#going horse shopping with Hosea

[ak319]

Lovesick A.M x f!reader

--★ Rose Hats and Rough Hearts

(AN: So, a fic idea I have serves as an inspo for this one-shot. The reader is a morally gray character and doesn't like being part of the gang. Anyway, enjoy reading!.) Syno: When her sharp tongue turns on Dutch, Arthur wonders if she’s gone too far, or if he’s fallen too deep. Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), pining, angst, fluff. ✰ -11k.

“Well, wasn’t that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,” Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.

Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. “Definitely.”

The two rode at a leisurely pace, the quiet night stretching around them like a blanket, the stars casting a soft glow over the landscape. Arthur’s eyes drifted as they moved, catching on a patch of bushes nearby.

Roses.

Even in the faint starlight, their delicate shapes stood out, and an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Uh, Hosea,” Arthur started, breaking the calm, “I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this time of night?” Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. “You oughta rest now, son. You’ve earned it.”

“No, no,” Arthur replied quickly, waving it off. “Just need to head into town for a bit. Won’t be long, don’t you worry.”

Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

He handed Hosea the score and with a final farewell, the two parted ways, Arthur veering off towards the town, his thoughts already on the next step of his plan.

Arthur arrived at the shop and dismounted, but instead of heading inside, he lingered by his horse, running a hand over the animal’s neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?

There’s no harm in buying something, right? Just a harmless gesture. He could figure out what to do with it later... later.

For days now, it had been the same cycle.

Don’t think about her. Just don’t.

There’s no harm in it, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t look at her, it’s strange. Keep your distance.

A few stolen glances don’t mean anything when she’s far away, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t buy her a gift. What kind of fool even does that? Who is he to her, anyway?

And here he is, standing outside the shop, heart pounding like a damn fool, a love fool.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, there’s a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps you’d like to try the waistcoats?”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his eyes drifting around the shop. Was he in the right place? He scanned the shelves and displays until his gaze landed on the wall.

Yes, there it was. The item he’d noticed before.

“Can you show me that hat?”

The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. “Our latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.”

Arthur took the hat, turning it over in his hands. The black leather gleamed, unscathed and pristine, a far cry from his well-worn one. His eyes lingered on the rose corsage affixed to the middle, subtle but striking.

He stepped toward the mirror, setting the hat on his head, and studied his reflection. It was a fine hat

“Goes perfectly with your outfit, sir,” the shopkeeper remarked, his voice warm with flattery.

Arthur’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. “I saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.”

“Oh, the women’s one! Let me fetch it for you.”

The shopkeeper moved swiftly, his hands deftly retrieving the scarf. He prattled on about its fine quality and craftsmanship, but Arthur barely registered the words. They flew past him like horses leaping over a fence.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on you. On how the scarf would look wrapped around your neck, the way it might frame your face. The image was enough to push him to hand over the dollar bills for both items, not even noticing he’d given more than what was asked.

The shopkeeper’s voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.

He’d be wearing the rose hat, and you’d be wearing the scarf. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a strange mix of warmth and unease. Was he really going to give it to you now?

The wind tugged at his coat, but it couldn’t scatter the doubts and questions circling his mind. Was this... a confession?

Would you, confounding as you were, with your quicksilver moods and quiet distance, accept anything from him? You, who rarely spared him more than a glance, choosing instead to linger with the girls, Molly especially.

It ate at him sometimes, the way you seemed so unreachable. Always just out of his grasp, moving through the camp like a wisp of smoke, untouchable and wholly your own. And yet, he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop wanting.

You didn’t belong here, not like him, at least. You carried yourself with an air of defiance, tethered to the camp not by loyalty but necessity. A reluctant, bitter presence that had no reason to look twice at someone as rooted in this life as he was.

He saw the way you didn’t fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe that’s why the thought of you wearing the scarf--his scarf now--stirred something fierce inside him. The idea that, for once, he might give you something that tethered you to him, however briefly. Better than being tied to someone else. God, you have made him so selfish.

He clenched the scarf tighter, his jaw set. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He didn’t know much about you, except years ago when one day he came to the camp and discovered that Hosea and Bessie had found somewhere, taken you in, and raised you as their own as they always wanted a child. Nobody in the camp knew where they found you except perhaps Dutch but it was never told properly and he didn't pry much too, no one really did. Everything had been fine-peaceful, even, until Bessie passed.

After that, you’d wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldn’t let you go. He was your father, after all, the one who had protected you, shielding you from the blood and grime of their world just as Bessie had wished for.

And then there was himself whose hands were drenched in blood.

All of this screamed doom. Yet, he was doomed... doomed by his stupid feelings and that desperate longing to have someone to call his own, to have someone waiting for him. A foolish wish, considering the life he’d led, the blood he’d spilled, and the world he was tied to.

He slowed the stallion, the weight of bubbling anxiety and frustration pressing down on him. God, it was all a mess. Even if he could manage to stop thinking for a while, to quiet the storm in his head... when he'd return to the camp and see you again, just going about your business, sulking in some corner after an argument, or throwing those sharp, witty remarks, especially at Pearson as you cooked, that pull, that ache, would come rushing back.

Curiosity was the root of it all. He just wanted to know. Why? Why were you like this? Was it because of Molly, how she’d twisted your heart with her bitterness, making you turn your back on Dutch and the rest of the gang? Or did you simply not care at all about any of them?

He huffed at the thought of the stew you probably made, not out of love, but out of duty, or maybe a touch of malice. If it tasted so good, made with nothing but spite, he couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.

❀˖°

With a final pat to Clover’s neck, Arthur made his way back to camp, greeting the men as he passed. But there was something off, a silence hanging heavier than usual. He made his way toward Dutch, figuring he might have some thoughts on the score with Hosea.

"Dutch?"

The older man turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the lake.

"Arthur."

Before Arthur could speak, Dutch continued, his tone slow, almost contemplative. "You know we’re a family, right? That everything we do is for each other, not just for ourselves..."

"Of course, Dutch."

Dutch chuckled softly, the sound more gravel than humor, before crushing the cigar underfoot with a casual motion. "Some people, immature people, just can't seem to understand that."

With that, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur standing there.

"Is... something the matter?"

"Thing? No, someone is the matter." Dutch’s words were sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Arthur.

Arthur gave him an impatient look, silently urging him to get to the point. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. Not at all. He’d been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift he’d picked out for you, wondering if you'd even notice if you'd even like it. He could already picture himself, the soft scarf fabric between his fingers, tracing the rose pattern as his thoughts wandered, imagining what it would feel like to wrap it around your neck... his gift for you.

Dutch exhaled sharply, clearly agitated. "Hosea has let her get away with too much. You know what she did? When Hosea returned to drop off the share from your little endeavour, she-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "She thought I wasn’t here. She came charging out, and started an argument, telling him he was doing the wrong thing--the wrong thing! Can you believe that?"

Dutch shook his head in disbelief. "She actually had the nerve to say that, Arthur. And that instead of doing this--helping us all--he should be out saving for them both and getting away from this life." He paused, his chest rising with each breath. "I swear, Arthur... turning one of my most trusted men, a friend, against me? Over some damn bills? But Hosea... being Hosea...what does he do? Runs out of camp to bring her back."

"So what did you suggest?!" Hosea’s voice cut through the tension as he entered the tent, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Let my daughter go out in the wild alone? At night? How could you do that, say 'get lost' just like that? Knowing she will take it seriously? She grew up right in front of you!"

Dutch’s face tightened at Hosea’s outburst, his anger simmering. "Oh, so it hurt her ego, huh?! Like I care. For me , nothing’s worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"

"Enough! No!" Hosea snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "Don’t you dare bring that up."

With a heavy sigh, Hosea turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, leaving Dutch to seethe in silence.

Dutch watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Take those damn dollars you bestowed on us, Hosea, and gift her a house, for all I care! Fine by my ass!"

Arthur’s mind was a tangled mess, unable to process the whirlwind of events. So much had happened, so many emotions he could hardly keep up. Confusion clouded his mind, frustration clawed at his chest, exhaustion weighed down on his bones, and fury burned in his gut. But none of it made sense. He couldn't even figure out who--or what--his anger was really directed at.

Was it you? Was it your reckless, thoughtless actions that set this all in motion? Or was it Dutch's words and how casually he was ready to kick a girl out, kick you out, just like that?

It was at both.

It was both, but more than anything, it was you. Because you’d started it, hadn’t you? You always had a problem with Dutch’s authority, even when you kept your sweet little mouth shut. It was in your eyes, those eyes. The eyes he could never get enough of, the ones he craved to meet his own. If only for a second. A second where the same longing, the same hunger for something more, reflected back at him.

But instead, there you were. Acting like everything was just... nothing. Like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t matter. You went out there, reckless, careless, as if you could just walk away from everything. From him. How fucking could you? What if it had gotten worse and someone just decided to harm you in the camp and even Hosea couldn't do anything-

"Arthur?"

"U-Um, yes?"

Dutch’s sharp gaze fixed on him, deliberate and piercing. He let the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle, his expression unreadable. "What do you think? Hm?"

"About...what happened? I--it’s... yeah, she shouldn’t have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthur’s response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didn’t wait for more. He muttered a farewell and slipped out of the tent, the cool air doing little to clear the haze in his mind.

His eyes found Hosea almost immediately. The old man was sitting on his bedroll, his posture stiff and guarded. His eyes screamed of hurt, Dutch's words had affected him deeply. After some seconds his eyes would flicker at your tent. The sight made Arthur’s chest ache. Hosea’s protectiveness was undeniable.

Because no matter how much Hosea wanted to protect you, Arthur wanted something deeper, something more selfish.

What the hell am I even thinking? he chastised himself, shaking his head. She’s not my responsibility. She’s not mine.

He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldn’t move. Instead, he turned away, retreating to his own tent with a heavy sigh. Once inside, he shut the flaps, placed his hat on the table, and dropped onto the cot with a grunt of annoyance.

Reaching for the scarf, Arthur held it above him, the dim light tracing over its soft, silken material. He let it graze his face, the faint scent of the shop lingering on it, but it was his mind that did the real work. He imagined the fabric tangled in your hair, how it would feel wrapped around you as he held you close. He could almost feel the tickle of those strands against his skin, his breath hot against the side of your neck.

The thought of having you here, in his arms, that close, his hands gripping you, pulling you to him, ignited something fierce inside him. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only you’d let him. He clenched the scarf tighter, frustration and something darker simmering in his chest.

With that vision playing in his mind, he let the scarf fall, draping it across his face and chest, the weight of it somehow both comforting and unbearable.

Lying there in the dark, his lips brushed over the fabric absently, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. It was maddening, the way you consumed his thoughts without even trying. Even now, with frustration still simmering under his skin, all he wanted was to see you, to watch your expression, even if it meant enduring one of your scowls.

You little menace, I swear one of these days I might just lose my patience.

But you didn’t care, did you? You’d stormed out, reckless and fiery, with no thought of him or anyone, not even yourself. And here he was, lying alone, haunted by the feeling of silk and the ghost of a life he’d never have. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur shifted onto his side, clutching it closer, the tension in his body growing. He couldn't help but think if he had been here earlier, he would have tied you to him, not out of malice, but out of desperate, aching need. The kind of need that he couldn’t push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didn’t even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily.

He wanted you to feel it, to bear the same punishment he carried every night. To know what it was like to lie awake, tormented by the thought of someone you couldn’t have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldn’t name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldn’t even look your way.

But then...what was he even saying?

Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didn’t deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasn’t yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldn’t ever look at him that way. He was older, too far removed from your world, your interests, your life. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t ever imagine, not in a thousand years, that someone like him could ever be interested in you. Even he could admit it, this was all stupid, unexpected, and nothing more than a fantasy.

And still, knowing this, he couldn’t stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesn’t listen to reason or its owner, dragging you where it pleases, no matter the cost. Even he, a man who prided himself on control, had been reduced to a mere servant of its whims.

His fingers curled around the scarf as if it could somehow hold the pieces of him together. As if its softness could soothe the fire that burned inside him, one that you had lit and would never know.

Meanwhile, you lay in bed, staring at the worn canvas of the tent above. You weren’t leaving this tent. Not now. Not later. Not for anyone. They could all be damned for all you cared, it had all been damned ever since your mother died.

She was your anchor, the one thing tethering you to any sense of stability. And the moment she was gone, the world had cracked open, spilling truths you’d long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You weren’t really theirs. You weren’t their daughter.

Hosea refused to tell you why or how you ended up here, tucked into the folds of their chaos. But the truth was, you didn’t care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutch’s every whim, the endless cycle of running and stealing and pretending any of it had meaning.

All you wanted was a normal life, a roof over your head that didn’t leak when it rained, a place where fear didn’t cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldn’t let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.

Pathetic.

That’s what it was. That’s what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutch’s charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone

"Bastard..."

You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasn’t in the cards, maybe just to find some rich fool to marry so you could finally live in peace. Far from all this chaos. But no, these people couldn’t leave well enough alone, they had to loot every rich soul they came across.

Leave someone for me to marry at least, you scoffed bitterly, lips curling in a faint, humourless smile.

Sigh.

Dream on, (Y/N). Dream on.

Hosea’s familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadn’t bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldn’t be long, two days, maximum, before Hosea came to lecture you, or worse, dragged you out of this tent himself.

He was always so damn strict when it came to pulling your weight.

But right now?

Screw it. Screw him. Screw all of them.

Let them fend for themselves.

❀˖°

"Why do you do all this?"

Not did that. Do this.

Arthur’s voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldn’t bring himself to say outright. He just hoped you’d hear it, the real question, underneath the words. His gaze stayed fixed on the worn soles of your shoes, watching as you scrubbed at the dishes with an edge of restrained aggression that didn’t go unnoticed.

The sight would be funny to anyone in the camp right now. He was reduced to barely speaking above a whisper when it came to you, his usual steady tone faltering in a way it never did with anyone else. Whilst you were the only one who wasn't afraid of even him. While others tiptoed around him, wary of the weight his presence carried, you treated him with the same indifference, the same biting sharpness that you spared for everyone else.

Dammit, he fucking loved it.

It wasn’t fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasn’t just another face in the camp to you. It made him feel like that was all he was. Just another man under Dutch rule.

And it was maddening.

"I could ask the same question to everyone here," you replied, voice steady but sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to wound without cutting too deep.

"But you know the answer," he countered, quieter now, his words almost swallowed by the night air.

"And you do too," you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder, "but here you are. Playing the mediator of sorts."

Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to the ground as if the weight of your words had struck him in the chest. For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with this place, with these people, you had an uncanny way of stirring up trouble within it.

Perhaps you wanted that. You wanted to get kicked out.

He wanted to throw the thought out into the open, let it snap between you like a taut rope. But the bitterness in your tone, the heaviness in your stance, made him hesitate. Throwing oil on the fire wasn’t going to do either of you any good, not today.

"You’re wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."

"Then I’ll just keep talkin’ until you do," he shot back, his voice low but resolute.

"Do whatever, I don't care. This place is full of people barking orders and trying to be big. Pft. How adorable."

At least spare me a glance. Just one.

"If you don't care about yourself, then at least do it for Hosea." His voice was strained, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.

That made you turn, finally, but the look you gave him was anything but kind. Your gaze was sharp, cutting, laced with a mix of disdain and challenge. "Oh, so now you're worried about me being a bad daughter or something?" you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you all think the same way when you're out there making other daughters cry, making women widows and destroying families without a second thought."

This was the longest conversation you both had. Ever. And damn it was a wrecked one.

Your lips curled into a humorless smile as you snorted, mocking. "Tsk, I bet that's an exception, right? Family only exists here." You pitched your voice to mimic Dutch's smooth drawl, the mockery biting. Then, as if dismissing him entirely, you turned back to the washing, your hands moving with renewed fervor, the sound of water splashing filling the silence.

Arthur stood there, jaw tight, the weight of your words sinking into him like stones in a river.

He stood rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in his throat, refusing to come out. Maybe it was the truth in your words that had him stunned.

Before Arthur could find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, Hosea stepped into the fray, his tone calm yet firm. “(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, you’ve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, looking off to the side, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. His heart thumped unevenly as he anticipated your response.

You turned to Hosea sharply, your expression a volatile mix of shock and simmering fury. “You want me to apologize to him?! For what?” Your voice rose, cutting through the camp’s quiet. “Just for talking to you about something I’ve wanted to for so damn long?!”

Arthur’s head snapped back in your direction. He could see the fire in your eyes now, blazing and relentless, and it struck something in him. That fire, he both loved and hated it, craved it and feared it. It was the very thing that made you impossible to ignore, yet it was also what pushed you farther from him. And still, he couldn’t help but think how maddeningly beautiful you looked right now, even if it tore him apart to watch you lock yourself away further from everyone, including him.

Hosea sighed, his calm facade slipping just slightly. “It’s not about what was said, it’s about how it was said. Dutch... he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. We all are.”

Your laugh was hollow, bitter. “Trying? Trying to keep us all in line like dogs? Sure, that sounds like a real noble effort.” You crossed your arms, your gaze icy as it met Hosea’s. “If you want to grovel to Dutch, go ahead. But don’t drag me into it.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against his holster as if searching for something to ground himself. He knew that your words were not only directed at Hosea but him too.

“You’ve got too much pride,” Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

“And you’ve got too much blind loyalty,” you shot back, unrelenting.

Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isn’t about the words you said, it’s about the way you said them. You can stand by your beliefs without tearing everyone else down in the process, sweetheart."

You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. "So what? Dutch can tear everyone down, but when someone calls him out, it’s suddenly a problem?! That’s rich."

"It doesn't matter!" Hosea’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, don’t create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, we’re in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldn’t be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. He’s always been like an uncle to you... (Y/N)."

You let out a bitter scoff, your lips curling in defiance. "And he's the one who clearly doesn't want me here but--fine...fine Papa," your hands slammed the plate down in the basin. "I’ll do whatever you say. Because, apparently, my words are nothing but bullets of disloyalty now. The same words that were once adorable wishes to you."

Your words hit like a lash, leaving Hosea standing frozen as you stormed off toward your tent. Arthur watched the older man, his chest tightening when he saw the same hurt settle in Hosea’s eyes, the kind of pain that only festers in the heart of someone who loves deeply and feels powerless.

"I wish..." Hosea began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of emotions he rarely let show. "I wish I never told her the truth... that she’s not my child. Maybe it messed her up... It broke me more than it broke her."

Arthur stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. Hosea turned his head slightly, and Arthur's heart clenched when he saw the glint of tears streaking down the older man’s face. It was the second time Arthur had witnessed Hosea cry, the first being after Bessie's death.

"It... it terrified me," Hosea whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I kept thinkin' last night, what if one day I'm not here, and Dutch just turns on her like that? Sure, the women might object, but that’s it. They’re powerless against him. No one would stand up for her... and she'd be all alone..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes, trying to regain control. "And that’s what broke me, Arthur."

It broke me too...

Arthur stepped closer, his voice low but steady. "Jus' don't think about all that happened. Forget it and don't worry Dutch will forget about it. He won’t hold onto it, not like that. And she... she’ll forget too. You’ll see."

Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I don’t think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she won’t let it go." He paused, leaning heavily against the wooden counter, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of years pressed harder in that moment. "I want it too, Arthur. The house, the quiet life… I want to give her that. But it’s not easy. It’s not."

He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, it’d feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldn’t sit right. Do you get what I mean?"

Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you weren’t there to sharpen the tension in the air. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think we all... kind of want that." His words trailed off, his thoughts unraveling into something more personal. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

I do. I want it... with you. Maybe. No...

Only.

Hosea turned his head to study him, an unspoken question hanging in the silence. Arthur caught the look and quickly shrugged it off, letting out a small exhale as if to clear the thought entirely. "Jus’ don’t let Dutch know," he muttered with a faint smirk. Hosea returned the gesture. " 'Course not. Let's go have some coffee, boy." He reached to pat the man's shoulder but Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Hosea’s with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthur’s with a flicker of concern, but also an understanding that something serious was coming.

"Um--there’s... something that I want to..." Arthur’s voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hosea’s eyes. The same sheepish, uncertain look Hosea had seen a hundred times, but now it felt different.

Hosea arched a brow, waiting for him to continue. "Well, go on then. What did you do?"

Arthur’s mind was a mess, his thoughts tangled with nerves and fear. What the hell am I doing? His heart raced as his hand shook slightly. What the hell am I about to do?

His breath caught as he reached into the inside of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of the chest pocket where he’d hidden it. It was a decision that had plagued him for days, one that felt impossible to avoid now.

He pulled out the scarf--silken, covered in his scent, soft to the touch, but now burning in his hand like a symbol of everything he couldn’t say.

 For her.

It’s for her.

"I- I bought this..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud made them too real, too vulnerable.

Hosea’s face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear I’m a man, Arthur."

The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than he’d imagined. His throat went dry, his fingers tightening around the scarf as if it could somehow anchor him, give him the courage to keep going. But he was drowning in hesitation.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. The thought of Hosea’s reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?

Hosea’s eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"

Arthur’s mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "It’s for... (Y/N)."

For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hosea’s expression softened, eyes widening, almost in a kind of jubilant surprise. The older man’s lips curled into a smile, the warmth of it almost disarming.

Hosea took the scarf from Arthur, his hands gentle as he examined the gift. A sense of something unspoken passed between them, something Arthur couldn’t quite name, but it was there in the way Hosea’s gaze softened. "Really?"

Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hosea’s, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldn’t even process. Was this really happening? He was spilling it to him, of all people, your father.

He nodded again, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah..."

Hosea’s hand reached out to pat Arthur’s arm in an almost fatherly gesture, the older man’s voice low and steady. "Well then... I’ll be sure to give it to her." He smiled, a knowing warmth in his eyes that made Arthur’s chest tighten in an unfamiliar way. "Thank you. Y’know... you’re the only one I trust after me."

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like he’d won a game, but one he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

Arthur’s throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d attached to the simple scarf until now. It was just a piece of fabric, yet the meaning behind it had become so much more than he’d ever expected.

"Just... tell her to, you know... don’t burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin, as if trying to deflect the intensity of his own feelings. But the words weren’t a joke. They were the truth, and they hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

The image burned in his mind, you, angry, perhaps unaware, throwing it into the campfire or tearing it apart with a pair of scissors. The thought was almost unbearable, each possibility worse than the last. The way his hands clenched into fists at his sides showed just how deep the fear ran.

He couldn’t let that happen.

If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didn’t know what he’d do. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Would he lash out? Would he burn the whole camp down if it meant getting you back, getting that thing back, untainted by your disregard? The intensity of his protectiveness shocked him, made his pulse quicken.

He forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled, but the tightness in his chest remained.

"Tell her," he repeated softly, though his voice cracked with something that felt more desperate than he'd intended.

"I will, I will. Don't you worry."

❀˖°

You nearly sewed your own finger, but kept going, the needle trembling slightly in your hand as you tried to focus. Jack sure knew how to break his damn button every week. But you never minded of course. That adorable little kid is like your brother. You couldn't remember the last time you’d felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.

"I’m proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hosea’s voice broke through the silence, warm but layered with something else, something like relief, as he sipped his coffee. His words sank into the quiet of the tent, the flickering lamplight casting soft shadows over his face.

"Of course you are."

His response was a low chuckle, tinged with affection. He knew you loved him and valued his advice,. His mind played the memories of the times when you always waited worriedly whenever he went on jobs and made sure he was looked after in the camp. He couldn't be proud to have you as his daughter even if both of you clashed at moments like these.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if you’d done it for Hosea, for your own reasons, you couldn't shake the irritation that still lingered beneath your skin. But he was happy, and that was enough for him. His approval always mattered to you, more than you’d ever admit.

The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hosea’s gaze shifted, the way it always did when something was on his mind. He glanced at the closed flap of the tent, his attention drawn to the world outside. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.

"Here," Hosea said, holding the item out to you, his expression tight, as if he wasn't entirely sure how you would take it. You eyed the scarf suspiciously before taking it, your fingers brushing against the fabric, your thoughts clouded.

"Wow, thanks...it's so pretty," you muttered, still trying to piece together what was happening. Though genuinely happy to receive a beautiful gift.

Hosea shifted on his feet, averting his gaze, as if the words were stuck in his throat. After a long pause, you saw the truth flicker in his eyes.

"It's...from Arthur."

"Wha---huh? Why?" you asked, the suspicion in your tone now more palpable than ever.

Hosea looked away again, the embarrassment and discomfort evident in his posture, but the message was clear. You felt the shift in the air, a kind of pressure that built between you both.

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn't stop the words that spilled from your lips. "Wha- excuse me??! Did you... did you just sell me or something?!"

The words landed, and Hosea's head snapped back, his face darkening, his jaw tight with frustration.

"What even---Are you out of your mind?" he shot back, his voice low, heated now. "Listen to me. I am not going to be here for you forever, and I worry for you, even if you think I don't! And him, he’s the only one I would trust to-"

"What are you on about?!" you cut him off, your voice rising with anger. "Am I some child that needs to be babysat?! I won’t stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And you’re here finding ways to bind me here?!" You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the frustration turning into something you couldn’t hold in any longer. "I understand everything! Don’t think I’m a fool!"

You couldn’t stop yourself. With a burst of pent-up fury, you threw the scarf on the floor, your hands shaking with the force of your frustration. "Handing me to some old lap dog, you’re out of your mind! I can't believe it, have some shame!."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you both, as Hosea stood there, his hand still frozen in the air where he'd offered you the scarf, his eyes full of something raw, hurt, frustration, confusion. Hosea opened his mouth, but no words came. His gaze softened, his lips parted as if he were trying to find something to say. But the words you had just spoken hung heavy in the air, too loud and too real to take back now.

"You think I want this for you?" he finally whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with frustration. "I just want you safe, damn it. Safe."

"If you want that, then find someone else, someone normal. A proper suitor, maybe? A decent citizen? Like Mama would have wanted!"

"And you think a 'normal citizen,' or the rich kind you dream of marrying, won’t ask about our background? Won’t dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of what’s real? The most honest person you could have is right here, willing to do anything for you. I raised that boy, and I damn well know he will never disappoint me."

You rolled your eyes, fed up with another one of his lectures. "Yeah, because after spending half my life with outlaws, I've definitely lost the chance to be with anyone 'normal,' haven’t I? Then I'd rather die alone! Every man here is raised by you in some way but that doesn't mean that I have to trust them let alone be with THEM! You are being delusional! Whatever--just give it back, for God's sake," you snapped, your voice thick with frustration as you turned away, trying to put distance between yourself and the scarf as if it could somehow erase the conversation.

Hosea didn't move to leave. He just stood there. After a long pause, he shook his head gently, as if reconciling himself with something painful. "No, no I won't. Gifts are not meant to be... given back."

He picked the scarf up, his hands cradling it carefully as if it were something fragile, and for a moment, you could see him lost in thought, his eyes distant, remembering something else.

"I remember... the first time I held you in my arms," he murmured, his voice softer now, the anger and frustration fading into something more vulnerable. "You were my gift, too. You still are."

Your heart stuttered for a moment, the memory of being held like that, cradled in his arms when you were small, a time before all the complexities of your relationship had gotten so tangled. The warmth of his embrace felt distant now, like a fading echo.

Or it's just his way of manipulation.

"Papa, please, why are you even siding with him-"

"Enough, because I know better and I know you better," he interrupted, his voice firm this time, though it cracked slightly with emotion. "Just keep it." His words hung in the air, and he turned to leave the tent but paused just before he stepped outside.

He looked back, his gaze meeting yours for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something deep, filled with regret, but also resolve. "If I couldn't, or am unable to give you the life you want," he said softly, each word deliberate, "my heart says he will."

You shook your head, your voice bitter as it escaped you. "Oh please, wait till you see when he kicks me out one day on your beloved Dutch's orders."

Hosea didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, his expression a mixture of sorrow and a kind of quiet resignation, before he finally turned and walked out of the tent.

He would never be able to make you understand that Arthur would be the last person to do that.

❀˖°

The days that followed felt heavier, like a fog had settled around you. Arthur's presence, once easily ignored, now seemed to infiltrate every corner of your space. He started lingering around more often, always appearing at the most inconvenient times when you and Hosea were sharing a quiet meal or having (tea/coffee). At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe just a shared moment of camaraderie, but the more it happened, the more uncomfortable it made you.

Arthur wasn’t doing anything overtly wrong, of course. He sat quietly, politely joining the conversation when spoken to, sipping coffee, offering a nod here and there.

It bothered you. You loathed it.

Is this some sort of indirect courting? Were you imagining things, or was this his way of trying to ingratiate himself with you? Was he trying to get Hosea's approval? To intimidate you? Or, perhaps, was it something more direct? Was he trying to... what, win you over? Hosea, for all his kindness and wisdom, didn’t mind Arthur’s company, even encouraged it.

The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldn’t, or am unable to give you the life you want, my heart says he will."

You scoffed internally, trying to push it away, but the more you thought about it, the more it gnawed at you. Was that really true? Hosea seemed to believe it, but you weren’t so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutch’s gang? Or was Hosea just trying to soften the blow, making it sound like there was hope when in reality there was none?

You rolled your eyes, staring out into the distance. Why would he go after you? Out of all the people in the camp, why you?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Still, a small part of you wondered... Should you ask him?

But what if you were wrong? What if Hosea was just speaking out of some misplaced hope? You didn’t know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you weren’t one to be uncertain. You didn't like it.

He just wants someone young to play with now that he's lonely.

Arthur stared at the journal in his lap, the unfinished sketch of eyes glaring up at him, imperfect and frustrating. He let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, his pencil hovering over the page, but he couldn’t seem to get it right. The eyes, those eyes, kept staring back at him, their gaze too empty, too raw. The frown on his face deepened as he bit his lip, his mind spiraling in frustration.

But that frown, that damn cute frown, it wouldn't fade. It never did. The curve of your lips when you were irritated or deep in thought, the way your brows furrowed as you focused on something else... It was almost intoxicating how endearing it was. Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldn’t stop wanting to be the one to make that frown disappear.

If only you'd look at him once with a smile, he thought bitterly, the words tasting both sweet and impossible.

Because deep down, Arthur knew, he'd do anything. He’d break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile. 

He longed for that.

But no, that’s just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldn’t even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutch’s gang.

❀˖°

It was another evening, quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the campfire. You were chopping vegetables at the makeshift table, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the air. Hosea sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, sipping his coffee with a watchful but calm expression.

Arthur appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hat tilted low and his hands shoved into his pockets. You barely glanced at him, focused on your task, but the tension in his gait was impossible to ignore. Hosea caught it too, his brow raising ever so slightly as Arthur cleared his throat.

“Evenin’,” Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.

Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. “Evening, Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at you, then back at Hosea. His jaw worked for a moment, as though wrestling with what

And then you heard the words. Full of hesitation.

“I was wonderin’... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.” His words hung in the air, but his eyes seemed distant, almost like he was hoping for a miracle.

You stiffened immediately, your brows furrowing in disbelief. You hadn’t been in the mood for any of this, and you weren’t sure how you felt about Arthur’s proposal. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at your hunched frame, your defiance practically radiating off you. His voice softened, though there was a trace of frustration. “You’re not fine. Not always, and not here.”

You turned sharply, glaring at him with a fire that made his breath hitch for a moment. “What do you know about what I need, huh? You think you can just waltz in here and decide things for me? I said I am not going so I am not!”

Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Ain’t about me decidin’ nothin’. You don’t even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.”

 "You’ve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesn’t mean I owe you a thing."

Arthur seemed to bristle at your sharp reaction, but Hosea leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the both of you with a quiet smile. He wasn’t offended, he understood.

Your glare didn’t falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. “He’s got a point, you know.” His tone was calm, measured. “A little ride won’t kill you.”

You crossed your arms. “I said no Papa and that means, NO."

Arthur stepped closer again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “I ain't Dutch. I ain’t gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someone’s tryin’ to help, even if it don’t make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.”

Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutch’s boots approached. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Dutch drawled, stepping into the space with a deliberate slowness that made everyone tense. He looked from Arthur to you, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Arthur, you’re not causin’ any trouble now, are you?”

Arthur’s shoulders squared. “Just talkin’. Nothin’ more.”

Dutch’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. “Talkin’, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure you’re barkin’ up the right tree here?”

The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutch’s words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.

“Dutch,” Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. “C'mon...don't say that."

Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldn’t want to trip.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, his laughter echoing behind him. Hosea shot Arthur a brief look before following after Dutch, likely to smooth things over or ensure the situation didn’t escalate further.

Arthur lingered awkwardly near the table. His fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, his eyes darting between you and the ground as though he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out to you, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. “Look, I-”

You sighed, stabbing the knife into the cutting board and crossing your arms. "What? Just go away."

Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. “Just...ignore what he said.”

"But what he said was right."

"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. “It ain’t like that,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Dutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Doesn’t it?” you challenged, your tone sharp. “You didn’t exactly deny it back there.”

Arthur hesitated, his jaw tightening as though he was weighing his next words carefully. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Look, I ain’t tryin’ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I don’t know. Thought you’d wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.”

“Help with what, exactly?” You gestured around you, exasperated.

“I just… I thought it’d be nice. Thought maybe you’d... enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it?” you repeated, incredulous. “Arthur, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here. Why you’re trying so hard.”

His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. “Maybe I am tryin’,” he admitted, his voice low and uneven. “Don’t know why you think that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it,” you said, your tone quieter now, less biting. “I didn’t ask for you to care.”

He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. “Yeah. I know. But it ain’t somethin’ I can help. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You’re making it more complicated, you know.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d rather be here makin’ things complicated than not be here at all.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, suffocating and undeniable. You didn’t know what to do with it, with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.

“I’ve got work to do,” you said, pushing off the crate and brushing past him towards the wagon. As you walked past him, your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and low enough that he almost missed it.

"Why don’t you take all this energy and use it on something worthwhile? Perhaps finding the right tree." You chuckled tauntingly as you went inside the wagon.

He didn’t try to stop you, didn’t say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.

❀˖°

When he returned later that night, most of the camp was either finishing up their dinner, indulging in late-night games, or sitting quietly by the fire.

He didn’t sense your presence anywhere, and he figured you were probably in your tent, finally savoring some solitude after a long day of work and being surrounded by the others. But he also knew that Dutch’s words from earlier weren’t easy to shake off, especially for you. Your blood was likely still boiling. Worse, you must be hurt too.

Taking advantage of everyone being preoccupied, his steps naturally gravitated toward your tent, your sanctuary. A place he had only ever dared to dream of being close to. What was it like inside? He often wondered. Would the air inside smell faintly of you? Would he ever be someone who belonged in your space? He imagined a future where he could step into it freely, with no hesitation, no uncertainty. A time when he wouldn’t even need to knock when he could enter with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand, your relationship so natural and warm that it felt like home.

But maybe that was the point. You didn’t need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the world’s harsh gaze. It wasn’t fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. You’d stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see you in his world, in his tent, on his bed, wrapped up in everything that was his.

Hidden away, yes, but hidden with him.

He cleared his throat, his eyes too shy to even glance fully inside, though the tent flap hung half-open.

"Who is it now?"

"Me... I--uh...can I?"

A soft, irritated sound followed, then your voice gave reluctant confirmation. “Leave the flap wide open.”

He obeyed, pushing the fabric aside, the cool night air spilling in. Then he stood there like a fool, frozen for several seconds as his eyes found you sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg bouncing with impatience. Enchanting nonetheless.

“Well? What now?”

The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldn’t believe you’d allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldn’t help feeling grateful anyway.

Taking a cautious step closer, his gaze drifted and landed on the scarf in the corner, dangling from the back of a chair.

At least you kept it.

You kept it.

That was enough for him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasn’t one of submission but of devotion, a silent acknowledgment that your hatred, cold and unyielding, loomed larger than the fire of his love. And yet, he stayed there, resolute.

If he had to kneel to earn even a fragment of your gaze, he would. If being this close meant bearing the weight of your disdain, so be it. Because in this moment, it wasn’t his pride that mattered, it was you.

Your first instinct was shock. His sudden closeness threw you off, but as the silence stretched and his hesitation became almost unbearable, you decided to speak, cutting through the tension.

“I think you’re only acting like this because Dutch reckons it’s the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Y’know, keep me stuck in this camp so Pa’s happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It ain’t like that. It ain’t even close to that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. “Do I look like someone who’d think that way? Or...who’d go along with somethin’ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?” His voice softened at the edges, but there was an undeniable conviction in it.

“You ain’t some animal we gotta control, alright?” He shook his head, as if shaking off the very thought of it. “You’re...more than that. Always have been."

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I know...there’s a whole lotta differences between us. But...I can’t help myself, y’know? I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried.” His words faltered, and he cursed under his breath.

Damn, I forgot half of what I wanted to say.

You tilted your head, watching him struggle, your patience wearing thin.

He took a deep breath and pressed on, his voice quieter but no less earnest. “I don’t deserve this, I know that. Hell, you don’t deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...I’ll make this better. I’ll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethin’ better. Until...”

He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “Until I can give you somethin’ far better than all this.”

He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. “And no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while I’m around.”

You raised a brow, skepticism clear in your voice. “Not even Dutch?”

Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah....not even him.”

Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hands, his touch rough but grounding. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of trust, of understanding, of...hope.

"But why though? All of a sudden? And me?"

"I...wish I knew. But I am helpless right now. Helpless against these questions and these...feelings."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading, but your words cut through him like a knife.

“If this is all true, then...why didn’t your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?”

Arthur flinched as if you’d struck him. His heart trembled at the weight of your words, your tone unclear, was it innocent? Genuine? Or just plain cruel?

"That...that was different."

Your gaze didn’t waver, and your tongue stayed edged. “Okay but if she didn’t trust you enough to stay, then why should I? We’re not even-”

He moved before you could finish, his jaw tightening as he stood. With a single step, he reached for the scarf draped over the chair. Silent and deliberate, he placed it on the bed beside you, his every motion measured.

You watched him, confused and uncertain, as he pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket. He smoothed them flat and placed them in the middle of the scarf. His hands moved deftly, folding the fabric around the money with a care that felt almost reverent.

Finally, he turned to you, kneeling once more. His rough, calloused hands gently wrapped around yours, closing your fingers firmly over the bundle. His touch was warm, grounding, yet carried the weight of something far greater.

“Here,” he said, his voice low but steady. “This...this is the only proof I can give you. I’ll keep fillin’ it, day by day, until we’ve got enough to leave. And you’ll keep it safe. You’ll keep it with you. It's yours. Only yours."

And I am too.

"I know...that the money is not gonna come from honest ways which you hate of course, but...there's no other way it can be done...but it will be done, alright?"

His breath hitched as he leaned closer, his shadow falling over you like a shroud. The proximity made your heart thrum unevenly, though you’d never admit it.

You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. A dozen questions churned in your mind, your heart caught between disbelief and something else you couldn’t name.

Why was he doing this? Why for you? Damn, you never pegged him for such a fool.

It was as if he could sense the weight of your weariness. His voice softened, low and earnest.

“I just want you to greet me every time I come back…and every time I go. With that smile of yours.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. “That’s all I ask of you...that’s all this idiot asks of you.”

And to have you in my arms every night.

The thought came unbidden, a longing too deep and too dangerous to voice aloud. No, he couldn’t say that, not yet. It was too much to ask.

You blinked at him, caught off guard, your lips parting slightly as if to respond. “Um...I don't--” You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldn’t come.

When you finally looked up, he saw it, emotions swirling in your eyes, unguarded for once. Fear, confusion, a flicker of nervousness. But there was something else, something softer, buried beneath it all. His heart, racing only moments ago, steadied as if your gaze alone could calm him.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, one that lingered longer than it should have.

You flinched a little but didn't pull away, and that, to him, was enough. A sign of acceptance, no matter how small.

The scent of your hair, the warmth of your presence, it was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt hope unfurling in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didn’t say anything else, not wanting to break the fragile moment, and instead rose to his feet. His shadow stretched across the tent as he turned toward the flap, his steps deliberate and slow.

And just before he stepped out into the night, he glanced over his shoulder. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

Tonight, he might finally be able to sleep.

Arthur lay down on his cot, an idiotic smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the hat resting on the table. It wasn’t just a hat, it was your approval, your silent acknowledgment, your acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he felt...hopeful.

And now, he thought, he’d finally be able to wear it.

❀˖°

The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasn’t up. The other remained unfinished, a portrait of your infamous frown. Not that he hated it, hell, that frown had a charm of its own, sharp and stubborn. But something about leaving it incomplete felt right. He decided it would remain that way. He didn’t want to immortalise that side of you, not in his art or heart.

Arthur reached for the softer sketch, running a thumb over the lines as if touching the paper could bring you closer to him. He studied it, his heart aching with an almost unbearable tenderness.

No, you deserved better. You deserved to keep smiling. And if it took him a lifetime to make that happen, so be it.

Hosea watched from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Arthur hugged your stiff form, bidding you farewell. He observed the way Arthur's demeanour had softened, the usual rough edges of the man becoming more relaxed in your presence. The smile and the way he tipped his hat to you before mounting the horse were enough to confirm the change that had occurred in him.

Arthur's gaze briefly flicked over to where Hosea stood, his eyes meeting the older man’s. With a small, almost sheepish nod of acknowledgment, Arthur gave a quick tip of his head. It was subtle, but Hosea had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, the lightness in his eyes.

The mentor's smile deepened, though there was a softness to it that spoke of more than just amusement. It was the kind of smile a father would give when he saw something unexpected in a child, something tender, something hopeful.

It was good to see Arthur's content again. What truly surprised him, though, was that it was his daughter who had made it possible after all this time. The last person he imagined to ever do that and that made him chuckle quietly.

A match made in heaven indeed...

(AN: •⩊• u better interact for high honour++)

[flo-zoinks]

I love making these it's kind of a problem now

WHAT EACH RDR2 GANG MEMBER WOULD POST ON SOCIAL MEDIA (my opinion)

Dutch - 10 minute tiktok rants about why the USA is failing (normally stitched from a news clip) - with a small cult like following with about 150 likes

Hosea - Outdoor skills teaching videos (hunting and whatnot) with all the comments saying hes like a Father figure

Arthur - Pretty photos of Forest animals on Insta without a caption

Bill - stitching people on tiktok challenging them to fist fights and those "what happened to real men" tiktoks

Javier - Music covers on guitar (very popular)

John - (1899) shitty gaming clips with NO schedule like sometimes 9 months apart

Abigail - get ready with me ranting about her child and husband

Jack - (1907-11) posting videos of his family being stupid without them knowing (80% Uncle and John)

Mary-Beth - Novel bios and links to her online Wattpad

Tilly - cute trends on tt often with her friends (like dances or cool transitions)

Karen - funny ass one-liner captions making fun of things

Miss Grimshaw - Those "Mother how do i" videos in her spare time

Reverend - Bible passages with a 9 minute rant after and then every week an accidental upload whilst shit-faced

Molly - shopping hauls that turn into vents

Strauss - Links to his business (regularly asks the younger members how to use functions and what things mean)

Trelawny - Magic tricks and Dramatic storytelling (everytime in a random place people find funny)

Sean - 20 second rant that's unironically hilarious and gets made into a template

Lenny - Book readings and 5 minute stitches respectfully arguing against the people he doesn't agree with

Charles - Never uploads aside from once a photo of Arthur next to an animal in a really pretty outdoor scenery

Sadie - secret videos of people like Pearson doing something embarrassing (inspired Jack to do the same) and "pranks"

Uncle - going out in public and doing something outrageous that ends in him being arrested (was nudity 9 times)

Micah - thirstraps

Pearson - videos on his wild "adventures" whilst cooking in the backround (the comments bully his food and his adventures)

Kieran - Horse Care videos (fully anonymous and would blur his face on everything). Lots and lots of horse videos

Yall remind me who I forgot

[twola]

Defying Conventions II

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI, A/B/O

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link ➵ Previous Please be warned -cw: omegaverse, breeding kink, impregnation, pregnant sex, graphic birth. If those things bother you, then this is not the fic for you.

I feel like I am taking a big risk with this one. As someone who has recently gone through childbirth, it is definitely a traumatic thing, even when things go well. I write as a coping mechanism for trauma - so here it is.

It’s all going to shit.

Hosea. Lenny. Dead. John just busted out of Sisika. The bank robbery in Lemoyne gone completely south - and being marooned on that godforsaken island.

Not to mention Dutch and his behavior. Seems like Micah is in the man’s ear more than anyone else nowadays.

Beaver Hollow is miserable - damp, in these dark, dusty hills of Roanoke. It's stifling, the misery this place exudes.

“Arthur-” 

Arthur whips around, ready to snap at yet another person asking him to do something-

It’s you. Your cheeks are the slightest bit flushed. His hackles settle, temper calmed by the nearness of his other half.

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” He smiles as he raises his hand to welcome you into an embrace.

You don’t move, causing him to frown.

“I… uhm, I-” You stumble slightly, your hand unconsciously moving to your neck, where you have pinned a shawl to cover your skin.

Realization dawns on him, and a low, dull ache begins to burn in his gut.

“Y’ sayin’ we need to get away for a few days?”

You sheepishly shake your head, cheeks flushed. His smile returns and he takes the step to move closer. He wraps his arms around you, clutching you to him. You sigh and melt into his strong embrace.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, shuddering slightly as you can feel your heat closing in on you. Tomorrow you’d be a blithering mess.

Arthur presses his lips to your forehead.

“Reckon that’s the best thing anyone’s asked me to do in a while.”

“You ain’t mad?” You look up at him, incredulous.

“Am I mad about my mate askin’ me to get away from this shithole for a few days and spend the hours ruttin’ away?” 

“I just hate being so… needy. Dumb omega shit.” You sigh, burying your head in his chest again. 

Arthur sighs knowingly, then grins as he pulls the shawl down to expose your neck and immediately buries his head against your clammy skin.

You yelp in surprise and arousal as you feel his tongue press against your mating gland - it’s a good thing that he has one arm strong around your waist, or else you would be stumbling to the ground.

Arthur groans quietly, squeezing you gently. “I’m yer alpha. Y’know what I need? I need to satisfy you.”

You try to push him back, afraid that you’re going to go into heat standing here in the middle of camp as he nuzzles at your neck. Alas, your lover is built like a brick wall, and it is only after quite a bit of fidgeting and you trying to yank your shawl back up that he takes the hint.

“Annesburg? Or d’ya want to go further?” He drawls as you try to collect yourself. 

You scowl up at him, “After that, we’ll need to go to Annesburg. Now.”

Arthur smirks, his eyes hidden under the rim of that old gambler’s hat. “Say less, darlin’ girl. Say less.” 

-

It’s a miracle that you can stand upright, there in the gunsmith’s shop as Arthur leans on the counter. While he had been in the foulest of moods earlier in the day, he’d found a second wind the moment you told him you needed him - suddenly acting full alpha - cocky and possessive and hell-bent on getting you desperate for him.

Christ, the whole ride down from Beaver Hollow was near excruciating - Arthur having dragged you onto the saddle in front of him, pressed against him completely, instead of pulling you up on his horse’s rump. Leaning over every so often and nipping at your neck. Groping your breast after passing another rider on the road. By the time the two of you had ridden into the dusty mine town, the flush that had dusted your cheeks before extended down your neck and chest.

“One room. ‘nd here’s extra to not bother us for a few days.”

The poor gunsmith blanches, completely understanding the threatening tone in Arthur’s voice. He nods, handing the alpha a key, muttering directions to the room, in the building next to the shop.

Arthur smirks, turning around and grabbing your arm, guiding you quickly to the room. Punching the key into the lock, he opens the door and watches as you stumble inside. A rumble, all alpha, punches out of his chest as you wipe at your brow, leaning against the wardrobe in the room.

“I’m just gonna get the horse straight. Be back in a minute.” Arthur calls back as he steps out of the room, leaving you to pant wearily as you survey the room that you’re going to lock the two of you in for the next couple of days.

You whine as you paw at the shawl hiding your neck, finally unlatching it and throwing it unceremoniously to the floor. Feverishly unbuttoning your blouse, you pull your arms out of it and toss it aside as well. You’re yanking the straps of your chemise down your arms and baring your breasts as Arthur re-enters the room. Your chemise hangs around your waist as your hands cup your breasts, your breath coming in short, fast pants.

“Need it that bad, omega?” Arthur purrs, pushing your hands away from your chest and placing his own atop your breasts, squeezing gently as you moan.

“Don’t - don’t be cruel- I’m…shit, I’m in heat.” You gasp out as his thumb traces over your nipple. Your knees shake as your hands grasp at him, and you feel your bloomers dampen as your slick begins to come.

One of Arthur’s hands moves from your breast to your waist and immediately starts yanking at your skirts, loosening the waist and pushing them down, along with your bloomers, to pool on the floor at your ankles, leaving you completely bare.

“I’ve got you, darlin’ girl,” Arthur grasps one of your hands and presses it against his massive erection in his pants, and you mewl desperately, craving the way he fills you.

“Go on, get on the bed.” He nods to you and you shakily follow his order, laying down on the bed and opening your legs, rubbing at your throbbing core, watching as your alpha undresses himself. Jacket and work shirt, denim and union suit, they are all shed as you watch, touching yourself all the while.

He goes to climb into the bed with you as you catch a glimpse of his eyes - the faintest red rim around those blue pools.

You groan, a pained cry from your chest, and he stops immediately. Your heat has fully set in, and your body jolts in furious need. You sit up rapidly, trying to gain some semblance of control over yourself.

“I.. you… you begin to rut, there’s a chance-” you suck in a breath against the cramping pain, “I’ll take.”

Arthur hovers over you. “Is that what you want?”

A pained gasp is all you can reply.

“It hurts-” you moan, crumbling forward in the bed, clutching at your lower abdomen. Arthur’s large, warm hands find your sides immediately and gently push you to lay fully on your stomach.

“Hands and knees, let me take care of you.”

You breathe heavily, labored, through your mouth, your fever making you weak. You let him maneuver you however he wants, having lost the strength to do anything else. Your limbs are drawn under you, and your head presses heavily into the old pillow. He positions himself behind you, grabbing your hips and hoisting them up. You moan throatily into that pillow as he takes one hand to stroke his cock into full rigidity.

Before he presses inside, it hits you. You push up on your elbows and he stops, rubbing your lower back. You breathe out against another cramp that shudders through your body. “You… you’re gonna…”

All of the hotheadedness of being an alpha vanishes.

“Honey we don’t have to - it’s what you want.”

You swallow. He’s in position to mount you, the most base and primal of ways to slake this biological need. The complete and utter submission of an omega to their alpha.  Some say it’s an old wives tale, but omegas know - they are taught very early on, that being mounted was supposedly the best way to breed - the surest way to conceive a child. That if they were caught out in the world by an alpha, to fight like hell to not be mounted.

“What do you want, Arthur?”

He leans over you and you feel his lips on your shoulder as one of his hands gently grasps the crest of your hip.

“I wanna spend my days wit’ you.”

“That don’t answer the question.” You suck in another breath against the pain.

He pets your cunt gently, making you shiver as his knuckle parts your folds. “I’ll be happy either way. If you wanna spend our days ridin’ as partners or raisin’ children - I’ll be there as your mate.”

“And… and if I want…?” You gasp out against the pain, your slick starting to run down his knuckle all the way to his wrist, “If I want to have your child?”

He groans loudly and removes his hand from your cunt, immediately smearing your slick all over his cock and he pumps it vigorously. His opposite hand clamps hard on your hip, yanking you up to align with his swaying pelvis.

“Omega-” he growls, all predator, with the blunt head of his cock pressed against the seam of you, probing against the rim of your cunt, raring to plunge into your body, “I’ll breed you right, girl.”

His voice is rough, his tone warning. Another sway of his hips and his cockhead slips in, you do your part and press your hips back to take him, to urge him forward. You moan throatily into the pillow as he presses inside - somehow his cock feels bigger, thicker in this position than at any other time. 

“Fuck, darlin’.” Arthur curses when he’s fully sheathed inside you, hands strong on your hips. On his knees behind you, he guides you on and off of his cock as he thrusts his hips in tandem. The bed squeaks with the movement of your bodies. You clench the pillow hard as your lover picks up the pace, fucking into you frantically.

With each powerful thrust of him into you, you feel his knot start to grow, stretching you with a pain that you crave. If you were able to turn around and look up at him, you’d see his eyes rimmed in red. But you could tell, with the way his hands clamp on your hips, the hardness of his cock - you know he’s gone into rut.

He slows, breathing heavily through his nose, reminiscent of a beast of burden.

“Darlin’-” his voice is rough and thick with arousal, “Last chance, omega. D’ya want me to put a baby in you?”

You shudder, hissing at the finality of his implication as you feel the trickle down your neck from your mating gland of that sweet, pheromone-filled oil. 

“Yes.” You whine, “Yes, Arthur, let me - give me, ngh-” you throw your hips backward to spear yourself on his hard cock, “Breed me.”

“Fuck-” Arthur groans, and almost immediately, his knot swells, stretching the rim of your cunt as he locks himself into you. You whine against the pain-pleasure of it all.

Here you are, on your hands and knees, alpha mounting you, waiting for him to breed you - oh, what a place to be in - what a situation you thought you would never be in. Arthur quickly leans over you, plastering his chest over your back, his strong arms caging you in on either side of your own. It’s terrifyingly intimate as he breathes loudly through his nose, nipping at the gland on your neck.

The world slows. 

“I love you,” he rumbles into your ear, and gives one more thrust into you, knot keeping him snugly in your cunt, “I love you - I love you -” He babbles before sucking one final breath in.

Every nerve of yours is alight. You’ve never felt so in tune with your body. For one final instant, you shiver, your womb ready to accept. One final cramp of need, lower than ever, and you know it is the way your body sings for your mate. Your heart stops. Your cunt clenches at Arthur’s cock, as if it were begging for him the same way you shamelessly are.

Splayed over you, his lips quickly find your gland and he sucks, you gasp, and then you can feel it - deep in your body, you feel the warmth of his seed, his cock pulsing in your cunt as he fills you. 

The sound he makes is beautiful, a moan that transcends physical need. No, this was more. This was your mate, this was breeding, this was the pinnacle of what you were born for. This was creation. The swell of emotion overflows as tears burst from your eyes. You let out a crooning moan of your own as you take him, you take all of him, every pulse of him into your womb. 

The moment seems to last forever. Heaving, panting, groaning, Arthur empties himself into you, locked at the hilt, your body shaking at the sheer implication of it all. For once in your life, your omegahood was not a curse. Your alpha, bent over you, mounted and pumping his hot spend into you.

Arthur gasps like a fish out of water once he’s done. The roaring of your heart in your chest seems to overpower everything. You sob loudly and he immediately sobers and moves the two of you to lay on your sides on the bed, still locked at the hips. He brushes back a lock of your hair, “Honey, are you alri-?”

“I love you,” you cry out, taking his hand and pulling it to your breast, over your heart. “Arthur I love you, I need you - you’re everything-”

He settles in behind you, his knot still locked strong within your body.

“Honey darlin’ girl…” You can feel him smile into your hair, “Mate.”

All of the fierceness, the rough possession, it all has faded as Arthur gently nuzzles the back of your head.  You pull his hand down to your belly, right to the cradle of your hips, to splay out over your womb. “Our child - Arthur.”

He presses against your hot skin, arms wrapped tightly around you, and the next thing you know, that overwhelming warmth shoots through your cunt again as he breathes out heavily.

“Gonna make sure I give you one.” He groans, voice rough as he shallowly pumps his hips against your rear, another round of spend coating your insides.

You mewl, accepting him, rolling your hips as you make another noise of desperation.

“Y‘okay?” He asks, his arm tightening around you.

You whine, wiggling your hips, testing the strength of his knot. He growls in your ear, one of his hands shooting down to your cunt and forcing your legs apart and the other wound under your ribcage, engulfing and squeezing one of your breasts.

Arthur sucks in a breath and nuzzles the back of your neck. His hips jut forward once again, and his cock swells within you.

“Got one last one in me - gonna, gonna g-give you-“

Your entire body quivers in anticipation, and you grab Arthur’s hand from your breast and spread it over your lower belly, holding your hand over his. Over where you will grow and create and swell with child, his child.

“Give me a baby, Arthur-”

Arthur grunts, cock pulsing, and you mewl as you feel the bleeding warmness of him exit his body and enter yours. Gentle waves of him, dripping down and over his knot, smearing across both his and your thighs. A physical sign that he’s filled your cunt to the brim with his seed.

Finally, as the two of you breathe heavily from near-exhaustion, Arthur’s knot recedes enough that he is able to pull himself from you. Arthur slides himself from your body gently, and you whine as his inches leave you. He leans over you and kisses your temple. “I’ll get us some food. Get some rest.”

You turn over in the bed to face him, rubbing gently at your belly. You smile, mischievously.

“I like you mountin’ me.”

Arthur scowls at you, “Jesus Christ, you can’t just say that. We’ll never leave this bed if you keep acting like that.”

You simply smile, leaning in and taking his lips with yours, throwing your leg over his hip, preventing him from leaving the sanctity of the bed. One of his hands rounds your hip to cup your ass.

Shivering slightly, you involuntarily clench as you feel another trickle of his essence leak from your cunt. You look down between you, Arthur’s eyes following yours. You unwind your leg from his hip and turn to lie on your back. 

Your dark hair has lovely drips of white coursing through it, and Arthur groans quietly when he sees it. He reaches, collecting that viscous rivulet on his finger, and you watch intently as he looks back at you, raising his brow as he trails his finger through your thatch of hair.

He lovingly, gently presses it back in, and you whine with oversensitivity at the feeling of his thick trigger finger slipping through the sore rim of your cunt. Arthur takes your lips with his, smothering your complaint.

After several moments, he extracts his hand, leaning back on his elbow. He nuzzles against your neck, the now-faded ring left by his teeth those weeks ago.  “When will you know if you took?”

You shrug, “I guess when my heat ends. Never really paid attention much to them omega lessons…What happens now?”

Arthur rolls onto his back, stretching himself out in the bed, looking up at the moisture-stained ceiling of the rented room. “Things are endin’ with the gang. As much as it kills me to say it…”

You move closer to him, laying your head upon his chest. “And us…?”

“You’re my mate. You’re hopefully carrying my child. Ain't gonna make the mistakes I’ve made in the past.”

You fiddle with a strand of your long, messy hair. “I know we’re mates and all but…” you trail off, eyes trained on the strand of hair instead of him.

“Let’s get Swanson to marry us,” Arthur says, winding his arm around you again.

A smile blooms across your face and you immediately sit up and kiss him, hard, dragging him back down to the bed.

You awaken the next day in the mid-morning, when the sun is already high in the sky.  Arthur’s already up, sitting on the side of the bed, half-dressed. He looks back at you as you stretch your arms overhead. Yawning, you run your hands down your body to rest at the cradle of your hips.

A warmth blooms under your hand. You don’t know how to explain it, but you’re sure you took.

His large hand covers yours.

“Thinkin’ so?”

You nod, looking back at him, unable to stop yourself from smiling. You push yourself up and crash into his embrace.

“But you know, can never be too sure.” You giggle.

A spark of amusement shoots through those river-blue eyes of his.

“Get on your knees, omega. Let’s make sure.”

-

Months Later…

“Absolutely not.”

You frown, pouting reminiscent of a petulant child. You have to stop yourself from stomping your foot on the old wooden floor.

“Ain’t no way in hell am I mountin’ you when you're this close to giving birth.” Arthur scowls at you, looking you up and down with a set jaw and exasperated tone.

“C’monnn…” You tease, taking your hands and running them down your ribcage to highlight your quite large belly under the fabric of your dress.

“No. Christ, it’s hard enough not to go into rut when you’re just sleeping next to me.” Arthur shakes his head, turning away from you, trying to distract himself.

“Gentle?” You wind your way around him, your hand tracing up his back.

“Woman….” He gives a warning tone, but you can tell that you are wearing him down.

“Please, alpha.” You press yourself against him suggestively, taking one of his hands and placing it over the swell of your belly, “You need to take care of your omega.”

His fingers pulse over your skin, and with a sigh, he gives in, “I ain’t knotting you, no matter how much you beg. Christ, I shouldn’t even be entertainin’ this.”

With a giggle, your fingers fly to where his suspenders are fastened to his black work pants, and before he can even react, you have one unclipped. He snatches your hands away from his waist and holds them up above your head.

“You are the most troublesome-”

You lean up on your and kiss him, effectively silencing his retort. When you pull away, you smile up at him, and he cannot help but give the smallest smile back.

“Like I was sayin’, troublesome. C’mon now, get in bed.” Arthur playfully swats at your hip as you grab his hand, pulling him toward the bedroom.

The small cabin could use some updating - but for the soon-to-be three of you, the small homestead tucked away in the hills of Ambarino is exactly what you never knew you needed. A small bedroom, a bed tucked over in the corner, a fireplace, and an old, beaten-up dresser - for all the time you’d spent running, sleeping in tents and on bedrolls - having a home with your husband was something you’d never think you’d have.

As you reach the bed, he stops you and spins you around, holding you upright all the while. Arthur leans down and presses his lips against yours, one hand pulling at your dress, gathering up the skirts, bunching them up, raising them up, up to your hips. With an awkward shimmy with your belly hanging low, your bloomers pool to the floor with a quick tug from Arthur’s fingers.

“C’mon - lay down,” Arthur taps your hip and motions to the bed.

You raise your eyebrows as he undoes his other suspender, about to comment on how dressed the two of you still are.

“No-” he warns, “You take everythin’ off and I’m definitely knotting you. And we aren’t doin’ that.”

You’re about to complain again but are cut off as he pushes you, gently, down onto the bed before shoving his pants and short drawers down his saddle-hewn thighs.

At that sight, you quickly lay down, rolling onto your side as you hike your skirts up to bare your cunt.

“Thought so, troublesome.” Arthur jokes as he slides himself into bed behind you, the skin of his pelvis and cock warm against your rear. 

It takes some awkward maneuvering - everything is awkward when you are this far gone, but finally, he slowly presses himself into you, and you sigh in contentment.

It’s everything he is not to slam his hips into you, to knot you, to claim claim claim. But he needs to be soft, to be gentle, to be careful. 

You moan appreciatively when he gives a shallow pulse of his hips. The sheath of your body feels like a live wire - primed and ready to snap at any time. The pace he finds is slow, but full and heady. You mewl, your body shuddering as you come, and Arthur is forced to pull himself from you and wrap his hand around his cock, hissing as he feels his knot expand around nothing.

You struggle to turn yourself over, but finally do so and wrap your hand around his knot, joining his hand around that swollen base of him. He unclenches his jaw and looks down at you as you squeeze at him, moving your fingers from his hard knot up his shaft, and downward again.

“Sweetheart you don’t-” he grits out as you begin to pump him.

“Hush-” you interrupt as you lay your head upon his chest, twisting your hand around him as you stroke up and down. It doesn’t take long for him to find his own end. Arthur growls, thrusting his hips upward as he comes, spurting white out of the head of his cock over both of your hands.

After catching his breath, he kisses the crown of your head, “You okay?”

You look up and smile at him, satiated.

-

Arthur tosses the last of the firewood he’d been chopping all afternoon in the pile under the overhang, wiping the sweat from his brow as he lays the ax against the outside of the cabin. Grabbing the carbine that he had been cleaning earlier, he shoulders it as he pushes through the front door.

“Darl-”

The bedroom door is closed. Warily, he grabs the door handle and slowly opens it. Arthur stops completely, eyes widening as he scans the room. The whole atmosphere has changed from even this morning, and he slides the carbine from his shoulder and props it against the wall. 

It’s dark, the curtains drawn against the midafternoon sun. Before his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can just barely make out your form, leaning against the mantle, your head on your forearms.

He closes the door again, recreating the safety of the nest. He realizes that’s what it is only after shutting the door. A nest. 

“Is it-?”

You nod as pain rips through you and you groan, clutching your belly. Arthur is on you in an instant, holding you upright. 

Immediately, a fierce agitation in his blood sings. Protect, protect, protect.

You breathe out heavily through your nose as you stand up to full height again. “C’n you make a fire? I need… I need-”

“Anythin’, darlin’. Here, how about you sit down-”

“No, no I need to walk.”

For the next hours, you pace back and forth in the room, wincing every so often, one hand supporting your belly. You’ve kicked your shoes off, and Arthur has as well, sitting in a chair next to the fire, knee bouncing as he watches you intently. The warmth of the room is nearly suffocating to him, but he would never dream of asking to open the window or put out the fire. He simply rolls up the sleeves of his faded blue work shirt.

You suck in a pained breath and a groan echoes through the room as you double over, trying to assuage the overwhelming feeling in your hips.

“I- I think it’s time… h-help me get undressed and onto the bed.”

Arthur nods, stepping closer to you and reaching for the laces of your dress, pulling them apart and helping you step out of the fabric. He continues, solemnly, pushing the straps of your chemise down your shoulders. Gently, your chemise falls away, your bloomers puddle at your feet. Arthur’s blood is on fire as he can see the rivulet of liquid trail down your legs. Your breasts heavy and full, nipples darkened, your belly low. Your body heaving.

He is in awe. Not carnally - though he always wants you - he is in awe of you gritting your teeth against a wave of pain. He is in awe at the movement he sees in your belly. He is in awe of what is about to come, what you are about to do. You groan and reach for him. He immediately places his hands around your waist to steady you. You murmur softly as you lean into his embrace.

“Let’s get you to bed, darlin’ girl.” Arthur gently leads you to the bed and helps you lie down in it. You groan, trying to get comfortable, but it is a lost cause.

The hours continue to roll by, punctuated by your body seizing in agonizing pain every few minutes. You whimper to the ceiling, jumbled syllables of prayers, of curses, of his name.

He wants to growl, he wants to go outside and tear something to pieces. There is an overwhelming need to destroy as he watches you writhe in pain trying to bring his child into the world. He wants to fight another alpha - to dominate - to provide some kind of placation to the inferno in his chest.

Another pained, agonized whimper from you brings him back to reality.

“Si-sit me up,” You grit your teeth as Arthur helps you up, he sits at the head of the bed behind you and you lean back on him for strength. He will give you it all, he would give you anything to take this pain away, if only he could shoulder this task for you. You spread your legs a little further as your head falls back upon his shoulder, a wail crawling out of your throat. Slick trails down your neck from your mating gland as Arthur helps to hold you in a reclined position.

Spiced, warm, rich- with just a hint of the sweetness you usually smell like. It’s different, and instead of driving him wild with the need to rut, it’s making his heart pound with anxiousness and protectiveness. He’s sure if someone were to encroach on the area he would tear them to shreds with his bare hands right now.

“Doin’ so good.” He murmurs against your temple and you moan again in response, your head lolling forward as you hoarsely cry out.

“A-Arthur, its- it’s comin’, the baby-” You pant, and your hands move from clutching the bed sheets hanging between your legs.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Assurance is all he can do at the moment.  Blood begins to stain the sheet underneath you as you breathe heavily out your nose. Red smears your thighs as the end draws near. Your back tenses and your fingers clutch at his. Your nails dig into the back of his hand, but his pain be damned. Your head turns into his chest, squeezing your eyes shut, searching for some sort of comfort.

A rumble, deep and strong, claws up from his chest. His free hand spreads out over your belly, pulsing, cramping, hard - he can feel the ordeal your body is going through beneath his fingertips. Moments drag on as you breathe heavily through your nose.

With a gasp, you grab his hand from your belly and draw it down between your legs, against your cunt. Tears stream from your eyes as you wail loudly, the final moments having arrived. 

“Y’can do this, sweetheart, you’re doin’ so good-” He murmurs into your temple as you pant, another cry clawing up from your throat.

“Arthur-!”

Taking in a measured breath, you shudder in against him, a hoarse shout filling the room as you deliver the child. In a rush of blood and fluid, Arthur finds himself cupping the baby’s head as it slides into the world. A final scream pierces the room as you push again, the child’s shoulders and the rest of its body leaving you and into the waiting hands of its parents.

You immediately are lucid, and bring the child up to your chest, and the newborn’s piercing cry fills the room. The white-blue cord from the child’s belly pulses against your own, the blood connection between the two of you still strong. 

Arthur is struck dumb. He can barely comprehend what has just happened as you coo gently at the wailing babe, sticky and bloody. 

“L-lie us down, and get that linen blanket o’er there.” You whisper as you rub the child’s back, and its cries slowly quiet. He is jolted back to reality, and slowly, gently lies you down in the bed, standing up and grabbing the aforementioned blanket and bringing it back to you.

You’re able to wrap the babe loosely upon your chest and belly. You look up at Arthur, but his gaze is trained on the rough swaddled babe. The tufts of dark honeyed hair peaking out from the linen. Those blotchy red cheeks.

“Your son, my alpha.” You whisper.

Arthur gapes up at you, seemingly unable to comprehend your words, until something clicks and he immediately leans over and places his lips upon yours in a desperate, emotional kiss.

“Oh, sweetheart - you - you-”

You chuckle softly.

“You’re perfect, he’s perfect - my darlin’ omega girl.”

The child latches to your breast and begins to slowly suckle. The warm spice of your scent from giving birth recedes, and a sweetness replaces it. It’s new, this scent, the tang of milk and notes of comforting vanilla. Arthur breathes in deeply, resonating deep in his bones that you are no longer just his mate; you are mother to his child.

The boy’s scent - a combination of yours and his, invades his nostrils. Of sweet vanilla and leather. Of that tang of milk. He wants to nuzzle against the child and breathe in deep. The only scent he wants to be bathed in forevermore.

In those quiet moments after the ordeal of birth, you open the swaddled linen to give him access to cut the cord between you and the child, a quick flick of his hunting knife above the child’s abdomen. He holds you, kissing your temple and murmuring sweet nothings as you clutch at the child, delivering the afterbirth with a soft, stifled whine of pain.

Things start to slow. He’s got a new purpose now. As you drift to sleep, cleaned and in a new chemise, upon fresh sheets, his gaze moves to the basket next to the bed, where in a fresh swaddle of linen, his son also sleeps.

It's murderous, the things he would do to protect the two of you. This nest, the newborn child, and you recovering from birth. His blood sings- not in the need to fuck, but in the solemn duty he now has - as alpha, as husband, as father. It's fierce, the protectiveness he now feels. Like a snarling wolf defending territory. Alpha, protector. Head of the family.

He sits down in the chair opposite the bed, carbine in reach, beginning his watch.  The watch that would consume him for the rest of his life. 

But he’s content with this new calling. 

[thegirlfromblackwater]

If the Van der Linde Gang lived in Modern Times (Modern Au)

Life gives you funny ideas...and I'm going to write them down

Arthur

Would live on a ranch in Montana or Wyoming as a rancher

Offers services like trail rides, lessons, and boarding

Has a herd of cattle

Spends every Sunday watching Rodeos on TV

Watches while sitting in his favorite worn-out armchair

Always has a cold beer and a snack or his dinner while watching

Has a pickup truck that's a bit filthy on the inside. Addresses his car as a "she."

Treats it like a horse: calls it a "good gurl."

Has a mounted Trout and some taxidermy on the walls

The Wifi at the ranch is spotty..doesnt understand why guests need it when they're surrounded by nature

Network Name: MorganRanch Password: Ynnel123

Tried to fix the router once but not exactly tech savvy. Ended up punching it

Texts Albert Mason sometimes

Dutch

Definitely lives in a city either Los Angeles or New York City

Lives in a Snazzy Penthouse in the clouds with a skyline

Works as a motivational speaker

Wears a lot of bling

Has a bar in at his place

Molly always tries to find a way in

Calls Hosea a lot

Has a weird fetish for black, red and white furniture.

Still loves reading books by Evelyn Miller despite that the writer is a nobody living in Idaho

John, Abigail & Jack

They probably live out west on a farm (very much like Beechers Hope)

John works on the ranch and also has side multiple side jobs (thanks to Abigail)

Jack spends his time in the school library

Abigail is obsessed with this one bakery

Molly

Lives in whatever city Dutch lives in

Tries to make herself at home in the penthouse

Famous on social media for her makeup tutorials

The neighbors can usually hear Molly & Dutch fighting

Dutch: "Not now Miss O'shea" Molly: "Pig!"

Bill

Lives somewhere in the Midwest

Works as a truck driver for Walmart

spends a lot of his life on the road

Has a bit of road rage

likes rest stops

when he's not working, he is a part of a biker gang

has a tattoo sleeve and wears a white wife beater

one of those bikers that wears a bandana with the American flag on it

Marybeth

Probably lives in a quaint town on the east coast

Works in a bookstore during the day and is a freelance writer in her free time

Lives in a cute townhouse with a small garden in the front full of flowers.

Her house is cozy

has a seating area with big windows that look out over the street

spends her time writing and reading there

likes to sit at cafes and drink coffee

Lenny

Is a full-time university student by day and bartender by night

Lives in Chicago or Atlanta

Probably double majoring in Business and literature (if that combination even exists)

Lives his single life to the fullest

Mostly an A student who goes full ham on the weekends when partying

Micah

Lives in Las Vegas

Sells illegal drugs

Has no money because he gambled too much

Stays in different hotels

Owns a pawn shop

Everything for sale there was smuggled across the border

Has dealings with the cartels & other shady characters

Hosea

Lives a quiet life out west

Goes to his lake house on the weekends to go fly fishing

Reads a lot of books

Also likes to go hunting

Is a part time English teacher who teaches children to read

Talks to Dutch by phone

Sometimes visits Arthur and stays at his Ranch

Uncle

Lives in a trailer park in Florida where the weather is always warm and the cold won't bother his illness

Sits on a folding chair outside his mobile home

Plays the Banjo

Drinks a beer

Is a complete mess inside

Doesn't own much furniture

Can't work because of the Lumbago

Sweats a lot

Naps and snores too loud

Lives next to a swamp

Javier

Lives in Arizona

Lives in the desert

Grows cactuses

Owns a Music shop

Travels around playing at local bars

Works part time as a music teacher at the local high school

Has a YouTube where he shows off his music

Sadie

Probably lives in a city like Dallas or Denver

Works as a cop

Likes to catch people for speeding and sits on the side of the highway

eats Chick-fil-A while waiting

Watches Dateline

Carries a Taser

Always looks sexy in her uniform

Charles

Definitely lives in a cabin out west

works as a conservationist

Likes National Parks

Goes fishing with Arthur

supports and donates to the Bison Sanctuary (if one even exists)

Likes Camping

Trelawny

Lives a wealthy life in Charleston, South Carolina

Lives in a large southern mansion

Wears a robe to sleep

Has a whole walk-in closet full of clothes and accessories

Has a sauna in the basement where he relaxes

Owns a bunch of fancy cars: He loves his Bentley

Reverend Swanson

Probably lives in Philadelphia

Still works part-time at the church

Mostly spends his time helping people with addictions

Hosts an AA meeting three times a week

Rescues crackheads from the street

Mostly sober

Wrote a memoir on his journey to recovery

Sean

Lives in Boston

Likes the university/young people vibe

works at a pub

Everyone's favorite Bartender

Makes customers laugh

goes back to Ireland once a year

Takes Karen with him sometimes

Karen

Lives in Portland, Oregon

Works at a bar as a bartender and a stripper

Good Pole Dancer

Her large tits are popular amongst the men

Puts on shows in the evening

Talks to Sean a lot

Gets Hammered

Strauss

Works in Finance in New York City

Is a Workaholic

Has no friends

Goes back to Austria every few years

Boring to talk to

Always on a work call

Listens to Classical Music

Tilly

Lives in Nashville, Tennessee

Visits Marybeth a lot

Wants to be a Nurse

Likes taking care of people

Wants to travel around the world

Pearson

Lives somewhere in New England

Owns a restaurant and catering business

The restaurant is interestingly enough called "Pearsons"

Probably has a wife and some kids

Loves Maine Lobster one of those people that wears a bib when eating it because he's messy

Is a good Butcher

Susan Grimshaw

Lives in Florida

Is a housekeeper

Cleans uncles' mobile home once a week

Tries to control Tilly and Marybeth from miles away

disgruntled

[nthspecialll]

Hola Alex! Do you remember my ask for an AU where Bonnie was part of the gang? Well, I was wondering if you could write her interactions with the other gang members, like Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw, Pearson, Charles, Javier, Sadie, the girls and the others.

I even think that her relationship with John could change if they both know each other for a long time, and maybe Bonnie doesn't like that John doesn't take responsibility for Jack.

You don't have to tell me how Bonnie would get along with the whole gang either; you can summarize by saying things like: "She would get along great with John and Arthur, she would respect Dutch and Hosea, she would dislike Uncle for being a lazy dirty old man and she would hate Micah for being himself and stuff like that."

I absolutely remember it yes! So, "camp interactions" and relations with Bonnie:

Dutch Van Der Linde: Bonnie would not be afraid to point out flaws in the plan, but she would do it in a way that wouldn't make Dutch feel threatened, so instead of critizing the whole thing she is pointing out small bits and pieces in this way "who is on guard here when the law comes around that way?" Dutch might not have thought about it before but she says it in a way of "ofc he thought about it but just forgot to map it down." She is normally a very straight on, no bullshit person but she also knows he is who is allowing her to be there, she can't just anger him. She wants the others in the gang to be safe even if she doesn't go herself, so she makes sure to patch any holes in the safety.

She would probably be immune to his speeches but she listens anyways, curiously watching. I imagine her being quite indifferent to him.

Hosea Matthews: Probably a lot of casual chit chatter, I imagine that she likes his stories a lot. They might even go hunting together.

Arthur Morgan: She sees right through his "dumb" facade, she notices him watching, but I don't imagine they talk a lot by themselves. Of course they say hi as they pass each other or chat if they sit by the table or camp fire, but I don't see them going out together to do something. Morgan is often out working and she doesn't do illegal stuff, the only thing I can see them doing is grocery shopping or maybe horse "shopping" if another is needed for camp.

John Marston: Heavily disliking his deadbeat dad approach to things. She is a woman of responsiblities, she also expect others to take care of theirs. As the time goes with chapter four and six where John "wakes up" a bit, she would be cautious with John, seeing what he does and that he is serious about it, would likely also ask him directly what he is planning. Once she sees he is actually taking responsiblitiy, would likely help them escape.

Javier Escuella: Very sympathetic over his backstory and his time being a revolutionary in Mexico, really likes his music, thinks it is a good addition to the camp, they might even go fishing once or twice, does Bonnie know how to fish? I don't know, but if she doesn't she will learn. Heavily dislikes him in chapter 6 though, she would know why he acts like he does but it doesn't excuse him.

Bill Williamson: She is throwing sarcastic comments at him, she sees exactly how much he wants to be recongized but also doesn't notice sarcasm. She isn't being mean about it, just more "friendly batter" that confuses Bill and makes him a bit upset. Not taking any of his bullshit.

Micah Bell: Bonnie is similar to Abigail in a lot of ways, John himself said so, and Micha likes Abigail so I got a feeling he would like Bonnie too. That rough girl who is still taking the feminine roles when needed. She doesn't take any of it though, will slap him or point a gun at him.

Charles Smith: Don't see them talking much, she likes to talk but she needs someone to ping pong with and he doesn't really give that. Once or twice they probably both went to chop more wood and was like "oh do you-?"

Sean MacQuire: She finds his flirting kinda funny, not the cute funny but like a "that is fucking hilarous" funny. He probably tried to nudge her a few times, she would play along in the sarcastic way but that is about it. Probably asked her a few times to join on a job in the beginning so he could save the day and the lady.

Lenny Summers: Likes his calm attitude, points out flaws in his plan if she sees him planning though but in a more direct way than with Dutch "they could come from here too, and also this is too big for a one man job," tells Arthur about it.

Sadie Adler: I feel they would get along fairly, Bonnie might take her smoke where Sadie is on guard duty and the other way around. Just to have an excuse to chatter more they would clean the camp guns. She dislikes the impulsiveness Sadie can get when angry though.

Karen Jones: Stands up for Karen when Susan is around, not getting all up Susan's face but just saying "she did work seven hours earlier, she is allowed rest."

Tilly Jackson: Likes chattering with her when they are working. Respects her seemingly innocent appearence but the fact she had handle herself plenty. Probably tries to get the girls to go out on trail rides with her when they aren't just because she is tired of being in camp doing nothing.

Mary-Beth Gaskill: Bonnie will tell her stories of her love life (that one washed ashore dude you can find), it isn't in a gossippy way but a rather story telling way. Mary-Beth lovess it. They keep in touch when the gang is broken apart.

Uncle: Doesn't talk much to him but loves pointing out flaws in his lies, or ask for details Uncle can't provide thus exposing him. Uncle finds it a bit annoying but likes the challenge.

Abigail Roberts/Marston: Huge respect for the single mother. Will help her out in any way possible and also try to arrange days where Tilly can watch Jack and Abigail can go out to the movies or something, might even take her to the saloon to play piano.

Susan Grimshaw: 50/50 relationship. Bonnie is happy to take on the jobs needed, works hard when she is working, but also knows that it is okay to take a break, Susan is not particually happy about the last bit. Bonnie doesn't allow her to lay hand on her.

Simon Pearson: Having grown up as the single woman in the house, she can cook. Might slip some new recipes to Simon, he is reluctant at first but agrees. Doesn't talk more than that.

Leopold Strauss: She doesn't really like his business but she can see it is nessesary. They don't talk much but I imagine she is willing to go with him in to town to set up the mail when they arrive a new place, it is mostly just an excuse for her to get out of camp because she can't handle being stuck up there. Very shocked when she hears his backstory and understanding of it, probably a little impressed how he managed to make a living in a criminal world even with his health problems.

Josiah Trelawny: She wants to know how he does his tricks, it is a need, she will ask him directly and indirectly to get an answer but he does not tell. He finds it hilarous. Once saw him in Saint Denis with his family, was a bit shocked but respected his privacy.

Orvillie Swanson: Does not like his drunkenness but she is more than proud and happy for him when he gets back on track.

Kieran Duffy: Talks about horses together and horse health and how to keep animals healthy. Shares stories of working on farms, maybe also goes fishing together?

Molly O'Shea: She feels a little bad for Molly, but is annoyed with her because she doesn't take responsibility.

Jack Marston: Finds him very cute and will take care of him for Abigail sometimes.

That totally didn't take me like an hour but oh well I had fun. Hope it semi answers your question, and thank you for the question!! :D

[sentanixiv]

Drunken Deeds

@emmithar-blog shared with me a scenario from a dream that I could not resist writing, so... blame her?

Dreamt of drunken Arthur running inside modern store where he keeps trying to lasso the little kiddy horse ride and shouting 'he's getting away!' each time he misses.

Modern AU; Tilly summons Hosea to help sort a situation with an inebriated Arthur.

cw: alcohol/drunkenness, grief/mourning, child loss

Drunken Deeds

Lord knew judgment weren't the reason Hosea went for him. Sinners like them, well. They knew better than to throw stones in glass houses and his being the fine, crystalline structure it was? Made it clear, in every ironic sense, that claiming piety wouldn't do more than put a new window in what had to be a solid wall. Only so many times even a silver-tongued shyster like himself could patch up the fractures and make the illusion of it being whole.

No judgment, then, spurred him into action when Tilly caught up with him between the aisles of books and across from the jewellery counter, his eye on a lucrative little piece kept displayed under lock and key. Had himself an angle, a real nice thought to go with the wilted widower, seeking something fine to honour his late wife. In his pocket, tucked in a velvet bag, he had the cheap glass duplicate ready to switch when the attendant turned to fetch him a tissue as his old eyes misted up with fond memory of dear, sweet Bessie - sadness summoned at the drop of a hat in his line of work, the years having dulled the ache of loss.

"It's Arthur," Tilly said in a hushed voice, looking over her shoulder to ensure no one peered to close at them.

"Arthur?" Hosea shook his head and set a gentle hand on her arm. "No, Arthur's not here, my dear," he assured her. "Dutch has him covered." In a sense. Keeping Arthur from trouble were a two-man job at the best of times, but with how close the young man'd become to the whiskey bottle of late, well. It meant a certain degree of supervision needed to keep him from drowning and it weren't his lifeguard shift quite yet.

Tilly fidgeted with the hem of her jacket, a lovely flowing yellow piece which lent her a sense of innocence that the world'd otherwise stolen from her sweet soul. "That's just it," she insisted. "Me and Mary-Beth both heard him holler and she's there right now, trying to talk some sense into him."

"I'm afraid Miss Gaskill will run out of air before making any headway," he said. "Boy never did possess a lick of sense." Hosea gave her a crooked, confident smile - something to ease the tension that tangled her fingers together worriedly. He patted her arm gently, knowing that none of Miss Grimshaw's ladies aimed to cause a fuss when the matriarch weren't around to cause it for them. They were observers, sharp-eyed and sharp-witted, able to find the smallest opportunity and make it lucrative when the airs were peaceful.

That worried him some, then, that Tilly spoke of Arthur and hollering, a disruptive shift to her subtle efficiency. He paused, head tilted back with some consideration, then nodded as though his decision made - one already decided when she insisted on it being Arthur. Never had a son, him nor Bessie, and with his wife gone to heaven, well, Arthur were the best son he could hope for, so he'd always be ready to go after him. "Why don't I go speak with him? Then you and Mary-Beth can continue on your day."

Many things existed which Tilly Jackson could handle and he had no doubt that she'd've done herself justice here if he hadn't been around, but ability didn't mean comfort, nor the confidence needed to snap Arthur back off whatever track he'd gone down. The man wouldn't never hurt no lady, of that they all knew, but he could be right ornery and a headache all the same. Ruinous for a lovely shopping afternoon, or for a scouting foray hid amidst feminine wiles.

She smiled, a bright ray of sunshine and relief, and took his arm when he offered it, guiding them towards the back of the department store. The deeper they went, the more apparent it became that the ladies hadn't made the call to fetch him lightly. Hollering he heard loudly, and the plaintive requests from store employees doing their best to stop the chaos that'd started unfolding. He could hear Mary-Beth's voice pitched louder than the lady preferred, asking Arthur to let things go and come walk with her. A last-ditch appeal to those few gentlemanly manners he kept hidden beneath the gruff.

Then, as they came around the final corner, Hosea understood the extent of disruption his not-quite-son'd gone and done. Toys lay scattered everywhere, the aisle one for toddler treasures, and Arthur stood in the midst of it. Swayed more like it, glassy-eyed and clearly drunker than a skunk bathed in moonshine. He, in turn, faced off with a truly formidable opponent that seemed to have him bested: A small horse on four wheels, the sort that one might give a toddler to scoot around on in the house.

"Ye- You ain't gettin' no away, y'bastard," Arthur muttered, words slurred together as he readied up a lasso made from skip rope. "I ain't- You ain't-" The effort of talking too much, he raised up the lasso and cast out, missing the horse by a good foot. "Dang-- Stupid-- Horse, stop! He's gettin' away!"

Hosea gave Tilly one final, gentle pat on the arm and stepped away, an understanding sinking deep into his bones to what was going on. Three weeks ago had been the phone call that severed the faintest threads of hope for a life away from his past. Three weeks since Arthur broke his phone by punching it and his fist into the wall until something broke. The phone could be replaced, but his knuckles still bore bruises and half-healed scrapes from repeated impact against the brick wall. Three weeks since the young man'd been sober and, based on Hosea's own experiences with grief and liquor, likely three months or more until he'd return to it.

He held up both hands, calling up the attention of the employees and passersby that were staring wide-eyed as Arthur tried and failed once more to lasso the toy horse. "Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you to forgive my son," he said, voice one of authority and apology both. "Things have been quite difficult of late and, as you see, he doesn't have much sense to be dealing with it sober. My humblest apologies for the disruption - and I assure you, any damaged merchandise will be paid for." This he said with a hand over his heart, a promise he could later wheedle them out of. "If you could all just move along, I can promise there will be no further disruptions."

Mary-Beth, looking rather relieved, took that as her sign to start shuffling gawwkers away, while Tilly took a rather more blunt approach against the stubborn few clingers that remained. "Shame on you, with the phone? Would your mamma want you recorded when you're in need?" She shook her head and the filming rubberneck drew back, interest curbed and phone lowered. "Why don't I help you delete that, so no one needs know better, hmm?"

Content that the ladies had that part of the process handled, Hosea approached Arthur, who'd sunk down to his knees and held the skip rope tightly between his hands. "Okay, Arthur," he offered, calm and steady, as he crouched down. "Why don't we get up now, leave these folks to their day."

Arthur blinked slowly, focus broken from his horse nemesis, and looked up when Hosea offered him a hand. Bloodshot eyes, shadowed by weeks of drinking and despondency, flashed recognition, than the heaviness of understanding that he'd gone and screwed something up. "What're… 'Sea?" he mumbled, looking down at the skip rope, around at the toys.

There'd been a part of him that hoped to get Arthur out of there before he realized quite where he had ended up, and that part must've lost its bet with fate and luck. Hosea did not sigh, nor did he judge, as he let his knee rest on the ground, providing a barrier between Arthur and the few store employees left to deal with his mess. "That's right, Arthur, it's me," he assured him, reaching to gently pull the lasso from his hands. "Why don't you and I go for a walk?"

"That- Dutch said." Arthur shook his head, grasping blindly through the fog of intoxication for whatever sense had led him here. "Dutch said I oughta walk… get some air. Some space. Be good for me."

Hosea bit back the desire to curse, to pull out his phone and send Dutch a sharp text reminding him that Arthur needed folk around him, not to be sent away. Foolish, prideful desire to go off on one of his plans no doubt spurring Dutch to encourage the boy outside the confines of their safe house. "I think you've had plenty space for today," he replied, setting said the skip rope and shifting to haul one arm over his shoulders. "Let's get you up."

Arthur tried, lord did he, but he must've found and drank the good whiskey by the way his legs kept turning to rubber and dragging them down. Then, halfway through a third attempt, Hosea heard a small, choked sob and the man's full weight pulled them both to the ground.

"S'gotten away, 'Sea," Arthur muttered, miserable and hoarse as he stared at the little toy horse. "Don't- It don't matter hows far I try, he's…"

"Gone, Arthur." Small and softly spoken, for all the ache it awoke in his chest. He let the man slump there a moment, shielded him from prying eyes so the tears that tracked down his face had no witness to haunt him later. The mourning, the loss - he knew this pain. From going through it himself with Bessie, drunken and cussing for months on end. Now watching Arthur go through it, his heart shattered because it ain't never been true love with him nor Eliza, no. But Isaac? Weren't no love more true than that father to his son.

Lord knew judgment weren't the reason Hosea worked hard to get Arthur on his feet, thanking Mary-Beth when she came back and offered her assistance. And judgment wouldn't never be the result of seeing Arthur broke down like this, shattered since the day he got the call, the day he'd learned his son'd been taken from life. Judgment had no place here, never would - Hosea'd make sure of that, a small consolation for a young man dealt one of life's worst hands.

[verdemoun]

WAIT A MINUTE! When Hosea and Bessie die then what happens to Kieran and Javier? (They live there right?) Is the house paid off? Do they forget to take care of some things like cleaning or getting groceries or do they adjust well? Do they have to get jobs now to pay for supplies?

Routine is very important to Kieran :)

So Kieran notices. He doesn't even need to reach the kitchen to realize Hosea isn't there, making the usual morning coffee for himself and Bessie. He knows the house is too quiet. No snoring to assure him they both overslept. No heavy, raspy breathing from a lifetime of smoking.

Stands in front of the bedroom door. Raises his hand to knock. Drops his arm. Knows there's not going to be a response. Stares at the door handle. Tries to will himself to open it. Instead, finds himself sitting with his back pressed against the wall, arms around his legs.

Javier knows something is wrong when he realizes he fell asleep again. Only a few minutes, sure, but coffee never takes that long. It's the same cold feeling he had hearing his mother died, seeing Hosea die the first time, even the same dread he felt seeing Kieran's corpse riding an unfamiliar horse down the drive of Shady Belle, seeing him curled up beside the door, staring at nothing.

Forces himself to open the door, but can't bring himself to open it enough to see. The stillness of the room is enough. Closes it before he remembers to breathe, and sinks on the floor beside Kieran. Simple steps. They were prepared, they knew they would both be wrecks. Text Arthur, stay with Kieran. Arthur insisted on handling things. They were still sitting on the floor in the hallway when he got there.

--

Bessie and Hosea did leave the house to Kieran and Javier, which was fully paid off.

So much of Hosea's time had become consumed with taking care of Bessie esp in her last few months that they had already picked a lot of the house chores, grocery shopping and understood paying bills.

It was still a brutal learning period. It still felt like Bessie's house. They still sat at the small dining table, facing empty seats. Kieran still bought the paper, even though Javier never reads them. They kept the master bedroom door closed, because sometimes Kieran would still stop to stare in the middle of his morning coffee routine. Still learning how to accept the quiet of there being no one in there.

Of course, the gang are also aware as devastated as they were to lose Bessie and Hosea, they were part of Kieran and Javier's daily lives and are constantly checking in and would never let them go without. Whether food or extra cash or just company to remember it's not just a half-empty house it's still the gang's collective home.

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Taglist: @photo1030 @radio96

Word count: 3,5k

Notes: I know this took forever, I just couldn’t get it to sound right. I kept fighting with myself on how to write it properly and make it work the way I wanted.

The camp was nestled in a hollow by the familiar trickling creek, its waters weaving a gentle melody that mingled with the fading light of the evening. Shadows stretched long and soft against wagons and makeshift tents, as though the day itself were reluctant to surrender its hold. The low murmur of voices carried through the air, interspersed with bursts of laughter and the rhythmic scrape of metal against wood.

Jolene walked a step behind Arthur, her small frame taut with unease. Her eyes darted nervously from one figure to the next, catching glimpses of rough-hewn faces and the glint of weapons at every hip. The air was rich with the aroma of stew bubbling over a fire, blended with the sharper tang of horses, leather, and faint traces of tobacco smoke. Her stomach growled softly, a reminder of her hunger, but she ignored it. The sheer strangeness of the camp—the energy of the place, so raw and alive—was enough to drown out her body’s needs. These people were unlike the townsfolk she was accustomed to: bold, loud, and utterly unrepentant in their manner.

Arthur said nothing as he led her deeper into the camp, nodding occasionally to familiar faces. Jolene startled as a voice—rich and unmistakable familiar—called out to them.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said a man standing by the largest tent. His words were accompanied by a slow, bemused smile that deepened the lines around his mouth.

Dutch.

“Well, if it ain’t Joel. Thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Arthur, puzzled, glanced at Dutch. “You know the boy?” he asked, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Yes, we met before.”

As Dutch launched into the tale of how they first met, his booming voice laced with theatrical flair, Jolene's attention wavered. Her gaze drifted past him to the grand tent rising prominently behind the man. It was larger than any of the others, adorned with subtle flourishes that hinted at its occupant's importance. For a moment, her eyes caught on a peculiar contraption inside-its brass horn gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight.

She'd seen one like it once, sitting in the window of a shop back in a town she could no longer recall. It made music somehow, though the mechanics of it were beyond her understanding.

Her curiosity lingered, but the weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her thoughts back sharply to the present.

Jolene turned her head slightly, startled to see Dutch grinning down at her, his hand firm and commanding.

"Ain't that right, Joel?" he said, his smile widening like a predator's, his charm as much a weapon as the revolver on his hip.

Jolene hesitated, her gaze darting between Dutch and Arthur, who stood a few paces away. Arthur's expression was inscrutable, though his eyes betrayed a quiet scrutiny as they rested on her. She couldn't tell if he was amused, suspicious, or something else entirely.

Unsure of what else to do, Jolene nodded faintly, her face a careful mask.

Dutch erupted into laughter, joined by Arthur’s deep chuckle. Their laughter felt like a verdict, though she couldn’t tell what crime she’d been accused of. Jolene forced a smile, but a prickling unease crept up her spine. She’d known from the moment she stumbled into this camp that these were no ordinary folk. Criminals—every one of them. Guns hung from hips as casually as belts, shotguns leaned against barrels, and the air carried a tension that spoke of lives lived on the edge.

“Alright then,” Dutch said, waving them off with a smirk. “Go on, get to your business.”

Arthur started walking again, and Jolene hurried to follow. As they wove through the camp, she asked, her voice low, “Where’s Hosea?”

Arthur muttered without turning back, “Probably out huntin’ or something.”

Jolene nodded, though he couldn’t see the gesture. The camp’s atmosphere pressed down on her, and she startled again at the sound of another voice.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

A woman approached, her bearing stern and her plain dress immaculate. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun that seemed to amplify the sharpness of her gaze. Jolene instinctively straightened, feeling suddenly small beneath the woman’s scrutiny.

“You brought a boy, Arthur?” she asked, her tone carrying a note of exasperation. “We ain’t runnin’ an orphanage.”

Arthur grunted, clearly uninterested in engaging, and wandered off without so much as a backward glance. Jolene was left standing alone, dwarfed by the woman’s commanding presence.

“You reek,” the woman declared, wrinkling her nose. “When’s the last time you saw a bar of soap, boy?”

Panic shot through Jolene like lightning. Bathing was a dangerous proposition, one that risked revealing the secret she’d fought so hard to keep. Dropping her gaze, she mumbled, “Been a while, ma’am.”

The woman pursed her lips but said no more on the matter. “Long as you keep your stink away from me,” she said curtly. Then, narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Joel,” Jolene muttered.

“Joel what? Or d’you not have a last name?”

Jolene’s throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to lie, but her mind blanked under the woman’s unrelenting stare.

“Joel Winslow”

“Winslow,” Grimshaw repeated, her sharp tone laced with skepticism. After a moment, she straightened, seeming satisfied enough. “Susan Grimshaw,” she said. “Miss Grimshaw to you.”

Jolene nodded, a weak gesture of acknowledgment. The woman’s scrutiny lingered a beat longer before she finally turned and strode off with purposeful steps, her back as rigid as steel.

Left alone once again, Jolene exhaled shakily. Her gaze flickered to the campfire, its glow comforting yet insufficient to dispel the growing sense of isolation. Arthur had vanished, leaving her adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and dangerous intentions.

As she resolved to search for him, determined not to stand idle and draw further attention, another voice called out behind her.

“Hey, kid. Over here.”

She turned to see a tall man with sandy hair sitting on a crate, his grin and relaxed posture offering an unexpected reprieve from the tension. A small toolkit was spread out on another crate beside him.

“Name’s Mac,” he said, waving her over. “Arthur says your chain needs mendin’.”

Jolene watched as he inspected the broken chain. The firelight caught its broken link, the gold glinting faintly like a wounded treasure.

Mac whistled softly as he examined it. “Not too bad. Where’d this come from?”

“It was my mother’s,” Jolene said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Mac’s expression softened. “A fine piece. The ring goes onto it?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It was hers too.”

Mac nodded, his hands steady as he picked up a pair of pliers and a small hammer. He began threading the broken ends of the chain together with care.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, “a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link. But lucky for you, this one’s got plenty of life left in it.”

Jolene managed a faint smile, though she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Still, his words brought a flicker of warmth to her chest, momentarily pushing aside the sting of recent memories.

“Don’t look so glum,” Mac said, glancing up. “Things’ll work out for you, you’ll see.”

Jolene frowned slightly, her thoughts drifting to the sheriff’s harsh slap. “You can’t know that.”

Mac shrugged with an easy grin. “Sure I can. You’re scrappy, ain’t too ugly. And you’re lucky—Dutch and Hosea don’t just take to anyone. You must’ve done somethin’ right.”

She didn’t reply, but his words stirred an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. Mac studied her for a moment, his tone light when he spoke again.

“You’re all alone right?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Thought so. You’ve got a look about you—like trouble’s been a close companion. But trouble’s the best teacher there is, so maybe that’s not all bad.”

Jolene cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was teasing or sincere.

“Almost done,” Mac said, holding the chain up to inspect his handiwork. “A little polish, and it’ll be good as new.”

When he finally handed the repaired chain back to her, Jolene felt a surge of relief and gratitude. The links gleamed in the firelight, and the ring swayed gently from the end.

“Good as new,” Mac said with a grin. “Go on, take a look.”

Jolene turned the chain over in her hands, her fingers trembling with excitement. She wanted to leap with joy, to hug Mac and thank him profusely, but instead, she simply said, “Thank you.”

Mac’s grin widened. “Don’t mention it, kid. Take care of it. I reckon it’s got plenty more stories to tell.”

Jolene nodded, clutching the chain tightly. For a moment, Mac’s gaze lingered, but he said nothing more.

“Go on now,” he said, waving her off. Jolene slipped away, the chain held close to her chest like a fragile piece of hope.

After a few more moments of careful inspection, Jolene slipped the repaired chain around her neck, feeling its familiar weight settle against her chest. She tucked it securely into her shirt and exhaled, her fingers lingering briefly over the fabric before she dropped her hand.

Standing near the horses, she took a moment to survey the camp. The animals were unsaddled, most of them nipping lazily at the ground, their tails swishing in the dim light. Her gaze lingered on them, drawn to their quiet, grounded presence. Among them, she spotted Boadicea, Arthur’s steadfast mare—the first horse Jolene had ever ridden. A faint smile ghosted across her lips at the memory, the sensation of the animal’s strength beneath her still vivid in her mind.

Her attention shifted to the camp itself. She stood cloaked in the shadows, unnoticed by most as she observed the scene before her. Arthur sat at a table, a bowl of stew in hand, speaking in low tones to a pair of unfamiliar men. His manner was calm, his movements steady. Further off, she spotted Mac, the kind man who had mended her chain. He was perched on a log, a plate of food balanced on his knee, his hearty laugh carrying faintly through the evening air. The firelight caught the sauce that clung to his thick beard, and Jolene’s lips twitched in an involuntary smile. Around him, a small group of people sat, their faces warm with the camaraderie of shared stories and laughter.

The crunch of footsteps startled her, and she turned quickly to see a woman standing beside her. She was young and strikingly pretty, with black hair swept into a loose braid and a soft glow about her—likely the result of her pregnancy, which was unmistakable in the way her belly curved beneath her dress. Despite her condition, she carried herself with a quiet strength, leaning down slightly to meet Jolene’s gaze.

“I saw you earlier,” the woman said, her voice kind and curious. “Are you stayin’ with us?”

Jolene hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know. After Mac had fixed her chain and sent her on her way, no one had told her what was next. Should she leave? The thought of returning to the town—the sheriff’s cruelty and the pain of earlier events—made her stomach twist. But staying felt uncertain, too, like stepping into a world she didn’t fully understan. “I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging her small shoulders.

The woman sighed, a sound more empathetic than exasperated. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I’m Abigail. And you?” Her tone remained gentle, encouraging.

“Joel,” Jolene replied quickly, sticking to the name she’d given before.

Abigail nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Well, Joel, you look thin as a rail. Come eat with us.” She straightened with some effort, extending a hand to Jolene.

Jolene hesitated for only a moment before accepting. Despite everything, she was grateful for being small for her age—her slight frame seemed to invite less scrutiny. Abigail’s hand was warm and firm, and together they made their way into the heart of the camp.

Abigail led her to a quieter corner, where a nearly empty table stood. A young girl, her skin a deep, rich brown, sat there already, eating her stew with measured bites. Abigail gestured for Jolene to sit. “I’ll bring us two portions,” she said, her tone decisive.

“Are you sure? I can carry them,” Jolene offered, her voice tinged with worry as she glanced at Abigail’s pregnant form.

Abigail smiled, brushing off the concern with a shake of her head. “I’ve got it. You sit.”

With that, she left, leaving Jolene alone with the other girl, who paused mid-bite to look up and smile warmly. “What’s your name?” the girl asked, her voice light and friendly.

“Joel,” Jolene replied, keeping her answer brief.

“Tilly,” the girl introduced herself. “Tilly Jackson.” She smiled again before returning to her stew, her demeanor calm and unassuming.

Jolene sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Abigail returned soon after, balancing two bowls of steaming stew with practiced ease. She set one in front of Jolene and the other for herself before settling into the seat beside her. The aroma of the hearty meal was comforting, and Jolene felt a flicker of gratitude as she picked up the spoon. For now, she was safe, and that was enough.

Jolene ate her stew with unrestrained joy, her spoon diving eagerly into the bowl with each bite. If she’d been alone, she might’ve wriggled like a happy worm, her body unable to contain the sheer delight of warm food. It had been so long—years, even—since a hot meal had been anything but a rare treat. In recent times, she’d been lucky to taste such comfort once a month. Now, with the savory broth warming her insides, she allowed herself a moment of peace, the harsh edges of her world temporarily dulled.

The table was quiet as the three of them ate. Tilly offered the occasional friendly glance, but no words were exchanged. Abigail seemed preoccupied, her thoughts elsewhere as she methodically spooned stew into her mouth. Jolene appreciated the silence—it gave her time to savor her food without distraction.

That peace was interrupted when Dutch approached, a bowl of stew in hand. He greeted them warmly, his voice carrying the easy charm that seemed to envelop everything he did. Without asking, he took a seat at their table, nodding to Abigail and Tilly before focusing his attention on Jolene.

“So,” he began after taking a few bites of his meal, “how’re you likin’ it here, Joel?”

Jolene froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Her instincts warned her to tread carefully, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “It’s nice,” she replied simply, keeping her tone neutral.

Dutch chuckled, his grin widening. “Nice, eh? Well, I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He leaned back slightly, the firelight dancing in his sharp eyes. “But you’ve seen enough of the world to know nice ain’t always easy to come by. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jolene nodded hesitantly, unsure where this was going. She studied Dutch closely, her mind racing. She wasn’t dumb—uneducated, yes, but not stupid. She couldn’t read or write, didn’t know what came after 109 in a count, but she could piece things together quickly enough. It didn’t take long to understand that Dutch was the leader here. The way people deferred to him, the way he carried himself—it was clear.

At first, Dutch had struck her as charming, even kind. But now, sitting at this table with him, her wariness grew. He was the leader of a gang of criminals, after all. Her world had taught her that someone like him wasn’t to be trusted. The sisters at the church had drilled it into her head—outlaws were cruel, violent, and wicked. Yet here was Dutch, smiling and polite, offering her food and a place to sit. How many people had he killed with those same hands that held her shoulders so warmly?

Arthur, too, didn’t fit the mold of the villains she’d imagined. He’d gone out of his way to help her, had been patient and kind, even when she’d had little to offer in return. And Mac—he’d mended her chain with a fatherly sort of care, as if her small troubles mattered to him. These people baffled her. Their camaraderie, their apparent contentment—it all clashed with the stories she’d been told. Were these the same “nasty, mean” outlaws the sisters had warned her about?

Dutch’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He leaned forward, his expression warm yet commanding, as though he could see the questions swirling in her mind.

“Joel,” he began, his tone softer now, “I imagine you’ve been through your share of hard times. Most folks like us have. You don’t end up out here without a little trouble behind you. But that don’t mean trouble has to follow you forever.” He gestured toward the camp with a sweep of his hand. “Look around. What do you see? You see folks who’ve been given up on by the rest of the world. People like Arthur, like Tilly, like me—forgotten, left to fend for themselves. And yet, here we are. Together. Strong. Safe.”

Jolene listened, her stew forgotten as his words washed over her. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he spoke, his voice weaving a picture of safety and belonging that was hard to resist.

“This here,” Dutch continued, “isn’t just a camp. It’s a family. A real family. One that looks out for each other, that fights for each other. You’re young, but you’re sharp. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got potential, Joel. And out there?” He nodded toward the darkened world beyond the firelight. “Out there, the world’ll eat you alive. But here? With us? You’ll have a chance. A chance to make somethin’ of yourself.”

Jolene felt her heart beat faster. His words were persuasive, tugging at something deep inside her—a longing for security, for belonging, for a life that wasn’t just survival. And yet, a small, skeptical voice in the back of her mind whispered warnings.

Dutch leaned in closer, his gaze steady and intent. “It’s your choice, of course. I’d never force you to stay. But think about it, Joel. Think about what you want. Safety. Family. Opportunity.” He smiled, a gleam in his eye. “Those are things worth fightin’ for, don’t you think?”

Jolene nodded slowly, unsure of what else to do. Dutch sat back, satisfied, and returned to his stew. But his words lingered, weaving their way into her thoughts as the night wore on.

Jolene’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind as she continued eating the stew, her spoon moving mechanically as the weight of Dutch’s words settled over her. She wasn’t Joel, wasn’t eleven, wasn’t a boy—her mind felt like a maze, full of walls she couldn’t climb, paths she couldn’t see. She kept eating, her hands trembling a little, but she couldn’t stop the questions that churned in her chest. Would it be different if they knew?

Would they trust her?

Her mind flickered with terrifying possibilities. What if they found out? What if they kicked her out, just like the town had? Or worse, what if they decided she wasn’t worth keeping around—what if they killed those they couldn’t trust? A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck, her stomach tightening with fear. She felt the panic start to rise, a knot in her throat as her heart raced faster than she could think.

But as the panic swelled, it started to subside, her breath evening out. They wouldn’t kill a young girl, right? she told herself. She was just a child, barely fifteen. Surely, that was enough to save her, to make her inconspicuous enough that they’d never think to harm her. The lie she’d told, that she was Joel, would be harmless, right? After all, Dutch had said it himself—he knew what it was like to come from hard times. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? He might even appreciate it, the way she was just doing what she had to, surviving the best she could.

A small, quiet voice in the back of her head told her she was fooling herself, but she pushed it down, focusing instead on the plan beginning to form in her mind. Hide it at first, she thought. Let them think she’s Joel. They’d never question it. And when the time was right… she’d tell them the truth. When she was bigger. When it wouldn’t matter so much. Maybe they’d accept her then.

She could leave once she was older, stronger, but still not manly. She’d make a life of her own, maybe find a place in this strange, chaotic world. And maybe—just maybe—there’d be a place for her here, among these outlaws.

As her thoughts continued to churn, her nerves slowly calmed. The swirling confusion settled into a plan—fragile, uncertain, but a plan nonetheless. She finished the last spoonful of stew, forcing herself to keep calm. She could do this. She just needed to keep up the charade for now. Keep it hidden. They didn’t have to know the truth. Not yet.

Tilly stood and carried her empty bowl away, breaking Jolene’s reverie. She watched the girl go, her movements easy and familiar, and then turned her attention back to the camp around her. Her mind was still racing, but her thoughts were sharper now, more focused on the idea of not just surviving but living. If she stayed, she felt like she actually had a chance.

Jolene set her bowl down, the warmth of the stew still lingering in her stomach as she looked up at Dutch. Her hands were steady now, her heart still pounding but with a newfound resolve. She swallowed her fear and, in a quiet but firm voice, said, “I want to stay. With you… with the gang.”

The words felt strange, almost foreign on her tongue, but they were true. The offer, this chance, was something she couldn’t let slip through her fingers. This was her chance to survive, to find something better than the streets, the town, the constant fear.

She might not understand everything, but she knew one thing for sure—she wouldn’t let this chance pass her by. She couldn’t.

[zarkishere]

On the seventh day of Christmas, Zark gave to me...

woaw rainbow (1) + fic

chapter below too!

____ Months of unresolved ache often lead to explosive emotions. ____ 3 days later.

Ruben was on ‘shit-cleaning-duty’ (Bill’s words), picking up every pile of manure in the barn and then throwing it in a cart, humming a tune to himself…it was early, he was trying to do this quickly so he could go out later.

They’d traveled 2 whole days to get here—He liked this camp; it was bigger than usual, two cabins at the center —one for Dutch and Hosea, the other for Arthur and John— with the other’s tents littered around it, a barn in fairly well state, an actual fence…or parts of it, rather. Plus, it was warm and well hidden…heaven, as far as Ruben was aware.

Shame he was stuck cleaning poop all day. It was fair, he guessed, after making such trouble…

Eventually he was done, wiping his forehead, leaving the shovel near the exit and walking out toward his tent. He needed to bathe, of course, he smelled like crap…quite literally, too.

Things were still tense in camp, of course. People made questions, complained about moving, talked down to him. It was fine. They were lucky that woman had barely scratched them. They were lucky the lawmen had lost them. It was fine.

Ruben took a deep breath, heading to the Callanders tent; He still slept with them, seeing no point in wasting money buying another tent even if Hosea had said he could. Maybe someday, maybe if he really needed it. Once he got inside he grabbed a clean button-down from Mac’s chest—Ruben often stole clothes from Mac, to Mac’s amusement—and beelined toward the river.

He bathed, threw on clean clothes and went back to camp, thinking of how to ask Dutch to let him out…He was sat down at one of the new tables, eating stew, looking down at it like the food owed him money.

Ruben cleared his throat. “ Sir? “ He asked, trying to sound confident even though he was clearly not.

Of course, Dutch was fully aware of his nerves, tilting his head as he turned toward Ruben. “ Yes? “ He hummed, acting unaware.

“ I was wondering if I could…maybe….go out for a while? Just to see if I can catch something. “ Ruben responded, arms crossed behind his back.

There was silence for a few beats, the two men staring at each other. Ruben wondered what Dutch was thinking—the man was always doing so, it seemed, be it plans or the books he was reading or something else. His brain seemed like an unsolvable maze to him.

Eventually, Dutch snickered and shrugged. “ ‘course, son. You’re better off robbin’ for us than picking shit all day. “ He said before going back to eating, silently dismissing Ruben.

Ruben made a mental note to buy something Dutch for his kindness, nodding and heading out.

He got on Ruth, not taking anything that wasn’t already on the mare as he went out. He hoped to find something—anything—that would keep him busy and maybe bring some coin back to the gang.

He started in the nearest town, his boots kicking up dust on the dirt roads. The usual hustle and bustle was absent. The saloon stood mostly empty, its door swinging lazily in the wind, and the merchant at the stall seemed to be nearly dying of boredon. Ruben tried a couple of the local shops, but the owners had no work for him. "Come back next week," one grumbled, barely glancing up from his task. As he walked down the main street, Ruben paused by the stables. Maybe some ranchers needed help with cattle or repairs. He leaned on the wooden fence, watching the horses lazily graze, but the stablehands were nowhere to be seen. No deals, no jobs. The town had nothing to offer. Feeling the weight of wasted hours, Ruben turned back. He passed a few more mostly empty towns, the silence growing heavier with each step. Where the hell was everyone?

There was no point in sticking around. With a frustrated sigh, he made his way back to camp, the thought of returning with nothing gnawing at him.

No one asked, of course, but it still bothered him. It was late now, the sun completely hidden from view thanks to the treeline, clouds becoming stars…with not much else to do, he just idly did chores around camp. It sometimes felt like no-one did anything, and he really wished someone who’d be more useful would come around.

Eventually, Pearson called out for people to come over and eat, and so he walked over to the dishes after most everyone had gone already, grabbing a plate and turning around to—

“ Ay—cuidado. “ (Owch—careful.) Javier grumbled.

They had barely talked to each other—not that they talked much beforehand, but Javier had now started to return the favor and had begun to avoid Ruben—so this was their first interaction after the better part of 3 days. He seemed upset.

“ Pero si tú te me tiraste encima! “ (But you were the one that threw himself on me!) Ruben retorted, the weigh of the past few days making him more irritable than usual.

“ Yo no—ugh…Ruben, I don’t feel like arguing. “ Javier said, shoving past him to grab a plate for himself.

Ruben stared at him for a few seconds, anger boiling before he grabbed his arm and turned him around. “ Oh, but you very well argued with me back at that woman’s house! If it weren’t for you, we’d be fine! “

Javier seemed stunned for a few seconds, but eventually he nearly growled as he leaned in closer, expression darkening. “ You’re the one that’s always pushing me, don’t act innocent. “ He said, eyebrows furrowed.

Ruben could nearly feel Javier’s breath on him; a mix of tobacco, some sort of alcohol and…something else he couldn’t quite place. He shook his head, deciding this wasn’t the best time to think about that.

Instead, he threw his plate to the dirt—it was made of metal, so it wouldn’t break—and shoved Javier. “ This is all your fault! “ He said.

Javier put his plate down on the table with force before shoving Ruben back. “ I don’t know what your fucking problem with me is, but you’ve been rude to me since we met! “

“ Everything—everything that’s happened is your peoples fault! “ Ruben spat, anger rising from deep within. A wound that never healed.

Javier’s eyes widened, letting out a bitter chuckle as he looked Ruben up and down. “ My people? Cariño, you’re Mexican too. “ (Darling.)

The petname made a shiver run down his spine. He ignored that, too. “ No, I’m not. And that’s not even what I meant. “

“ Right—so your father isn’t Mexican? “ Javier placed his hands at his hips, raising an eyebrow.

Ruben groaned. “ Yes, he was, but I was born in Brazil. “

“ That makes you half-Mexican, imbécil! “

“ NO! I mean—maybe—that’s not my point! You revolutionaries ruined everything! “ Ruben’s voice broke ever so slightly.

Javier raised his eyebrows, and if he wasn’t before he sure was now. “ What does that have to do with anything!? I—oh, I see. I know what you are, un maldito imbécil que prefiere vivir en miseria antes de pelear. “ (A fucking moron who’d rather live in misery than fight.)

“ Tienes idea cuantas personas murieron porque gente como tú se les ocurrió ser parte de una pelea QUE NO PUEDEN GANAR? “ ( Do you have any idea how many people died because people like you decided to be part of a fight YOU CANNOT WIN?) Ruben spat, jaw clenched.

“ Mi tío murió por la revolución, Rubén, así que si, si tengo idea. “ (My uncle died for the revolution, Ruben, so yes, I do know) Javier answered, fists clenched. He was so close to punching Ruben. So, so very close.

“ Pero—no es lo mismo! Él pagó el precio, yo—” (But—it’s not the same! He paid the price, i--) Javier’s patience had finally snapped. Without another word, he punched Ruben’s face, a hard hit that sent the younger man stumbling backward. Ruben’s feet slipped on the dirt, and he crashed down onto the ground with a grunt.

Javier’s wasn’t a heavy puncher, he mostly used knives. This was surprising. " Levantate! “ (Get up!) Javier’s voice was sharp, filled with anger, as he watched Ruben scramble to his feet. Ruben grumbled as he got up, very quickly squaring up. Before Javier could react, Ruben lunged forward, making them both land on the ground, Ruben on top of Javier. He swung for a punch, but Javier moved out of the way and moved so he was on top now—they rolled in the dirt, struggling for control, fists flying as they tried to gain the upper hand. Their limbs tangled as they fought to get on top of each other, each trying to pin the other, but neither succeeding. A bit of blood splattered every once in a while as punches landed. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath as the two men rolled on the dirt, their movements frantic and wild. Javier tried to land a punch to Ruben’s ribs, but Ruben grabbed his arm and twisted it, forcing Javier to the side. They were both covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, but neither one was backing down.

Ruben silently hoped someone would come and stop them. Javier kneed the other’s stomach, causing him to grunt. In retaliation, he swung an elbow toward Javier’s face. The two collided again and again, their breathing heavy and ragged.

They kept their eyes on each other. Javier’s eyes followed a trickle of blood that ran down from Ruben’s nose to his lips. It was chaos, messy and uncoordinated. Neither could get the leverage needed to end it.

Javier managed to land a blow to Ruben’s cheek, but Ruben responded with a shove. They were still both on the ground, so it barely mattered at all. They were both exhausted now, breathing heavily, their muscles aching from the constant struggle. Neither had won, and neither had truly hurt the other. The fight slowly came to an end, both of them lying there in the dirt, tangled together, their breaths heavy but no longer frantic. There was no decisive blow, no clear victor. Just a mess of exhaustion and frustration.

They were silent for a few seconds, both sighing and looking away.

“ Tu…tu padre murió en la pelea? “ (Your…your dad died at the fight?) Javier asked between breaths, quiet, nearly gentle even if he was still fuming.

Ruben felt his throat tighten. He swallowed, shaking his head. “ Entonces? “ (Then?) Javier asked, frustration showing again.

Again, there was silence.

He sighed, accepting Ruben wasn’t ready to talk about it just yet. “ Mira, Rubén…no sé qué pasó, y lamento que hayas perdido a alguien por nuestra pelea, pero no fue culpa mía. Yo no maté a esa persona. Yo solo quería que nos trataran de manera justa. “ (Look, Ruben…I don't know what happened, and I'm sorry you lost someone because of our fight, but it wasn't my fault. I didn't kill that person. I just wanted us to be treated fairly.)

They both sat up, Ruben looking back at him. “ Te juro que moriría por cada inocente que muríó. “ (I swear I would die for every innocent person who died.) Javier added, looking straight into his eyes.

Ruben opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Arthur called out to them.

“ The hell are you doin’!? “ He asked, stomping his way over. “ On the—oh my lord. Did you fight??? Again??? “ Arthur sighed in frustration. “ Get up, go eat. “

And so they did, brushing themselves off and heading for dinner.

They didn’t talk about it to anyone who asked.

[gunslingerblues]

Yet another modern RDR2 AU, yeehaw!

Arthur was orphaned at a young age and bounced between foster parents and group homes before being fostered and subsequently adopted by Hosea and Bessie at ~13 years old

He had just been doing art to cope with the [gestures at everything in Arthur's life], but with Hosea and Bessie's encouragement, Arthur decided to pursue art and get a degree in art and art history

When Arthur was ~20 years old, Hosea and Bessie adopted another 13-year-old, John Martson. Despite the gap in ages, Arthur was quick to become fond of John and help him let go of the "I'm on my own and no one cares" mentality

Arthur, now 27, has a relatively popular art account on Instagram. His username is something generic like 'morgan.makes' or something. There are no pictures of his face or mentions of his gender/pronouns, so his followers have assumed Arthur is a woman named Morgan. He's aware of this and doesn't really care lol

He also works as a cashier at Dutch's pawn shop and sometimes evaluates things people bring in to sell. Dutch does run a shady side business out of the pawn shop (drugs or gambling, idk lmao), but Arthur isn't involved. Partly because he doesn't want to be, and partly because Dutch knows that Hosea and Bessie would not hesitate to kick his ass if Arthur got tangled up in illegal shit because of Dutch

Hosea and Bessie’s property used to be a bustling farm, but is now home to a handful of hens, a few cows, and horses. One is Hosea’s, a grey-coated Turkoman stallion named Silver Dollar, and the other is Arthur’s, a chestnut Arabian mare named Sweet Pea

Arthur also owns an old truck he calls Horse

More often than not, Arthur is the one who picks John up from high school, and he never tells John if it’ll be with Sweet Pea or Horse. John complains whenever Arthur rides up on Sweet Pea, but all of John’s friends think it’s so cool (John also thinks it’s cool but like hell he’s going to admit it)

John's friends are Javier, Lenny, and Sean. He has a huge crush on Abigail, a girl in his English class. Hosea and Bessie think it's very sweet and Arthur (lovingly) teases the shit out of John about it

I have lots of other thoughts about this AU, so if anyone has questions 👁️👁️ feel free to ask!

[roamingtigress]

So I had a dream where the ladies went out shopping and Tilly assigned me duty of watching the men. I apparently thought it was a great idea to go around petting everyone and this is how it went (I try to remember to jot down all my dreams in a notepad file): Jack: Jack BIT me. Yelled "mean mean mean!" and also kicked my shins and ran away somewhere before I could react. Kid was feral. John: Thought I was weird. I patted him on the shoulder. He accused me of 'you probably eat babies!" I told him I was vegetarian and he was like 'wtf is a vegetarian' and when I explained to him he was even more 'yeah, you eat babies!' Like . . . Did he think babies are vegetables?! I asked him if he thought his own kid was a rutabaga and he just stared at me and said 'that confirms it, you eat babies.' I apparently eat babies with my salads. Dutch: He was surprisingly shy (!) and then when I called him 'aw Babygirl Kitten Whiskers" he blushed and got all softy and booped his forehead against mine. I booped him on the nose when he sort of bit me when I was scratching his chin. Proceeded to follow me around camp, I kept an arm around his waist and kept petting him and anytime I touched him around waist/belly he leaned into me. Attention whore. Arthur: Kind of liked it at first, and then after a moment he was all "I got a satchel to make!" in the same tone as "you sir are a fish!" So I petted him when he worked on a satchel and was all 'i hear you're one of those vegetabletarians, I could help you find some wild carrots!" essentially mocked me :P Word spread through the camp quickly about the wild carrots. Pearson: Threw a fish at me and said 'this isn't a petting zoo, why are you petting everyone?' :D Hosea: Yelled 'you slut' and at first I thought it was directed at me but no it was his husband and while he was OK with me petting Dutch, he reminded him of who he belonged to. When I petted Hosea he was like 'why are you petting me' and then came around to liking it (I rubbed his shoulders) and the three of us went around the camp. Micah: Micah BIT me and laughed at me and said something like you know there's a place and time for petting, heeheeheee." Charles: Understandably weirded out by some stranger touching him as anyone would be, but happily mocked me, telling me there's some Yarrow outside camp that I could have with my wild carrots. All of them teased me about wild carrots. Thanks, Arthur. Uncle: I patted him on the head and he was amused, telling me that if I'm not careful, I could start something :D Reverend Swanson: I think he was weirded out but didn't resist much. Gave me a look, took a swig of whisky and continued to read the bible. Kieran: :( Ran and hid under a wagon before I could give pets. He was still among those who teased me about wild carrots from his hiding place, that his horse needs them. Javier: Got weirded out as I decided to pet him while playing the guitar (dream me apparently has no boundaries). He stopped playing for a moment and decided to play duelling banjos with Sean. Sean: 'Aye, I could tell you're part Irish from how you touch me, fkin hell!" He liked it. Gave me a bottle of Irish whisky and I drank it in one go. He was amazed. Bill: Drunk and passed out on a table but I still gave pets. Trelawny: Went in hiding with Kieran.

[wanderingwastelands]

This is Jamie 💛

He's Hosea's son he had with his ex wife in the 90s he's a barista at a local coffee shop in Portland he likes going fishing and riding horses and sunflowers 🎣🐎🌻

[thecaptainsgingersnap]

Questions for Clara!

You mention Arthur is her adoptive brother, how would you describe their relationship?

Does she have a horse? If so what does it look like and what's their name?

How has her mother's death affected Clara?

How did Clara come to join the Van der Linde gang?

What led to Clara's dislike of boats?

Do you have a favourite moment of Clara's? If so describe.

What led to the gunfight that caused the scar on her left arm?

Out of her three hobbies, which is she best at (poker, whittling, and reading)?

How do her and Sean meet?

Who would you say is her best friend?

Putting this under a cut bc it got long.

Arthur is the one who found Clara. She stole his wallet while on the run from an angry shopkeeper. He chased her down, ready to turn her in, but when he caught her, he saw she was just a scared, hungry little kid. Just like he had been. He brought her back to Dutch and Hosea and she became part of their little gang. To the two of them, though, they've always felt more connected than the others. Arthur would kill for any member of the gang, but Clara is the only one he willingly die for. Clara, likewise, would follow Arthur to the ends of the earth (whether to help him or but the shit out of him depends on the day). Just a grumpy cowboy and his annoying baby sister.

She has a solid black Abraxan named Thunder.

Clara's mother's death was very hard on her. Her mother was the only person she had in the world. When she died, Clara was left all alone with nowhere to go. That's how she ended up on the streets of a town outside of West Elizabeth being and stealing just to eat.

After her mother died,  9 year old orphan Clara Monroe stole some food from a baker in a small town outside West Elizabeth. As she ran out of the shop she collided with a teenage boy walking out of the general store next door. Thinking quickly she pick-pocketed him and dashed off.When he realized what had happened, the boy, Arthur Morgan, chased after her. When he caught up to her in a nearby alley, she begged him not to hurt her. When he saw how dirty and hungry she looked, Arthur felt something in his heart break. After learning she was alone, he took Clara back to Dutch and Hosea. When they heard how she had managed to pick-pocket Arthur while on the run, they were impressed. They decided to let her stay with them much like they did with Arthur and John.

Every time she gets on a boat, it either sinks, gets robbed, is a trap to arrest her gang, or she has to jump off. She's just learned to hate them.

My favorite Clara moments are the simple ones. Sitting around the fire while Javier plays his guitar, Sean's arm around her, Fishing by the river with Arthur, making flower necklaces with Jack.

Y'know nobody really remembers the specifics. Somebody said the wrong thing at the wrong time and all hell broke loose.

Reading and she's damn proud of that since she barely had any pepper schooling

Clara first met Sean when she and Arthur came back from a hunting trip to find Dutch and Hosea had brought home a skinny ginger goof who immediately tried to charm her. Within a month of him talking her around like a lost puppy and her laughing at every pickup line he tried, she was smitten.

Kieran

[21stcenturygworl]

Girl you've unleashed a monster 💀 It's currently 4:00 am and I just had an idea for a request do here am I! Also I saw the different caracther ask so this one is for the John Marston enjoyers.

Also I send a previous ask but I don't know if it actually sent it so answer this one just in case cause I revised the text in this one while the past one was probably a mess .

So this John is John after the gang slip up. John is in town doing things that a man working on a ranch would do like buy supplies and honestly just being a normal man for once when he notices a person looking very intensively at him. At first he's like "Do they recognise me from the gang?" but dismiss the thought when they see they're drawing something. And no-one would take time of their day to draw John so the person is probably painting something else and John is just being paranoid.

Fast forward some time and our man John is out in town when he spots a crowd forming near a building. And let's be honest he is bored so he goes to investigate. So apparently it's an art exhibition and look John has never been an art guy but a voice that resembles Hosea too much urges John to go take a look cause "it's never too late to have culture". So in he goes. John is looking around and yes some nice landscapes, pretty flowers and wait hold up is that a protrait of him? And well if it's not that's a shame cause it resembles John to a t, scars and all. And ok John has a mixed reaction to this. He's a wanted ex gang member and having his face anywhere is a danger but also he can't help to be flattered. And wow great timing is that the artist? John's goes up to them and he's like " Honest I'm flattered but I feel like I have to mention I have a wife and a son." And the artist is like "Oh I know." And points at another painting. It's Abigail and Jack.

Now your turn :)

this has been in my inbox for like, idk, a century IM SO SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING... but I'm here now bestie

i hope you enjoy!!

Picture Perfect

John Marston x Abigail Marston (mentioned)

John rolls his shoulders after the sack of cracked corn hits the wooden bed of the wagon with a thud. Oh, he knows the ladies back at the farm are gonna love this. The “ladies” being the chickens, of course. The distance he has to ride to town just to get supplies is a pain, but he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. Living an honest life is hard work, surprisingly.

Some part of him had always thought a “normal” life would all be easier, like a dream come true. The idea of being able to walk around without fear of being attacked or having to watch his back all the time had been a long-held desire. But, as he slowly acclimatised to his new life, he began to realise that perhaps it was not easier, nor more difficult than his old life was. It was just… different. He supposes that it’s not necessarily a bad thing, but rather a new experience that’s testing his limits and strengths in different ways. Although it’s still not at all what he had expected, he’s determined to make the most of it, learning lessons along the way.

John's moment of quiet reflection is quickly forgotten when he senses a presence watching him. He turns, scanning the area for any signs of who it could be, and then he spots her. Sitting in the shade of the awning in front of the baker's shop, she holds his gaze for a moment, before her eyes quickly dart away. It's almost as if she was expecting him to notice her. His brow furrows. She doesn’t look familiar. But it’s such a distance, maybe he should get closer just to be sure…

He feels himself physically relax when he notices she’s drawing. He looks to his side, figuring she was staring at the horses rather than at him. Arthur used to draw animals all the time as well. Hell, he’d be sitting just like that woman is, eyes darting up and down between paper and subject.

A sigh through his nostrils escapes him, followed by a smile appearing on his face. Well, that was a long time ago. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to take the subjects of the drawing with him. He climbs into the driver’s seat of the wagon. With the reins in hands, he begins the long journey home.

The next time John returns to town, he’s in a sour mood. This is due in part to the frequent arguments he’s been having with Abigail. Things have been tough lately — the two of them keep struggling to see eye to eye on many issues, and John is doing his best to keep it all at the back of his mind.

For now, it’s just him and his horse, and just for the afternoon he’d like to keep it that way.

Once his trusty steed has been seen to, with ample water and shade provided, John ventures further into town on foot to carry out his errands. As he goes about his way, he notices that one of the buildings he has been past many times before has now attracted a large crowd of people around its entrance. Intrigued, he steps a little closer to see what’s going on. As he gets closer, he can hear the excited chatter from the crowd and can tell that something special must be happening. Which is surprising for a sleepy town like this, honestly.

He pushes his way through the throng to get a better look, and to his surprise, he sees an art exhibition.

Here, in all places? John nearly scoffs at the idea.

Yet his feet betray him, staying firmly planted in the ground instead of walking away. John looks at the entrance to the building from under the brim of his hat. Smiling people exit the building as they enthuse about the pieces on display.

Ah, to Hell with it. Entry is free, anyway.

John takes off his hat and steps inside the building. It’s nothing like he’s used to. He’s never been the “artistic” type — that was Arthur, even though not many people knew it. Still, even John can tell that the person who made these paintings and illustrations put a lot of love into them. The walls are decorated with vibrant landscapes, still lives, portraits, and other works depicting the simplicity and beauty of… life. The room is filled with people admiring the artwork. John takes in the scene with a sense of wonder and awe.

He meanders through the exhibition, taking in the various pieces of art. He stops to admire a painting of a horse, which reminds him of his own horse waiting for him just outside. He can’t help the smile on his face. Then he moves on to the next piece.

To his surprise, he sees himself staring right back at him.

John blinks at the bizarre sight. That’s him. No doubt about it. From his clothes to his hair to the scars and — does he really make a brooding face like that?

Other visitors seem to have noticed, whispering with intrigued smiles when they see John looking at the portrait of himself.

“Oh!” a voice calls out from behind John. “Um, this is a pleasant surprise, I must say.”

John whips around and finds himself face to face with the woman he’d seen weeks ago. She smiles up at him. With a cheery voice she introduces herself, telling him her name. She’s the artist of this exhibition.

“I’m— I’m John Marston,” he responds, stumbling over his words. He gestures at the portrait behind him. “You painted me.”

The artist clasps her hands together. “I did! I hope you take no offence?”

John shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips despite the confusion. “No, no offence. I’m just… surprised.” He looks back at the portrait. It’s amazing. He can’t believe someone was able to capture him so accurately.

“Do you like it?” she asks, her eyes searching his face for approval… or something.

Awkwardly, John shifts his weight on his feet. He’s a little unsure of what to do with his hands. Suddenly he’s very, very aware of how there are many other people at this exhibition, of which many are watching his interaction with the artist. “Yeah, I do. I’m real flattered,” he begins, still trying to find the right words to say. He clears his throat, then lowers his voice, “I just… Erm… I’ve got a wife, and a kid…”

“Oh! Oh, I know!” the artist says to his surprise. She turns around, then points at another set of paintings towards the other side of the room. “I painted them too.”

John takes a few steps forward and sees the two portraits of Abigal and Jack, their faces bright and smiling. And there’s one painting of the three of them together, with John standing next to a wagon with his arm around Abigail. Jack is seated in the wagon.

His heart swells in his chest and his throat tightens, causing him to take a deep breath.

“I’ve seen the three of you in town together many times. You always seem so happy,” the artist tells him, wearing a wistful smile. “A picture perfect family. I… wanted to capture that.”

John leaves the art exhibition later, with a swirl of emotions that leave him feeling somewhat perplexed and overwhelmed. He can’t quite make sense of all the feelings surging through him, but deep down he knows one thing for certain: errands be damned. He’s going home to hug his wife and son.

[splat-dragon]

Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”

Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both ‘and?’ and ‘go on’, so you hurried to. “Well, I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”

As the heavy horses thunder by With the living horseman's cry ~Heavy Horses, Jethro Tull

  “Mr. Hosea?”

 The old(er, never, ever call him straight up old, he’d have you strung up before you could say ‘oops’) man paused in his reading, looking up at you, though he didn’t even need to hear your voice to know it was you; you’d not been with the gang long, only a month or so, but you’d gotten rather attached to him in that time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to look up and find that you’d chosen a seat near him, stretched out and polishing your guns, or reading or writing, stitching your clothes or any number of the chores you did in camp.

 In the short amount of time you’d been with them, he’d come to learn that you were not one for idle work, for women’s work. Give you a gun or a bow and a horse between your legs, and you’d be happy. He could see you quickly becoming one of Dutch’s new golden children, being as you were one of the youngest members in the gang, only just older than Lenny, and already having scraped in a decent amount of money. Hosea could see Arthur in you, the need to prove yourself, that they hadn’t made a mistake taking you in.

 He hoped that Dutch didn’t ruin you, too.

“Need something, my dear?” he asked, marking his page and setting his book aside. You didn’t have a gun in your hands, only your usual pistol on your hips, so he didn’t think you were going to ask him to come with you on a heist (not that he had any sort of issue with it, it was actually nice to stretch his legs every once in a while), but you sounded even more uncertain than unusual, which was rather impressive.

 “Do you have a moment?”

 He nodded, patting the dirt besides his bedroll to invite you to sit, putting his book on the crate that served as a night stand. “Of course, what do you need?”

 Even as you sat, you shifted, feeling the fool and looking around. There, Javier was plucking his guitar by the campfire, Arthur sketching in that journal of his. Dutch was smoking a cigar by his tent, Charles playing his harmonica (and you were certain he did that while Javier was playing to get under everyone’s skins, but he’d never admit it and no one would believe him if he said so besides) and even Trelawney was there for once, fiddling with a deck of cards.

 So many people you could have asked, and you had to bother Hosea of all people! Arthur knew horses, knew them well, you could have asked him, though he was so busy, in your short time it hadn’t escaped you that he did the brunt of the work and you’d tried to shoulder some of it for him, and for yourself and the gang as well of course, but asking Hosea? One of the leaders? How presumptuous! How foolish!

 But he was looking at you, and you’d look even more foolish if you changed your mind and bolted, so you crossed your legs, not caring that you didn’t look lady-like, who cared to be lady-like? you were in jeans, so it wasn’t as though you were giving him a show, but oh! he could see your ankles, the indecency! Why, you ought to just keel over now and save your ancestors the shame, you’d robbed, you’d murdered, but oh! you’d shown a man your ankles!

 ...yeah, you were getting off track. Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”

 Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both ‘and?’ and ‘go on’, so you hurried to. “Well, I-I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”

 The man started to laugh, in that low, rasping way of his, and you could have crawled into a hole and died. You’d been right, you should have asked Arthur, or Charles, or even Javier or, hell, even Clive, though Clay talked his brother down you tended to get along with him and it was obvious he had a great deal of horse sense, you’d known the two long before joining the gang so maybe you could ask a favor? They did owe you a few, after all?

 “Of course,” he shook his head, “You had me thinkin’ you were goin’ to ask me to take you out back and shoot ya, from how worried you seemed,” and you couldn’t help the startled laugh that tore from your throat,

 “No, never!” if you’d ever needed that, you’d ask Micah, he’d probably agree in a heartbeat, though after a moment’s thought maybe someone else, he seemed the type to play with his prey, drag them around until they begged for death, you hadn’t been with them long but it was clear that Micah was nothing shy of a snake—and not the good kind, you actually didn’t mind snakes so long as they kept well clear of you and your horse, but the kind that snuck into birds’ nests and ate their eggs, cowards all.

 “When were you wanting to go?” he asked, looking thoughtful, like your ma used to when she was going over her planner, “I can’t go tonight, it’s gettin’ too late anyways, and tomorrow I said I would take Arthur hunting and that’ll take us through the weekend, probably. Is Monday alright?”

 You nodded, quickly, probably too quickly from the way his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah, yeah of course, I can take some work in Rhodes while I wait? I still have my bounty license and there’s always a ton there,” working as an outlaw and a bounty hunter always gave you a bit of a laugh, but it worked! Having someone slung over the back of your horse always got you some side-eyes, sometimes a gun cocked your way, but more often than not a flash of your badge had you safely on your way, whether it was actually bounty business or not, and of course it tended to keep you in good standing with lawmen and sheriffs, so when things went missing or you played at being an outlaw, it wasn’t you they looked for.

 And, besides, when you saw your… could you call them family? That was what Dutch preached, but you had only been with them such a short time, and though most of them were nice enough, could you claim to be family? Hell, could you even claim them as friends? as it were, when you saw their posters, you could tear them down in front of anyone under the guise of intending on hunting them down without being questioned.

Come Monday, you waited atop your mare not far from the Scarlett Horse Shop. Of course you already had a horse, you’d have died a long time ago without one, had had several actually, some of them dying, others sold off to the Davies brothers after proving themselves unsuitable for a lifestyle such as yours. And while Rosie was a good horse, a Walker at that with a decent running walk, but having a second horse could never hurt and, besides, different horse breeds had different uses and she could do with a sturdier horse for train robbing and bounty hunting, jumping off a train onto such a small horse was a feat in and of itself. And, seeing as you hunted both for profit and to feed the gang, having a horse on which you could throw extra carcasses and hides on would be a great help.

 You hadn’t let the stablemaster know that you were coming that day, and hadn’t let him see you as you rode up, either. While you’d never actually bought a horse from a stable—they’d all been stolen, broken, ‘gifted’, or taken from folks what didn’t need them anymore, it didn’t take a fool to realize that giving him time to hide anything wrong with the horse wasn’t a good idea. Rosie had actually been one of the gang’s ‘spare’ horses, kept around in case one of the girls needed to go riding, or one of the men’s horses were down or had just come back from a long ride or any other number of reasons. You’d grabbed Rosie for a wagon robbery—Thomas, the Morgan you’d had when you joined the gang, was damn near useless when it came to gunfire, and you’d intended on handing him off to the Davies brothers the moment you could, and fallen in love with her temperament, her sturdiness and the running walk she’d fallen into without any prompting.

  Technically, the spares weren’t supposed to get names, much less become someone’s main horse, but Thomas had become infamous before you’d been with them for two weeks and so they’d made an exception, and you hadn’t felt terribly sorry for selling Thomas off to Clay.

Hosea called out a greeting as he rode up to you, not wanting to risk getting shot. He was right on time—you’d learned quickly that, while a con-man and a shyster, he never broke a promise to his gang. Silver Dollar whickered at Rosie, who returned the greeting, raising her head. As you’d grown attached to Hosea, looking to him as a father-figure, she’d taken to Silver Dollar as well.

 “I really appreciate this, Hosea,” you said again, as you hitched your mare to the posts, and the man shook his head, clapping you on the shoulder as he followed you to the barn,

 “Any time!” he chuckled, before calling out a greeting to the stablemaster as the man walked out of the barn. The man welcomed you back, and the surprised pride on Hosea’s face when he referred to you by an alias had you standing just that little bit taller although, you thought, perhaps you should have told him ahead of time, it wouldn’t have been good if he’d called you the wrong name.

 “Now, who might this be?” the scruffy man asked, and Hosea offered his hand as he replied,

 “Melvin, Melvin McGinty, my daughter here asked me to look over a horse before she bought it.” the stablemaster grinned, shook his hand,

 “Good man, I’m Eris Feldman, here to see the same horse as always?” and you couldn’t help but to grin sheepishly, nodding. You came by the stable’s often, wanting to keep Rosie in good shape and, with all the hard riding you did, that meant you had to get her serviced regularly, and he always cared for her like she was his own horse.

 “Yessir,” and he chuckled,

 “He’s in his stall, follow me.” and you did, Hosea in front of you. The barn wasn’t the fanciest barn, not by a long-shot, but you liked it better than a lot of the other stables in the surrounding states because it led out to a nice paddock, thick with grass, not dust or dirt. The Strawberry stables were nice, too, but their paddocks were all dust, no grass to be seen, and the stables in Saint Denis, while fancy on the inside, had no paddocks to speak of period, same as the one in Blackwater.

 The gelding raised his head and nickered at you happily, and you crooned a ‘hey boy,” as you stroked his nose, Hosea looking the horse over. Just from his stall he could tell it was a massive thing, just under seventeen hands and standing taller than you at the shoulder, bulky and muscular, probably some sort of war breed—and with how large it was he already knew he’d be much more critical than if it was a smaller horse; a large horse was harder to handle, even if it were well-behaved.

 “This is Cliff, though of course you’re welcome to call him whatever you want,” the stablemaster introduced, grabbing the horse’s halter and leading him out of the stall. Hosea watched his stride, looking for any sign of lameness, of limping, if the horse had been used for any sort of hauling before it would be easy for it to have been made lame. Its hooves thumped heavily on the ground, but that was to be expected of such a massive horse, and christ but its hooves were the size of dinner plates. “He’s an Ardennes, five years old and gelded. We started him under saddle at three years old,” and that was a good thing, and Hosea nodded appreciatively, though you looked at him, tilting your head—why did he like that so much? “He’s fully trained for riding, and has been desensitized to gunfire.”

 Of course that was needed in their line of work, but you’d need to test if he was telling the truth before forking over the money for the horse.

Eris led Cliff outside for you to get a better look at him in the sunlight, and Hosea looked him over with a critical eye. He was a handsome enough horse, a bay roan if he was right, head and some of his neck orange-red, most of him powdered over an off-white, mane black fading to white, tail the opposite, but looks didn’t matter much in horses; he fully believed in the saying that ‘there’s no such thing as an ugly good horse,’ and while Cliff was pretty enough an ugly, scarred up horse could be the best horse you’d ever own.

 “What’ll you be usin’ him for?” Eris asked as Hosea ran his fingers along the geldings legs, picking them up to look at his hooves—he was freshly shod—and you shrugged,

 “Some of everything. I hunt, mostly, but I do a bit of bounty work now and then, which is why I like the looks of him. Need a sturdy horse. Love my Rosie, of course,” you tilted your head at the red roan Walker, “but she’s not the sturdiest,” Eris nodded.

 Hosea called to you, and you approached him, heart in your stomach—you’d sworn you wouldn’t get attached to the horse for fear of it having some fault that made it unsuitable, but at some point the Ardennes had won your heart. “Here, see this?” he pressed on the frog of Cliff’s hoof, had you do the same, felt it move beneath your fingers, “that’s what you want it to feel like. And what the hoof should look like, anyways. No cracks or nothin’,” and you grinned, so far he was passing muster it seemed like!

 He tugged you back to stand and look at how Cliff was standing, “Now, see how he’s standin’? Never even think of buy a horse who stands any other way, some horses stand with their legs well ahead of them. You ever see a horse like that, you walk right away and don’t buy a horse from that stable ever, that’s a sick horse and it’ll go out from under you ‘for you make it home.” you nodded seriously, trying to picture a horse standing that way, but couldn’t, although it sounded like it was distinct enough that you’d be able to recognize it when you saw it.

 “That’s called founder,” Eris called out, approaching and patting Cliff on the neck, “where their hooves get all swolle’ up, hurts ‘em somethin’ fierce, kindest to put ‘em down when they get it. Usually see it in fat horses, or unshod work horses,” he frowned, picking up Cliff’s hooves to give them a quick lookover, and you grinned at Hosea proudly— see? you seemed to say, this is why I come to him even when the other stables are closer, he gives a damn!—and he shook his head with a pat on your shoulder.

Carefully, Hosea reached for the gelding’s face—he didn’t know if he was head shy, which would be a deal-breaker if he was, of course, and didn't fancy being bitten. But while Cliff eyed him as though to say ‘what do you think you’re doing old man?’ he allowed him to do so, urging him to open his mouth so he could examine his teeth.

 “Here, see? You want to make sure he’s not got any lumps or wounds in his mouth, those are from bad teeth and can make even the sweetest horse sour. And always check a horse’s teeth, make sure they ain’t too long, or too short or worn, and that there ain’t any missin’.”

 “And see his eyes?” he let the horse close his mouth, stroking his velvety nose to thank him for being such a good sport about it, “they should be clear and bright, means he can see you and won’t kick you clear across camp just for the sin of walking up to him.” you snorted, “Well, at least he shouldn’t.”

 Hosea patted Cliff on the neck, gesturing you to follow him as he led you to the horse’s side, running his fingers down his flank, “Here, feel his ribs?” You nodded with a ‘yeah’, and scratched his fur for good measure, “That’s what you want, but you shouldn’t be able to see them easily, that means he’s underweight. If you can’t feel them, though, or if you have to make an effort too, then he’s too heavy.” His lips twitched up into a grin, and you eyed him warily, “It’s why you don’t want to buy from Saint Denis’ stable, all the horses there’ll be fat as their masters.”

 Eris gave a startled bark of laughter.

 Hosea allowed his fingers to run along some of the gelding’s muscles appreciatively, before scratching his shoulder to thank him for putting up with his inspection and stepping back. “Can she ride him?” and you brightened—so you had his approval? Well, at least so far?

 “A’course,” Eris nodded, and disappeared into the nearby shack to grab his tack, and you turned to Hosea.

 “So...  what-what do you think of him so far?”

 Hosea hesitated, thinking, “Well, he seems like he’s in good shape. Good teeth, good hooves, good build. And seems like he has a good temperament, considering he let me manhandle him.” You perked up—so he liked him? “Although are you sure you can handle so much horse? He is pretty big.”

 “I’ve ridden bigger!” you were quick to say, “I’ve had a few Shires, and they’re a lot bigger. ‘Sides, a big horse’ll be useful for my bounty hunting, don’t you think? And for,” you looked to the tack shed, “for trick ridin’ and things.” Even though Eris was out of earshot, it was better to be safe than sorry.

 He nodded, had to acquiesce, “Just gotta make sure you can handle him first, he’s a different breed, so he’ll handle differently.”

 “Yessir,” you hummed, watching as Eris returned, massive saddle in hand. And it was true, while Cliff was smaller than the Shires, he was wider, and squatter, so he’d be a lot different when it came to turning, jumping, and all those important things.

 Eris helped you to tack Cliff up, with Hosea standing nearby to watch the horse, see how he reacted. Make sure he didn’t have any common vices—didn’t suck in his breath so the belly-strap would be loose, didn’t stamp his hooves or pull his head back when you reached up to put the bit in his mouth. But though the flesh of his stomach twitched as you cinched the strap, he stood still aside from the flicking of his tail to swat away flies, happily accepting a sugar cube you offered him when you finished.

 Grabbing his lead-rope, you led him to the paddock, testing how he followed, and though he was much larger than you he followed along like a loyal hound, strides short to account for your slow pace, although he did lower his head to snuffle at your pocket in search of further treats he stopped when you pushed his massive head away, blowing as though in apology.

 “Alright, let’s see you ride him then, up you get!” Hosea called, leaning on the fence after closing the gate behind you. It took a bit of a hop to get your foot into the stirrup, but you wouldn’t always have the luxury of a stump or fence to help you reach his saddle, and that was a nasty habit to get into besides, so you got comfortable in his saddle, giving him a moment to adjust to your weight. He was a bit wide between your legs, but you’d get used to it eventually, you knew.

 “Good boy,” you crooned, stretched forward to scratch his neck—and carefully test how he’d react to a drastic change in balance on his back.

 “Walk him,” Hosea called your name, “just see how he rides at first,” and so you did, cueing him to walk. He did so readily, beginning to plod forward beneath you. Like any war horse you’d ridden, his stride wasn’t the smoothest, but that was to be expected and so you adjusted for it, moving with him easily. Hosea’s eyes burned holes in you as you rode him slowly around the paddock once, and once you looked up to find him staring at Cliff, eyeing his legs, his body, his stride.

 “Trot him,” he called out simply as you passed him, having finished a walking lap, and so you squeezed your calves to speed him up, but he didn’t speed up, continuing to trot, and your heart sunk to your stomach, you’d gotten your hopes up, he’d been so perfect

 “Kiss him,” Eris was quick to correct you, and you clicked your tongue with a squeeze of your calves in time with his stride and that time he obeyed his stride picking up into a bouncing trot that you were quick to post, not wanting to rattle your teeth out of your head. You loved wars, they were nice for hard work, but christ if they weren’t painful trotters! You could see Hosea frowning, and knew what he was thinking, and agreed—you’d have to train him out of the kiss, he’d need to learn to respond to just body cues, but he couldn’t be perfect.

 He trotted a ring around the paddock once, twice, three times, and you found yourself worrying, had Hosea noticed something you hadn’t? Was there something that had been hid by the bounce of his trot? But, finally, as you passed him a fourth time, he called out “Canter,” and you forgot to cluck as you cued him to canter, but he still did as asked and you wondered if he’d only been trained to respond to a kiss for a trot and why , but his canter was much smoother, rocking beneath you as you shifted from the post to sit deep in his saddle, enjoying the swaying motion—you’d always enjoyed war horse’s canters, they were always nice, riding him a few times around the paddock.

“Alright,” Hosea called out, and you eased him to a stop in front of the pair; from the amused look on your ‘father’s’ face you were beaming from ear to ear but you couldn’t help it, you’d had a blast!

 “You can use the fence if you need to see how he jumps,” Eris offered, and some of the tension left your shoulders even as you looked at Hosea, who nodded. That was very important in… well, everything you did, to be quite honest, so you trotted him to the far side of the paddock and kissed him into a trot, shifting as he leaped the fence, his landing rather harsh, cueing him into a canter and swinging him around, jumping the fence again and finding the landing much kinder to your everything, throwing a thumbs-up to Hosea before walking Cliff up to them with a fond thump to his neck.

“He rides beautifully, what do you think?” Hosea asked, although from the quirk of his lips you knew you were still beaming,

 “His trot is a bit rough,” you admitted, “but I was expecting that.” and he inclined his head, glad that you’d been honest. “Need to try his gallop.”

 “Mr. Feldman (“Call me Eris”) said we’re welcome to use the driveway to give him a run,” he gestured to the wide pathway and you nodded, looking to see if there were any deer, why deer were so attracted to that spot you hadn’t a clue, before cueing him into a trot, then a canter, and then a gallop that took your breath away, so smooth that you barely felt the movement of his hindquarters, stretching out with him and laughing, swinging him around and racing back to the pair, easing him to a stop though you wanted to gallop forever—he wasn’t fast, not faster than Rosie by halves, but his gallop was so wonderfully smooth you felt you could ride it for hours.

 “How does it feel?” Hosea asked, and you nodded,

 “Felt nice, ain’t got any complaints about it.” you swung down from your perch, patting the gelding on the neck and crooning love words as you led him back into the paddock, Hosea walking behind the pair of you to see how the horse walked over a decent work-out, whether he’d gone stiff or any sort of lame.

 “You want to use my gun, or yours?” Eris asked Hosea, while you turned the gelding out into the pasture, patting him on the rump to send him trotting in without you. Hosea pulled out his own pistol in reply,

 “I’d rather use mine, since it’s what he’ll be hearing,” and Eris nodded, the both of you stepping back as Hosea aimed his gun at a tree not far away, firing one, two, three times, keeping a critical eye on the Ardennes.

 Cliff raised his head from where he’d been grazing, staring at Hosea in some sort of alarm, ears up and eyes wide. But he didn’t buck, didn’t rear or bolt, and that was good enough. A horse that didn’t react would be as bad as one that fled or fought you, so you grinned, jogging into the pasture to bring him back as Hosea holstered his gun.

Eris hung back to give you a moment to talk, and you looked at Hosea hopefully as you stroked along the ruddy fur of Cliff’s neck, “What do you think?” you asked hopefully, praying that he’d give Cliff the Official Hosea Matthews Stamp of Approval™.

 “Well,” he said, giving him a final look over, “He rides beautifully, though you’d need to train the kiss out of his trot,” you nodded, already knowing that, “and I can’t find anything wrong with him, his hooves and his teeth and his body are all good.” Your eyes widened, hand stilling on his neck. “And he didn’t react much to my gun.”

 He seemed to get sick of holding you in suspense, and nodded, “I think he’s a good horse, well worth the money.”

 You beamed, fought the urge to whoop, and despite yourself, hugged him. He stiffened, startled, but patted you on the back.

When Eris came inside, you were quick to say you’d decided to purchase the gelding, handing over the money and, after a moment’s thought, choosing to rename him, ‘Cassim’ fit the horse a helluva lot better than ‘Cliff’, and paid for some new take as well seeing as Rosie’s wouldn’t fit him by a long shot.

 Rosie stared him down when you led him out to her, giving him a true mare face, but he didn’t react any, and so she acquiesced to trot beside him as you followed Hosea back to camp, sitting tall and proud atop your new horse, unable to wipe the grin from your face.

As it turned out, Cassim was bulletproof except when it came to wolves. You came back one day, soaked to the bone with mud, scowling, a stack of wolf pelts on his rump.

[immajustvibehere]

Chance Encounter 

Chapter 7

Chapter 1 // Chapter 6

warning: Micah's nasty advances, hinting at sexual abuse in the past, drinking, long chapter but cuddles!!!

summary: After an unpleasant experience at camp (Micah), Arthur proposes to take you on a trip up Dakota River.

5200 words, 26 minutes reading time

Arthur walked you through camp and explained the most important rules with precise words. If you earned money, you must share it with the camp. There were those who leave camp regularly to seek out people, stagecoaches, shops, and trains to rob, to collect bounties (keeping in mind that most of them had a price on their head too) or hunt and there were the others, who stay in camp, prepare food, do laundry and dishes. 

"'Course", Arthur explained while you stepped over a sleeping man, "there are a bunch of people who do nothin'. This is Uncle. If ya ever talk to him...prepare to waste some time." Aside from Uncle, you were also introduced to the camp cook, Mr. Pearson, who was pouring himself a cup of coffee at the moment you passed him with Arthur. 

"I'll leave ya to the girls in a minute, they’ll find somethin’ for you to do for sure. Just...there", Arthur put his hand on your shoulder, which took you by surprise, but immediately proved it had to be done to shove you a bit to the right, revealing a man with long blond hair and a red shirt slouching through the grass a bit further off, "Micah Bell. Don't talk to him. Ignore him if he talks to you, he can be a nasty fellow. Same goes for this man over there." Now he directed your attention to a man who was just carrying a plate with breakfast in one and a cup of coffee in the other hand...and then stumbled over a root, spilling half of his cup on the ground. You found it amusing and it got even more innocent and harmless, as you saw how flustered he got when a man with huge scars on his face started scolding him for his clumsiness. "He ran with the O'Driscolls. Our....rivalry gang, so to say", Arthur tried to explain, finding it a difficult to keep things uncomplicated and light-hearted. Though he still wasn't a huge fan of making you a member of this gang and binding you to all the troubles that probably were to come sooner or later, he didn't want to scare you away either. 

This said, Arthur walked you over to three girls, Tilly, Karen and Mary-Beth as you soon found out, and left them to explain the rest to you. And explain they did. In the next three days you were pretty much filled in with who is who and who is what. Mrs. Grimshaw was determined to make you earn your place in the gang by scrubbing blood stains out of the men's clothes, but you didn't complain, since this monotonous work which didn't need a lot of thinking was perfect for listening to camp talk and chatter. 

It was Lenny who introduced you to Hosea who in turn sat you down the same evening to check your reading skills. You shared the lesson with Jack, which you found quiet embarrassing, though you were relieved to find your reading better than the one of a four-year-old child. 

Arthur was hardly ever on campsite. You had seen him on your first day at camp and it was only after almost a week had passed, when you decided to get up earlier, that you ran into him again. But before you had realized he was at camp, you just left your sleeping mat, which was positioned under the open sky, next to the tent of the other ladies, and strolled towards the lake. Dipping your feet into cold water had proved to be the most effective way to get you going in the morning. Days were long for you, since you wanted to give it your best, you tried cramming in as much as possible every day. The morning usually started with chores, some time in the afternoon you'd get on your horse and ride to the fence in Rhodes to continue your work for him. (You had only done this after you got the approval of Hosea, who was the next person in charge to look out for you, if Arthur wasn't around.) In the evening, if it wasn't too late, you still had a couple of minutes with Hosea, who made you read to him. Since Arthur hadn't been there, you convinced Lenny to continue your shooting practice, which took place whenever you and Lenny had some free time to spare. 

Now, only a week had passed and you were proud of the routine you had built for yourself. If anything, you knew how to work hard and you were keen to win over a couple of people who still looked at you dismissingly, as if you were only an additional mouth to feed. Still with bare feet, you sat down at the table. An apple in one hand, you watched Kieran, who had just risen and stumbled over to the horses. You kept your distance, as you had promised Arthur, but you weren't really sure if this was necessary. Kieran seemed like one of the softest and kindest men in the gang. Unlike Arthur, who, according to Mary-Beth, ‘can surely be an affectionate human-being who just craves to be understood but decides to hide this very side of him, as it makes him vulnerable; but rather displays his rough and distant manners’. Kieran, it appeared to you, didn't even have rough manners. He was just a shy, friendly, horse-loving man who was as nice as possible to everyone. 

"Got ya, finally! Can't run away now, doll", with your eyes and thoughts fixed on Kieran, you hadn't noticed Micah, who had come closer and was now seated next to you. After Arthur's first warning, you had only heard shady things about this Micah and were glad to put as much distance between you two as possible, or at least being surrounded by others when he was close. But now, the camp was still asleep and you were right next to him. "Good morning, Mr. Bell", you greeted, trying to sound as friendly and unbothered as possible, though this man was way too close for you to feel even remotely comfortable. 

"So you do have manners, Miss y/n. I thought I would have to teach you some", Micah's voice was dark and low, you weren't sure if he was trying to charm or threaten you, though it could be a mixture of both. "Now, why would a beautiful girl like you keep avoiding me, hm? It’s a real shame…", Micah came even closer. You almost jumped when his leg touched yours. "I haven't been avoiding you, Mr. Bell. I'm just very busy. I’m trying to keep my place in this gang", you quickly answered, your eyes wandering off, trying to find a more pleasant sight than this man's face way to close to yours. You wanted to run, but you didn't know where to. He'd just follow you and it would get way uglier real fast, you thought. 

Suddenly, you felt rough hands on your chin, pushing it up and towards the man who those hands belonged to, forcing you to look at him. "Look at me when I'm talking to you", came the demand. At this point you were scared shitless. You told yourself that it was not the same. You are not in an abandoned barn. You are not alone. There are many people around. It's not one against three, it's one against one and all you had to do was scream and he'd be running off. 

"If you wanna do the camp a favor, stop wearing pants. It's not very lady like. You should take what you can get before it's too late for you. Women get undesirable really easily, really fast", Micah growled. You knew that if you didn't fight back now, there wouldn't be any point in trying to do so later, but you were frozen in place. Micah's slick smile sent shivers down your spine and if you weren't so concentrated on keeping a straight face that didn't reveal you'd rather die on the spot then have this continue any longer, you would have felt another hand on your thigh earlier. 

"Leave her alone, Micah", Arthur threatened in a menacing voice. The grip on your chin loosened but only fully disappeared after Arthur added a "or I'll put a bullet through your fucking head right here, right now." Micah looked to the man who had just left his tent with a hand resting on his belt, close to his holster. When Micah finally stood up and left your side, you felt like you could breathe again.

"Mr. Morgan, didn't realize you were here", Micah sneered. To which Arthur didn't answer but only looked at Micah disgusted. "I was just welcoming our new-" "If I see ya close to her, ever again, I'll make sure you can never bother anyone in this gang again by putting ya out of yer misery", Arthur interrupted. Micah raised his hands in defense: "Yeah. Sure. Sorry, didn't know she was yours, big fella." And with this said, he was gone. 

"Yer alright?", Arthur asked concerned, taking the wooden chest Micah had sat on and putting it at a reasonable distance, before he sat down. 

"Yea-...no, no I don't think I am", you breathed out, quickly wiping tears off your face. You looked at the table in front of you, knowing you wouldn't be able to hold another eye contact like that without completely breaking down, even if it was just Arthur. There was silence between you for a while. Arthur was the one who broke it: "I'll take you out for a trip, if yer want. Leave camp for a while...I know it can be a lot sometimes. It's just an offer. Think about it." You nodded and Arthur took off to give you some space. 

You had already decided the moment he had finished speaking, but you sat still until your knees had stopped shaking and you could walk to your sleeping mat where you kept all your belongings. In your satchel you had hidden a revolver. It had been bought yesterday in Rhodes, but you knew neither Arthur nor Lenny would be too happy about you carrying a gun already. You packed a couple of things, stowed them away on your horse, got dressed and then looked for Arthur who sat on the jetty, scribbling something in his notebook and occasionally taking a sip from his coffee. He turned his head when he heard you approach. "I'd love a little trip", you said. He smiled sympathetically, closing his book and standing up. "Ya can go mount yer horse, I'll tell Hosea where we are off to."

Not five minutes later, you were on the open road. 

"Where are we actually going?", you asked after both of your horses had reached a comfortable trot. 

"Up north, past the Donner Falls, to the spring of the Dakota River", when Arthur searched your face and found a questioning expression, he added "it's close to the Wapiti Indian Reservation" as if that'd help. But you didn't mind where he'd take you, as long as you are away from camp and with Arthur...

"How long is the ride?", you asked, pressing your hat deeper in your face to protect you from the morning sun which was slowly becoming more powerful. 

"Depends on…how fast can ya ride yer horse?", he looked at you, all innocent and gentle, though you know there was a challenge hidden away behind those words. A big smiled formed on your face: "I won't race someone who has decades more riding experience than I have, but I promise you I've become better since our last ride." This being said, you gave your horse a "Heya!" and off you ran, savoring your head start for ten seconds, before Arthur caught up. 

When you rode past Dewberry Creek you pulled y/h/n back into a trot to win more time taking in the scenery. Morning dew had made the air misty, and the low sun was hitting the droplets in the right angle to produce a little rainbow. Arthur too slowed his horse down, observing you silently as you watched the scenery in awe. When you turned your head, your eyes met Arthur's. You had wanted to make a comment on the rainbow, but something about finding Arthur's eyes fixed on you rather than the nature made your cheeks burn up and forget your intention of saying something. So without anything being said, you looked back to the rainbow, which had started to fade. You knew Arthur wasn't the most talkative, but you really wished he had eased the tension by saying something. It was only after the rainbow was fully gone and the Heartlands started to stretch out in front of you when he suggested: "What d'ya say? Another race through the Heartlands." 

You sighed: "I don't know...", trying to keep Arthur's attention on your words rather than your actions, as you started to speed up your horse, "I really don't feel like- let's go!" You shouted the let's go only after you had started to sprint off. This time your head start lasted longer and you believed he let you lead deliberately before he passed you quickly, laughingly shouting a: "Too slow!"

You and your horse were both out of breath when you caught up with Arthur. The road was now going slightly uphill. To your right you could see the mountain tops of the East Grizzlies. The temperature dropped significantly, you were surprised to find out you could still shiver, after having sweated so much the last few weeks in Lemoyne. Careful not to fall off you rolled down your sleeves and took a jacket from your horse's back. It turned out quite a stunt - doing all that while trying to keep up with Arthur (you, of course, not wanting to ask him to slow down) and staying on your horse. 

Only a couple of minutes later, Arthur turned around: "Ya alright? It's getting a bit fresh." You noticed his surprise, already seeing you wrapped in a jacket, also with a bandana tightly knotted around your neck to keep the cool entering from there. The bandana was Lenny's old one, he had offered it to you a couple of days ago and you had gladly accepted. "I'm fine", you nodded and rode up next to Arthur.

"Ya can already hear the waterfall if ya listen. But we ride farther north, around the lake. There are some nice rocks you can climb and watch over the whole country", Arthur explained. 

"Can't wait", you smiled and took the lead. The road got narrower and Arthur warned you to slow down to keep your horse from slipping on gravel. There as a huge rock that was about two meters tall, standing proud and solid next to the trail. You looked at Arthur who nodded to affirm that this was indeed one of the rocks he had talked about. You hopped off your horse and examined the rock. It felt sandy, red earth coloring your hands as you searched for some grip, that you easily found. 

"Whoa", was all you could say. There was the spring of Dakota River, deep blue in front of you. Reddish brown rocks covered with grass and trees were everywhere as far as your eyes could see, only in the west you could distinguish the snowy mountain tops of the Grizzlies. You only realized that Arthur was next to you, when he lightly poked you with his binoculars and oh boy, the view got only better! You traced eagles and watched the water bubble and splash when a fish jumped above surface. A few minutes passed and you were still not tired of exploring the valley with the binoculars, when you heard the man next to you chewing on something, which reminded you how starved you felt. 

Finally, you lowered the binoculars and took some biscuits and a pear out of your satchel. 

"We'll be camping there", Arthur pointed to a flat space next to the river, "see if we can catch ourselves a fish for dinner." Without hesitation you looked through the binoculars again, examining the location Arthur had pointed at. "Alright", you mumbled, mouth full of food, and shot a quick glance at Arthur who was fiddling pineapples out of a can. The rock wasn't big enough to allow much space between you, but you didn't mind at all. Maybe it was only then when you truly caught on what you were doing...spending time with Arthur, alone, in nature. The two of you had never spent so much time together before, well, maybe when he rode from Valentine to Rhodes with you, more hours had passed on the clock than had passed now, but this trip wasn't over and this time you had talked more than last time. 

After you had finished your meals, you mounted your horses and rode on until you could leave the track and approach the little cove Arthur had pointed out. The horses gladly settled down in the grass as they came to understand that this will be a longer break. 

"If ya get a fire started I'll cast out the fishing rod. There should be some big fish in here", Arthur gave the instructions. On a grassy patch you rolled out the sleeping mats and blankets, put up a tent (you had one tent, which technically could fit two people...you were not yet sure how this will work, but you figured it was too early to worry about that), collected firewood and made a camp fire, afterwards looking for herbs that could give the fish better taste. All of this took you about an hour, but still, Arthur was standing there, rod in hand, waiting. 

"Nothing yet?", you asked. 

"No", Arthur wailed, "Fish don't like me today. Ever fished before?"

"Can't say that I have...", you admitted. 

"C'mere then. You do that."

"You sure? If I do something wrong, we might end up without dinner", you asked with raised eyebrows. 

"It can only get better", Arthur joked and gave you the fishing rod. There was a moment of silence between you before you looked at Arthur: "So basically...you just want me to stand here for the next hour." Arthur shrugged, gave you a smile and a pat on the shoulder: "Yeah."

Arthur threw some more sticks into the fire and checked if the tent was put up properly, then curiously examined the herbs you had found. When he saw a pile of berries you had collected, he raised his head. He pointed at the berries and looked at you, asking for approval to take some. You nodded: "Be my guest." You chuckled to yourself, finding it...cute he had asked for an okay. Standing still, rod in hand, you found enough time to let your thoughts roam freely. They lingered on the happenings of the morning, which made your hair stand up. But soon, they were fully occupied with the man who was sitting in the sun, only a few meters behind you. His eyes were covered by his hat, and you weren't sure if he was asleep or just resting...sleeping...yeah, will you share the tent with Arthur? It's his tent so the proper thing to do is offer to sleep under the sky, though you knew it would get freezing at night. 

You were still trying to figure out the sleeping issue, when you felt a fish nibbling on the line, you hooked it, tried to reel it in when you realized the resistance was way too much for you to manage. 

"A-Arthur!?", you yelled, trying to stay on two feet while the fish pulled and fought at the end of line, "Arthur! Help!" Arthur was behind you before you could say one more word, pushing you aside slightly and taking the fishing rod: "Christ, ya didn't have the rod for ten minutes and something bites. Ya a lucky charm or smthing?!"

It took another ten minutes of pure, sweat-inducing fighting for Arthur to reel the fish in. Occasionally Arthur would yell out a "Don't fight too much!" or "You're mine!" which made you chuckle; glad your job was done. "How big is this fellow?", you got curious as Arthur got closer to reeling the fish in and you noticed a huge shadow underneath the water surface. Arthur didn't bother to answer but instead pulled the fish out with a loud grunt. In front of you lay a muskie about as long as you were tall. You had never seen such a huge fish much less seeing someone be strong and skilled enough to get such a beast out of the water. 

Arthur laughed proudly, lifting the fish off the ground: "That's a fine fish and he’s heavy- wanna try?" He smiled cheekily, knowing you wouldn't dare lifting a fish that probably weighted as much as a dog. 

The fish was gutted and pieces of meat laid out on the little grill grid construction, where you had the more pleasant job of seasoning them. When you said that there was much more conversation between you and Arthur than the last time, this still meant that there were times where both of you didn't talk at all. The whole cooking process was done in silence, except for occasional instructions. When you started to eat, though, and you not only shared a loaf of bread but also a bottle of whiskey, you both seemed more ready to talk. Fishing and cooking, traveling around the country, herbs, berries and hunting were the most common topics discussed. 

The sun faded behind the mountains and the temperatures dropped significantly. Next to the fire, it was warm enough, but you still rolled yourself into an extra blanket. 

"That jacket of yours is not made for mountain coldness", Arthur remarked. 

"Yeah...didn’t think I'd need it for something like that", you said, chewing on a piece of bread. The fire and the whiskey did a decent job of keeping your warm anyways. Still, Arthur stood up, loosened a big blue coat from his bundle of traveling utensils and dropped it over you. "You don't need it?", you asked surprised as well as a bit worried you'd steal his coat. 

"I'm used to the cold. And the trip was my idea, so I'd feel damn bad to return you dead frozen to camp", Arthur sniggered. 

"Well, thanks", you smiled somewhat embarrassed, using the blanket to keep your legs warm instead after you had slipped on the coat. It was way too big for you, you had to fight to see the fingertips through the sleeve, but it was well worth it. A smell of cigarettes and forest hit you after you had turned up the collar. You smiled at yourself stupidly as you look down on yourself, thinking you must look like a pile of clothes. A satisfied pile of clothes. Well fed, warm and close to the man that you…- no. You stopped your thoughts there and looked up for distraction, only to find Arthur smiling at you: "I gotta say, you look like a pile of laundry." 

"Thank you very much, Mr. Morgan. Your words are quite charming", immediately after you had said those words you wondered if the alcohol in your system made it easier to say something like this. 

"Hah", Arthur teased, "Why would I try charm someone who looks like they hidin' in a laundry basket?" 

"You tell me", you shot back laughingly. Both of your laughs faded away and all that remained was eye contact that resulted in you blushing. Almost at the same time, you decided to break this staring duel. You could have sworn the tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife. "But no- that's my imagination. How much did I have to drink?", you thought. Before you could check how much was still in the bottle and calculating how much each of you had to find out if your conclusions have any legitimacy, you were brought back to reality. 

"It's gettin' late. Why don't ya go lie down, you'll need energy for the ride tomorrow", Arthur nodded at the tent. 

"You don't mind sharing the tent with me?", you asked. 

"Sharin'? Nah, don't worry. Ya got it all for yerself." 

"What? Hell no, Arthur. There's no way I'm stealing your coat and your tent. I'll sleep next to the fire then, I'll be alright", you stood up and kneeled next to your sleeping mat, readjusting it closer to the fire. 

"God damn the wind will kill ya woman", Arthur yelled, showing frustration at your stubbornness. You pretended not to hear him, laying down on the mat and readying it for sleep. 

"Okay then! I'll...I'll also sleep in the tent. Is that really alright though y/n? I don't wanna-", the big man stuttered helplessly. It was clear to you that he simply didn't want to make you uncomfortable by sharing a tent with a man. "Yes!" Satisfied with the outcome of your discussion, you took your mat and blanket and took them to the tent, doing the same with Arthur's while he watched you. 

"You coming?" you tried really hard acting casual, but you had to bend down to take the bottle of whiskey to gulp down another sip, hoping it would calm you down. 

"Y-yeah, in a second. You go ahead", Arthur waved you off. You handed the bottle to Arthur: "I swear I won't close an eye before you are in the tent."

You decided against keeping your eyes open almost seconds after you had said it. Maybe Arthur wouldn't be comfortable with that...you'd just...lie down as far in the corner as possible so you wouldn't take up too much space and then...your consciousness faded before you had even decided on what to do when Arthur would lie down next to you. You had failed to acknowledge how exhausted you felt and just like that you had fallen asleep. 

You remembered freezing that night when you woke up and fell asleep again minutes later. When you slowly started to wake up the next morning you weren't cold anymore. What had changed? You were too tired to open your eyes just yet but when you tried to turn you encountered a resistance that made it impossible. There was slow but heavy breathing that could be heard, probably coming from Arthur. So he did lay down in the tent! ...But the breathing was closer than you expected it be. Opening your eyes slowly, you found yourself lying in Arthur's arms, his face was somewhere above your head, based on the breathing and the light breeze on your forehead. Carefully you moved your head, feeling Arthur's chin right on top of it. If you hadn't been dead tired and could have woken Arthur, you would have screamed. 

Like on his horseback or in the hotel room, you felt drowsy...sleepy, perfectly safe and warm. You wanted to force yourself to stay awake to savor the moment a bit longer, but you drove back to sleep quickly. You were woken by movement and by the cold that hit you as Arthur left your side. Though you were awake, you decided to lie there for a while, pretending you were still asleep, thinking about the night. It was only when you heard the fire spit that you sat up and glanced outside. 

Arthur was sitting in front of the fire, back turned to you. You heard the water boiling in the coffee pot and looking up to the mountaintops you saw the first sunshine hitting the white snow. What a beautiful scene, you thought. But the cold, damn. The grass around your tent had frozen crystals on it and by opening the tent you were hit by cool air that had you awake in an instant. No point in laying down again, so you stood up and walked next to Arthur.

"Pretty cold, huh?", was the first thing you said after you two had wished each other a good morning. Arthur's answer was a low murmur. 

"I always see you with this little book...", you said, as if you had caught him a hundred times before. But this was only the third time or so. "What are you...writing in it?"

"'m drawing...", Arthur mumbled. 

"You can draw?!", excitedly you got closer to Arthur to look over his shoulder.

"A bit", he nervously closed his journal, "it's not really good though...just a hobby of mine..."

"Can I see it? Please", you begged. Arthur looked up to you, considering for a moment before he opened the page he had been drawing on. "Be gentle with your criticism", he joked. Your jaw dropped when you saw an almost finished sketch of the scenery before you. There was the lake, the rocks, the crooked pine trees, the campfire and even the coffee pot. 

"No, that's amazing", you whispered, comparing his sketch with the view in front of you, "and so detailed. I didn't think you could draw like that."

"Yeah", Arthur chuckled embarrassed and closed his journal again, "the coffee should be ready. Oh yeah- here." He handed you a book, it took you a moment to decipher it, but it was about forest animals. "Hosea made me promise to listen to you readin'."

"That's really not necessary", you stuttered. No way you would make a fool of yourself in front of Arthur by stumbling over words. 

"It is! Come on, Hosea's gonna kill me!", he pressed the book into your hands. 

"Can't I just read for myself?", you tried to argue. 

"No! I won't even be listenin'. I got the drawing to finish. Two pages."

You gave in. Every time you struggled with a word your cheeks would burn and you would have to take a deep breath to calm your nervousness. But soon you realized Arthur wouldn't be interrupting or correcting you, so you relaxed a bit. After that was done, the coffee had been drunk and a hurried breakfast of oatcakes, biscuits and canned peaches had been devoured, you packed your things and mounted your horses. You had handed Arthur back his coat, though you enjoyed disappearing in its comfortable vastness and smell, you wouldn't be able to ride in it. 

The horses slowly trotted along the path, Arthur rode in front of you. It was very quiet, and you almost couldn't hear it at first, but Arthur started humming a song. You weren't sure if he knew you could hear him, nor if he had realized that you had noticed you had slept in his arms. This was more or less all you could think about the whole time. Since you didn't want this trip to end, you didn't bother to ask why you were riding so slowly. Even in the Heartlands you didn't quicken your pace. 

Arthur had stopped humming and occasionally jumped off his horse to pluck some herbs. It was in one of those breaks when you heard shouts from far away: "That must be him!"

Arthur's head shot in the direction of the yell. Five men on horses were speeding in your direction. You were confused, but when you looked to Arthur for answers, he was back on his horse already. 

"God damn bounty hunters! Y/N, ride as fast as ya can", Arthur hastily commanded and off you went, "no matter what happens, you don't stop! They ain't here for you!"

This was it. Your first ever chase by the law. There was this terrible feeling in your stomach that someone will get hurt. 

-----x

looks like I'm aiming for about 10 chapters, so three more! It gets harder and harder to not make Arthur and y/n kiss at every god damn opportunity, I swear I'm trying so hard to hold back.

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