#and the fact that he didn’t get to kill micah?

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it. 

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

 Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again. 

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important. 

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-” 

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging. 

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence. 

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls 

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging. 

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can. 

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him. 

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins. 

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand. 

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.” 

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp. 

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him. 

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore. 

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same. 

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear. 

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here. 

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow. 

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder. 

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time. 

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway. 

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading. 

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot. 

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.  

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer. 

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits. 

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp. 

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied. 

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge. 

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment  hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely. 

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about. 

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that. 

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been. 

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men. 

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed. 

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about. 

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud. 

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him. 

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death. 

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day. 

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver. 

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet. 

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless. 

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him. 

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face. 

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth. 

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns. 

And runs. 

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips. 

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out. 

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him. 

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger. 

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face. 

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy. 

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die. 

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back. 

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies. 

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

Next part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

[tinyfishtits]

Join Me?

Micah Bell / Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Reader stumbles upon Micah skinny dipping. Word Count: 2,973 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language and suggestive themes Author's Note: More fluff! This is Ch. 2 of 'Need a Haircut, Doll?' ★ Chapter 1 ☆ Read on AO3 ★ Masterlist

Life in camp finally seemed to settle and find its rhythm over the next few weeks in Clemons Point. The men were out most days diddling around Rhodes playing cops and robbers and stirring up trouble… I tried to keep out of it for the most part. In fact, I was so on edge being in Lemoyne Raider territory I hadn’t left camp at all since the move, I was starting to go stir crazy. 

Since joining the gang back in Colter, I'd established myself as a pretty proficient hunter. I was good with a bow and even better with my knives. I gave Charles and Arthur a run for their money when it came to clean kills and high quality pelts. I wasn’t used to being so cooped up and Grimshaw was really taking advantage of all my time loitering in camp. She knew I was an easy target for the chores everyone else seemed to avoid, and now I understood why. After weeks of scraping up horse crap, Karen's vomit, and cleaning dog piss out of bedrolls and blankets that the new camp mutt seemed intent on marking as his territory, I both smelt and felt like shit. 

All this was just compounded by the fact that I couldn’t seem to get a good night's sleep. And so I found myself, for the fifth night in a row, tossing and turning restlessly for hours until I finally gave up the fight and decided to go on a walk. Bundling up in my wool blanket, I made my way down to the lake. It was still dark out, probably just nearing four in the morning. The sun wouldn’t paint the sky for at least another hour. I walked barefoot across the rocky shore, treading slowly over the uneven terrain until the pebbles tapered off to finer grains of sand and I finally felt the warm relief of water at my feet. 

Listening to the soft, rhythmic lapping of the waves, I let my mind wander as I walked. I thought of what I would do when I left camp next. Perhaps I would convince Charles to go hunting with me, or maybe Keiren would finally take me up on my offer to teach him how to throw a knife if he’d show me how to fish. Being surrounded by so many beautiful and bountiful lakes, rivers and swamps in Scarlett Meadows alone, it seemed a shame that was one of the few skills I never even attempted, having written it off early in life as a needlessly boring activity. After all the chaos of the last year, though… I’d grown to cherish those simpler, quiet moments. What was once dull, was now peaceful. 

A few yards out in the water I heard a faint splashing, like a large fish breaking the surface. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I could see something shiny and dark floating on the water. The longer I looked, the bigger it got, slowly emerging from the depths and coming toward where I stood on the shore. The moment the moonlight caught his skin I gasped and turned away, almost falling on my face as my foot caught the edge of my blanket. 

“Jesus! Christ, I- I didn’t-” I stuttered, frozen in embarrassment as I realized what exactly I’d stumbled on to. Micah Bell was half submerged in the lake, a few yards behind me, completely naked. “I didn’t… see… anything.” I said sheepishly. It was mostly truthful. I didn’t see anything, below his waist at least… But I had seen more of him than I ever had before. My cheeks burned hot at the image cemented in my head. Micah, glistening wet in the moonlight, toned arms reaching up to wipe the long hair from his face, freshly trimmed mustache dripping water onto his chest and falling down his soft stomach, the golden hair that trailed down it to what lay just below the water's surface.

The silence following my accidental peeping was painful and I found myself desperately wanting to escape, wishing I had just sat by the fire like every other cold, restless night. Was this what he did? Where he disappeared to after everyone else was asleep?  I had been surprised before when I never ran across him on my midnight walks around camp. Part of me always hoped I would…

“I- I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I said, starting back off in the direction of camp. I’d only made it a few clumsy steps before I heard my name, soft and velvety on the wind at my back. I stopped dead in my tracks, still too red in the face to dare turning to look at him just yet. 

“Wait.” Was all he said, the silence that followed filled only by the subtle splashing of water as he moved through it. “Join me?” His voice rang out from the darkness. The water at my feet, once warm against my skin, now felt ice cold in comparison to the fire raging through me. I’d never heard him so… serious . He always had such a cocky air about him, laced every word in sleazy armor as to not give too much of himself away. The rawness of this one small request, just two simple words… it hung between us like a lightning bolt on the edge of a knife. 

The pure shock of it had me turning to face him, embarrassment over my red face overpowered by curiosity. “What?” I gawked back at him. Even if he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks, it was obvious by the way my voice rose two octaves how flustered I was. Only his head bobbed above the water now and he met my wide eyes with a sly smirk. The moonlight shimmered off the water and reflected in his light blue eyes, igniting them like the fluorescent irises of a predator stalking its prey. It sent a shiver down my spine. 

“I-” I started, feeling the need to speak when he let the silence drag on, but had no clue what to say or do. The thought of going for a much needed soak in the pleasantly warm water was all too enticing… Would he think me a prude if I waded into the water in my clothes? Or even more so if I walked away? If it were anyone else, Charles, Arthur, Bill… I wouldn’t have cared what they would think. But something in me desperately wanted to be vulnerable in this moment, not to turn away or hide myself in fear this chance would not come around again. 

“Turn around.” I said, my voice much steadier than I felt. His eyebrows shot up at first, then his lips twitched with a smile and he turned away to face the horizon. I shuffled out of my clothes, setting them beside where his were, to my surprise, neatly folded on the pebbly ground. Another facet of his personality suddenly fell into place. The gruff, grimey outlaw valued order and care when it came to his possessions. It was clear in the way he tended to his weapons, his horse, his facial hair, and now, his clothes. 

The water felt incredible. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone swimming, or even had a proper soak in a tub. It’d been long enough I forgot how light it made your body, how, when the water was the perfect temperature as it was tonight, it felt close to flying. If it weren’t for the light of the moon flickering off the water's surface it’d be hard to think otherwise, the darkness of night and water were practically one in the same. Once the water met my chin and the lakebed disappeared beneath my feet, I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. 

Micah turned to face me then, “What’s so funny?” He asked, a gleaming smile painting his face as he examined my own elated expression. 

“It just-” I giggled, feeling the water flow through my toes and fingers so softly it was almost ticklish. “I really needed this.” I admitted. 

His smile softened and he hummed in acknowledgement. “Yer workin’ too hard. I don’t know why you let that old bat order you around so much.” 

I wasn’t overly fond of Grimshaw, but I understood at the very least where she was coming from. The camp would fall to pieces overnight if it weren't for her. “She only has me do what needs to be done, I don’t see you pitchin’ in on chores.” 

Micah scoffed. “I bring in cash, sweetheart, I already got a job.” He was just a few feet away from me now, effortlessly paddling his arms and legs. I wasn’t as skilled of a swimmer and could already feel my limbs growing tired at the energy I was exerting just to keep my head above water. Micah noticed my struggle and positioned himself behind me. “Lean back” His gravely whisper brushed against my ear. I did as he ordered and found myself supported by two strong hands on my back as I let my body relax against his hold. 

I let out a content sigh and heard his chuckle ring out above me. “Thank you” I whispered back, my eyes closed as I enjoyed the bliss of feeling as though I truly was floating, suspended in air. 

“Least I could do, darlin’.” He replied, his voice soft and soothing. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to give in completely to his hold on me. As I began to drift off, I could have sworn I heard Micah hum to me, gentle, sweet tunes. One I even recognized as a lullaby from my childhood. I wondered briefly if his mother sang to him as a boy, if he’d ever had a moment as peaceful as the one he was gifting me tonight. He held me like that for so long that by the time I opened my eyes, the sun was rising at my feet, the sky a beautiful deep tangerine.

He slowly released me from his hold once I began to stir awake in his arms. “Mornin’” He whispered, so close I could have sworn I felt his mustache scratch my ear. I turned to face him and he made no effort to move away, our bodies just a foot away from each other. As the sun lit the sky and the water, I became acutely aware of how naked we were. My cheeks reddened in an instant, it took more willpower than I was willing to admit, not to look down. As if he could read my thoughts, though I’m sure they were clearly written on my face, Micah waved a hand toward the shore, splashing the water with his gesture. “Go get dressed doll, I ain’t lookin’.” 

I waded to the shore, my legs a bit wobbly as I readjusted to the weight of my body. The bite of the morning chill prickled at the soft hairs on my body and I shivered against it. Quickly pulling on my clothes, I watched as Micah dove under water. I was surprised how long he could hold his breath, staying submerged for over a minute before his golden head broke the surface again. Fully dressed and bundled once more in my blanket, I yelled for him. “You comin’ cowboy?” 

Diving once more, Micah resurfaced just a few feet away from the shore, shaking his head and flinging the water from his hair like a dog. I yelped as droplets showered my bare legs and jumped back, much to his amusement. Chuckling, he rose from the water, giving me no warning as his bare body came into view. His tanned, toned, glistening body… My mouth went dry and I stumbled once more to turn around in time, giving him the same privacy he allotted me.

I walked over to one of the many large boulders scattered across the shore and took a seat, staring at my hands as he dressed. The faint rustling of fabric and Micah’s soft grunts as he pulled his clothes over damp skin filled the silence between us. The strike of a match and the subtle crackling burn that followed caught my attention and I looked up to find Micah watching me, a cigarette lazily perched between his lips, dressed except for his shirt which he left completely unbuttoned, his chest on full display. 

I opened my blanket and patted the space beside me, a silent invitation. He sauntered over and joined me without a word. His body was so warm , like he had his own fire burning under skin. Micah stiffened as I cuddled up to his side, my arms automatically wrapping around his bicep, pulling him closer. Another shiver wracked my body at our temperature difference and he relaxed, snaking his arm out of my grip to wrap around my waist and bring me deeper into his embrace, pulling the blanket around us both. 

We sat in companionable silence and watched the sun rise, basking in each other's warmth. That faint lakey musk clung to us both, but Micah scent was… deeper, more complex. The ashy burn of salt tingled at my nose, melded delectably with the tobacco smoke and a greener, fresher aroma, like prairie grass. I didn’t realize I was nuzzling his neck until he let out the faintest moan, just barely more than a sigh. But the vibration of it through his throat tickled at my nose and I shot up, suddenly aware how tangled up I was with him. He peeked sidelong at me, taking the cigarette from his lips and blowing a puff of smoke from the side of his mouth, away from me. “Why’d ya stop?” He asked, his voice so low it was barely more than a whisper. 

Instead of searching for an answer I reached for the cigarette in his hand and brought it to my lips, drawing a deep puff before returning it to his still outstretched fingers. I could feel his eyes on me as I gazed out at the brightening horizon. “You been havin’ bad dreams?” He asked suddenly. I turned to look at him, surprise and confusion painting my expression. “I- um.” He stuttered, clearing his throat before continuing, “You haven't been sleeping…” 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and sighed as I sunk back against his warmth. “I’ve just been going a little stir crazy is all.” And when he didn’t reply added, “And it’s cold as hell here at night. I don't know how anyone gets any sleep.”

“Well go into town today, let Grimshaw do her own damn chores for once.” He said, as if it were that simple, and for him I’m sure it was. I didn’t want to admit the real reason I’d confined myself to camp the past few weeks… couldn’t bring myself to say the word, scared. I was scared. I’d made it my mission the last year to improve my knife and bow skills so I’d never feel helpless again, and I’d done a damn good job of it. But the memory of the raiders, the trauma I'd endured at their hands… It wasn’t easily forgotten. And although I could effortlessly take down an Elk, a dozen men with nothing but malice coursing through their veins was a different story entirely. 

When my silence dragged on Micah added, “I can come with ya, if you want.” I perked up, my heart fluttering at the idea of spending a day with him. 

“Would- Would you go hunting with me?” I asked, suddenly excited for what the day ahead of me held. Finally, I thought, something other than chores! Micah let out a breathy laugh and flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground. 

“Animals?” He said with a theatrical sigh, “It’s not really my… area of expertise.” But after a moment relented, “Alright..." He drawled, "What are we huntin’?” A wide smile spread across my face as I looked up at him, “Yotes!” I said, the excitement clear in my voice. I’d been dying to get some pelts to make myself a propper, warm bed. 

Micah laughed, a genuine, deep laugh that shook me. “Coyote's it is then.” And pulled me in closer to his chest with a sigh. “Maybe I-” He started, a hand idly playing with a strand of my hair as he searched for what to say. “Could I teach you how to shoot?” He whispered into my brow. 

“I know how to shoot.” I said and he quickly retorted, “A gun darlin’.”

I hummed, feigning that I had to think it over. I’d wanted to ask him to teach me to shoot the first time I saw him twirl his revolvers around his fingers. “Sure.” I said finally, “But I don’t have a gun.” 

“I can fix that.” He said, getting up and stretching a hand out to me. The smile he gave me was soft and sweet, his silver-blue eyes alight. He looked like he’d emerged from a painting. The sun behind him gave the appearance that he glowed with golden light, beckoning me toward him like some rugged, gunslinging siren. I took his hand and let him pull me up, our hands lingering in each others for a moment longer than need be. 

He leaned down then, picking up his hat and dusting the sand from it before placing it on my head. “Looks better on you.” He said quickly, his voice a bit rough, and turned back toward camp. Blush burned at my cheeks as I watched him walk off, my eyes lingering on his broad back, his hips… “Comin’?” He yelled back at me, and I jolted, hurrying to catch up with him.

[marstonsboy]

jack marston

yeah. (yap incoming)

there’s something to be said, i think, about the fact that jack goes from a sixteen-year-old that can barely use a gun to the level of skill we see him have at nineteen. in order to have improved that much in the span of three years, he had to have been practicing a lot. he can draw his gun faster than a (presumably) highly trained former government agent and proves himself dangerously capable almost immediately— i’d go as far as to say he’s on par with john and arthur.

so, evidently, he had to have been practicing during those years after john’s death and before abigail’s. whether or not he was doing this in preparation to kill edgar ross or for the sake of protecting his mother after the attack on beecher’s hope is something i wonder about, but right now i’m more interested in the fact that, regardless of how long he’d been planning his revenge, jack doesn’t go after ross until after abigail dies.

i have no doubt in my mind that he knew killing ross wouldn’t solve anything. he knows that his dad hunted down micah bell, and all it did was get him killed in the end. he also had to know that his parents did everything they could to prevent him from going down this path, so he likely waited until after abigail passed because he didn’t want her to see him become a killer.

part of me thinks that revenge wasn’t his only motivation, though. jack at the end of red dead one’s story is pretty openly suicidal, regardless of your honor level. low honor jack is a bit sadistic, but makes it clear through self-loathing comments that he hates what he’s become. high honor jack also expresses his self-hatred at several points, and during combat can occasionally yell out that he has “nothing to live for” while goading his enemies.

so, jack marston, nineteen years old, having lost uncle, his father, and his mother in such a short span of time, going out and doing exactly what got his father killed? i sincerely think that part of his motivation for being an outlaw is hoping that it’ll get him killed sooner. this life killed just about all the family he had, and he doesn’t have anyone left. even if he expresses disgust with himself for turning out like this, he isn’t going to stop with his self destructive actions anytime soon.

considering he gunned down an ex-government agent in an illegal duel, and said agent’s family (if left alive) could identify him, i doubt he wouldn’t already have a price on his head. plus, y’know, it doesn’t take a detective to come to the logical conclusion that john marston’s son is the one that did it.

so maybe it wasn’t just that he didn’t want his mom to see him become everything she tried to protect him from. maybe it was also that he didn’t want her to have to lose him too.

[spoonsand]

CONTAINS SPOILERS

Just finished my second playthrough and I have to say: I hate Dutch more than Micah. Don’t get me wrong Micah is scum, but Dutch knew (mostly) everybody in the gang for over a year. Sometimes over a DECADE- and he still turns his back on them. All the kids he and Hosea raised, didn’t matter, the ‘last’ score mattered. The last robbery mattered. Not the orphans or runaways he raised, taught and loved.

Micah is a superficial type. You know he’s evil. When you first meet him, you know he’s bad. But I liked Dutch in definitely the first 3 chapters, I was still liking him in 4. Guarma was iffy. Beaver Hollow is where it all goes downhill. I noticed the decline since chapter 3, but I feel it really steepened in 4 and 6 (Guarma didn’t happen). But back to Micah- you know he’s evil. The way he talks, the way he acts, his beliefs, you just KNOW that this guy isn’t who you’d want to come to your rescue (RIP SADIE). Micah did what he had to do to survive. He never had loyalty in mind, he has his own being in mind.

The Van Der Linde’s whole gang/family was so BASED on loyalty that people killed and died for the gang. Miss Grimshaw mentions killing another traitor. Molly (mistakenly assumed as a traitor) is killed because that’s how strongly they value loyalty. Loyalty (mostly to Dutch) was how the whole gang was founded.

Hosea had the same loyalty, but he actually cared about the people. I think Dutch only cared about the image. Hosea said that he cared for the people that died following Blackwater- that they mattered to him. He wanted closure. Dutch used their deaths as ammunition for his speeches. As a reason for the gang to keep on going. The only thing that set him apart from the O’Driscolls was the fact he cultivated the image that they were a family and that he might have cared. The O’Driscolls didn’t have the same loyalty to their members. When Kieran was captured they didn’t try to get him back. He said he was as good as dead if he wasn’t with the Van Der Linde’s. Dutch took Kieran in to set himself apart. The loyalty. The image.

Hosea kept Dutch in check. After Hosea died, Dutch couldn’t be kept in check. He didn’t have someone he valued highly who truly cared anymore. Micah took over Hosea’s place as the highly valued peer. Micah’s influence was never for the good of the gang- and that wasn’t a secret. Micah’s influence was for his own gain. But what I can’t get over is once Micah had that influence, Dutch didn’t care about anyone anymore. Especially towards the end. He used Eagle Flies, he left Arthur, left John (TWICE), didn’t care about the women, didn’t care about little Jack. Dutch cared about Tahiti. One last score. Reallllly messing with the Pinkertons. Getting the gang to safety wasn’t a priority. As I mentioned earlier- loyalty to Dutch was how the whole gang was founded- Dutch says something about John and Abigail and that women are poison. At the end, John was more concerned with Abigail and Jack rather than Dutch. He didn’t like that. Dutch didn’t like that John was more loyal to his FAMILY than him. He didn’t like that Arthur was more loyal to John than him. Micah, Bill and Javier didn’t have family available to have that stronger loyalty to. They had Dutch and only Dutch. I’m sure that Dutch also had beef with Hosea and Bessie; especially when they left.

But Dutch turned his back on John and Arthur- his sons. He raised them. When Susan was shot, he didn’t bat an eye. He loved her at some point. All these people he’s known for 20 ish years. Or the newer ones, that again, he either raised or feigned affection. And nothing. Turned his back.

FUCK DUTCH YOU BASTARD I HOPE HELL IS AS NICE AS TAHITI

[joonslfttiddie]

Be Mine

Nine

💜Fic Pairing: BTS Member x OFC

💜AU/Genre: Dark Romance | Demon Member

💜Warnings: (for entire work; not chapter specific) Mental Illnesses/Troubled Childhood/Alcoholic Parent/Mentions of Domestic Violence/Physical Violence/Stalking/Gore/Mentions of Blood/Sexist Remarks/Derogatory Remarks/Detailed Murder/Murder of an Animal/Language/Adult Themes/Sexual Themes/Mind Control/Telepathy (invading thoughts w/o permission)/Fingering/Masturbation/Manipulation/Alluding at Drug Usage

💜Rating: MA

💜Word Count: 4,032

Chapter Nine

Park Jimin

“Fuck!”

Still seated on the couch, Jimin rubbed his hands down his face. Defeated as his thoughts began to swirl around, a mess of unbalanced uncertainty and a million and one questions. One thing he was sure of was that he’d lost her forever. He knew that the horrid DNA that flowed through him, the connection to who his father was, would eventually cost him everything. He knew that he would never be happy. He was evil, rotten to the core, and didn’t deserve to be happy, not with the crud that flowed through his veins.

The feelings that transferred from Kamryn made his stomach turn. She was so scared. Scared of him, and he didn’t like it. He projected himself as he had in her shower, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to see him. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but each time he was about to show himself, the fear in her eyes was like a punch to the gut. He really thought it would be okay to eliminate Micah. Not legally, but he assumed she wanted him gone. Didn’t she say he was a waste of space after he admitted that he wanted to kill him? Well, he said he wanted to hurt him badly. Semantics, but death was always his intention.

Jimin couldn’t take it anymore–the terrified look on her face, the way her heart raced, and the way she wanted nothing more than to get away from him. When he knew she’d made it home safely, he tried to sever their connection, at least for the night, not even realizing that he had no desire to try to manipulate her feelings. No desire to make her be okay with his confession. No desire to control her. His eyes flickered, but he could still feel her. Again, he tried, but the link remained. He’d never experienced this before and wondered if his powers were weakening. They weren’t. As a matter-of-fact, he was stronger than he’d ever been and so was the tether to Kamryn. He was too far gone, crumbling and reconstructing in her hands–losing himself while finding something much greater.

Maybe he needed to go stir up some shit between a few humans, to cause a little trouble so that he could feed off of whatever negative bullshit they emitted. Or maybe, he needed to feel the warmness of somebody’s blood splatter onto his skin, to watch it drip from his blade, to breathe in their essence as they teetered at the border of life and death. No. He had no desire to do any of that, which was odd. He didn’t want to do anything if it wasn’t with or for Kamryn. He was starting to realize that no matter his intention, Kamryn would not understand him. Hell, he couldn’t even take Tiara out now, judging by the way Kamryn reacted to Micah’s death. No, she didn’t fuck with her like that, but evidently, murder is ‘not the way we fix our problems’.

Fuck.

He tried again to disconnect the bond, which failed, causing him to dig his nails into the denim covering his thighs. With his frustration at an all-time high, he wanted to scream, to throw something, to punch something, but stopped when he felt her feelings waver.

What’s this?

While unsureness lingered, he could feel Kamryn’s fear begin to dwindle, being replaced by–exhilaration? Flattery? No, happiness? Pride? Acceptance? Whatever it was caused Jimin’s heart to swell, changing his mood instantly, and making him feel that maybe he hadn’t lost her completely. He went from trying his best to climb from the depths of her mind to relaxing on the couch, allowing himself to sink deeper–deep enough to materialize in her room. A part of him didn’t want to, afraid that he would push her away again, but the other said fuck it. She may not have known what he was, but she knew what he was capable of. There was no need to hide it anymore. He wanted to come clean.

He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply, focusing on moving his astral body. Wanting nothing more than to see her. He didn’t plan to do anything but watch her. When his brain felt like it was tingling, he opened his eyes to see her darkened bedroom. There was a lump under the covers, and he wanted to lie next to her, to hold her, and comfort her, but didn’t, remaining in the dark corner–still and quiet. She tossed and turned this way and that, until she flopped to lie on her back like a starfish in the middle of her bed, staring at the ceiling. His glowing red eyes in the corner caught her attention and she glanced in his direction, did a double take, then clutched her blanket to cover half of her face.

“JIMIN?” She whisper-shouted, sounding more like a cry for help than an actual question, “Jimin, is that you?”

Wait. You can see me?

“Yes, I can see you. What are you doing here?”

“Please, please, Kamryn. Please, don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not even physically here. I- I just needed to see you. To check on you. You rushed out in such a hurry, and understandably so, but- I need you to know that I would never hurt you. And I won’t hurt anybody else if that’s what you need. I know you must have questions, and I’ll answer anything,” he rambled on, his voice heavy with desperation. “Please.”

Reluctantly, she uncovered her face and sat up slowly as the blanket slid down her body just a bit. Enough that Jimin could see that she was wearing a cropped shirt with no bra, and those damn nipples of hers taunted him through the thin fabric. He tried his best to look away, aware that his current situation was serious, but he couldn’t help but wonder what she wore on her bottom half.

“Anybody else? So, Micah wasn’t your first body?” Her tone had changed, now, not as timid. Her voice commanded answers, and it made him a little nervous.

He was silent for a moment, but he answered truthfully, just as he’d promised he would.

“No. He wasn’t.”

She gasped, then said, “Oh my God.” She groaned and buried her face into her palms.

“But, but, everyone I took down deserved it. I admitted to you, I am not a good person, but they weren’t either,” he explained.

“And that makes it okay, Jimin?” She continued to stare toward him, glowing eyes the only indication of where he stood. “Those were still human lives you took.”

“No. I guess it’s not okay.” He finally stepped out of the shadows and knelt down at the foot of her bed, unconsciously bowing to her command, both literally and figuratively. Honestly, anything that she asked of him at this moment, he would gladly do. He put his elbows on the bed, and the mattress dipped as if he were there, alive and in living color. He rested his chin on his clasped fists and watched as her eyes widened now with the moonlight allowing her to see him fully. She reached out and softly pinched his cheek to which he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. And just as quickly, it was snatched away as if he was hot to the touch.

“How are you here? Is this another one of your gifts?”

“Yes. But this is a new one. I’ve never connected this deeply with anyone before, where I was able to project myself to wherever they are. I’ve only been able to do this with you.”

“Only me? Why? Wait, hold on. Back to the topic. The people that you killed–Explain. Why were they bad people? How many lives have you taken, Jimin?”

“A lot. I’ve lost count, honestly. Some of them liked to beat up women. Some were inappropriately interested in children. Others murdered people for no apparent reason.”

“Okay, so you’re some vigilante? But does that not make you a murderer as well? What? You think you’re doing the Lord’s work? My God, and the way you’re speaking, as if it’s no big deal,” she trailed off, shaking her head. The expression on her face looked like she was disgusted with him, but the glimmer in her eyes said something else.

He felt his dick jump. There was something about her sharp words peppered with sarcasm that awakened something within him. He was unsure, but he felt he could hear the hints of potential in her voice. The way that she was speaking made him feel that she could talk down to him. She could degrade him, and he would love it. He had to play this right and not chase her away, but he had to be honest. Honesty seemed to be important to her, and he wanted to please her. 

Jimin chuckled inwardly at her choice of words. “I’m no vigilante, and I’m aware that what I do is far from the Lord’s work. You’re a smart girl, Kamryn,” he said with a smirk. “What do you think I am?”

The slight praise made her flustered, causing her to stammer over her words. “You must be something evil to t–To take pride in ending the lives of others. And your eyes are… red.” She gasped, placing her hands over her mouth as if she was either just noticing them or she was putting more clues together. “You’re the devil.” She didn’t say anything, her body tense while staring into his face, awaiting his answer. Her words made him think of the night his mother said those same words about his father.

Why does he care so much about me? I ain’t nobody.

“You are somebody. Stop saying that about yourself.”

“Oh my God.” She was clearly frustrated. “Stop doing that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to separate from you, but for some reason, I couldn’t. Like I said, this is new terrain for me. I’ll keep trying, though, to break it. Until I figure it out, there is something you can do to block me or anyone else from peeking into that beautiful mind of yours. Just hum in your mind. I know it may sound weird, but you’ll be too focused on the melody, clearing your mind.”

“That doesn’t sound weird. It seems similar to what I do when I meditate. I’ll either recite an affirmation repeatedly or make a ‘mmm’ sound to stay grounded,” she demonstrated. “Focusing on that helps to stop my mind from wandering or from random thoughts popping up.” She was quiet for a moment before she asked, “So? Are you? The devil?”

“See, I knew you were a smart cookie. But, no, I’m not. My father is actually a demon. My mother is human, which makes me half.”

“Half human or half demon?”

This was a loaded question. Jimin understood that she was asking which side of himself he would choose. Light or dark? Good or evil? But, would he eventually have to choose in order to be with her?

“As above, so below. As within so without. I’m just me. Darkness has to exist for there to be light, Kamryn.” And he wanted and needed her to be just that. His light. He wanted to learn from her, to be more like her–he needed her to guide him back to humanity.

She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the way her pussy purred from the sound of her name coating his lips. “Is that why you mentioned you didn’t know where your dad was? I remember you saying that you hadn’t spoken to him or your mother in a while.”

“Yeah, that is partially true. I hadn’t seen or heard from my dad since mom and I left home. And I hadn’t spoken to my mom, not because I didn’t want to but because I couldn’t. On the same day that I realized what I was, my dad showed his true face to her, which petrified her so badly she hadn’t spoken a word since that day. Her body went so stiff–it’s like she was frozen in that moment.” He stared at nothing in particular as if he was reliving that night. The pull between his brows relaxed when Kamryn began to speak again, her voice a salve to his trauma.

“Oh my God.” She clutched the thin fabric just over her heart. “Your poor mother. I was so ready to not like her based on what you told me before.”

“Why would you dislike her? You don’t even know her.”

“Sorry if that came out wrong. You’re right, I don’t know her, but I know that she hurt you. They hurt you. It sounds like she’s suffering daily for how she treated you. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, being trapped in a prison curated by her own mind.”

They stared at each other for a long time as Jimin’s mind went into overdrive. New perspectives he would have never considered before presented themselves, raging with the ideologies of his past.

Jimin swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat. “You know? I actually went to see her today,” he admitted. His words seemed to fly out of his mouth as if the kindness and empathy radiating from Kamryn were pulling them out one by one. In that moment, he felt like he could show her every inch of the grime and dirt that soiled his soul, and she would not judge him. “She is in a nursing home just about half an hour from here, and today, she talked to me for the first time in all these years. Well, she didn’t speak, but she was able to use another form of communication specialists taught the residents. Kamryn, I was so excited and so proud of her,” he gushed. When his red orbs met her dark brown ones, he saw that she was crying. “What’s wrong?” He reached up to swipe the tears away, and she allowed him to.

“It’s just–” her voice broke. “It’s like I can feel you. Your feelings. Yes, you’re happy to have been able to communicate with her, but you’re still so sad. Maybe regretful?”

“Wow. Well, yeah. Mmm,” he stumbled, then cleared his throat, taken aback that she read him so well while also trying to find his words. “She– Umm–” Unable to continue, he laid his head on the comforter, turning his face away from Kamryn. He closed his eyes, and tears forced themselves out and into the fabric. Kamryn reached out to rub her hands through his hair, just as his mother had earlier. He wanted to hop on the bed and take Kamryn into his arms. He wanted to be as close to her as possible, so thankful that she was able to see him. To understand him. To accept him.

“It’s okay, Jimin. It’s okay,” she soothed while still stroking his head when her door flew open. His eyes popped open as if he’d been startled out of his sleep, and he found himself back at home, seated on his couch with tears streaming down his face.

Kamryn Graham

“Kamryn!”

“Where- How? Huh? What?”

“What is wrong with you? What are you doing?”

Kamryn was frozen, still leaning over with her hand reaching out toward the end of the bed. She was still shook from watching Jimin disappear right before her eyes. She quickly grabbed her back, trying to play it off.

“Nothing. My back hurts. I’m just stretching it. What’s up? Where you been?”

Mariah came to sit on the edge of her bed, replaced Kamryn’s hand with her own, and rubbed her hand across the small of Kamryn’s back. “Tae came home today, so I went to have dinner with him and his parents, remember? How was your day? Feeling better?”

“Oh, yeah. How are they?”

“Everyone’s good,” Mariah answered. “You?”

“I’m good, and my day was great, actually,” she said, not realizing Jimin’s influence on her perspective. “Not only did I have great sessions, I got a lot of editing done. Also, Debra called me.”

“Oh, Lord,” Mariah groaned at the sound of Kamryn’s mother’s name. “I thought you said your day was great.”

“I know right?” Kamryn laughed lightly. “But today was different. I didn’t let her verbally abuse me today.” Mariah’s hands stopped as she listened intently. “She called on some bullshit, but I didn’t let her get to me. She was all like, ‘I didn’t call to get an attitude from you,’ so I asked, ‘why did you call then?’. Girl, she was so bothered, she called my whole government name.”

“Holy shit! Not Kamryn Denise Graham! She was big mad.”

“Big mad. She told me I was being disrespectful, and I told her that I wasn’t. She threatened to come up here, and I told her when she’s on her way to remember that we are both grown, then she hung up on me.”

“Whaaaaaaaaat?! What in the entire fuck? What did your dad say? I know she called him.”

“You know she did. At first, he wanted me to concede to her and continue to allow her treatment, but I didn’t take shit from his ass either. I refused and told him about himself. He even apologized, like, for everything, and told me he was proud of me.” She stopped abruptly. She looked at her friend, and suddenly, her bottom lip began to quiver.

“Oh, Kamryn.” She couldn’t say anything else as she watched her friend try to hold back her tears, just nodding her head. Mariah climbed onto the bed, pulled her in for a hug, and the floodgates opened as they always did when her friend comforted her. Mariah swiped her hands up and down her back while hugging her tightly. “Shh. I know, babe. I know.” Mariah held her gently as her entire body quaked with emotion. When Kamryn’s cries began to subside, they pulled away from each other, still holding hands. When Kamryn looked at Mariah, she saw that she was sporting tears of her own. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry. It was just–  a lot.”

“I can only imagine.” There was a comfortable silence between them before Mariah continued. “There has been something different about you these past few days. I can’t put my finger on it, but you standing up to your parents, to Tiara, hell–you even got me together a little bit. Just a smidge.” They laughed. “But, I am so proud of you. I hope you are proud of yourself, too.”

“I am,” Kamryn choked out.

“Okay, okay… enough before we start crying again. Did you talk to Jimmy today?”

“I did. And I misheard. His name is actually Jimin.” Kamryn chose to omit the fact that she’d gone to his place and ended up practically running for her life just hours prior.

“Mmm.”

“Mmm, what, Mariah?”

“I ain’t said shit. His name is cute, though.” Mariah glanced up to see Kamryn looking at her with narrowed eyes. “What?” She spoke through a chuckle.

“You are saying a whole lot without saying shit.”

“Look,” she said as she shifted to pull her leg under her, “I was having very bad feelings about him, but I may be wrong this time.”

“Mariah,” Kamryn said, dragging her name out. “Don't start.”

“No, I’m serious. I was having very intense negative feelings about him but it’s not like that anymore. I don’t know. I still don’t trust him, and there is a darkness around him, but I don’t feel like you’re in danger or anything. I’m just saying,” she paused, rubbing the backs of Kamryn’s hands. “You’re going to do what you want to do regardless, and I’ll still be here regardless of the outcome. Just… be careful. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t tell you, that’s it.”

“That’s all,” they said in unison, giggling.

“Okay. I know you’re only trying to protect me, but you gotta let me out of this bubble, Ri. You gotta let me fall and skin my knee sometimes. It just feels like you’re trying to be the mother I didn’t have instead of my best friend. It can be suffocating at times,” Kamryn admitted.

“You’re right, you’re right. You know I have beef with your mom after hearing about how badly she treated you. I wanted to show you the other side of that. You deserve to be treated that way–loved, seen, and supported. I just wanted you to know that you’re loved. I didn’t intend to turn into a helicopter mom.”

“Damn, bitch, you tryna fuck or what?”

“See? I bet I won’t tell you how much I love you ever again.” They laughed.

“Okay, okay. But for real, I do feel loved, seen, and supported. I feel it, friend, and I appreciate you for that. It’s just the constant questioning of what I’m doing, where I’m going, who I’m going with, when will I be back, do this, don’t do that…it’s just a lot.”

“Damn.” Mariah hung her head low. “I didn’t realize while I was doing it, but I do be all in your business.”

“Heavy,” Kamryn stated.

“Alright, bitch. Not too much,” Mariah quipped, then offered a tight lipped smile. “But, I understand. I’ll pull back a bit.”

“Thank you.”

They hugged each other again before Mariah let go, then playfully squished Kamryn’s cheeks, causing her mouth to form an oval shape.

“Alright, whore. Good night. I love you.”

“I love you too, trollop. Good night.”

“Ewww… that’s so ugly.”

Kamryn giggled as Mariah exited, closing the door behind her, leaving Kamryn alone with her truths and her thoughts. Remembering what Jimin said, she began to hum as she laid down and burrowed her body into the duvet. She had to admit to herself that she wasn’t afraid of Jimin and knew that she was never in any true danger. When she ran away from his place earlier, she was only reacting to her body, to her intuition, and the insistent pull to get away. 

There was a lot she had to come to terms with, including the darkness of her own that lingered within. Was she being thirsty, so happy that someone wanted her? Why did she feel so at peace with the fact that Micah was dead and that Jimin had killed him? Why was she so prepared to justify his actions? She dug even deeper and thought about the people around her. She would be a mess if anything were to ever happen to Mariah, but Tiara? Meh. While she wasn’t thinking about nor did she want to do what Jimin does, she wouldn’t care if something happened to her.

When she thought about her parents, her eyes began to water immediately. Their relationships were not the best, but they were her parents. If she had to be honest with herself, she felt that she would be sad and cry if something were to happen to them. Not because they were amazing parents, but due to the loss of what could have been. The finality of the love and care she would never receive from them. Well, after the conversation with her father today, she may be open to nurturing a relationship with him but decided that he would have to do the work and initiate it. Kamryn knew it would be a cold day in hell before her mother fixed her mouth to apologize or change her ways.

Hmm. She stopped humming. Does it ever get cold in hell?

What? That’s random, but I don’t know. I’ve never been.

Never? No summers with grandpa?

Why are you like this? No.

Kamryn continued to ask questions and make jokes, unconsciously comforting Jimin while accepting him for who and what he was. Jimin was delighted by her easy-going nature and effortless banter while he answered her questions honestly. They talked like this, going back and forth discussing everything–from their childhoods to their favorite colors and favorite ice cream flavors, until Kamryn finally fell asleep.

[away-ward]

The horsemen have been around the block and have had their fair share of women. They didn't really treat girls in the most respectful manner, either. So given their past and knowing how guys can be, what kind of dads would they be to their teenage daughters once they start dating?

I find it rather funny that all of them are girl dads now, and honestly see a bit of karma coming their way. 😅

The Dads and Daughters and Dating -

Hey. You’re absolutely right that they’ve been around the block once or twice. Regarding their daughters, they might be irritated when the subject of dating comes up. But only because they think no one is good enough, not because their daughters are dating.

Kai, for his part, would be highly suspicious when Jett starts dating. Although he knows he taught Jett and all of the girls how to defend themselves from someone bigger and stronger than them - drilled that into their heads, he still wouldn't let just anyone date his daughter. He's already does background checks on all her friends, so the second he hears whispers of a date or a dance or a name that's more than friendly, he's already knows if he's okay with them or not. And people he's not okay with don't get to hang around Jett, so it's a moot point.

Damon's thankful Tavi is intimidating; that and Mads really cuts down on what he has to worry about. But if someone does manage to match how wild she is, he's confident that she will be able to keep them in line. And if something does happen, she's got four older brothers, a cousin that's already killed for her, and him. She'll be fine. He doesn't stress it.

Much.

In Fire Night, Michael comments that he didn’t raise Athos to accept “no” as an answer, even from him. Which indicates to me that he pushed her to go after what she wanted regardless of who was standing in front of her. Even though he’s complaining, he’s actually very proud. When Athos starts dating, he's much more likely to have a problem with who she picks and that she won't listen to his advice, rather than the fact that she's dating.

Will’s daughters also seem very comfortable voicing their thoughts and desires to their parents. They'll probably have the same confidence in a relationship. Most of the fandom headcanons that they'll eventually end up with a Torrance boy anyway, and Will would be fine with that. As long as they're happy and treated well, which he trusts them to do.

Overall, the Horsemen are confident in how they've raised their daughters, and expect them to know their value. They also know that as powerful men, they have the ability to make life difficult for anyone who causes their daughters any trouble. However, they've gone out of their way to make sure Thunder Bay knows their unspoken laws of respecting women. They fully expect them to be adhered to as long as they're around. Additionally, they've raised their sons to look out for the girls when they can't.

The dads are watchful of potential suitors, but they won't stop their daughters from dating. (side note: Unless it's an insane psycho criminal. I think Michael might have a problem with Athos dating Micah's sister... but this is dating in general.)

First, and this is might a hot take, I don’t know if I’d consider the boys to have always been disrespectful. Really, this idea assumes all the girls they had encounters with felt disrespected. This interpretation comes from the idea that all girls want to be somebody’s special someone, which isn’t always the case; some girls just want to casually hook-up and would prefer a guy that doesn’t want them to stick around. Or that the guys took advantage of a girl misunderstanding or that they unwillingly put girls and women in positions they truly didn't want to be in. Not to say that all girls got what they wanted, but to say that the boys were intentionally deceitful across the board would be an overstatement.

For the most part, I think the guys were pretty up front about their intentions with girls, and specifically selected girls that would meet them on that level, instead of going with just any girl. I think they probably avoided the ones that would try to cling to the idea of something more between them.

Also, the narrative of the story makes it a point to separate the Horsemen from boys like Ethan and Miles Anderson, who very clearly did abuse and take advantage of women. Further, in the Thunder Bay short story, the Horsemen go out of their way to save Alice’s step-brother because he was willing to end the team when he realized what they’d done.

All signs indicated that the guys had at least some respect for women, and expected others to rise to do the same.

(also, the whole point of their part in the thunder bay short was that they had seen how the boys at tbp had started to abuse girls, and then got involved to clean it up in preparation for their daughters. the message being the guys aren't going to just allow boys who don't get it to thrive in thunder bay)

Anyone in Thunder Bay would be aware of the reputation these men have. The whole town still seems to treat them as if they’re kings. The dads would probably rely a lot on their status to ensure their daughters are respected just the same. They want the very best for their girls and for them to be free to experience the great things world has to offer. These girls were not raised to tolerate being used as objects, or to feel shamed for going after what they want. At the same time, they're also creating in environment where boys know the difference between being open and honest, and using and abusing someone.

Moving on, we do get some indication of how each man will raise their daughter. In Fire Night, Damon and Kai argue over it, with Kai wanting to create a space where women will be protected so his daughter will feel safe, and Damon wanting to raise a daughter that could protect herself because the world would never be safe enough.

I mean, of course any father that loves his daughter is going to be anxious for they daughter to experience disappointment and heartbreak. And it may happen once or twice, but I don’t think any of these dads would go to war over it. They may hate the boy or girl who made their daughter cry, but that’s just part of growing up, and they’ll help their daughter deal with it (unless you count some petty revenge. I can see them sinking the car of a boy that broke their daughter's heart in the river, or otherwise generally inconveniencing them until they left for college.)

Don’t discount their sons, either. Damon mentions how his boys are constantly helping their mother, indicating that they’re raising their boys to be aware of when she needs help and offering it freely. I think this is something they’d carry into their personal romances, and would probably have the same standard for any relationship their cousin, sister, and whatever they consider Indie and Finn to be, gets into. The fathers probably have no issue using their sons to send a heavy message.

Please feel free to share your thoughts!!

[rainbowxocs]

Name: Immanuel Ansley.

Special Titles: Lord Immanuel, The Second Coming.

Username: confusedweasel

Age: 24.

Pronouns: They/He.

Sexuality: Asexual, Panromantic.

Gender: Nonbinary.

Species: Hybrid (Christ)

Disorders: Compulsive Lying OCD, CPTSD, Autism, Anxiety.

Religion: Atheist.

Job: None.

Lives in: West Virginia, America, 2035.

Languages: English, Heavenly. + Most Languages.

Height: 5’2”

Race: Middle Eastern.

Ethnicity: Heavenly, Jewish.

Accent: Slightly Off, Cheery.

Powers: Shapeshifting, Zero Gravity, Teleporting, Healing, Walking on Water, Exorcisms, Necromancy, Summoning, Changing Objects, Controlling Plants/Nature, Controlling the Weather, Dimension Creation, Flight, Hypnosis.

Weapons: Holy Knife, Scissors.

Alignment: Chaotic Good.

Text Color: Black, Blue when Lying.

Main Animal: Ferret.

Main Hobbies: Sculpting, Foraging, Mycology, Playing Pretend, Kalimba, Piano, Flower Arranging, Ballet.

Diet: Carnivorous.

Favorite Drinks: Apple Juice, Hot Chocolate, Peppermint Tea.

Favorite Meals: Octopus Hotdogs, Meat Lovers Pizza, Burritos, Tuna Eyeballs, Sashimi, Breadsticks, Lucky Charms, Chicken Nuggets, Gyros.

Favorite Candy: Lollipops, Pixie Sticks.

Favorite Desserts: Gingerbread Cookies, Cherry Bonemarrow Icecream, Blueberry Icecream.

Favorite Flower: Butterwort, Dandelions.

Scent: Rain, Moss, Vanilla.

Handedness: Left Handed.

Blood Color: Gold.

Birthday: October 31st 2009. (Scorpio.)

Awareness: Not Aware. (Effect: None.)

Theme:

Playlist:

Fun Facts: They know how to kill a wide variety of species. :)

Special Interests: Mushrooms, Minecraft, Sculpting.

Stims: Spinning, Dancing, Singing, Handflapping, Pressure Stims, Acupressure Rings, Soft Things.

Stimboard: LINK

Moodboard: LINK

Fashionboard: LINK

Comfort Objects: Old Teddy Bear.

In Game:

Minecraft Skin: LINK

Family:

God. (Creator.)

Lucifer Morningstar, The Traveler. (Estranged Siblings.)

Alexander Leverett (Adoptive Brother.)

Michael Ansley (Adoptive Brother, Nephew Technically.)

Samuel Coleman (Adoptive Uncle.)

Micah Coleman (Adoptive Uncle.)

Romance: Viola Brightheart (Crush.)

Pets:

Mycena Amicta (Panda Ferret)

Breadstick (Blaze Ferret)

Brief Personality: It’s hard to fully pinpoint Immanuel’s personality, when they don’t know someone they will change their personality on a whim, becoming whatever the other person wants them to be. However once you get closer to them you can start to see the true them underneath all of that. A creative, socially awkward, dork.

Brief Backstory: Immanuel was born to kill. That is their purpose according to heaven. Their goal from the moment they were made was to kill the Antichrist by any means necessary. And Immanuel became a perfect killing machine, cold, calculating, being able to manipulate anyone who got in their way. They were punished and trained relentlessly throughout their entire childhood.

However, Heaven didn’t take into account what would happen when Immanuel was able to step out into the world and see what it’s really like. Less destruction at every corner and more beautiful. And when Immanuel met Michael it was even more of a shock to him that Michael was not a soul sucking evil monster but just, a guy.

Immanuel was able to escape from heavens grasp and began to heal and grow with their new family.

[line-of-fire]

Here’s a fun fact for the night.

So, as a general ‘au-wide’ rule, Pixie has minimal trust for officers until give a reason otherwise. It’s a little different for the ‘main’ au of course, and it’s the least severe there. And then the Commander verse it’s because she just knows what other officers can be like.

But in the Dead Fae Walking verse?

There is a definitive point of ignition for her hatred and distrust of officers. A single person to blame for it. And his name is Micah J. Pearson.

He had been Pixie’s CO in a previous unit, before the formation of TF-PATRIOT where they were both original, founding members. But TF-PATRIOT was the first time he was really ‘off the leash’ for long periods of time out in the field. He started playing fast and loose with the rules of engagement, but Pixie still followed his command for the most part.

It wasn’t until she was tasked with leading a patrol mission that would’ve been suicide from an intel standpoint. Something she made crystal clear to Pearson, flat out refusing orders. She was accused of insubordination, but the mission was cancelled before it even began, and the TF was instead tasked with guarding a small FOB in the area.

Things went to shit on that detail however, and Pixie was caught in an explosion and taken captive when the FOB was attacked. And instead of really searching for her, or any remains, Pearson called off the search after a few hours when the dust had cleared, claiming that he had found and taken care of her body, declaring her KIA.

Except of course, she wasn’t killed, and she spent the next year in custody being tortured for information she didn’t have, as fuel for propaganda.

It wasn’t hard for her to figure out what had happened exactly when she finally escaped and started working with the CIA, learned the ‘official’ story. Figure out that she had been intentionally abandoned because she fought against unlawful orders that would’ve gotten her soldiers killed.

She doesn’t even know the worst of it either- that Pearson himself was the one to kill her brother to keep the truth about her fate from getting out. Just to save his own hide.

She hates the man with every fiber of her being. But it isn’t worth it to her to actively search him out for revenge. After all, it wouldn’t change anything, and as far as she knows, she was the only one whose life he destroyed. But if she knew that he had been the one to pull the trigger of the gun that killed her brother?

Revenge would be the only thing on her mind until Pearson knew a fraction of the pain he had put her through.

[talesfromasnarkylisa]

Lacey: Chapter 17

Lacy’s Diaries (August 19, 2023)

Dear Diary,

Archer J is the most clueless smart guy I have ever met. Sure, he’s intelligent with books and computers and math. But when it comes to flirting? Horrendous.

This afternoon, he DM’d me on Discord what was apparently supposed to be a black philosophy cat to go with my math bunny. Not as in “a cat into Africa related sociology,” but just a black cat that was a philosopher. I found the premise inherently absurd already. 

But it didn’t end there. When he sent the message, he failed to include an image that would have gone with it. Without the existence of an accompanying emoji, I had no way to rate the creation beside my own pre-existing impressions. 

Ultimately, I ended up just telling him I rated it a 0/0 because there was nothing to rate as far as I was concerned. “Just pure narrow blankness,” as I texted. He responded by simply writing “whatever.” 

I still don’t have the cat picture, by the way. I’m honestly not really expecting it. This is the guy that claimed the editors of Music Refined would be a-ok with beta readers like him and I tampering with a writer’s draft to increase their chances of acceptance. Honestly, why did I bail Archer out anyway?

There, Dr Green. I vented about a former idol’s negative qualities today!

Talking about publications, Music Refined has been giving me practically zero work to do these past few days. It’s strange, really. They’ve piled on draft upon draft on draft ever since I became a beta reader until about 4 days ago. Then…nothing. 

It’s been great for freeing up time. I’ve upped my pre-university studying more and managed to hang out with Dina and Otto more - not to mention I’ve gotten to actually participate in the group chat Artsy and Lovergirl made. But good God, it sometimes feels like Music Refined only bothered to remember me because of the Oscar Winters fiasco.

Anyways, remember how I was worried about Lovergirl being a bitch earlier? Well, she’s not. In fact, she’s the furthest you could get from that. She’s cute and kind and funny. She knows how to torture me with brainteasers. Oh yeah, she’s also fucking brilliant when it comes to writing free verse. This girl is just amazing.

As for Writer’s Delight, I got an article published there about the different types of love. I was definitely not involved in the social aspect there, though. 10 minutes after my piece got published, Lovergirl sent me this in the group chat: 

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:21 PM): So…what kind of love is your favorite, @/laceyhannah, since you wrote about it? ;)

Lacey Hannah (08/19/23, 7:23 PM): All of them except agape. That one just gives lowkey toxic doormat vibes.

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:24 PM): I see where you’re coming from.

Lacey Hannah (08/19/23, 7:26 PM): Honestly, I’ve only really had friendship and some family all my life when it comes to loved ones. My crushes have always been pretty one-sided.

I felt like a bit of a liar to say my crushes were never reciprocated. There was a guy named Ray back when I had the fixer who I sorta liked that had a real thing for me, and Archer might have liked me at some point. But 1: I was just friends with Ray and thought he looked unusually nice at most. 2: Archer clearly doesn’t give 2 shits about me anymore if he ever did.

I messaged both Artsy and Lovergirl about my recent lack of work to do Music Refined-wise. Lovergirl told me that I should probably wait it out, as they might remember me later on and I get a break in the meantime. Artsy, however, gave me some rather different advice.

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:30 PM): Actually, I don’t think messaging Theodore or Tate would do much harm. But I wouldn’t go for Micah if I were you.

No shit, I thought. Micah would metaphorically kill me if I did.

Once I finished drafting up an email to send to either Theodore or Tate or both (I hadn’t decided yet), I returned to Discord to a pile of messages in the medium girlies group chat which Artsy, Lovergirl, and I used to converse with each other. 

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:36 PM): You’ve gotta be kidding me right now, Carol.

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:37 PM): What?

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:38 PM): Why in the world would you want Lacey to get herself into trouble with the editors for whining?

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:40 PM): It’s not whining if she politely asks the ones that aren’t Micah.

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:41 PM): She’s a newbie. And not with a typical background or look either for fancier publications like Music Refined. You know how harsh they could be on her. Remember Priya and Robert?

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:43 PM): That’s different. Those two were a volatile couple and tried to kill each other!

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:45 PM): It’s shaken up several people’s perceptions about community minorities since last year! The recent writer's startup and financial scams certainly haven’t helped either.

I was confused about the background and minority part, so I decided to ask them about that in addition to whether I should have contacted Theodore or Tate. That second part was ignored at first.

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:47 PM): You see…uh…Medium and adjacent spaces kinda have what you could either call a hierarchy or set of cliques. You’re familiar with the free starter pubs, right?

Lacey Hannah (08/19/23, 7:48 PM): I’ve written for Storytime before, so yeah.

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:50 PM): Yes, and you’ve also written for Writer’s Delight. It’s another one of those - if bigger and thus slightly more prestigious. These kinds of publications are the easiest when it comes to getting your pieces accepted at first. But because they accept almost anything and everything, their editors get so overwhelmed that they sometimes fail to purge the more questionable stuff. That’s how you end up with horrible relationship advice and borderline scam promotion coming from their writers. 

Lacey Hannah (08/19/23, 7:52 PM): What about warning the editors nicely if they miss something?

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:53 PM): You’ll be fine there as long as you don’t piss off Jonathan or Alfred. I would recommend biting your tongue unless something really bad comes up.

Lacey Hannah (08/19/23, 7:54 PM): Ok then. 

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:56 PM): More prestigious publications are those like Music Refined and Destigmatize - as well as most social justice and humor pubs. They’re harder to get into and some charge for membership. On one hand, this does allow for more quality control. On the other…the editors tend to be sort of stuck-up. If you’ve heard the rumors of the Writer’s Delight editors randomly rejecting articles for asinine reasons when they are otherwise pretty open, the editors of more prestigious publications are like that turned up to 11. Also, except for the social justice pubs, they tend to weed out a lot of things focusing on stuff which may not appeal to their rather Western audiences.

Artsy Carolina (08/19/23, 7:57 PM): Oh yeah, don’t forget about the actual news publications with Medium versions like The Conversation. Betty, do you know anything about them?

Lovergirl (08/19/23, 7:58 PM): I did get interviewed by one once. But no, not really. I’m usually just targeted by the weirdos at Newsbreak when it comes to “news.”

All this conversation and I still had no idea if emailing Tate or Theodore. Once I asked, they actually agreed I should email both. 

So I did.

(Wattpad version: https://www.wattpad.com/1504319300-lacey-chapter-17)

[hellmouth-manor]

The Ropes have been Unbound || Miranda || Final

“Thanks, both of you.”

She nods to Raoul and Minami. Though she still has to get used to being back in her old body again, now with one less eye, she still has something to accomplish. Miranda pushes herself away from Micah’s body once she’s satisfied their work is done. She stands in front of their captor, proud and firm despite her still bleeding wound.

Eleven years she’s denied herself any attack out of fear of the monster inside her. But her soul is back in her, and the rage she’s been shoving aside can no longer be ignored.

He killed her best friend. He’s responsible for all of them being here.

He is not responsible for what she is, no matter what he says. Nor is he, really, responsible for what she became here.

She came to him for advice, of course, but her own heart led her here. Now she just has to open it up to others, and open it to him, and they’ll be home.

♪♪♪

The funniest part is that she can find a good memory with anyone, even the people she doesn’t really like, if she can just dig around. She holds her soul out in front of her, the feral beast that it is already itching for a fight.

Even as much as she’s not a “forgive and forget” person, she’s still extended plenty of patience towards Yukiko. The stuff with “Cassandra” was fake, but the duets are real. The times at the Christmas party are real. The shared moments in their nightmare room are real. They’re both less bitter, they’re both happier, they’re both...changed. They’ll be different from now on. It’s like Yukiko said: they’re going to burn this place to the ground.

She never got along well with Arisa, but she can still find memories of making drinks with her, of gossiping about stupid stuff before everything went down, of dancing together, and dealing with the fact that the world kept kicking them while they were down. There’s something she relates to there, and she thinks that at the very least it counts as a virtue that she kept trying to relate with her. She’s happy that they’ve both found whatever will make them happy, and that definitely counts.

Exploring the dungeons with Nike, even when that meant having to pull them out of a trap. Why did they all keep stepping in traps? The fact that the first time they sat down when Nike stopped being Nikephoras, they told her they wanted to punch a demon, and Miranda got to witness that actually happening. It’s so cool. She thinks he’s so cool. Nike poking at her bad eating habits and talking about their sports. 

That first night, months ago, with Hibiki, quietly talking almost-honestly in a way she knows was rare for them both, at least back then. The anger of ‘why us’ and the fear of just wanting to go home, and the fear and comfort the night sky brought them. That first slightest drop of her mask as she let the smallest amount of weakness peak through without a fear that it would be used against her.

There’s Cu with the Sloth alliance. His determination and the good times the three of them could spend when they weren’t be bothered by trials and murder. They had fun on Micah’s shoulders, and he was still their Mothman, freak tendencies or not.

Making pancakes for her and Kamiya while they talked about their family – the people who actually did care about them even in the face of plenty of people who didn’t. Riding the rollercoaster and hanging around in the mall and then, somehow, stealing their souls back like real actual heroes.

Touji handing her that dropout notice without a care in the world, not even bothering to snoop on one of the worst decisions she made (or the best, maybe? Would she have still ended up here if not for that?) Him giving her tips in baseball until she could knock a home run, the fun they had in the club. She still has that picture from the rollercoaster, even if he looks waaaay better than she does. It was nice to pretend to be normal, wasn’t it?

Two truths and a lie with Eli, talking about how they wanted to be perceived, about how they wanted to survive. And now, despite her fears for him, he’s managed to survive this absolute cesspool. He’s carried so much strength in him that she never even realized he had.

Raoul’s speech about choosing to be kind, and the way that effected her and how she is now, how even a monster still had to find room for kindness. The time spent in the mall and in their little demon lounge, and how he has, despite his tendency to hideous suits, become something of an inspiration for her in how strong his heart has stayed through it all.

Maybe the most objectively virtuous moment was saving Olwin’s life. Pushing past her fears to stitch and unstitch, trying to act like neither was a huge deal and failing to completely swallow her pride in front of him. Cheering him on in karaoke while they figured out what they were going to do after the show – they aren’t going to have to take jobs with demons, thank god. They get to have their own lives now.

Her and Hisashi both exchanging their fun little tragic prizes and the conversations that came with them. Trying to ask him questions she figured nobody else had asked – trying to give him the space to not be treated like a spectacle and instead just as much a victim of fucked up circumstances as she is. Admitting emotions she wasn’t used to admitting or feeling, letting herself be just a bit more vulnerable than she ever had been at that point. Really, somehow, she’s still ended up letting him see more than most people here, probably because she just couldn’t help but relate to him since the start. But they’ve done it. That void is gone, or at least smaller, and they’ve filled it up with fucked up but wonderful people (and good choreography).

Quiet chats late at night or early in the morning with Mirai, almost too peaceful for as awful as this hellhole is. She’s been rooting for Mirai since day one, always trying to be supportive of her whether it’s something as small as a dodgeball game or as grand as insisting she was a much more powerful bird than a chicken. Their agreement to be friends as they slowly gathered more and more – it’s hard to believe either of them was ever friendless. She hopes Mirai can see that flower field – she’ll have to bring her some flowers sometime.

Those chats with Minami – maybe it should count as a virtue for Minami’s sake that the other woman managed to get her to eat something in that kitchen besides a depression meal of chips and dip. But beyond that, Minami was one of the first people to try and coax her into being herself.  No more suppressing the sad or ugly parts – just let them drift like cigarette smoke up the vents (and god, she was done smoking cigs after this. That couldn’t fill the void either). No more hiding her fears because she needed to be strong and perfect to take care of others – she knows now that she can rely on people and be relied on.

Ruby might be the most surprising of all of her friendships. Not because it doesn’t make sense, but because it happened so fast that she can’t quite tell where it started. Miranda had exchanged a gentle hand to her what feels like ages ago, when the other girl was spiraling. It wasn’t pure selflessness, she knows. It was because she related to her – playing to a crowd, putting on a mask, thinking people wouldn’t like you if they saw the real you. And they were both so wrong it makes her eyes well up. She stayed by her side through a fear motive and a murder, and she promised her she’d be there whenever she needed her. They had wondered why the people running this game would do this. Miranda threw out the idea that they were lonely, but they both knew they’d never get a real answer unless they could talk to the mastermind. While not true at the time, it seems real now. Alou would never have a friend like Ruby, not anymore.

Poppy doesn’t make sense on paper. The two of them, other than a love of birdwatching, couldn’t be more different. She used to be scared of them, almost. Thought Alou could do better than this strange monster who threatened and growled so easily. Stupid. There’s a lesson learned: never judge a book by its cover. Poppy is actually kind and smart and looks out for their loved ones. They pushed her to forgive herself for her greatest sins and to focus on the here and now. The present that mattered and the people their sins led them to meet. They kept plenty of drinks ready to go and they took her birdwatching and they play games with her and they saved her life literally minutes ago. And she’d have done the same, in a heartbeat. Poppy had seemed so determined to stay in Hell...but she’s going to make sure they walk out of here. She’s going to make sure they’re happy, no matter how long that takes. They’ll both find better in life than being useful.

Wakako had been someone she bonded with from day one, despite her hesitance. When Alou had killed her, Miranda had freaked out, felt too scared that she would never be a good friend. She thought Wakako was better off without her. But that wasn’t true, and the other woman had practically dragged her into friendship. One of her first friends here. It baffled Miranda at the time that someone would know how awful she is and still want to stay, but she can’t regret it. All of their times together, talking about how hopeless the world could feel and all the dreams they had anyway. They’re going to find their own spot of happiness in the world, and they won’t let anyone make them feel pointless again.

She had been so suspicious of Miori for reasons that were objectively justified. She had been playing them all, hadn’t she? But somehow when she dropped the mask, Miranda had bonded with her more than ever. Maybe once there’s no more masks, it’s just easier to trust each other. She liked to think that as much as Miori was a fucking refuge of normalcy for her, Miranda could be the same for her. They had their little book club and their little chats by the pool and teasing each other about their feelings. And then, despite a literal murder, Miranda had stayed by her side and believed in her even when Miori refused to believe in herself. She always prided herself on the ability to cut people out of her life as soon as they were too much trouble. But Miori is her friend, and no matter how bad they both are, Miranda knows now that there’s so much good in them and around them. They’re not the monsters they told themselves they were.

And then, of course, there’s her very first friend here. Before he’s anything else, Shoji is her best friend. He’s the kindest person here, too kind. He coaxed her into letting her walls down and opening herself to more friendships. It’s pretty clear he succeeded. Even when she didn’t believe in herself, he did. They stayed strong together through it all. She patched him up through bruises and tears, held his hand whenever he was afraid. Cooked things he loved and things he didn’t, just to see him smile. Let herself be selfish and allowed herself to be loved by someone as good as him without the fear that how awful she was would scare him away. As easy as it would have been to think they’d never get out of here, she held onto that small little hope, just for him. He’s always been the brightest light in the middle of Hell. And she’s going to flower in that sunshine as long as he’ll let her.

With every thought, a glowing and thorny vine slithers down from her soul, spreading around at her feet. Each vine wraps around another, over and over again, reaching up in tangled knots until they form a shape twice her size.

She had been so scared of wolves for half her life, but now she simply smirks at the form her soul has taken. Yeah, this might as well be what that growling creature would choose. It couldn’t be a bird like she’d want it to be, huh? That’s fine. Wolves are loyal, and strong, and powerful. They look out for their pack. She’s accepted she’s a monster and she’s accepted that the fangs are a part of her. They just have to be put to good use.

“Just one more thing, girl.”

She turns to the beast now lassoed onto the floor.

She had tried to understand him the best she could. They had poured as much as they could towards each other – she trusted him with her fears and her hopes alike. He had given her so much wonderful advice that she tried to take to heart. He had also given her advice that, in hindsight, was always going to lead up to all of this. Before his reveal, she’d have valued his happiness as much as anyone else’s here.

Now?

Now their time together is nothing more than the dahlias blooming along the thorns, petals falling off as she gives a signal for her to attack.

The wolf charges at the tangled man, grabbing at the tail sticking out. She pulls firmly, claws digging into the floor as she does her best to yank it off – it’s easier when he can’t wiggle free. Slowly but surely it starts to tear off. It’s probably painful, but Miranda doesn’t have it in her to wince. With all of the wolf’s might and with a shake of her head it goes flying off to a corner of the room.

Satisfied, she comes trailing back to her owner, tail wagging. Miranda pets her head, before finding a safe place to lean and bleed.

“Nice work, team.”

[theodoranowak]

Snorting, Theo shoots Saul a look. “I would bet loving to argue with you comes with the territory,” she tells him. At his confession to not knowing if even Micah himself would know what makes him happy, Theodora hums. She can understand that, she thinks. She’s not sure she’s happy, most of the time. She thinks it’s a byproduct of the world they were raised in — not knowing what’s enough, even when they may have reached the threshold. Though she can’t exactly speak for what Micah’s thinking, or feeling. He’d always spent far more time with the Lowensteins than he did with the Weissbergs, and Theodora was more of the latter’s family friend than the former. She thinks — almost hopes, really, for his sake — there may have been some key differences, then, in their upbringings. Especially knowing about Saul’s fleeting role in Micah’s life. She loves the man, she does, and she knows he loves Micah, but that certainly could not have helped the kid’s psyche. Hindsight is 20/20. “Have you asked him what makes him happy?” She looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Without, you know, circumventing the question.”

Sucking her teeth, Theodora gives Saul a once-over. “Hm, I don’t know,” she makes a face. “Your jokes were funny when I was twelve. I’ve yet to see evidence that that’s still the case,” she winks. “Maybe you should do a stand-up set. Saul Weissberg’s tight five, featuring the sound of his exhausted brain cell ping ponging in his head,” she quips. She tilts her head innocently at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “I bet that would kill with the divorcee crowd.”

Theo sighs dramatically. “We are very beautiful, it’s true,” she smiles at him. “I suppose our curse could be worse. We could have been rich in the south,” she eyes him closely. “You’d look hilarious as a rich cowboy, by the way.” He then shifts his focus onto Sam, and Theodora can’t do much else but pick nervously at her cuticles. She thinks they may start bleeding soon — and as much as she’d like to stop, she can’t find it in herself to do so. Kid or not his kid. She grimaces. “I don’t know what it means,” she answers him honestly. “I didn’t — really stick around to hear him out about it. I intend to, eventually,” she admits to him, a little sheepishly. “But I just — it was too much all at once, you know?” 

She snorts at his offer to kick his ass or sue him. Despite the ridiculousness of the thought, she appreciates it. Saul could have done what most men do — remain neutral in a situation like this, despite the hurt one may have caused the other — but instead he’s here, offering to take Sam down for something, even if he has to make it up. She feels the affection for her friend swell tenfold. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she tells him honestly. “But let’s put a pin in the ass-kicking and the litigation, for now. At least until I get more answers,” she adds, then jokes, “Then we can revisit one or the other.”

Theodora sighs fancifully. “No one will ever be Deacon Edwards,” she teases. She’d been a fan of Deacon before she’d been his friend, and has, for years now, been rumored to be the man’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. Never mind the fact that he’s gay, though Deacon doesn’t do much to dispel the rumors. He lives off of fueling them, actually. She’s had friends ask her if they’re dating, due to his antics. “Sorry. I know you two have a Thing,” she waves it off, since neither of them will tell her much more than I hate him now. She supposes it’s to do with the divorce, but, well — with Saul and Deacon? Anything goes. “You’re not bad, though, I’ll give you that,” she smiles, making her way off the cart and back onto the course to take her turn. Her swing is precise, the shot linear. She points off toward the distance as she looks back at Saul proudly. “And I didn’t even have to be drunk,” she skips back to the cart, leaning against the hood and nodding over at the sight of the beer cart headed toward them. “Don’t go overboard. I’m quite fond of your liver.”

“mm, and i’ve grown sensitive in my old age.” the truth was that micah was probably an excellent comedian, but saul wasn’t ready to confront micah’s unfiltered thoughts just yet. though he might tell them to an audience in a humorous way, micah was a wordsmith (when he chose to speak to his father) and he had his mother’s special talent of cutting right to the bone with perfectly placed vituperation. saul’s ego was vast in size, but easily crumbled by those he loved; let opposing counsel or some ex-girlfriend say whatever they wanted, it wouldn’t mean shit to him. 

at the question of micah’s happiness as a lawyer, saul grimaced slightly. “well, he certainly loves to argue with me, but…” it was different to bicker with family than argue a point in front of a judge. “i don’t know. i don’t know if micah knows what would make him happy.” as someone that was born a twin and constantly compared to his brother, he hated to put levi’s son gideon and micah up against each other; despite sharing dna and having been born almost a week apart, they were two different men and they had coped differently. lived differently. being the sons of fraternal twins born days apart didn’t make them twins, though it used to feel like it did. gideon was a published author that had his debut novel on the best-sellers list for weeks; micah was just now finishing up law school and working for his dad. it seemed like the other difference between the cousins were their mothers, so maybe that’s why their paths had divulged so greatly. it was certainly easier to blame micah’s problems on his maternal lineage and not on how badly saul had failed him throughout his life.

saul gasped loudly, mouth dropping in faux-offense. “i am still very funny, thank you. my mother tells me so all the time.” saul jokingly defended himself, though he truly believed he was absolutely hilarious. his clients loved his personality and he had a swath of friends from blue harbor to manhattan and many places in between. his gregariousness was probably the best thing about him. he had ease with crowds and never felt more in his element than when he was entertaining the room at a party of his peers. a trait that seemingly did not get passed down to his son.

“cursed with money and good looks, maybe.” he countered playfully, brows waggling. however, the mirth in his demeanor depleted quickly as she mentioned her ex, sam harrison. his eyes widened. “you saw sam?” he parroted in disbelief. now it was official: blue harbor was cursed. a spawning ground for bitter regrets and past mistakes. saul and theodora were being haunted by living ghosts apparently. how else could it be explained that their exes all found themselves in the same town some way or another? maybe she was right. the curse was on them, not the midwestern town, though he somehow doubted the same would’ve happened if he relocated to denver or carmel-by-the-sea; perhaps he’d only have to contend with one ex-wife sharing his zip code instead of all three.

“kid or not his kid… what does that mean exactly?” he was interested as a family law attorney and as theodora’s friend. though he was a notorious gossip, there were some people he refused to speak on—theodora was right on top of the list, which made for some frosty conversations at brunches and galas where people wanted the latest update on theodora’s relationship. her secrets would always be safe with him, and by extension, sam’s. “do you want me to go kick his ass? or sue him for… something? i’ll think of something.” saul could play the protective big brother role any day for her, but he had actually liked samuel when they had dated years ago. they weren’t golfing buddies or anything, but he saw her ex at holiday parties and at lunch with theo. he seemed a completely affable guy—which was why it was so surprising that he pulled such a disappearing act on her. 

“professional fantasies! hey, i’m no deacon edwards, but i’m not bad.” saul narrowed his eyes at her as he threw the cart into drive and moseyed down the path along the fairway. invoking his ex-brother-in-law’s name was something he usually avoided, but deacon had been the only professional golfer he had known, so else did he have to compare himself to? besides, this was a leisurely activity. keeping score defeated the purpose of leisure!

[tinyfishtits]

Okay okay okay— not sure how much you care for Amos, but I care for Amos and Micah and love hearing people’s interpretations of them: their childhood, their history, childhood memories they shared, what split them apart, If Micah still cares for Amos all these years later, etc.

This is my first time sending in an ask that could be turned into a brief drabble so I don’t know how this goes, but, feel free to just word vomit your thoughts. Bullet points or written out, anything works, all would make me super happy.

Ever since I heard Micah talk about his family by the campfire in chapter 2 and say this about Amos; 

“What kind of man lives by the SEA? Hm? I ASK YOU! Huh? HUH? The kind of man that gets told where to live by his wife. (insert the most adorably deranged giggling) Ain't no woman never told me nothin’, apart from ‘Make yourself scarce!’ And that suits me about fine…” 

But he says the last And that suits me about fine… in such a dejected, sad lil way and drifts off into silence I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT 😩

Okay but my biggest Bell family headcanon is that they were so Winchester coded when they were all together. Micah being the oldest took after his dad and the ‘family business’ and even though he loves Amos he grew to resent him for not only being, how he puts it, a “spineless coward” but because he most likely had to teach and care for him while his dad was busy finding leads on new jobs or just drinking himself into oblivion. 

Micah needs risk, excitement and challenge in his life. And the fact that his little brother was SO wildly different from him// compassionate, cried the first time Micah had him shoot a rabbit. Empathetic, tried to comfort Micah after his father beat him (which I guarantee he was abused -  Held under a way harsher lens than his brother) longed for something more. Amos probably wanted to be a tradesman of some sort, can see him having been OBSESSED with trains when he was little and always wanting to stop and watch them go by, pestering Micah to please please please take the train to the next town instead of riding there. // 

His difference was probably a big disappointment to Micah, but even more so because I think he truly loved and cared for his brother and didn’t want to see him broken the way he was. He pushed him away, mocked and belittled him both because Micah can’t admit he wants those things because he so deeply believes he doesnt deserve them… His father deluded him into thinking there was strength in solitude. And it was his way of telling Amos he wasn’t fit for the life they led, to get the fuck out while he still could. 

In the end, I think it brings Micah a lot of closure to hear Amos made it out and has a family, i like to think the man even shed a tear reading that letter, thinking of the little boy that cried when he killed a rabbit even though they’d been starving for weeks. The boy he practically raised by himself. Thinking of him happy. UGH. 

Also i love the name Amos??? Like what are you, a cookie? it’s SO CUTE! Anyway… Thanks for indulging me in a lil Micah/Amos rant. I love them and I love you for asking about them thank you Meeks!!! BOUNUS REC: Purl_30 writes Micah so well and has a few pre-gang bell fics, one in particular - and the entire reason I fell in love with this damn gunslinger in the first place - is The Survivor ! Amos and Micah Bell II are characters in this fic as well. It’s personally canon for me as Micah’s origin HIGHLY RECOMMEND !!

<3

[the-magicians-blue]

5:13pm

DID SOMEONE ASK FOR MICAH YUJIN CONTENT??? I mean no not directly to me but I’m doing it anyway he’s hot leave me alone

Micah has always teetered between being flirtatious and easily getting flustered. Normally he manages to get the upper hand but there’s one instance where there was no winning and you never let him live it down.

It was about three months into your relationship and you hand came up to him randomly with a question he never thought you’d ask him.

“Hey is there a particular pet name you want me to use? You always call me angel it’s weird that we’ve been together this long and I either call you Micah or dumbass…”

If he was honest he low key thought dumbass was your pet name for him and he gladly accepted it because he knew it was purely out of love but he said he didn’t have one in mind and that you could choose whatever name you wanted for him. He didn’t realize how much danger that suggestion put him in until it was too late.

Every day you tried a different pet name for him. At first he didn’t think it would phase him too much but once you started doing it without warning his heart couldn’t take it. The first time you called him baby he swore his heart stopped. It didn’t help that you’d start playing coy when he’d ask you to take it easy on him.

“What? You said I can choose your pet name. i gotta test my options here.”

“Yeah but I don’t think my heart can take all these tests…”

In reality you were just trying to see which name would fluster him the most but it wouldn’t be any fun if he knew that.

After a few days you finally found the perfect name. It was mid day and you’d finally finished up your work for the day. When you got back to your home Micah was in the kitchen making something quick to snack on. He turned to look at you when you walked in and smiled.

“You’re home! I misses ya angel~”

You gently caressed his face and smiles before pecking his cheek.

“I missed you too my pretty boy.”

He froze in his spot. He wasn’t sure which part was making him short circuit more, the fact that you called him pretty or the fact that you’re so blatantly calling him yours. He face was burning as he was processing what you just called him and to make matters worse his brain decided the best course of action was to run and hide in the bathroom. He was even more embarrassed as he heard your cackling from behind him. He just couldn’t take it. The way you looked at him, the way it rolled off your tongue so sweetly, like that had always been his name. He was your pretty boy and he couldn’t take how much he liked it.

Of course you had to add salt to the wound by knocking on the door to tease him more.

“Whats wrong Micah? You don’t like the pet name? I happen to really like it! I mean, you’re very pretty, and definitely mine I don’t see the issue.”

He ended up darting out of the bathroom to pull you into a hug and bury you into his chest, anything to get you to stop making his heart race like it was. Before he’d have to fight you just to admit you thought he was cute or to tell him you like him. He doesn’t know when you started becoming this bold and open about how you feel about him but he isn’t sure if he can take it. Don’t get him wrong he loves it but he’s not sure his poor heart can take the heart attacks you’ve been giving him.

“Angel, you’re trying to kill me aren’t you? My poor heart is gonna give out with how much you’re making it race…”

Now a days you call him that name at random just to see him freeze and blush. He can’t help it, something about you claiming him like that just sends him reeling. And of course every time he does you take that chance to tease him, asking if he needs to go to the bathroom.

[g12xxx]

Love is blind live reunion review:

Netflix needs to take a BIG L and they deserve to get dragged all over social media.

• love Brett and Tiffany, they look so happy. They needed more screen time in this reunion and they only got asked one or two questions.

• Kwame and Chelsea are still together. Umm I did like that kwame apologised to Chelsea and her family. I’m glad that they bought up the pool scene but they should of bought up kwame and Micah’s conversation at Chelsea’s birthday. At least he took accountability

• The best part of this reunion were Zack and Bliss calling irina out. Zack to Irina “ if we’re real, you went on this show to get famous” ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️ he told the truth. I love that Bliss and zack always defend each other and that they took the high road by forgiving irina.

• When Irina was starting to ‘cry’ and the audience was laughing 😭🤣☠️☠️. Her and Micah should have called Andrew.

• Irina’s apology was something. Like pick a struggle Irina. I’m not even surprised that she started using mental health as an excuse of treating people horribly. I will give credit where it’s due to Vanessa for calling her out as well. I will also give irina credit for showing up at the reunion. The fact that she even dm’d bliss to say she dodged a bullet, seriously she has no shame.

• loved Bliss’s response to irina. She just classy and her face when irina was saying how she loved bliss and Zack relationship lol

• The energy that Vanessa had for Paul and marshall should have gone Micah and Jackie. She had so much grace for them then the men

•The only person that called micah out was Zack and to be quiet honest the mvp of this reunion because Nick and Vanessa are horrible hosts.

• Vanessa was so annoying. She asked Paul what he meant about the nurturing comment. He explains himself and I understood on what he was saying but she kept going at him repeatedly just SHUT UP!! Vanessa’s bias was showing

• I’m glad that Zack came to Paul’s defence. Zack was about say what micah had said in the car regarding Paul and Vanessa cuts him off ,REALLY!!! 😒

• The fact that Micah’s friends especially Shelby wasn’t even called out is a joke.

• Jackie and Josh 🤡.Jackie was on social media talking about how she has all this receipts and that she will bring them at the reunion. Well she didn’t even show up. Vanessa was not asking the questions that need to be answered at all. Just playing bestie’s with Jackie. Marshall facial expression killed me 😂

• Jackie’s excuse regarding the ring girl please, it’s all bullshit. How sad must you be to still keep the ring a year later. When Josh was talking I didn’t care.

•When Vanessa said to Marshall if he had considered Jackie’ s feelings I’m like REALLY!! what about his feelings they weren’t considered as well. There was no follow up regarding text messages and Jackie being homophobic but Marshall apologised regarding him saying that Jackie had a strong jawline. Vanessa didn’t care she already chose a side.

• Vanessa asking the cast when they are going to have a baby was unnecessary, awkward and mind your business.They only been married for a year. Then she was talking about her ovaries, please just SHUT UP nobody cares.

• I don’t who the idiot was that thought that showing Bartiste in this reunion was good idea because it wasn’t. Lauren and Cameron would of been better option.

• I liked the clips of 3 married couples hanging around together. It was lovely to see. Zack singing to Bliss 😂😂😂 Bliss loves it, they are so in love.

Cut truth or drink from 3 married couples (YouTube) was more entertaining than the reunion and that says a lot.

Nick and Vanessa cannot host another reunion, they are terrible. Love is blind Brazil have a better hosts and reunions. Lots of questions not asked and they should of let the audience ask questions. Micah and Jackie should have been held accountable for their behaviour, not given them a free pass. It’s funny that Zack was the only one that called out Micah but not the hosts of this show 🤦🏽‍♀️.

[kirain]

I started playing rdr2 but stopped because like idk but I can't seem to get over the fact that all the women are prostitutes and they don't really have any important roles. Like what's Abigail do? Ooh she's a mother who's always mad? What do the other women do? Oooh they sleep with the gang. What's Sadie do? Oooh she becomes a badly written femme fetale who suddenly becomes a flawless killer. The women are just so badly represented.

I get the feeling you didn't play the game naturally or see any random encounters, because none of what you said is true. There's a lot to unpack here, so let's start with the "all the women are prostitutes" comment.

First of all, none of the women are prostitutes, a fact that deeply irritates Micah. During a coach robbery where he rides with Arthur and Bill, he even says, “Why the hell do we need a gaggle of girls who won’t even fuck you if you put a gun to their head? Is it too much to ask considering they get a piece of every damn dollar I bring in?” Poor baby. He even tries to proposition all of the women (Grimshaw included), but they all insult him and send him running with his tail between his legs. It’s hilarious and I love it. Arthur also responds to Micah with, “Everyone does their share. I don’t see you lifting a finger around camp.”

Now a bit about the girls:

Mary-Beth was a skilled pickpocket, but she ended up being caught by a group of her victims. She mentions this during a conversation with Arthur, where she points out how hard it was for women who came from nothing, and the inequality of it all. RDR2 actually regularly highlights how difficult frontier/outlaw life was for women back then, often pulling zero punches. While fleeing her pursuers, Mary-Beth luckily ran into Hosea, who helped her escape and welcomed her to the gang. You can see Dutch lusting after her a few times, because he's an old pervert, but she always shuns his advances. She was never a prostitute and she was actually underage when she joined.

Tilly was a child outlaw and a member of the Forman gang from the age of twelve. She ended up killing the leader's cousin because he [as is heavily implied] tried to rape her. She was around sixteen at the time and tried to return to her mother after the ordeal, but she unfortunately passed away while Tilly was running with the Formans. Out of options, she eventually joined the van der Linde gang after Dutch saved her from some unspecified trouble. You can find most of this out during one of my favourite side missions, where she gets kidnapped by Anthony Foreman in retaliation for killing his cousin. With Grimshaw’s help, you can rescue Tilly and put an end to it once and for all. She was never a prostitute and was also underage when taken in.

Susan Grimshaw was one of the original members of the gang and one of Dutch's first lovers. They parted amicably and both fell in love with other people (Dutch with Annabelle, and Susan with a doctor who sadly ended up dying), but she stayed with the gang because of their mutual respect for each other. She later became the arbiter of the camp and a kind of surrogate mother to Arthur, John, and the other girls. She was never a prostitute, but rather a rough-and-tumble outlaw.

Karen is a little more complicated. Overall, she was a scam artist (Hosea even called her an “actress”) who sometimes lured men into brothels, then stole from them or picked their brains for leads. That doesn't necessarily mean she was a prostitute; however, it just means she used sex as a manipulation tactic. Out of all the women in the group, she was the freest and most unconventional. She also stood on guard duty and participated in heists. The only man she ever slept with in game was Sean, and his death absolutely devastated her. If you talk to her or observe her interactions, you also discover she’s a raging alcoholic suffering from some very deep-seated issues. She likely did have to do things she wasn’t proud of in order to survive, but in my opinion that makes her one of the most realistic members of the group. She was never described as a prostitute.

Molly was an aristocrat who left her family to be with Dutch. His abusive treatment eventually led her to suffer an identity crisis, where she ended up hysterical and heartbroken. Her story is sad, but she was never a prostitute. If anything, Molly is the best example we have that Dutch views people as items, not human beings.

Abigail is the only prostitute in the game, but by the events of RDR2 she's an ex-prostitute. To say she's nothing more than "a mother who's always mad", I feel, does her character a great disservice. First of all, she left that profession behind to raise her son, to give him a decent chance in life. Unlike John, she stepped up immediately to become a responsible adult. I don't think people realise how impressive that is because, one, she could've easily abandoned Jack at the roadside (which was common back then), two, she could've induced an abortion, and three, she was quite young when she had him; around nineteen years old.

You say the women are "poorly represented", but they're stronger, smarter, and more mature than most of the men. A few of them even become self-sufficient in the turn of the century, something dear old Dutch couldn't even do/accept. Abigail in particular helps Sadie mourn her husband and the two grow very close. Their interactions are both grounded and heartwarming, with Abigail telling Sadie she’ll suffer the loss of her husband, but that it’ll get better if she keeps on living. She takes care of her, and Sadie later returns that kindness. These women are so full of quirks and humour and personality, I don’t know how you missed it.

As for Sadie ... where do I even begin? Badly written? Femme fatale? Flawless killer? Sadie is one of the best written characters. She's not flawless, she's exceptionally flawed, temperamental, and traumatised. It's never expressly stated, but it's implied at several points throughout the game that she was repeatedly assaulted while the O'Driscolls kept her captive. At first, she's petrified and miserable, to the point that all she does is cry and express suicidal ideation. Then, she gets angry. Very angry. Having nothing left to live for, her home and husband torn from her grasp, she throws herself headfirst into danger, which almost gets her killed on a number of occasions.

She's not a "flawless killer", she's a messy killer. She's not an expert death-dealer, and that's made evident from the start -- but she was a hunter who shared the workload with her husband, so it's not as if her skills just magically appeared. You do see how much it weighs on her, however, near the end of chapter six. If you help her kill the rest of the O'Driscolls, she laments what she's become because she thinks her husband would be horrified. She’s extremely complex and struggles between mourning and moving on.

I also can't help but laugh at the "femme fatale" accusation, because Sadie actually defeminises herself, which is understandable considering the hell she’s suffered. She even wears men's clothing, which wasn't illegal [anymore] back then, but it was openly frowned upon. Femme fatales use their beauty and sexuality to their advantage, ensnaring men with their feminine wiles. Sadie never does that and fights side-by-side with the boys. Interestingly enough, that's partially why Calamity Jane, an actual historical figure, garnered so much attention, because of how she behaved/dressed. It’s pretty clear to me that Rockstar might’ve used her as inspiration for Sadie. This was a real woman who lived from 1852 to 1903.

In addition, Sadie plays one of the most important roles, yet she does so without falling into the category of a Mary-Sue. She saves the gang and moves them to a new location when the Pinkertons attack Shady Belle. She hatches the plan that frees John from prison. She helps Arthur rescue Abigail after she gets kidnapped. She tracks down Micah and puts an end to his reign of terror. But most of what she does she accomplishes with a partner--Arthur or John--both of whom she respects immensely. No one, not even Arthur, does everything alone, and when they do there’s usually negative consequences. It's the camaraderie and shared experiences that make these characters successful, and aside from Charles and Hosea, I’d even argue that the women are more well-rounded and fleshed out than the men.

I gather from for comments that you didn't finish the game, so I hate to spoil it, but I kind of have to if you walked away with this mindset. The women of RDR2 are a force to be reckoned with.

[its-deputy-caleb]

can i request something about a reader complaining about saving micah in strawberry even though they secretly love him or are crushing on him? thanks!

ahh i know i've written this before but i love it and i'm feeling extra emotional today so i wanted some soft angsty micah after a bad day

———————————————————

“What the fuck is this?!”

Arthur had just thrown your gun belt and revolver on top of the dominos you were playing with, leaning over the wooden table with both hands. Your close friend stared at you with a confident grin on his face as he chuckled.

“Need you to go on a little house call for me… think of it as repayment for me helping ya out with that robbery last month.”

You sighed playfully, dropping the last of the dominoes in your hand so you could pick up your revolver before you stood beside Arthur.

“Alright what’s this house call you want me to do?”

Arthur chuckled as he walked with you over to the ammunition wagon, helping you pick out some ammo and gun oil. It wasn’t like you needed to clean your revolvers, in fact they were spotless from how much you’d spent cleaning them— a habit you’d taken to from a certain gang member you’d spent more and more time with.

“Micah went and got himself arrested in Strawberry, Sheriff’s gonna hang him soon, reckon by the end of the week. Now if it were me I’d sit back with a whiskey and watch him swing but I know you two are close so I figured don’t I let you go and get him instead.”

You blushed as Arthur admitted to how you and Micah were something of a pair around camp. Not a couple but joined at the hip more often than most.

Much like Micah you were a quiet, more reserved member of the gang who wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Sure, you weren’t nearly as mean and it’s why you got along with everyone in camp but you liked your space.

You were close with Arthur and John, had been for years as you joined the gang from a young age and grew up with the boys for much of your life. Despite all that they knew the kind of outlaw that you were, Arthur would ride with you any day, would share a whiskey but he never prodded into your private life.

When you met Micah the two of you clicked instantly. Sure he was antagonistic like he was to everyone but you never took his bullshit. He learnt to respect you and you found that you enjoyed each others company far greater than either of you two will ever admit.

After enough robberies and shared drinks together you started to catch the way you looked at Micah differently. That respect of a fellow outlaw morphed into feelings and you knew in some strange way that you cared about him.

The news of Micah’s most recent arrest in Strawberry was enough to have your stomach twisting with worry but you hid it behind a flustered laugh.

“Common Arthur, we’re not that close besides why would I wanna drag my ass all the way over to Strawberry just to save the one person who’s a pain in everyone’s ass.”

Arthur playfully rolled his eyes and handed you a saddle bag full of ammunition, medical supplies and food rations.

“Deny it all ya want but I’ve seen you two laughing all night out on guard duty or sleepin’ on each other’s shoulders— don’t think we don’t all see it.”

Despite his teasing, Arthur helps you saddle up and leads your horse to the edge of camp.

“Now you’re truly seein’ things Morgan, you sure the frost didn’t get to your head in Colter?”

He laughs under his breath, passing the reins to you as he salutes you goodbye.

“Maybe so— now you take care and do well to keep safe, don’t go getting yourself killed for that rat!”

You wave goodbye in return, clicking your heels so your horse moved into a steady gallop as you started your journey to Strawberry.

—

What a goddamn mess Strawberry was. After using your last stick of dynamite to blast open the iron bars of Micah’s cell, all hell broke loose as he shot the O’Driscoll and then the onslaught of lawmen.

You whistled for your horse, ready to make a quick and speedy exit when you saw Micah running in the opposite direction.

“Micah where the fuck are you going!!?”

He ducked for cover behind a wooden barrel, using one of your revolvers to take out a lawmen on horseback who was blocking the exit of the bridge. Micah turned to look at you, winking as you took cover behind an adjacent barrel.

“Need to get a little something of mine sweetheart— won’t be leaving here without em.”

You could only guess Micah was talking about his revolvers, he only ever referred to them as people firstly and secondly this was the first time you’d seen him without them in his hands.

“You’re a pain in my ass you know that?”

“Yeah but yer love me nonetheless.”

He laughed, cold blooded as he took out two other lawmen and ran into a house a the edge of town. You didn’t get to comment on his run in with skinny as more of the law had shown up.

Micah had come tumbling out the door just in time to start shooting at the wave of moving, shooting targets. He spun his revolvers around his fingers, still finding time to pull tricks even as your lives were in danger.

You covered for him while he reloaded and he did the same for you. Together, the two of you did what you do best and took out enemy after enemy.

When you slipped in the mud, Micah caught your arm, holding you steady and looking concerned for a moment, only for a moment before continuing to shoot.

You barely made it out of there alive, the law having chased you for a lot longer than you would have liked before eventually making camp in a secluded area in the mountains.

“That was some fine shooting there Bell! I was almost impressed… Micah?”

You turned your horse around to look at Micah who didn’t make a sound. He was hunched over Baylock, one bloodied and bruised hand holding onto a wound on the side of his ribs. You jumped off your horse immediately, catching Micah as he practically fell off Baylock.

Dragging him as best you could, you threw a bedroll down for him to sit on before running to grab your satchel of medical supplies. God bless for Morgan’s packing.

Micah made a weak, pained sound when you returned, his breathing getting heavier as you cut away his shirt to clean the wound.

It was worse than you thought, the bullet grazed him but it was deep and there was lot of blood. He would need stitches for sure and possibly a miracle if it wasn’t to be infected or worse he’d bleed out.

“….You owe me a new shirt for that…”

Micah laughed through his pain although it was evident in his face that there was no way he could pretend it wasn’t affecting him.

“Chrissakes Micah who gives a shit about your shirt, if I don’t stop this bleeding you’ll—“

You couldn’t brining yourself to admit the reality of the situation, your own fear starting to show at the thought of not being able to save someone who you knew deep down that you loved.

Shaking your head you wiped down his wound, cleaning it as best you could before picking up a bottle of whiskey. His hand came to stop yours as he gave you a stubborn look.

“Just let me do this, you can whine all you want about it afterwards.”

Before Micah could protest further you poured half the bottle on his wound. Both of you winced at the pained sound he made and your free hand held his tightly, rubbing slow circles as he breathed through his teeth.

You spent the next few hours cleaning his wound and patching him up. Halfway through the stitches, Micah spoke up with a soft voice, his head hung and his face hiding under his hair.

“Didn’t think yer cared so much…”

Your hands stopped for a moment, lifting your head to look at Micah with concern. It was silent for a moment and you returned to your work on stitching him back up, waiting for him to elaborate.

“…yer looked so scared when yer thought I was gonna die… I’ve seen that look before but no one’s ever looked at me like that.”

Finishing the final stitch, you wrapped a bandage around his torso, your hand coming to lift his chin so he was looking at you. Your forehead rested against his and for the first time all day you both took a deep breath and let the tension and chaos leave you.

Your noses brushed against each other and neither of you said anything for a moment, the only sound was your thumb gently tucking his ear behind his face.

“Course I was scared— didn’t wanna lose you, not when— not when I love you as much as I do.”

Micah’s eyes opened as he looked at you, he was weary for a moment before kissing your cheek and resting his tired head on your shoulder. Your hands threaded through his dirty hair as you half sat on his lap, avoiding his injury. His head was tucked into your neck, tired breaths tickling your neck as he relaxed into you.

“Love you too sweetheart and I have for a long time.”

You smiled at Micah’s confession, rubbing circles on the back of his neck as you cuddled him closer and kissed his head. He eventually yawned and you both rolled over to lie against the bedroll on your sides.

He shuffled around for a moment, making sure he was sleeping on the side that wasn’t injured as you curled up next to him. Your hands threaded together and you tucked your head under his chin.

One of his arms wrapped protectively around you as you pressed your nose into his collarbone, noting underneath the heavy smells of gunpowder, whiskey and cigarettes was a softer smell which you could only describe as micah. His fingers traced soft patters on your shoulder as you both slowly nodded off into a decent sleep together, both of you thinking about being safe in each others arms.