. With both of your chests still rising and falling faster than normal, Dutch spoke, "I suppose, I don't mind you calling me Daniel." You grinned over at him, "Daniel, you are the only man who can make me feel like that."

Hearing Dutch chew out poor Kieran was really getting on your nerves, that kid didn't deserve that torture. Standing at Abigail's tent where you were previously talking with her, you watched Bill pick up a pair of tongs, and Dutch rip down Kieran's bottoms. That was the last straw for today, quickly storming over you grab Dutch by the sleeve, "Daniel van der Linde, you better lay off this poor boy!" Nearly the whole camp heard and was now observing the action, and holding back smiles at Dutch's real name.

[strandsofgold]

a/n: my first attempt at writing humour – i think it turned out pretty well. this stems from me just... getting a random idea for how arthur might have acquired copper, writing like 40 words of dialogue in a document, closing that document, and then not touching it for another two months.

rating: general audience.

warnings: none.

How Arthur adopted Copper and the fun Hosea and Dutch got out of it.

How Does One Go About Getting A Dog (2.6k words)

How does one go about getting a dog without angering the two outlaws who have more or less adopted you at this point, and it’s not long since you were on thin ice with at least one of them, but you really want a dog, but you’re not really sure how your new mentors will react to it?

At least that’s what Hosea figures must have been the question going Arthur’s head, what with the way he’s sneaking into camp late at night, back hunched, steps carful, and a sack thrown over his shoulder – a sack that seems to move on its own and emit faint sounds of suspiciously dog-like whimpers from within.

Hosea and Dutch watch this display with barely concealed amusement. Dutch snickers into his hand and Hosea shakes his head, lighting a new cigarette and gazing at Arthur through the sputtering flames of the campfire. He may only be fifteen years old, but he’s been with them for a bit over a year and he should know better by now.

”What’cha got there, son?” It’s Dutch who decides to end Arthur’s charade, calling out in a low voice from where he’s sitting beside Hosea, an unlit cigar caught between curled fingers.

 Arthur freezes on the spot. The sack on his back does not. He looks like a deer caught in the light of a lantern; eyes wide, stock-still, acting as if no one will notice him if he’s just really quiet.

”Nothin’,” he says eventually.

”Mhm.” Hosea watches unconvinced as the sack makes a rather violent movement as if further awakened by Arthur’s voice, and a loud WOOF rings out between their tents. ”Wanna explain why nothing barks?”

Arthur flushes, scarlet spreading over his nose and cheeks. Hosea can barely make it out though, what with the campfire being the only source of light and Arthur’s face more sunburned than anything else. He has a hat, an old, worn gambler hat that he keeps among his belongings, but he never really wears it, only stares at it with… hatred? Fondness? Sorrow? He seems to give it a new look every day.

“Uhh.”

Arthur looks near ready to combust and it’s then Dutch decides to put him out of his misery. Quietly, Hosea curses him; he would’ve been more than happy to roast the kid a bit more.

“Listen, Arthur, if you want a dog, that’s fine, but it’s gonna be your responsibility. I want no… excrements in my tent, got it?” Dutch sounds stern but Hosea can tell that he seems rather fond of the idea.

“Yes– yessir,” Arthur manages to stammer out, and Dutch nods, no doubt satisfied with his affirmation.

Hosea however keeps watching him, eyes slanted, and takes a drag from his cigarette; lets smoke out between barely parted lips.

“AnywayI’llcatchyoulater!” Arthur exclaims, mouth working so fast he’s stumbling over words and tangling his tongue before running off to his tent.

Dutch bites the tip of his cigar off, spitting it into the grass and placing the readied tobacco between his teeth. Hosea extends his cigarette toward him. He grabs his wrist, a gentle grasp that feels more like a caress than anything else, and brings the cigarette to his cigar, using the orange ember of Hosea’s tobacco to light his own.

He casts a sidelong glance at Hosea and smirks. “Why’re you looking all suspicious?”

“I don’t think he’s being entirely honest with us.”

“What? You think he’s got a raccoon in there or something?”

Hosea shakes his head. “I’ve got no idea.”

He’s never really been a big fan of dogs, not that he has anything against them, he just thinks them too… dependent. You have to put so much energy and time into a dog, at least if you want it raised right.

“I had a dog once, you know,” Dutch says, no doubt in order to break the silence – he does not like silence, Hosea has learned.

“Really?”

“Yeah, when I was a child. A bloodhound.”

Hosea snorts. “Somehow that’s not really the dog I imagined.”

“I get that. Probably thinking I was gonna say golden retriever or a breed of that kind.” Hosea nods. Something about the overexcited nature and playfulness of a breed like that – the perfect match for someone like Dutch. “Nah, old Bella was both fierce and loyal, and intelligent to boot. In all honesty, she’s the reason I decided to go out on a limb with you.”

Hosea looks up at Dutch at that. He finds him smiling wistfully, a playful glint in his eyes.

“You reminded me of her in a way,“ he continues, and Hosea shakes his head, and chuckles, ready to dismiss the compliment. But Dutch beats him to it. “What with the long face and the wrinkles.”

“Very funny,” Hosea responds, voice dry and face deadpan.

There are a few seconds of silence before they both burst into laughter. Dutch lays an affectionate hand just above Hosea’s knee. It feels like home.

It is home.

Maybe a dog will be a nice addition to it.

In the morning, Hosea finds Arthur a few steps away from his tent, cradling a small, brown puppy. Its tail is wagging away, hitting Arthur’s arm as it attempts to crawl out of his embrace and up his torso towards his face. It looks almost desperate with the way it claws at Arthur’s chest but with that excitement puppies have when they’re experiencing new things and places and people.

“What’re you gonna call him,” Hosea asks, trailing a hand down the puppy's back before placing it in front of its nose, letting it sniff him. It licks his knuckles.

“I dunno,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t look entirely there. His eyes are darting all about the place, like he’s searching for something.

Hosea’s still got that feeling that he’s hiding something from him, but he brushes it off; no point worrying about it. They figured out he brought a dog to camp pretty much immediately. What else could he have possibly done without them noticing?

“No matter what you come up with, I’m sure it’ll be good.” Arthur smiles a bit at that, a look of pride passing over his visage for barely any time at all, but it was there and Hosea is happy for it.

Arthur is always so sullen and serious and when he’s not that he’s angry. But it’s times like this, those glimpses of the bright, proud boy Hosea knows is under that damn near constant scowl and dirt-covered face that make all the trouble he causes worth it, wild delinquent that he is.

“It’s a vizsla, right?”

Arthur nods, absentmindedly scratching the puppy behind its ear.

“It’s a good fit. If I remember correctly, dogs like this have quite a lot of chaotic energy. Not to mention a clown streak.” They also have a strong desire to be around people but Hosea refrains from mentioning that. No point in riling Arthur up so early in the morning. “The two of you will be like two peas in a pot.”

Or, as it turns out, three peas in a pot.

A bark and the heavy, excited breathing of an entirely new puppy mingles with the breathing of the puppy in Arthur’s arms. From behind Arthur’s tent, a second, identical puppy skids along the ground, a bit unsteady on its feet as if disoriented, but quickly finds it footing. It lays its eyes on Arthur and barks with excitement, leaping towards him, tongue out and tail wagging almost violently. It bumps its head into Arthur’s ankle and begins clawing at his leg, no doubt a call to be taken into his arms same as its sibling.

“Arthur,” Hosea begins, choosing his words carefully, “you wanna explain why I’m seeing double?” He’s barely finished his question before a third dog springs forth, this time through the opening of Arthur’s tent. “Or triple?”

“Well, see, the thing is–“

Arthur is interrupted by barks once again, except they’re not from any of the three dogs in their presence. Instead, the sound appears to come from Arthur’s tent. And, one by one, in a way that is no longer surprising, three more excited puppies run out. They’re playing with each other, tails wagging, playfully biting at each other, and trying to knock each other to the ground.

It would be adorable if they were in camp under different circumstances.

Hosea takes a deep breath, breathes in and out in a slow calculated way he knows Arthur has come to associate with him being disappointed. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, enunciating every single word.

“Why do we have six puppies running around our camp?”

Arthur stares at him with wide eyes, a sort of panicked look on his face.

“Six?”

Hosea blinks at him, deadpan, can feel a vein in his forehead beginning to throb. “Are there supposed to be more?” He knows there is disbelief in his voice, a hint of anger too probably, and he’s about to ask further questions, but then–

“ARTHUR!”

Dutch’s voice booms across camp and suddenly Arthur looks very bashful and apologetic. He’s blushing; it’s visible even beneath the sunburn, and the tips of his ears damn near glow from the embarrassment he must be feeling from being caught in this little con of his.

“…Maybe.”

Dutch emerges from his tent, holding a wiggling puppy by the nape. It’s breathing hard, its tongue hanging out.

“This thing was eating my boots!”

The puppy licks him, leaving behind a stripe of saliva along the length of his face, and lets out a happy bark.

Hosea can pinpoint the exact moment Dutch notices the six other puppies in front of him; his upper lip twitches, his eyes narrow, and he sets the puppy on the ground. Immediately, it runs for Dutch’s tent, tail wagging away, and Hosea imagines that it must be the excitement at the prospect of once again getting its teeth into Dutch’s boots.

Dutch, however, pays it no mind. His gaze jumps between all the puppies sniffing the ground around Arthur and the one in Arthur’s arms. He sighs.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You don’t understand, they was gonna leave ‘em all in the street!” Arthur’s eyes are big and wide, his mouth morphing into a little pout, lower lip out and damn near trembling. “And I couldn’t just leave ‘em! They was gonna starve if I didn’t bring ‘em!”

And that is so classic Arthur – getting himself into trouble all because he tried doing something good. It’s almost as classic as getting himself into trouble because he wanted to hurt someone. Or himself.

The effect is immediate. Dutch’s features soften and Hosea doesn’t even bother stopping himself from rolling his eyes – they’ve been through this enough times by now for him to know exactly where this is going.

“Oh, Arthur.”

Yup.

Hosea watches with exasperation as Dutch’s annoyance melts away; like a tower built from rotten wood, his resolve collapses under the weight of his own softness.

So, before any of them get any good ideas, Hosea interrupts, shattering the soft acceptance that has no doubt begun forming in Dutch’s mind. “One. You get one.”

“But Hosea!”

Arthur looks equally exasperated and panicked as he hugs the puppy in his arms closer to his chest.

“No, no but’s. We’ll find homes for the rest. Pick one.” Hosea is firm on this; has to be.

“Hosea’s right, son.” Dutch pats him on the shoulder. “We can’t take care of all these dogs, cute as they are.”

When Hosea mentions finding homes for them, Arthur visibly relaxes, shoulders falling, head lowering a bit.

“You promise we’re gonna get them all someplace safe?” And he just looks so goddamn earnest and vulnerable, and Hosea can barely constrain himself from wrapping his arms around him. When both he and Dutch nod, Arthur nods too, as if convincing himself of their honesty, and says, “Okay.”

It takes a few weeks, but eventually they manage to give them all away to a few different families looking for new additions to their homes. Hosea and Dutch have an easy time selling their qualities as hunting companions, what with vizslas actually being a breed used for hunts.

In the end, there is only one left: a male whose favourite pastime seems to be gnawing away at Dutch’s boots.

Something he’s currently doing.

Dutch, with a purple book in hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply.

“Out of all of them, why did you have to pick the one with a thing for leather?”

Arthur shrugs and says, “I dunno, thought it looked like he liked you.”

Dutch snorts and shakes his head while Arthur attempts to wrench the puppy away from the boots.

“You’re gonna have to replace them for me. You know that, right?”

Arthur nods, finally managing to get the puppy to let go, and looks a little bashful. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Same goes for me,” Hosea interrupts, a newspaper under his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s watched the conversation unfold from a few feet away. There is something so… domestic about it all. The fondness in Dutch’s voice, the curve of joy that is Arthur’s mouth – it is somehow everything Hosea never dared imagine he would ever have. “If he ruins any of my things, you’re paying for new ones. He’s your responsibility, Arthur. You gotta raise him right.”

He takes a sip of coffee as Dutch leaves to read someplace quieter. Arthur lets the puppy go once again, but this time he sends him in the direction of Arthur’s own tent. Copper happily skids along, damn near stumbling over his own feet.

“You figure out what you wanna call him yet?”

Arthur rubs his chin and squints at the puppy. As Hosea follows his gaze, he sees the way the sun reflects in the puppy’s brown, bronze-like coloured fur. He looks almost golden. Very beautiful.

“I’m thinking Copper,” Arthur says eventually, and Hosea nods in approval.

“That’s a good name.”

Arthur smiles. “A good name for a good– no, Copper, don’t eat the maps!”

Hosea snickers as Arthur darts after the puppy who’s got a set of old, worn maps between his teeth.

When he sits himself down beside Dutch, back against a tall tree, Dutch closes his book and puts it in his lap. They watch as Arthur chases after Copper, unsuccessfully trying to get him to drop their maps from between his teeth. It’s hilarious watching Arthur fumble and stumble in his desperation, especially because Hosea and Dutch already agreed that they were going to throw those very same maps away and get some new ones – they just haven’t told Arthur yet.

They’ll probably wait a bit longer.

“Funny,” Dutch says eventually, a ghost of a smirk on his face. He’s not looking at Hosea, but it’s apparent that he’s trying to start a conversation and from the glimmer of mischief in his eyes, Hosea can tell that he’s not talking about Arthur.

“What?”

“If I recall correctly, ‘he’s your responsibility’ is exactly what you told me when I first tried to convince you that keeping Arthur around would be a good idea.”

Hosea feels his eyebrows furrow.

“And what of it?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Dutch puts his hands up in front of him in mock defense. “Just saying that if history repeats itself, it’s not gonna be long before you care for that dog just as much as Arthur no doubt does.”

Hosea hits him with his newspaper and Dutch laughs, boisterous and loud.

Deep down, Hosea knows he’s right.

[sentanixiv]

Minding His Manners [AO3] Young Arthur seems a real handful, but his temper is only one challenge of many that he seems to take strange fascination in making harder on all of them. Today, it’s the carrots in the stewpot and Susan Grimshaw won’t have no Arthur Morgan avoiding eating his vegetables. Try her.

Mild smack upside the head; not a constant theme in story or his life.

Inspired by the gang at Safe Haven chatting about Arthur’s stubborn unwillingness to learn things that he’d be better learning, like how one ought to eat all their vegetables.  Arthur’s about 15 in this little jaunt.

Metal scraped metal, the dredges of stew dragged about the bottom of the plate as Arthur finished chewing the last chunk of meat he'd found hid amidst root vegetables and thick broth. With his elbows rested against the cracked edge of the thrice-built-and-broken excuse for a table their camp had, he was able to hunch over the remnants and let his shadow conceal the bits he ain't interested in eating. Way he figured, he'd be able to sneak it all off the table and into Copper's over-enthusiastic maw the minute Hosea and Dutch started in on one of their post-dinner discussions about some job or philosophy or something what'd, no doubt, go right over his thick skull. 

Hell, half the time it seemed he used that droning debate to hit the hay, 'cause within minutes of tryin' to pay attention, he'd invariably have either a headache from trying to make sense of it or he'd be full passed out. Ain't made sense to him, how two grown men could talk hours about complicated schemes and them things Dutch called aye-dee-all-oh-geez, not when Arthur figured drawing a gun on a couple idiots to alleviate them of their valuables done just as solid a job at filling the camp box as the cons Hosea liked.

Mind that pulling a gun on a couple idiots to alleviate them of their valuables'd been how he ended up with this odd group in the first place.

Arthur scratched at his chin, the barely there and scattered stubble scratching right back at him. Damn well refused to grow into a beard or a moustache or nothing, and Dutch always told him to wait, because soon enough he'd be older and shaving off all that hair'd be the chore over not having it, but what did he know? Aside from too damned much and-

"Arthur Morgan, there had better be no food left on that plate!"

Shrill and firm, Susan's voice had him sitting up ramrod straight, her will the one he'd learned first to heed because there weren't no disobeying her. Dutch'n'Hosea both heeded her when it came to the matters of camp and she ruled with an iron fist and, some days--

SMACK!

"Crissake!" he hissed, head ducked forward under the force of her palm connecting with the back of his head. Arthur raised his hand to protect it, trying real hard to glare at her, but her eyes were unwavering steel against the fiery fight in his own.  "I ain't done nothing!"

Susan Grimshaw stood next to him, arms crossed and eyebrows arched up in clear challenge of his protest, a glance to the plate that'd been revealed when he sat up straight, too much food left in it.  "That is exactly the problem," she informed him, pointing to the remains of his dinner.  "You are not a wild animal, young man. You can and WILL eat everything on your plate. If you don't, then don't you go expecting any of us to give you food when you belly ache about being hungry again in an hour."

Starched and scolding, her words, and he felt the warmth of embarrassment flood his features when he realized Hosea and Dutch were watching them, conversation suspended under the efforts of not chuckling at this treatment. Spitfire and troublemaker, they called him, near untameable, but damned if Grimshaw weren't something dangerous that even Arthur weren't fool enough to challenge.

Much.

"You know I ain't like any of them orange things," he tried, shoulders hunched up as he rubbed the back of his head where it hurt.

"Those 'orange things' are called carrots and they are better for you than that whiskey I watched you stealing from the wagon last week."  Relentless, Susan took no prisoners when it came to putting Arthur, a real handful as he neared fifteen, back in his place.  Seemed that included putting light to the indiscretions what'd maybe seen him meet his first and worst goddamned hangover ever.

"Did you drink that whole bottle?" Hosea's concern cut in, his eyes narrowed as he looked Arthur over.

"Now that explains why our boy looked so worn out," Dutch commented to Hosea, as though it weren't more than passing fancies about the weather that they were talking to.

Arthur glared at Susan for the exposure and made a point of picking up his fork and spearing one of them 'orange things' on the tines of it. Then, opening his mouth real wide, he put it in and chewed loudly to show that she'd gone and won this round, onl--

The woosh of air past his ears said he'd barely avoided another smack.

"Mouth closed, Arthur," Hosea remarked, tone lighter that time as Arthur bowed forward to keep from being struck again. "I do believe Miss Grimshaw would have you know this isn't some barn. We expect some manners around here. Not many, but some."

[redeadepression]

Men, Not Books | John Marston x Abigail Roberts Marston

~~~~

Relationships: John Marston x Abigail Roberts Marston Characters: John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston Words: 6037 Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Past Prostitution Warnings: Heavy angst, mentions of past child abuse

Summery: Abigail can read John like an open book. But on this particular night there is something in his eyes that she can't understand and it scares her.

~ Basically just an excuse to get all my feels about John being emotionally fragile but never showing it, out on paper. This story is separate to all of my other John/Abi works. I consider the characters in this story to probably be as close to canon as I've ever written. So enjoy!

The fact that John is so ‘expressive’ was inspired by this post and I would like to thank this post for bringing John’s erratic stride to my attention.

~~~~

Abigail Roberts could not read.

It was a well-known fact that was established early on in her time with the Van der Linde gang.

Letters and symbols bounced around the page in front of her eyes and no amount of tutelage had ever improved her grasp.

She had learned to live with it. Deciding that she didn’t need to know what the words said as long as she could look through the pictures.

The books that had pictures anyway.

She often borrowed books from Hosea. Flipping through them and spending ages staring at the pages despite not understanding them. It was a nice distraction from the goings on of the camp.

Abigail sighed languidly, leaning back against the wall atop her bed at Shady Belle. The jagged hole in the wall behind her snatching at the hair of her bun and causing her to growl in protest.

She placed the book she had been looking at on the bed beside her and twisted awkwardly to untangle herself from the broken wood. Sighing in exasperation as she removed the ribbon holding her hair in place and let it fall around her shoulders.

She raked her fingers through is carefully, trying to remove the knots without needing to get up and find a brush.

Jack was sleeping peacefully on the floor beside her and she’d prefer not to disturb him if she could help it.

She felt her ears prick as footsteps on the stairs caught her attention. Heavy boots that she knew belonged to one of the three men sleeping in the top story of the old house alongside her.

She knew it was John from the sound of his footsteps. Spurs jiggling as he stepped hard against the floor without care for anyone that might be sleeping below.

Dutch had a strong gait and Arthur was a bulky man that found it hard to be quiet. But no one else walked quite like John. The way he put his hips into his stride. Feet landing purposefully but barely picking up again as his heel scraped each stair with his step.

For a fleeting moment she thought about feigning sleep. Not really in the mood to speak with him and unable to put her finger on why.

She decided against it. Instead brushing out the crinkles in her nightshirt before pulling her hair back into a loose pony tail and waiting patiently for John’s heavy steps to make their way passed her. The old door creaking as he pushed it opened, stepping inside and catching her eye as she looked to him with disinterest.

He stared at her for a second, seeming shocked to find her there.

Abigail frowned at the look on his face. He should not have been surprised to find her in bed at this hour.

Something was wrong.

She opened her mouth to speak and was alarmed when he started to move towards her. Stepping carefully over Jack and settling himself on the edge of the bed in front of her.

He stared at the hem of her nightshirt, not making eye contact as Abigail pushed herself into her knees and inched towards him.

Frightened.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, concern in her tone at the look in his eyes.

He was silent. Her anxiety increasing exponentially with every second of silence.

John slowly reached out, taking her hand in his and resting them together in her lap without speaking. Abigail swallowed audibly, her frayed nerves screaming for him to talk.

“John?” She asked eventually, urgent. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He answered with a small shrug, exhaling shakily as he continued to stare at the loose threads on the hem of her shirt.

The furrow of Abigail’s brows deepened as she squeezed his hand tightly in hers and waited for him to say more. Her heartrate dropping slightly as she let go of her breath.

No one was dead at least.

She realised as she looked him up and down. John was a man of few words. He was straightforward when it came to giving bad news. Short and to the point. No dancing around the truth if he knew it to be absolutely correct.

Still, she was concerned.

It wasn’t like him to want to be this close to her. Usually, he could barely stand the sight of her. It was only recently that he had moved herself and Jack back into his living quarters and even then, they hardly said a word to one another.

“What’s wrong?” She asked again, softer. Her free hand coming up to tenderly push the messy hair out of his face. He didn’t flinch away as she expected him to. Her tender touch rousing something inside him as he leaned toward it with enthusiasm.

She let her hand fall to his forehead, subconsciously feeling for a fever as he rested against her palm.

Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well.

He wasn’t usually one to show his vulnerability if he could help it. But he did have a certain childish quality to him when he’d been struck down by sickness.  

He didn’t feel any warmer than normal.

Slowly she removed her touch and let her hand fall back to her lap. Surprised when John leant forwards. Resting his forehead on her shoulder and sighing deeply as he closed his eyes.

Abigail wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t embraced her in months. Not that she’d have let him if he’d tried. She was still pissed off about being treated like a burden.

“John?” She asked in quiet exasperation as he changed his position to nuzzle at her neck. “What is this?” She asked, tone gentle as he paused his ministrations and she felt him sigh deeply against her pulse point.

“I don’t know.” He whispered, his free hand slowly slipping around her waist as he inched closer once more. “I don’t know…” He repeated softly, eyelashes fluttering against her jawline as he inhaled sharply.

He let go of her hand suddenly and she felt it brush past her cheek before it joined his other hand, locking her into a hug just below her chest. He buried his face in her shoulder abruptly, eyes closed against the fabric.

John sniffed softly, a sound she had heard a thousand times before but never truly in this context. She licked her lips, tongue sucking silently on her teeth before she dared to glance to her side.

She couldn’t see much of John from her angle. A dirty mop of black hair obscured her vision. Hiding his face from her and rendering her useless at understanding what exactly was going through his mind.

Abigail may not be able to read literature, but she could read John like the back of her hand. He had always been an open book to her. Showing what he was thinking plainly on his face without ever having to speak. Keeping his emotions locked up deep inside despite the situation. Fearing if people found out that he felt things, he would be labelled weak.

But that had never stopped her from understanding. The way his eyes sparkled when he knew he was about to best someone or the way his lips quirked ever so lightly when he thought someone was being an idiot. A simple scrunch of the nose telling her his real feelings on the food he was consuming.

She could read his mood from across the camp if she had to. Knowing full well exactly how he was going to respond at any given moment by the different ways he cocked his brows.

But this was unique. Something was off and it scared her that she couldn’t read him immediately when he’d entered the room. The look in his eyes was close to fear. Hence her strong reaction to his silence.

She’d seen true fear in him once before. As he’d been searching for Jack at Clemen’s Point. He had told her he was sure it was fine. The panic in his eyes screaming to her that he didn’t believe that. The way his lips had been a thin line before he’d told her that they would find him. Eyes flicking ever so briefly out over the miles of lake they were camped next to.

The small swallow that he had thought he’d concealed. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed ever so slightly as he’d taken a moment to breathe.

The shake in his exhale.

She had known from the second she’d seen his face that he believed the boy was dead.

Drowned or taken by coyotes.

He had never needed to speak a word to strike such white-hot terror into her heart.

Abigail was brought back to reality abruptly as John’s hand curled in her shirt. His knuckles scraping lightly against the small of her back as he pulled the fabric taught. Unmoving otherwise and causing another thorn of worry to settle in the pit of her stomach.

It hadn’t been fear that she’d seen in his eyes. But something close to fear.

Perhaps sadness. She mused as she moved her hands to stroke lightly up and down his sides.

He shifted under her touch, breath hitching momentarily before he managed to return to a normal rhythm.

Abigail smiled to herself, knowing he could not see. She knew that sound well, although it had been a long time since she had heard it.

John always had some measure of sadness in his eyes. It was the first thing she’d noticed about him when they’d met. The way he looked at her, with wide, expressive eyes filled with sadness. He reminded her of a kicked pup.

At the time she’d found it endearing.

But she had soon learned where all that sadness had stemmed from. Mostly filled in by other camp members and a little from John himself after a few drinks. He’d had it rough, same as her. But he never could quite shake the sorrow that was tied to abusive childhood like she’d managed to. It followed him into adulthood and lorded over every happy moment of his life.

He never spoke of it. Never intentionally brought attention to the way he felt.

He had his feelings under lock and key. Not even the drink could fully open him up to his grief.

Abigail’s hands wandered slowly up his sides and around to his back. Petting him softly with delicate strokes up and down his spine and around his shoulder blades.

She felt him loosen under her touch. Not realising how ridged he had previously been as she felt him start to sink lower. Melting against her like a candy on a hot day.

“You okay?” She asked, deciding to try one more time to gently prod it out of him. She felt him shrug once more and she resigned herself to never knowing what had gotten into him. Leaning her head against his head perched on her shoulder, as she heard him whisper his response.

“Lodnhly.” He mumbled, barely a word as she frowned, trying to understand what he’d said.

“What?” She asked candidly, hands pausing as she felt him sigh heavily under them. This time speaking a little louder as he answered.

“Just… Lonely.” He said quietly, sounding strained by the admission.

“Oh…” Abigail breathed softly. Unsure what to do with the information she had so desperately wanted. John didn’t seem like the kind of man to feel lonesome. Despite his sad eyes he spent most of his time laughing by the fire with the other men in camp. Always heavy on the drink as he stumbled back to his bedroll at some ungodly hour.

She felt John begin to tense again in her arms and felt she needed to say something more. Opening her mouth to speak but closing it again after a while when she realised that for the first time in a long while, he had stumped her.

She’d truly had no idea what he’d been feeling and if she’d had to guess, she would have even put constipated several spaces above lonely.

John let go of her shirt abruptly, pulling away and breaking out of her arms with ease as he shuffled slightly away so they were completely separate once more. Head bowed as he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and waited for her to speak.

He had never opened himself up to her like that in his life. Never opened up to anyone like that at all, and he knew that she was acutely aware of that fact.

He twisted his hands against the mattress, feeling shame bubbling up inside of him as Abigail continued to stay silent. He’d considered that she might not know what to say and he’d been prepared to reassure her that she didn’t need to say anything. Nothing she could say would make him feel better anyway.

But in the moment he felt sick at the thought of her not replying. Both sitting there in silence until one of them plucked up the courage to leave the situation. He needed her to speak. He was desperate for her to say something.

Anything.

His heart raced.

Just speak.

He silently begged her, heart in his throat.

“Why?” Abigail asked clumsily, making him exhale the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

She watched nervously as he tensed at the question. Seeming to relax a little after a moment. His hands fisting in the bedsheets loosened while her own wrang nervously in her lap.

“I don’t know.” He answered dishonestly. Feeling a lump in his throat that impeded his ability to speak evenly. He had his reasons for the way he felt. But she would never understand them.

Abigail nodded, more to herself than John as he was not looking at her. His long hair still obscuring his face from his place in front of her.

She certainly knew what it was like to feel lonely in life. She felt it more often than not before she’d joined the gang. But since finding them it was few and far between. She still had her bad days, where she felt as though she didn’t fit in. Watching from across the camp as the other women giggled and gossiped. It irritated her to know she would never truly be one of them. She wasn’t a contributing member of the gang. Not in the same way they were. Sure she could cook, sew and occasionally she was asked to do the laundry. But she didn’t run cons or scout out for intel like they did. She wasn’t one of them. She was just John’s wife.

“Well…” Abigail said slowly, unsure if relating to John’s plight would help or hinder their conversation. “I know a thing or two about feeling that way.”

John sniffed softly, not saying anything as he slowly lifted his head to look at her for the first time since he had entered the room.

Abigail held back a gasp. Unable to stop the shock from registered on her face as her eyes flicked over his tear-stained cheeks. She hadn’t realised he’d been crying. For all the times she’d given him a once over and knew exactly what he was feeling, she couldn’t believe she’d been so slack as to miss something as significant as this when it was right in front of her.

She tore her eyes away from him, hand grabbing at the shoulder of her shirt as she pulled it taught and inspected the place where he’d laid his head. The fabric was damp and she was stunned by the realisation. He had been so silent. Showing emotion she had never seen in him right by her face without her even noticing.

She felt sick at the thought. Wondering now if perhaps she had seen him this vulnerable in the past and didn’t recognise it.

Arthur had once told her that John never cried.

Something she found hard to believe. Everyone cried. It was a fact of life. But as the years rolled on and her time with John stretched farther than any other significant relationship she’d ever had she had started to wonder if Arthur was right.

‘If he did, you would never know about it’.

Arthur had stated cryptically.

The words mulling over in Abigail’s mind for years to come. Every time she was sure this would be the moment John finally broke his stoic exterior she was once again proven wrong.

The words echoed in her mind now as she looked over the usually aloof man before her. The pain in his tired eyes spread bare for her to see.

Only her.

She realised as she inched towards him once more. Her hand finding his thigh and squeezing it gently as he collapsed against her rather suddenly. He laid against her chest, his shoulder resting just under her bosom. He rubbed his cheek against her breasts before burying his face in them. His arms crossing over his own chest as hers wrapped around his shoulders to hold him tight against her.

“John…” She whispered breathily. Burning behind her eyes making her blink rapidly as she struggled to hold back her own tears.

He didn’t respond, his uneven breathing the only sign that there was even anything wrong.

A disinterested onlooker would think him asleep in his wife’s embrace.

She supposed that is what he wanted.

“It’s alright…” She cooed, unable to form any other words as her mind raced around this new development.

How many times in the past had he silently wept without her knowledge? Even now, sharing the same room; they didn’t share a bed. John refused, letting her have the mattress while he broke his back on the hardwood floor.

She couldn’t tell if he was still crying. The silence in the room was deafening despite the people flittering through the halls downstairs and the lively party happening at the fire outside. Every now and then John would take a laboured breath and she would run a hand through his hair, stroking him as if she were calming an animal.

Abigail was always a mess when she cried. Loud, wracking sobs that tore at her throat and ripped her breath from her lungs. There wasn’t a hankie large enough to contain the fluids that ran down her face as she howled. Everyone knew when Abigail was crying. There wasn’t a sole within 50ft the didn’t feel her pain as well.

But John…

“Hey?” She asked quietly, her voice broken despite managing to compose herself against her own tears. “Hey?” She asked again, gently tugging at John’s hair until he finally pulled his face away from her chest and looked up at her with red rimmed eyes. “It’s okay.” She assured, cupping his cheek with her hand and using her thumb to swipe away fresh tears.

She leaned down slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to before gently placing a chaste kiss on his cracked lips. He didn’t kiss back, feeling too overwhelmed to respond as she pulled away and smiled at him sadly.

She didn’t take it to heart. She hadn’t really intended anything but comfort with her kiss, but she also understood her own tendency to turn things sexual when she was uncomfortable. Kissing away pain instead of talking it out. Fucking to avoid an awkward conversation.

It was a short-coming of her own that she knew she needed to fix. He needed more from her right now than sex.

John stared at her with heavy lidded eyes. Blinking tiredly before settling himself back against her chest. This time just resting his cheek against her breast and staring at the wall in front of him as he tried to sort out what he was feeling.

“Fuck.” He whispered, voice croaky. He trembled slightly as he pushed himself away from her. Breaking out of her arms again and sitting up on his own once more. His hands finding his face as he rested it in his palms. “Fuck…” He exhaled shakily. Unable to form a coherent thought as the reality of exposing himself to her came crashing down on him.

He had needed the comfort.

Had needed to be held.

There was a large part of him that wished he was still being held. Not wanting to give up the warmth. The all-encompassing sense of calm he felt in her arms.

The safety.

But he had already shown too much of himself and right now he felt a suffocating need to run. To lock up whatever it was that he was feeling and get the fuck away from anyone that had seen him unmasked.

Abigail could sense his impending departure. Feeling it necessary to say something meaningful and assuring him that she didn’t judge him for his emotions.

“Anyway…” John said softly, swallowing hard as he pulled his face from his hands and wiped the tears from his chin with his palm. “I should…” He mumbled, trailing off as he gestured at his bedroll across the room.

“Stay.” Abigail said suddenly, her hand shooting out to hold him in place as he made to stand. He looked at her quizzically. Eyes flicking between her and his bed. His tongue swiped hesitantly over his dry lips as he thought. Weighing the options in front of him and landing at a decision with ease.

“Okay…” He said timidly. Averting his eyes and staring at their joined hands. Maybe just this once he could ignore the screaming in the back of his mind and let himself be soothed.

John wondered absently if she could read his mind. He never had understood how she managed to know just what he was thinking at any given time. Always ready with a counter to his argument or a consoling word on a subject he hadn’t even broached yet.

He was in awe of her ability to understand just what he needed. Irritated at the fact that mostly she ignored it. Knowing full well he wanted to be left alone but following him around regardless and nagging him to no end.

But comforted by the fact that she seemed to care enough to put in the effort of knowing him.

He could not really say the same of anyone else. His own Father had neglected him for years before the old bastard had gotten himself killed. The women at the orphanage he had been moved to shortly after that had been no kinder. Dismissive and noncommittal when it came to calming his anxieties. Lying to his face and repeating the same mantra of ‘You’ll find a family soon’.

After that he had been alone again. Escaping the orphanage and scavenging to survive. He had found out quickly what exactly happened to whiny little street kids that couldn’t hide their sorrows.

Abigail slid herself back against wall of the room, wincing at the feel of her ponytail catching on the broken wood once more. She ignored it, pulling John’s hand as she moved and encouraging him to join her. He followed without thinking about it. Too busy in his past to analyse what was happening in front of his eyes.

Abigail pulled her hair from the wall sharply, deciding it might be nicer to lie down. She slipped herself down and underneath the covers. Waiting for a long second before pulling him to her when she realised he wasn’t going to move on his own accord. His glazed over eyes told her he was stuck somewhere in the past and what he needed from her right now was silence so he could find his way back.

She moved the covers out of the way as he moved to lie against her side. One strong arm being slung over her belly as he nuzzled into her shoulder. She smiled sadly, holding out her arm so he could rest on it. His head fitting snuggly into the crook of her arm as she brushed her soft fingers against his wet cheek.

John remembered his first week with the gang vividly. He had been quietly terrified of these huge brawny men that had rescued him from certain death. Knowing too well at the age of 12 that sometimes people helped you not because they were good people but because you could be of use to them.

He had wondered what they wanted with a scrawny thing like himself. Too small and weak to fight and too big and pigheaded to be worth feeding if he could not be of real use.

Dutch had instilled in him early on that his place in the gang was conditional. He’d never said the words outright, but John had gotten the hint fast when he’s refused to do a ‘women’s chore’ and been very passively threatened with eviction.

‘Well son, I’m just not sure there’ll be enough food for you here if the men don’t have clean clothes by sundown. You may have to find other arrangements that better suit your leisurely lifestyle.’

The words had played over and over in his head for the last 15 years. Every time he found himself feeling that something was unfair. He had remembered those words and the way Dutch had spoken them. Something about that sentence not sitting right with him even now. The gentle reminder that he was expendable.

It Stung.

It had kept him quiet for almost as long as he could remember now. Even as a fully fledged adult that had earned his place in the gang by sheer effort and determination. Behind every compliment or kind word he could feel that lingering threat that if he did not continue to live up to Dutch’s standards he would be out before he could blink.

John inhaled sharply, feeling a sting in the corner of his eyes and closing them against it. He had been warned early on to hide his weakness. His little body sometimes unable to contain the big emotions that came from living in a word that didn’t want him.

He hadn’t needed to be told twice. Just the look in the eyes of the other men as he laid himself bare was enough to shut himself off from ever speaking about his misery again. Bessie had tried to console him but he had been too wary of her intensions to let her.

Terrified that she was just an agent of Dutch. Tasked with finding out his deepest concerns and reporting back to him with how and why John should be punished or evicted.

He regretted that a lot now. Knowing the kind of person she had turned out to be. So kind and full of affection.

He wished now, day in and day out that he had someone he could confide in. Someone that wouldn’t look at him with pity or contempt but the kind of compassion and understanding that Bessie had offered and he had shirked.

He had never pegged Abigail to be that person. Always assuming from her icy demeanour that she would be as cold as the other men. Disgusted even by his lack of self-control.

This wasn’t the first time he’d come to her, pleading for reassurance. But he doubted she knew that as she moved her hand softly from his cheek to drag her sharp nails over his scalp. Making him shiver.

He had tried a few times before. Most recently when they’d been settled at Horseshoe overlook. His insecurities niggling at him after seeing the fresh scars on his face for the first time. Anxiety nipping at the back of his mind until the gentle mumbles of self-doubt and loathing turned to angry shouting that he couldn’t ignore any longer.

He had gone to her in her lean-to. Sitting beside her without speaking and giving her a chance to ask since she alleged to know him so well.

She had not.

Arguing with him instead about his involvement with Jack. As if he needed another reminder of his dubious paternity at such a fragile time in his life.

He silently hoped that the kid wasn’t his anyway. It was the one kindness he could wish on the boy. To not grow up to be the spitting image of his own disgusting face.

He had felt such hatred for her in that moment. Either she didn’t know him as well as she claimed to or she did and she’d ignored his silent pleas for comfort.

He wasn’t sure what was worse.

He had silenced her with a rough kiss that quickly turned into heated touching. Their bodies closer than they had been in months. Arousal getting the best of them both as they rutted together urgently before Abigail had come to her senses and gently pushed him away. Staring into his expressive eyes for a long while before taking his hand and leading him away from all the prying eyes and making him feel better in the only way she really knew how.

The best sex John had ever had, lasting approximately two minutes and finishing as unceremoniously as it had begun in the scrub just shy of Pearson’s wagon.

They hadn’t spoken of it again. Straightening their clothes and parting ways with uneven breaths and ruffled hair.

He hadn’t tried to speak to her about his insecurities again after that. Feeling somewhat consoled by the fact that she’d still found him attractive enough to fuck.

Not that he was sure that meant too much in the grand scheme of things considering her past. She had spent a lot nights with a lot of men considerably uglier than John.

But it comforted him none the less.

John opened his eyes slowly, looking up to her and catching her eyeing him before she looked away quickly. Staring at the ceiling as she petted him distractedly.

“You can come to me you know?” She asked quietly, not looking away from the ceiling as she spoke. He wondered if that was because she felt the need to give him privacy in his response or because she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He tensed his jaw as he thought. Gritting his teeth together tightly before finally responding.

“Hmm.” He hummed in a noncommittal way. His response able to be taken as either a yay or nay depending on the other person’s perspective.

“When you’re… lonely… I mean.” Abigail hesitated, still staring above her with neutral features.

John didn’t reply, knowing full well that she was wrong but unable to voice that in the moment. Afraid of losing his place by her side as he closed his eyes again and breathed in her sumptuous scent.

He hadn’t intended to come to her in the first place. Walking quickly away from the fire; his back against some playful ribbing from the other men. He couldn’t even remember what it had been about. The teasing hadn’t been what had bothered him anyway. It was the way that Arthur had looked at him when he had opened his mouth to speak that had tripped him up. Made him choke on his words and look like a fumbling idiot in front of the others before he exited the conversation in an effort save what was left of his dignity.

They used to be so damn close.

Closer to brothers than friends. A relationship John cherished above all others he had experienced in his life.

Until he had left and fucked it all up.

He’d known Arthur would be pissed off at him. But to be honest he’d never imagined that he would still be filled with such animosity toward him a whole two years later.

Arthur loathed him. Barely tolerated his presence for years now. It was only just recently that he felt maybe they were starting to reconcile.

But then the other man had looked to him with such disdain. A piercing glare that radiated revulsion that stemmed from his very core.

He’d never really regained his friendship with anyone in the gang and he’d struggled to get to know the newer members.

His saving grace was his relationship with Abigail but even that had been in tatters for longer than it had ever been good.

He was so isolated.

Alone.

In a living space that consisted of over twenty people. Most nights he felt as though he may as well be sitting at an empty fire pit by his lonesome.

Sipping turning in to swigging as he relied on alcohol to dull the pain and loosen his tongue. Making him funny. Turning the miserable cynic that he was into a desirable companion.

John had stared back at Arthur after he had spoken. The other men already beginning to chuckle at his expense while his brother simply smirked at the fractured look on his face. Content with the fact he had made John Marston look as stupid as he always liked to say he was.

It was such a small gesture. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was always light and airy.

John couldn’t take it anymore. His heart breaking as he walked away from the fire to find a place to hide.

He had assumed Abigail would be asleep due to the late hour. Planning to sneak in and out of their room without detection. Grabbing some whiskey from his private stash and taking it somewhere more secluded to reflect on why exactly he felt the way he did.

But he had been wrong. Walking straight in and making eye contact with her before he could retreat. She’d known something was wrong immediately, he could tell. So he’d swallowed his pride and taken the opportunity to try one last time to help her understand him fully. That one small part of himself that she didn’t already just know like she seemed to with all the rest of him.

He wasn’t sure exactly if he was successful or not. Perhaps her understanding and comfort was conditional as everything seemed to be in this world.

Maybe when they awoke in the morning, she would physically push him away as she had so many times before.

Or perhaps he was the one that would push her.

Embarrassment settling in and causing him to withdraw without a word before she awakened. Never speaking of his vulnerability again. At least until the next time unkind words seeped their way into his heart. Blackening it a little bit with every stab.

Abigail let her eyes flutter closed. Her hand falling to rest gently against John’s temple as she took a deep calming breath. He subconsciously followed her lead, his own breathing evening out as he matched her pace. Feeling the rise and fall of her belly under his arm.

He felt calm.

Peaceful.

He realised as he lamented the fact that it would end eventually.

Never one to enjoy a moment as it was happening. Always looking to the future and bemoaning the fact that it would end.

He’d missed her. He had realised it months ago. The bickering before Blackwater had been suffocating to not just the two of them but Jack and the other gang members as well.

But when he’d been up on that mountain, freezing half to death and in more pain than he’d imagined possible he’d longed for her. Wanting nothing more than to be rescued and returned to her arms but knowing deep down that even if he was rescued, he would be returned to the cold embrace of a lonely bed.

Maybe now things would be different.

He dared to hope. Squeezing her waist with a trembling hand as he nuzzled closer to her. Abigail returning the hug without contention.

“I love you.” John finally managed to speak. The words grinding against his throat as he fought to force them out.

Abigail startled as he spoke, turning to him and frowning in question as if she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

Their noses rubbed together lightly as she looked into his eyes. A smile spreading across her gorgeous features as she read the look in his eyes.

“I love you too, you silly man.” She whispered, leaning in once more to kiss him softly. This time he kissed back, hand curling in her nightshirt as things began to get heated.

End.

 ~~~

I hope you guys liked this one! I would love to hear if you did. There's not many John/Abi shippers out there anymore so it's always amazing to hear from the people that take the time to read my works of them. ❤

[manicmarsupial]

The Smallest Outlaw - Chapter 4: Snow Idea What's Happening

A/N- Hey yo, I'm back on my bullshit. Long story short: moved house during a pandemic, injured my back 3 days into moving, spent 6 weeks unable to go through boxes to find the folder I put the ideas into.

I am writing this story...just not in order. And fiddling around with one-shots, stalling by coming up with other ideas (including one I came up with while a machine a work kept needing recalibration and it's now at 92 pages on GoogleDocs with loads of help from @tiny-james)

As usual, throw some ideas my way. Anything goes. Whee!

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

I don’t know when I fell asleep. I’m no longer on a wooden surface in front of the fire. Judging from the feeling, I’m still wrapped up in Hosea’s scarf…and it’s dark. One surface I’m resting against is moving steadily. Occasionally I can hear a deep thump.

I try to adjust my position to get more information. I hear a questioning hum reverberate above me. A sliver of light above me widens. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see the towering figure of Hosea. I unconsciously attempt to retreat.

“Mornin’ Ollie,” he smiles as he looks down at me.

I look around. As well as being wrapped up in his scarf, he also had me under his coat. That explains the movement and the thumping.

“Morning,” I mumble in return.

I cover my eyes and hide back into the scarf, whining about bright light. Hosea’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as I feel the woollen material close around me. I brace myself as I feel my confines move.

“You have an explanation due,” I hear Hosea’s voice almost directly outside.

I emit a grumpy ‘no’ sound and burrow further into the scarf.

“Are you going to continue this stubbornness?”

“Yah huh.”

“Just my luck,” he mutters with a sigh.

Honestly, now I kind of feel sorry for him. I scrabble my way to the open part of the bundle, only to pull part of the scarf over my head like a hood due to the cold air nearly freezing my ears off.

“I can’t tell you what’s going on, because I don’t rightly know,” I admit with a shrug.

“How is that possible?” Hosea raises an eyebrow.

I think about this. Should I tell this giant stranger about myself? He did admit that he and his friends were outlaws. Outside, there’s wolves, bears, and a blizzard. Inside, a whole lot of giant outlaws. My question is, which is more dangerous? Well, if these guys wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already.

“Because two days ago, I was human.”

A brief look of disbelief crosses Hosea’s features.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Your pointed ears were off putting.”

“My what?!” I exclaim.

Hosea looks confused, then smiles.

“You obviously haven’t seen yourself in a mirror, have you?”

“Uhhh, no. I woke up with my hotel bed the size of a barn and lit a shuck anywhere else. No time to preen,” I admit, hesitantly moving my working arm to one of my ears.

They’re pointed, as Hosea said, but much longer and stick out. At my surprised realization, they twitch upward.

Hosea chuckles softly and my ears flick at feeling the exhalation of his breath.

“At least you’re entertained,” I grumble.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up in Colter?”

“I stowed away in someone’s satchel. Turned out he was an O’Driscoll. Not my best decision.”

“An O’Driscoll? Do you remember which way they were heading?”

I try to recall what direction the horseman was going.

“Uh, North East, I think.”

“Ah, we’ve already run into them,” a dark look passes briefly over Hosea’s face.

“What about your arm?” any sour attitude regarding the O’Driscoll’s has gone.

“Oh, the horse bucked. I landed badly, then staggered over here for shelter.”

“How are you still unconvinced that I was human?” I ask on seeing Hosea’s dubious expression.

“It sounds too simple.”

I shrug off my makeshift hood and go to search my bag, but I don’t have it.

“Where’s my satchel?”

I’m sure I had it with me.

Hosea shifts me to one hand then rummages through his pocket and pulls out my bag. It’s positively dwarfed in his palm. I move one hand to take it from him, then reconsider. I just spill out the contents.

“If I wasn’t human, all that would be too much of a coincidence,” I gesture to the two food tins, my journal, and a small amount of coins.

Hosea raises his hand closer to his face to inspect the items.

“Awake already, old friend?” Dutch enters the room with a booming greeting.

“Just talkin’ to little Ollie here,” I feel my ears flick in irritation at the nickname Hosea just referred to me as.

“What have you found out about our latest acquisition?”

“Used to be human. Ended up in Colter by accident,” Hosea answers, passing Dutch the stuff I had poured into his hand.

He inspects the items before placing them back into the bag.

“And how is Ollie feeling?” Dutch hands me my satchel.

“I’m a tiny human with a broken arm and a thin coat in a blizzard. I’ve had better days.” I grumble.

I recoil as Hosea brings his other hand up, but he only rearranges his scarf to cover my shoulders.

“At least you’re no longer stuck outside alone,” he smiles.

With that in mind, this isn’t one of my worst days.

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

Hosea had left the cabin to discuss something with the other gang members, something about another missing member. I kept myself busy by reading…trying to at any rate, the book Hosea always has.

When you had no-one to teach you as a child, it’s a hard thing to teach yourself. I’m no exception. I understand enough to know it’s a crime story. It doesn’t take long for me to focus all my attention on reading.

My ears flick as I feel a short gust of warm air from behind me and a familiar chuckle.

“Sorry, probably should have asked you first,” I mutter, grabbing the cover of the book to close it.

I’m stopped by Hosea’s massive hand over mine. I track my eyes up his arm to look up at his face. He’s kneeling next to the small table.

“I would never have taken you for a reader,” he says with a smile.

“Uhh, I can’t read…not very well anyway,” I admit.

He takes the book, marking the page with his finger and puts his other hand out in front of me.

“C’mon Ollie,” he urges.

“Why?” I ask cautiously, slowly backing away.

“Because you’ll freeze to death like that.”

I look down at myself. I hadn’t realized the scarf was no longer over me.

“Oh,” is all I can say as I shiver.

I give a squeak of fright as Hosea wraps his massive hand around me. I struggle to escape his grasp as he lifts me off the table.

“If you keep squirming, I might drop you,” he warns softly.

“I’m trying not to hurt you.”

That’s kind of true. I notice that his grip isn’t actually tight. More of a secure hold trying to avoid my splinted arm.

My stomach drops as Hosea stands up and I grab onto his finger with one arm, holding on for dear life. He takes a step to sit down in a chair in front of the fireplace. He leans back slightly as he settles into his seat. His fingers loosen and I drop the short distance, landing on the fur lapel of his jacket. I barely have time to get my bearings before his hand pins me down. I try to wriggle out from under his hand.

“Shh, just relax. You need rest with your injured arm, and you are going to freeze without intervention,” his voice rumbles through his chest.

My next sentence is interrupted as the cabin door opens. It’s not Dutch or Arthur, but an older man with glasses. Hosea quickly places his other hand over me, concealing me from the new arrival, though I can just see through the slight gap in his fingers.

“Ah, good evening Herr Matthews,” the new man greets in a thick accent.

I’m guessing German maybe. As he turns to close the door, Hosea closes both hands around me. I register upward movement then I’m dropped onto his shoulder. Specifically, between his shirt and coat collar. He wraps his scarf carefully around, then stands up. I grab his coat in fright.

“Evenin’ Herr Strauss,” Hosea’s booming voice echoes in my ears.

“I’m vondering vhen we are getting off zis mountain. I’m sure zhe others are curious about zhis also,” Herr Strauss says as he attempts to rub some warmth back into his arms and hands.

“We have to be extremely careful, Strauss. Pinkertons are still crawling all over the state.”

Pinkertons?! What did this gang of outlaws do? And what have I landed myself into?

“I know. I’m just anxious, is all,” Strauss replies.

I don’t register the pounding of hoofbeats until Strauss is already at the window.

“Zhere back. Wit John. Mein Gott, he looks awful,” he exclaims.

Hosea took the opportunity while Strauss was distracted to take me off his shoulder and put me into the small drawer of the end table, then gesturing ‘shush’, before following German outside.

That was…weird.

[simwoman2002]

Hello again! 😊

Can I please request :

O- Opportunity

Arthur and Tilly

I'm being greedy now 😔 but I love them so much. Thank you again ❤️

Thank you so much for the request!!! And you’re not being greedy. I love these two, too! 🥰💗

Original List

  Arthur was never the opportunistic type, unlike Dutch and Hosea. Arthur was more of the type to simply go with the flow and provide necessary enforcement when the others found the golden—or green— sheen of monetary possibility or otherwise.

  But this time… He could not let this opportunity go to waste.

  It had been by complete accident that he found her sitting there by the lakeside upon a log as she gazed at the sunset during one of the painstakingly few breaks that Miss Grimshaw offered her.

  Tilly Jackson. A true and natural beauty she was as she perched there on that old, dry tree, the red and orange hues of the light hanging low in the sky shining gorgeously upon her skin. It gave her an almost otherworldly look as she bathed in the last small glimpses of the sun.

  His heart ached and squeezed painfully as he looked at her, and he immediately felt his hand moving to his satchel to withdraw his journal. After all, when Arthur saw something of such beauty and grandeur, he simply had to try to capture it.

  It seemed selfish, he knew, to try to preserve some piece of this gorgeousness for himself, but he found he truly could not quite resist.

  So he withdrew his journal and sat down on a nearby rock not too far from her spot so that he was close enough to capture her features but not near enough to pull her attention to his actions.

  He knew he would not be able to capture the beauty of the colors on her face, and if he was being completely honest with himself, he truly just wanted to take any opportunity he had to draw her.

  He began with the gentle slope of the bridge of her nose before drawing the smoothness of her forehead, using quick strokes of the pencil in order to capture simply a rough outline before he went back and refined the work. However, he took special care in the outline of her lips, wetting his own as he absently considered what hers might feel like upon them.

  Arthur soon found himself so immersed in the sketch that he lost track of everything else, his pencil recreating the astounding view before him.

  But before he knew it, he was almost yanked from this lovely world of his own by the best possible interruption. His eyes widened as he looked up at the young woman standing over him with her hands on her hips.

  “Huh?” he somewhat dumbly replied, his eyes wide as he looked at her. Unfortunately, though, almost as some sort of residual effect of his prior thoughts, his eyes immediately dropped from her eyes to her mouth. As soon as they did, though, he quickly moved them back into territory that was not quite so dangerous.

  However, as soon as he met her eyes, he realized that they were sparkling with mischief and something else that he could not quite identify.

  “Arthur, did you hear a thing I said?” she questioned, playful exasperation in her every word.

  “I’m sorry to say I did not,” he replied respectfully as always, dipping his head a little with the admission, and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly before smiling knowingly.

  “I asked if you were drawing me,” she repeated herself, a grin spreading across her face as she looked down at his journal. He flushed embarrassedly, trying to hide his face under his hat. Arthur knew he had been caught, but he still felt the need to at least preserve some shred of his dignity as he admitted his doings.

  “Yes, I was,” he confessed, and he dared not look up into her face in fear of what emotions he might see there.

  To his surprise, Arthur felt her presence beside him on his rock as she leaned her shoulder against him and the smell of flowery perfume wafted to his nose. It was generally a scent that he associated with Mary-Beth, and it was at that moment that he realized Tilly must have borrowed some from the bookish girl.

  “Can I see?” she questioned. He sighed deeply, figuring that there was no harm in letting her see the drawing now that she knew about it. So, Arthur tilted the book in her direction, allowing her to take it. She gently grabbed it and pulled it into her lap.

  Arthur braced himself, waiting on her verdict, even though he knew that she was far too kind to ever say anything negative about his depiction of her.

  “Arthur, it’s… It’s absolutely beautiful!” she breathily spoke, and he tilted his head a little so that while most of his face was still concealed by his hat, he could see her sweet face.

  To his complete surprise, Tilly appeared to be completely enamored by the drawing, her face alight with happiness and pure enthrallment. He had to admit, it was a beautiful look on her, and he could not help but stare in amazement.

  “You are an amazing artist, Arthur Morgan,” she smiled widely. He immediately blinked and coughed a little, scratching at the back of his neck as he grinned in a manner that more greatly resembled baring his teeth.

  “Well, now, Miss Jackson, I ain’t no artist. Just an old man with his pencils,” he told her with a small chuckle, and she furrowed her brow, smacking his arm lightly. He laughed a little more at her reaction.

  “Nonsense! It’s gorgeous, and you very well know it,” she bossily informed him, and he shook his head with a genuine smile.

  “Alright, your Majesty,” he huffed good-naturedly, and she smiled, puffing up a little as she stood up before him.

  “I do hereby decree that this is a beautiful drawing, and that you should think so, too,” she informed him in something that was supposed to resemble a British accent as she waved the journal at him in a scolding manner. It was truly terrible, but Arthur found it extremely endearing anyway.

  “Well, if you like it so much, why don’t you keep it?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow as he lifted his head to better look at her. Her eyes widened at his offer and she squeezed the journal a bit tighter in her hands.

  “Really?”

  “Of course, you seem to love it a lot more than I ever could,” he told her with a smile, nodding to her kindly. He angled his head downward a little as he looked at the sand by the lake.

  “Besides, it’s too pretty for me, anyway,” he mumbled under his breath as an afterthought.

  “Thank you, Arthur!!!” she excitedly spoke, and he looked up at her to reply.

  However, as soon as he did, she leaned down and kissed his cheek gently before hurrying off, sending his eyes flying wide open and his jaw slackening at the sudden occurrence. Once he had taken the feeling in, Arthur leaned forward, watching her go, and after a long moment, he shook his head.

  He may not have been opportunistic like Dutch or Hosea, but, boy, was he glad he took that opportunity.

[outlier-rookie]

Of Blood And Greatness - Chapter 3

Chapter 3/?? - Settling In With Some Concerns

AO3 Link

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305741/chapters/71331201

***

The next few chapters might be a bit slow pace wise because I want to build up a few more interactions between Reader and the Gang members. Don’t worry, we’ll get to the action soon enough.

TRIGGER WARNING: Anxiety/Panic Attack

***

“Wow (Y/N)! You’re as strong as Uncle Arthur!” (Y/N) paused long enough to shoot Jack a cheeky grin as they continued their path towards the horses, slowly carrying the last hay bale. The tall skittish fella, Kieran, had tried to offer to take the bales instead but (Y/N) was insistent that it wasn’t that heavy and they were no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. Miss Karen had also had a good laugh with the other girls about the teen putting the likes of Bill and Sean to shame with how much heavy lifting they did around camp. Mrs. Grimshaw, as scary as she was at times, was also quick to praise (Y/N)’s hard work and help with the camp chores.

It had been a few days since everything that happened up near Cattail Pond and as the teen feared, Dutch was less than pleased with the total sum brought back to camp. But like Arthur had promised he was also understanding and despite (Y/N) feeling like they hadn’t delivered on their promise, Dutch welcomed them into the ragtag family of outlaws with a speech and fanciful words of things only getting better from here.

Still, the teen spent their days mulling over their failure with a hollow feeling sitting in the pit of their stomach. Mr. Hosea had sat next to them by the campfire one night with stew in hand and talked about nothing in particular. He started telling short stories from the gang's past and it didn’t click until the teen was falling asleep that night but the stories all had similar feelings to their blunder with the money. (Y/N) fell asleep smiling at the stars that night, putting the memory of Dutch’s ill-concealed disappointment behind them.

***

“Arthur! Welcome back son.” Dutch was sat by his tent smoking a cigar as Arthur led (Y/N) over to him. “So!” he started, standing with his arms extended; whether it was meant in a divine or welcoming manner, (Y/N) wasn’t entirely sure. “How’d your little excursion go?”

“’Fraid we ain’t getting to Tahiti or Australia with what we recovered.” The grizzled outlaw started. “Seems that someone else got to the stash before young (Y/N) here and took most of what we had.” Something in the teen's stomach dropped as the light in Dutch’s eyes seemed to dim slightly. The dark-haired man hummed and folded one arm across his chest, the other bringing his cigar back to his lips. He paused for a moment breathing slowly, the smoke flowing past his lips before being taken by the breeze.

“How much did you get then?” He finally asked

“Would have had ‘bout one third.”

“’Would have’?” (Y/N) shifted nervously and refused to meet Dutch’s eyes, ashamed that they had disappointed this man.

“O’Drisscols.” Arthur replied. “Weren’t the kids' fault. They ambushed us as we were crossing Cumberland Falls. Some of the money went over the falls. Didn’t want to risk staying around in case the law came snooping around. Was a pretty big scene.”

“I see.”

(Y/N) timidly raised their head to find Dutch’s piercing eyes once again focused on them. An old but familiar feeling of helplessness gnawed at their insides, causing their stomach to twist. As their instincts yelled at them to hide, Arthur stepped forward slightly and half placed himself between them and Dutch.

“It wasn’t their fault Dutch.”

“And you can be absolutely sure about that Arthur?”

“As a matter of fact, I can. If they was working with the O’Driscolls to set a trap, then they would have shot me and not three of Colm’s boys.”

Dutch actually seemed surprised by this.

“Sounds like they weren’t embellishing their skills with a gun.” Hosea’s smoother voice was like a cool balm on (Y/N)’s nearly fried nerves.

“Damn right. Them idiots didn’t know what hit em. Kid put them all down with one bullet each.” Arthur replied, stepping back some. An unexpected swift and heavy pat on the back sent the teen stumbling slightly and (Y/N) swore they saw a slight grin on Arthur’s face.

***

“You ok there?” (Y/N nearly dropped the horse brush they were using, as Charles’ deep voice startled them out of their thoughts.

“Y-Yeah! Sorry, was just thinking. Did you uh, need something Mr. Charles?” Charles smiled and the minor change in his breathing suggested silent laughter.

“You can just call me Charles you know.” (Y/N) scrunched their face-up made a noise that was a mix between disagreement and something a bit lighter than disgust which drew another silent laugh from Charles before he continued. “Pearson was complaining that the camps getting low on meat so I offered to go hunting for him. You’ve got a good eye and steady hands so I figured I’d ask if you’d like to come.”

“Really?” Excitement bubbled up inside at the thought of being able to do more than just chores around the camp. (Y/N) could only lug so much water and carry so many sacks before it got repetitive and boring. They weren’t strong enough to properly chop firewood and Mrs. Grimshaw and practically chased them away from laundry and sewing after the first hour. “When you leaving?”

“As soon as possible. I’ll ready the horses while you grab your gun.”

“R-Right! Just give me five. I need to check my satchel.”

With a soft ‘Alright’ from Charles, (Y/N) dropped the horse brush by the hitching post and jogged across the camp towards the medicine wagon. A ratty lean-to was set up next to it and under it an old bedroll. It wasn’t a whole lot but it was more than they had before joining the gang. The well-used bedroll wasn’t nearly as soft as their bed back at Estelle’s home. A small framed photograph of the woman peeked out from under the corner of the bedroll. The faint reminder of the woman who could be sweet as honey one moment and mean enough to give an angry Mrs. Grimshaw a run for her money brought a familiar pang of guilt to the teen. Bitterly they pushed the feelings and memories away and turned the picture over, hiding away from the loving eyes of a woman hundreds or thousands of miles away.

(Y/N) blindly stuffed a few items in their satchel and reached for their gun. Their fingers had barely grazed the sun-warmed metal before they jerked their hand back as if it had burnt. Glassy blue eyes stared blankly at the gun laying on the ground, seemingly mocking them from its pathetic position.

Stupid child.

What were you expecting?

These people were outlaws.

They were no stranger to killing other people.

If you want to survive in their world, it's either shoot first or get dead.

It was hard to breathe as (Y/N) felt their chest tighten like a red hot metal vice had been wrapped around their chest. An old familiar panic started settling into their whole being, starting in their stomach before it wrapped its tendrils around their bones before boring its way into their throat and brain. The air itself caught in their throat and their vision was starting to blur slightly when a hot and heavy pressure made its presence known when it landed solidly on the teen's shoulder.

“Woah there! ‘Sokay! ‘Sokay kid, you’re alright ya hear?” The voice was deep and familiar and most importantly grounding. Still, it took a second for the pressure on their chest to dissipate enough and allow a cool, fresh breath to fill their burning lungs. Blinking, (Y/N) realised that some tears had gathered in their eyes and quickly moved to brush them away, sniffling as they did. Finally, they were able to look up as see Arthur crouching next to them, his brows furrowed gently as he watched them.

“Everything alright Arthur?” (Y/N)’s eyes flicked up to the approaching figure of Hosea.

“We’re fine Hosea. I just startled them is all.” Arthur replied easily. Hosea stood by for a moment before slowly approaching the teen, not too dissimilar to how one would approach a scared animal.

“You alright?” His soft, aged voice reminded the teen of Estelle once more.

“Y-Yeah.” They mumbled. “’M sorry. Dunno what came over me.” They looked away from the two men, eyes once again landing on their repeater as once again a wave of hot white anger flowed through their veins. A weight in their dominant hand drew their attention and (Y/N) suddenly understood why Arthur and Hosea were acting so cautious towards them.

In their hand was their trusty knife, the bronze metal gleaming dangerously in the sunlight. It quickly dawned on the teen that they had pulled it on reflex when Arthur had startled them. A hot flush of shame and embarrassment flooded through them as they frantically shoved the knife back into its sheath.

“Those are some damn fine reflexes you got kid.” Arthur said. The words may have formed a compliment but the tone was wrong and questioning. (Y/N) didn’t want to answer. They just groaned out a vague noise of agreement and pointedly avoided looking at the two men and finished packing their satchel. Slinging the strap over their shoulder the teen all but bolted past Arthur and Hosea making their way back to the horses where Charles stood waiting, making some final adjustments to Taima’s saddle. His movements held some extra tension and (Y/N) just knew that he had seen their little incident and the heat returned to their chest.

“Ain’t we going to go? Mr. Pearson needs meat, doesn’t he?” They snapped.

“You don’t have to come if you-”

“I’m fine!” They cut him off. “Come on.” They huffed, barely resisting the urge to stamp their foot. They were fifteen and basically a grown-up and grown-ups didn’t stomp their feet like toddlers when they were angry. A heavy hand was placed on their shoulder once more.

“Alright then kid.” Arthur said. His gruff voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Mount up. And let’s get goin’.” Gently, Arthur nudged them towards Fortuna who nickered and shoved her nose into (Y/N)’s chest. The mare huffed as the teen half-heartedly scratched her cheeks before silently climbing on. Fortuna shook her mane out and turned as much as she could, keeping an eye on her rider. She let loose another whine as she tried to nose (Y/N) again.

“I’m alright girl.” The whispered, pulling a carrot from one of the many pockets in their satchel and offering it to the worrisome mare. Fortuna took the carrot without protest and calmed as (Y/N) stroked her neck. Tugging on the reins, (Y/N) directed the mare’s head towards the path out of camp. Charles and Arthur were on the backs of Taima and Admiral. Not obviously watching them but also doing exactly that with incredible obviousness for two seasoned outlaws. Huffing, the teen kicked and urged Fortuna forward

***

I started hitting a wall with this chapter towards the end so the ending may feel somewhat abrupt. I didn’t have the energy to beta read this or whatever so all mistakes are mine.

I have a better plan for what will happen in the next chapter or two

[vanderlindemangofarm]

h owDy --! but what do you think dutch would be like when he slowly begins to notice that the new addition at the camp acts just a bit too much like anabelle ?? headcanons maybe? :^0 its ok if ure not down, but thank you sm anyways!! ❤

Dutch van der Linde  - Reader reminds him of Annabelle (headcanons)

It’s something in the way you carry yourself that catches his attention, at first. It’s a tingle on the back of his neck, a barely noticeable jolt in his stomach, the first few notes of the melody, of a memory.

You don’t look like her, that’s not it, that’s too simple. No. It’s the glint in your eyes, perhaps? The way you walk across camp with purpose, with vigor? How when you dance, it’s like the world stops?

When Dutch shuts his eyes and searches again in vain for sleep, it’s still her face he sees. But now there’s you, a new light in the endless night. 

He catches glimpses of her when you get too brave and his skin prickles, electrified. 

You’re stupider than she was, yet somehow less stupid. The two of you would have fought. Perhaps over him. What an image. 

He’s kind to you, and harsh with you. When you make a mistake his voice rings in your ears and you cry. 

He’s terrified of losing you. And he barely knows you. He only knows what was torn from him before. 

He leaves you presents tied with red ribbons, and sometimes you bring him cigars. They’re not the cigars he would have chosen, that she would have chosen, he thinks, but it’s fine. 

He squints through the smoke he exhales and tries to morph your shape into hers. 

His Annabelle, forever young. 

The smoke clears and you’re still there, still you, still not quite her, still just enough of her. 

You smile. His stomach twists, and he tells you not now. 

The next day he weaves flowers into your hair. Violets. Her favourite. Yours too. 

He strokes your neck and you let your head fall back, eyes closed. 

He knows he’s been caught - Hosea, Susan, perhaps even Arthur. They all see him, see you, see where this is heading. They avert their gazes and sigh and conceal themselves in frustrated whispers when they think they’re alone. 

You stand before him in his tent that night, prepared for him, wanting him, willing him to see beyond your flesh. 

Dutch watches you undress with a knot in his stomach as he strains against his pants. 

You shimmer in the lamplight like a ghost. 

He explores you like a labyrinth he’s already solved. 

Afterwards, when you stroke his face, shining with sweat, he can’t bring himself to look at you. Refuses to remember that you’re not her. 

And after that, he barely looks at you at all. 

You scream at him, cry at him, demand to know. Demand to understand. 

All he can do is walk away before he berates you for taunting him with history. With her story. 

At least this way, when he loses you, it won’t cut his chest open and burn his heart. It won’t feel as if the earth has frozen, never to thaw. 

You’re not her. He’s always known. 

And now, you won’t be another her. 

[arthurmorgan-s-heart]

Arthur Morgan x Reader: In Sickness and in Health (Part 3)

The weeks after the wedding go by slowly, and you condition seems to worsen a bit more each day

The air around Flat Iron Lake is too wet and too heavy for your weakened lungs, and you can barely get halfway across camp before you need to stop and catch your breath

Your coughing is almost constant now. Every breath is laboured, painful, and shallow

You’re in pain and exhausted even though most of your days are spent resting and sleeping, but, most of all, you’re angry

Angry at yourself for being such a burden, for being so weak. Angry at the world, for cutting your time short

But you don’t complain. You never complain. Things could be worse. Even as you awake each night with blood in your mouth and a permanent pain in your chest, you don’t complain, and tell yourself that things could be worse

After all, Arthur is there through everything, just as he had said he would be

He spends more time in camp now, with you, and you can tell Dutch isn’t pleased about it; he wants Arthur back out there, working, scoping out leads, bringing in money - which he can’t do when he refuses to leave your side for more than a few hours. At least, he has the grace to remain silent

Arthur seems oblivious to Dutch’s displeasure; it’s better this way. And even though it must sound selfish, you’re happy that he’s there almost every night, holding you

It’s on an evening like this that he first brings up the idea. You’re both lying in bed, your back against his chest, hovering just at the edge of sleep as he runs his fingers through your hair

“We could leave,” he starts in a whisper, so low that you think you must have dreamed it. “Go West.”

That snaps you awake immediately,and you free yourself from his embrace, sitting up so brusquely that you send yourself into a long, painful coughing fit

Once it subsides, you open your eyes to see Arthur sitting beside you, looking at you with a concern that hadn’t left his eyes in a long time, but also, for the first time in months, with hope

“What are you sayin’?” you ask hoarsely. 

“Leave. Go West,” he says again. “You and me.”

“You don’t mean that.” “I do.” “The law - “ “Whole gang couldn’t make it, but just the two of us, to New Austin? Easy.”

You shake your head, turning away. “No. I’m useless now. But the gang needs you.”

You feel him touch your shoulder, and you turn back to look at him, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek. His touch seeps warmth back into your aching bones

“You need me more.”

The two of you speak for a long time that night,  both trying to convince the other. You know Arthur is right - in a drier climate, your illness would be somewhat more bearable (and your end more gentle, though both of you leave that unsaid) - but you can’t allow him to leave his whole life, his whole family. Not for you and the short time you have left. You can’t allow him to find himself alone after you’re gone

It’s almost dawn by the time his patience runs out, and he suddenly grabs your shoulders, squeezing tight, frustration edging each of his words

“Please, darlin’.” he’s pleading now, no longer trying to conceal his pain, his doubts, the immense sense of regret and guilt that consumes him. “Please. I can’t do anythin’ for you. I know that. I can’t help you. I can’t cure you. But I can do this. So let me. Please.”

You know how it hurts him to see you like this. How it hurts him to know that you’re not only dying, but that there is nothing he can do but stay by your side and watch you waste away, without hope of you ever getting better. You’d thought that staying with the gang would be better for him. Perhaps you’d been wrong

The last of your resistance melts away, and as his hands fall from your shoulders, you reach out to take them both in yours, bringing them into your lap. You lean forward, kissing his forehead lightly

“Dutch ain’t gonna let you go,” you whisper against his skin. “You know that.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he answers, pulling away slightly. “He will.”

He looks so sure of himself, so certain, that you stay silent despite your doubts. You lay back down to try and catch a few hours of sleep, trying to ignore the voice inside your head that whispers that Dutch would never allow Arthur to leave. You squeeze your eyes shut, and hope with all your heart that you’re wrong

You’re not, of course

The very next day, you hear loud voices coming from Dutch’s tent

Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur are arguing; you’re not close enough to understand what they’re saying, but you don’t need to

You simply watch from afar as Arthur storms from the tent after a few minutes, leaving camp entirely

He comes back that night, and doesn’t bring the subject up again - so you stay silent

A few days pass by, and Arthur remains obstinately silent and morose. You comfort him as best you can, and get him to smile a few times - but the sadness behind his eyes is always there - the knowledge that, despite everything that he had given Dutch, the leader always wanted more, and more, and more, and nothing mattered to him more than what Arthur could bring to the gang. Not even your life

Then, one night, about a week later, around midnight, Arthur shakes you awake gently. You groan and open your eyes to look at him. He’s fully dressed, kneeling at the side of the bed

“Come on. Let’s go.” “What?” “Let’s go.” “Where?” “West.” “I thought Dutch - “ “You’re more important than whatever Dutch says. Come on.”

The thought of protesting doesn’t even come to you. You get up, get dressed, and take everything that you can fit in Arthur’s saddlebags. You muffle your coughing as best you can, though you suppose the people in camp must be rather used to hearing it in the middle of the night by now

“Ready?” “Yeah.”

He holds out his hand, and you take it. You leave the tent together, and you see Hosea, awake and alert, standing a few feet away. You feel yourself freeze, thinking that your plan has already failed, but he simply smiles, sadly, and says, “Good luck. I’m gonna miss the both of you.”

You squeeze his hand and whisper a hasty farewell before Arthur ushers you toward the horses. You would have liked to say your goodbyes, but you understand the need to leave like this

Arthur’s horse is already saddled and ready to go. Charles is holding the reins, and he nods at you with a smile. Both of you know it is likely the last time you will see each other, but there is no time for long farewells 

Arthur climbs on his horse, holding out a hand and hoisting you behind him, accepting the reins from Charles before clicking his tongue and pushing his horse into a fast trot

The camp fades from sight quickly, hidden by the trees. As soon as he reaches the road, Arthur spurs his horse into a gallop, intent on putting as much distance as possible between you and the camp before sunrise - both to evade pursuit, and to avoid changing his mind, you suspect

You lay your head against Arthur’s back, holding on tight to his waist. Minutes grind by in silence, only broken by the dull thud of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road. Finally, you can’t help but ask

“You sure about this, Arthur?” He’s silent for a long while, so long that you think he’s ignoring you, but when he finally speaks, his words bring tears to your eyes

“Ain’t never been so sure of anythin’ before in my life. I wanna be with you. To the end. Nothin’ else matters.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and for the first time in months, you feel yourself smile - a true, genuine smile. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck, and lays an open palm against his chest. “Thank you.”

I don’t know if you were hoping for the actual end, i.e. death, but I honestly felt more inspired to write something like this than angst. Hope that’s still ok!!

[victoodles]

Fleur Sauvage

yeehaws but softly. back again, read it on AO3 and i hope you enjoy

Arthur is uncomfortable.

The sleeves of his stupid tuxedo are too tight and the cotton of his stupid bowtie is too itchy against his neck. But mostly, it’s because he’s surrounded on all sides by pompous displays of how the other half live.

Arthur has been encircled by wolves before, ravenous beasts of varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately this time around he can’t shoot his way through the pack. If he had a say in the matter, he would take fangs and claws over coiffed hair and expensive suits any day of the week.

But he doesn’t. He rarely does, so here he stays.

The air is heavy with cigar smoke and foreign chatter. Arthur always presumed other languages would have an essence of beauty to them. Though as he overhears these gentlemen prattle on, cackling at their own self-proclaimed witticisms, he finds it to be extremely grating. Dutch insists though, as he is prone to do, that they continue to meet with the true master of Saint Denis.

Angelo Bronte.

A man with all the charm of a cottonmouth snake and twice as deadly. Every word that falls from his mouth is dripping with so much venom, Arthur is surprised listening to him hasn’t been fatal. Among those words is the promise of money; a key to freedom from the shackles of a modern word.

Now Arthur is the one to insist that Dutch reconsider his faith in this “parasite", as Arthur so fondly described. Dutch disregards it, telling him that home is just “one more score” out of reach. Arthur thinks that these grandiose fantasies are going to get them in over their heads more so then they already are. Hosea shares the sentiment but their unconditional loyalty has them tethered to this plan for the time being.

Angelo cackles from his perch on the manor’s balcony. He finds himself (both literally and figuratively) above the party-goers and that seems to fill him with malicious glee. They are merely bugs under his expensive shoes, and he’ll go well out of his way to stomp on them.

He sorts through the crowd one by one, expressing his contempt and expansive knowledge of Saint Denis’ denizens. Each one has a filthy secret that Angelo pours forth like fine wine. A jeer follows every name until his gaze falls upon a certain young lady, arm secured around Hosea’s.

“And who is this? I’ve never seen her before,” Angelo turns to his men with a smirk, “I’d certainly remember one so pretty.” Arthur tracks Angelo’s leering gaze to you, and his ire is sparked like flint. Taking a step forward to act, he aims to silence this lecherous cretin permanently.

Unfortunately, he is promptly stopped by Dutch’s hand, a silent plea to contain himself. It’s a small one and Dutch hopes Angelo doesn’t notice, they’re already on thin enough ice. Thankfully, he doesn’t.  

“Is she one of yours?” It’s posed as a question but Dutch knows he expects an answer - the right answer.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “she’s like a daughter to me.” Dutch is careful not to give out too much information but still emphasizes you are no part of their meeting. “Just wanted to show her a good time away from the debauchery of our lifestyle. We think she deserved it, didn’t we Arthur?”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body is wound tight, ready to fight if you’re put in Angelo’s crosshairs. He clenches his jaw and manages to grit out an affirmation.

Another smirk spreads across Angelo’s lips. “Is that right?” He says something in Italian to his men, most likely a derogatory comment, before turning his attention back to the outlaws.

“It’s quite a crime to keep a flower like that out of reach. Such a beauty should,” he pauses to take another drag of his cigar, licking his lips lasciviously afterwords, “be enjoyed by all.”

Angelo seems to revel in the heat of Arthur’s rage; he’s garnered what you mean to him by reactions alone. Arthur’s trigger finger is suddenly restless; he wishes he had the sense to conceal a weapon. Dutch speaks again before Arthur sets this whole party ablaze.  

“We shall keep that in mind, Signore Bronte. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Dutch begins to lead Arthur back inside.

“Yes, yes go! Enjoy, my friends!” He says with a dismissive wave before he returns to his own festivities. Angelo wears a mask of gracious host but Arthur can see the cracks in it, revealing the true monster underneath.

That doesn’t matter right now though. Arthur needs to get back to you.

As the two of them head back downstairs (Arthur a little more briskly in contrast) Arthur starts up with Dutch. “I told you bringing her along was a bad idea,” he growls. It’s clear Dutch doesn’t have the patience to placate Arthur right now.

“And I told you that we needed her! She still can speak their pretentious language. Discover leads that we couldn’t with our “barbaric” intellects.” Dutch says sardonically, paired with a roll of his eyes.

“Dutch,” Arthur warns but is once again interrupted.

“I will keep her safe, son. As I have done for all of us.” Dutch smiles fondly then. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, a true sheep in wolf’s clothing. I gather she won’t need much assistance from either of us.”

Arthur is momentarily rendered speechless. It was true, you were beyond capable of fending for yourself. But he still did not want to take any chances.

A man who held the world in the palm of his hand? What could someone with that type of power do to a woman closely associated with a (potential) enemy gang?

Arthur didn’t think himself overly imaginative but he could picture possible outcomes vividly. Too vividly.

One of many servants opened the main doors before those thoughts could evolve into more grotesque nightmares. Arthur is cruelly reminded of the events transpiring just beyond. However his racing mind is thankful for the distraction. He finds on the other side a dapper Hosea and Bill, looking even more miserable than himself.

But no you.

Arthur opens his mouth to inquire and Hosea has the answer before he can ask. It seems everyone’s in the habit of cutting Arthur off tonight.

Hosea tilts his head towards the courtyard. “Down there. She’s getting a head start on the mingling,” he informs his frantic son. Arthur’s feet carry him so fast he barely catches Dutch’s request to stay out of trouble. Wishful thinking but he’ll try his best regardless.

To Arthur, you stand out amongst the throng of people, clear as day. Your pink dress (you tell him it’s peach) compliments you completely. From the way it hugs your waist to the roses embroidered along the skirts. How fitting of a design, a wild rose with her own kind.  

An array of golden hair pins - courtesy of Miss Grimshaw’s heydey - keep your complicated braid in place. They shine like stars in the lamplight, twinkling faintly with every turn of your head. Your decolletage is bare of any jewelry, save for some cream colored lace along the sleeves of your gown. Arthur is oddly more distracted, eyeing the exposed skin hungrily.

Your beauty doesn’t hold a candle to any of the satin clad or feathered fan socialites. You are elegance personified and he aims to immortalize that within the confines of his journal later.  

Arthur makes his way forward, drawn to you as he often finds is the case. Obstacles in the form of other guests stand in his way and he wades through them. He doesn’t mean to push and shove; he is quite colossal when next to these dainty women. An apology comes in the form of a flute of champagne as to not stir up any more trouble before he presses onward.

Your company is being enjoyed by the mayor himself and his entourage. The gentlemen are enraptured by whatever it is you’re regaling them with. Hanging onto every pretty word and starring at you like you hung the moon. Arthur finds himself in the same position more often than not.

Laughter, airy and delicate, tugs at Arthur’s heart as he approaches. It envelops him; it’s a warmth he still isn’t accustomed to, especially in his line of work. But you coax him into it, and he learns his hands are still capable of gentleness.

You notice Arthur, a grin playing on your lips, and you stop mid-sentence to acknowledge him.  

“Oh Tacitus, my darling,” You coo, waltzing up and wrapping your arms snugly around Arthur’s neck. He fights to contain his guffaw at your act: the high society primadonna. It’s your favorite role to play whenever Hosea needs you for a swindle. And you play it exceptionally well.

A kiss is placed on his cheek, tantalizingly close to the corner of his lips. It’s a promise of more to come.

The mayor and his colleagues chuckle at this impromptu display of affection. “It seems your new bride is quite taken with you. What a shame for us, eh gentlemen?” The mayor asks, feigning disappointment which earns him a wave of laughter. You titter yourself, finding a new place around Arthur’s arm this time.

Arthur looks at you bemused, but humored. You take that as your cue to subtly fill him in on your little game. You smile affectionately at Arthur before turning attention back to the mayor. “I’m terribly sorry my good men, but my heart utterly belongs to my Tacitus,” you keen, dramatically casting a hand over your chest. If he wasn’t an actor in this play, Arthur would quite enjoy watching the performance.

"Mon coeur, it is broken!” The mayor jests and you playfully swat at his hand.

“Ne sois pas bête!” You tease back.

This French tit for tat goes right over Arthur’s head but he does understand something. Dutch was absolutely right in bringing you along. Not even an hour later and you already have a major city official wrapped around your finger. Color Arthur impressed (and slightly jealous). But then he remembers he is your “husband” after all, and the petty emotions are assuaged.

“And,” the mayor finally turns his focus to Arthur, “whose pleasure is it to have this delight of a woman for a wife?” Arthur sheds his skin of an outlaw and adapts, following your lead.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly, extending a hand out. “Tacitus Gilgore.” The mayor seems pleased at the gesture and eagerly shakes Arthur’s hand. You’re beaming at Arthur’s side at the interaction.

“Well it certainly is a pleasure Mister Gilgore. Henri Lemieux, mayor of this fine city.” There’s a hint of disgust in his words; Arthur doesn’t blame him. Henri gestures to his surrounding accompaniment and begins to introduce them. Arthur tunes it out - they don’t matter. Finding the mayor was his goal, not these buffoons.

Though his attention does perk up at the mention of a familiar name. “And this is Monsieur Evelyn Miller.”

“Like the writer?” Arthur inquires, earning another giggle from you.

“Yes darling,” you chirp enthusiastically. “He wrote all those books your father positively adored.” Your conversation takes a turn. “Tacitus is the sole inheritor of his father’s oil company,” you inform with a coy smile. A few of the men raise their eyebrows, impressed. The mayor included.

“Ah an oil proprietor?” Henri inquires. “Well, congratulations are in order. A beautiful wife and a flourishing business? You sir, are a very lucky man.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand firmly in his.

“I look forward to speaking more with you, Monsieur Gilgore. But for now,” he relinquishes his hold on Arthur, “why don’t you and your young bride enjoy yourselves?”

Arthur places his now free hand on the small of your back. The satin feels soft under his calloused palms but he yearns more for skin to skin contact. Time and place, unfortunately.

“I think we will. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir.” Arthur takes his leave with a tip of his head before he escorts you away from the crowds. He thinks he deserves some semblance of peace for now. While the excess of unwanted company isn’t ideal, as long as you’re there he feels calm.

An impressive gazebo at the apex of the courtyard is devoid of any guests. It seems the majority of them strive to be in the limelight of this affair for reasons Arthur can’t seem to care about. Regardless, he is grateful for the temporary isolation as he leads you there.

The crowd begins to progressively wane much to Arthur's delight. A few still linger and you placate them with your arsenal of bonjour's and merci's. Once again Arthur finds himself grateful for you. He's reached his "mingling" threshold for the night a long time ago. Your's on the other hand seems to have just begun as you keen and wave to every passing sir and madam. It's rather amusing and Arthur chuckles lightly.

"Another minute there and I think he woulda' handed you the key to the city," Arthur teases. It's a rare occurrence for his bark have no bite, just playful nips You welcome it eagerly.

"That would've been ideal. I could have given it to Dutch so he can sell all of Saint Denis for a few mangoes." You respond back coolly. Arthur snorts.

"Seems like a fair trade."

You nudge him for his cheekiness. "Mind your tongue, Gilgore," you jab. He concedes to your wishes (as always).

"My apologies to my lady." Arthur's inner gentleman (the one he vehemently refuses is there) is showing. You want to say something, acknowledge the sides he wants to reveal. 

But now isn't the place for him to sink into that place of vulnerability. The predators here are too hungry. So you continue on as if it were a game still, keeping things lighthearted.

Placing a finger to your chin, you pretend to mull his words over. "I suppose," you begin, twirling out of his arms and swiftly dashing up the gazebo's steps. "I can forgive you," you spin around a column, "if you come sit with me for a moment?" You plop down on one of the many benches facing the river, tapping the empty space next to you. 

Arthur finds your impishness endearing, but now isn't the time. There's work to be done, people to mislead, men to k-

You can practically hear the discordance in his head. "Just for a moment," you plead, hoping it will alleviate some of his tension. It does, and he wordlessly complies as he sits down with you.

While Arthur doesn't claim to be an expert on the finer things in life, he is awestruck at the view. The gazebo seems to be on its own wooden isle in the middle of the water, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Gentle waves lap at the platform and it creates a steady, lulling rhythm. Petals drift lazily along the river, continually cascading down from the gentle push of an evening breeze.

The swamp he detests is transformed into an ethereal landscape as the lanterns’ reflections sparkle on the water’s surface. It appears that the rich can even buy the better parts of nature as well. Who would’ve thought.

The two of you are settled in comfortable silence, admiring the picturesque scenery as the party’s twittering becomes mere background noise.

Arthur speaks first. “So,” he begins bashfully. In this suit, he looks as awkward as he feels. A familiar hand on his knee, while slightly flirtatious, is a kind reminder he can be himself. It’s a freedom he still has trouble getting accustomed to at times. He lets his shoulders relax, “You think yer folks are around ‘ere somewhere?” It’s a question made in jest and you answer with a dry laugh.

“My parents wish they could be invited to a mayoral affair,” you say with a scoff. “Would’ve tried to sell me off twice as young if it meant they could eat the leftovers.” Though you try to hide it, Arthur picks up on hurt in your voice.

You hear it too, and you turn your head away from him for a moment. On instinct, you look out to the shoreline and see the manor you once called home. It's the same despite the ten years that have gone by: imposing and grand. You wonder if mother and father are awake, scornfully starring over at what they have continually failed to achieve. A jovial party serving as a painful reminder. The irony makes you feel a little bit better.

Walking up to that house every day for sixteen years had instilled fear into your core. Now, it was just an ugly scar across Saint Denis. The pain wasn't permanent, but you would always remember it. You're regarding the house apathetically, not being able to bring yourself away.

Arthur notices and begins to worry. “Hey,” Arthur begins gently, tracing circles over your knuckles. His voice summons you back and you look at him expectantly, gaze tender. You render him speechless; he’s ensnared and the simple control you exude over him has his nerves singing.

Arthur manages to compose himself and finds a way to bring your smile back. “What will people think if they see my beautiful wife so upset?” Again you laugh, this time sincerely. He finds himself smiling back, "They'll say I'm a beast of a man."

Tears threaten to spill from his sincerity. You try to shoo them away. “Oh lovely Tacitus,” your accent is back full swing. “You are just the kindest husband. How in this cruel world did I find myself so blessed?” While the titles are just pretend, he’s finding himself addicted to their honied sweetness. He wants more and your lips have the power to temporarily quell his want.

Leaning closer, falling further in love.

His lips are a whisper away, practically feeling the heat of your blush radiating off you. There’s a crowd of people just beyond a few white pillars but he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. And if they do, well, Dutch didn’t specify his distaste for getting into an upper class brawl.    

“I ask myself that question every day,” Arthur says reverently, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut as his places his lips against your own with a gentleness reserved for you. This is a song and dance he is pleasantly more accustomed to, moving against you effortlessly. Each pass of his lips draws a sigh from you satisfied than the last.

Inhibition rears its ugly head again once Arthur thinks he actually has the luxury to enjoy himself. He pulls back slightly, much to your dismay but you don’t pursue. Like a deer, you don’t want to startle him. Instead you wait, a patience that Arthur is grateful you provide.

Arthur almost forgot why they’re here, and loyalty has always come before his happiness. “I gotta,” he mumbles. “Gotta do something for Dutch. I-” his words fall short when you silence him with another kiss. It appears chaste, but there's a fire behind it that’s nipping at his lips as the tip of your tongue traces over them.

Your poor cowboy would deny himself everything, so long as Dutch said the word. So you took some of the weight off his already bad shoulders for him.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as you withdraw from him, hand sliding down between your breasts. Realization (and relief) sweeps over him when it returns with a small envelope in tow, labeled "Classified".  

“What? How did you-”

“I wasn’t just talking to those old men for the caliber of their conversation,” you simper, tucking the envelope securely back into your bosom. “Managed to pilfer these documents pertaining to Cornwall off poor Monsieur Lemiux,” you purse your lips in a faux pout. Arthur continues to stare at you in awe.

You may have been planted in a gilded garden, but you had uprooted yourself, new roots digging their way deep into the forest floor. Growing thorns and blooming within the wild: free and untamed.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“So,” Arthur’s musing is ceased by you. Let him enjoy himself, as many this night have told him do. Yes he was on a mission, but let him have a moment to breathe. With you.

“Worry about what you ‘gotta’ do for Dutch later. But for now-” you lean in and purr against the shell of his ear, “let’s just be.”

The softness of your words is paired with a clap of man-made thunder cutting through the sky followed by a brilliant array of colors. Fireworks begin to dance across the night and gasps of wonder fill the air. The stars are met with blooms of blues, greens, and yellow to rival them. It's quite the spectacle; Arthur had never seen fireworks before. He had only heard Hosea' numerous tellings about taking Bessie to see them. The concept fascinated him; gunpowder igniting but instead of death, it brings magic.

But as they continue to burst, casting vibrant shades of gold and red across your face, Arthur thinks he’s found a new kind of magic to believe in.  

[i-love-charles]

Five Finger Fillet I

Chapter 1/3

Notes: Javier Escuella + Female Reader, Uncle Being Uncle, Slow Burner

Wordcount: 

A comfortable silence fills the campgrounds at Clemens Point, everyone keeping busy with either chores or planning their next stage robbery. Your own hands working feverishly at a bloodied shirt in the soapy basin at your bent knees; your nostrils flaring in muted disgust at the running red pigment laying claim to Arthur’s shirt collar – yet another shootout was your guess. It was rare that the camp ever had the opportunity to slow itself down so when the silence was cut short by an enthused Uncle jumping from his horse and practically hopping through camp, you let out a small groan to Mary-Beth besides you whom had perched herself against the provisions wagon with her face practically pressed into her sappy romance novel. Your reaction to Uncle’s arrival elicited a small, stifled giggle from her soft hidden features.

“Dutch! A ranch nearby…drunken farmhand…heard of cattle unguarded at night. I got the information from a man at the saloon in Rhodes, said there’s about thirty or forty cows out back!” Uncle, wheezing between sentences, shouted out to Dutch as he made his way to the cheap wooden table laying in the centre of camp where Ditch sat idly reading his new favourite Evelyn Miller novel.

“Then get off your backside Uncle and check it out, bring the cattle to our friends Clay and Clive at Clemens Cove, take either Javier or ___ with you.” He chimed whilst still whisking through the words in front of him. Javier was the first to react at the sound of his name - his attention lifting from the map of a homestead to the north of Rhodes, someplace called ‘Lonnie’s Shack’, to the conversation before him.  

“Dutch, come on. I’m not going rustling with Uncle, he’ll get me killed, hermano!” He groaned rolling up the map of Lemoyne and placing it on a crate nearby. You quickly dried your damp hands against the bedroll beneath you and rose to your feet; you definitely didn’t want to go with Uncle either, he was useless or almost always too intoxicated to actually help. You and Javier both made your way to the table where Dutch lay back unamused.  

“I’ve got too much to do here, Dutch.” You replied, countering Javier’s complaint.

“Uncle can’t go alone, he can barely dress himself, so decide who’s going with him or I will.” Dutch spoke up whilst closing the book and making his way to his tent, mumbling something along the lines of ‘just bring back money’ and whipping at the . Your eyes met Javier’s, almost waiting for him to be the gentleman and offer to go.

“I’m planning for a homestead, I can’t go, chica.” He explained, his tone almost pleading for you to take pity.

“Your planning can wait, Javier. I’ve got to wash blood out of the men’s shir-”  

“Why don’t you make it exciting and decide with a game of ‘five finger fillet’?” Uncle interrupted whilst twiddling the tip of his knife against the pad of his index finger. Once he let the words lose from his mouth, he looked up at you both knowing he’d started something. He brought the blade down to wedge into the grainy wood of the table and proceeded his escape to his usual spot at the foot of a shaded oak tree - hat tilted over his face and an open bottle of spirits at his lap.

You hated to give him credit, but the idea was actually a very exciting one, both you and Javier were more than competent when it came to the game. You relied more on precision when it came to winning tactics, whereas Javier’s skilled lied in his stamina. Almost reading your mind Javier sat himself down at the table, dislodging the knife and offering the handle to you with a roguish grin plastered at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s not waste any time since we’ve both obviously got so much to do. One round, thirty-seconds each. Whad’ya say?” He chimed, you countered his question with the same grin and took the blade from his grip, joining him on the chair adjacent and proceeding to lay your palm flat against the cold wooden surface, the blade pressing down to meet the wood some inches from your thumb.

“Time starts with your first jab.” Javier retorted from across the table, arms crossed, and eyes fixated on your hand.

The first jab of the knife landed perfectly in the space between your thumb and index finger – each jab between your digits landing gracefully quick while the seconds counted down. Your mind chose to zone out Javier’s burning gaze and instead focused itself on the task at hand. The blade made its way through each of your fingers again, ever so slightly meeting with a small etch of skin on your ring finger but not hard enough to draw blood or raise Javier’s attention. The sun beamed down, and its rays caught against sharp metal spike that continually disappeared against the splintering surface between your fingers. Your grip on the knifes handle was strong and rigid, expertly raising and dropping the blade down, never faltering.  

“…4, 3, 2, 1. Seven laps, not bad at all, chica.”  

His round was even quicker, the blade stabbing down precisely between his fingers and his eyes purposefully fixated and engrossed into yours. Even when the table began to creak, and its thin legs began to stumble after every harsh collision of the blade he still made a point of never breaking away his gaze. You knew this was his intimidation tactic but, honestly, you weren’t intimidated at all. His eyes were beautiful, even when they were practically covered by the thick rim of his hat. In those few seconds that your gazes fixed upon each other you took the opportunity to really admire his chiselled features, particularly the sharp shapely facial hair that lay against his skin or even the thick, dark strands of hair showering around his face that broke from the ponytail behind his neck.

“…4, 3, 2, 1. Guess you better saddle you and Uncle up, Javier.” His round finished falling just short of your seven-lap score. He jabbed the knife into the wood and let out a defeated sigh.  

“Uncle, will you go and saddle up Boaz and while I get changed?” Javier’s question wasn’t met with an answer, not even the typical Uncle groan that we’d all become accustomed to whenever Uncle was asked to complete a chore. The usual spot Uncle slept at all day under the oak tree was vacant, until a stumbling and slurring Uncle emerged from behind one of the wagons, a new whisky bottle in hand.

“I ast’ that gal to give me some…ring dang d-” Uncle collapsed to the floor at your feet mid-song and immediately began loudly snoring whilst clutching at his whisky like he wanted to buy it dinner and take it to bed.

Your first thought was the inevitability of doing this job with Javier alone, and this realisation gave you immediate butterflies. Although you hadn’t been on many jobs before this, you were glad this one would be with Javier. He’d always been the nicest to you, and you had held a large soft-spot for him since day one, otherwise you wouldn’t have assisted Hosea in teaching him English.

“I’ll go and saddle up.” You groaned, stepping over Uncle and making your way to the hitching posts whilst trying to conceal the little smile that threatened to spill from your lips from Javier’s eyeline. Oh God, why did this man make you so blush and nervous? It’s pathetic.

Part 2

[manicmarsupial]

The Smallest Outlaw Chapter 4- The Point of Snow Return

I’ve really got to progress to the Horseshoe Overlook chapter. I’m running out of snow puns. A bit of a boring chapter, but there is Ollie’s origins and a small (lol) physical description...that’s kind of it really. Also...I really stink at trying to write accents because of stupid hearing

I’m still trying to figure out if this story will follow the plotline exactly or make it in to a fix-it fic. Oh the choices...help...

As usual, feel free to submit ideas you would like to see. Also, acknowledgments and thank yous to @yeenybeanies (Devin is awesome), @lilnoodlegal (Outlaws and Winglings is a much better story than my brain barf shitposting), and @tiny-james (for fuelling the fire of my madness regarding RDR2 G/t).

Feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged for updates to this story. Let’s get this started.

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

I don’t know when I fell asleep. I’m no longer on a wooden surface in front of the fire. Judging from the feeling, I’m still wrapped up in Hosea’s scarf…and it’s dark. One surface I’m resting against is moving steadily. Occasionally I can hear a deep thump.

I try to adjust my position to get more information. I hear a questioning hum reverberate above me. A sliver of light above me widens. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see the towering figure of Hosea. I unconsciously attempt to retreat.

“Mornin’ Ollie,” he smiles as he looks down at me.

I look around. As well as being wrapped up in his scarf, he also had me under his coat. That explains the movement and the thumping.

“Morning,” I mumble in return.

I cover my eyes and hide back into the scarf, whining about bright light. Hosea’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as I feel the woollen material close around me. I brace myself as I feel my confines move.

“You have an explanation due,” I hear Hosea’s voice almost directly outside.

I emit a grumpy ‘no’ sound and burrow further into the scarf.

“Are you going to continue this stubbornness?”

“Yah huh.”

“Just my luck,” he mutters with a sigh.

Honestly, now I kind of feel sorry for him. I scrabble my way to the open part of the bundle, only to pull part of the scarf over my head like a hood due to the cold air nearly freezing my ears off.

“I can’t tell you what’s going on, because I don’t rightly know,” I admit with a shrug.

“How is that possible?” Hosea raises an eyebrow.

I think about this. Should I tell this giant stranger about myself? He did admit that he and his friends were outlaws. Outside, there’s wolves, bears, and a blizzard. Inside, a whole lot of giant outlaws. My question is, which is more dangerous? Well, if these guys wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already.

“Because two days ago, I was human.”

A brief look of disbelief crosses Hosea’s features.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Your pointed ears were off putting.”

“My what?!” I exclaim.

Hosea looks confused, then smiles.

“You obviously haven’t seen yourself in a mirror, have you?”

“Uhhh, no. I woke up with my hotel bed the size of a barn and lit a shuck anywhere else. No time to preen,” I admit, hesitantly moving my working arm to one of my ears.

They’re pointed, as Hosea said, but much longer and stick out. At my surprised realization, they twitch upward.

Hosea chuckles softly and my ears flick at feeling the exhalation of his breath.

“At least you’re entertained,” I grumble.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up in Colter?”

“I stowed away in someone’s satchel. Turned out he was an O’Driscoll. Not my best decision.”

“An O’Driscoll? Do you remember which way they were heading?”

I try to recall what direction the horseman was going.

“Uh, North East, I think.”

“Ah, we’ve already run into them,” a dark look passes briefly over Hosea’s face.

“What about your arm?” any sour attitude regarding the O’Driscoll’s has gone.

“Oh, the horse bucked. I landed badly, then staggered over here for shelter.”

“How are you still unconvinced that I was human?” I ask on seeing Hosea’s dubious expression.

“It sounds too simple.”

I shrug off my makeshift hood and go to search my bag, but I don’t have it.

“Where’s my satchel?”

I’m sure I had it with me.

Hosea shifts me to one hand then rummages through his pocket and pulls out my bag. It’s positively dwarfed in his palm. I move one hand to take it from him, then reconsider. I just spill out the contents.

“If I wasn’t human, all that would be too much of a coincidence,” I gesture to the two food tins, my journal, and a small amount of coins.

Hosea raises his hand closer to his face to inspect the items.

“Awake already, old friend?” Dutch enters the room with a booming greeting.

“Just talkin’ to little Ollie here,” I feel my ears flick in irritation at the nickname Hosea just referred to me as.

“What have you found out about our latest acquisition?”

“Used to be human. Ended up in Colter by accident,” Hosea answers, passing Dutch the stuff I had poured into his hand.

He inspects the items before placing them back into the bag.

“And how is Ollie feeling?” Dutch hands me my satchel.

“I’m a tiny human with a broken arm and a thin coat in a blizzard. I’ve had better days.” I grumble.

I recoil as Hosea brings his other hand up, but he only rearranges his scarf to cover my shoulders.

“At least you’re no longer stuck outside alone,” he smiles.

With that in mind, this isn’t one of my worst days.

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

 Hosea had left the cabin to discuss something with the other gang members, something about another missing member. I kept myself busy by reading…trying to at any rate, the book Hosea always has.

When you had no-one to teach you as a child, it’s a hard thing to teach yourself. I’m no exception. I understand enough to know it’s a crime story. It doesn’t take long for me to focus all my attention on reading.

 My ears flick as I feel a short gust of warm air from behind me and a familiar chuckle.

“Sorry, probably should have asked you first,” I mutter, grabbing the cover of the book to close it.

I’m stopped by Hosea’s massive hand over mine. I track my eyes up his arm to look up at his face. He’s kneeling next to the small table.

“I would never have taken you for a reader,” he says with a smile.

“Uhh, I can’t read…not very well anyway,” I admit.

He takes the book, marking the page with his finger and puts his other hand out in front of me.

“C’mon Ollie,” he urges.

“Why?” I ask cautiously, slowly backing away.

“Because you’ll freeze to death like that.”

I look down at myself. I hadn’t realized the scarf was no longer over me.

“Oh,” is all I can say as I shiver.

I give a squeak of fright as Hosea wraps his massive hand around me. I struggle to escape his grasp as he lifts me off the table.

“If you keep squirming, I might drop you,” he warns softly.

“I’m trying not to hurt you.”

That’s kind of true. I notice that his grip isn’t actually tight. More of a secure hold trying to avoid my splinted arm.

My stomach drops as Hosea stands up and I grab onto his finger with one arm, holding on for dear life. He takes a step to sit down in a chair in front of the fireplace. He leans back slightly as he settles into his seat. His fingers loosen and I drop the short distance, landing on the fur lapel of his jacket. I barely have time to get my bearings before his hand pins me down. I try to wriggle out from under his hand.

“Shh, just relax. You need rest with your injured arm, and you are going to freeze without intervention,” his voice rumbles through his chest.

My next sentence is interrupted as the cabin door opens. It’s not Dutch or Arthur, but an older man with glasses. Hosea quickly places his other hand over me, concealing me from the new arrival, though I can just see through the slight gap in his fingers.

“Ah, good evening Herr Matthews,” the new man greets in a thick accent.

I’m guessing German maybe. As he turns to close the door, Hosea closes both hands around me. I register upward movement then I’m dropped onto his shoulder. Specifically, between his shirt and coat collar. He wraps his scarf carefully around, then stands up. I grab his coat in fright.

“Evenin’ Herr Strauss,” Hosea’s booming voice echoes in my ears.

“I’m vondering vhen we are getting off zis mountain. I’m sure zhe others are curious about zhis also,” Herr Strauss says as he attempts to rub some warmth back into his arms and hands.

“We have to be extremely careful, Strauss. Pinkertons are still crawling all over the state.”

Pinkertons?! What did this gang of outlaws do? And what have I landed myself into?

“I know. I’m just anxious, is all,” Strauss replies.

I don’t register the pounding of hoofbeats until Strauss is already at the window.

“Zhere back. Wit John. Mein Gott, he looks awful,” he exclaims.

Hosea took the opportunity while Strauss was distracted to take me off his shoulder and put me into the small drawer of the end table, then gesturing ‘shush’, before following German outside.

That was…weird.