#hosea is the father of the year
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say-hwaet · 5 months ago
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That's the Way it Is
Chapter Seven: To Dance With Danger, Part 2 Previous Chapters: VI V IV III II I Next Chapter: VIII Summary: You, John, and Bill continue your onslaught on the O'Driscolls. It is rather successful, and dangerous. Word Count: ~8,000 Warnings: Violence, Mature themes, language
The last gunshot rings through the trees and the surrounding air is cast in a fog, not from rain or bad weather, but from gun smoke. You finally lower the shotgun, its weight now becoming too heavy as the adrenaline wears off. 
You’re surrounded. Surrounded by piling bodies of dead O’Driscolls. 
“Well, Hell
!” Bill cackles, clearly too happy for the fight. “I was itchin’ to get that out of my system
!” And he looks over at you, giving you a respectful nod. “Sure started to wonder when you was gonna be back.”
You furrow your brow. “I am back.”
He shakes his head, you must not be getting it. “Naw, I mean the real you. The real Kitka Petrova!”
John walks over a body after looting it, tucking some found riches in his pocket. “Yeah, that was really somethin’, like old times!”
You feel a jittering in your heart and you place a hand over it. “You mean to say I’ve always been like that?”
John nods. “Sure am. Hosea would be proud.”
You find yourself smiling. If this is the real you, and they approve, then you must be doing something right. Maybe taking the risk in doing this mission was just the thing you needed to get in the right direction. 
But then a cracked voice shouts behind you. “You think you can defeat us
?!” You turn around, and see the young O’Driscoll. Blood from the beating you gave him caked on the side of his head and his gun pointed at you. “I knew you was trouble
!”
You freeze, too shocked to move. 
And just as Bill and John retaliate, drawing their weapons, another shot echoes. 
The boy’s eyes widen and without another word, he falls to the ground with a soft thud. The shot did not come from behind you, but ahead of you. 
You see movement to your left and as you turn your head slowly, you are stunned by what you see. 
It’s Kieran, with your rifle, smoke still coming from the barrel. He just saved your life. 
You are all silent for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if another O’Driscoll will come out of nowhere, but after a minute or two, there are none. 
You find yourself opening your mouth, speaking humorously. “I suppose I didn’t tie the knots tight enough.”
“No kidding,” John breathes. 
You look at Kieran, who finally lowers the rifle. “I guess we’re even, now,” you exhale.
He nods, looking at you suspiciously, not fully believing you. “If you say so.”
“No, no, no,” John says, waving his hand. “While it’s always a pleasure to kill some O’Driscolls, we’re still short one.”
Bill growls, nodding his head, and storms over to Kieran. “You said Colm was gonna be here!!” 
Kieran instantly cowers, dropping your rifle without hesitation. “I weren’t lyin
! He-he-might come back!”
“Not after all that, you idiot!” John snarls, eager to lay a punch on him.
But you step in between them, holding out your hand like you’re trying to tame an angry wolf. 
And that’s when you feel a sharp pain in your side. 
“Ack
!” You bend over, your left hand going to the spot that stings and burns. 
“Kit?!” John goes to you, his brows pinched in deep concern. “What’s wrong, sis?”
You look down and you lift your hand. Your blouse has a dark spot and a long tear in it. You’re surprised you didn’t feel it or see it, but your blouse is a dark brown and you were caught up in the moment of the fight. 
But the pain is coming in waves now. “I’ve been shot
” You try to inspect the wound, still retaining some decency as you turn away and lift your shirt. 
John places a hand on your back, coaxing you to move. “We gotta get you back—“
There aren’t any holes in your flesh. It looks like a terrible scrape, or like someone took a chisel and marked a chunk out of your skin. “I'm fine,” you interrupt, moving away from him. “It’s just a grazing.”
You hear John sigh. “Still, you need to get back soon.” And he returns to look at Kieran, his eyes narrowing. “After we figure out where that bastard Colm is.”
Still looking at your wound, you say what you were going to say before your injured interruption. “I overheard them saying there was a stagecoach robbery. Colm was on his way here from another hideout.” You grimace, bunching your shirt in your hand and putting pressure on your wound.
John looks at Kieran, his gaze steely and intense. “You know where it is?”
Kieran shakes his head. “O-only this-s-s one
!”
You look up and study Kieran’s face, you can tell that he is petrified, but there’s no hint of deception. You lower your head as the pain in your side increases and try to speak calmly. “He’s telling the truth.”
Kieran’s eyes shift between you three. “I can make it up to you!” He points to the cabin as it continues to burn. “There’s gotta be money in the chimney! Colm always keeps a stash hidden every place he goes!”
John’s raspy voice rings out in irritation. “If it ain’t burned up first! Ever think about that?”
But only the front of the cabin is in flames, it still has to reach the back. Maybe there’s still a chance to find out. Feeling emboldened by your survival, you begin to walk toward it. “I’ll go see.”
But a hand grabs your shoulder, pulling you back. “Oh no, you don’t!” And John whips you back around. “Hosea would have Arthur kill me if I brought you back not only as you are, but burnin’ besides.” And with a hint of a smirk, he points his revolver at Kieran. “You go get it. And you better make sure you come back out with some cash.” 
Kieran nods hesitantly, his eyes darting from the smoking cabin to John's grim expression and back again. You watch him approach the cabin, each step tentative as if the ground might give way beneath him. The tension in the air is palatable, like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.
“Hurry up!” John roars, pointing his gun skyward and shooting once. Kieran nearly jumps in the air, and hurries toward what’s left of the door as the flames eat it away.
Your breathing becomes shallow, the sting from your side rising with each pulse of your heart. You lean against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing into your back, providing a strange comfort amidst the chaos. From this vantage point, you watch as Kieran disappears into the smoky maw of the cabin, his form swallowed by the thick, billowing smoke. Your heart continues to pound in your chest, an erratic drumbeat in the quiet of the dying fire’s hiss and crackle.
“You think he’ll find it?” Bill’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone laced with skepticism.
You glance at John who just watches for the opening. “No loss, either way.”
You scowl. “And we aren’t like the O’Driscolls at all,” you say with agitated sarcasm. “I wonder what Hosea would say seeing us now, acting like vultures around a carcass.”
John frowns, the lines on his scarred face deepening. "Hosea ain't here, Kit. We gotta do what we gotta do to survive. Besides, he’s an O’Driscoll, you know that."
Your gaze shifts back to the cabin and just when you are about to give in and go in there after him, Kieran rushes back out, clutching a small, metal box.
“He’s got somethin! He’s got somethin’!” Bill cheers and practically leaps over bodies to get to the young man. Kieran, half-choked by smoke, stumbles toward you all, the box clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
As he nears, his coughing subsides enough for him to wheeze out, "Found it in the chimney—nearly missed it with all the smoke
!”
He offers it to you, not John or Bill, and you take it from him. You try to open it, but it’s locked.
“Hey, what the—?”
And before you can finish, John snatches it from you, and with his hunting knife in hand, he slips it under the lid and pries it open. You all gather close and look inside the box.
And there, perfectly wadded, is a roll of cash. A thick roll.
John manages a smile. “I guess it weren’t all for nothin’.” And discarding the box, he holds the wad of cash and begins to divide it amongst you, leaving a large portion of it for the gang’s collection.
You get a nice take out of it. One. Hundred. Dollars.
There was six hundred dollars just sitting in that tin.
You tuck your share into your bosom, feeling the weight of the bills pressed against your flesh. Aside from the thirty dollars you had woken up with after Blackwater, this is the most amount of money you have ever seen. You don’t feel guilty for having it. After all, it was Colm you stole from, not an innocent family or lonely traveler.
“We should get goin’,” John says calmly and sheaths his knife. He turns to leave and after sharing a glance with Bill, you both follow.
After walking a few paces, John quickly stops, turns around, and looks behind you. “Except you.”
You then realize he is talking about Kieran.
“What?” Kieran asks, his voice trembling. “Y-y-you’re just gonna leave me here?”
“It’s better than killin ya, get lost!” John waves him off with a large sweep of his arm. 
Kieran shakes in his boots, his voice trembling. “I’m just as good as dead if you leave me! Colm ain’t gonna be happy about this.”
“And how is that our problem?” Bill roars.
“So, I’m one of you now
!” He says it with more courage than what he usually gives, and this causes John and Bill to pause for a moment.
You’ve been watching this exchange and you aren’t sure if this is a regular occurrence or not. It doesn’t make sense to leave him, after helping you by revealing this hideout and finding you some cash.
But most importantly

“He saved my life, John,” you remind him. “You’re just going to let that go?”
You see his eyes shift to you and soften. You know now that he looks up to you, in a way, in a sisterly way, and after what Abigail said, he clearly missed you more than what he was willing to let on.
John’s lips press into a thin line, a visible struggle playing across his features as he weighs your words against his instincts. His gaze flickers back to Kieran, who stands shivering slightly, his eyes wide with a mingled fear and hope.
Finally, John lets out a long sigh and nods curtly. "Alright, but if you get yourself in trouble, don’t go cryin’ to me.” He points to you. “Cry to her, God knows she’s the softest one in the bunch.” You can hear the light teasing in his voice, clearly trying to hide it behind the gruff tone he’s taken. He turns back around and continues to head toward the hill, where your horses wait on the other side.
You feel a mixture of relief and responsibility settle on your shoulders, realizing that you may have just made a decision that will impact the gang forever. After Bill and John are a few paces away, you turn and look back at the new member. “Come on, Kieran,” you say softly, gesturing to him to follow. He nods quickly, almost disbelievingly, and meets the pace of your stride.
"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves around you.
You nod, feeling the weight of his life now partially in your hands. "Stick close, keep your head down, and please, don’t make me look stupid.”
***
You ride carefully back to camp with the boys. You also make a point not to wince or groan, though you are in a great deal of pain. You keep your hand on your side, hoping that the bleeding has stopped by now, but you don’t want to stop and look. You just need to make it back to camp, and prepare yourself for what may happen.
You already know that Dutch is going to question where you have been. Micah may even be well enough to hiss words into his ear, no doubt making you sound more of an enemy than you would ever intend to be. It seems that is what Micah does best.
The crisp evening air snaps against your cheeks as you guide Odliv along the familiar path, the rhythmic hoofbeats a comforting, yet somber tune. John and Bill are quiet for the ride back, and you aren’t too upset by that. You don’t mind peace and quiet, the time to gather your thoughts.
You wonder if Arthur is back. If he managed to find something about Sean, like he mentioned. You are eager to know, Sean is another person that knows you, someone who has a piece of a puzzle that you are trying to put back together.
After a little bit longer, you see the trail that leads to camp, and you feel your heart beating just a little bit faster. It is darker now, and just as the sun sets, you can spot the glow of the camp’s fire.
“Hey! State your business!” It’s Karen.
“Guess who?” John asks, speaking enough to identify yourselves.
“Well, well, well
!” Karen says, a lilt in her voice. “Was wonderin’ if you’d come back at all!”
“Shut up,” John barks back and you can’t help but wonder if there is a hidden meaning there.
You can feel the eyes of the other gang members on you as you ride into camp, their curious glances like prickles on the back of your neck. You dismount with a quick swing of your leg and once your feet hit the ground, you feel a sudden twinge in your side and wince. “Ack
!”
“Hosea
!” John calls out. “Kit’s hurt!”
That was not what you wanted. The last thing you need is to have everyone flocking over to you, worrying over just a bullet graze.
The girls, aside from Karen who remains guarding the camp, are the first to reach you. Concern is clearly etched into their faces, as their gentle hands take you and escort you to the nearby table.
“What happened?” Mary Beth looks you over.
“Are you hurt?” Tilly wipes some dirt from your brow.
“What did John do?” Abigail asks.
You aren’t able to answer any of their questions, as they all come at you all at once. You shake your head lightly, trying to assure them without using too many words. "It's nothing," you manage, though the throbbing in your side argues otherwise. Mary Beth looks skeptical, her eyes narrowing as she inspects the wound more closely.
"Just a scrape," you repeat, hoping to dissuade further inquiry.
“Let me be the judge of that,” Susan, with a lantern in her hand, pushes her way to the table and pulls up a chair beside you. “Move aside, girls
” And seeing where your hand is placed, she quickly grabs it and pulls it away from your side.
The movement is enough for the pain to sharply course through you and you bend into your side. “Ow
!”
She holds the lantern up close and squints to focus her vision. “You got shot, alright.”
You then hear Hosea’s voice as he approaches. “Shot?”
His tone is a mix of worry and disbelief. Hosea, always the peacekeeper, never likes hearing about injuries, especially when it comes to someone he considers family. You see the concern in his eyes as he kneels beside you, his weathered face etched with years of hardship but always maintaining that gentle kindness.
"Yes,” you answer. “I didn’t realize it until after we took them all out.”
Hosea’s brow furrows. “Took who all out?”
“O’Driscolls!” Bill growls, with an edge of excitement in his voice. “It was like old times, Hosea. You shoulda seen her!”
Hosea turns to look back at you. “Can’t seem to recall the old times including Kit getting shot.”
You frown. “I guess I am not as nimble as I used to be,” you manage a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood despite the throbbing pain that suggests the bullet did more than just graze you.
“What’s this about O’Driscolls?”
Those gathered around you turn to see Dutch and Micah, walking up to you with narrowed glances.
John steps forward, standing right behind you as you sit in your chair. “Kit got Kieran to talk, and we attacked one of their hideouts. Got a good payout, too.”
Dutch looks at you, arching a brow. “Did she, now?”
You swallow and nod your head confidently. “Yes, I did.”
“Well, ain’t she just a go-getter?” Micah says condescendingly. “For someone who can’t remember a lick, she seems pretty eager to get back into the saddle
get us in trouble.”
Hosea furrows his brow. “I hardly see a bunch of dead O’Driscolls and a handful of cash trouble, Micah.”
And Micah doesn’t have an answer for that, only lifting his chin and snickering, like he’s got a winning hand and terrible poker face.
Dutch looks at you. “You got Kieran to talk?”
You nod. “All it takes is a gentle hand.”
He almost laughs at that. “You always did have a way with people, Kit,” Dutch says warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Even when they’re as stubborn as mules.” He glances at Hosea before turning to walk away. “You make sure she gets treated for that wound,” he calls over his shoulder. Micah only leers at you before going in the opposite direction. Good. You hate seeing him try to be Dutch’s shadow, even after the sun has gone down.
Hosea nods, giving you a concerned look. “He’s right, you know,” Hosea says softly, his voice low as he takes your hand. “You’ve got a knack for this, but don’t push yourself too hard.”
You smile, feeling a sense of pride. “I just want to be myself again.”
Hosea shakes his head, his expression softening. “We need to get this cleaned up before it gets infected.”
Susan nods, and gestures for Mary Beth to bring some clean cloths and whiskey. "Mary Beth, if you could also prepare some of that poultice we have in the medicine wagon and meet me by the lean-to. It’ll help with the inflammation."
Mary Beth nods firmly, bustling away to fetch the items while others clear a space around you on the table. Hosea pats your shoulder and you look up at him. You can see the relief in his eyes and you can’t help but feel a little guilty for worrying him. You watch as he walks away and gestures for the onlookers to carry on as they were.
“Come this way, Kitka,” Susan beckons, helping you stand up and walk you back to your tent. “Tilly, come with me.” She helps you sit down and without a second thought, helps you unbutton your shirt. “Let’s see how bad it is
”
As Susan carefully peels back the fabric, her hands are steady but her brow is furrowed in concentration. The cool evening air brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine from the sudden rush of cold.
“Cut through your chemise, too,” she says regretfully.
“Yes, ma’am,” you say and she gently moves the fabric around to get a better look at your wound.
Leaning back, she rolls up her sleeves, preparing to treat your wound with the practiced care of someone who's seen too many injuries in her lifetime. “Tilly, get me some water.”
Tilly nods, and turns to leave the tent just as Mary Beth returns with a bottle of whiskey, cloth, and a mortar filled with crushed herbs. Sitting down, she sets everything down beside you, and Susan takes the bottle of whiskey. You can already sense what is about to happen.
Tilly quickly returns, and stands by with a basin of warm water and the clean cloths, ready to assist.
“Ouch!” You grimace as Susan begins to clean the wound. The sharp sting of whiskey follows, making you suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
"All right, Kit," Susan sighs. “You’re going to have to hold still for just a little longer. Mary Beth, please finish mixin’ the poultice while I finish cleanin’ this up.”
Mary Beth nods, her hands deftly working the mortar, grinding the herbs with a pestle. The scent of yarrow and chamomile fills the tent, a gentle earthy aroma that contrasts the gunpowder and woodsmoke on your skin.
You’ve been treated by a doctor only recently, but somehow, nothing seems to compare to the gentle care of these three women, who have been by your side through thick and thin. Each touch and motion is infused with a kinship that no formal medical training could provide. They move around you with a seamless choreography, one born of many nights spent huddled in dimly lit tents, tending to one another's bruises and breaks.
If you had any doubts as to where you were, you don’t anymore.
You are home.
***
“Ah
! It is sooo good to be back with you all again
!” An unfamiliar voice bellows loudly into the night, causing you to rise from your rest. After being bandaged and given one of Mary Beth’s shirts to wear, you are cleaned up and ready to recover. You managed to close your eyes for just a few minutes, before the sound of hoofbeats and the loud Irish accent came storming through camp.
And, of course, you’re too curious for your own good.
Easing yourself out of your bedroll carefully, you step outside the tent, steadying yourself against the wooden pole. The camp is alive with energy, a stark contrast to the quietude that enveloped it just moments ago. Lanterns are lit, casting flickering shadows across the faces of your companions gathered around a figure near the campfire.
You see faces who weren’t there before. Charles. Javier. They are back.
And there, standing on a crate with a lopsided grin, is a red headed young man in a gray shirt. “
Uncle Sean is back! And don’t you worry, Ms. Grimshaw, old crone. I’ll keep dem girls in line, if I have to whip’em, I will
!”
Tilly, standing nearby, yells back at him. “I’d like to see you try
!”
Sean. This is Sean Macguire. But if he’s back, then

Where’s Arthur?
You look over at Charles and he meets your gaze and smiles politely. You haven’t really talked to him much, but he seems the type to be friendly when it calls for it.
Carefully holding your side, you walk over to him. “Hello, Charles.”
“Hi, Kit.” He notices your hand. “You okay?”
You shrug it off. “It’s just a grazing. I’ll manage. But
” your voice trails off as you glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one face you want to see more than any other. “Arthur—is he
?”
Charles's expression softens, understanding immediately who you're asking about. “Ah,” he says, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “He hung back for a bit. Lookin’ to see if the bounty hunters had left anything valuable.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Bounty hunters?”
Charles nods. “Mmhm. That’s how we got Sean back.” You both look back at the already inebriated Irishman, who can barely keep his balance on the crate as he raves on about how much he loves everyone and to have fun tonight. “Now I’m having second thoughts.”
You chuckle, but that causes your side to hurt more. “Ouch.”
“Hey, you should take it easy.”
“Oh, I intend to, I just wanted to see what the fuss was about before I try to get back to sleep.”
Charles shakes his head. “If you say so.”
You hear music begin to play and look to see Javier with his guitar and those gathered begin to sing. “You sing, Charles?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.” You pause, and think to ask him a question. “Do I?”
Charles raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You? Sing?" He chuckles softly, leaning back against the wagon. "Can't say I've ever heard you, but I figure if you wanted to, you'd have a voice worth listening to."
You smile tentatively, appreciative of his compliment. “I like you, Charles.”
He smiles back warmly, chuckling. "You’ve always spoken your mind, Kit. I learned that quickly when I met you six months ago.”
You tilt your head, and your smile fades. “Did I? Does that offend you?”
He looks at you funny, then shakes his head. “Of course, not. I appreciate it. You've always got a way about you that's...calming. Even in times like these."
Appreciation shadows your face as you look around at the ragged band of outlaws, finding comfort in the familiar albeit battered faces. The fire casts dancing shadows and for a brief moment, the flickering light seems to illuminate a path directly to Arthur as he strides back into the camp. Relief floods through you so powerfully that your knees nearly buckle.
Arthur's eyes search the crowd until they land on you. His stride quickens, his face a mix of concern and something deeper, softer.
But Dutch catches him, calling his name. “Arthur
!”
Arthur stops in his tracks, changing directions and walks toward the charismatic leader. “You seem to be in a good mood
”
Charles must see the dissatisfied look on your face, for he chuckles softly. “Everyone’s always fighting for his attention. But you needn't worry. He's always made time for you."
You watch as Arthur laughs at something Dutch says, throwing his head back in a display of genuine amusement that you've seldom seen recently. His laughter is a warm sound in the cool night, inviting yet somber when laced with the undercurrents of the looming dangers that shadow your gang. It's a rare sight that softens the edges of your worry for just a moment.
As the music grows louder and the singing more fervent, you feel an unfamiliar ache to join in, to let go of the burden of secrets and fears for just a little while, but you want to talk to Arthur. You have questions you want answered.
Leaving Charles, you make your way over to the rugged outlaw as he continues to converse with Dutch.
Dutch is smiling, with a newly lit cigar in his hand. “
We’re havin’ a party! We’re celebratin’!” Then just as he sees you coming, his smile dissappears. “Do you mind, Kit? Arthur’s just got back, and—”
Arthur holds out a hand, clearly trying to calm Dutch down. “No, Dutch, it’s alright.” And not waiting for a response, he turns to look at you, his eyes soft. “How’ve you been? Gettin’ along fine?”
You nod, trying to get into the conversation, despite Dutch’s intense gaze. “Yes, I have.”
“She’s been gettin’ along, alright,” Dutch quips as he begins to walk away. “Gettin’ herself shot.”
Arthur quickly looks at you, his eyes narrowing with worry. "What?" His voice rises slightly, an edge of panic threading through the gruffness.
You quickly shake your head, trying to dismiss his concern. "Arthur, it’s—it's nothing, really." You place your hand on your side, indicating where the bullet touched you.
But he’s still catching up. “You got shot?!” Arthur’s voice booms, louder than you intended, and a few heads turn in your direction. You wince, not wanting to make a spectacle, but his concern is palpable, radiating from him like the heat from the distant campfire.
“It’s just a graze,” you try to reassure him, your voice softer now.
And thankfully, he mirrors your tone, lowering his voice slightly. “When?”
“Today
”
“What happened?”
You look around, avoiding his gaze. “Erm
Well
Arthur, erm
” You tuck some loose hair behind your ear. “John, Bill, and I, we—we
We raided an O’Driscoll hideout.”
“An O’Driscoll hideout?” He steps closer to you, and you quickly pick up the familiar scent of tobacco and leather. “How did you figure out where they were?”
“Erm
Kieran told us.” You punctuate your answer as though it were a question, your heart racing at the close proximity to Arthur.
Arthur nods his head, almost approvingly. “Dutch got him to talk, huh?”
That’s when you hear John’s voice behind you. “No! She did.”
Arthur turns to look at John, his brow pinched in confusion. “What?”
“Is that all you’re here to say? ‘What?’” John chortles. “Kit’s back, Arthur! You didn’t think she was just gonna sit around and do nothin’, did you?”
Arthur looks confused, letting his head tilt backward as he eyes the two of you. “Back?” Then he looks at you, his eyes widening a little. “Y-you remember everythin’
?”
You shrug your shoulders. “Well
no
I remember a little of where I came from
and I learned what I can do with explosives and, uh, incendiary buckshot
” You look up at him and grin as you proudly list off the things that you’ve learned. “I can do all those things
!”
Arthur looks at you, almost with skepticism. “Really?”
John nods. “Yeah! She set their cabin on fire and we managed to get some money.” He holds up his beer as though to drink a toast to you. “It was a good day.” And he brings the bottle to his lips, takes a long sip, hands it to Arthur, and walks away from you to go relieve himself in the bushes outside of camp.
You look back at Arthur and he’s quiet. His gaze is piercing, as if trying to convey what he wants to say but isn’t choosing to. But you don’t like being kept in suspense. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you crazy, woman
?”
You nearly scoff, not affected by his reaction. “No
” But you still punctuate your reply as though it were a question.
He almost begins to pace, but stops to look back into your eyes as he gestures to the trees beyond the camp. “You—you just got back, still tryin’ to figure things out, and you go runnin’ off shootin’ O’Driscolls?”
You shrug. “Well
It’s better to shoot O’Driscolls than at innocent people, Arthur
!” And you think of another reason. “It helps the gang, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t answer and you can see his muscles tensing. You want to be calm and reason with this overprotective behavior he’s exhibiting. You step closer to him, but not too close. “Look, I figured that
The last time that I was able to
” You flippantly pantomime with your hands, like you are crafting something. “
whip up stuff, when I figured out any kind of skill that I had, I was in danger—”
“So you did this just to put yourself at risk, is that—is that it?”
“Yes! That is what I did
!”
Arthur throws his head back to look at the sky, chortling in a frustrated way and throws up his hands. “You’re so stubborn
!”
You rest a hand on your hip. “And you’re not?” You lean toward him, tilting your head to look at him with your right eye. “You’re not stubborn at all?” You laugh. “Arthur Morgan
! You’re one to talk!” And you laugh too hard, hurting your side. You bend into it, placing your hand on the wound. “Ow
!”
He crosses his arms, looking at you as though you kind of deserved that. “Where’d you get shot?”
And you answer pathetically. “My side.” And you try to recover with making it not so big of a deal. “It’s just a graze, the bullet barely touched my skin, I’m fine.”
Arthur begs to differ.
“You’re fine?” His voice carries a mix of anger and concern, a tone you’ve come to understand all too well. “You call bendin’ over and clutchin’ your side ‘fine’?”
You straighten up, still feeling the sting but ignoring it best you can. “Susan took care of me.” And you gesture to the campfire where Hosea sits with the others. “Hosea even said she did a good job. I’m fine.” Arthur just stares at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel that you need to be honest with him, maybe he can be convinced that you weren’t so crazy to risk your life. You begin to speak softly, almost pleading for his good nature to listen to you. “Arthur, it felt really good to do that.”
He swallows. “It did?”
“Of course, it did! I feel more at home now than I have in a while. I mean
Kieran is now one of us!”
He raises a brow. “Is he?”
“Well, he still has some earning to do, but I think people will start trusting him now.”
“You want him to stay?”
“He’s a gentle soul, Arthur.” Arthur goes quiet for a while, and you begin to question if there’s something more going on. You can't shake the feeling that something is troubling him deeply, something he isn't voicing. "Are you alright?
He looks away, then back at you, his eyes searching yours as if debating how much to reveal. Then he nods. “Yeah
We got Sean back.”
You look over to where the Irishman sits, with Karen on his lap. “Yeah, I see that,” you chuckle. “Some people seem to be happy.”
He laughs at your joke. “But not all?”
“Maybe not.”
“You remember him?”
You shake your head. “No, but I have a feeling I will regret it when I do.”
Arthur laughs and tucks his chin, saying something under his breath. “
funny
”
“What’s that?”
“I said you’ve always been funny.”
You can’t help but raise an eyebrow and tilt your head, teasingly asking, “Funny looking?”
His cheeks almost burn pink and he ducks his head again, shaking it. “No.” And as though wanting to change the subject, he quickly asks you a question. “So, how’d you handle it?”
“Handle what?”
“The O’Driscolls?”
You shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t know, it just
came natural to me.” He looks at you and you figure he’s asking for more of an explanation as he begins to take a drink of the beer in his hand. “I just saw they had three women with them
and figured if you can’t beat them, join them.”
At your words, Arthur instantly spits out his beer away from you, coughing as he tries to regain his composure. "You what?" he splutters, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
You can't help but laugh at his reaction. "Arthur, I said if you can’t beat them—"
“I heard what you said! What do you mean by that?”
The corners of your mouth twitch in amusement as you try to explain it to the concerned outlaw. “I mean, that I pretended to
be one of them!” He looks at you with great skepticism. “I’m serious! I walked up there
” And you begin to reenact the way you walked, your hips exaggeratedly swaying. “Just
like this
” And you twinge your side. “Ow
! And
and they believed it.”
He still looks at you, like you just grew another arm. “They believed it?”
“Yes! Well enough to get one to
walk into the cabin with me.” The way he looks at you is utter shock, his eyes as wide as the plains, his skin almost pale. “Why, Arthur! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
He swallows thickly, his voice a low rumble when he finally speaks. “Just
never thought you’d do somethin’ like that
”
Oh
he thinks you did it. You shake your head. “John
John said that is something that I’ve done before. Entertain and distract.”
“Well that part’s right, but, not about bringin’ men in cabins wit’chu
”
You look at him nonplussed. “Arthur, I didn’t do anything. It’s fairly simple, I knocked him out, tied him up, and threw him out the window.”
He almost looks relieved, a light chuckle breaking through his disbelief. "You threw him out the window?" he asks, sounding more amused now than anything.
"Yes, and not gently either," you admit with a shrug, feeling a flutter of pride at your own resourcefulness under pressure. Arthur shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. You remember that boy you tied up, and what happened afterward. “I want you to know
Kieran saved my life.”
Arthur's eyebrows lift, surprise momentarily displacing the earlier tension. "Kieran?" he echoes, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. His stance shifts as he grips the neck of the beer bottle, the dim light from the campfire casting shadows across his face. "How'd that happen?"
You nod as you explain. “The man I tied up? Well, I guess I didn’t tie him well enough
He could have shot me, but Kieran got to him with my own rifle.”
Arthur looks at you, surprised. “Your own gun?”
You almost roll your eyes. “Yes, my own.” You pause, remembering the weight of the rifle in your hands, how it felt like an extension of your own body. “I bought two guns, figured I should if I am going to be helping—”
He shakes his head. “No. No, you’re not gonna be doin’ that.”
“What? I just—”
“I know what you just did, but if anyone had a brain they wouldn’t have let you step near an O’Driscoll hideout.” He shakes his head. “Marston and his half-eaten
”
“I’m trying to get my memories back!”
“Risking your life? That really worth it?”
You fold your arms, not willing to relinquish your decision. “I feel like my headaches are mild in comparison to that
Arthur, it felt good to not feel like a delicate little flower. I
I don’t want to be delicate.”
Then he says something under his breath, but you catch it this time. “That’s a fact
”
“What?”
His eyes widen and he pauses, clearly trying to come up with something else. “I said
there’s a rat
!” And he points by your tent, looking at you to see if you’ve bought it.
You cross your arms. “That isn’t what you said.”
Not denying it, he lifts his brow. “Will you take it then?”
Indignant, you lift your chin. “I don’t know if I want to. You seem to do that when you don’t want to answer questions you don’t want to answer. Like a couple days ago.”
He sighs, clearly understanding what you’re talking about. “I had to go.”
“Oh, you did? You couldn’t just stay for a few minutes to talk to me?” He avoids your gaze for a minute. He’s doing it again. “Arthur Morgan, if we grew up together, that might as well make us friends, right?” You pause, but he doesn’t answer. “Right?”
He sighs, relenting, and he closes his eyes as he tucks his chin. “Right.”
You grin, satisfied that he agrees with you instead of making up an excuse. “Okay, then. So if I ask a question, you just say that you don’t want to talk about it instead of slopping off on me like that. Fair?”
“Fair.” And after a moment, his eyes soften and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re talkin’ different.”
“What?” Your brow pinches and after thinking about it, you begin to wonder if it’s true. “Have I always talked
different?”
“No, you’re just
soundin’ more like yourself.”
You smile and you can’t help but feel something. Relief? Flattered? You aren’t sure, but you’ll take it. “I guess that’s a compliment?”
He blinks softly, his blue-green eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. It is.”
A silence falls between you, letting the sounds of the singing and partying waft over to you. As the sound of raucous laughter and the strum of a guitar drift closer, you feel a strange mix of comfort and unease; it's like stepping back into a life that both is and isn't yours. Arthur watches you, his gaze fixed as if trying to read your thoughts from across the small space between you.
“Arthur
?”
He nods at you, speaking more calmly than before. “Yeah?”
You swallow, nervous about asking the question that is begging to force its way out. You’ve asked a similar question to the girls but you feel more anxious this time, for whatever reason. “Were we close?”
His intense gaze flickers back and forth between you and the dense forest behind you. The dancing flames of the fire can break bye to cast shadows across his face, adding depth to the already visible lines of worry etched into his skin. You can feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging in the air between you. "What do you mean?" he finally asks.
"I mean...were we close? Did we have deep conversations? Share secrets?" Your impatience seeps through your words as you lean against the table, watching him closely. He falls silent, causing your impatience to grow even more. "Arthur?" you prompt him.
Finally, he answers with a flippant tone. "We grew up together."
But that response isn't enough for you. "That's what you always say. I want to know if there are things that I told you that I didn't tell anyone else." Your voice betrays a hint of desperation as you search his face for any signs of recognition or understanding.
“Maybe.” There is a heaviness in his answer, a sort of resignation, but it still maintains a vagueness that bothers you.
You’re eager to know and so you reply quickly. “Like what?”
Then he stammers, his words coming out in a jumbled mess. “I-I-I don’t know! I don’t know what you may have told anyone else.”
Your eagerness deflates and your brow furrows in frustration. “That’s not helpful at all.”
He responds with agitation, as if nothing ever pleases you. “Well, I’m sorry.” But then his expression softens and he lets out a remorseful sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Arthur, I just want to be normal.”
He lets out a rough chuckle. “We ain’t normal, Kit.”
“You—Well, I hoped you knew what I meant
!” You roll your eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh, fully aware of the fact that you are both wanted outlaws. “I want to be myself again. I feel like I’ve been getting closer and closer
” The weight of your words hangs in the air, the unspoken truth of the necessity of your memories constantly weighing down on you.
He clears his throat, encouraging you to talk with a gesture of his hand. “Well, what parts do you remember? What parts of you spurred on besides relearnin’ your skill set?”
“Well, for one thing, I grew up in a circus.”
He nods, his brows lifted in a soft surprise. “That’s true.”
You’re almost astonished, glad that your mind wasn’t actually playing tricks on you. “Really? That’s true?”
He smiles softly. “Yeah.”
And then, suddenly, you begin to hear a gramophone playing, a light waltz music sweeping through the night air. Dutch steps out of his tent, finding Molly and asks her to dance.
You look back at the tired cowboy sitting next to you. “Do you dance, Arthur?”
He leans back, caught off guard by your question. “Me?” He looks away bashfully. “Hardly much of a dancer.”
You look on and watch the two dancers, smiling as a memory brings itself to the forefront of your thoughts. “I remember dancing.”
“Do you?” After thinking about it, he nods. “Oh, that’s right, you told me.”
“Yes, I think it was my family. The circus? I think we were all dancing in a circle. I was little then.” You laugh at the thought. “I practically danced around today, doing backflips for the O’Driscolls.”
He gazes off into the distance, his expression wistful as he reminisces. “Yeah, you were pretty good at those.”
You turn to him with a quizzical look. “Was I?”
He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Mhm. You tended to use it a lot when you were tryin’ to get people to look the other way.” He sits down at the nearby table, finally relaxing after a long day of dealing with bounty hunters and Sean Macguire. “We could always count on you to do that.”
You sit next to him and you let out a sigh. “People don’t seem to want to count on me now.” You can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment and uncertainty in your abilities, even with what you were able to accomplish today.
Arthur looks at you softly, with empathy. “That ain’t true.”
His words offer a semblance of comfort, but the skepticism lingers in your heart, like a stubborn stain. “Is it though?” You go quiet for a moment and glance over at the dancing couple again, Dutch and Molly’s movements fluid and synchronous under the ethereal moonlight. “I just want people to trust me.”
He sets the beer bottle on the table, his attention seeming to have drifted elsewhere. His eyes scan the camp, taking in everything with a sense of unease. “Seems like people should be wantin’ that from you.”
You look at him, raising an eyebrow and speak with a hint of skepticism in your voice. “Really? You mean who should I trust?”
His gaze meets yours, a flicker of earnestness softening the rugged lines of his face, his sincerity surprising you. “Exactly.”
A small laugh escapes your lips as you look away. “Even within the gang?” you ask, half-jokingly.
But his response is serious and unwavering. “Shoah. You never know what things’ll do to people.” The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, reminding you of the constant danger and unpredictability that comes with this type of life.
“I see
” Your voice falls to a hush as you process his words. You can feel his gaze on you, waiting for a response. After a moment, you decide to lighten the mood, going back to something you were talking about. “Anyway, so, you don’t dance.”
He lifts a hand in response, as though it will sway you from the topic. “I never said I don’t dance.”
You lift your chin and look at him through half-lidded eyes. “So you do dance?”
He chortles. “I’m just not a good dancer.” The twinkle in his eyes tells you there may be more to it than he’s letting on.
“Can I be the judge of that?” Easing yourself off the chair without too much protest from your sore body, you turn around and offer a hand to him, his marine eyes staring into yours. “Will you dance with me?”
He hesitates, offering an excuse as his gaze flickers down to your side. “With your injury?”
You pout, a soft plea in your voice as you drop your arm. “Arthur, please.”
He scoffs, clearly torn between concern for your well-being and his own inner feelings. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
But you’re determined, knowing that this moment may never come again. “I don’t want to be delicate.” He is quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that you can’t quite place, but you feel something in your stomach, something warm and cold, heavy and light at the same time. “I’m not going to snap in two, I can bend backwards whenever I want.”
He chortles, tucking his head almost bashfully. “Yeah. Shoah.”
You offer your hand again. “Arthur
Will you dance with me?”
His reluctance begins to melt away at the desperation in your voice and he finally gives in, taking your outstretched hand and leading you away from the table and to a better spot. The music swells and envelops you as you guide his hand to your waist, the uninjured side, of course, and you take his other hand in yours.
The music, a soft, haunting melody that seems to drift on the evening breeze, wraps around you both like a whisper. Arthur's hand is steady on your waist, surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature and reputation. His other hand grips yours, fingers interlaced with a firmness that speaks of protectiveness rather than possessiveness.
You look up into his eyes, intending on being light and humorous, but you can’t find it in you. And you see it in his eyes, too.
Something about the way the moonlight catches his gaze, lends a vulnerability to his rugged features that tugs at your heart. He’s a mystery, and unlike your memories, it isn’t something you can throw danger at to get it to confess.
So, at least for now, you will let it go and let him hold you.
Thank you for reading!
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arthursfuckinghat · 8 months ago
Text
Thinking about the tragedy of the corrupted father and the abandoned sons.
Arthur watched the man he thought of as a father crumble like the dying embers of a campfire, each spark a piece of trust just lost to the wind.
And it gnawed at him, the man who once gave him purpose had led him into shadows, leaving him to face the embrace of death alone.
Dutch turned his back on Arthur, and then turned his back again to John.
The weight of love, trust, and loss all rolled into one painful spiral. The cycle carried on.
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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 9 months ago
Text
˖✧ Through my eyes
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✩ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✩ Summary: Karen explains Mary and Arthur's story to you. Saddened, you're convinced you could never compete with her until the man in question proves you wrong. ✩ Warnings/Tags: Self-depreciation from both sides, kissing, comfort, fluff. Reader has been with the gang for a year. Use of Y/N. ✩ Words: 3k ✩ a/n: This is the answer to this ask by the lovely @crystalofmoon19. I really hope you'll like it, dear! And thank you for your support, you've been really sweet to me and my work! As always, I got carried away and wrote way too much. And as always, please reach out to me if you spot any misspellings. Also idk why I made this in Colter, guess I just feel way too hot rn and want some fresh snow + Arthur's coat is perfect for comfort. Credits. Arthur's pic is from my playthrough. Other pics are not mine found them on Pinterest. AO3
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“And in the end, she rejected his proposal, then a few months later, sent him a letter telling she was marrying some wealthier gentleman!”
Your mouth hangs open in the air. Karen’s words enter through your ears and create a nice little nest for themselves in your brain. You had no idea. No idea Arthur had been this close to being married. That their relationship had been so strong, that, according to hearsays, he had reached his lowest after their break up, drunk most part of the day, fighting the rest of the time, obnoxious to everyone, even Dutch and Hosea.
“Y/N? You’re okay, there?” Karen asked you, disappointed her big reveal had left you reactionless.
You focused your gaze back on her. Her blonde hair is softly litten up by the setting sun, her breath exhaling a puff of steam as she breathes. Colter is a cold place, and it probably felt even colder because of the morose mood of the gang. You suddenly remember you’re supposed to be shocked. You are, of course, but in a very bad way. Not in an “Oh my God, I can’t believe this Karen, so much gossip!” kind of way.
How could you ever compete with that?
“Yeah, I’m alright. God, I had no idea so much happened between them.”
“Oh, trust me, it was definitely his biggest love story. Never saw him get into someone else after her. Not even Mary-Beth! Could you believe that?”
No, you couldn’t. You weren’t sure why but every word from Karen felt like an enormous stone falling into your belly and dragging you deeper and deeper into the sea. Your silly little crush on Arthur, when you first joined the gang a year ago, had turned into a way stronger attraction. Denying it at first, you had little by little let your emotions win, cherishing every moment with him, thanking Dutch for assigning both of you to the same missions, loving the quiet evenings where he would just sit next to you around the campfire to scribble in his journal while you would do your little hobby on your own. Silent most, but enjoying each other’s company, and so, so peaceful.
More than your emotions, you even had let your imagination take the lead, dreaming about a selfish future with him, seeing it every time he would give you a smile, or laugh at one of your jokes. A happy Arthur, relieved from his obligations, enjoys life's simplest joys. A house, a garden. Maybe a dog, considering he had loved having Copper. A marriage even. And why not a child? If he would feel ready. Something in you was telling you he would be a good father.
But now, you felt like this dream was rotten, condemned.  Like a broken match. The fire, the very thing it’s designed for,  not being able to be lit. Would never be lit. A wasted potential.
You tried to continue your gossiping chat with Karen, voice light but gaze elusive as you peeled the potatoes you were supposed to prepare while discussing, tedious tasks often ended up less difficult this way when you were working with the other girls. But behind your seemingly normal smile and hollow words, a haunting thought was hanging on to you as strongly as a rock trapped in a thousand-year-old iceberg. 
Arthur never fell in love again after Mary Linton.
Night had definitely fallen on the frozen mountains. After your endless vegetables centered-chores, you had helped Mr. Pearson turning them into a decent meal, his incessant blattering about the Navy giving you some sort of distraction. During dinner and after though, once you didn’t have any goal or job left to do for the day, your conversation with Karen came back into your wandering mind, her speech playing again and again like a used gramophone record.
Never fell in love again...
Sitting at one of the corners of the big cabin you had been sleeping in for the past few days along with the girls and some other gang members which mainly served as a common space, you were looking outside by a dilapidated window. A frozen World spread out before your eyes, every inch of surface covered in snow and ice, the landscape ending up looking like it was coated with a thick strange substance —dark blue colors Queen of this gloomy, misty horizon.
Arthur had returned from a very busy hunting day with Charles. Thanks to them, meat had been added to the vegetable paradise of a meal, resulting in a better-than-usual supper. He should have felt cheerful, but his mood wouldn't lighten. 
He had spotted you from across the room, noticing the hurtful absence of your smile on these sweet lips of yours. Smile he secretly loved. Lips he secretly fancied. 
Hesitating for a long moment, debating with himself, a self-depreciative rambling turning in his head like a well-oiled motor, he had ultimately decided to join you and investigate. Something pretty important must been bothering you, because loosing your usual little grin and eating your plate all by yourself really wasn't in your habits.
Approaching you, his boots and spurs clicking and stomping before you could see him, he plants them in front of you, standing there while his eyes lock on your face.
“Miss Y/L/N? Is everythin’ okay?”
“Oh, Mr Morgan. Yeah, don’t worry. Everything is great.”
He doesn’t believe you and honestly, you wouldn’t have convinced yourself either. And Arthur is a stubborn man. A stubborn, and caring one. He leans against the cabin's old creaky walls, on the other side of the window.
“Come on, don’t lie t’me girl. Everyone noticed you’re not in your right mind.” He honestly doesn’t know about everyone, but he surely did. His words are accompanied by a small, polite smile.
“I don’t think
 I don’t think you’re the right person to talk about it.”
Arthur’s entire body froze. The hands he had on his belt as always when he was comfortable, flew to his chest as he crossed his arms, his thick winter coat folding with difficulty. His encouraging smile flattened, his brows pleating in a harsh frown.
“Erm
 Alright, I get it. I won’t bother you, I guess.” 
Without loosening his arms, he pushed himself from the wall, taking a step to leave you some space. You couldn’t have missed it. This change of behavior, the hurtful expression he had displayed, as if he was truly pained by your words. Disappointed, maybe even shameful to have thought he could help you at all. He was just a sad, ugly bastard, after all.
You felt like you could hear all of it from where you were, and see it in the shadow that had taken his face and the gigantic mass that seemed to have fallen on his shoulders.
No, you didn’t want this. Didn’t want him to feel like that because of you and your stupid feelings, or your own dark thoughts.
“Wait, Arthur!”
He turned around the second you talked again.
“I’m sorry it’s just
” You sigh and look at him with an uncertain expression, knowing your next words were going to be risky. “It’s about you and Mary Linton
”
His eyes turn into two literal plates, his mouth slightly opening in outer astonishment. This was really not what he had in mind. You could have been sad because of a hundred logical reasons, the death of Davey and the loss of Sean and Mac, the complete fiasco of Blackwater, the hundred of dollars lost, the terrible and tough conditions of the Grizzlies plunging everyone into an unbearable cold and a threatening famine.  Not mentioning Hosea’s alarming coughing, Dutch’s mysterious decisions, and Micah as a whole.
But you, out of all these things, were worried about Mary.
Once his eyes had grown as round as they could, they got back into an interrogative expression, the wave of surprise over.
“Wha’
?! How d’ya even know ‘bout her?”
“Karen speaks a lot when she’s bored
” You briefly explained, trying to sound detached.
Arthur rolls his eyes to the Heavens. Of course, folks talked, and you had to know about it all at some point. But this wasn’t ideal at all. He would have preferred to tell it to you himself, at a time he would have felt comfortable doing so, with his own words. He didn’t want this to change anything between the two of you.
“And erm
 What exactly bothers ya?”
You open your mouth to speak, but your words are jammed. Explaining that you feel jealous of what the both of them had shared would just come down to confessing your feelings for him plain and simple. 
You felt completely stuck. 
He’s right there before your eyes, the very source of all your worries and your every joy. Looking at you with those confused blue eyes, wondering what is happening in this pretty head of yours. But the words still won’t come out.  You feel more and more powerless, and instead of a sound, your eyes take over to get something out of your body, slow and sad tears filling them like a lonely glacier fills a mountain lake on its own.
Arthur’s usual frown furrows, his wrinkles more visible, contrasted by the shadows from the warm lights of the fire. Suddenly, his internal melancholic speech shuts down, as if the view of a single tear streaming down your cheek were absolutely intolerable to him. No worries nor anxious self-restraints crosses his mind —it’s now only instinct. He sees you crying. He has to help you. This is as easy as that.
His right hand reaches to you by itself.
It feels warm but coarse. This big, big hand on the side of your face.
“Oh, Y/N. Don’t waste those pretty tears for a sour-faced idiot like me.” His thumb gently wipes the drops of sadness that had overflowed from your two delicate lakes. “Come on, les’ jus’ talk about this somewhere quiet.”
Arthur gently uses the hand he had on your cheek to wrap it around your shoulders, solid arm gently pushing you up. He then leads you through the door, other members throwing curious gazes at the both of you.
But he doesn’t care. His priority, right now, is your well-being, and some privacy to allow him to finally whisper things in your ears he should have a long time ago. Not in front of everyone. Not with the other men looking at your sparkling eyes, and listening to the change in his voice he knew would crack, his usual intimidating persona crushed into a million pieces with only the sound of your own. Or with the other girls hearing the oh-so-important words he had to say. No. You would be the only one to witness this. 
He had brought you to the barn where the horses were kept. The snow was falling lazily, a few flakes passing through the holes in the dilapidated roof. The place is enveloped in a heavy silence, as if it was muffling every sound coming from the outside.
Once Arthur had closed the big wooden doors behind you and before he could do anything else, you finally burst.
“I shouldn't cry, I’m so sorry Arthur, I just
 She looked like an incredible woman, so beautiful a-and distinguished, and me well
 I'm just
 me.” Your eyes fell to your feet. You like everything was coming out of you all at once and you couldn't contain it anymore.
“Stop it.” 
“How could I ever mean something to you? You've been with her for so long and even proposed to her and
 and never fell in love again after her and
”
“Stop it, Y/N!”
Arthur cut your blabbering panic by pulling you against him. He held you so tightly you were almost crushed by his powerful arms, but it felt so good. Like he was holding together all the little pieces of you that had cracked, melting them with his warmth and molding yourself again with it.
“Now you l’sten to me, sweetheart. I don’t want ya to say things like this ever again.”
The sudden use of the pet name soothed your heart immediately. You buried your face into the furred collar of his big winter coat, the hairs tickling your nose. There, you can feel a little bit of his bare skin, your cheek finding shelter against it.
You stopped talking.
You just wanted him to continue to. His deep voice seemed to come directly from the inside of his chest, and you could feel it vibrating before actually hearing it.
“Ya know I’m no
 Am no poet or, or good with words like Dutch
” He started, visibly unsure of what he was going to say. He’s relieved he had initiated the hug, this way, with your face in there, you couldn’t see his. The worried expression it was carrying, like a burden. “But lemme tell ya just how much I care about ya. Oh, my sweet girl.” 
This is it. He tries not to but his low tone begins to tremble. It’s so strange. It feels like forever since that happened for the last time.
“Yeah, Mary has been a real’ important part of my life, I won’t lie to ya. But it was so long ago, gorgeous. So long ago.” 
He knows he won’t shed a tear. He never cries. But his hands shake. His vocal cords vibrate in a vulnerable, softer, and higher-pitched quaver. His body tenses, heart as fast as if racing with a million wild horses galloping in the Great Plains. Even if his words couldn’t explain just how much you meant to him, you could have guessed by how you were affecting his entire flesh.
“Ya know what? It’s true. Our story ended badly. I never fell in love again after her.”
You sigh, more tears wetting your face and his blue coat, this truth so hard to swallow.
“Until that morning, when I saw you brushing Boadicea’s mane; your hair all covered in hay, the brightest smile I ever had the chance to witness on that sweet face o’ yours. That day, I knew my stupid foolish heart had done it all over again.”
You let out a single chuckle mixed with tears and emotions, so relieved. Even when you felt like you were at your lowest, he succeeded at making you smile.
“Grimshaw had forced me to groom all the gang’s horses to “get used to camp’s work”. Must have looked terrible.” You remembered with a smile, details of your first encounter with Arthur flooding your mind.
“You looked like a goddamn Angel, honey. T’was like the sun was shining jus’ for ya. Jesus, I knew it was too late for me.”
You pulled back from him just a little, enough for you to look at him in the eyes, but not for him to let go of you. Now that they had found you, his hands, still slightly quivering, refused to let go, their place on your back and behind your head feeling so natural and right. Your eyes behave the same way as them but with his face. He looks so moved that you have to pinch yourself internally to make sure you’re not dreaming this whole thing; never in your life you had seen him like this.
“I love you too, Arthur.” You confessed back to him, fingers cupping his cheeks in a delicate touch.
You had to stand on your tiptoes to reach his face, but his arm helped you, your lips gently discovering themselves, brushing against each other in a soft and shy caress. Even if both your mouths were chapped by the biting cold, it was the most gentle kiss you had shared in your life, a satiny embrace that left you completely dreamy and light-headed.
The snowflakes silently swirl around the both of you, Nature the only witness of your souls melting into each other.
Opening your eyes again after this moment out of time, you're met with the happiest smile Arthur ever had on his face. He looked like and idiot in love, and you were sure you looked exactly the same.
“Please darlin’, don’t ever compare yourself to her ever again. What’s in the past stays there. And I wanna have a future with you.”
Your dreams sprang back straight from your heart to your mind. The visions you had about the both of you were more alive than ever, reinforced by his own needs shared with yours.
“You’re sweet, you’re funny, you’re so smart and stunningly gorgeous. And, you wan’ a proof?” He playfully asks you, taking his hat off his head, a thin layer of snow falling from it.
Turning it over, he carefully pull a piece of paper out, hidden between two leathered segments in the inner part of his hat. His cut and reddened fingers unfold it and he gives it to you, his big smile turning into an embarrassed and sheepish one.
It’s a sketch of you.
You’re mesmerized by the details of it, the blades of hay messily tangled in your hair, the sparkling in your eyes, the exact clothes you were wearing that day. This smile, you’re more than certain he drew it way more beautiful than it really is. Arthur even had added some lines traced from your head to the end of the paper, as if you were the Sun itself and were emitting your own light.
This was impossible this was the same person as you, her beauty was too radiant and fascinating.
But no matter what you thought about yourself, seeing his work curled your lips in the exact same way as yourself on the drawing. With snowflakes replacing the twigs, you had turned into the living recreation of it. Arthur laughed when he noticed, and realized just how much he had loved you and continued to since that morning from a year ago. He bent towards you to put a small kiss on your forehead.
“Arthur it’s
 It’s beautiful.” You find it difficult to find another word, speechless once again. 
You also had no idea of how talented at drawing nor attracted to you he was. This day definitely was full of surprises. You chuckled fondly before taking a last look at your portrait and giving it back to your lover. But Arthur’s large palm wrapped around your hand.
“No, please, keep it. This way, you’ll always remember how you look through my eyes.”
More tears threaten to escape your own, even though those were a direct extract from the immeasurable happiness you were experiencing.
“And... Now that I don’t have to hide myself while sketching ya, I’m going to draw lots of new ones.”
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tagging: @a-court-of-valkyries Thank you for reading all of this! Also, I didn't know this was a thing but if ever you want to be tagged in my works too, let me know! It would be my pleasure.
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fawnwilde · 3 months ago
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Taboo prologue .đ–„” ʁ ˖
various x reader
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◃◃ [chapters] â–čâ–č
rating: explicit (18+)
You're a wild woman. Used to living outdoors, fighting to survive, with only your horse to keep you company.
A chance encounter with O'driscolls and their prisoners changes your life forever...
content warning: f reader, sfw (for now), violence, O'driscolls, blood and injury, no description of reader but she's badass
word count: 3.1k
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You had been alone for a long time.
Your mother was dead, your father up and left, and whatever other family you had wanted nothing to do with you.
For a while, you lived in your mother’s home, a small cabin nestled in the mountains in North Carolina. You hunted for food with a bow like your mother taught you, you sewed hides together into coats like your mother taught you

You tried to survive like your mother taught you.
But then those men came knockin.
Beady eyed and snarling like wolves. Hollering at you and brandishing guns, threatening your life, your livelihood and your dignity. They wore green scarves around their necks, one of which became stained with blood when you stabbed one in the throat.
The first life you took.
Your home was left in your dust as you ran away, holding the dead man’s gun to your chest like a child would hold a stuffed toy. Your muscles ached and your bare feet bled by the time you stopped running, far away from the home you once knew.
And so, your life in the wilderness began.
Your life was harsh. Nights spent sleeping on harsh ground, hunting whatever you could, scavenging abandoned homes, and occasionally and reluctantly stealing from unfortunate travellers.
A few years had passed since your mother’s death and your home was invaded, and memories of her and your life before grew fainter and fainter, like ink on paper diluted by rain.
By looking at a calendar hung upon the wall of a newly abandoned house, you knew that your teenage years had passed you, but your age was a mystery.
Hell, your own name was a mystery now, after all these years of no one calling you anything.
A few months ago, you had broke a wild horse you had had your eyes on for a while. Your giant mahogany draft horse, who you named Bo, was now your only force against your solitude.
You, an unnamed and untamed girl, and Bo, a wild and viscous stallion, against the world.
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You had been following the small group of O’driscolls for a few days, keeping far enough to avoid being spotted but close enough to collect their scraps when they were forgetful.
The men had a shootout early that day, and had taken the five men they fought hostage. Unusual, you thought, as the O’driscolls were often very consistent with their methods of operation.
Their methods being; killing most anything that breathes.
Watching from the branch of a large tree, your eyes wandered over the small makeshift camp the O’driscolls set up. A dozen of them were wandering around, either eating, drinking, standing watch, or harassing their captured. You were too far to hear, but could see their foul mouths spit out words at the men.
As the sun began to set, you readied yourself, your plan perfected after all these years of payback against the O’driscolls by causing chaos and stealing their supplies.
Not the revenge you wished for, but it was all you could do.
Leaving Bo not too far, you ventured towards their camp.
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Arthur Morgan sneered at the O’driscoll who stood before him, taunting him in amongst questions about their groups whereabouts. The rope holding his wrists chafed against his flesh, a grimace making his face ache.
He was surprised they hadn’t killed them yet.
From their questions, he assumed they would be used against Dutch, who was at camp a few miles back. They’d been captured close to Clemens Point, but gathering from the conversations between the O'driscolls, they didn't know that.
Beside Arthur, Hosea was coolly talking to their captors, expertly attempting to manipulate the situation in their favour. It seemed to be working, to a degree.
The other men captured, Charles, Sean and Micah were silent beside the two, their minds at work (well, Charles mind was at work). Arthur was just pleased Sean hadn’t said anything to aggravate the O’driscolls more. Yet.
The rodent-like man in front of him yawned and left them at last. Not before spitting at their bound feet, of course. Hosea sighed, and Arthur scoffed.
A sharp noise erupted close to camp, the sound of something metal colliding with something wooden.
It sent the horses into a panic, two of which were untethered, and caused them to start to flee. The O’driscolls flew into action, some trying to gather the horses, others seeking out the source of the noise.
“Wonder what that’s all about then?” Sean grumbles, struggling against his binds.
Arthur huffs, shifting around to get in a more comfortable position on the floor.
Movement catches his eye, and he watches as a shadowed figure sprints through the camp, grabbing guns, ammunition, food and anything else they find out in the open.
At first, Arthur thinks it's a panicked member of the enemy gang, grabbing supplies in case the group needed to leave the area.
But as the individual steps out into the light of the camp fire, Arthur’s eyes widen when he realises it's a woman.
She's young, pretty but unkempt, wild looking from her tangled hair to mismatched clothes. She grabs a canteen of water before her eyes snap to the group, freezing when she notices she's been spotted.
“Who the hell is that?!” Micah whispers none too quietly, before being shushed by the Hosea.
“Yer not one of them are ya?” Sean calls out to her.
“Great observation, Sean.” Sighs Arthur, as he shuffles around to look at the girl directly.
“Can you release us? Please?” Hosea requests.
She looks between them, biting her lip as she weighs out her options.
Clearly, they weren't innocent victims of the O'driscolls. From their empty holsters to their grizzled looks, the girl seemed wary to release them in case, by some insane happenstance, these men turned out to be worse than the ones holding them.
Her time to think was cut short, as distant voices began to grow louder. Arthur looks over to see the O’driscolls coming back to their section of the camp.
“They’re coming back. You need to go, now!” Arthur warns, his voice quiet but his urgency clear.
“Go?!” Micah snapped, “Nah, help us, now!”
“Shuddup, Micah.” Arthur grumbled, nodding at the girl to run.
She looked between the men, looking nervous and apologetic before rushing back into the thick trees.
“Who the fuck were you talking to?!” One of the O’driscolls yelled as he ran past, holding his rifle up and aimed at the bound men.
“What, a man can’t pray when he’s sentenced to death now?” Sean gripes.
“Save your praying for when the real hurt begins.” The O’driscoll sneers, “Though, I don’t think God listens much to the likes of you-”
As the man starts ranting about the near future of the Van Der Linde boys, Arthur’s gaze slides to the distant, faint glow of a lantern growing brighter.
His eyes widen as he realises that it is not, in fact, a lantern, but one of the O’driscolls tents, fire covering its back and spreading fast.
The O’driscoll doesn't notice as his silhouette begins to be illuminated by a rising fire in their camp.
“Ya might want’a deal with that.” He says, nodding to the tent, which is near engulfed in flames as the harsh evening winds begin stoking the fire.
The O’driscoll narrows his eyes, before peering over his shoulder, his body going taunt with fear as he watches the flames catch on surrounding tents and dried leaves.
“Fire! Fire!” He yells out, scampering away like a terrified rat.
Other shouts surround them as more of the O’driscolls notice their tents ablaze. The camp is a symphony of chaos as the men rush to grab water and put out the growing flames, unsuccessfully.
The horses whinny in fear. Some of the men mount and desert the camp, much to the annoyance at the others trying to fight the flames.
Amongst the panic, Arthur feels the binds on his wrists being jostled. He feels the sharp coolness of a blade, and the ropes are loose. He looks over his shoulder, surprised to see the girl nod to him before she moves to Hosea’s ties.
“Thank you.” Arthur says, untying his ankles while he looks back at the flames, “You do that?”
“What, you think it was a coincidence?” She asks, releasing Hosea and moving to Charles.
The fire grows higher, as a wagon erupts in a haze of bright orange.
“That’s dangerous, the dry leaves will keep the fire spreading throughout the woods.” Charles says, concerned.
“A storm is coming. The rain will stop it from spreading too far.” The girl says calmly, as she focuses on cutting through the rope holding Sean’s wrists.
“How do you know that-” Begins Arthur, before a rumble of thunder silences him.
She shrugs, “The clouds.”
With Sean now freed, with a too-loud holler from the Irishman, she begins on Micah’s binds, though more hastily as the voices of the O’driscolls seem to get louder.
“Oi! What the fuck?!” An Irish voice shouts as a trio of O’driscolls turn the corner and spot the scene playing out. Their guns are quickly raised, and the girl’s eyes grow panicked.
Charles charges on the men, punching one in the jaw as he takes his rifle from him, throwing it to Hosea as he fights the much smaller man. Sean and Arthur ready to fight, relief flooding them as Micah is finally freed and blood thirsty.
“Thank you for your help.” Hosea yells to the woman.
“Don’t speak so soon, mister.” She calls back, a small smile flashing on her face as she slings the rifle off her back and aims.
She gets one of the offending men in the neck, halting him from shooting Sean point blank. The second O’driscoll lies motionless on the floor as Charles wipes his bloodied knuckles, and Arthur quickly dispatches the final one, snapping his neck with a final ‘snap’.
“Where did you come from, lass?” Sean chuckles, looking her up and down, “I’ve half a mind to propose t'ya.”
“Jesus, Sean.” Arthur sighs, grabbing a fallen gun and reloading it.
More shouts surround them, and Arthur has no time to turn before a shot rings out, closely followed by another.
He spins, finding their saviour gripping her arm, her gun discarded. Blood seeps through her fingers, as she looks down at the O’driscoll who shot her, and lost his life for it.
From the position of the man’s body, to the closeness of the girl to himself, Arthur realises that she took a bullet meant for him.
But before he can thank her, she’s whistling out, and a behemoth of a horse comes sailing through the trees, whinnying at the chaos. It ducks down, eagerly accepting the girl who leaps on, her face pale as she holds her bleeding shoulder.
“Wait-!” Arthur tries, but the horse interrupts him, speeding away in a flash of mahogany fur, leaving the men watching in confusion and concern.
“She get shot?” Hosea asks, watching the retreating horse disappear into the shadows.
“Yeah. Think she took a bullet for me.” Arthur grumbles, guilt lodging firm in his chest.
“We should go after her, help her.” Sean suggests.
“There’s more coming!” Micah yells, shooting and felling a stray O’driscoll.
“We should go. There’s too many for us to fight now, and when the storm comes in it’ll be even harder to defend ourselves.” Charles says.
He and Micah sprint away into the night, followed by Sean. Arthur stares at the forest where the woman disappeared, before Hosea grabs him and tugs him away from the angered O'driscolls.
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The storm cleared in three hours.
The group made it back to Clemens Point on foot in two. The group were welcomed with concern and confusion about their disappearance, but Arthur was too focused on going back out to find their injured saviour.
Hosea explains what happened to Dutch, who seethes at what could have happened if there hadn't been someone to intervene. He watches as Arthur and Charles go to their horses as the rain ceases.
“Arthur! Get back here-”
Despite Dutch’s orders, Arthur mounts his horse, with Charles in tow, and they sprint off to look for the mysterious stranger who saved them.
Hosea sighs, shaking his head as he tells Dutch he's going to take a nap.
Dutch is left alone in the middle of camp, wondering when he lost all control of his gang. With a huff, he stalks off, needing time to himself to ponder.
He finds himself at the edge of camp, puffing on a cigar as he looks out at the views Clemens Point has to offer.
It's peaceful.
But nothing peaceful lasts, it seems.
A horse nickers nearby, too far from where the horses were posted to be one of their own. Dutch brandishes his weapon swiftly, holding it up as he scans the area.
The trees are quiet, only the whistle of the wind and chirping of birds accompany his tense breaths.
Another whinny, and Dutch begins approaching the trees, steady strides with his gun held parallel to his face. Whoever was sneaking around their camp, O’driscoll or vagrant or squirrel, would not escape his notice.
Pushing through the shrubbery, he spots the horse in question in a small clearing.
It’s stressed, kicking its legs and nosing at something on the ground. A large beast, dark fur and long, strong legs. No saddle, but a makeshift set of reins hang loosely around its neck.
Taking near silent steps, Dutch scanned the area, spotting no nearby rider or any sign of disturbance beside trampled ground where the horse had come from.
His eyebrows furrow as he spots drops of blood dotting the green leaves.
A twig snaps underfoot, and the horse looks up, dark eyes locking right onto Dutch. The horse seems wild, and startled, but it did not approach, merely letting out more distressed noises. Dutch continues his approach, lifting up his other hand to display his palm in a calming manner.
“You hurt, boy?” He asks gently. His words were obviously lost on the horse, but he found himself talking nonetheless.
There were no scratches on the horse's coat. His eyes scan down, to see if his hooves were what was injured.
But his eyes widen when he sees a bundle of clothes in a heap in front of the horse. It moves, groaning slightly, dirty hair and an ashen face coming into view.
He hurries his steps, holstering his gun and keeping one hand out to calm the stallion. It whinnies as Dutch gets closer, but makes no move to charge.
Crouching at the figure's side, Dutch carefully turns them over.
The pretty face of a young girl came into view, her skin clammy and eyes closed, mouth parted in grimace. Her hand is covered in red from where she holds her arm.
Dutch gently takes her hand, peeling it away to inspect the wound. A large gash from a bullet stares back at him, bleeding profusely and staining her already dirty clothes. He winces slightly, and the girl’s hand seeks out his own. He takes it, shushing her gently.
“You’re alright now, I’m gonna help you.”
Looking up at the horse, as if asking for permission, he gently takes her in his arms. The horse snorts, but does not stop him, so he hoists her up, supporting her weight in his strong arms.
She looks so fragile, hands grasping onto his shirt as she whines in pain, and he murmurs gentle words to her, storming back towards camp with the horse on his heels.
Pearson looks up as Dutch jogs through the shrubbery, doing a double take when he takes in the bloodied figure in his arms, “What the hell
?”
“Where’s Miss Grimshaw? Grimshaw!” Dutch yells, causing more heads to turn within the camp. Everyone seems alert as they take in the situation.
“What in the hell?! Who is that?!” Dutch hears Grimshaw before he sees her, listening to her rush towards him.
“Found her in the woods. She’s shot, bleeding pretty bad.” He makes a beeline for his own tent, wasting no time.
Grimshaw calls for Tilly and Mary-Beth, sending the camp into a flurry of movement as the girls gather water and rags. Others stand around, curious and confused.
“Kieran, see to the horse.” Dutch instructs, leaving the ex-O’driscoll looking wide-eyed at the giant beast, who snorts and kicks its hooves anxiously.
Stepping into his tent, Dutch lays the girl down on his cot, stepping back for Mrs Grimshaw to prod at the wound and shout instructions at Tilly and Mary-Beth.
The tent opens again, and Hosea enters with a concerned expression. His eyes fill with realisation when he looks down at the injured woman.
“That’s her, that’s the girl!” He says, coming to Grimshaw’s side to look over the shaking form lying on the cot.
“The one who helped you with those O’driscolls?” Dutch asks, looking down at the ashen face of the girl, “She can’t be much older than Lenny.”
“Poor thing.” Hosea comments, his face grim, “She’s tough. No-one gets that tough so young from an easy life.”
“We'll take care of her.” Dutch nods, frowning as the girl groans in pain.
Miss Grimshaw shoos them, tearing at the girls scrappy clothes to inspect the gash and other small cuts and bruises she must have gained trying to ride while injured.
The two men exit the tent, leaving the women to tend to the strange woman’s wounds.
Arthur and Charles ride back into camp, looking dejected. Karen says something to them, and they quickly walk over to Dutch’s tent.
“What's going on?” Arthur asks, “Karen said you found someone injured.”
“It’s the girl from the woods. Dutch found her in rough shape, but alive.” Hosea explains, taking a seat outside the tent and rubbing a hand over his face.
Arthur sighs, attempting to enter the tent when Dutch clasps a hand over his shoulder, halting him.
“You should get some rest, Arthur. Let Miss Grimshaw fix her up, you can see her when she’s better.”
“She's injured because of me, Dutch.” Arthur snaps, “She took a bullet for me, a complete stranger. If she dies and it's because-”
“Enough.” Dutch says firmly, “Don't get all worked up over this. She'll be fine, and when she is, you can thank her. But you ain't gonna do her no good if you stomp around here kicking yourself for her good deed.”
“He's right, Arthur.” Charles says softly, patting Arthur's shoulder, “We should eat, and get some sleep. We’ll talk to her when she's better.”
Arthur grumbles, but relents, walking away with Charles to Pearsons wagon.
Dutch and Hosea exchange a look, and Dutch sits beside his oldest friend, the two watching the sun begin to set as they listen to Miss Grimshaw and the women fix up the mysterious girl.
“Strange day.” Hosea murmurs.
“Yep.”
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AN/ yes I wrote an insane amount of backstory for the reader when I'm planning on writing fifteen chapters of her just straight up getting railed by the entire gang. what are you gonna do? sue me?
thanks for reading! mwah xx
fic taglist: @warmsideofthepillow03 @sammymcsamerson @m1stea @iamaunknownsecret @love-you-louise @vanpan8 @6esi @idcmannn
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moonshapedbox · 2 months ago
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swan shaped heart — part two
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arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter
a/n: OMG where do i begin
first off thank u all sm for all love chapter one received i’m truly so touched!!! this is the first fanfic i’ve ever posted in my life so it means a lot!!! also sorry it took so long to complete part 2, college has been beating my ass as of lately. trying to update semi regularly but we’ll see!! its still extremely self indulgent though once again bc i’m working lots of things out in my life rn that i think arthur can fix. you can read chapter one here <3
tags: lots of fluff and romantic tension :D hint of age gap, kissing, no smut but fairly suggestive, arthur is kind of mischievous, angsty in some parts if u squint, religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 reader is in her twenties. read at ur own risk.
wc: 5.9k
part two – peaches
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“You still coming to the picnic?”
Her words reverberated in his ears like tinnitus. He arrived back at his lodging to grab a few things he forgot, throwing and shoving items into his saddlebags. Was he going to the picnic? That’s all she had to say? He looked up at the sky again, the sun barely cracking up the pale blue sky, humidity in the air from the previous day's rain was suffocating.
Truly, he hadn’t decided yet if he was going to change his mind about it all. It was no mistake, the preacher’s daughter stirred up things in him he hadn’t felt for years. It was foolish to attend, he kept reminding himself of that. He needed to get back to camp, there was his own folks to take care of and business to attend to. Dutch was probably in the middle of some half baked scheme that he concocted to have Arthur lead in, John and Abigail were most likely arguing and needed a mediator, and there was the other women, Hosea, and little Jack.
So was he going to the picnic? It was something he would have to ponder on his way back to camp.
For the preacher’s daughter, things were shifting. Big changes and waves of emotion had shaped her irrevocably since that morning. She sat in the pews, front row like always, but for once she wasn’t really listening to her father’s sermon. She wouldn’t nod along to what he was saying, or open her Bible to turn to the verse and chapter he referred to. Instead, her eyes found a place to gaze over and bore a hole into it with her vision, mind wandering off to Arthur. The only times she was brought back was by her mother, who would gently yet lovingly tap her on the knee, to get her attention, silently gesturing to listen to her father. She would continue her days like normal, but completely enamored by Arthur, what he said, what he did–or lack thereof.
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A couple of days later– the annual town picnic had finally reared its vague and complicated head. Typically, the picnic was always an event that she had always been enamored with. She looked forward to it every spring– her hand would be the first to raise when asked about volunteers or who should be in charge of planning the event, but now; the idea of going made uneasiness twist in her stomach. The thought of Arthur being there is all that mattered to her, although with their awkward and incomplete farewell, she didn’t know where she stood in his eyes.
The picnic was a lively affair, with almost the whole town participating in the activities. The crowd gathered outside the church where it was being held, enjoying the food and each other’s company. The warm spring breeze picked up the light atmosphere and covered everyone’s spirits with joy. There was music and dancing and lots of laughter. While the preacher’s daughter was usually the one to be in the crowd, socializing with fellow townsfolk– she found herself dismayed, as she sat on the steps of the church, knees pressed to her chest and a weary look staining her face.
“You gonna eat something dear?” her father’s voice broke her out of her trance, “Your mama made that chicken salad you like.” She sees him getting closer and shakes her head, “I’m not very hungry Papa.” she lays her head on her knees. The preacher walks up to her and observes his daughter, before sighing and sitting next to her. “Want to tell me what’s going on? You barely spoke a word all day, hardly participated on Sunday..”
She sighs and hesitates to say anything before continuing, “Remember how I told you Mr. Morgan stopped by the house the other morning? He found my necklace.”
“Yes, it was kind of him,” Her father blinks and nods, “Is this somehow relevant as to why you've been such a sourpuss lately?”
She opened her mouth but then stopped before she could start her sentence. She realized that if she were to tell him exactly what happened—it meant that she would have to tell him everything that took place in the kitchen that morning—the touching, the lewd remarks, and worst of all— she had her innocent and dainty fingers in some strange man’s mouth. This would most certainly kill her father, so she finds a way around it.
“Well, I feel like I might have offended him and I feel bad about it
that’s all.” she explains, it technically wasn’t a lie, a small pang of relief hitting her chest.
“What could you have possibly said that could offend him, dear?” her father asks, sincere in his words, genuinely wanting to make his daughter feel better. For her, this was the tricky part, trying to find the words without saying anything at all, “I told him he needed to leave
because I had things to do that day.”
Technically a lie, technically the truth. It was a moral dilemma she’d contemplate later.
“Aw, is that it?” he gives her a sympathetic smile, “Oh don’t even fret about it I’m sure he’s alright. Honestly, it says more about him if he took offense to a sweet ol’ thing like you.” He lovingly pinches her cheek and plants a kiss on top of her head, before rising to his feet, “You’ve always had a problem being in your own head too much sweetheart.” She nods in agreement, wanting the conversation to end, “I guess so. Thank you papa.”
A voice calls out to her father, interrupting their conversation. He looks over to the source of where the voice came from. He pats her on the back before walking off to greet more of his congregation that decided to stop by. Maybe her father was right, perhaps she was in her head too much. Of course, her father did not have the context like she did, but this false sense of reassurance passed the time well.
She continues to think about what Arthur said.
“Ever think about a man lovin’ on you baby?”
She is now. Arthur planted the seeds of desire in her, and the roots that grew traveled up her veins and made her heart race. She couldn’t get him out of her head no matter how hard she tried. She looks to the farthest distance she can, wondering what he was doing right now– what he was wearing and what path he was travelling. Far out, she notices a brown figure moving at a rapid pace, her eyes narrow. It’s just a horse– a beautiful one at that; a deep chestnut brown. Her gaze softened as it got closer in view, she noticed the horse had a splash of white on its nose– with a man mounted on top.
Her head lifts from her lap, was that him? It couldn’t be–or it could. She squints a bit harder, waiting for the man to come closer. She leans forward in her lap, eventually standing on the steps. She could recognize that gambler’s hat from anywhere.
It was him, Arthur had come back.
“Mr. Morgan!” she runs to him and looks up at him on his horse, “You made it.” she smiles. He gets off his horse and secures it, “Of course. Why would I not be here? You invited me.” he responds flatly, not caring to make eye contact with her.
She looks down and back up again, “I know but that was before
” she reads his face, pausing an explanation to feel out if he knew what she was implying, “Listen, Mr. Morgan, about the other morning, I–”
“No need darlin’,” he puts his hand out before dropping it to his side, “I understand,” He puts his weight on one hip. “I was planning on headin’ back, and I–uh made it halfway, then I got to thinkin’
” he pauses while scanning her features for a moment, “And I came off a little strong. I realize that now. Didn’t mean to frighten you if I did.” he looks down at his boots, still caked with mud from the rainstorm days ago.
She gingerly touched his hand, “All is forgiven, Mr. Morgan.” He looks up at her under the brim of his hat, and she swears she can see a hint of a smile and a smudge of red grace on his cheek.
So can her horrified father, who had been watching the interaction between the potential lovebirds from a distance the whole time. A worrisome dread sunk in him as he decided to make his presence known. He hurries toward them before calling out,
“Mr. Morgan! That you, son?”
Arthur whips his head back around, “Father! —uh reverend—shit”
“Wrong denomination son” he chuckles, loosening his tie. “I also would appreciate you to refrain from using profanity around my daughter. She’s a impressionable young lady y’know”
“Of course. Sorry, sir.” Arthur flashed a sheepish grin, before realizing he hadn’t shook the preacher’s hand yet. Out of respect he extends his hand, and they lock into a strong handshake. A pang of guilt hit Arthur, here he was shaking the man of the Lord’s hand when not even two days ago he was all over this man’s only daughter, in his own kitchen nonetheless.
“I invited Mr. Morgan to the picnic, figured he might want to visit a little more before he leaves.” she explains, innocently swaying her hips, giving her skirt a little movement as she rocked side to side.
“I can see that dear,” The preacher smiles at his daughter before shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to make friendly conversation. Anything to try and keep Arthur from sweeping his daughter off her feet, “So, how’s that cattle ranch of yours, son?”
Cattle ranch? Oh right, that was the story he pitched the town initially. It was the perfect small lie given the circumstance. The cattle rancher to save the town from cattle thieves, you couldn’t write a better story. “Just fine. Hard work. You know how it is. Cattle can be
temperamental.”
Stupid stupid stupid. He was bombing this and he knew it was over the second the words left his mouth. He grimaced in his mind at the interaction.
“Right,” the preacher drawls the word, trying to detect any honesty in Arthur’s claim, “Well regardless of your business, we’re glad you could join us,” he says, tone friendly but his words having an edge to them.
She smiles, “We got plenty of food why don’t we eat–”
“I thought you weren’t hungry?” her father whips his head to look at her.
She flashes a half smile, “Well I am now, ‘sides I don’t want to be rude and not eat in front of our guest, papa.”
Her father looked between two, he knew exactly what was happening and he didn’t like it one bit. He had no reason to be distrustful of Arthur, after all he did save his town from that reckless gang, but something wasn’t right. Although, to save his beloved daughter from embarrassment, he decided to play along– for now.
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The eating and socializing made time fly by, Arthur enjoyed the peaceful and innocent fun with everyone, it made him forget about all his stress and worries for a couple of hours. He smiled along to a song played on a mandolin, he listened to her fill him in on all the local happenings that occurred while he was away, she clung onto his bicep as he won a couple games of dominoes against the shopkeeper, and before either of them knew it– the sun was starting to set. Arthur sat next to her at the picnic table, enjoying the sounds of soft conversations in the distance, but mostly he enjoyed her company. He exhaled deeply and looked over at her, “Let’s take a quick stroll, whaddya say?” She looked back at him, “That sounds lovely, but the sun is setting
I don’t know
”
“And?” He stands up and stretches up as tall as he can, she looks over his huge, broad frame growing taller as he pulls upward, her heart skips a beat at the sight of his muscles moving under his shirt as he shifts around. “You’ll be safe with me, let’s go girl.” he motions with his head and grabs his satchel. His sudden firm tone made her pulse quicken, not fully understanding why she liked it as much as she did.
Eventually, she and Arthur wander off into the path into a nearby trail, enough daylight to see where they were going as well as the beauty of the mountainous region, she looks up at him, his face concentrated on where they were headed.
“So where you takin’ me?” she asks.
“Nowhere in particular, unless you got somethin’ in mind,” he responds as he adjusts the weight of his satchel. She thinks for a moment and a bright smile spreads across her face, “I got an idea, there’s a lake nearby, it’s so beautiful. You’ll love it I promise.”
“Okay, the lake it is then,” he nods. Despite not speaking a word to each other, she smiled to herself that she was finally getting to spend more time with him like she always dreamed of. “Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout?” Arthur’s voice broke the prolonged silence. She shook her head, “Nothin’. Just having fun that’s all.” Arthur smiles back at her, “That reminds me, I almost forgot somethin’,” he stops in his tracks and she follows his lead.
“I know you’re supposed to bring somethin’ for a picnic and I didn’t know what to bring but–,” he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a can, “hope you like it.”
She grins with playful confusion, “A can of
.” she tries to examine the can further, the text on the label rubbed off almost completely, “...peaches?” She walks slowly alongside him, still looking down at the can.
He nods, “You like peaches, hon?” strolling in tandem alongside her.
“Yeah, I like ‘em even better in pies though,” she responds.
“Peach pie?” He raises a brow, “I ain’t ever had that before
apple, yes. But peach? That’s a new one.”
“Oh I gotta make you one then. They’re real easy.” she says before letting a beat of silence encompass them.
She exhales an airy chuckle, “Reminds me of the time when Papa took me to a preacher’s convention in Saint Denis – well more like I begged him to take me– but anyway while I was there I had a peach pie with ice cream. Ice cream of all things, can you believe it?” she grins brightly, “They call it peach a la mode, isn’t that brilliant? Makes me feel sophisticated” she rambles, her hands gesticulating for emphasis.
He scoffs, “So that’s what rich folks are eatin’ huh? They can’t be ok with pie itself they gotta go add ice cream on it too.” he muttered, gesturing broadly as they strolled down the path together. She laughs loudly, “You’re a silly man Mr. Morgan
 Ain’t seen a person upset with ice cream before.” He shook his head, he wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but it was like a symphony to his ears.
“Was it good?” His question broke the beat of silence.
“Hm?”
“The peach el mood?” he motions.
She bursts out laughing again, “A la mode? Definitely, it was divine.”
There it was again–he smiles lovingly at the sound of her laugh.
“You might have to make that for me too,” he grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.
The sound of both them walking down to the lake absorbed any beat of silence that could have been there. The crunching of gravel beneath their feet and sound of birds chirping accompanied their walk. Arthur picked up rocks he thought were compelling enough to shove into his jacket pocket. He picks up another rock and fidgets with it, and glances over at her for a second, eyes trailing down to her slightly exposed sternum which cradled that heavenly swan pendant necklace.
“You like swans, huh?” he inquired, throwing the rock like a skipping stone. “Why swans? And not like– I don't know a dove or somethin’.”
“A dove? That’s awfully cliche don’t you think?” she smirks. They finally make it to the lake. Seeing a big tree log that somehow found itself at the base of the lake, they both take a seat there. Arthur shrugs at her previous comment and adjusts next to her.
“I just like ‘em that’s all. Y’know it’s said that swans represent beauty, grace, wisdom. I think it’s a good symbol to look upon. It’s always been quite reassuring to me.” she places the can of peaches she had been holding down onto the ground.
“Ah, so it’s your lucky charm?” he grinned.
She waves him off, “Oh Mr. Morgan, I don’t believe in luck,” she looks out into the lake, “To tell you the truth, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to see a swan in the wild. I’m holdin’ out for hope I’ll get see one.”
“You will someday, I’m sure.” He looked over at her peaceful demeanor, his heart felt so warm just by being in her presence. The realization that all he wanted was to be with her overcame him. As it came, a familiar thick and oily guilt suddenly swallowed him upon the thought that he hadn't been exactly truthful with her. Quite frankly, he was a liar– lied about what he did for a living, lied about the true nature of his arrival 4 years ago, the lies started to collapse on his throat. If he was even to consider a life with her in it, he had to tell her everything– there was no cattle ranch, the only money he had technically didn’t belong to him, he was originally going to rob her town– that he is an outlaw.
He wanted to make this work, he lost so much in his life already that he knew she was an opportunity of genuine love and care. Surely enough, someone so loving and forgiving like her would be able to handle his baggage, right? If not, he was willing to put it all on the line anyway. He rubs his jaw and exhales a breath before speaking.
“Look darlin’, there’s something I need to tell you–”
“--You gotta girl ain’t you?” she interrupts flatly.
He exhales a laugh, “No, I ain’t got a girl. Not for a long time at least,” taken aback by her boldness, he continues to chuckle to himself.
“Why are you laughin’? It’s not that much of an odd assumption to make. You’re handsome and smart and you got that big cattle ranch so it’s not crazy to assume gals wouldn’t be all over you–”
“You think I’m handsome?” he whipped his head to look at her, his cheeks warmed at the compliment, trying to hide the surprise in his voice as he never truly felt comfortable or confident with himself.
“Stop it, you know what I meant,” she blushes, “I’m just sayin’ you’re a catch, that’s all.” He continues to smile at her bashful ramblings, shaking his head at her behavior. A sense of mischief creeps up in his mind, and he couldn’t help but entertain it, “Anyways, why ain’t you married yet? I’d figure some young buck would come sniffin’ ‘round after you as soon as you got to marryin’ age.” he asks, watching her put a hand over her face.
“Very classy Mr. Morgan, you’re a real gentleman,” she groans, resting her head in her hand, “I don’t know. I don’t like any of the men at my church. They’re
stupid.”
“How so? Despite the obvious,” he inquires.
She exhales and tries to think of the words to articulate how she feels, “It seems they want me barefoot and pregnant and that life–” she pauses, “I don’t believe that’s what God intended for me. It’s not my path." She picked up a stick and started tracing patterns on the dirt.
“What’s your path then?” His heart softens at the conviction in her tone.
She hesitates for a moment, scared that he would judge her for passions. He nods at her, “You know you can tell me anythin’ darlin’” he says softly, wanting to know what was in that beautiful mind of hers.
She exhales again, “If I may be so bold– I want to preach,” the tension leaving her body after she confessed, “and I want real love– but I don’t know if I’m the marryin’ kind
 I think if I met the right man, I’d marry. But only a man that would let me be free
I don’t think I’ll ever find that Mr. Morgan.”
I could be that. If you allowed me to. He thought to himself, but he was not brave enough to voice it. Instead, he gives her a sympathetic smile.
“Ah.” he said softly, before crossing his shin over his thigh.
“You don’t think I can do it huh?” she murmurs, kicking her feet mindlessly against the stump of the tree. His brows furrowed at her accusation, “No I do, I think you can. Hell I met a lot gals who fight for stuff like that,” he gesticulates, “I could picture you doin’ it.” he smiles.
She suddenly remembers what he said at breakfast the other morning: “If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.”
She grins to herself at the thought, “Hey, if I preach does that means you’ll start comin’ to church.”
Arthur scoffs playfully, “Is that so? Who said anythin’ ‘bout that?”
“You said it yourself at breakfast!” she lets out an airy chuckle.
Arthur shakes his head before leaning in closer to her, “Well
that ain't what I meant by that, so we’re just gon’ have to see. Aren’t we?” he smirks. She looks over his face, blush reddening her ears. The moment was so perfect, he wanted to bask in its tranquility. The opportunity to tell her the truth about his livelihood was fleeting and before he knew it, it was gone. He couldn’t get it back and he hoped that soon he could find another opening. An opening that was perfect and would hurt her the least.
She breaks her gaze and looks down at the can of peaches beside her, “Well, I don’t know about you but I could go for a little sweet.” She leans over to pick up the can. He gazes her over body while she wasn’t looking, staring at the soft curves of her body and before stealing a prolonged glance of her rear, “Yep–somethin’ sweet would be real good right about now,” he hums, trying to hide the growl in the back of his throat. She sits back up again and hands him the can of peaches for him to open. The act of him stabbing the top with his knife and prying it open made her feel warm. He passes the can back to her, letting her have the first bite. She scoops a piece up and crams it into her mouth before the juice drips on her dress.
“Mmph, really good!” she exclaims while still chewing, “Where did you get these–” his hand cuts off her sentence as he wipes away a small droplet of juice from the corner of her mouth. She stops immediately, gazing back at him. A pang of excitement reverberates in the pit of her stomach. It was biscuits and gravy on Sunday all over again.
He smiles softly back at her without a second thought, before taking a piece of the fruit out for himself. She watches him eat the slice of peach, briefly sucking the excess juice off his fingers. So messy and desperate–something about watching him eat like a feral animal sparked a need in her so deep that she abruptly whips her head away just to attempt to hide it.
Although, these were not new feelings she was having: not before he filled her imagination with salacious ideas, not before he lovingly stroked her chin or accompanied her to the picnic– it started just before breakfast on Sunday morning, with her finger in his mouth. Although Arthur was no fool–oh the contrary, he could hone in on this like a falcon. The memory of her fingers in his mouth would plague him at all times. He decides it was ultimately time to break the tension.
“Honey you can’t tell me that having your fingers in my mouth ain’t done something to you. You haven’t been able to look at me the same since,” a growl in his voice reverberates in him, trying to keep his urges in line.
“What?” she swallows thickly. “I-I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Yes you do. Don’t be coy.” He places the can next to him and turns his body toward her, “I know that’s how you was raised– to be ashamed of it. But you can’t go denyin’ these feelings forever.”
“It’s not like that
I’m not ashamed. I-I’m not.” she stammers. Arthur frowns, he can see right through her walls.
“Then why’re you always shakin’ like a damn near leaf whenever I get ‘round you?” he questions.
“I don’t know.” She murmurs, her shoulders going limp in defeat. He gazes back at her wilted expression before reaching out and gently cradling her hand, “Y’know darlin...people lovin’ on each other, ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” softly tracing patterns on the back of her palm, “It’s beautiful, really.” She gazes up into his eyes, her heart rate picking up at the sight of him being so close to her. He scans her face before glancing down at her slightly parted lips.
“Mr. Morgan?” she whispers.
“Mhm?”
“Are you gonna kiss me?”
“Do you want me to, baby?” He whispers back.
She stares up into his eyes and nods ever so softly. A genuine and loving smile spreads across his face. He inhales gently, before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. As he gently cups her jaw in his right hand, he leans down, and before he realizes, she instinctively turns her head away. “I’m scared” her voice barely above a murmur, “ain’t never done this before.”
He couldn’t deny that the idea of being her first kiss made his pulse quicken, and as guilty as he felt, he also couldn’t deny her naivety turned him on beyond belief. Of course, part of him also felt bad for being her first kiss. He thought to himself that she deserved a better man, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted this just as bad as she did.
“Well what do you know ‘bout it?” He strokes her hair gently.
“Nothin’ much
just what I've read in those dime store romance novels.” she murmurs, somewhat embarrassed at her inexperience. He tenderly strokes her cheek with his thumb, “Shh it’s okay sweetheart. Just relax and let me lead– can you do that for me?” he whispers lovingly.
She nods and instinctively closes her eyes, he tilts her head up and leans in to press a warm and tender kiss on her lips– even softer than he ever imagined them to be. He kisses her again, and again, before pausing and gazing lovingly into her eyes. He wishes he could live in this moment forever, “You okay so far?” He murmurs against her lips, softly nodding at her, she nods back. The mix of her orange and vanilla perfume catching in the slightly smoky and chill dusk air is intoxicating to him.
He leans back down he kisses her again, but this one was different. It was longer and deeper than the one from before, he deepened the kiss even further for a moment, working his fingers through her hair. Both of their heartbeats rise in tandem, she leans against his chest and places a hand on his thick thigh, trying to find balance against him. Something that could be acquainted with electricity pulses in her stomach, never truly realizing a sensation could feel so good. His tongue grazes her lip and she softly gasps at the feeling. Surely the taste of his lips would sear into her mouth for eternity, smoky and something that was attributed to only him. His lips still sweetened from the nectar of the peaches they consumed together, now all she wanted was to consume him.
He pulls away and rests his forehead against hers, panting softly. “Arthur,” she exhales gently, her breath fanning his neck. The ease of his first name leaving her tongue made goosebumps rise on the back of his neck and arms. His hands still tangled in her hair, making their way down to rest on her shoulders, “My sweet babydoll, so so perfect.” he whispers.
He plants a soft yet firm kiss on her cheek and back to her lips again. She sinks into his arms. She feels so safe yet, a sensation akin to lead creeps in and weighs her soul, an anchor of remorse that makes her stomach drop. Without second thought, she pulls away from the kiss and cries. Fear spikes in Arthur’s chest at the sight of tears rolling off her supple cheeks, “Oh no no no baby, what happened? Did I do something wrong?” he panics, terrified he hurt her or crossed a boundary he wasn’t aware of.
It truly wasn’t anything he did, she really didn’t know why she was crying. Truthfully, she was overwhelmed with feelings and emotions that she didn’t know how or what to do with. The way he gently cared for comfort and boundaries touched her beyond words or actions, she never felt so loved by another man before. Was this love that she was feeling? She didn’t know what to make of it all– and it scared the hell out of her.
“No
I don’t think so
W-we shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry,” her lip continues to quiver and tears roll down and drop into her lap. His heart twists in chest at her words, his mouth partly open from bewilderment, “Stop it. You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, “Tell me what’s going on darlin’.”
She cries again and the sight chisels away at his heart, “I-I don’t know
you did nothin wrong. I just ain’t ever felt like this before,” she reaches up to fidget with her swan pendant necklace once more. He knew exactly what was going on. She was touch starved-- it was years of pent up and repressed romantic desire that was finally boiling over– for the first time in her life, she was finally starting to learn how to love romantically.
He gives her another sympathetic smile and pulls her into his big arms, “S’okay angel, ain’t no shame in what we did,” he breathes. “It’s all new, I got it. We’ll go slower.” After a moment, she stops crying and pulls away, feeling a bit embarrassed. He can see the crimson spread across her cheeks, “I’m sorry Arthur. I don’t know what came over me.” 
He shakes his head and strokes her hair, “Don’t worry ‘bout it baby, I was just scared I did somethin’ wrong,” he pauses, “or you didn’t like it.” Her eyes widen in realization, “Oh, no not at all! I liked it a lot
maybe too much.” she softly responds, her words carry an edge of caution.
“Yeah?” he smiles, tongue darting out just enough to wet his bottom lip. She nods in return, whispering a ‘thank you’ before giving him small kiss on the cheek to reinforce it.
She looks up at the sky, the sun finally tucking itself behind the mountain, “We need to get back to the picnic now. My parents are probably waitin’ for me,” she stands and fixes her dress.
Arthur nods and rises to his feet. “I’ll walk you back, hm?”
She nods and waits for him, "Arthur?"
He perks up at his name as he starts to walk with her, she looks down at her feet, "Once again, I'm really sorry I cried.” she replies softly, feeling humiliated by her reaction, "I really do like your company."
“No need to apologize, I got you girl," his big hand cradles the small of her back as they walk back to the church together, " 'Sides, we got plenty time to practice anyway. Get you more comfortable." He grins. She smiles at the thought, deciding to fill the silence again with small talk.
“Wasn’t the lake beautiful?” she asks.
“Y’know I couldn’t see it too well. Got distracted by somethin’ else.” he smiles to himself.
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The sun had set by the time they got back, the picnic had been over for a while now, and there was no one in the church. So Arthur decided to walk her back to her house. He didn’t realize that they were gone for that long– his stomach dropped when they finally arrived at her home, seeing the preacher, sitting on his porch whilst rocking back and forth in his rocking chair. He and Arthur share a look, before he springs up at the sight of the two. He makes his way down the porch steps.
“Papa we–”
“Get in the house young lady.” he ordered firmly yet calmly.
“Papa please don’t be mad we were just walking around and–”
“I’m not
mad...just do what I say and go inside.”
She looks up at Arthur and nods before scurrying away, mouthing a goodbye to him as her boots clunked against the porch steps. Arthur’s blood pressure rises as he tries to de-escalate the situation, “I ain’t mean no harm sir– we really was just walkin’ and talkin’.”
The preacher shook his head in disapproval, “Y’know, I’m really disappointed in you son. See, I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you had pure intentions here– especially with my only daughter around, but I guess I was a fool.” Arthur glares under the brim of his gambler’s hat, narrowing his eyes at the preacher, “What you mean by that exactly?”
“Don’t play dumb, boy
I see the way you been lookin’ at her.” he says with an accusatory tone. Arthur cocks his head to the side, “And what way is that?” he responds, feigning innocence.
The preacher shakes his head and breathes a humorless chuckle in disbelief of Arthur’s pretend innocence, “--Like a dog licking its chops for a bite of somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”
Ah. Of course

Arthur exhales a chuckle, “Well sir– If I was, I would have already taken a bite by now, if that’s what you’re implyin’.” he smirks and pats him on the shoulder twice, before walking off. The statement makes the preacher’s blood boil, “I ain’t stupid! I been your age before! You stay away from her, you hear me boy?!” he calls out to Arthur.
He whips his head around and saunters back to the preacher, “Y’know your lil girl ain’t gonna be yours forever. She’s a beautiful young woman and men are lookin’ at her different now,” he leans in closer, “Now you got a decision to make. ‘Cause one of these days some man is gon’ come along for her, and I can bet you anythin’ he’s gon’ be worse than me,” there’s an edge to Arthur’s voice that alerts the preacher, but he would never give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing him buckle. He stares blankly back at him.
Arthur nods slowly, “You can think about that when you say your prayers tonight,” he turns to walk away, looking to the right of him to catch a glimpse of her bedroom window, hoping to see her one last time. He chuckles to himself, before calling back to her father.
“'Night, preacher man.”
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thank u for reading thus far !!! once again thank u for all the support it means the world. taglist is currently open so lemme know if u wanna be added <3
taglist đŸ·ïž @dilf-luvr-4evr @joelsprettyprincess @i-will-give-you-love @necktattooed
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nthspecialll · 2 months ago
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Does anyone ever wonder if Abigail felt guilty over letting Hosea sacrifice himself for her? He was like a father to her, giving her advice when she was worried and sad, helping her teach Jack to read, she worries about him and cares for him. She had only known him for five years yet she feels strongly enough to admit to him he is a parental figure to her.
All of that just for him to give up his life for her. No doubt it was chaotic when the law came for them in Saint Denis when the distraction went wrong, but imagine in Lakay when she had the time to sit and think about the fact that that man was gone because he protected her.
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marstonsboy · 4 months ago
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had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:
over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.
after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.
then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.
in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?
the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.
soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.
every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.
one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.
arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.
he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.
and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.
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calamityjoan · 3 months ago
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A DAUGHTER'S CURSE ✼ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE
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SUMMARY | "Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons."
PAIRING | Dutch van der Linde x Adoptive Daughter!Reader
TAGS | Canon-typical violence, mention of sexual assault, daddy issues (a lot of it) and angst.
WORDCOUNT | 3.5k
NOTE | This verse screams Damned!Dutch's daughter. Enjoy the product of that. It is chaotic and messy and not proofread but⏀oh well⏀isn't that fitting for RDR2? The final part contains direct quotes from the game and, thus, may be a spoiler. But come on, it's been seven years.
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!
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Like the marvelous country that was the West, the loyalty of men knew no bound. It went beyond law and reason, and sometimes drove the purest hearts to the worst horrors.
Some had dedicated poems to its beauty, its dangers too, but no soul had ever created pentameters faithful enough to the loyalty of daughters for their fathers.
The daughter's loyalty was the father's weapon, a silent but destructive ammunition on which men could always count. The father sculpted his daughter and molded her to his will.
Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons.
It all began when he found you on Chicago's government pier, at the edge of Civilization and all its sins.
Above his head, night and its thick, speckled tapestry wove, as usual, the perfect place to conceal a plethora of crimes.
But certainly not the weeping—it drowned out the creaking of the merchant ship Dutch and Hosea had managed to plunder.
The outlaw turned and squinted, forgetting the bear fur to investigate the sound anomaly. It took him a few seconds to make out the small figure lurking in the shadows.
Wrapped up in an overcoat too big for you, you—a mere child at that time—shivered behind a barrel that reeked of rotting meat.
“What are you doing?” Hosea asked, his hand elbow-deep in a jewelry box. “Hurry up. Arthur and John are probably already on Dearborn Street.”
Dutch ignored his friend's protests and took a step towards you. Your face, innocent as can be and distorted by the ugliness of fear, blanched at his sight.
Your frightened eyes guided me to you, your father always said. Their tears aligned the stars, and I only followed my destiny.
You knew the truth—what had really caught his attention that evening had been the bloody knife you had brandished at him with trembling hands.
You would never forget the sparkle that shone in his eyes at the sight, nor the hand he offered you.
When your tiny fingers brushed Dutch's blistered ones—the fingers of a sinner—and the man promised you bed and a hot meal, the first poisoned drops of loyalty flowed and mingled with the night so easily that you didn't see their crimson color.
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The first lesson Dutch taught you was how to shoot a gun. He gave you his, then too heavy for your small hand.
The dissonance between the tender skin of innocence and the ominous iron barrel disturbed Hosea (“Isn't it a bit too early for that? She's only seven. Show her how to pick pocket instead,”) but not Dutch, who merely smiled and corrected your grip on the weapon.
“For now, hold it with both hands. One on the stock, the other under the barrel. Your fingers should always be on or against the guard. Never on the trigger, unless you want to shoot yourself in the foot. Only pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.”
“How will I know I'm ready?” you asked in a timid voice.
A second passed. Dutch shrugged.
“You'll know when the time comes. Now, feet apart.”
His boot pushed against your frail ankle. 
“Bend your knees. Good. Now hold still.”
The man walked away. You almost reached out a hand but, remembering his words, quickly put it back under the barrel.
From a leather satchel, Dutch drew four glass bottles and placed them in a row. The remnants of a strong spirit, no doubt. The pungent aromas scented the camp often enough for you to recognize them.
The outlaw returned soon enough, and your shoulders relaxed. You had not been aware of their contraction until the scent of powder and musk embraced you again.
“You know how it works, don't you?”
You nodded shyly. A strand of hair escaped your braid and fell before your eyes. Dutch tutted. With a distracted hand, he tucked it behind your ear before pressing his palm against your shoulder blades.
“Now, both hands on the stock.”
You complied, hands trembling. Dutch pointed to the bottles with his chin as his hand at your back became more insistent.
“Try aiming for a–”
A deafening crack shook the barrel before Dutch had finished his sentence. The sound reverberated against the surrounding trees and the accompanying jolt struck your wrist with such force you were forced to let go of the gun.
Dutch's hand pressed against your shoulder blades.
“It's all right, it's all right. I've got you.”
“I'm so sorry, Mr. Dutch! I didn't mean to– ’m sorry!”
The words stumbled from your lips, drowned out by panic and the ghostly buzzing that persisted against your eardrums.
“It's very... noisy.”
“You'll get used to it,” the outlaw's voice snapped. “Do it again. But this time, breathe out before you fire. Your lungs must be empty, understand? It'll help with the recoil.”
Childlike fingers searched for the trigger.
“Empty lungs,” Dutch repeated.
The bottle, still intact, glinted in the sunlight. One of the rays shimmered against the barrel before disappearing as you aimed at the glass; a gloomy eclipse that made you shiver.
You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled until you felt your ribcage fold in on itself, and hesitated only a second before firing.
The bullet whistled.
And disappeared in the bushes. 
You sighed.
“It's all right, Kid,” he reassured you. “We've got all the time in the world.”
You borrowed only an hour of the world’s time before a bottle finally exploded. Enchanted by the shattering glass, you turned back to Dutch, grinning from ear to ear.
And that singular sparkle reappeared in the man's brown eyes.
Years later, you would recognize this glint as that of an outlaw who had got his hands on a gold mine. For the time being, you were a mere seven-year-old and relished in the attention you were receiving for the first time in your life.
With your veins as the thread, loyalty wove its first stitches in your chest and condemned you to the worst curse of all: a daughter trying to make her dather proud.
At the age of twelve, you thus asked Hosea to teach you how to hunt. He took you to a forest on the edge of Chicago, not far from the camp, and placed a rifle in your blistered palms. Trapped between the silence of the forest and birdsongs, you shot a doe for the first time and regretted that Dutch could not be with you to see it.
At the age of fourteen, Arthur realized you weren’t going anywhere. Like him several years earlier, you had taken root and become a member of the pack—one of his to protect. When you were nearly killed during a stagecoach robbery, he handed you his old shotgun, muttering words about being more careful next time and left you standing there, with a new weapon in your arms.
At the age of fifteen, John tossed a bag full of throwing knives at your feet and dared you to hit the target drawn on the oak tree. Never one to pass on a challenge, you drew one out and weighed it on your finger. The steel, lighter than that of a revolver, nicked the pad of your index. John laughed. You raised an eyebrow and threw the dagger, stabbing it in the trunk as John looked on in disbelief. Behind you both, Dutch burst out laughing and you felt alive again.
Other members came and went over the next few years. Mary Linton didn't stay, but Susan and Tilly did, as Bill, Javier and Davey. You were introduced to other weapons—snipers, dynamite, bows, even axes—but you would always return to your revolver and the first memory of Dutch.
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Loyalty wrapped itself around your neck for good when, at seventeen, you killed for Dutch for the first time.
Nothing remained of the sensation of that night on the pier, when the blade had sunk into the fat belly of the drunkard who had tried to rape you.
Today, dread was replaced by jubilation, as you reloaded the barrel of your revolver and blew the head off yet another O'Driscoll. Crouched behind a rock, adrenalin pounded your temples and sharpened your senses.
“Come out! Van Der Linde!” a voice taunted behind her. “Colm wants to say hello!”
A shadow in a green scarf swooped down on Dutch. You choked out a scream as the O’Driscoll threw the first punch.
“No, Father!”
Dutch fell in the mud with a grunt. The O'Driscoll turned back to her, a toothy grin on his lips. His fist, still clenched, was dripping blood. Your father's blood, you realized.
The butt of your revolver lacerated your palm as you tightened your grip around it.
“I didn't know good ol’ Dutch had a daughter! Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to see me blow your daddy's brains out?”
The Irishman grabbed Dutch's hair. You saw red and jumped.  
Three blows echoed through the clearing. Dutch fell back to the ground. The O'Driscoll raised a hand to his chest and blanched.
Empty lungs.
He collapsed, his scarf green no more.
You dropped your revolver and rushed to Dutch. The man was still lying on the ground, his face covered in mud and blood, but his bewildered eyes moved frantically as he caught sight of you.
“Are you all right?” you asked, breathless.
The look of disbelief didn't go away. Louisa thought at first of head trauma—his head, after all, had slammed against the floor—but when he got to his feet without your help, your own words came back to taunt you.
Your whole body froze before you straightened up and, avoiding his eyes, turned around to rush to your horse.
You straddled him and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“You called me ‘Father’,” he told her that evening, when you finally summoned the courage to go see him.
In silence, you sat at his bedside before grabbing a clean rag and soaking it with whisky. With a trembling hand, you wiped the clotted blood from the corners of her lips, searching their familiar shapes for the right words. Dutch always knew what to say.
“I did,” you admitted in a quiet voice.
He grabbed your wrist.
You tensed.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Dutch searched your face for something, but didn't seem to find it. He abruptly let go and pulled a cigar from his jacket’s patch pocket before lighting it. You watched the man take a short puff; for a moment, the arabesques of smoke diverted your mind from the anguish that swarmed within.
But Dutch's sigh plunged you right back into it. He spread an arm out.
You flinched but a hand between your shoulder blades prevented you from falling.
“Come here, Kid.”
You promptly burst into tears and fell into his arms.
Several minutes passed without either of you speaking. Dutch broke the silence first.
“Can I count on you?”
“I'll follow you all the way to Hell,” you immediately replied, unaware that the Styx and Phlegethon started from your father's wounds.
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 “Dutch is just trying to get us out of here,” you sharply whispered to Arthur as you scoured tonight’s dinner’s dishes.
The incessant splashing of icy water was doing a poor job at masking your anger. The feeling of betrayal had cut too deep at your chest for that. It made your fingers shake as you rubbed a dirty coffee cup a little harder. 
Of all the members of the gang, you had never thought Arthur would doubt Dutch.
You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, reddened not by blood but by effort—a rare sight indeed. Lately, not a day went by without you being sent to kill someone.
You grabbed another plate to shake off the weight of guilt. The sponge squeaked against the iron and drowned your thoughts for a second.
“He ain’t been the same since Micah came,” Arthur began, “and you know it as well as me. Always talking about his big plan, dangling mountains of gold in front of us, but we both know it won’t happen.”
You slammed the bowl against the table, startling Pearson who was butchering a doe, and turned back to Arthur, your finger pointed at him.
“You don't know what you're talking about!”
“And you're blinded by your love for him! Look around, Y/N. We're the last. Civilization is on our doorstep. Dutch can't fight it. We've got to get out. John, Sadie and Abigail agree. Come along.”
A bitter laugh forced its way out of your chest.
“Please, love.”
You lowered your head and, with a lump in the throat, said softly: “Go away, Arthur.”
The gunslinger sighed and did just that. The strange sight made your lips part, ready to take back what you had just said, but no word came out. You clenched your fist.   
Dutch, you thought. Dutch will know what to do.
You abandoned the dishes and headed for your father's tent. Voices escaped from the canvas, and it only took you a second to recognize Micah's. You gritted your teeth. You didn't trust this snake any more than Arthur did, but one rotten apple did not spoil the whole barrel.
Both men fell silent when you came into view.
“Can I talk to you?” you asked Dutch.
“Not now, Kid. Micah got a lead that could be very good for us.”
Although his voice was soft, you couldn't help the pain that lacerated your chest. For the first time, Dutch had dismissed you. Beside him, Micah watched on with a victorious eye.
For a second, your fingers brushed against revolver at your belt, but you quickly recovered and, flashing your most convincing smile, nodded.
As soon as you turned, the facade dropped. You pushed back the tent flap with a trembling hand and, trying to ignore the crack that had just appeared, returned to your bedroll, where nightmares brought you back to the Chicago pier.
This time, no man reached out a hand.
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Loyalty knew almost no bound—for only jealousy was a worthy rival and could, piece by piece, unravel the sacred stitches it sewed in hearts.
Micah Bell, more snake than man, had hissed his lies and perfidy into Dutch's sick ear—a modern reincarnation of the Garden of Eden where Eve would not bite the apple. No. This time, the sinner had only one name, ironic as it was.
Father.
The Daughter was and would remain a figure cursed by her sex—apple in the eyes of the Father, turned rotten with the appearance of a Son.
And what a son, you thought as Micah pointed his gun at an emaciated Arthur and a bruised John. A son who had ratted them out to the Pinkertons. A sellout. A traitor.
This thought awakened a rage you had hitherto tried to bury deep within yourself. It bubbled up in your veins and rattled your chest.
Slowly, your fingers slipped to your belt.
“All of you...” Arthur began, his revolver pointed at the crowd. “You pick your side, because this is over. All them years, Dutch... for this snake?”
“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke. Be quiet!”
You could not look away from your father. He hadn't answered. Why hadn’t he answered?
An enraged Susan Grimshaw sided with Arthur and snapped you out of your reverie. The rifle she was holding clashed with the strict image you had built up over the years.
“No. You be quiet, Mr. Bell
 and put down your gun.”
“There’s Pinkertons coming, fast.”
Javier's announcement sent the camp into a deadly frenzy. Seizing his chance, Micah shot Mrs. Grimshaw, who collapsed to the ground in a bloodcurdling scream.
 “No!”
You fell to your knees and placed your hands on the gaping wound perforating her stomach.
“No, no, no, no, no... Not again, not again,” you whispered frantically.
You pressed harder on Mrs. Grimshaw's wound as she continued to writhe in pain. 
“Come on. Don’t die on me. Please,” you begged.
Kieran, Sean, Lenny, Hosea... How many friends had you lost? How many more names would join the cursed list? Would you be next?
Why hadn't Dutch answered Arthur's question?
Despite your pleas and efforts, Mrs. Grimshaw soon stopped moving.
When you felt the body exhale against your palm, you froze. As if they had a mind on their own, your hands slid to the muddy ground, now soaked with innocent blood.
You watched on with dull eyes.
“Who amongst you is with me
” Dutch's voice echoed behind her. “And who is betraying me?”
You raised your head and stared into Mrs. Grimshaw's dead eyes. Your hand shook. A few drops of blood dripped from it. You wiped them off on your jeans and clenched your fist before standing up on wobbly legs.
Meanwhile, the camp had divided itself: John and Arthur on one side, Dutch and the rest on the other.
And you, in the middle of this abyss, stood motionless, your chest empty.
It was only when Arthur collapsed in a coughing fit that you came back to life. You rushed to your brother and placed a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.
“Are you alright?”
Arthur's grip on his revolver wavered. The sight, so far removed from the gunslinger you had known all your life, tore at your heart. All had changed. Everyone you’d ever cared about was either a ghost of themselves or a decomposed corpse.
“He's lying... Cowpoke is lying,” Micah taunted, his two revolvers pointed at them.
That was the last straw. You let out an inhuman scream and drew your weapon.
“You!Shut the fuck up! I've had enough of your words!”
A toothy grin appeared on the blond's face.
“Oh... It seems the little one got claws after all.”
“Kid,” Dutch began but you kept your eyes and revolver on the traitor.
It's all his fault.
“Kid, put the gun down and come here,” Dutch ordered in a distracted voice.
No, in a confident voice.
After all, why should a model daughter disobey her father?
For the first time, you hesitated and glanced over your shoulder.
Arthur was watching you, his eyes tired but pleading. You recalled your conversation from weeks earlier.
He's not the same. We both know that.
You turned back to Dutch and searched his eyes for the familiar spark of the early days, but nothing but greed and arrogance swam in those irises.
You bowed your head and admitted defeat.
The Father's image withered before her very eyes. Loyalty evaporated in a second. The blood of the pact coagulated. The heart dried up. Already, the mind was feeling the poison’s effects and destroying the golden images to leave only the cold hard truth.
Suddenly, the choice seemed obvious.
You took a step towards Arthur and John.
“No,”
“What do you mean “no”?” Dutch laughed. “Come here, Kid, or–”
Your blood ran cold. The stitches of loyalty loosened and those of hatred replaced them.
“Or what? You'll shoot me? 
“Cut the crap and get over here, Kid!”
“I ain’t your kid!” you exploded.
Your voice echoed through the clearing. Dutch froze.
You took a deep breath and, hand trembling, pointed your revolver at him.
The sensation of déjà-vu strangled you. All you had to do was close your eyes to be transported to the Chicago pier. You could almost hear the creaking of the merchant ship and Hosea's muttering.
But Hosea is dead.
You tightened your grip on the butt of the revolver. The dozens of blisters covering your hands burst into flames. Dutch was the sole reason for their presence. If you burst them, would the blood of the victims you had killed for him flow?
“You're not my father,” you continued despite your quavering voice. “My father died when he chose to side with this traitor.”
Her index finger left the grip.
“Kid, put the gun down.”
If he'd wanted you to be an obedient daughter, why had he taught you to shoot at seven?
You went over the guard.
Empty lungs.
You exhaled.
A daughter's loyalty to her father knew no bound, except for the one Betrayal erected.
Then, filial rage spared nothing.
Not even the Father.
119 notes · View notes
hihomeghere · 6 months ago
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Right Person, Wrong Time / John Marston x reader
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Summary : You and John have constantly been at each other's throats until you left the gang after he chose Abigail over you. When you return you find him gone, leaving Abigail and Jack. You create a relationship with Abigail and Jack, but what will happen when John returns? Warnings/tags : Hate fucking, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it), swearing, slapping, choking, hair pulling, biting breasts, unrequited loveish, John being an awful parent, slight Abigail x John, reader x John, reader becomes a parent figure it Jack, angst, no happy ending Word count : 2.5k
You supposed fate had it out for you. To dangle John in front of you like it did. Two scrappy street kids raised alongside each other. Like two starving dogs fighting for scraps, you were always at each other's throats. Arthur could hardly stand one of you at a time, but the two of you together had him damn near tearing his hair out. 
The old guard had hoped that once the two of you got older, things wouldn’t be so volatile around camp. But the churning hormones inside the two of you only poured gasoline on the fire that was you and John. 
Dutch and Hosea quickly learned that the two of you couldn’t be trusted to work a job together. That job ended in your first wanted poster going up in Armadillo. John tore one down and kept putting it up around camp, much to everyone’s disapproval. 
Hosea said it was because the two of you were too alike. Forced out on your own, fighting to survive in a dog eat dog world. Stuck in this rivalry that you had created. Dutch had seen it before anyone else had, the smoldering fire inside you that yearned for John’s spark. 
But then Abigail came along. You hated her. Hated her pretty eyes, soft lips, more than anything you hated how John couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. She was just a working girl, you had seen hundreds of working girls come and go but she
 she stayed. She stayed and for some reason John couldn’t stay away from her. 
Always sitting next to her around the campfire, looking at her with that stupid lovesick look. It made you sick. So instead of facing the fact that stupid John Marston was in love with someone who wasn’t you, you ran. 
You packed in the dead of night, like a coward, and ran off. It was harder on your own and as much as you hated to admit it, you missed the gang. More than anything you missed John. But you were stubborn, you wanted to prove to yourself that you didn’t need them, didn’t need him. 
It was fate when Arthur found you running a con on some rich folk. Asked you to come back, just for ‘one night’. You went back with him, knowing that this ‘one night’ would turn into many nights. Dutch and Hosea welcomed you back with open arms, something you hadn’t been expecting after being gone so long. Although your loyalty had never been with the gang, it was always with John. 
Although John was gone, like two ships passing in the night. Had run off about a week earlier from what Arthur had said. Leaving Abigail and his son. His son. 
A tiny boy with brown hair and dark eyes, barely a year old. Poor Abigail, the girl was a wreck. Dealing with her son and his piece of shit father. 
You don’t know why you attached yourself to them, stepping in and acting as a second parent to Jack. Perhaps you felt like you owed it to them, that you had harbored so much hate in you over a foolish man. A foolish man that had everything he could want and threw it away. Deep down you knew that it was for a more selfish reason. You felt close to John in some awful way when you were around Abigail and Jack. You saw so much of John in him, in his gummy smile. When he would laugh, deep in his belly. 
The little boy had captured your heart, just like his father. 
You knew that Abigail knew, knew the feelings you harbored for the father of her son. You supposed that everyone knew why you ran off. Ironic that you returned when the prodigal son had left. 
“I don’t hold it against you.” She said one day, breaking the silence between the two of you as you did your chores.
“Pardon?” You asked, looking up at her.
“John.” She said simply, her blunt words made your mouth run dry. “I don’t hold it against you. If that’s why you’re- you’re bein’ so kind. I don’t need charity.” She pursed her lips, hanging up a shirt on the line. 
“It ain’t charity I-“ You worked your jaw as you looked down, “I care for your son. I care for Jack. Hell I- I consider you a friend. Unless I’m oversteppin’?” You raised your eyes to meet her icy gaze.
“I’d like to be your friend.” She said, although her gaze didn’t soften.
And then one day the bastard returned. You didn’t know who was more mad, you or Arthur. He reached him before you did, slamming him up against a nearby tree. 
“You yellow bellied-“
“The hell you doin’!”
“Boys!” Dutch’s voice cut through their growls, striding over to all three of you. Your jaw was clenched so hard your teeth ached as you stared John down. As much as you hated to admit it, part of you was glad to see him. His hair was longer than the last time you had seen him. His dark raven locks down to his shoulders. Your stomach twisted as his eyes landed on you. You turned, stalking away from the men as Dutch began a speech to ‘calm’ the men down. 
Abigail was seething, bouncing Jack in her arms as she paced. 
“Want me to take him so you can kick his ass?” You asked, glaring at him over your shoulder. 
“Please.” She huffed, handing him off as she stormed over to him. A small bit of satisfaction filling you as her open palm connected to his cheek. You turned your gaze back to Jack, reminding your traitorous heart what really mattered. 
You knew it was only a matter of time before John cornered you. The sun had set and you were getting ready for bed when he stopped by your tent.
“You’re back.” His gravely voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
“So are you.” You huffed, keeping your back to him as you set your guns down.
“Why’d you come back?” His words sent liquid fire through your veins.
“Why’d you leave?” You hissed, spinning around to face him. He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “How could you?”
“Don’t give me that.” He scoffed, looking away from him.
“Excuse me? You have a family John.”
“And you didn’t?” He growled, his teeth bared like a wild dog. “You just packed up your shit and walked out on us, on all of us.”
“You don’t get to be mad over this.” You seethed, pointing your finger in his face. “We are not the same.”
“Oh sweetheart we’re the same kind of screwed up.” He sneered, holding his arms out. 
“No we ain’t.” You shoved him backwards, “I was here when it mattered. When your son said his first word, when he walked for the first time. I was there.”
“Oh congratulations, parent of the damn year.” 
“You ran cause you got scared, you damn coward.” You hissed, your emotions bubbling to the surface.
“And what’s your excuse hm? We all know why you ran.” His words made your blood run cold.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“I know everything about you.” He said closing the distance between the two of you. “I know you ran cause you couldn’t stand not havin’ me.” You clenched your jaw, swallowing past the lump in your throat.
“You’re a real fucking piece of work John.” He caught your wrist as you turned. 
“Tell me I’m wrong.” He pulled you closer, an iron grip of your wrist. His dark eyes boring into yours. 
“You’re wrong.” You hissed, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Really?” He asked, his voice raising in volume. He surged forward, crashing his lips against yours. It took you a minute to respond, your heart and head at war. Your palms pushed against his chest as he stumbled backwards. His lips parted as he stared down at you. You surged forward, pulling him towards you by his collar. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance. 
You parted, your lips swollen as you tore at his clothes. He got the memo quickly, undoing his gun belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clang. Halfway undressed he pounced on you like a man possessed. His hands were everywhere and yet your body craved more, more, more. 
Your hands threaded through his hair. Grabbing a chunk near the nape of his neck as you pulled his head back. His eyes caught yours in the low light of the lantern, his teeth glinting as his lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. 
“Your bark is a helluva lot worse than your bite.” He huffed, holding your hips in a near bruising grip. You clenched your jaw, liquid fire rushing through your veins. “Tell me you don’t want this, don’t want me.” He taunted, panting as you tighten your grip on his hair. 
“You’re a piece of shit.” You spat.
“And what does that make you, sweetheart?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. You tugged at the base of his skull, a low groan leaving his lips as he laughed. He walked you backwards, your calves hitting your cot. 
“Fuck you.” You hissed, feeling his hot breath waft across your face.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” His mouth was back on yours, his fingers moved with precision as he unbuttoned your shirt. He roughly grabbed your breast, swallowing the low whine he pulled from you. He pushed you down onto your cot, slotting himself between your legs. He made quick work of undressing you, muttering to himself. “All hot and bothered- you think you’re so damn special don’t you?” He hissed through gritted teeth.
“Like you ain’t much better golden boy.” You growled, tugging at his union suit, hoping he’d get the message. He did, pulling his arms out and kicking the fabric off as you finished undressing. 
You had pictured this exchange happening differently in your head more times than you wanted to admit. In your mind, your first time with John was slow. Each of you would take time to worship each other's bodies. Mapping out each scar and blemish, committing them to memory. Soft kisses trailed along your skin, words of affection passing between your lips. 
As he kicked off his union suit, his cock sprang up against his stomach. The tip red and weeping between his legs. His hand closed around your ankle, yanking you down the cot, closer to him. His hand cupped your mound, his finger trailing down your slit. You hated to give him the satisfaction as he found you slick with desire. He ducked his head, biting at your breast. You gasped as he ran his tongue over the teeth marks before wrapping his lips around your nipple.
“Act like such a damn brat,” He said, pulling off with a loud pop, “Now look at ya, just drippin for me.” Your face burned as he ran his finger through your folds. Your open palm connected with his cheek. His head snapping away from you, your own hand stinging as you pulled back. He let out a low chuckle, hanging his head. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pushing them up against your chest. Folding you in half as he lined himself up with your entrance. He drove into you, knocking the air out of your lungs with a squeak.
“Goddamn you’re tight.” He hissed in pain and pleasure as you raked your nails down his back. He ruts into you like some animal, his lips parted and swollen as he huffed. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle any traitorous moans. The dark patch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your clit. Your whole body felt ablaze as he pounded relentlessly into you. The sound of skin on skin echoing through the small tent. His heavy balls hitting your ass with each thrust. Your cunt ached as he carved out a space for himself inside you, reaching places you didn’t think possible. 
Blood roared in your ears as you’re dragged closer and closer to the edge of pleasure. Your eyes rolling back into your head as your body is propelled up the cot with each thrust. His hand closed around your throat, squeezing slightly and you’re gone.
Wave after wave wash over you as you writhe under him. Mewling as your legs shook on either side of his shoulders, your head felt fuzzy as his hips stuttered. 
“Shit don’t-“ He bit his lip, “I can’t-“ He pulled out of you, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. He slammed back into you, his chest sticking to your back with sweat as he laid over you. His arms on either side of your head as he held himself up. 
“Fuck John!” You cried out, biting down on your lip. Your body was ablaze as his hand pressed your face into the cot. 
“God damn-“ He groaned through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips stuttered. Pouring himself into you as he collapsed on top of you. 
Both of your breaths filled the air, your chest heaving as he rolled off of you. He left you empty and leaking onto your cot, although that was the least of your worries.
You just fucked John, well technically he fucked you. But Abigail
 Abigail and Jack. God if she found out you’d never be able to earn her trust back. John let out a long sigh, running his hand over his face. A smirk tugging on his lips as he looked over at you. 
You felt sick to your stomach as you felt his cum drip out of you. You got up, grabbing his clothes and throwing them at him. He caught them and held them against his chest, his brows furrowing as he looked up at you. 
“The hell are you doing darlin’?” He asked.
“Don’t call me that.” You huffed, stepping into your bloomers. “This- this was a mistake. You know it, I know it, shit you have a family, John. Abigail, Jack-“
“Is that what this is about?” He scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he sat on the edge of the cot. “They’re in the past.”
“No!” You snapped, “They’re right here in this fucking camp! Waiting for you.”
“Who knows if the boy is even mine-“ He started, throwing up his hand.
“Oh don’t pull that horseshit, we all know he’s your son.” You scoffed, buttoning up your shirt. “God I’m a fool.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Guilt settling over you like a blanket. “Get out.”
“What?” He asked, his eyes finding yours.
“This was a mistake.” You said shaking your head, “You may not have any loyalty but I do. I- This never happened.” His jaw clenched, anger burning in his eyes as he roughly dressed himself. He stopped next to you, staring you down.
“So this is it?” He scoffed, shaking his head as you didn’t respond. Your arms crossed as you hung your head in shame. “Unbelievable.” He muttered as he stormed past you, knocking his shoulder against yours as he left your tent.
You sat down on the edge of your cot, putting your head in your hands. Hating yourself for being so damn weak, hating yourself for enjoying it, hating yourself for your undeniable feelings for him.
What had you done?
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Part Two
209 notes · View notes
rockscanfly · 8 months ago
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Random Charles Smith Headcanon's
Has probably contemplated suicide at more than one point (see “I’m here just to hurt and suffer myself. In this land I feel stuck.”)
Maybe a little vain. He cares for his clothing well, embellishes himself. 
Has auditory sensitivity. He gets very irritable with loud people.
Has never felt like he belonged, always feels cut off
Is comfortable with violence only against folk he sees as on his own level/like himself. Has little empathy for himself so has little empathy for them (hence smoking while Arthur beats a man for information, the efficient and quick kills of the bounty hunter, the poachers)
Has a STRONG sense of justice--that includes responsibility and culpability. People make choices and Charles holds them accountable for them. Sadie is a killer, so he treats her like any other ally. That German family didn’t make that choice, neither did the Wapiti. But he doesn’t have any pity for the gang.
Animals don't choose violence, hence the protectiveness over them and their dignity. 
Comes off as cold because he isn’t loud/not good at chat. He’s really just been alone most of his life. 
Okay with drinking, does NOT like drunkenness. Back to culpability. This can make him unforgiving and harsh at times.
Both he and Arthur are so used to people passing in and out of their lives that they’re afraid to hold on too tight. Then Arthur gets captured by Colm. Hosea talks to him, about Bessie and about Arthur’s dead family. 
“I’m not her,” Charles says. “Not either of them. I’m not asking you to leave your world behind, and I’m not going to wait for you in some house. We’re partners first. I’d lose the rest of it before I let you put me to the side.” 
He likes that Arthur is big enough to push him around, to hold him down and anchor him when he can feel himself getting lost. To toss him over a broad shoulder when they’re swimming around on a hunting trip and settle him down on soft pelts, to pin him and bite the lonely from his skin. 
Charles can kick Arthur’s ass and will do so on request
He’s kind and thoughtful. He’d be the one to make Arthur little presents and leave them around for him. Practical things, made special with the careful workmanship of beading/embroidery/etching. 
Can be impatient—autonomy is his norm so waiting on others both physically, mentally, and emotionally doesn’t come natural to him
Will cut slingload on people he feels don’t value him back—would not pine for Arthur or stick around if Arthur tries to protect himself by lashing out at Charles, even if he still has feelings. His father taught him that he has to protect himself because no one else will do it. Arthur. Well. Arthur’s the only person he’s trusted to have his back. Because Arthur proved it, several times over. There’s no one Charles would have used “do it for me” on other than Arthur Morgan. 
He fell into fighting again because he had begun opening his heart for the first time since he was a child, and then fate took Arthur too. Like Charles said—he was put on the earth to cause pain and to suffer himself. 
He tries to help folks, but he’s not good at talking and he can’t use his privilege to help like Arthur did. He’s everything the US government hates, even more than the Waipiti. They reach a point where his violence is no longer useful. And for a drowning, grieving, heart sick stretch of years violence is all Charles has left to him (hence going to Saint Denis, a city he hates, and fighting people for white folks' entertainment in a transparent suicide-by-cop bid for someone to end his suffering) And then Sadie gives him the option of closure and working beside John reminds him that he is a man, not a weapon, and Beecher’s Hope makes him believe he too can change. 
Charles has never tried to be anything but who he is. He and Arthur are similar in that way. What he realizes, what Arthur realized too late, is that he can change if he wants it. And that maybe he’s allowed his past pain and scars to run his life along a course he doesn’t actually have to follow. 
Brought to you by my on-going replay of RDR2 and my undying love and devotion to princess of my heart Charles Smith.
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say-hwaet · 5 months ago
Text
That's the Way it Is
Chapter Five: Confessions of a Wanted Man Previous Chapters: IV III II I Summary: Arthur meets up with Hosea on a job, but guns and a quick tongue aren't the only things that accompany him. Warnings/Key Items: Mature Themes, Foreplay, Language Word Count: ~7,000 words
“Now that we’re done with this nonsense,” Arthur grunts as he rolls his shoulders. “I have somethin’ I need to tell you.”
Hosea waves off Seamus as the blacksmith disappears into his barn. They had just finished delivering a stolen stagecoach to him, in hopes of gaining an alliance
and a way to make money. 
Arthur and Hosea have always worked well together, Hosea with his quick mouth and cunning, and Arthur with his strength and resilience. Brains and Brawn, working side by side to get the job done. 
It would have worked another time, had they had the chance in Blackwater. Before everything went to hell. 
He would have had the opportunity, the greatest opportunity he could have ever had

“What’s that, Arthur?” Hosea walks up to Silver Dollar, his Turkoman, and gives him a good pat on the neck.
“Kit is alive.”
Hosea freezes, his palm resting on Silver Dollar’s neck. He turns to look back at Arthur over his shoulder. “Arthur, I know you want to believe that–”
“She’s at camp. I found her.”
Hosea's expression shifts from disbelief to a profound amazement, shadowed by caution. "At camp? How? When?" His voice lowers as he glances around Emerald Tanch, ensuring no other ears are nearby.
Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes intense but worn. "I saw her with some feller in Valentine—”
“Yes, Bill and Javier came back calling you crazy
” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “I was beginning to doubt you myself.”
Arthur continues. “Well, I followed them when they left, trailed them a mile or two behind. I heard gunshots, and came riding up to find that they had been attacked by bandits.”
Hosea leaves his mount and steps toward him. “Was she hurt?”
Arthur shakes his head, almost smiling. “She fought her way through, like always.”
Hosea can’t believe it, as disbelief is etched across his face. “Arthur
” His voice softens as he lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "This is remarkable news, but we need to tread carefully. With everything that happened before the ferry robbery
”
Arthur's expression tightens, the fleeting smile disappearing as quickly as it came. "I know, but I also need to tell you
” He steps closer to Hosea, speaking in a hushed voice. “She doesn’t remember.”
Hosea blinks. “At all?”
“At all. She didn’t know who I was
” Arthur looks out into the Heartlands, his heart aching in places he thought were closed off. “She don’t know that
”
“She doesn’t know,” Hosea repeats, understanding what he means. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”
“It’s better this way,” Arthur clears his throat after it trembles at the beginning of his sentence. “Dutch seems to be watchin’, he’s on edge with everythin’ and everyone. It’s best that we lie low, like you said, and hope for the best.”
Hosea lowers his head, exhaling slowly. “We’ve been through worse, don’t get me wrong, but, I think that it is only a matter of time before
” He lets his voice trail off.
“I know,” Arthur says with finality.
Hosea meets his gaze. “Are you sure she doesn’t remember anything?”
Arthur nods. “Yes. If she did remember, she wouldn’t be behavin’ as she is.”
Hosea tilts his head, his brow pinched in confusion. “What do you mean, son?”
“She’s
she’s
” He doesn’t know how to explain it, not without telling Hosea everything. Everything he has been keeping from everyone.
Hosea must see it in his face. “What is it, son?”
And like a crashing wave, it overwhelms him.
***
“I’m scared
” you say as he holds your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I’m scared that this will destroy us all.”
Arthur looks into your eyes, those hazel eyes with pools of green, and how the tears flow out of them. He hates it, he hates to see you cry, for you rarely ever do, only for deepest reasons that you are too proud to acknowledge. That’s just your way. It’s who you are.
And he loves you for all of it.
“I know, Kitten,” he says softly, feeling free to speak your pet name. You both have snuck away once more outside of camp, to a secret spot beyond the river. Blackwater is a dry land full of cheek grass, rocks, and valleys. It’s the Great Plains, touching on the borders of New Austin.
It’s open, more open than the woods that you and the gang have been sequestered in. And in doing so, other things have come out in the open.
It has been developing over the last couple of years. The glances, small gestures of kindness, the flirtatious banter, and witnessing how you’ve been with Jack. All these things have drawn Arthur to you, and he has begun to think that maybe, just maybe, that he could have the chance at a new life that has eluded him twice before. With Mary, and with Eliza and Isaac.
You were there after the fallout with Mary, though you never met Eliza. Actually, you didn’t know why he had come back after a few days drunk and bitter and depressed, not until years later, under a canopy of stars, when he told you that he had loved a woman, fathered a child, and found their two crosses. You were sensitive to him, then, not expecting anything, and only giving comfort in return. For the longest time, Arthur had closed his heart off to love, hopeless and sour-faced as a result. 
But now
you’ve grown to love each other and it has given Arthur hope.
And now Micah, with his forked tongue, has been spinning ideas in Dutch’s ear. This ferry, promising money beyond their wildest dreams, is the way to paradise. And Dutch is buying it.
And what’s worse, is that they are recruiting you to help them.
“If I do this, it can go two ways
” you continue, your voice wavering as you gaze up at the endless stretch of sky above, "Either we get enough to leave here for good... or things go wrong, Arthur. Badly wrong." There's a tightness in your chest as you speak, the weight of the impending danger pressing down like an iron shroud. “I normally don’t worry about things like this, but something is telling me otherwise
” 
Arthur's eyes, usually so full of determination and quiet strength, now reflect your fears. He wraps his arms around you tighter, as if to shield you from the uncertain future looming ahead. "We'll make it through this, Kit," he murmurs into your hair, the rough timbre of his voice both comforting and resolute. “Hosea and I have been workin’ on somethin’. Maybe we can get to it before all of this.”
He feels you shake your head, stirring the fragrance of patchouli and bergamot oils that scent your hair. “I love you, Arthur, mƯj král.”
My King. After King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was one of the first books you had read in its entirety. He thought it was a little silly, at first, to be referred to as a king, but now, the title holds a different meaning for him. It is a vow, a silent promise between the two of you, wrapped in the words of your native tongue.
Arthur’s grip tightens, his lips pressing a gentle, firm kiss atop your head. “And I love you, Kitten. No matter what happens.” He whispers it, his breath warm against the cool evening air. The tension in his frame doesn't ease, though; if anything, it tightens.
You pull back slightly, looking up into Arthur's eyes, needing to see the truth in them. “Promise me, promise that no matter what happens, we won’t leave without each other. Tell me that we’ll find a way to be together, even when the world seems hell-bent on keeping us apart.” Your voice cracks slightly with the intensity of your emotions, each word a plea tethered to the core of your being.
Arthur’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners as he gives you a small, sad smile. "I promise, Kit. Ain't nothin' in this world or the next that could tear me away from you." His words, spoken with such certainty, make your heart swell even amid the fear and uncertainty.
You nod, feeling a momentary peace settle over you. “I want it to be eternal, Arthur.” His eyes lower to meet yours and he can see the sincerity in them.
He feels it. He’s thought about it, considered it, but was always too afraid, especially after everything that has happened prior to all of this.
He takes your hands in his, rubbing your knuckles as he considers his next words. “Then will you
?” He struggles, swallowing thickly as the moon casts its glow. “Will you
marry me, Kitka?”
Your expression says it all. Surprise, but relief. Joy that he would feel the same sentiment. “Yes, I will
” And you pull him into a kiss, your softness and hunger teasing at hidden desires that you have kept inside all of these years. You run your fingers through his hair, and he hears a soft moan in the back of your throat as he continues to kiss you hungrily.
He leaves your mouth, tracing your jawline and neck with soft kisses, inhaling the smell of your skin. You arch your neck back, opening yourself to him.
“Arth
Arthur
”
He’s become intoxicated by your smell, his hands beginning to softly wander. His heart thrums steadily, anticipation running through his veins. “Mmm
?”
You place a hand firmly on his chest, pushing him away. “We’ve waited this long
” you say, your voice trembling as you fight your own desires. “We need to find someone to marry us.”
Of course. He knows how much it means to you, and he senses the urgency of it, for many reasons.
He nods, understanding the significance of making it official, binding it beyond just words whispered in the shadow of night. “Alright, Kit. We’ll do it right.” Arthur’s voice is steady, reassuring as he pulls you back into an embrace.
***
The next morning dawns with a crispness that hints at the coming change. You and Arthur told Hosea that you were getting some last-minute supplies, and would be gone for a day or two. Arthur can trust Hosea to placate Dutch long enough for them to return, even though no one knows the reason why you both only took your horses, not a wagon cart to wheel in supplies back to camp.
Arthur watches you as you ride side by side. The dark wisps of your hair flying wildly in the wind. Odliv saddled in the embroidered leather that you painstakingly made, looks like a horse fit for carrying royalty. You look like a vision from a dream, your hazel eyes alight with determination and excitement. Arthur can't help but smile, his heart swelling with pride and love for the strong, incredible woman you've become.
As the church comes into view, a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbles up within him. He knows this is it. This is when you and him will be man and wife, and he can finally put to rest the fear of losing you forever. With every beat of his heart, he feels closer to a future he once thought impossible.
A minister, Arthur deduces by his attire, attends to a small garden on the side of the church, a small, weathered building that has seen better days, much like the two of you. It’s humble but fitting, mirroring the simplicity and authenticity of your love. As he dismounts, Arthur’s knees feel unsteady, not from the ride, but from the magnitude of the moment about to unfold.
He strides over to help you down from Odliv, his hands strong yet gentle. You take a deep breath, exhaling softly as your eyes meet his. You chuckle, the giddiness clearly evident. “Let’s go talk to him,” you say.
Taking your hand in his, he smiles down at you. “Okay
” You both walk together, calmly approaching the minister as his back is turned. Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Excuse me?”
The man shoots straight up, turning around and upon seeing you two, looks afraid while also trying to maintain an air of calm. “Can I help you?”
You, in your blunt way, speak plainly. “We are wanting to get married. Can you marry us?”
The man looks at you both with suspicion. “You aren’t
running away from something are you?”
You both look at each other. That is one of the nicer questions that he could be asking. And you smile as you shake your head. “No, just
running towards something better, together.” Your voice holds a hint of defiance, a sparkle of your past challenges woven through the calm of your present.
Arthur’s grip tightens around your hand, reassuring and solid. His eyes, a deep marine blue, don’t stray from yours, affirming every word silently as he nods to the man of the cloth. “Yes. We just wanted to do it right.”
The minister seems to appreciate this, as his eyes soften toward you both. “You’ll need two witnesses.”
You frown. “Oh.”
Then he grins. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the groundskeeper and his wife won’t mind. They are inside now.” He brushes the dirt off his hands. “Please, give me a moment to ask them.” And he turns around to head inside the church.
When he leaves, Arthur feels you pull on his arm. He looks down at you and sees the goofiest smile on your face. “What?” he chuckles.
“It’s happening, Arthur,” you whisper as you nearly hop up and down. You are such a little thing, a precious thing, and he finds you adorable. “We’re getting married.”
He’s glad that you are so happy. Even with the loom of what will soon happen in Blackwater, he’s glad to be sharing this small time with you, without the prying eyes of everyone at camp.
He smiles at you and brings your hand up to kiss it, leaving his lips planted there longer than necessary.
The door to the church opens and the minister waves them over. “Please! Come in, you shall have your wedding.”
You giggle cheerfully, nearly pulling Arthur along. He nearly fumbles, but quickly falls in step with you once you reach the steps.
As you both enter the church, Arthur lets his eyes wander. It is clean, and even though it is old, it looks well-maintained. The stained glass windows cast a colored light into the small space, and turning his head, he sees the light casting a rainbow of colors on your skin.
You’re a beautiful sight.
The minister begins to introduce you both to the gardener and his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Greene, this is
” and he turns to you two.
Arthur speaks for you both. “Arthur Morgan and Kitka Petrova.”
Mrs. Greene’s face lights up, looking at you. “Oh, you’re Russian?”
You shake your head, your brow pinching. “No, Czechoslovakian.”
The woman blinks. “Oh.” And after a moment, her eyes light up. “I will be right back.” And she steps quickly out the doors of the church.
You tap Arthur and he looks down at you. “I have something I want to change into
” And you turn to the minister. “Is there a place where I can freshen up really quick?”
He nods, pointing to a small door at the front of the church. “Right in there.”
You nod your thanks and let your hand graze Arthur’s arm before letting him go, taking your satchel with you. He can’t imagine what you want to wear, but it is your wedding day. Anything to make it more special, he is going to let you.
He wishes that he had something to wear.
The minister clears his throat. “So, Mr. Morgan, how did you meet your fiancĂ©e?”
Arthur knows the poor man is just trying to make conversation while they wait, but Arthur isn’t sure how to answer that. He thinks of the easiest answer. “We, erm
we grew up together. We met in California.”
“Oh? California is quite the distance from here.”
Arthur chortles. “Shoah is. Just didn’t think to ask her to marry me up until now.”
He hears the door open, and you step out slowly. Your skirt and blouse is the same, aside from the headdress and lace apron you wear. Arthur has seen you wear kroj before, the intricate floral embroidery all done by your hand, but as the years have gone by, you’ve worn the traditional garb of your home country less and less. To see you in the fěrtĂșĆĄek and the ČepenĂ­ , makes him feel something.
You pause by the door, pressing down the wrinkles of the fěrtĂșĆĄek . “I don’t have a way to fix it.”
Arthur shakes his head. “You’re perfect, darlin’.”
Mrs. Greene smiles as she comes back in, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Yes, dear. Just lovely.” 
You try to hide the blush on your cheek behind some of the fabric in your headdress, but it is a futile effort. You approach him, your eyes not leaving him and he takes your hands gently.
The minister beams. “I guess we are all ready now?”
With one more glance at you, Arthur looks at him. “We’re ready now, sir.”
The minister nods, a gentle warmth in his eyes as he motions for you and Arthur to step forward. You both walk in between the few wood pews worn smooth from years of use. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, casting vibrant hues across the wooden floor. The air is filled with a reverence and a whimsy that Arthur hasn’t really felt before, or at least he can’t seem to recognize it.
The minister gestures for Mr. and Mrs. Greene to come up, given that they are witnesses and all. They step forward and Mrs. Greene hands you the bouquet. You smile at her and take a moment to bury your nose in the flowers to drink in their aroma.
Now, you’re ready.
The minister goes through the words, and, of course, Arthur easily drowns them out. He’s never been a religious man, given his chosen profession, but in this moment, under the soft glow of the church’s stained glass, he feels something sacred. Arthur’s eyes never leave yours as the minister speaks of love, commitment, and the bonds that hold two people together. Your hands are clasped tightly together, his rough and calloused against your softer, delicate ones.
Then the minister’s next words require a response as he asks Arthur the question, “Arthur Morgan, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
Arthur’s throat tightens, and his voice is a gravelly whisper when he finally speaks. “I do,” he says, squeezing your hands as if to reinforce the promise. His blue eyes, usually so guarded and stern, now shimmer with unshed tears, a rare glimpse of the vulnerability he so seldom lets show.
The minister turns his benevolent gaze on you, your breath hitches, the weight of the moment settling around you like a summer breeze. “Kitka Petrova, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
And you do not hesitate, confidence emanating through the two most powerful words, “I do.”
Mrs. Greene emits a soft sigh, clearly enraptured by these two strangers. It almost bolsters Arthur’s resolve, a reassurance that they are doing the right thing.
Then, as though you had rehearsed it, you take out a ring, your father’s ring, and taking Arthur’s hand in yours, you slip it over his finger. You gasp softly. It fits.
And fulfilling his part, he takes the ring from his pocket, your mother’s ring, and it fits your finger perfectly.
And then the final words are spoken. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife
” And the minister looks at Arthur. “You may kiss the bride.”
Arthur leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, the world around both of you fading into a distant murmur. His hands cup your face gently, a stark contrast to the usual roughness his life demands. “I love you,” he whispers, and catches your reply in his mouth. The kiss is tender, a seal on the vows you’ve just exchanged, filled with promises of a future that both of you have so long dreamed for.
***
“Are you sure you don’t want a hotel room?” Arthur asks you while starting the fire. You both have wandered further into New Austin, finding a body of water in a secluded spot. The canyon stands as a guardian, shielding anyone from coming by and seeing them. “It just don’t seem right to not get you a comfy bed and feather pillows on your weddin’ night.”
You are in your bare feet standing ankle-deep in the water as it laps waves into your legs. “I prefer this. It’s beautiful out here, and I find myself more at home in places like this.” You turn to look over your shoulder at him. “And no one is around.”
Arthur’s cheeks burn pink and he looks down. Here you are getting him more bashful when it’s you who ought to be.
The night air is cool, carrying the scent of juniper and the distant howl of a coyote. Arthur finishes setting up the small camp, his movements efficient yet gentle, always mindful of the world around him. The fire catches with a soft crackle, its glow dancing across his features, casting long shadows behind him. He rises to his feet and still finds you standing in the water. He smiles to himself and walks up to you, stopping at the water so he doesn’t get his boots wet.
“Are you ever gonna get out of that water, woman?”
You don’t turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “That’s Mrs. Morgan, to you.”
Oh, does it ever feel good to hear those words. Never did he think those would ever be spoken near him. Bolstered by the thrill of it, he comes to you quickly, scooping you up in his arms. Water drips from your legs and you screech excitedly. “Mrs. Morgan, get out of that water,” he orders huskily. 
Your giggling simmers down quickly, and your eyes meet his as he carries you. “Okay.”
He leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth, and you sigh deeply. He feels his heart pound in his chest and your arms wrap around his neck.
Tonight, the desert's vastness seems to embrace you both, the stars twinkling like countless eyes watching over your newfound happiness. With Arthur carrying you back to the camp, the sand feels warm under his boots, a stark contrast to the cool water you just left.
He sets you down on a laid-out bedroll beside the newly kindled fire, close for the light to be cast on you but far enough where its heat won’t be a hindrance.
He remains hovered over you and even if he were to move, your arms hold him there as they are still around you. He looks at you, how the light of the fire casts its glow, burning a desire in him so deep that he feels as if it might consume him entirely. "I reckon I've been waitin' a lifetime for somethin' like this," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. The firelight flickers in your eyes, reflecting the earnestness of his words.
You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. Your touch is so tender, so soft, as though you are mapping out a path on a sacred map, each contour under your fingertips a treasure trove of shared secrets and quiet dreams. “And I,” you whisper back, feeling the heat of the fire mingled with the warmth of his body, “never thought it would happen.”
He snorts at that. “No, you?” His grip tightens around your waist. “I find that hard to believe.”
You nod. “It’s true. I saw how other men looked at me. Mesmerized one moment, and disgusted the next.” Your eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. “I thought that because of my background, no decent man would want me.” Then your eyes lift into his again, and your palm goes over his chest. “But
I don’t think that anymore.”
He knows you feel his heart pounding, beating against his ribcage.
Arthur softens, his face close to yours, his breath mingling with the chilly night air. "Kit," he says gently, the word a caress in itself, "you're more than decent. You're extraordinary." His words hover between you like the fine desert sand carried by a breeze. "And those fools who looked at you that way—”
You place a finger on his lips, stopping him. “Arthur
I want you to touch me.”
His eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and longing, search your face for any sign of hesitation. But there is none. There's only the clear, deep need reflected back at him—a need that mirrors his own. Your breath catches as his hands, those large, calloused hands, move slowly, almost reverently, down the curve of your back. Each touch whispers promises and secret confessions, lingering in places that make both of your hearts skip and your bodies tremble.
You convey your impatience by taking his arms, guiding them to leave you for a brief moment before placing his hands on the buttons of your blouse, leaning up and kissing him at the same time. The kiss deepens, drawing out a sigh from both of your lips as if the very air you shared was laced with destiny. His fingers fumble briefly at the buttons, a testament to his eagerness matched only by his reverence for the moment. The fabric parts, and the cool night air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps across its milky whiteness.
Arthur parts for just a moment, looking at you as you help remove your blouse and begin to work on your chemise as you untuck it from your skirt. He leans away to remove his shirt, undoing each button one by one. He hears your fragmented breaths as you hurry, and he looks up to see that your chemise and skirt are now gone, your bloomers only remaining.
He freezes what he is doing, letting out a broken chuff. He knew you were beautiful, but this
this is nearly heart-stopping.
You move to cover yourself, but hesitate. “Do I
? Does this disappoint you?”
His gaze lingers on you, raw admiration etched into the lines of his face, transforming him from the rugged outlaw to a man utterly captivated by the woman before him. "Kitka," he murmurs again, and this time your name sounds like a prayer from his lips. “Never.” The moonlight dances across your skin, and it’s all he can do from not rushing forward. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to calm the storm raging inside him. Every instinct in his body screams to close the distance, to claim every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth, his hands. But he holds back, allows himself this moment to truly see you, all barriers gone as you slip your thumbs underneath the waistband of your bloomers, leaning back and pushing them off.
Your movements are graceful, clearly putting your skills as a mesmerizing performer to work. Only, this type of disappearing act will ever be for his eyes only.
You seem to have more confidence, as you rise on your knees and move closer to him. You maneuver your legs to where he kneels in between them, and you take his hands as they remain on the half-unbuttoned shirt.
Your hands guide his to pull the shirt off completely, letting it fall away to join the pile of discarded clothing. The somber moon casts its silvery glow, highlighting the contours of his well-built frame and creating a tableau—a mix of shadow and light playing across his sinewed chest.
The cooler air causes him to shiver and you press your body into his as he remains kneeled in the dirt and you wrap your arms around him. He buries his head in between your breasts and you card your fingers through his hair, your long fingernails sending chills down his spine. You are so soft, so warm and welcoming.
“Make love to me, mƯj král,” you moan softly. “Make love to your wife.”
And suddenly awakening that deep desire, his arms wrap around your waist and he guides you down on your back. Coming up to kiss you, he presses his lips deeper into yours, as he works his boots and pants free. It is a noble task, and once his boots and pants are nothing but a pile on the dirt, you break from his kiss. You look at his naked body, his muscles glistening in the moonlight, carved as if by the harsh landscapes through which he'd roamed. His eyes, those deep pools of marine blue, are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a visible shiver throughout your body. It's not just lust that shines in his gaze but a fierce protectiveness and the tender vulnerability of a man who has lost much yet finds himself on the precipice of reclaiming a part of his soul. His hands, rough from years of labor and gunplay, trace the curves of your body with a reverence that speaks to his deep-seated need to cherish what he once thought irretrievably lost.
Your eyes on him, though full of love and kindness, make him feel nervous. It has been years since he has been with a woman, and the fact that you have never seen a man in this form before doesn’t change the way he feels.
“I’m sorry,” he utters.
You look up at him, after looking his entire body over. “For what?”
He chortles and shakes his head. “Nothin’.” Arthur’s eyes soften as he looks down at you, his gaze again tracing the lines of your face illuminated by the moon. "Just... never thought I'd deserve this," he murmurs, his voice rough like the gravel paths you both once tread in a life that feels both distant and painfully close. “Deserve you.”
You reach up, your hand gently caressing his cheek, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jawline. "Everyone deserves a chance at happiness, Arthur," you whisper, your voice as soft as the breeze rustling through the nearby trees. "Even you."
He hesitates, the weight of his past and the shadows in his eyes flickering like the dimming embers of a campfire, but then he nods slowly, accepting your words. Arthur lowers himself, his body aligning with yours as the coarse fabric of the blanket beneath melds with the softness of the earth. His breath is warm against your cheek, mingling with the cool night air, creating a symphony of contrasting sensations that reflects the complexity of the emotions swirling between you.
He takes his hand and gently grazes your inner thigh. “You want me to
?” He wants to ask if you want him to guide you through what he’s about to do, but he isn’t sure how to say it without making it come out awkward.
But you take his hand, gently, but firm, instincts taking over inexperience. “Just
” you hiss softly. “Take me.”
And he takes you like a thief.
***
The silence that envelops the night is punctuated by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves, a natural symphony that seems to acknowledge the sanctity of this moment between outcasts. He can feel your heartbeat, strong and pure as his fingertips trace the contours of your spine, descending to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you.
Your body is misted in sweat and he tries to conceal his breathing as he tries to catch it. You intertwine your legs with his and leaning in close, you plant light kisses on his collarbone.
“Are you alright?” you ask innocently, reaching a hand to wipe his brow. “You’re trembling.”
He nods. “I’m fine, kitten,” he purrs, focusing on the feel of your flesh beneath his fingers as you lay beside him. 
“Did I do good?” you ask him, then chuckling at your words. “Never mind. I should not have said that.”
He kisses your forehead. To think that you are still concerned about pleasing him, when he should be the one ensuring your comfort, makes his heart swell with an affection so potent it nearly suffocates him. “Oh, kitten
” he murmurs into your hair, his lips tracing a line down to your ear where he whispers reassurances of his love. “You were perfect.”
The stars above seem to twinkle their approval of this union, and they match the bubbliness in your giggle as you hide your face in his chest. “Really?”
“Really.”
You go quiet for a moment, and he feels the soft heat of your breath on his skin as it slows. “I don’t want this to end, Arthur.” And your voice starts to tremble. “I can’t go back to camp pretending this didn’t happen.”
He couldn’t agree more. There has to be something that can be done. A way to make it last long after tonight, long when years have gone. Then something comes into his mind. An idea. He leans back to look at your glistening body, letting his forefinger trail down your neck, sternum, and to your belly. “It doesn’t have to.”
Your eyes look into his, as though searching for an explanation. “What do you mean?”
He decides to spare you any enigmatic airs, like Dutch or Hosea. It’s always paid to be straightforward with you. “We leave.”
The word "leave" hangs between you like a promise, tinted with both the thrill of the unknown and the weight of all it would mean to abandon the life you've known. His fingertips still hovering at your belly, his gaze holds yours, unblinking, as raw and open as you've ever seen him.
“Leave?”
“Yes.”
You rest a hand on his chest. “You’d do that?”
“It ain’t like I have never thought about it.” In fact, he tried it once, years ago, but it was too late then. You were there for that, but you never knew, he never told anyone. He pulls you tighter. “I don’t see how it could be a better time.” He begins to picture it. A house in the woods, a garden and maybe some horses. Maybe
even little feet running across the wooden floors, and you chasing after them.
But you, always pragmatic, ask the real question. “How?”
It would have to be when everyone is distracted. Busy. When they would least expect you to. “The ferry robbery.” The idea hangs heavily in the air, infused with fears and possibilities alike. "During the peak of the robbery," Arthur continues, his voice a low rumble against the backdrop of the night's serene silence. "We grab what we need beforehand, have it ready, and disappear before anyone notices. It’s going to be chaos — no one will see us go."
"But Dutch?" you interject, your voice a whisper tangled in concern. Dutch had been like a father to both of you, his towering presence weaving through the threads of your lives, binding you to the gang. The thought of betraying him prickles your conscience like thorns. “He needs me to act as a hostage, that’s right in the middle of it
”
Arthur's eyes soften, the lines around them deepening with understanding. “You can slip off the boat when no one’s lookin’. You’ll look like a passenger. You’ll be a woman goin’ to meet her husband. You’ve pulled off easier stories than that.”
You look at the ring on your finger and feel butterflies in your stomach. Then you realize something. “We will need money.”
Arthur nods. You’re right. If Dutch taught him anything, it is that everything comes with a price, and so will leaving the gang for good. He lets his fingers caress your body, its silky softness arousing passions deep within him again. “I have some saved. About thirty dollars.” His eyes, piercing and resolute, meet yours as he adds, "Plus whatever you can take from the ferry. It ain't a fortune but it’s a start. Enough to get us away from here, buy us some time to figure out more." He feels a swirl of excitement with the twinge of danger. And he sees how you look at him, study him.
“I need something until then.”
Need? Would that you would never want or need of anything again, as long as he’s alive and breathing.  “Anythin’, Kitten.”
Your voice is low and soft as you make your request. “I need you to call me your wife.”
He snorts. “I can’t in front of the gang, Kitten, they’ll know.”
“ManĆŸelka, ” you say. And it catches him off guard. He’s tried to remember all the things you say, and this one isn’t familiar to him.
“What?”
You repeat it again, only slowly this time. “ManĆŸelka. It means wife.”
He understands now, like a secret code, words that can be spoken out loud but no one will know otherwise. “How do you say, ‘I love my beautiful wife?’”
Your lips curve into a smile, finding amusement and warmth in teaching him. “Miluji svou krĂĄsnou ĆŸenu,” you whisper back, your voice a veil of softness in the firelight that is growing dim.
Arthur tries it out, the unfamiliar words rolling awkwardly off his tongue. “Miluji svou krĂĄsnou ĆŸenu.” He grins, his chest swelling like a child who has just begun to learn to read. “How was that?”
He sees your dilated pupils, and your hands begin to travel down his body. “I can get you to say other things if you want
”
His eyes widen at your brazenness, and he feels his cheeks burn. “Kit—” he coughs, clearly caught off guard as you touch him in the most intimate of places. 
“Why, Mr. Morgan,” you giggle, kissing his chin. “Did I make you blush?”
The flames of the fire dance in your eyes as you pull him close, his breath mingling with yours. He nods, the rough stubble of his beard brushing against your cheek. "You did, indeed," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that is suddenly caught in the pleasantness of your mouth, and soon he is a thief once again.
***
“My God,” Hosea breathes, as the weight of Arthur’s words sink in. “I suspected you two were sweet on one another, but...” He blinks. “You
”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, raising his palms. “I only told you ‘cause I
” His voice falls for a moment. “I just had to tell someone.” He did it. He shared the truth. That you and him are married. Sparing the intimate details, of course, but he feels a weight being lifted, relieved that he can find someone to trust and share in his plight.
Hosea nods. “I understand, son.” Hosea looks back at Silver Dollar, his eyes weary with sorrow. “I wish that you both made it out.”
Hosea's voice carries a hint of regret, one that twitches the corners of his aged eyes, making Arthur wonder if the older man ever regrets the path they've chosen, the life on the run. "But since you're still here," Hosea continues, patting Arthur gently on the shoulder, "you've got to try to find a new life for yourself. And for her, too." His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the usual sharpness that life demanded of them.
Arthur nods silently, his eyes heavy with unshed tears, reflecting the glaring light from the sun. He feels a strange mix of relief and desolation. Your absence was like he was missing a vital organ, and now that you’re back, he needs to approach things differently now. And it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 
“I can’t tell her, Hosea,” Arthur says. “She gets to be in a lot of pain when she tries to remember things. It hurts me to see her like that.” He tucks his chin, weighing out his next words. “It could kill her if she knew.”
“Maybe that’s what happened.”
Arthur’s eyes lift to look at Hosea to see a steely gaze. “What?”
“Dutch said she drowned.” Hosea pauses, his voice softening as he watches Arthur closely. "But we both know Dutch can spin a tale when it suits him." Hosea's eyes hold a spark of something unreadable—a mixture of suspicion and hope. "You found her alive, didn't you? That means there's more to this story, more than we've been told."
Arthur's breath catches in his throat, a mix of fear and determination setting into his features. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to believe that,” he admits, the words heavy as stones.
“Think about it, son,” Hosea argues. “I am the last person to want to think of Dutch in that way, but
” He pauses. “But if what I’ve heard about that ferry robbery is true
If Dutch really did kill that girl in cold blood
” He studies Arthur for a moment. “Did you ask Dutch about it?”
"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper, afraid that speaking it louder might make it real. "I confronted him. All he told me that he didn’t see her, like he's weighin’ whether I should be told the truth or spared from it." Arthur's hands clench tightly into fists, a deep-seated anger simmering beneath the calm exterior. “Like he’s protectin’ someone.” Or, he fears, himself.
Hosea sighs, his breath calm and steady. “Just be careful, Arthur.”
“You know I will.” Arthur’s reply is gruff, edged with the resolve that has carried him through more than a few tight spots. “Could you talk to him? See if maybe he will tell you what happened?”
Hosea nods. “I will.”
Arthur nods. “Thank you, Hosea.” And he turns to head toward Montana. “Kit is back at camp. She’d be happy to see you, I told her about you.” He mounts Montana and takes the reins. “I need to meet up with Charles and Javier. Trelawny is supposed to have information on Sean.”
“Oh? Where’s that?”
“Blackwater.”
Hosea tenses. “Be careful, son. Remember, you’re wanted dead or alive.”
Arthur offers a grim smile, the corners of his mouth twitching with a mix of determination and rueful acknowledgment. "Ain't my first dance with danger," he replies, tightening his grip on Montana's reins. The horse shifts beneath him, sensing the rising tension. "I'll keep my head low."
With a nod, the gunslinger turns Montana and rides southward, leaving Hosea to watch his retreat, a blend of concern and pride etched deep into his weathered face. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty road as Arthur disappears from view.
Thank you for reading! :D
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outlawruben · 1 year ago
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Something I find interesting in the RDR2 community is that EVERYONE (mostly manly men/12 year old boys, who play rdr2 on low honor) open their ears to listen to the actors when they hint at character theories like the “What’s wrong with Dutch” theories, or the “Is John really Jack’s father” theories, but AS SOON as Ben Davis & Curzon Dobell are like: “Dutch and Hosea are soulmates” or Noshir Dalal fully supporting Charthur, y’all don’t wanna hear it. That’s my ±20
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cryptidcr3ature · 2 months ago
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My Isaac Morgan lived Headcannons:
(Context for my idea, Eliza died protecting Isaac and Arthur raised him in the gang.)
I head cannon he was about 15-17 during the events of rdr2 and was BEGGING his dad for jobs. Arthur always said no.
Him and Lenny would sneak out and go robbing together, and Arthur would reprimand them each time.
Isaac is SO smart. Like unnaturally intelligent. He doesn’t use his powers for good, but most likely finding loopholes to not get in trouble.
He’s quick tongued and quick tempered. The first to start a fight and the first to play dirty.
He’s not physically strong, but he has never lost a fight. He doesn’t know how to fight fair.
Arthur calls him “Hosea Jr.” given how much this kid can weasel out of.
Isaac never really understood why his dad was “no fun” until Lenny died and Arthur and the crew went to Guarma. During those few weeks he barely talked to anyone. Charles would sit with him, silently, just to make sure he never felt alone.
Isaac knew his dad was sick, but Arthur never told him he was dying.
He left camp after the battle on the oil factory, angry at his father’s complacency in Dutch’s massacres.
He only found out his father had passed a few years later when John ran into Isaac working as a ranch hand somewhere.
John invited Isaac to come with him, but he denied his invitation.
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livingdeadmlm · 3 months ago
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You Bring Me Closer to God pt4
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Pronouns: The reader is referred to as a man. 
Physical Sex: AMAB. 
How far are things going?: Just some flirting from each of the men! The next post will explore the dreams they have about the reader. I’ll also try to fit in a sweet moment if I can. If anyone has ideas about what each man might be into, let me know—your suggestions really help my writing! 
Warnings: I feel this is a bit rushed, so I'm sorry about that!!
Outline: As the readers begin to understand who these men are, he struggles with the fear he feels he should have, but instead, he feels the urge to shelter and care for these outlaws. Arthur comes in tonight to share what's on his mind, and his behavior shifts slightly. 
What inspired me to write this is: the awful priest romance book I picked up. 
Other: Yes, this is a harem fic! Each man desires you and lays it on pretty thick! The dreams they have about reader will be it's own post!!
Previous Part or Next Part
There was no alone time with you and the man who greeted you after your nap. A small sigh of relief went unnoticed by everyone as you scanned the room. The church hadn't been this full since you started working here in Valentine. You felt somewhat nervous at the number of people; for many years, it had been just you and the occasional visitors who stumbled by while you cooked, along with Mickey when he'd show up again.
Mary-Beth led Karen and Tilly to the back room, where Sister Agnes had set up books and other activities for when she stopped by. They were giggling all the way and waved to you.
Hosea sat at a table with Javier and Kieran, exchanging small talk. The smell of cigarettes was slight in the air. Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on your shoulder, causing you to jump slightly. Your heart racing, you placed a hand against your chest and turned to find Charles standing there.
“Oh! Hello, Mister Smith! You startled me,” you laughed off your brief fright, the sound a little breathless. 
“I brought you this; I thought you could use it tonight.” His other hand held out a carefully wrapped package, thick cream-colored paper cradled in his large hand. You took it from his hand, unwrapping it to reveal beautiful red meat.
 His hand lingered on your shoulder, warming you with his touch. His proximity gave you a small, unexpected thrill. Perhaps he was just being polite, but the moment felt charged, and a flutter of something deeper stirred within you.
“This will work beautifully, Mr. Smith. Thank you for the generous donation,” you said, placing your hand gently atop his warm one resting on your shoulder. It felt electric, and you were sure no one had noticed the intentions behind your action; just paying the favor back and getting to touch Charles was just a plus.
“Father (Name), do you need any help with dinner?” Kieran perked up, his eyes almost pleading to help. He had asked so many times that you started to think he was a busybody, always needing to do something, even when relaxing. Charles's hand left your shoulder, landing at his side as you thought about a possible job for Kieran. 
“Sure, Mister Duffy, could you wash off the potatoes?” You suggested, trying to quickly distract from the lingering warmth of Charles still spreading through you. Practically leaping into action, Kieran grabbed the sack from the ground and moved it to the medium-sized sink the church had installed. 
The bison chuck settled on the counter as you bent slightly to guide Kieran through washing potatoes. Your fingertips brushed against his hand when you noticed him struggling to keep hold of the potatoes. 
If looks could kill, Kieran would've been six feet under weeks ago, but especially now, there would be fresh dirt on his grave as each man observed the subtle touches of your hands over Kieran and how the sides of your hips were pressed together. 
You explained how to peel the potatoes without cutting his hands, and it suddenly dawned on you that you weren't wearing your cooking apron! There was no way you'd risk dirtying your cassock by unconsciously wiping your hands on it. The skirt of your cassock slightly lifted as you spun to grab your apron. 
You pulled the fabric and admired it. You had it for many years, and it was a faded gingham pattern in your favorite color. Your hands, like clockwork, tied the apron behind your back with no complication. “You’re a capable man, Kieran; I’ll work on the bison now.” 
“Of course, Father (name)!”
The cream-colored paper crinkled in your hands as you fully unwrapped it. You couldn’t help but admire the chunk of meat; the color was beautiful. Of course, you’d seen meat fresh off the bone living in Valentine, but bison wasn’t processed here. Any time it was donated or brought into town, it was when an outside vendor stopped through. 
Your trustee skillet pan was heating up on the stove for a pan sear cooking of the meat.
Looking at the thickness of the meat and the number of people, you could fry it in quarter-inch slices to have plenty of extra. The knives in the church had never been the sharpest, and you had put off sharpening them for so long that the task was tedious. But when the knife slid effortlessly through the meat, as though cutting through silk, you couldn't help but smile in surprise.
The idle chat behind you continued as you worked; the chatter helped you work. Most nights were silent, and while it was nice to have a peaceful night, a room full of people and talking was more than welcome. Had Father Gavin taken the time to sharpen them for you?
The sound of voices behind you swirled softly in the background, blending with the rhythm of your work. Most nights, the kitchen's silence would settle, a peaceful solitude, but tonight, the hum of conversation felt like a warm embrace. You welcomed it even more than you expected.
“Ay Father (Name), are the knives working better? You guys had them so dull.” Javier's voice was much closer than the seat he was previously in as he crossed his arms and leaned next to you. “Oh! I didn’t realize you had done this, Mister Escuella! I had been putting off sharpening them for so long I thought Father Gavin had taken care of it for me.” Javier glared for a moment, upset and almost offended that his efforts would’ve gone to the likes of Gavin. 
“When you left this morning, I thought I might as well clean them up for you.”
 His attention to knives shouldn’t have been surprising when you remembered his scarred hands—the small cut scars littering his fingers. You looked at your hands, cutting the meat, comparing them with Javier's. It looked like you had never done a day's work, even if that was the farthest thing from the truth. 
His presence made you nervous, as you were almost done cutting the meat strips. You were sure the knife was sharper after Javier had worked his magic than when you first purchased it. You placed a pot on another burner, tossing in some salt and waiting for it to boil to make mashed potatoes. 
Four pieces of meat could fit in the pan, with butter and a few herbs to taste. The pan's smell quickly mixed in the air, overtaking the tobacco scent that filled the room. 
"You’ve got a way with food," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "Doesn’t just come from a recipe book, does it?" You flipped the meat in the pan. 
“Well, in seminary school, I had free time to work with the nuns for a few cents a day, picked up some things from them, and showed me plenty of cooking tips and methods. To keep the most people fed and satisfied!” you glanced up at him. “It’s like pouring a little piece of your heart into every dish. I think that’s what makes my food taste good.” Javier raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to think before speaking. “So, that means you taste good?” You stumbled over your words, “I
 I’m just saying that the food is made with love. It brings people together,” your voice flustered.
 As you moved to stir the herbs into the pan, Javier’s eyes were fixed on you, the warmth radiating between you both palpable. “It brings us together,” Hosea mused behind you. You peeked over to see him smiling softly. Your eyes returned to the stove as you finally saw the pot boiling harshly. 
“Oh! Kieran, how are the potatoes?” You left the meat to cook to join Kieran at the cutting board. A slight grin was on his face as he showed that he was practically done washing and peeling. 
“Great job, Kieran! You did amazing for the first time you’ve done this.” You took a different knife from the drawer and easily sliced through the potatoes, cutting them in fours as you added them to the pot. 
The rest of the cooking went smoothly, roasting carrots with rosemary and thyme sprinkled on them and mashed potatoes with butter, ground salt, and pepper. Of course, the meat was the main attraction; it had all your focus as you plated each meal.
The women, especially Karen and Mary Beth, came out of the room commenting on the smell. They insisted that it practically lured them out as they stood and waited to make a plate. 
“Here you ladies go!” You handed each woman a plate with a big smile. They looked at you, stunned. “Wow, thank you, Father (Name)! What a gentleman!” Tilly had a big smile as she turned to sit in the pews. “Those fools could learn a thing or two!” Mary-Beth and Karen followed, paying you their compliments and following to sit in the pews as well. Mary-Beth whispered, ‘See! I told y’all things would be changing for us women!’ 
You were always polite, or at least tried to be regarding food. Whoever ate first depended on the guests you had. If there were children, they got their meal first, then women, then men. No matter what you ate last, you knew where to find a hot meal you could afford. You didn’t know if the people who came in also had that guarantee.
You sat a plate in front of Hosea, a slight thump against the table before you spoke, “Is Dutch not joining us tonight?” Hosea placed a cloth napkin over his thigh. You smiled, turning to pray over your food before digging in.
“I don’t think so; he wandered back to camp with Arthur after mass.” Your heart leaped into your throat. Eyes snapping open to your clasped hands over your chest. Your whole body was tense; it couldn’t be Arthur; indeed, Arthur was just a common name. It was so common that there were two separate newcomers with different names. One with affiliation with a gang passing through town and the other
 you couldn’t even kid yourself. 
You were feeding, housing, and even dreaming of these violent outlaws. The ones in Arthur’s stories, the ones you heard horrifying tales about. Part of you knew how you could not subconsciously connect the dots. 
You knew who these men were, but that made no difference in how you should treat them. They were men like you, and in this building, you wouldn't treat them like criminals; they get enough of that everywhere else. 
A nervousness stirred in your stomach. Yes, you would treat them like normal men. Knowing their history, you should have been running for the hills. It was foolish to think you’d somehow be safe. But your feet were planted firmly, unmoving. Running from these men who had done nothing to harm you went against everything you had been taught. You couldn’t contradict the lessons you learned in your twenties.
You were the biggest fool. 
But Arthur’s proximity and your complete ignorance of him made you feel naked and exposed. Had he seen you as you walked through town, down by the river, or at the saint's hotel? Had he watched you perform mass? Was he someone you had bumped into or waved at politely? 
Did he notice the flush on your face when Javier teased you or the innocent look of Kieran as he eyed you over? The thought that you could have been no more than five feet away from him, with no confessional wall between you, was overwhelming.
You stared at the counter, which was covered in patterns of blue and white tiles, a few sprinkled with swirls and flowers. “Aw well, that’s
 too bad. I hope they can join us soon!” Your hands unclasped as you reached for your plate. The plate was warm in your hands as you sat at the table between Kieran and Charles. 
The potatoes practically melted in your mouth, and the fresh bison paired delightfully with the roasted carrots. There was a hum of bliss next to you as Hosea took his first bite. 
You felt something against your boots. Taking a subtle glance down, you noticed Charles's boot against yours. The knees were not quite touching, but they were close—not enough to draw anyone else's attention. 
“Thank you again, Mister Smith. Without the meat, I’m not sure what I could’ve come up with today!” Charles waved his hand between bites, “I’m sure you could’ve come up with something without me.” 
You wiped your mouth, “Nonsense! And thank you, Mister Duffy. It’s very kind of you to offer to help me so often.” Halfway through his food, Kieran's big, wide eyes sparkled at the compliment. 
He smiled and said, You're welcome, the smile never leaving his face. “Of course, Javier, thank you for checking and sharpening the knives! Very thoughtful.” 
Tilly entered the kitchen doorway with a nervous look, holding her plate. “Father (Name), is there any extra food?” Mary-Beth peeked over Tilly’s shoulder, and your heart swelled with happiness.
“Of course there is! Let me help you with that.” You reached for Tilly’s plate, standing up to serve her. The metal plate felt cold, and you noticed a few bites of bison fat left, which you scraped off before preparing a new serving for Tilly.
Mary Beth held out her plate, which had two carrots remaining. You chuckled as you saw the small line behind her, including Karen and Kieran.
As the evening went on, everyone began to yawn and sway with sleepiness. They bid you goodnight and took their leave, but not before you packed the leftover food for the road. The bison from Charles was more than enough, and you knew they would make better use of the leftovers as a group than you could as one person.
After everyone had left, the kitchen fell into a quiet stillness. The only sounds were the soft clinking of utensils being cleaned in the sink and your gentle humming.
You heard the bell ringing—a sign that someone had entered the confessional booth.
Footsteps echoed softly across the hardwood floor. With quiet resolve, you prepared yourself for the visit. The door of the confessional booth creaked with a groan as it clicked open and shut, and you settled onto the grim wood of the booth. You had always intended to buy cushions to soften the harshness of the bench. The only reason you hadn’t sooner was a particularly stern bishop from your past had insisted that the discomfort served a higher purpose in God’s favor, that making the sinner uncomfortable was part of the process. It left a bitter taste in your mouth when he would say that.
“Good evening, Father,” came a familiar voice solemn in tone. “Good evening, Mister Morgan. “What brings you in tonight?” you replied, noting the subtle pause that followed and the rustling of paper that broke the silence.
“I know a man who lends money,” he continued, his voice weary. “He sends me to collect for him, and it doesn’t feel right. The people I’m taking from—sick, desperate, foolish—it's foul work. I hate doing it.”
His confession hung in the air, heavy with regret. You remained silent for a moment, allowing his words to settle into the quiet of the booth before responding gently, “Did something happen with this job recently that made you bring it up to me now?”
“I went to collect from a man here in town,” Arthur's voice cracked with the weight of shame. “Thomas Downes
 I went to collect, but by the time I got there, he was already dead.” The mention of Thomas made your heart drop. You had known him—kind, humble, though proud to a fault. The thought of his death made your stomach churn. You and the church had tried to help him in the past, but he’d refuse most days. He only took food and necessities offered to him when he couldn’t find another way. 
“I felt relief when I found him dead,” Arthur's voice wavered, “Relief that his debt was no longer a burden on his family or me. But then I saw his boy, and... the look in his eyes, Father... like I was the devil himself. I guess, to him, I was.”
“Death can throw any of us in a spiral. Reminds us we can die at any time.” You’d seen plenty of death; the cemetery was just outside your door. The funerals and wakes you'd oversee through the years were in high numbers for a small town. “I was just surprised, I guess, Father; I’d seen him before when I was out drinkin’ would’ve killed that Tommy if not for him.” 
“That was you, Mister Morgan? You’re the pretty boy who beat Big Tommy?!” 
“Pretty boy? That's the part you heard about?” You could hear the pout in Arthurs's voice as you laughed. “All I heard from Miss Walker and Miss Moore was that some new rough and tough dream boat in town fought him. Never would’ve guessed it was you, Arthur.” Your tone was teasing. You felt bold and almost breathless when you could make such a comment.
“Arthur? We’re on a first-name basis now (Name)?” A small huff left your mouth. An odd duality existed with you and your title. Of course, it was one you had worked for and earned. Hearing it was nothing new. But it seemed you'd be flustered and stumbling no matter how Arthur said it. 
“Names have a way of changing things, don’t they?” Arthur’s voice was low, almost intimate now, as if he’d allowed the walls between you to slip just a little. You felt the change, too—how the conversation shifted from heavy confessions to something lighter yet somehow more meaningful.
“It does,” you replied softly. “Guess that means we're not just strangers anymore,” he said, and despite the weight of his words, there was a certain warmth in his tone, as if he was testing the idea, letting it settle between you both. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a gentle tug in your chest. 
“I suppose it does.” Your voice was softer than before, a softness you didn’t often allow yourself. The formality of your position—the title that had defined you for so long—felt less significant now, like something that could be quietly set aside in light of this connection.
“Is anything else happening recently?” you asked, remembering when you shared a booth with Arthur. Back then, his stories were filled with a rougher edge—tales of picking fights or provoking trouble. But today felt different; he had two stories to share. The first was light-hearted—he went hunting with a friend, likely Charles, given the mention of bison. And how he heard of a friend who he thought was dead being very much alive but in custody. 
“I hope he makes it home safe; being stuck in a cell is horrible!” You didn’t want to ask how he’d be home when Arthur said he wouldn’t come by tomorrow. 
“What were you up to in town today (Name)? I saw you leaving the hotel in a hurry.” you shifted in your seat, hearing the slight scratch of a pencil on Arthurs's side of the booth. 
“I went to have a bath and get my sheet cleaned! I ended up enjoying the bath far too much and was almost late for mass.” You sighed. You knew the others in the church didn’t mind you finally taking time for yourself, but it felt rude when people were there expecting to see you. 
“I have been to that hotel a few times, rent it out for a night to sleep in a real bed.” You hummed, noting that he didn’t have a ‘real bed.’ 
“Speakin’ of I must get goin’ (Name) duty calls.” there was a soft ripping noise under Arthur's low voice. 
“Goodnight, Arthur. Be safe out there.” 
“Goodnight (Name).”
You stalled behind in the booth, taking in the small noises around you. Arthur's retreating steps as he left. The chirping of crickets just outside of the church, and if you strained your hearing, you could slightly hear the piano from the saloon playing a happy tune. 
The confessional door swinging open cut through the air. The hinges were so squeaky these days. There was a flutter from behind the door. When you shut the door entirely, you saw a folded paper on the floor. It was a thick piece of paper you tucked into your hands. Retreating to your room before opening it.
There was a drawing of you. You gasped softly, your breath hitching in your throat, and your fingers traced the delicate lines of your features on the paper. You were careful not to smudge anything, treating the artwork with the reverence it deserved. 
It was as if someone had taken a photo of you without your knowledge. The shading in the drawing made you look soft against the buildings. Taking in more of the art, you saw Arthur's signature at the bottom. A.M. and a small heart at the bottom of the M. 
Warmth bloomed in your stomach as you sat on your bed, still admiring the drawing. You put the drawing on your bedside table and tuck yourself into bed. The heavy quilt over your body adds a comforting pressure. 
You were giddy as you slipped into sleep. Imagine the drawing over and over again in your head.
The usual nighttime routines began on the other side of the train tracks on Horseshoe Outlook. Some were sitting by the fire, picking at Pearson's overcooked food, others were playing at the poker table, and some were aimlessly wandering around, getting ready for bed. 
Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen sat around the campfire with Charles and Javier. Dutches music is playing nearby. 
“When I was around town today, I heard something interesting about that Father (Name).” Every man glanced over, the game of dominos stopping momentarily between Hosea and Arthur. Javier's strumming slowed, and Charles continued to work on his arrows with Kieran.
“Don’t tell me, is he some sort of evil man under that little cape he wears?” Karen laughed, taking a swig from her beer bottle. Tilly waved her hand, laughing, “Well, Mary-Beth and I thought it was bizarre how there are hardly any people at the church, even for free food. We asked these few men at the saloon, and apparently, when Father (Name) first came to Valentine, he very much preferred the company of men.”
Heads perked up, “What kind of men?” Kieran's voice sounded too excited as the question left his lips. 
“See, now that’s the thing—we were hearing all kinds of different answers! Some said a fellow altar boy came with him to Valentine; others claimed it was the former bishop.” Mary-Beth interrupted Tilly: “But then I started hearing it was some handsome ranchhand, a stable boy, or some sort of traveler or hunter he was seen sneaking around with.” Tilly cut back in, “A few of the fellows in the saloon were sayin’ it was men who went to the church; he’d put moves on them during mass, married or not!” 
“And he didn’t mind swaying his hips for older men, neither!" Their voices began overlapping as they dropped information. “I think I heard he’d even flirt with the rich men in town into donating more money!” “One of the workin’ ladies said she heard of him takin’ in men down on their luck for “Favors.””Mary Beth used her fingers to do quotes. 
“Now, there's no way girls as smart as you believe that.” Arthurs's voice broke the silence, “You’ve met the man who practically bends backward to help anyone. Could’ve been a misunderstanding!” Mary-Beth clicked her tongue, “Well, true or not, people in town haven’t forgotten about it.” the fire crackled, leaving everyone in their thoughts. Each man couldn’t believe what they heard; there was no way you were capable of it. At least at your age now. But for you to do it 20 years ago? Well, they just didn’t know you then. 
The most they knew about you from 20 years ago was the photograph of you and other church members when you first arrived. You aged fairly well, and your serious face in the photo didn’t scream that you were some deviant at the time.
Everyone turned in for the night, tucking themselves in, but sleep would be restless for the men of the camp, each of them plagued by an odd dream
.
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laylasredemption · 9 months ago
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Wtf so I now can post long fics? Well, thanks Tumblr I guess the beef between us didn't last long. Here's the sad Arthur fic I wrote, hope you like it guys<3
arthur morgan x dutch's daughter!reader 3,9k words chapter 6 spoilers, death, violence
à­§â€żÌ©Í™ Ë–ïž” ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ˖ â€żÌ©Í™à­š
Until the last breath
Never in a thousand years would have Dutch van der Linde thought his own daughter would betray him. He would suspect anyone - recently even John or Arthur. But not [Y/n]. She was his daughter, his only child, the only thing he had left of Annabelle.
And yet there she stood - a gun in hand, pointed at her father, who had his own guns pointed at Arthur and John.
"You're on these two rats' side? That's what I get for raising you?" Dutch asked, his angry gaze fixated on his daughter. "You ungrateful brat."
"You didn't raise me!" [Y/n] countered. "Hosea was more of a father than you. To you, money has always been more important. You always had a plan to get more, and more, and more. I'd be in Tahiti if I had a dollar for every plan of yours that didn't work out."
"I gave you everything I could!"
"You gave me everything?" She had to stop herself from scoffing. "I spent my whole life trying to make you happy for once. Trying to make you proud of me. I gave my heart and my soul for this gang, and you ruined it all when you took in this rat!" Her voice started to crack, but she forced tears away. She reached for her other gun and pointed it at Micah.
Dutch asked, "You really think Micah is the reason you're turning on me?" His tone was strangely calm, too calm. "You think I never noticed the way you and Arthur were plotting something behind my back? But, of course, he didn't sneak into your tent at night just to plot. You disgust me, [Y/n]."
[Y/n]'s mouth fell slightly open as she attempted to form a sentence, and yet she wasn't able to. How did he find out? She thought her and Arthur had been sneaky enough.
"You lost your mind, Dutch," Arthur spoke up, "we were worried about you."
Dutch turned his eyes to Arthur, his anger growing at the man's comment. "I'm the one who gave all of you a home! A purpose! A damn family! And you had the nerve to get with my daughter behind my back, and turn her against me."
"All these years, Dutch..." Arthur shook his head. "Just to waste it for this snake?"
"Be quiet, Black Lung." Micah said, his gun pointed at Arthur.
"No," miss Grimshaw appeared with her rifle pointed at Micah, "you be quiet, mister Bell. And put that gun down."
It escalated in a moment. Micah pulled the trigger, sending a bullet towards miss Grimshaw. He took the last remaining mother figure [Y/n] had. Miss Grimshaw was a cold woman, but she cared for her, she cared for all the girls. And now she was dead.
But there was no time to dwell on that.
"Pinkertons are coming!" Javier ran up to the group, warning them.
"Now," Dutch spoke way too calmly for [Y/n]'s liking, "who amongst you is with me, and who is betraying me?"
"Bill, Javier, think for yourselves." Arthur spoke, but they didn't listen.
The both of them were too blinded by the doomed loyalty to Dutch. They sided with him, while Arthur was left with just [Y/n] and John. Besides them, there was also Micah and his own friends he had brought to the gang recently. They were outnumbered.
"My own flesh and blood has turned against me." Dutch concluded in a cold voice [Y/n] hadn't heard before. He had never been a good father, but now... his transformation was complete. The man who had once been a leader, had been replaced by a ghost of himself, driven by greed and paranoia
"You brought it upon yourself." [Y/n] spat.
Micah sneered, "And here I was thinking blood runs thicker than water. Seems a good fuck can change a lady's mind so easily. Wouldn't suspect that of cowpoke, but seems this day is full of surprises."
[Y/n] winced at Micah's remark. She wanted nothing more than to shoot him then and there.
And she tried to. But her hands were trembling with anger, and she missed.
"Put your guns down!" An unknown voice yelled out.
The pinkertons. They ran into the camp, or whatever was left of it, and started shooting. The Pinkertons had arrived, their shouts and gunfire piercing through the madness. The world started to crash down. [Y/n], Arthur, and John found places to use as a cover. The girl didn't even care what would happen with her father now. She had to focus on the pinkertons.
After a few minutes, when the trio knew they won't get out of it this way, John called out, "[Y/n], Arthur, into the caves!"
They didn't think twice before running inside the cave, following the gloomy and scary passages. The pinkertons ran after them and [Y/n] hoped John was leading them to some second entrance. They couldn't afford hitting a dead end.
"Micah was a rat, Milton told me." Arthur confessed as they kept running.
"We should've let him rot in that jail in Strawberry." [Y/n] thought out loud.
There was a ladder, leading them upwards. And another one, and a third one. As the surroundings started to become lighter with the outside's air, [Y/n] thought they might be getting out of that cave before the pinkertons get them.
"John," Arthur turned to his friend when the trio reached fresh air finally, "Abigail is safe, Jack too. They're with Sadie." Then he turned to [Y/n], and tried to stop a cough before speaking to her, "You, [Y/n], I want you to go and–"
"Go where?" The girl interrupted him. "Go and do what?"
"We have to separate here. John and I will go this way, you'll go join Sadie."
In the meantime, John called for their horses. Except that [Y/n]'s didn't come, which could only mean one thing.
"They killed her..." [Y/n] mused, and for a moment she couldn't fight the urge to cry. A few tears had escaped. "Now I have to go with you."
But, again, there was no more time to think. They mounted their horses, Arthur insisting [Y/n] rides with John in case they had to go separate ways. She didn't mount John's horse, she sat on the back of Arthur's. She knew that he knew there was no time to argue.
And they ran again. Ran, followed by the bullets shot by Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, and those men Micah brought to the gang. Dutch van der Linde was many things, and he never played the role of the father well, but even now [Y/n] was shocked to see him chasing after them, not afraid of the risk to shoot his own daughter.
When they escaped them, they kept running into the pinkertons. They seemed to be everywhere, as if they knew their next moves.
The trio tried to escape running up a mountain, but they were stopped. [Y/n] saw John falling off his horse, and no sooner the same happened to herself and Arthur.
"Buell!" The girl called out, seeing the animal lying on the ground with a bullet wound. "These motherf–"
They had to shoot now. There was no way out if they didn't kill all those pinkertons. And, fueled by the rage, [Y/n] felt as if she could shoot them all by herself. Hell, she would gladly choke all of them with her bare hands if she got the chance.
"Come on!" John called out after they have dealt with pinkertons. He knew this wouldn't last long.
[Y/n] ran up to Arthur, who was kneeling next to Buell, gently petting the horse's mane. The girl didn't even get to be with her mare when she got killed, so she had to be at least with Buell.
"Let's go!" John repeated.
"Give us a moment!" Arthur shouted back.
[Y/n] touched the horse gently and Arthur leaned over his head. This was such a heartbreaking thing to witness. Arthur received this horse from a man who had lost his leg in the war. Found him randomly in the woods, when the horse bucked him off and his leg got stuck in a stirrup. Arthur helped him and became friends, visiting from time to time. They went hunting once, and the veteran got attacked by a giant boar. With his last breath, he asked Arthur to take care of Buell. And Arthur did, until the horse's last breath, too.
With one last final, "Thank you," that Arthur whispered to Buell, they were ready to run further.
"Let's go." John said for the third time.
Arthur asked, "What about the money?"
"Money?" [Y/n] sobbed, wiping away a few last tears. "What about Micah? We have to get rid of him."
"I go down there, I'm dead in five minutes," John stated, "I have a family, that's more important."
"You're right," Arthur admitted, thinking John must be making sense for the first time in his life, "[Y/n], you go with John. I'm going back for the money."
"No, you're not." The girl protested firmly. She wasn't losing Arthur, not like that. "We go together or we don't go at all."
Arthur knew it was pointless to argue with [Y/n]. If she inherited anything from Dutch, it was the subborness.
Arthur also knew that he didn't have much longer left. He was actively dying from tuberculosis that he hasn't even told [Y/n] about yet. If soon he was going to take his last breath, he wanted [Y/n] to go, not see him like this. He had always been a tough man, he couldn't let the girl he loved more than anything in the world see him die beaten by a stupid illness. "Fine, let's go." He muttered and the trio started once again running. He had no idea how to get out of this. There was no way out for him, but he still could help [Y/n] and John.
They needed to find a higher ground, running up a mointain. It was very steep, they had to be careful. At least they knew they were safe from the bullets, for now. The pinkertons would come back to the cave, as Micah most likely told them about the money hidden inside.
"Keep, pushing, Arthur!" John said.
Arthur stopped running. He stood bent slightly, propping his arms on his knees. It seemed to [Y/n] like he has difficulty to take a breath. An expression of worry grew on her face. She knew he had some kind of sickness, but she didn't realize how serious it was until this moment.
"Arthur, let's go, we've made it so far." She said, the tears threatening to appear in her eyes once again.
"I think I've pushed all I can." Arthur admitted, coughing out some blood. He straightened his posture, being able to breathe a bit better momentarily.
John walked up to him, "We ain't got time for this."
"We ain't all gonna make it."
His words hit [Y/n] worse than any bullets. She ran up to Arthur, grabbing his arm, trying to make him step forward.
"Don't talk nonsense," she tried to pull him, but even in this state he was still stronger than her, "Arthur, I'm not going anywhere without you."
"You both go." Arthur insisted. "I'll hold them off. There ain't no more time to talk." With these words, he reached for his sachel and handed it over to John. Then, he took his hat off and placed it on [Y/n]'s head.
She knew what that mean. She knew Arthur was prepared to die. But she couldn't let him. She couldn't imagine a life without him. He truly was the love of her life, how was she supposed to keep going if he died on that mountain?
Arthur turned to [Y/n], his eyes softening as he took her face in his hands. "You need to keep going, no matter what happens. You understand?"
[Y/n] shook her head, tears welling up again. "Don't talk like that, Arthur. We're getting out of this. All three of us."
But Arthur knew better. He could feel the life slipping away from him with every breath, every step. "I need you to promise me something, [Y/n]."
"No, Arthur, no." She closed her eyes, hoping this would at least stop the tears.
"Look at me," Arthur said, gently placing his thumb on her chin and tilting her head up, "look at me, doll."
She slowly did as she was told, opening her eyes to meet his. Her heart was racing, knowing that these might be the last moments they have together. His gaze was full of love, as if in these seconds he wanted to love her for all the time he won't be able to in the future.
"You've been the light in my life, the good in me." Arthur told her.
"You've been my everything." She whispered, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak.
"You get out of here with John. When I'm gone, you'll find a good man, one that'll give you the life you deserve. You're young, you can start a family, forget about me. I don't know what I did to deserve your love, but it's the time you bless someone worthy with it."
[Y/n] shook her head, her hands gripping Arthur's coat as if she could somehow anchor him to this world, keep him from fading away. "I'll never forget you. You're the love of my life."
"You deserve so much more than this life, [Y/n]. More than what I could ever give you. But you can still have it. You can still have everything you want, a future, a family, happiness."
But [Y/n] was stubborn, as always. "There's no future if you're not in it."
For a moment, Arthur looked as though he might break, as though he might give in to the desire to stay with her, to fight for a few more moments together. She tried to kiss him, and it took all the strenght his ill body had to stop her.
"I love you, [Y/n]," sounded his final words, "I love you more than anything in this world. But you have to go. For me. I'll love you till my last breath."
"And I'll love you until mine," that was the only thing she could promise him, "I'll never forget you."
The sound of gunshots echoed nearby, and the trio knew there was no more time. [Y/n] would trade anything to have a few more minutes with Arthur. She would walk down to Hell to speak to the Devil himself if he could grant her a bit more time.
John grabbed [Y/n], as much as it pained him, he had to drag her away. They had to run. That's what Arthur wanted.
As she was being dragged away, [Y/n] watched Arthur climb, trying to reach an even higher spot of the mountain.
"Arthur is doing this so you can live. Don't let it be for nothing." John said.
[Y/n] didn't reply. They had to make an escape, and they did so in silence, but the girl didn't even feel her own legs, she just trusted they were there. There was no life for her if Arthur died. This life had been all she knew. How she was supposed to live without the gang, and without him?
"John." She said firmly, somehow finding the strenght in herself to not cry anymore. "I'm going back there."
[Y/n] had been hit by the realization that she doesn't have anything to lose. Everything she had, she already either sacrificed or lost. Her mother, the gang, her father, her horse, and now Arthur, her Arthur.
John stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face [Y/n]. "No, you ain't."
"I ain't got nothing to lose. Either I'll be dragging his dead body to the pearly gates and bribing the God to revive him, or I'll die there with him."
John looked into her eyes just to see fire in them. He understood her love for Arthur and her desperation to save him, and maybe he would have even done the same for Abigail. Except it was plain stupid to do such thing for a man, who was already dying.
"Damn it," John muttered, knowing he can't stop her, "you're as brave as you're stupid. The both of you."
[Y/n] took off Arthur's hat that he had given her, and passed it to John. "You're the best brother I could've had. When I die, I'll look up at you and expect to see you treating Jack and Abigail well. No more running away."
"You mean look down." He corrected her.
"Oh, I'm definitely going to Hell. And I'll be waiting for you, just wait at least fifty years." She chuckled and pulled John in for a quick hug. When they pulled away, she could see tears in his eyes. But [Y/n] wasn't going to cry, not anymore.
She had no reason to cry now. Her time was over. If Arthur was going to die, she was dying there with him, and she was ready for this. More ready than for a future without him.
"Take care of your family," [Y/n]'s last words for John sounded, "make sure they get the life they deserve. Make sure you get that life, too." And with that, she turned away and walked back to where Arthur was supposed to be.
John nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He knew he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life. The night he had lost the two people who were like siblings to him. He had lost much more, but it didn't matter.
[Y/n] had nothing left to lose, nothing left to live for but this one last act of love. If she could save Arthur, it would be worth it. And if she couldn't... then at least they would die together, side by side, as they should have lived.
There were no more gunshots to follow, not a sound of any fight. [Y/n] climed up the rocks, finding the path where she had last seen Arthur. She saw someone walking her way, not someone who she yearned to see.
"You goddamn rat!" [Y/n] yelled as she grabbed Micah by his coat. She didn't know where she found this strenght in her body, but she managed to throw him such a powerful punch in the face that he had to take a few steps back, almost falling off a cliff.
"You just won't give up, will you?" He said, his usual malice still audible in his voice.
"Did you kill him?" She asked, pointing her gun at him.
"He's alive. Not for much longer though."
[Y/n] clenched her jaw, her grip on the gun tightening so hard her knuckles went white. She felt her anger building up inside her, threatening to explode at any moment. "I should've put a bullet in your head a long time ago."
"Come on, do it now then," he laughed, the sound getting into [Y/n]'s head as she contemplated the decision, "we both know you're too soft to do it. How can such a failure be Dutch's daughter? I bet your mama wasn't the most loyal to your daddy."
That was it, her breaking point. [Y/n] knew putting a bullet in Micah wouldn't fix what was already broken, but at least she could stop any further damage he would cause if he stayed alive.
[Y/n] pulled the trigger, aiming for Micah's head, right between his eyes. His body fell down the cliff, and [Y/n] watched that happen. She felt absolutely nothing. No remose. But also no ease. Not until she could see Arthur.
She ran towards where Micah came from. She found Arthur lying down, his upper body propped on a rock. His face was turned towards the east, looking at the sunrise, even though he had always loved the sunset.
"Arthur..." She said.
His eyes searched for the source of the sound, Arthur thought he was having hallucinations. He forced a smile on his beaten face when he saw her.
"You damn fool, [Y/n]." He said in a weak, raspy voice. Not the kind of rasp [Y/n] loved to hear in the mornings, but the one that emphasized Arthur's condition. "I told you to go with John."
"I couldn't leave you, Arthur." She said, losing all her power to not cry. She knelt down beside him, looking at his injuries. His face was full of little cuts and bruises, some blood. But he didn't seem to have gotten shot.
Tears shone in her eyes. And she must have been the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever laid his eyes on. The way the orange morning sunrays touched her face made Arthur feel butterflies in his stomach. It was way nicer to die when he had this sight in front of him. But it wasn't fair to her.
"Doll," he breathed out, "I'm dying."
"No, you're going to be fine." She stuttered, the pain in her voice betraying how delusional she was being. She couldn't accept the reality of the situation. She refused to believe that the man she loved more than anything was slipping away from her.
She took his hands in hers. His touch used to be so hot it could put the Devil to shame. But now his hands were colder than the coldest night in Colter.
"I've got tuberculosis." Arthur confessed to her finally.
"What?" A puzzled expression appeared on her face. "Since when?"
"Since I killed Thomas Downes."
[Y/n]'s heart dropped. She had heard rumors about the sickness, the way it slowly drained the life out of a person, but she never imagined that Arthur, her Arthur, had been battling it all this time. It explained so much, the coughing fits, the way he had grown weaker, more distant. And yet, he had never told her, never let on just how bad it was.
"I deserved to know." She replied, her voice cracking. "I could've helped you."
"I didn't want to worry you, doll. Didn't want you to see me like this. You deserved better than that."
"I loved you, I still do, and I would've stayed by your side no matter what. You should've told me. We could–" She choked on her words, realizing there was nothing they could've done to stop it.
A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips. "You've always been too good for me, [Y/n]. I ain't ever deserved you, not really."
"Don't say that, Arthur. You deserve everything. And now you're dying here. Alone."
"I ain't alone." Arthur murmured, his voice growing weaker with every word. "You're here, right? That's all I ever needed."
She nodded, her heart breaking as she watched him struggle to keep his eyes open. The sunrise was casting a warm glow over his face, and for a moment, [Y/n] could almost pretend that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe, where they could live the life however they wanted to. Away from all the bullshit they had to go through.
But reality was cold and its walls were closing in on them. She could feel Arthur slipping away, his fingers holding onto hers weaker with each passing moment. She wanted to scream, to beg for more time, but it would be in vain.
Arthur stopped fighting the urge to close his eyes. "Promise me, doll... you'll find a way to live... without me." He could barely speak anymore, yet he managed to utter these words.
"I love you, Arthur." [Y/n] said instead, because she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep.
His grip on her hands loosened, and his chest rose and fell one last time. [Y/n] leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She held him close, cradling his head in her arms as they were bathed in the warmth of the sunrise. She stayed like that, long after he was gone, her tears mixing with the blood and dirt on his skin. Arthur was gone, and with him, a part of her died too. She had nothing left to lose, nothing left to fight for, except the memory of the man she loved.
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pizzaprotozoa · 2 months ago
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Every time i'm lookin at vandermatthews fanart on pinterest i go in the comments and theres always someone like "erm.. dutch is 44 and hosea is 55! awkwored!!!! leave that 44 year old minor alone!!!!!!!" BROOOOOOOOO!!1!??? Theyre both consenting middle aged adoptive fathers LOCK IN!! đŸ—ŁđŸ’ąđŸ’„ slug
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