#kid! Cornwall gang

[oneshoulderangel]

After drawing child Lancelot, I wanted to draw more characters as kids. So here’s the Cornwall gang!

[tiodolma]

Also shoutout to dame bragwaine for always being there for the cornwall gang (especially to sir tristam). Idk how she does it but she's one of the hardiest damosels we know.

[oceantornadoo]

ch2 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

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You hate John Price because he ruined your childhood. Or at least, his father did.

Growing up as a bastard was hard. You do thank your lucky stars that you were a bastard in modern-day society, and not during some time when your mother could have had her head chopped off. It’s the small things.

Your mother was Mr. Riley’s nanny. How original. 

Mrs. Riley, Simon and Tommy’s mother, did not like her husband. Smart woman. He was cruel, knew how to poke at scars until they opened and bled down bruised skin. They had an heir and a spare, neither of which she was particularly attached to. It was enough to fulfill their marriage contract, so she got to live out the rest of her days in a beachside condo in Cornwall. Simon and Tommy were raised properly, the Riley way, in Greater Manchester. In a mansion bought by blood and exploitation, guns and gold. 

With the wife out of the way and two boys under five, Mr. Riley hired a nanny. The way your mother tells it, only after three glasses of wine before the sun sets, she was low on cash and desperate for a place to stay. The whispers about the Riley family were loud, but the grumbling of her stomach was louder. It’s a phrase she repeated over and over during your childhood, as you hopped from international school in Paris to private school in New York City, wherever your father decreed was safer. You tell her she doesn’t need to justify it, even now as you live with your brother and she stays countries away, but she’ll just give you that same tightlipped smile. She still doesn’t forgive herself for who your father was, so you have to forgive her for the both of you.

She couldn’t say no to Mr. Riley. Maybe it was the sight of her with his kids or her constant proximity, but he claimed he was in love. You can’t say no to the head of a gang, especially if you’re an employee. And once she became pregnant, he tightened the reins. Pulled strings to become your legal primary caregiver so she couldn’t leave the country. It was only after a robbery went wrong, where Mr. Riley lost almost a quarter of his wealth, he invited others to weigh in on the situation. Or at least, Mr. Price.

You were seven, Tommy was ten, and Simon was fourteen. Simon said he was too grown up to play with a baby like you, but Tommy always stuck around. Tommy just beat you in hide and seek, again, and frustration seeped out of your skin. He always caught you, no matter where you hid. He was counting down to another round and you were determined to win this time. There was one place he wouldn’t think of - your father’s office.

There have been a lot more men around lately. Mama had told you to keep upstairs, out of eyesight, but you wanted to win this time. Tommy was counting from sixty, too fast in your opinion, so you creeped down the stairs at warp speed. There was a secret door to Father’s office, mainly for the maids, and it had a door for your dog. Riley was huge, so the flap took up a third of the door. You were still small enough to scurry through, though it was becoming a tighter fit lately. Determined, you popped through the flap, being sure not to disturb Father. There was a chair for you to hide behind, a perfect angle to hide from the man on the other side of Father’s desk while still keeping an eye out for Tommy’s feet.

“They hit you because you’re weak.” The man’s voice was familiar. Mr. Price. He was around more and more, always bringing his annoying son John. He was sixteen and thought he was so cool, bossing around the staff like he was, well, the boss. And he never wanted to play. 

“They hit us because my idiot men weren’t watchin’ the cameras.” Father replied. He sounded angry. He always snorted like a bull before he started yelling, and you could hear him huffing. “Y’ve got a bastard an’ ‘er mother yankin’ ya by the balls. She’s the help, for god sake. The scousers see an opportunity.” You knew that word. Bastard. Simon had called you bastard once, a year ago when you took his stuffed animal that he hid from Father. Mama told you it was a mean word, only said by people with too-small hearts. When Simon said it, you cried for an hour. He apologized, hugging you like a baby until the tears receded. Then, he promised to hurt anyone who said that word to you. 

“What do you suggest?” Father didn’t say anything about the mean word. He was like that, he didn’t protect you like Tommy or Simon. “Send them away. Make your enemies forget about your weakness. Bring Simon into the fold.” That wasn’t Mr. Price speaking, it was John. He wanted to send you away? You prayed not to Cornwall, where Simon’s mom lived. She was scary.

“I second John. You need strength, not complication. Focusin’ on Simon learnin’ the ropes will emphasize your heir, not the help y’ forgot to wear a rubber with. ‘Least til she’s eighteen an’ can be married.” Mama wasn’t married, so you didn’t want to be either. “Appreciate the help, gentlemen. Now about the Chester deal…” You tuned them out. Sent away? You had to tell Mama. Slipping away like a cat, you ran to find Mama, not stopping even when Tommy found you. He’d won, again.

Without John’s suggestion, you might have stayed. You might have gotten a real relationship with your brothers. You might have prevented Tommy from walking into that gunfight and- that’s where the hypotheticals stopped. Who knows what would have happened? What you know is that, despite being provided for and with your mom, there was always that what if? clinging to the back of your brain.

Your father died when you were twenty-two. Months after he’d paid your last college bill, thankfully. Simon called you during your summer of freedom, a twenty-nine-year-old man with no clue how to run an empire. A lost younger brother between you. He’d promised to protect you, and that was your chance to return the favor. Family first, the Riley way.

-

Now, years later, the hate for John Price has turned from a boil to a simmer. Something you don’t think about constantly until he’s right in front of you. It’s hard to blame a man for a teenage hypothetical, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t insult him for being a pompous git. A mafia brat. Decades of being shitty to each other have turned the cord of your relationship rotted black, a frayed string connected by the fact you can’t physically hurt the other. You’ve got no clue why he wants to marry you of all people, so you’re determined to scare him off. This should be fun.

-

“Quaint,” John mutters to Gaz, who scoffs. They took the jet, a quick hour trip, and brought Laswell, his trusted lawyer. The bookstore is off a side street in Greater Manchester, next to a cafe and a flower shop for god sake. He has to give it to Ghost; it’s a good place to clean cash or lay low. Discreet. No clue why the spitfire’s running it, though. He’s surprised it’s not gone to ruin.

The bell over the door makes a faint tinkling sound as they enter. Gaz goes first, ready for an ambush like the control freak he is, and John can see you smiling at him. It’s a smile he’s never seen, unbidden and shy. It immediately sours once John emerges, turning into a faint frown. “You actually came.” You say it like you aren’t discussing a marriage contract to tie you together for eternity. It’s been a year since John last saw you. Your meetings are infrequent, mainly in passing during weddings and funerals. He knows it’s been years since you came back to Manchester, but you finally seem to have…matured. More confident with your movements, at ease behind the counter of your bookstore. If he were a different man, your confidence would be attractive, but in this world, something about it irritates him.

He sees you pick up your phone, a battered thing, and fire off a short text. Not five seconds later, Soap and Ghost emerge from the shadows of the backroom, men in suits at their shoulders. The shop is immediately crowded, and you cringe at the change in atmosphere. “You’re lucky I closed the store today. Your vibe would freak out the customers. Come on.” John is already practicing restraint, biting his tongue so he doesn’t reply like a scorned teenager. He’s too grown for this. 

Soap leads the way, opening a hidden door to the basement by tugging at a dusty bookshelf in the back. He holds the door open for everyone, trading looks with Ghost before nodding to the Price group. “What do ya do if a customer pulls that book by accident?” Gaz wonders out loud, snorting to himself as he approaches the door. “Dosnae happen, Garrick.” Gaz grins and John sighs inwardly. “Usin’ last names now, MacTavish? I can play that game too.” Gaz dips down the staircase before Soap can answer, presumably needing to have the last word. Between you and Soap, this is going to be a long meeting.

The bookstore might be old and dusty, but the basement is sleek and modern. John passes a small med bay, fully stocked, before they reach a large conference room, equipped with TVs and enough office chairs for a small army. Even Gaz lets out a low whistle, while Laswell hums thoughtfully. Kate’s probably memorizing the layout for another upgrade to her office.

As everyone sits, two waiters make their rounds, taking drink orders. He gets a tea and thanks the waiter, catching your brows furrowing after he murmurs his gratitude. Odd.

“Right so-” Soap starts, but Gaz cuts him off. “You’re a bloody barrister?” Soap practically growls at his tone. “Solicitor. Not jus’ a pretty face, Garrick.” It’s silent as the two stare, a contest only broken when Simon clears his throat. “Get on with it, haven’t got all day.” Soap starts again, mainly talking with Kate as they go through the contract. John has it practically memorized. 25% of his businesses, mainly the ones not in London, in exchange for their weight in Ghost’s gold, something he desperately needs. Relinquishing his claims to border territory between Manchester and Liverpool, something that would make his father turn in his grave, for thousands of weapons. Guns, bullets, tracking equipment - anything he can use that has removable identity numbers. It’s a deal that’ll help him win against Shepherd’s men. All for the small price of being married to you, of course.

“Ms. Riley will marry Mr. Price and produce a minimum of two children within ten years. In case of fertility struggles, one child will suffice, only with a board of doctors agreement. If infertility persists and no children are produced, we have clauses for that.” The statement rolls off Laswell’s tongue easily, but John can tell the moment it reaches your brain. Your eyebrows go sky high, and you almost stand until Simon puts a firm hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place. “Board of doctors? What, so if I can’t get pregnant, I have to inform an entire hospital just so I don’t get shot? That’s barbaric.” You spit out, and John can’t help but agree. If the situation comes to it, he wouldn’t want the future mother of his child having to humiliate herself like that. Thoughts of you being a mother are turned away, a dreary thought for another day.

John murmurs instructions to Laswell, who notes them down with ease. He can tell she approves as her shoulders relax slightly. “We can amend this line. It’ll only require one doctor, not a board, and it can be your current gyno or someone else. The matter will stay between Ms. Riley, Mr. Price, and Mr. Riley if it comes to be.” Laswell replies. You huff, irritated that John agreed, and he smirks at you from across the table. You’re so easy to tease, probably because you’re snooty and spoiled.

“What about my bookstore?” The question escapes you after another ten minutes of Laswell droning on about childcare protocol. How if there’s no child in ten years, and all avenues have been explored, the marriage will be dissolved. “What about it?” Laswell asks smoothly. Your eyes dart between her’s and John’s. “Well, I’ll hire a manager for the Riley store, but what about in London?” John considers it, running a hand through his beard. It’s a safety risk, but who knows what havoc you’ll wreak on his home if you’re bored 24/7. Something to do would be nice.

“‘Ve got a few closed storefronts I own. You could take one.” Your mouth drops. You didn’t expect him to agree, to be honest. Imagined yourself chained to his property, playing housewife night and day. “I want to own it. Buy it from you so the deed is in my name.” You cross your arms on your chest, quirking an eyebrow like it’s a challenge.

“Fine. But you’ll let it up once there’s kids.”

“Not happening.”

“First few years, at least.”

“And are you taking a few years off for paternity leave?” Well, no. But he’s running an organized crime unit of over 5,000 members and you’re running a bookstore. John can’t have other families seeing his wife working when she’s supposed to be resting or raising his heir.

“First year after every new kid. That’s what I’ll agree to.” Soap murmurs something in your ear and you sigh with defeat. “Fine. But you have to sell me the property at fair market value and you can’t use it for any business. And I get to pick any property not in use.” This seems to be the hill you’re dying on. If you were a Made Man, he’d add in flowery language, guaranteeing you the cheapest property. But he’s already taking your home and your business from you, not to mention your womb and ten years of your life. He can spare a building.

“Agreed. Next.”

Soap continues on, his leg bouncing under the table with so much force that it’s shaking. He’s eager to get out, that’s for sure, and John can’t help but wonder why. “Ms. Riley will reside with Mr. Price at his permanent London residence. If she wishes t’ leave city limits, she must request written permission.” John quirks an eyebrow. Surely you’ll bite at this one.

“I’m not even dignifying that with a response.” Is what eventually comes out of your mouth. Took you almost thirty seconds to say it. He could see you weighing your options in your mind, the price of too many amendments versus your freedom. He almost respects the move, until he remembers this is the Riley brat. Not someone to be respected.

“‘S for your safety.” He croaks out, throat dry from lack of use. Speaking to you is like breaking the fourth wall, an unsettling feeling. The full force of your glare is blazing hot, the pits of Hell contained in two eyes. “I can take care of myself. I’ve always got a gun and a man on me.” You challenge him.

“Guns run out of bullets. Men die.” He replies, smug with the fact you can’t particularly deny what he’s saying. You turn to Soap, muttering your dissent. He shakes his head, then looks over at Ghost. The bastard has his mask on, but even a blind man could see he agrees with the statement. He wants to protect his sister, a trait John knew he could rely on.

“Fine. Oral works.” You say the words like they’re bitter on your tongue, something you want to spit out. “Does it, sweetheart? Good t’ know.” You roll your eyes, then shove Soap’s shoulder for him to continue. “Can’t believe I’m marrying a manchild.” If you’d said it in front of his men, he’d have to reprimand you, but he can drop the mask in this room. He’s not going to punish his future wife this early. It would throw off the wedding atmosphere.

Laswell marks the change from written to oral permission then continues. She’s at the last few lines, thankfully. “The marriage cannot be dissolved unless in the case of maltreatment or abuse. If there is evidence of Ms. Riley cheating, 50% of the Riley Family assets will be transferred to the Price Family and the marriage will be dissolved. Any bastards will not be recognized and will be given no child support.” The word bastard echoes around the room. Laswell could say she didn’t realize the context of the word but, knowing her, it was probably used on purpose. A test.

You roll your shoulders back. Ghost’s eyes narrow into black pits. Soap’s hands clench and unclench on the table. Despite the obvious tension, there’s no immediate reaction. You don’t jump on the table and curse his ancestors or pull out a gun and start shooting. Both he expected more than the actual outcome, which is…nothing. You nod at Soap and Ghost, gesturing at them to continue. 

It should be a victory. Gaz is nudging him under the table, his right-hand man all too proud that he riled up the Rileys. The feeling of success is hollow as John tracks your tense muscles, the way you turn your gaze to the contract in front of you and don’t move, even when Laswell finishes reading it. You’re just…frozen. It’s too human of a look on you, and John wonders if this is what your marriage will be like. Cold. Distant. Robotic fucking, just enough to make heirs. A fidelity clause only for you, while John can do whatever he wants as long as there aren’t any kids made. It’s a point he would have let you argue, let you add a fidelity clause for him too, but you take it on the chin. Is it punishment for the family sin you didn’t commit? The mantle of knowledge is heavy on his shoulders.

John signs. You sign. Ghost signs then hands it to the lawyers. Gaz is the witness. In five minutes, John has turned his mafia into a militarized mob and gained a wife who hates him. Every man’s dream.

Papers are gathered as the waiters clear glasses from the table. He stands only after you do, observing how Ghost has to touch your shoulder to get you to pay attention. Soap leads the way again, but John hangs back until he’s shoulder to shoulder with you. The dislike is still there, a plant that sprouted roots eons ago, but the urge to be a good husband is there as well. He was raised with the standards of chivalry, to be the picture of a gentleman. He will not treat the mother of his children like how his father treated his mother. He will be better.

“Alrigh’?” He nudges your shoulder. It snaps you out of your daydream, glassy eyes meeting his own as you take stock of the situation. “Fuckin’ mint, thanks.” It’s the most Manc thing he’s ever heard you say. “Remember bein’ promised tea, but not a biscuit t’ be found.” You snort and he’s glad for it. You seem to finally be out of whatever funk came over you. He lets you go in front of him on the staircase, keeping his eyes firmly on the sliver of skin that shows as you move and the outline of a gun tucked in your waistband. John Price does not stare at his fiancee’s arse at all. Mostly.

“Guess I’m not wife material, Price. Looks like you’re getting the shitty end of this deal.” You shoot him a cheeky grin once you’re on the main floor, and he’s glad it looks mostly genuine. You’re easier to deal with when you’re bantering, not whatever that was back there. “Jus’ bought ya for some guns, sweetheart. Not lookin’ good on the husband front, either.” You roll your eyes, biting your cheek so he doesn’t sense a laugh. The whole group is at the door now, awkwardly standing on opposite sides of the room as the two of you talk. Is this what your wedding will be like?

“I’ll, uh, see you Saturday.” At our wedding. To each other. Jesus, this is a bleak future he’s thinking of.

“See you Saturday, John.” You stand in the center of your store. Sunlight is streaming through the windows as the sun goes down, and if John were a different man, he’d tell you you look beautiful. He’d kiss your cheek, then your forehead, assuring you that your years of spats were just a form of foreplay. He’d squeeze your shoulder in reassurance, murmur a sweet nothing in your ear. Fortunately, or unfortunately, John is not that man.

“Remember, somethin’ borrowed, somethin’ blue.” He winks but there’s no charm behind it. He thinks.

“Something old, something new. A sixpence in your shoe.” You whisper it just to him, like a secret, and then turn away. Like he was never there.

John turns away, feeling oddly flustered, and doesn’t catch Gaz’s eye as they leave. He avoids Gaz’s gaze as he shakes Ghost’s and Soap’s hands. He’s still avoiding it when they get into the car, Laswell splitting off to her own chartered vehicle. It’s only when the doors close his right-hand man decides to speak.

“You’re fucked.” He says it sternly, like a teacher scolding his student. The kid’s a decade younger than John but acts like he’s his father.

“Piss off.” He’s got no idea what he’s talking about. There’s nothing between you and John. That bridge has been burned, ashes turning to dust in the wind.

Of that, he’s almost sure.

-

I hope the background wasn’t too boring! Stay tuned for a chaotic wedding week 😁lmk if you want to be tagged (please remember this is 18+)

-

@heretoreadanddrinktea

@peachyxrosie

@joufrance

@galactict3a

@exactlyyoungchaos

@trulovekay

@alleycc

@abox-of-rocks

@orangehibiscus

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VI

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VI: Fevered Dreams

Arthur’s entanglements weigh heavily on him, while a fever strikes in camp.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“I’ve… You’re… Oh, you’ll never change… I know that.”

He stares back at her, his eyes following when she dips into the train car following her brother until they find seats. 

Arthur doesn’t quite know what he wanted from this. The letter begging for his help - the fool that he is, he rode to her beck and call. His dark-eyed beloved, even now, after years gone by, she’s just as beautiful as the last time he saw her.

That last time, when she broke off their engagement. A letter some months later told him she was getting married, and it was like their love had never existed. 

And yet… the fool he is. The fool he is cannot say no to her, he will likely never be able to say no to her. That scarred heart of his - he reckons it will always belong to her. Wanting. Waiting. For something that will never be. She had even said herself - he’ll never change. He’ll never be what she wants, what she needs.

But damn well if he did not wish.

He makes eye contact with her once more through the window - god damnit, she’s just as beautiful as he remembers, age having sharpened her jaw, but those eyes, he can still get lost in them.

He still loves her.

The train jerks forward and slowly pulls away from the station. Mary Gillis leaves him and he’s alone once again, unable to change his ways. Unable to be what she needs. 

He is a damned fool.

Arthur stares down at the worn planks of the station’s platform, kicking at it slightly to stop himself from staring at the train receding into the distance. He grits his teeth, one hand going into his satchel and pulling out his half-empty pack of cigarettes. His jaw clicks as he clenches his teeth, annoyed that he’d have to go to the general store and get another pack. God only knows he can’t go without a smoke now, not now. Not when that heavy feeling in his chest, like he’s been shot, threatens to drown him.

His eyes close heavily after he lights the cigarette, breathing the tobacco in deeply. 

He still fucking loves her. And still, still, even widowed, she does not want to be with him.

Arthur rips the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and tosses it to the ground, grinding it under his boot with much more force than necessary. Sighing, he grabs his hat from his satchel and places it back on his head, moving from the platform back toward the road where the Walker is hitched. 

Christ, maybe a drink could take the edge off his frustration. By the time he reaches his horse and pulls the reins from the post, he’s made his decision. A drink or two at that saloon in town. He swings himself up into the Walker’s saddle and guides the old horse down the mud-clogged street. By the time he reaches Smithfield’s, he’s edging on wanting to drink himself stupid - maybe then he could forget Mary’s damn eyes.

“Arthur!”

He looks up and finds Lenny Summers leading his horse urgently toward him. Arthur glances around before placing a hand on his hip, “The hell you doin’ way out here?”

Lenny’s face is ashen, sweat dotting his temples, “Strawberry - it was Micah -”

“Of course it was,” Arthur interjects, rolling his eyes as he slides down off the horse, taking the reins and knotting them on the hitching post before grabbing the reins of Lenny’s horse from him, knotting it as well.

“They almost lynched me!” The young exclaims, arms akimbo in agitation.

“Okay, alright, now calm down there kid.” Arthur places his hands on the young man’s shoulder, “Tell me what happened.”

Lenny recounts the sorry tale - that he had met Micah in Strawberry and the outlaw was three sheets to the wind already in a damn dry town - and ended up shooting some feller that he knew - and everything devolved into chaos. Micah was dragged to the jail, and now there was talk of hanging him.

Arthur cannot help but smirk as he guides Lenny up the porch of Smithfield’s, chuckling to himself at Micah’s predicament. He couldn’t wish it on a better man. 

Pushing Lenny toward the bar, Arthur digs his thumbs into the boy’s shoulder blades to attempt to relieve some tension. “C’mon now, kid. Let’s have a drink.”

“And Micah?” Lenny asks.

“He’ll be fine. Let ‘im dry out in a cell.” Arthur retorts with a grin as they reach the bar, “Alrigh- We’ll just have a couple, settle you down, then head back, okay?”

Lenny nods, and leans on the bar, rubbing at his face with frayed nerves, “Just one or two… right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods, motioning to the bartender, “Course, just a drink… no big drama. Can we get a couple of beers, please?”

-

The large tent on the hillside blazes with yellow-orange light, lanterns interspersed on tables and barrels in and around the canvas. 

Dutch Van der Linde is in a magnanimous mood. A gramophone, of all things, blares music into the night upon the shores of Owanjila, and various members of the gang sit and mull about the campfire.

Molly O’Shea sits upon his lap as if she sat on a throne, her emerald eyes surveying her kingdom and subjects as if the rest of the folk existed to serve. Her arms thrown loosely around his neck, one of his wrapped around her thigh, his rings glinting in the night.

She looks upon you with some kind of bored disdain from across the campfire. You pass the bottle of brandy that was foisted upon you back to Karen - you had acquiesced to her request and taken a healthy sip, frowning at the sweetness. 

Mary Beth laughs under her breath, rubbing your shoulder. “Ain’t my favorite neither.”

The men had returned from some sort of score, having ridden out the day before with Dutch all riled up - the kind of energy radiating from them like when they rode out to Blackwater those weeks ago. Horses stamping, voices hooting and hollerin’, but unlike the Blackwater fiasco, when they returned later in the night, it was in some sort of triumph.

For a moment, the glumness that had settled upon the camp was lifted - chores were set aside, and alcohol flowed freely. Even stern Grimshaw sat with a beer around the fire as the night fully settled.

“So, this train - obviously y’got something good, or you wouldn't be in such a mood.” Hosea tips his beer across the campfire at Dutch, who grins as his grip tightens on Molly’s thigh.

“Bearer bonds, courtesy of one Leviticus Cornwall.”

“Cornwall? The railroad magnate?” Hosea arches an eyebrow at Dutch, who seems completely unperturbed.

Across the fire, your stomach drops. You nearly drop the newly opened beer bottle in your hand, but by some divine providence, you don’t lose it. Ripping your stare away from Dutch, you look into the fire as the dread creeps into your chest, clawing at you like some kind of untethered beast, threatening to choke you and steal your breath.

You stare into the fire and see Limpany.

-

However you feel, you fear - about what the men just did, you kept it to yourself for the rest of the night. You excused yourself from the festivities and went to sleep without much further fanfare, but when you awoke in the morning, the stone of guilt and fear lay upon your chest much in the way it did when you had fled to Blackwater.

You busy yourself with morning work, getting the coffee pot ready while Pearson began the stew of unbeknown origins for the day. For all of the bragging that man did about his Navy days, he seemed to be a one-pony show. Maybe you could ask Hosea or Arthur to bring you to Strawberry so that you could eat something other than this stew.

Speaking of which, you noted Arthur’s absence last night - he hadn’t returned with the other men after the job - actually a few of the men hadn’t returned, now that you think about it.

Breaking open the tin of coffee, you dump grounds into the percolator before pouring water from the bucket, drawn fresh from the lake to set the coffee up. Placing it on the hook suspended above the fire, you lean over it for a few minutes as it brews.

The sound of footsteps behind you draws your attention from the percolator, and you turn your head from where you are stooped down to see who it is. Abigail slowly trudges toward you, rubbing at one eye with the back of her wrist. Grabbing one of the empty coffee mugs scattered about the ground, you wipe the inside with your skirt before pouring it full of coffee, standing up from where you had stooped down.

“Didn’t get much sleep?”

Abigail frowns before yawning, covering her mouth for a moment as you hold out the cup of coffee to her. 

“Jack was fussin’ all damn night. Kicked at me like a damn mule.” She mutters as she takes the cup, nodding in thanks as she immediately takes a long sip. You give a half-hearted frown as you look behind her, to the lean-to that the two of them sleep in, where Jack is still asleep under a blanket. It is strange for the boy to still be asleep, but if he was up most of the night…

Abigail blows at the hot coffee before taking another sip, “Been a while since he’s been like that. Hopefully was just one night.” 

You nod in agreement before she turns to walk back to her lean-to. Going back to the coffee, you start pouring another cup as more footsteps draw you to stand again.

“Good morning, dear.” Hosea smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder as you hand him the next cup of coffee.

“Morning, Hosea. You stay up much later last night?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head before bringing the cup to his lips, “I ain’t much for the late nights and bottles of whiskey like I used to be - hangovers are a bitch when you get as old as I am,” he chuckles.

You laugh and shake your head, leaning over to prepare your own cup as a horse whinnies in the distance, a rider arriving back into camp. Hosea squints toward the horse as it approaches, “Ah, it’s Lenny.”

Lenny guides his horse to where the others are tied off, and slides out of the saddle, nearly stumbling to the ground a step after landing.

“Oh, Lenny, you look like you’ve seen better mornings,” Hosea notes as Lenny staggers toward the two of you, looking absolutely miserable and the slightest shade of green. As he groans and walks closer, the overwhelming stench of alcohol wafts off of him and makes you scrunch your nose. You’re pretty sure there is vomit on his collar. You cover your nose to stop from gagging as Lenny wipes at his mouth, noticing your discomfort.

“Did’ya leave poor Arthur in another state?”

“He’s…somewhere. He was still in Valentine once they let us out of jail.” Lenny drolls, his eyes bloodshot as he bends over and places his hands on his knees, obviously trying to quell his roiling stomach.

“Jail?!” You exclaim as your eyebrows raise.

“Ah, one of those kinds of nights,” Hosea chuckles. Lenny groans and continues onward toward the shared lean-to where his bedroll is spread out, stooping down on one knee before giving up and flopping down onto the bedroll.

Your eyebrows still raised in concern, Hosea waves his hand in a cheery dismissal, “Don’t worry ‘bout him. He’ll slink back to camp and sleep it off. Boy can get a bit rowdy when he goes overboard.”

-

Christ, even his damn eyes hurt. His hat’s brim slung low over his face to keep the sun from his eyes - as if this damn headache could get any worse. The Walker sways beneath him, this ride from Valentine taking twice as long as the ride to town, and he hadn’t even gotten the new horse he meant to. 

Arthur thought it smart to leave town quickly after being let out of jail - evidently almost drowning a man in a pig trough is frowned upon in these parts. He’d like to blame the bender on trying to cheer Lenny up, but he knew, he knew that he had let things get out of hand partially on purpose. That drinking himself stupid would push the thought of Mary Gillis from his mind.

Instead, it gave him a massive hangover, a lighter wallet, and still at a loss about Mary. He quietly enters the camp with little fanfare, not wanting and very unwilling to make small talk with anyone.

Fortunately, he’s able to slink back to his cot without needing to talk to anyone, sitting down and pulling his hat off, tossing it further down on the cot as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms. 

Hanging his head, his forearms rest on his knees as he stifles a pained groan. A canteen appears in his field of vision. He looks up, ready to tell whoever off, but finds you standing in front of his cot, holding out that canteen full of water. In the back of his hangover-addled brain, instead of shooing you off, he wants to call you an angel - that the water you’re offering him must be holy in the wake of his bender last night. He can already taste its freshness before even taking the canteen.

You smile, “I heard you had an interestin’ night, Mister Morgan.”

The morning light glints off your hair like it was some kind of spun gold. He swallows, taking the canteen from your hand, and mumbles some kind of thanks as he brings it to his mouth, the cool water just godsend that he believed. 

“Well, at least you didn’t come back with vomit on your shirt,” You chuckle lightly, taking a step back as you place your hands behind your back, “See you later, Arthur.”

“Missus Shaw.”

He stares down at the canteen for a moment, then flits his gaze back up to your frame, walking down toward the lake. The tendrils of your unbound hair bounce with each step you take. The sway of your skirts….

Oh god damnit.

Arthur rubs at his eyes with one hand once again, gritting his teeth against the creeping feeling in his chest. He downs another large gulp of water from the canteen. Chucking it onto the table across from his cot, he grabs at his hat as he lays down on his cot, sighing as he places the hat over his face, praying that sleep will take him quickly and that this headache will subside.

It did - at least he had that going for him today. A few hours of undisturbed sleep was entirely what he needed - by the time he woke, the sun was setting behind the ridge. He pulls himself from his cot, rubbing at his jaw with one hand as he rifles through his satchel for his cigarettes.

He’s approached by Susan Grimshaw, who steps in front of him with her hands crossed over his chest. Arthur looks past her toward the main fire, not wanting to be lectured at the moment. Susan arches an eyebrow before turning her head to follow where Arthur is looking. He lights a cigarette from his pack as she looks back up at him.

She snorts under her breath, looking back at Arthur with a tinge of amusement.

“Missus Shaw.” Grimshaw shifts her eyes back and forth toward the direction of the main campfire, where all of the women are gathered, chirping like sparrows as they eat their dinner on beat-up metal plates.

“What about Missus Shaw?” Arthur retorts; the lit end of his cigarette throwing shadows on his face in the night.

“She’s a nice girl. Doesn’t talk back, works hard, easy on the eyes.”

He doesn’t respond.

“And she don’t have a mean ol’ drunk of a daddy whispering things in her ear.” Susan narrows her eyes in an almost threatening manner, “Don't think I don't know who that damn letter came from.”

-

The next night proves to Abigail that Jack’s sleeplessness wasn’t a fluke. He had been lethargic all day, overtired and fussy. By the time night fell, the boy’s head was hot to the touch as Abigail scooped him up into her arms, beginning to fret as the night went on and he seemed only to get warmer.

You’ve fallen in next to Abigail, urging her to get Jack out from their flimsy lean-to and into the sick tent, having recently been vacated by John, who had healed enough to get out of bed. 

“C’mon, let’s get him into bed,” You reach down to Abigail, sitting on the ground next to Jack, and guide her by her shoulders to stand enough for her to gather her son up. The two of you walk slowly toward the tent, as you reach it, you step inside and turn up the oil lantern as Abigail lays Jack down in the cot. You root around for a blanket for a moment, finding an old one stowed beneath the cot, and spread it out over Jack. Abigail rubs at her brow worryingly.

“Think - think he’s breathin’ okay?” She asks, and the both of you lean over the boy on either side of the cot, holding your ears close to his face.

Jack whines then coughs harshly, and both you and Abigail recoil backward, sitting up straight next to the cot. Abigail frowns, looking apologetic - “God, sorry, Ruth - he -”

You shake your head, “It’s fine. He’s gonna be fine.”

-

You’d like to think it was the lack of sleep for staying up all night with Abigail, but as Jack rolls into another full day of fever, as the next night falls in, you can hardly stave off the exhaustion setting in.

“Shit, Ruth -” Abigail curses from the other side of the cot as she sits back down having brought the oil lantern in from refilling it, “You’re flushed - you - shit, you got a fever?”

You wipe at your brow, damp in the night, “ M’fine,” brushing her off.

But as the hours creep on, it becomes increasingly clear that yes, you had whatever Jack had come down with. It's not much after you start to nod off in your seat that Abigail picks Jack up, gathering him into her lap, and orders you to lie in the cot - your resolve broken by that point.

The night stretches on as you start to shiver in the cot. Jack pitifully whines in his mother’s arms as she hunches over in exhaustion.

“Give - give him here, I’ll hold him. You’re gonna get sick yourself if you don’t get some rest.” You reach toward Jack, huddled in Abigail’s lap. The poor woman’s eyes are bloodshot, dark circles appearing beneath them at her lack of sleep. 

Abigail is unable to hide the guarded look in her eye - her hesitance to let go of her greatest treasure. But after a moment, she acquiesced, exhausted.

She leans forward, Jack huddled to her breast like you’re sure she did when he was a baby. Handing him to you, you situate the child against your chest, pulling the blanket above you both. He does not awaken with the movement, but unconsciously, the boy curls himself into your embrace, his clammy cheek pressed against the exposed skin of your collarbone.

Your hand rubs his back slowly, softly, and when you close your eyes, you wonder if your boy would have curled himself into you the way Jack does. Clutch at you, searching for the comfort only a mother can give.

You choke back a sob, trying to keep quiet, but your attempt is in vain as Abigail notices, drawing closer to you again.

“Ruth - are y’ al-... I can take ‘im back-” Abigail stutters, placing her hand on Jack’s back again to brace him, about to pick him up from the cot.

“ ‘s alright,” You sniffle, unable to stop the tears tracking down your cheeks, “Jus - hic - my baby-”

Abigail’s face falls further, her hand moving from Jack’s back to grasp at yours, her fingers wrapping around yours, “Oh, Ruth, I’m sorry-”

“He… he was too early, b-but -” You shudder with another stifled sob, trying to not disturb the sleeping child in your cot, “ ‘e had his just a bit of his father’s dark hair-”

Abigail’s free hand reaches into the bowl of water, grabbing the rag and squeezing the excess water from it. She dabs it gently to your forehead, holding your hand tightly, comfortingly.

“And now… hic - I’ve got nothin, I’ve got no one, they’re g-gone-” You croak, tears falling down your cheeks freely. You draw the child at your chest in closer, as if Abigail’s son could temporarily fill the depthless void in your chest. 

You devolve into sobs, and Abigail holds your hand.

-

The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.

The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.

The door was left open.

Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.

The door was left open.

With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.

The door was left open.

Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.

You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.

As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.

Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.

A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door.  A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.

Smoke quickly fills the room, and you begin to cough as you crawl toward the open door, taking your chances with the shadowed figure outside rather than with the flames. As you reach the threshold, you look back forlornly at your dead husband’s body before dragging yourself out the door. You stumble to your feet, coughing as you unsteadily step off the porch. You make it only a few steps before doubling over, coughing violently as one of your hands braces on your knee.

As your eyes water over, the shadowed figure appears again, walking slowly toward you. The figure becomes two. Two become three.

“Why, if it isn’t the lovely Missus Shaw. We’ve been looking for you.”

A gunshot pierces the night.

-

The canvas to the sick tent swings shut after Susan steps out, a basket of linen on one hip. He watches as she moves back toward the center of camp, calling for one of the girls to wash it.

He grimaces, the stitches in his skin pulling tightly as he works his jaw. Christ, his face itches something awful, but at least now he’s no longer bedridden, having thrown off the yoke of invalidity a few days ago.

John knows, of course, that Jack has taken sick. Christ, the way that Abigail tutted and fretted about, the whole damn world knows the kid has a fever. He’s kept a wide berth as the boy was relegated to the sick tent that he had so recently occupied.

He was just going to take a quick look in. He’s been listening to Abigail’s damn voice for the past two days through the canvas of the tent, and being stuck in camp and not well enough to ride yet, there was little else to do. She’s finally gone quiet. Hopefully, both her and the boy are asleep.

John barely notices that he’s almost crushed the unlit cigarette between his fingers as he approaches the tent, quietly leaning inside the canvas opening, blinking as his eyes adjust to the lantern light from the darkness outside.

Abigail sits on a stool, her head pillowed on her crossed arms on the small table. She’s dead to the world, exhausted as she’s sprawled out over that table. He looks over to the cot, the mess of blankets piled up over a still form. A mess of sandy brown hair tucked into a shoulder. 

You’re awake. He wasn’t expecting that, standing in the tent’s opening. Stuck, unable to escape, John can do nothing but take in the scene, the fevered blush staining your cheeks, the clammy pallor of your skin. The mess of your blonde hair pulled into some kind of bun that was falling apart. The matching, flushed look of the child pillowed on your chest, the boy’s labored breathing loud in the silence of the night.

Your hand moves to cradle the back of Jack’s head as he subconsciously curls further into you in his sleep.

John audibly swallows, knowing he’s been caught. Under your unfailing gaze, he turns and leaves the tent.

[patchesunsolved]

MARAUDERS CODED SONG: Our Time Is Short by Gang of Youths.

im not gonna sit here and type as if i dont know that this whole album (Go Father In Lightness) could encompass all of the peaks and valleys of the marauders' story. it is perfect. but this is specifically about how Our Time Is Short takes over the feeling james, sirius, remus, peter and co had when they were tip toeing the edge of war. im talking about that one summer when they went to cornwall and slept in tents and lived on pastries.

exhibit a: "We’ll make it down slowly, discover our hearts are dumb" to me this speaks about the wish they had to make it out of the war. lets not forget these are 17, 18 year old kids, and they are preparing for the war fully planning to make it out, live a slow life. "we'll die slowly, living in the meantime and relishing on our experiences with each other. we will go to college, learn how to drive, get married, go to concerts, have kids, tuck them in at night, tell them the stories of what we are living now" this was their wish, yet they'll inevitably discover that "their hearts are dumb." they were naive to think the war wouldn't eat them alive, i mean this is a whole other can of worms but even if most of them made it alive from the war, you don't go completely unscathed, its the kind of veteran survivor's guilt trauma that would've stuck with them (if they had had the chance)

exhibit b: "There’s nothing that holy in loving like drunk kids love" i mean like come on. it is the intimacy, the platonic profound love they have for each other. we gotta remember, these are boarding school kids, in the span of 7 years they didn't interact with anyone else but each other, they are their chosen family, they don't even see their parents as often as they bump into one another in the bathroom yelping apologies and learning each others habits and issues. they know each other inside and out and that kind of love isn't holy or pure or clean, it is ugly and overtaking and incredibly messy because these people are their whole lives. as far as they are concerned, the marauders and co go as wide as the world, edge to edge. like a horse with eye coverings

exhibit c: "I see you in spotlights, in visions I’m saving now / Before we are parted" during the cornwall summer everyone is so immensely happy for hours that stretch as years, but they are 100% aware at all times what is looming in the distance too. they are trying to save each other in bubbles and capsules where the dark cant reach, where they can keep being kids, keep that warm lighting, keep that innocence going. they will end up being just visions of each other before they are irreversibly changed and parted

exhibit d: "So let’s drink, drink the best wine now / While we’re strong and we are proud / Until lightning strikes us down" its the last night of warm light and the war is one half step away, the dreams and wishes and capsules are gone and all they can do is laugh until they are kill3d.

exhibit e: "Our time is short" do i even need to explain?

[lvxybby]

Savior. Arthur Morgan x Reader. Part 2!

WARNING: MENTIONS OF RAPE, CUSSING (ofc) MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE.

("Italics" are thoughts. Regular font is speaking.)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

===============================

Arthur woke up to hear the pops of a fire. He was in a tent, on a bedroll. His chest was bandaged in all the spots he was cut by...

"That bastard."

Arthur forced himself to sit up, looking through the tiny flap of the tent.

He was expecting to see someone. But he surely wasn't expecting it to be you.

The way the fire lit up your face with the prettiest orange not even the sky could be.

The moon shone down on your beautiful hair.

Arthur never really looked at you the way he was now.

And, you and him weren't on good terms.

Not like him and Micah, but you weren't best friends like him and John either.

Back in Colter, when the gang had robbed Cornwall's train, you weren't listening to anyone at all.

After the whole robbery went bad and everyone had to help fight off an army of men, and finally made it back to camp, he cussed you out.

He yelled at you about how careless you were.

Yes he was mad,

But not because you weren't listening.

He was afraid you would get hurt.

But you took the wrong hint and have been ignoring him ever since.

Arthur thought after you guys had just moved into horseshoe overlook that you would start talking to him again. But you haven't.

Arthur dismissed the thought from his head and focused back on you.

You were cooking what looked like some plain game over the fire.

He watched a bit longer before sighing and laying back down.

Meanwhile, you were cooking some food for him so he could at least get something in his stomach. He looks starved. You were out here for him anyways so might as well help him.

After Arthur left for a while, Dutch sent you out to go look for him, claiming it will "fix the broken love story"

Dutch knew you were sweet on Arthur cause you would always tell him and Hosea and him about how you could imagine a future with Arthur.

You smiled at the thought, starting a family and living out in the West where you have been so deprived and moved further from.

Cooking dinner for him and your 2.5 kids every night. And sleeping in the same bed as him and seeing that handsome face first thing in the morning.

You would do anything to have that life.

But you don't.

And you don't see it coming any time soon.

Cause all you have been doing is running.

You can't escape from the government.

Even if you're dead.

Tears pricked your eyes at the thought of never leaving the life of an outlaw.

A killer.

A theif.

A liar.

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and took a deep breath before standing up and making your way to the tent.

You felt your heart rate quicken... Were you gonna talk to him? You avoided contact cause you were afraid interactions would damage what "little" relationship you had left. Or that's what you thought.

You slowly pulled open the tent flap to see arthur looking at the top of the tent.

"I brought you food.. No no no.... Here you go... No.... I brought you some food and it might hurt to eat since you just got throat fucked but here! NO."

Thoughts of what to say invaded your mind. So you chose to stay silent

Didn't want to slip up and confess your feelings. Cause it sure feels like if you even open your mouth you'll have a word vomit.

Plus, arthur wouldn't want you. Surely.

He has... Or had Mary... And he told Lenny he wasn't looking for a relationship. Or at least that's what Lenny told you, but he wasn't too sure.

So instead you just tapped him.

"Hm?" He hummed.

You didn't reply, just holding your knife with a huge chunk of meat on it out to him.

"... 'Kay.. " he mumbled taking it.

You were going to leave him to eat and so you could calm down since your heart was faster than a race horse right now, but he stopped you.

"Wait..." Be said reaching out for your arm.

"Why ain't you talkin'?" He asked.

You avoided eye contact,

"I-..."

You stopped mid sentence.

"Spit it out" Arthur thought.

"Are you still mad at me?" You whispered.

He chuckled a bit.

"What? Mad? No no no. Why the hell would I be mad at 'chu" he said with a dumb smile on his face.

"Well... I.. Ever since that train robbery... And you yelled at me.... I thought you didn't wanna talk to me again.... And I didn't know if you were mad." You barely got out.

Yeah you left out some major details, but for the most part the truth was told.

He blinked a few times before speaking again.

"I weren't mad. I.. I didn't want you to get hurt. And I was just kinda frustrated... A lot of a shit went on that day... But I ain't mad" he said squeezing your arm to try and get you to focus on him.

"Yeah..." You mumbled before breaking his grip and leaving the tent.

"Get some rest..we gotta make it back to camp tomorrow" you said with your back turned to him.

.

.

You slept on the ground that night. It was uncomfortable as hell but you would rather let Arthur have the bedroll.

You woke up around 6:30. Arthur was already awake and dressed in a new outfit

"Found your stuff?" You spoke sitting up.

"Was it supposed to be hard to find?" He joked.

"No." You mumbled.

By 7:00 you left the tiny temporary camp.

"So uhm... How are you feeling?" You asked him.

"Fine. Nothin' you needa worry about"

The ride back to camp was slow, stopping a few times to eat or get some rest. But you made it back.

"Ah yes, my finest of people are back" you heard dutch exclaim.

You dismounted and gave Dutch a warm smile before making your way to your tent.

You heard Dutch and Arthur talk but couldn't make out what they were saying.

It didn't bug you though, they should have privacy.

But then again it was. You wanted to know what they were saying.

You wanted to know everything.

.

.

Arthur lied in his tent for what seemed like hours but only a few minutes had passed.

You were in his mind.

The picture his mind took of you sitting at the fire, the orange glow highlighting your features perfectly. The moonlight shining on your hair.

You were beautiful, a true piece of art.

One that couldn't be damaged.

Cause no matter what he thought you were so pretty.

He sat up, snatching his journal from the "end table" which was really a few boxes stacked on top with a cloth over it.

He studied the mental image of you and drew every little detail of you down.

From the shape of your nose, to how many lashes you have.

And when he was done, he had his most favorite drawing right in his hands.

[relgreendino]

MORE INFO ON KAI!!

Last but not least is the youngest, optimistic member of the crew who sees Brandon as an idol despite David warning him that Brandon is a terrible example of what Kai should strive to be. David grew up fairly poor in a small coastal city in Cornwall with his parents owning a small, low budget Fish and Chip shop. He was the youngest of 3 children and he was often overlooked by his parents leading him to have somewhat of a rebellious streak, dyeing his hair and getting himself involved in situations he had no right being in. This only got worse as his father, being forced to raise 3 kids after his divorce, did nothing to stop this behaviour. When he was 16 he got a job in the local gangs to both provide income and to feel a sense of adventure. He is 18 years old currently, is 5,10 (taller than Brandon) and uses katana he bought of Ebay to use in missions. He also doesn't have a lot of social understanding, is a complete nerd about Lord of The Rings and is gay. Lastly, he doesn't wear a suit like the others because the only suit he could find before a mission was the one he used for prom which was too smalll for him so he improvised his 1980s looking outfit and grew attached to it.

[annaphoenix1994]

Colter - Eastward Bound

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

Arthur had never been so happy to be moving. He, as well as the rest of the gang, were sick of the snow. The numbness, the insomnia, the brink famine, was all about to be left at Colter. His body craved sunshine and whiskey, which he hoped a town was closeby wherever they were going. He dismounted his horse as he met up with Dutch to discuss further plans. 

"Oh, for Lord's sake! Put that book away and go help!" Miss Grimshaw barked within Arthur's earshot. It didn't take him long to figure out that she was scolding Mary-Beth Gaskill, one of the women in the camp who reminded him a lot of Lenny - she preferred reading or writing over robbing and killing, but could do so if need be. She was also one for romance, taking a liking to Arthur in particular, at least, that was the rumor. He had always thought that she liked how nice he was to her and nothing more than that. 

"So, we getting out of this Hellhole?" Arthur asked as he joined Dutch and Hosea. 

"We're gonna try, weather seems stable," Dutch assured. 

"And we just robbed a Leviticus Cornwall train," Hosea added. 

"We got money in our pockets...the worst is behind us, gentlemen! So the question is, where now?" 

"I know this country a little," Hosea assured the worried leader. "I told you, we should set up camp in Horseshoe Overlook near Valentine. We'll be able to hide out there no problem as long as we keep our noses clean." 

"Well then let's go! Clean noses and everything else!" Dutch commanded as he watched the rest of the gang load up the caravan. "Arthur, you're in that one, bring Hosea, I know you two like to talk about the good old days and what's wrong with old Dutch." 

Arthur chuckled as he shook his head, following Dutch's orders as he loaded himself up onto the wagon, Hosea alongside him. 

The caravan made its way slowly down the trail. The scenery of lush, white snow slowly turning to dewey green grass. The wind was still cold, though, as it still had a strong breeze, but to Arthur, even that was warm. He let his mind wander to where they were heading. Was there a town where he could have a hot meal other than Pearson's stew? Was there whiskey? Was there laying low for a long while instead of running? Was there hunting ground? Was there any more chances to run into Minnie Barlow? He shook the last question from his head, scolding himself for thinking of her and how he shouldn't think about her, but his mind continued to wander. There was something about her already that he needed to reassure himself on. 

Arthur's thoughts were quickly interrupted by Dutch shouting from ahead, sighing a breath of relief that he was only shouting for Lenny and Micah instead of announcing there was trouble ahead. 

"Lenny! Micah! Get over here!" 

"Yes, boss?" Micah replied as he obeyed Dutch's command, along with Lenny. 

"You two ride up ahead, make sure there's no surprises," Dutch ordered. "We've had enough of those." 

"Me, with the boy?" Micah responded, almost insulted. 

"Just go!" 

"Come on, kid," Micah sighed as he spurred his horse into a lope. "You can buy me a whiskey!" 

"Get us out the stream!" Hosea panicked as he felt the wagon shutter as they had now crossed into New Hanover. Arthur repeatedly tapped the harness leather across the horse's backs as they pulled the wagon through to the other side, only to be stopped by the rear left wheel buckling and keeping the wagon at a halt. 

"Ah, shit!" Arthur shouted. 

"Okay, let's take a look," Hosea sighed as he lept from the wagon, walking around the back. 

"You alright back there?" 

"Does everything look alright?" Arthur argued as he too dismounted from the wagon. 

"Well, what's goin' on?" He heard Javier ask. 

"I broke the goddamn wheel!" Arthur shouted, scolding himself. 

"Alright, let's get it fixed!" Hosea assured him as Charles rushed over to help, pairing with the old man as they lifted up the rear of the wagon as best as they could as Arthur rushed to push the wheel back into place. 

"You still strong enough to hold up a wagon?" Arthur teased as he tightened the joints. 

"Shut up!" Hosea replied gruffly. 

"I'm just sayin'!" Arthur replied. 

"Well, say less!" 

"See, you ain't so useless after all!" Arthur teased as he helped Charles and Hosea pick up the items that had fallen off. 

"Not quite!" Hosea chuckled as he picked up a suitcase, seeing that Charles had noticed the other eyes that were on them, watching from the cliffside ahead...

"What you think?" Arthur asked hesitantly. 

"If they wanted trouble, we wouldn't have seen 'em," Charles assured the two as Hosea waved a sign of peace to them. "Poor bastards... We really screwed them over down here. Come on, let's not push our luck," 

"What happened?" Arthur asked. 

"Well, get in, I'll tell ya on the way," Hosea said as the men quickly loaded themselved back up onto the wagon. "Not too far now, stay on this trail. We'll follow the river then cut left inland," Hosea directed. "So... Yes, the Indians in these parts got sold a very raw deal. This is the Heartlands we're going to, good farming and grazing country, they lost it all. Stolen clean away from them it was, even every blade of grass. Killed or herded up to the reservations in the middle of nowhere." Hosea explained. 

"And how's that different from everywhere else?" Charles asked. 

"Well, maybe it's not. I just heard some of the army out here was particularly, uh, unpleasant about it." 

"Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?" Charles questioned. "We don't, in spite of Dutch's talk." 

"I fear I was perhaps trying to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here." Hosea teased. 

"Hey, don't blame it on me!" Arthur replied. "Never forget, this here's a conman, Charles, born and bred. Just 'cause it sounds fancy don't mean he knows a damn thing about what he's talkin' about." Arthur explained. 

"Oh, but I sure know about that there 'wanted' poster you're keepin' on you," Hosea chuckled. "You plannin' on goin' after her, aren't you?" 

Arthur scoffed, "No. Like I said, you don't know what you're talkin' about." 

"Are you still talking about that Minnie Barlow woman? What's the deal about her anyway? Lenny told me that she saved your hide back on that train." Charles intervened. 

"Oh, did she now?" Hosea asked, raising his grey brows. "I didn't know about this!" 

'Shit!' Arthur thought to himself. He was now going to have to talk about her. He looked at the smug grin on Hosea's face as he loved to try and land him a relationship that he would never settle for. He had already tried with Mary-Beth, which now made things almost awkward in camp. "I don't think it was her," Arthur grit, tapping the harness leather harder on the horse's backs. 

"Yeah?" Hosea questioned. "Anyway, Charles, Minnie Barlow is known as Bandit Barlow around here. By what I've read, she used to work for some feller who is employed with the Pinkertons. Apparently, she knew too much and her supervisor tried to get her killed. After she found out about it, she turned around and robbed him, then became an outlaw!" Hosea explained, chuckling. 

"Does she have a gang or what?" 

"No, she runs alone," Hosea replied. "I reckon she had a small gang a few years ago, but they knew about her bounty and tried to have her captured for the payment. According to the poster Arthur is dearly holding on to, she has eight-thousand dollars for her head," Hosea snickered. "I don't know much about her past, just by what I've read or heard, but I do know she robbed the Lemoyne National Bank in Saint Denis, robbing a well-known tycoon as well. Some Italian feller. Robbed him and that bank in broad daylight and nobody knew until she was long gone," 

"Sounds like I need to buy her a drink and have a few hours of her time just to hear the stories!" Charles replied, intrigued. "When did the bank robbery happen?" 

"A couple of years ago," Hosea replied. "By what I read, the robbery took up to three months to do without anybody knowin'. She got a job there, made it well with the bank manager over time, and got a promotion to a loan manager position and the fellers she was runnin' with would come in every few weeks to "take out a loan" of a few thousand dollars when she would just walk into the safe and give them as much money as she could. After the bank was running low on funds, they didn't question her as she covered her tracks. Once time got scarce, she had one of her boys take out another big loan before she made a break for it." 

"Sounds like she and Dutch would get along," Arthur replied, smirking at the thought of how smart the woman was. 

"I'm sure," Charles said. "So, how did nobody catch her?" 

"She used a fake name to get the job. The only thing that messed her up was that she got the wrong men for the job. They were giving details to the Pinkertons the whole time. They turned her name in for the bounty after she gave orders to rob a train goin' towards Rhodes. Big roadblock over the tracks, but Minnie took wind of it and made a break for it, leavin' her two guys to fend for themselves. They ended up getting arrested and are now in a state penitentiary. Since then, only her tracks have been discovered, but no sign of her. She's slick, now," Hosea warned. 

"Sure," Arthur replied. "I'm sure she won't be that hard to find..." 

Hosea chuckled, "Let me know how that goes." He teased. 

"So..." Arthur cleared his throat, taking in all of the new information he had just learned of his apparent crush. "What happened to your tribe?" He asked Charles. 

"I don't even know if I have one," Charles replied. "Least not that I can remember. My father was a colored man. They told me he lived with our people for a while, a number of free men did, but when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much. All live I've been on the run. A couple of years later, some soldiers captured my mother, took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around... He was a very sad man and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen... I just took off on my own." He explained. 

"That was about the age we found young Arthur here, maybe a little older," Hosea said. "A wilder delinquent you never did see. But he learned fast." 

"Not as fast as Marston, apparently," Arthur replied, his jealousy spiking yet again. 

"Wait... I don't understand," Charles said, confused. "What's the problem between you two?" 

"Arthur?" Hosea said, insisting for him to explain. 

"It's a long story," Arthur sighed. "We still heading the right way?" He asked, now shifting during the awkward silence. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

"You okay, pa?" Minnie asked her father as she woke from a midday nap, something she never did unless she needed it. She gripped her shawl tighter as the wind from the Cumberland Forest engulfed the cabin. 

"Somethin' don't feel right," He replied, gripping his rifle as he continued to stare out the window. She knew this wasn't anything new as he had been acting like this for a couple of years, but she too got the odd feeling in her gut. She needed to prepare. 

"I'm sure it's nothin', pa," Minnie assured as she stepped closer to her father, patting his shoulder. "Want me to cook ya somethin'?" 

"No, I'm not hungry. Night's comin' soon. Best get some rest. I'll be out on the porch." 

She nodded and shook her head, not daring to inform her father that it was only early in the afternoon. She went to the chest at the end of the bed, retrieving her gunbelt and tightening it around her waist before walking out of the cabin, passing her father who was sitting in the rocking chair. "I'm gonna go feed the chickens and get the eggs, but we'll need some more food soon. Want me to go into town later?" She asked. 

"No need, dear. I will. I need to get out of here for a bit. Those mountains are taunting me." He replied, taking a drag off of his pipe. 

"You'll need a horse, take Trace." She suggested as she pointed to her buckskin Quarter Horse. 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah, he'll take care of you. He always does." She smiled. 

"Okay, well I'll take him out first thing in the mornin' to Valentine and get some more food," He nodded, a grin appearing on his face as he was excited to ride a horse again, but the lurking doom he felt coming never did settle in his mind. He didn't want to leave his daughter alone tomorrow, but whatever was coming, he knew they both couldn't escape. At least she had a fighting chance. 

[zorya-reads]

Chapter 19.

The Lost Princess

Context: Back at tourist-trap Cornwall, Ollie gets a message from Binah asking him to commit crime. Considering she’s the only gal who actually talks to him since he’s been ghosted by Lottie for not weeks, but YEARS straight, he’s absolutely buzzing, happy that someone finally remembers he exists.

HELLO OLLIE HRUU

Cornwall Slanderrrr

I swear, I NEED Binah and Ollie to become besties so he can sleep over at hers in London and have something to do during the holidays.

Low-key, I’m pissed at Lottie for not texting Ollie. Partially, because I doubt she’s THAT busy in all-inclusive-resort-takeshin with her only courses being practically extracurriculars, and partially BECAUSE those courses are extracurriculars, and I’m sure no one bats an eye if she would face-time, and partially because it wouldn’t take long to get out her phone, take a few pictures and text her friend „good night <3“ in the evening.

Headcanon: Lottie is 100% addicted to Storyteller.

Conclusion: Lottie’s too busy playing Storyteller to text Ollie.

The jealousy here is so relatable. DJSHDHDH. Ollie be blasting Olivia Rodrigo all summer long.

The way Ollie calls Ellie the “best princess bestie” and Jamie the “blunt bodyguard” lols.

I love how he’s so concerned about their old schoolmates and Lottie’s secret. BRO IS MORE CONCERNED ABOUT THE PALS IN FUCKING MARADOVA, LIKE??? GET OUT THE FUCKING NDAs, OH MY GOD. (And seriously, give Lottie some media training, pls.)

I feel bad for younger Lottie who got bullied all day long.

Ok, but Ollie is so funny.

I need Ollie’s Snapchat tag. Like, PLEASE. I need those snaps every day. (And yes, I guess, to begin with, I’d need Snapchat too.)

Ollie and Ellie should have group therapy sessions about their insecurities. I’d watch that show.

OH MY GOD BINAHHH MY BELOVED. HI GIRL  How’s the summer holiday going?? SHSBSBSB HI BINAH.

And wow, look—skin description without food. And the fact it comes from Ollie.

Listen, I’d ship them if Binah wasn’t hinted to be aro-ace. And I’m not even mad about it; I get it, girl. But I def. appreciate Ollie’s crush, because dude? Same bro. Same.

I can’t even explain how happy I am Binah uses “:D” when texting. :D

Ok but girl, why are you asking Ollie about doing crime like it’s a kids’ TV show (e.g. Peppa Pig or Hilda), where you guys need to decide what tiny “adventure” you’re going on on your Sunday??

NOT MOST IN THE BREAKING-INTO-ROSEWOOD-CHAT BEING RED. CONCH, YOU TROUBLEMAKERS. 

I appreciate Raphael getting included in the mess.

See? Binah is superior to the gang because she’s got the decency to include Raphael.

Wait, WHY are so many people involved just to bring Lottie a book when they easily could take their private jet to Japan a few weeks after their Japan exchange?

Also, Binah, babe, you do not need that many people to break in. You’re literally setting up a disaster. More people = more chances to mess it up or snitch, hun.

✧ Read All Chapter Reactions

Premise: I’m rereading the Rosewood Chronicles Series for the first time after years, so take my chaotic commentary with a grain of salt (or a whole salt shaker). Open to spoilers.

[thatgrumpybxtch]

Being Apart Of The Van Der Linde Gang Would Include…

Being adopted brought in by either Dutch or Hosea

But regardless of who brought you in, you are welcomed with open arms and immediately accepted by almost everyone

Most people in the group are friendly and help you get the hang of things around camp and your chores

Being given more tame/boring chores around camp until you get fed up and convince one of the boys to let you tag along on their outings

Once you get the gist of things with their way of life, you are trusted to do more things on your own

From then on you're brought along on the jobs and robbing they do almost daily

Either getting drunk with Sean or helping Sean when he is drunk/hungover, there is no in-between

The older gang members being protective of you and being like a sibling to them

Jack looking up to you especially if you're good with kids or just nice to him

Going through those ups and downs with the gang, and moving from place to place

If you don't know how to read one of the gang members who know how will be more than happy to help like Hosea, Mary-Beth, Arthur(if he has the time), etc.

If you do know how to read others who don't may ask you to teach or help them with learning to like Sean or Abigail

Being taught to fish/going fishing with Kieran or Javier

Learning to hunt with Charles or Arthur

Eating Pearson's soup full of whatever animal was last brought to him

Witnessing those who were killed or helping bury those in the group that got killed

Helping search everywhere for Jack when he was kidnapped and trying your best to calm Abigail and reassure her that he would be found

Being hunted and tracked by Pinkertons, O'Driscolls, Bounty hunters, and Leviticus Cornwall's men

Watching Dutch slowly lose his mind and betray people that trusted him after losing Hosea

Being there for the breaking up of the gang and being forced to choose sides and point guns at people who once trusted you

[val-made-a-mistake]

hi! could you write some domestic fluff with finn shelby? thank you <3

of course!

warnings: idk how old finn is in this but i kinda assumed you didn’t want me writing for an eleven year old, alcohol, talk of pregnancy and starting a family

//////

Your family’s ancient house in Cornwall was creaky but quaint, dusty but full of liquor, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

It had been just you and Finn cooped up here for the past few weeks. You’d felt trapped in Small Heath, your first instinct was to come here, and as your lover, even though he’d always been allured by the Shelby gang violence, Finn felt obligated to follow you. You couldn’t think of a better place to ride out the fading spring and oncoming summer here— there were wide wooden porches on all sides, a large fire pit, green fields stretching out into nothingness, and whenever you couldn’t sleep, you and Finn took to lighting a lantern and wandering wherever you pleased, particularly the beaches. The beaches were windy and beautiful here, you’d never seen anything like it in Small Heath.

For the first time in your life, you felt independent. Even peaceful— whatever it was, it was a feeling you couldn’t experience in the midst of stressful gang wars back home. It was almost too good to be true, whenever you paused to breathe, you smelled grass and crashing sea rather than heavy smoke and horses.

One dusky night, you grabbed one of Polly’s old sweaters and wrapped it over your shoulders; you then grabbed the first blanket you saw and shuffled out to the porch. You’d always adored sitting on the porch, even if Finn teased you for it.

Speak of the devil: behind you, there was a small CLICK and the door swung open, revealing Finn, shirtless with a bottle of rum clamped in his hand.

“‘Ello,” he said when you turned. “Budge over, will you?”

You laughed and obliged: as he sat down, you threw the blanket over his legs. “You’re going to freeze, y’know that?”

“It’s not that cold,” he protested, then paused to take a deep swig of the rum.

Noticing you watching, he held the bottle out to you. “You want some?”

You wrinkled your nose. “God, no.”

Finn shrugged and set the bottle on the porch. “Suit yourself.”

There was silence for a moment: you were trying not to inadvertently lean into his body heat. That was the thing about Finn: he could’ve been naked, and yet he was always so warm to touch.

Another beat, then he wrapped his arm around you.

“Could you imagine raising a family here someday?” he murmured into your ear. “This place’s more than big enough for it.”

You grinned and rolled your eyes, giving him a playful shove. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Shelby.”

Finn was grinning like the devil, the type of grin that made your legs shaky out of nowhere. “Am not.”

You fell into his game instantly. “You are.”

“Am not!”

This was how things had gone ever since you’d first seen him, that scrawny little eleven-year-old kid watching the boxers. As a boxer’s daughter, you thought you were the only one that age to ever step foot in a place so sweaty and violent.

Then—

You weren’t sure how it happened, exactly, but one minute you were laughing and the next you were kissing, your arms flung around his neck and his hands tugging at Polly’s sweater, pulling you into him, and oh, God—

As quickly as it started, you broke away breathlessly.

For a moment, Finn just blinked at you.

“You are gonna let me knock you up one day, yeah?” he whispered.

You grinned, preferring not to say your answer aloud. “C’mere.”

[kirain]

What's with that post? Dutch LOVES Hosea. They're literally gay. They held hands and raised two sons together. They're so extremely gay, respect it!

Two men: Showing affection

Tumblr: They're fucking!

...In all seriousness, I have absolutely no idea what I said or did to warrant this message, but I can only assume it's because I said in another post that Dutch doesn't respect Hosea? Which he doesn't?

They're supposed to be partners, but he certainly doesn't treat him like one. He doesn't listen to him, he yells at him when he's coughing or in pain, and he makes him sleep on the cold, hard, dirty ground. He even openly ignores him in Colter, in front of the other men, and rides off when he tries to stop him from robbing Cornwall's train. I'm not saying they don't have a rich history or good moments, but it's a toxic relationship at best. Not exactly something worth praising.

If you don't believe me, you can find unique dialogues as the game progresses, verifying he’s lost all faith in Dutch. To the point that he even starts telling other members to leave. Abigail, John, Arthur, Lenny, Tilly, Sadie -- he tells all of them to leave. During a dominoes game we played together he even said, "Maybe it's just me, but Dutch seems to be getting more and more unhinged." And as early as chapter one he told Arthur, "Try to stop Dutch getting all of you killed, because I'm about beginning to think he's finally lost his mind."

There are also other conversations where Hosea’s disappointment with Dutch is far more blatant. He basically tells Arthur he’s been disillusioned for a while and wishes the gang would change, but when Arthur asks what they’d do instead of thieving, Hosea says, “I don’t know. I never knew. Guess I could never figure that out, neither.” By this point he’s just so dejected and defeatist because he knows Dutch won’t listen to him. He also goes on a whole tirade about how they’ve become “nothing but a bunch of killers”, which breaks his heart, and during a random campfire encounter he bares his soul and flat out tells the gang he no longer believes in Dutch’s “we’re above the law” philosophy.

As for the whole "they're gay" thing? Ship whoever you want. I don't care (they're fictional characters, after all). But don't come onto my blog and demand that I "respect it", because I don't. In fact, I vehemently disagree with you.

First off, Hosea was very happily married and totally devoted to his wife Bessie. So much so that after she died, he was drunk and depressed for a year. He even tried to leave the gang once he married her, but he inevitably drifted back into the life of an outlaw when he failed to find adequate work. Keep that in mind, though -- he left the van der Linde gang. He left Dutch. During the hunting mission, Arthur even says, "I remember you were gone for a long while." But according to Hosea, Bessie supported and accepted his lifestyle, since at the time they were more of a community than a “gang”. They actually helped people, like a Robin Hood band of merry men.

Hosea talking about his wife:

"Since she was ... taken from me, I miss her every day. She's what I think about when I wake up, and what I'm still thinking about when I go to sleep. Confuses me. Confuses me to no end, how a wretched sinner like me could be given someone so perfect, so beautiful to take care of. For once in my wretched life, do my best. And then she dies ... and I live on. Well, at least for now. She’s been gone many years. All them years I was given and she was not, and we’re expected to believe in judgement? What kind of a judge would save me and take her? A foolish one I can’t respect anymore than I can respect myself! I miss her so--!” He pauses, nearly crying. “Forgive me for being so maudlin, but ... it’s a fact. I know we all of us seen more death than life these past few months, but ... well, sometimes the unfairness of it all confuses me.”

In addition, when asked who the two most important people in his life are, he mentions Bessie first, before Dutch. Arguably he's known Dutch longer and he’s still alive and active in his life, but Bessie always comes first. He also says he’s “ready to die” because he’s “ready to join her”.

Please don't disregard this. Hosea is an honest, loyal, loving husband. If it was just a matter of you insisting he's gay, I'd probably have less of a problem (because, sure, that can change for some people and maybe he's bi now), but pairing him with Dutch, when he's so wholly devoted to his wife, is just reprehensible in my opinion. Dutch isn’t a good man and he treats Hosea quite poorly.

Secondly, yes, you're partially right. Hosea did raise two kids with Dutch. Actually, he raised four. Arthur, John, Tilly, and Mary-Beth. They were all young teens when they joined, but Dutch and Hosea weren't the only "parents". Grimshaw and Bessie also helped raised them. Arthur even says Bessie taught him how to play dominoes and mentions that he misses her. So I don't really understand the correlation here. You don't have to be in a sexual/romantic relationship to raise kids. And keep in mind that the story takes place during a time when entire communities worked together to raise children. Ever heard the expression "it takes a village to raise a child"?

Overall, I'm simply not comfortable overlooking Hosea's marriage and Dutch's abuse. To put it into perspective, it'd be like writing a fic where Molly and Dutch are in a happy, healthy relationship, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I'm just not the type of person who's willing to change a character's entire personality and history in order to make them fit my personal narrative.

[sweet-by-and-by]

On the Blue Side of the Mountain- Chapter 2

gif credit

summary: After a narrow escape from the downfall of the Van Der Linde gang, you and Arthur have lived comfortably on your mountainside homestead for years. Away from any Pinkertons, Cornwalls, and O’Driscolls, you’re finally safe. All you can do now is try to find peace and hope that the shadows of your past don’t catch up with you.

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

a/n: Another fluffy little piece for chapter 2! Apparently this will be structured like the game and things will start getting much more intense in chapter 3. So enjoy the niceties while they last lol.

(I’m kidding, it won’t all be bad)

In loving memory of the cabin trip I had planned for this spring before my country went back into lockdown in January. RIP to the hopes I had at catching a damn fish.

Masterlist

AO3

You breathed in deeply, inhaling the wonderful scent of fresh water and pine trees. Beneath you, your horse threw her head to shake out her mane. You had been riding for a few hours, taking the narrow trail to the bottom of the mountain. The beautiful weather had lured you in and soon you found yourself packing lunches to take the children fishing.

You rounded the corner, the river cutting through the trees as you all descended from the hilltop. The sound of the rushing water drifted up the hill, and the freshness of the air washed a sense of calm over you. You loved that your homestead was surrounded by trees and meadows sprawling with wildflowers. But the rush of water always brought you such peace.

Alice squealed with glee as Arthur swung her to the ground from his saddle, and he quickly dismounted to join her. You and your sons followed suit from your respective horses as Arthur unloaded several fishing rods.

You reached in your saddle bag to grab the packed lunch and your sewing, and untied the extra blanket from your saddle. The five of you walked the few steps down to the river. The children hot on Arthur’s heels while you chose a grassy spot under a tree close by.

You watched from your place on your blanket as the group of them assembled their rods, hanging on to Arthur’s every word like he was a master fisherman.

James and Andrew had been fishing a handful of times before, but this was all very new to Alice. Arthur gently instructed her on how to put the fishing rod together, and laughed at her disgusted face when he held out a worm for her.

“Papa, I am not touching that.” she declared, crossing her arms in defiance.

Arthur laughed, his hearty boom full of love. “It’s just like the ones you pull out of the garden, Sweet Pea!”

Alice shook her head, refusing to fall for his deception. “Nu-uh,” she said, “the ones in the garden aren’t food for the fishes!”

Arthur relented and hooked the worm himself, still chuckling. He knew it would get him nowhere to tell her that he had grabbed the worms from the garden that morning.

Meanwhile, Andrew was already casting, helping James as he struggled to remember how the reel worked.

Arthur took notice and came to his aid, quickly giving James a refresher. As the boys settled in to their spots on the shore, Arthur returned to your excited daughter. Arthur took her hands and placed them in the proper grip. He wrapped his arms around her and demonstrated the motion, and you reveled in the intensity in her expression as she focused deeply.

It was a rare sight to see her take anything so seriously, and it was absolutely adorable.

Together, they cast the hook into the river and waited. Arthur let go of her hands and instructed her to wait for a bite.

“How are you boys over there?” he called to his sons.

Andrew jumped at a tug on the end of his rod. He quickly jerked it back, hooking the fish at the other end.

“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, wild eyes turning back to his father.

“Well, bring it in!” Arthur cheered. You all watched as Andrew reeled in the fish, yanking and pulling as hard as he could.

“It’s a big one, Papa!” he grunted. “A real fighter!”

After what felt like hours to Andrew, but was only a few minutes, the line finally drew close enough to shore to grab. Arthur lunged for it, pulling it in and laughing.

Andrew had won a great fight against the catch of his life: a sopping wet leather boot.

Andrew frowned at the sight of it, dangling from his hook mockingly.

The rest of you couldn’t help but join in with Arthur, your laughter mingling with the sounds of the river. Arthur unhooked the boot and patted Andrew on the back, who was glaring at the thing.

“It’s a fine boot, son,” Arthur said, “but I’m not sure your Mama’s going to cook it up for dinner.”

He tossed the boot to the side and patted Andrew on the back. His worm had been lost in the process, and he reached out to ask Arthur for another.

“Tell ya' what,” Arthur said, reaching into his satchel and rooting around for something. “I’ll let you in on a secret I was taught by an old friend.”

If Alice had been distraught by the worm, she might have fainted at the cricket that Arthur placed in Andrew’s hand.

“A cricket?” Andrew questioned, looking at Arthur disbelievingly.

“Sure!” Arthur drawled. “River fish eat ‘em right up.”

Still unsure, Andrew hooked the cricket and cast his line back out. While they waited, Arthur went back to check on Alice, who had abandoned her rod by the shore and was collecting river rocks.

“Sweet pea!” he called, his smile growing wide. “I ain’t sure you’ll catch anything this way.”

“Fishing is boring.” She said decidedly, turning back to her rock collecting.

Arthur laughed at that, booming brightly. “You know, your cousin Jack felt the same way.”

“You taught Jack to fish too?” Andrew asked. You were sure Andrew would suddenly aspire to be an avid fisher, with the way he idolized Jack and everything he did.

“Sure! Your mama and I took him down to the river when he was a boy, just like this.” he remembered fondly.

“Mama, you fished too?” Andrew asked, turning to where you were lounging on the blanket.

“Sure did. I’m good for much more than just mending holes in your shirt you know.” You teased, gesturing towards the shirt you were repairing.

“Of course you are,” he replied, “I just didn’t know you liked to fish too.”

“Knowing how to fish and liking fishing are two different things.” Arthur teased, winking at you. “I’ve made your mama do all kinds of things she ain’t liked.”

“What can I say, I’m more of a hunter.” You shrugged.

“Your Mama’s always been one for the chase.” Arthur smirked, his eyes darkening as his gaze wandered down your figure.

You rolled your eyes and scolded Arthur half-heartedly, trying to smother the chuckle that was threatening to give you away.

Suddenly, Andrew jerked his head towards his line. He cried out victoriously as the tip of his rod bobbed, giving a sharp tug to set the hook.

He reeled in as fast as he could, the excitement making him giddy. You watched on as he drew the line in, reaching for it once it was close enough to shore. He beamed triumphantly at the sight of an actual fish on the hook.

He proudly displayed his catch for everyone to see, with a grin as wide as his face and a brightness in his eyes that was contagious. You smiled as Arthur clapped him on the back, equally as proud of his son.

“Would ya’ look at that!” He chimed, reaching for the fish to remove the hook. “That’s quite the smallmouth, son.”

Andrew beamed up at his father. “Papa,” he said, his eyes wide in amazement. “I think you might be the greatest fisherman there is.”

Arthur laughed and handed Andrew his catch. “I ain’t no such thing,” he protested, “your grandpa Hosea now, he was quite the fisherman. The stories he could have told you!” Arthur reminisced, his gaze far away.

Your smile turned slightly sad at the mention of Hosea. You remembered the stories he would tell of the great beasts tamed by his rod, always expectantly over the top. You felt such sorrow at the reminder that he never lived to see his grandchildren, that they would never know what an incredible man he was.

Another tragic casualty of the gang’s decline.

Arthur noticed your shift, his own mourning tugging at the edges of his heart. You looked to one another, remembering fondly but sadly.

Arthur turned back to Andrew, forcing his smile to return. He reached back into his satchel and handed him another cricket.

After a few more hours by the river, you all loaded back up on the horses and started your journey home with a great bushel of fish to be salted. The warmth of the sun and the fresh air had thoroughly tuckered everyone out. As you guided your horses back up the mountain trail, you knew you would have no trouble getting the children to bed that night.

You looked to where Arthur rode alongside Alice, who sat happily atop her pony. He reached to adjust the tether and whispered something to her that sent her into a fit of giggles. The sun was setting behind him, casting a brilliant array of colours across the sky. You were struck by how handsome he was, and you couldn’t help yourself from taking a moment to appreciate his silhouette.

In moments like these, it was hard to feel anything but overwhelming love for your wonderful little life tucked away on the mountainside.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila II

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila II: A Path Laid Clear

The gang regroups at Owanjila - but recollecting themselves after the abject failure of Blackwater is more challenging than first perceived.

CW: Injuries, death, traumatic stress, panic attacks

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Smoke curls upward through the pines, wafting away into the morning breeze as if it never existed. He blows another cloud of smoke skyward, sighing as he glances through the branches overlooking the small glen, its disturbed dirt obvious on the hillside.

Lenny sits on the ground, back against the trunk of a pine tree, an empty bottle hangs limply in his hand. He stares at the dirt - far too recently dug and far too much resembling the shape of a body. His eyes, bloodshot, seem far away from this place - distant in their muteness, their sadness, their grief.

“She was a sweet girl.” Arthur’s low timbre rumbles.

Lenny doesn’t respond, his eyes still trained on the ground.

“They’re makin’ a tombstone back at the camp for ‘er.”

The boy nods slowly, and Arthur rubs his forehead beneath the brim of his hat before plucking the cigarette from his lips and tossing it to his feet, where he crushes it underneath his boot.

“C’mon kid. Ain’t gonna do you no good to be drinkin’ yourself into the ground next to ‘er.” Arthur steps closer, holding out his hand for Lenny to take. Lenny takes it, and Arthur pulls him to stand, he stumbles slightly, but regains his balance within a step. He drops the empty whiskey bottle to the ground, it rolls a few feet downhill. 

Lenny sighs, his shoulders falling. “Didn’t even tell her how sweet I was on her.”

Arthur nods, staring at the dirt - the pile of earth that was all that was left of Jenny Kirk. Poor girl. So full of energy and life and spark. She died as the camp was moving north, bleeding out in the back of a wagon.

He sighs, placing his hand on Lenny’s shoulder. “C’mon now.”

Lenny nods, sadly, looking back over to the earthen grave for a moment before turning away and silently following Arthur back toward the camp.

-

“There’s nothing I can do for him.” You sigh, looking at the ground. Susan Grimshaw frowns, but places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“I know, Missus Shaw. Best we can do is make him comfortable.” She says without a hint of the sharpness her voice usually has.

The two of you stand just outside the tent erected as a makeshift sick bay, and since you’ve arrived atop Arthur’s stolen horse, you’ve been assisting Susan and Abigail in changing bandages, cleaning wounds, and salving burns. While most people were able to escape Blackwater with minor injuries, Davey lay in a cot with a raging fever, having taken a shot to the gut that had become infected over the two days since the failed heist.

You rub at your eyes tiredly before ducking back into the tent, where Abigail grimaces as she pulls back the stained linen bandage over his stomach, wet with a clear sheen, his skin reddening in deathly spiderwebs from the wound. Davey winces at the movement, groaning out in pain, his fingers clutching at the side of the cot. 

“Ruth, go get the Reverend. At this point, we just need to ease his pain. I’m sure the man has some morphine on him.” Miss Grimshaw moves past you in the tent, taking a linen cloth from the small tin bucket on the side table, wringing it out, and placing it gently on the man’s forehead as he moans.

You nod, exiting the tent. Surveying the campsite on the hill of the large lake, you wince slightly as a pain shoots up your side. Ever since you and Arthur were thrown from Boadicea three days ago, the pain and aches in your side have only grown. But you don’t have the luxury of slowing down. Not amongst this group. Not when people were injured and dying… not when you’ve sold a fair part of your usefulness on your small medical repertoire.

Off a ways from the tent, you see the hob-knob lean-to where some of the men have taken up - usually where the old man only known as Uncle was, Reverend Swanson was not far behind, the two of them usually holed up with bottles of hooch getting blitzed while the sun was shining.

Speaking of which, you spy the old man sitting against a tree trunk. Your hurry in that direction.

“Uncle - do you know-” You step toward him.

“Why, if it ain’t the lovely Missus Shaw. Want to join me for a drink? The hooch is miiighty fine this morning!” Uncle shakes a half-empty bottle at you as he reclines against a tree trunk.

“No- no thank you. Do you know where Reverend Swanson is?”

Uncle snorts, rolling his eyes, he points the bottle towards the lean-to, where you look in and see a pair of feet just within the shade of the tent. You step over Uncle’s outstretched legs, sighing, and move over toward the tent.

“Reverend?”

You’re met with no response.

“Reverend.” A little louder. A little sterner. Your patience is growing thin.

“Wha- wha d’ya wan-?” Swanson slurs from within the tent, making no hints of moving.

You stoop down on your knees at the opening of the tent, a lance of pain going up your side, and you swear under your breath. 

“Do - do you have any morphine on you, Reverend Swanson?”

Swanson looks at you with a suspicious air around him. You can tell he’s intoxicated - but he is certainly still functioning, sitting up within the canvas.

“No, Missus Shaw. I do not.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you as he moves to crawl out of his tent and stand. 

Cursing under your breath again, you stand up as the Reverend crosses his arms.

“Reverend please, it’s to ease the man’s pain before he passes-”

“It don’t matter no more, Ruth.” 

You turn around to see Abigail walking toward you, she stops when she sees that she has your attention, “Davey’s dead.”

You sigh, running your hands down your face. You step over Uncle’s splayed leg, joining Abigail on the walk back to the sick tent. As the two of you approach, Grimshaw exits the tent, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“I’ll go tell Dutch. You girls go on and clean up. I’m sure he’ll have the Reverend bury the body.”

Abigail sternly nods, turning to you, “Do you mind beginning? I need to check on Jack. Feel bad that Hosea’s been stuck with him the whole time.”

“Of course, go ahead.” You say as Abigail touches your arm in thanks, and you duck under the canvas of the sick tent once more, the air heavy with the stench of death.

You sigh and begin collecting used supplies - linen bandages, empty bottles of tonic - and tossing them into a pile at the end of the bed. Several minutes go by and Abigail and Susan wordlessly join you, the matriarch of the group rebuttoning the shirt on Davey’s cooling body and pulling the blanket from the cot. Outside the tent, people start to gather, the word traveling fast in this campsite on the hill.

Dutch pulls the hat from his head, closing his eyes and setting his jaw. He turns to see who has gathered here: several of the men, nearly all of the women. His eyes settle on Swanson, who has stumbled his way over to the group.

“Reverend. Bury Davey. Somewhere the sun’ll shine on him. Bill, Javier - assist the Reverend on this.”

Nods and grunts of affirmation are met in return, and Dutch surveys the group - outlaws and thieves, brigands and highwayman - these people, living on the fringes of a society that doesn’t accept them - scorns them even - they look worn down, beaten, scared.

“Look, I - I know it's been hard. Lord, do I know that. But we’ve been in these rough spots before. We’ve lost good men,” Dutch looks at the women on the periphery of the group, “and women, but that can’t mean that we stop. If we stop livin’ the way we do, that means the forces that want us dead-” He pauses, looking at the group and all of the sets of eyes upon him.

“That means they’ve won. And we will not let them win. We won’t let them take our freedom, or our dreams, faith, ideas. We won’t let them take any of it. We do the taking.”

There are a few rumbles of agreement at the end of his speech, and Dutch breathes out heavily. He nods his head back toward the tent, and the three men he addressed earlier step inside.

Dutch sighs, rubbing at his temples as Bill and Javier carry Davey’s body from the tent, wrapped in linen sheets, with a suddenly sobered Swanson following behind them. The Reverend paces toward one of the wagons, grabbing a shovel from it and quickly following the two men as they take the body away from camp.

The silence is nearly deafening. 

Arthur slowly makes his way toward Dutch, standing at the entrance of the medical tent. The older man glances inside at the empty cot, while you and Susan and Abigail move about the tent, pulling together soiled linen, and medical supplies, and clearing the space for its next occupant, with the way things were going, someone was bound to end up there soon.

“So... Do you think it was a trap? In Blackwater?” Arthur asks as he runs his hand down his beard, taming errant stray hairs as he lines his jaw. He stares down at the ground, his eye on a rock under his boot that he kicks at absentmindedly.

“That many men? Oh, they knew we were coming. Goddamn Pinkertons. Blackwater was overrun with those prim-suited bastards.” Dutch sneers as he stares ahead, his knuckles popping as his hands pressed together.

You freeze, in the middle of throwing dirty, bloody linen bandages into a bucket. Right outside the tent, you can hear the conversation between Arthur and Dutch, with the leader of the gang railing on about how the Pinkertons must have known about the ferry job, that someone slipped up, there were just too many of them.

“Ruth.” 

Grimshaw’s voice cuts through the stale air of the tent, and you shiver slightly, coming back to your senses. The woman holds out a stained bandage, waiting for you to take it.

“ ‘M sorry, Miss Grimshaw. Mind just went away for a second.” You mumble, taking the linen bandage and tossing it into the bucket at your side.

Her stern brow softens slightly. “Go on and get some air. Don’t think we have any more dirty linen to get rid of. Might as well burn it at the scout fire.” 

You nod, picking up the bucket and placing it on your hip. You wince as the pain in your side flares, hiding your discomfort from the women in the tent by turning around quickly, gritting your teeth against the groan welling up in your throat. 

Pushing through the flaps of the tent, you come face to face with Dutch, who looks over from gazing down the hillside to the lake. Arthur glances up also, before looking back down at the ground, placing one of his hands on the buckle of his gunbelt.

“Thank you for what you did for him, Missus Shaw.”

“It wasn’t much.” You mumble, unable to keep eye contact with the man. Your thoughts immediately return to what you heard the two men talking about - the Pinkertons in Blackwater. Dutch going on about how many Pinkertons were in Blackwater.

You walk past the two men, eyes on the ground, praying that they couldn’t tell there was a cold sweat breaking out at your temple, down your neck, down your back. You’re praying that they don’t ask you why you look pale - hoping that they think your demeanor has to do with the man who just died in front of you, rather than the truth.

The Pinkertons were in Blackwater for you.

And you didn’t say anything .

People are injured and missing and dead because you didn’t say anything .

All that’s left of sweet Jenny Kirk is under a pile of dirt on a hillside. Davey Callendar was about to be covered in cold dirt as well. Mac and Sean, who knows where they were or if they were even alive. John and Charles swathed in bandages.

You make it to the scout fire and Micah grumbles some off-handed greeting you refuse to respond to. Dumping the used linen on the fire, you watch as the flames slowly curl around the fabric as the pile begins to burn. You place the bucket on the ground and move to walk further away from the camp as your heart continues to race uncontrollably.

“Don’t go too far out there, Missus Shaw. Bears and wolves would love to eat somethin’ small and sweet as you.” Micah drawls with a mischievous glint in his eye.

If Dutch finds out you’re the reason that there were more lawmen in Blackwater during the heist and people died because of it…

You’d rather take your chances with the wild animals.

-

“What the hell happened out there?”

John lights a cigarette behind cupped hands and breathes out heavily, watching the smoke’s tendrils float between the needles of the pine he stood under.

“It… it went south. Dutch shot a girl… in a bad way. Then there were more damn Pinkertons there than…”

Abigail crosses her arms over her chest in exasperation, “Christ, we got Pinkertons after us?”

“Abigail. It's fine. We got away.” John replies, trying to calm the woman down before their conversation fell into the argument it was always bound to be.

“John-” Abigail sighs, rubbing her forehead, “We - we got more to think about than…”

A high, female cry breaks the hushed voices of John and Abigail, the former of whom grabs Abigail and quickly ushers her behind him, hand on his gun. He peers around, looking for the source of the noise. He and Abigail had purposefully stepped farther from camp, to keep the inevitable argument between themselves, for once. 

“There, shit!” Abigail curses, pointing over John’s shoulder, ducking out from behind him and running in the direction she pointed, further south on the hillside, toward where the lake edged the mountain cliffsides. 

“Abby-!” 

It was only a moment more until he saw what she was running toward, a figure leaning heavily against a tree, in obvious pain.

“Ruth!” Abigail calls out, coming steps closer.

“Hey - hey, what’s wrong, are you okay?” Abigail slowly edges toward you, hand timidly reaching out as if you were a skittish dear.

You pant, your breathing heavy as pain shoots through your side again. One of your hands, white-knuckled, grasps at the trunk of the tree to steady yourself. Tears stream from your eyes uncontrollably. Clutching at your ribcage, you moan, voice high in pain, sinking to collapse on the ground.

“Shit!” Abigail yelps, running the rest of the way over to you, falling to her knees next to your crumbled form. 

She presses on your side and your eyes fly open as you scream in agony. 

“John, John, get over here!” Abigail turns back toward where she and John had been arguing, and for once, the petulant man did not put up a fight, striding quickly over to the two women on the ground.

“We gotta take her back to camp-” Abigail brushes tendrils of your hair off your pallid and sweaty forehead, “Ruth, honey, can you walk?”

Your teeth and eyes are clenched as you try to stifle the sounds escaping your throat. Abigail looks expectantly, pleadingly up at John.  John rolls his eyes back at her but pulls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows before stooping down on one knee.

“Alright - c’mon, up you go.”

John winds his arms beneath your knees and behind your back, heaving you up into his arms as he stands. The jostling movement smacks your ribcage against his sternum, and you swear in a cracked voice.

“John!” Abigail yells at him at your gasp of pain.

“Woman, ain’t no way to do this that ain’t gonna hurt her.” John retorts, starting to walk back toward the camp. 

Abigail follows John’s fast steps, her skirts hitched in one hand as they burst into camp.

“Grimshaw!” John yells out, stalking toward the tent with all the medical supplies. Christ, Davey's body was probably still warm in the ground, having so recently vacated the tent.

Tears continue to roll down your cheeks as John tries to jostle you the least amount possible, but his efforts are in vain as you whimper, each step jolting through your side.

John ducks into the shed, with Susan quickly following, tuttering like a mother hen. 

“There - on the cot, yes, gently, please, Mister Marston.” Grimshaw moves around John quickly, guiding him to lay you on the cot. He does, unlacing

“Thank you, we will take care of her.” Grimshaw nods, moving to grab at the bottles of tonic on the table.

John simply grunts in reply, moving to leave the tent. As he dips to step out, he comes face to face with the mother of his child, his one-time paramour.

“Thanks, John,” Abigail says lowly, eyes darting past him to where you lay on the cot. She looks back up to him, guiltily, “I’m… I’m glad you’re alright after Blackwater.” Without waiting for a reply, she pushes forward, into the tent, to assist Miss Grimshaw.

It's in a near whisper, and he almost has to strain to hear it. Bewildered, he looks back at her figure, eyes remaining on her a second longer than he knows they should have. 

John leaves the tent and nearly stumbles into the towering frame of his adoptive older brother, built like a brick house. Under his black hat, his mouth is pulled in a tight line.

Arthur narrows his eyes, “Marston.”

John does not feel like having one of Arthur’s ‘talking downs’ now. He steps past the older man, “Morgan.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Arthur nods toward the medical tent.

“Could be dyin’ for all I know. You’re the one who’s been around her the most.” John retorts, not turning around as he moves further away.

Arthur turns and stares at the flap of the tent, and the canvas shifts ever so slightly in the breeze.

-

“Ruth, dear, Ruth, what’s wrong, what happened?” Miss Grimshaw asks, trying to get you to calm down, stifled sobs wracking your small frame.

She looks up at Abigail, “What happened to the girl?”

Abigail shakes her head, “I don’t know…”

Grimshaw shakes her head, “Well - come on now, looks like somethin’ on her side.” She waves her hand toward you and where you squirm in the cot.

Abigail stoops down on her knees next to the cot and sighs as she reaches toward your torso. You groan and try to squirm away from her hand as she grasps at your shirt.

“Ain’t no time for bein’ embarrassed,” Abigail mutters as she begins to unbutton your shirt, your chemise becoming more and more uncovered. You are in so much pain at this point you can barely do anything but whimper with eyes squeezed shut as the woman above you starts pulling on the fabric of your chemise, untucking it from your skirts and pushing it up your torso.

“Jesus Christ…” Abigail mumbles, then turns her head toward Susan.

“Wha-” You gasp as she presses her hand against your ribcage, and pain sears up and down your side.

Miss Grimshaw quickly peers over Abigail’s shoulder. “God - how did that happen?”

“Wha-“ You grimace again, “What is it?”

“You definitely have some broken ribs there, Ruth. Your whole damn side is one ugly-lookin’ bruise.” Abigail says, quite manner-of-factly.

You suck air in through your teeth as another deluge of tears spills from your eyes.

Grimshaw frowns. “Let me get her something, poor girl.”

The older woman leaves the tent for only a few minutes, coming back with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and a dirty glass. Abigail stands from where she was kneeling next to the cot, her lips drawing into a tight line. She turns and storms out of the tent, narrowing her eyes when she finds the target of her ire lurking a few steps away.

“Arthur!” She yells, stomping toward him, catching him off guard as he smokes a cigarette. She reaches him and stands right up in his personal space, completely unfazed by how foreboding and fearsome the gunslinger looks.

“The hell you let happen to her?” Abigail sticks her finger in Arthur’s face accusingly, “The poor woman’s probably got broken ribs and her whole damn side is one big’ ol bruise.”

Arthur pushes her hand away and scowls. “I didn’t do anythin’ to the woman. Probably got it when we were bucked when Boadicea got shot.”

Abigail’s furrowed brows soften at the revelation, but the glower remains as she breathes loudly through her nose before stomping back into the tent.

Arthur steps closer to the medical tent and can hear your soft crying from within as Abigail murmurs something. Grimshaw exits through the canvas flap, holding a now-empty bottle of whiskey. Her sternly-set eyebrows do not falter as she takes Arthur in.

“She should be fine. Surprised she was walking around with injuries like that. A week or two of rest and she’ll be back to herself. Y’dont need to worry bout her.” Susan remarks, moving past Arthur.

“I ain’t wo-”

“Mister Morgan, you best remember I’ve known you since you were a boy. You’re an excellent shot, but I know you’re a terrible liar.”

Arthur glances back at the tent as Miss Grimshaw walks toward the center of camp and Pearson’s wagon.

Through the barely open canvas flaps, he can see your still form laying in the cot - the cot so recently occupied by people who were now dead.

-

A few weeks later…

-

“Ginseng, actually. I know it's not the most delicious of brews, but it certainly helps.”

You sit on a folding chair in the shade - your side still giving you some pain, but time to rest had made it more bearable. Hosea took it on himself to be your nursemaid - though more time was spent retailing tales of old days than anything else.

You thank him quietly, reaching for the cup that he holds out to you. A murky liquid swirls in it, unappetizing to say the least.

The sound of horses' hooves breaks through the quiet of the afternoon. A few hoots and hollers, and from the north, the men who had left before the sunrise burst back into the camp, Dutch leading the crew atop his snow-white stallion. Arthur and Javier, Bill, Lenny, and Micah all thunder back into the camp. 

Hosea glances back to you, handing you the cup he was holding. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear - I’ll be back.”

You nod, taking the cup and sipping at it slowly. As Hosea walks away, you cringe at the bracing drink, close to spitting it out.

The elder outlaw continues down the hillside, where the men and horses have gathered from their outing. Hosea adjusts the brim of his hat against the sun.

“I’m guessin’ by the mood you were successful?” He asks Dutch as the leader swings down from his mount.

“Successful, old girl?” Dutch chuckles, “I would say more than that. That ranch on the way to the train station? It was an O’Driscoll camp.”

Hosea frowns. “Colm’s that close?”

“Not anymore he ain’t.” Bill sidles up with a grin, “Arthur over here was able to nab one, some lilly-lickin’ fool.”

As if on cue, Arthur grunts as he walks by, a bound and gagged man over his shoulder. He tosses him to the ground as if he were a heap of refuge. The man rolls over onto his back, his eyes wide and fearful. 

“Eh, looks like Colm’ll take just about anyone these days.” Hosea looks over the man with disdain.

Dutch claps Hosea’s back, “Indeed he does. Has a lot less now,” He turns to Bill, “Mister Williamson, go on and show our guest how hospitable we are to O’Driscolls.”

Bill smiles with a heinous gleam in his eye, He yanks the man up from the ground where Arthur dumped him, and starts dragging him away. 

“Dutch, should offer the little widow a shot at ‘im too - considerin’ was O’Driscolls who killed her husband.” Bill guffaws as he drags the captive toward a tree on the edge of the campsite.

“Any other ill-gotten gains from your venture?”

Dutch smiles, staring at the ground, “Ruining Colm’s day is always a gain in my book. But yes - supplies, and a lead on a job that Colm was planning in two weeks.” 

“Job?”

“Train robbery.” Arthur wipes a bit of dust from his brown leather jacket sleeve.

“Oh,” Hosea laughs, “Back to those again? Haven’t done one of those in a while.”

“Back to our roots - a return to simplicity,” Dutch says as he turns, a wide grin gracing his face. It had been far too long since Hosea had seen Dutch in such spirits - before Blackwater even. The raiding group goes their separate ways as the excitement from before dies down. Hosea looks back up the hill, where you still sit in your seat, watching the blue waters of the lake below. 

Hosea returns to his seat, the folding chair next to yours under the bower of mountain pines. He peers into the cup you hold, still quite full.

“Ah - I see you’re not a fan of the brew.”

You try to keep the smile on your face as you hand the cup back to him, a blush overtaking your features.

“I’m sorry-”

Hosea laughs, shaking his head as he sits down, placing the cup on the ground. 

“Missus Shaw.” 

You look up, shielding your eyes from the sun, squinting before a large shadow blocks out the sun.

“Mister Morgan.” You say, with a smile, “Looks like y’all were busy.”

Arthur lowers his head, his face obscured by the rim of his old leather hat. He places his hands on his gun belt and sways ever so slightly.

“Was, uh, wonderin’, y’know, after that whole run-in with the law on the road…”

He trails off. Hosea raises his eyebrow amusedly.

“Well,” Arthur waves one of his hands in the air, “If you’re up to it at some point, maybe I could, uh, teach you how to shoot.”

You snort, “Mister Morgan, are you saying my aim was that bad?”

“Well, I’m sayin’ you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

Hosea guffaws in his seat as you wrinkle your forehead in mock irritation.  You look at Hosea before looking back at Arthur, who looks extremely uncomfortable.

“Alright, Mister Morgan. I’ll take you up on that sometime.”

Arthur nods his head, taking his leave, “Ma’am.”

You watch his retreating figure. Hosea lights a cigarette and smiles.

-

“What are you doin’?” A small voice interrupts the methodic cleaning of the revolver set on the table in front of him.

John looks up, and frowns, making eye contact with the child across from him. A child with wild brown hair and his dark eyes.

“Cleanin’ my gun.”

“Are you almost done?”

John sighs loudly, placing the revolver on the table. He rolls his eyes toward the sky before they land again on the boy, who stands patiently waiting for attention. Not that he wants to be outwardly mean to the child, but he knows that what the boy is looking for is something he isn’t willing to give.

He looks back at the gun.

“Go on, I’m sure your mother is lookin’ for you,” John says, not looking up at Jack as he feeds bullets into the cylinder’s empty chambers.

“But Pa-” Jack pipes up, his small hands reaching toward John.

“Don’t… don’t call me that,” John says lowly, his hand letting go of his gun and taking the boy’s, gently pushing him back.

The poor kid looks like he wants to cry.

Christ, he didn’t ask for any of this. Why was Abigail so damn obstinate? Why did she keep the damn baby? Was the boy even his? Abigail was visited by most men in the camp…

John Marston didn’t know who he was kidding. Himself, perhaps, he was trying. Everyone, including him, knew the boy was his. Everyone knew that he was chasing Abigail’s skirts like a madman for a while there - they were obnoxious , according to Hosea, rutting like rabbits. Anywhere and everywhere he could get his hands on her, he had her.

Something about those sultry eyes of hers, the way her hair fell around her face when he pulled the ribbon holding her bun in place. Christ, the way she moaned his name when he slid into her….

John kicks at the ground angrily. It’s been years, at this point, since they’ve touched one another. A few times after the boy was born, once she had healed from the birth - but once he left when the suffocating reality of being a father settled in - that was the last time she looked at him with anything other than derision. 

Whatever. 

John Marston could get his dick wet if he wanted to. Wasn’t anything stopping him. Abigail sure wasn’t. They weren’t together - the extent of their togetherness at this point was the five year old boy standing in front of him.

Jack frowns, turning around and pacing away slowly, his shoulders slumped. John looks back to his revolver, spinning the cylinder to the last empty chamber, shoving a bullet in it before spinning it and locking it shut.

“C’mere, kid. How’s about we go see the new horse, huh?”

John glances over his shoulder. In the periphery of his vision, he can see Arthur Morgan leaning over, his hands on his knees, talking to Jack at the boy’s level. The boy’s shoulders raise, and he happily follows Arthur away, giddily talking up to the gunslinger.

Marston glares at the retreating figures through the strands of his long hair. The smoldering flame of frustration in his gut flares up, and he can barely hold back a snarl as he shoves his revolver into his gunbelt. 

Would probably be better for everyone if Jack was Arthur’s son. He’s much more adept at dealing with him - John knew Arthur had a son years ago, before Jack was born, but that the boy and his mother died in a robbery. 

But again, the flare of anger roils in his gut when he thinks of Abigail cozying up to Arthur and being one stupid, happy family together.

He paces toward Dutch’s large tent on the hillside, high above Owanjila. Dutch sits at the mouth of the tent, across from Hosea.

“I heard talk in Strawberry ‘bout a ranch up north in the Grizzlies. Think I’m gonna head up there to check it out.” John rasps, the char from the cigarette he just finished making his voice hoarse.

Dutch nods, not looking up from his book. He takes the cigar from his mouth and snubs the edge into the plate on the side table next to him. Hosea, sitting on a folding chair opposite Dutch, looks John up and down before giving him a wry grin. 

“Be sure you bring your coat, boy. This time of year that area can still get snow.”

John rolls his eyes as he leaves, stalking toward the horses.

[revolversandlace]

Blemished Silk | Chapter Fifteen - Pouring Forth Oil

Chapter Index

Arthur Morgan x f!OC Longfic

Mature Rating - 2k Words

Chapter Tags & Warnings: Arthur POV, Canon Divergence, Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Alcohol Misuse

Summary: Arthur takes some time to unwind in the saloon

Scarlett Meadows, April 1899 

‘Never a smile wit you, is there, Englishman?’ Sean laughed as Arthur tightened the saddle bag on Montague.

‘Ain’t got much to smile about,’ Arthur returned without looking at the kid.

‘Come now, Art’ur. We got the money, certainly all the excitement!’

Arthur remained silent. The robbery was a success, Cornwalls men aside, but rich folk or not, he never really did enjoy beating them senseless for a few jewels.

‘Tell Dutch I’m heading into Valentine,’ he said eventually, hooking his foot into the stirrup and he threw his leg over the horse.

He kicked the horse into a canter as Sean called after him. With some nonsense, no doubt. The trees gave way to the open country as the sun was slowly climbing into the sky. Finding what peace he could, Arthur took in all the sights of the land. The first rays of the sun rose over the treetops and bathed the fields in glorious sunlight. The morning mist had begun to clear away, and the birds were starting to sing again after their nightly serenade of silence.

He took his time, taking the longest route to the town that he knew and by the time he arrived in the Valentine, it was closing in on midday.

The town was busier than usual, with a large influx of workers pouring in from the surrounding farms, no doubt for their lunchtime drink. Making his way through the crowd, Arthur walked into the saloon, a liveliness already enveloping the patrons.

Arthur took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey before lighting a smoke. The barman seemed in no mood to serve anyone and only grudgingly took his money as he shoved a dirty glass towards Arthur, filling it with the brown liquid.

Arthur nursed his drink, watching everyone pass by, unsure whether it was the boredom or the risk of him being recognised that kept him looking. Eventually, though, his mind wandered, as it often did. The gang were in a bad way. He felt they had lost direction and lost purpose. There was always another job to be had, one more damn carrot to chase; the only problem was, none of those carrots ever led anywhere new, just old ground covered with dead bodies and dried blood.

Arthur’s gaze fell upon the girl sitting near him, her dark hair cascading onto her shoulders. He noticed her looking at him since he arrived, and now she had clearly found her prey.

‘Drinking alone there, mister?’ She said, her voice silky as she waltzed towards him.

‘I am. If it’s all the same to you, miss,’ Arthur said, tugging at the brim of his hat, ‘I’d like to keep it that way.’

He’d be lying if he said she wasn’t a nice thing to look at. The good ones always were, but they were the type of girls that you could make a man part with a week’s wages from a single smile. Arthur was too long in the tooth for those sorts of ventures, no matter how shiny the veneer was.

She smiled seductively at him, pushing back her hair.

‘Must be some way I can convince you, cowboy,’ she giggled, flicking her fingers across his hand.

The gesture caught him off guard, and he flinched involuntarily, pulling away his hand.

‘Like I said, ma’am,’ Arthur said, his lips pressed into a firm line, ‘you take care of yourself now. There’s a lot of nasty folk out there.’

He gave a short nod and turned back to his drink, hoping to put the whole affair out of his mind. As he drank his whiskey, trying to drown his conscience, he began to wonder just how many men had been tricked like that? More than most, he hazard a guess.

The moments crawled by and, for the most part, he was left in the solitude that he craved. His thoughts rotated like a carousel, between Dutch, Cornwall and now this task of supervising Trelawnys’ rich niece. But where Dutch told him to go, he went. It seemed there were very few left to say no to him these days.

At least, it would be a job that he hoped would be over soon enough and give them a decent financial foundation. Arthur supposed it could have been worse. She seemed pleasant enough, with all the spoiled and demanding attitudes he expected of someone of her station. His thoughts grew more curious as he wondered why Trelawny had never discussed this access to wealth, he hardly seemed the fatherly type.

Yet there was something about that Miss Edwards, her forthrightness and complete lack of showmanship he would expect from a relative from Josiah.

Hosea certainly seemed to be quite taken with the woman, commenting once or twice on her candour of their trip back from the estate a few days prior. He held a certain admiration in his voice when he spoke of her, but Hosea always did like the pretty women who could talk back to him.

He frowned, his brow furrowed as he tried to figure out why he was even thinking about her so much. It was probably the whiskey, or maybe it was simply that he had been gone for so long and was feeling particularly lonely. Whatever the reason, he tried to not dwell on it, or her too much.

However, a feeling crept over him, like he was missing something. Pieces of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Not that it was any of his business, anyway. He was there to do a job and collect a paycheck, but Arthur’s gut rarely lied to him.

Finishing his drink, he gestured for the barman, who gave a grunt of disinterest as his glass was filled once more. Arthur paid and turned to leave for one of the booths for some privacy and to clear his thoughts with the help of his journal.

The whiskey went down quicker this time, as it wasn’t long before he found himself back and the bar for another, and then another. His journal did little to quell his thoughts as the amount of times he opened and closed the damn thing, he couldn’t say. By the time he stood with a slight sway to retrieve his fifth drink, he was stopped in his tracks when he saw that same sporting girl from before walking toward him.

She wore an expression of curiosity as she walked over to him, her hips swaying as she walked in a slow and provocative way that only a woman could achieve.

Thankfully, she didn’t accost him this time around, but the alcohol that swirled in his blood told him he wanted her to.

You’re a damn old fool, Morgan, he thought to himself as he lit his cigarette, the only women who want you and the ones you have to pay for.

He snorted into his drink, gulping deeply, and the stale taste of alcohol and cigarettes filled him.

It wasn’t long, however, until he was joined again by the woman with dark hair.

‘You sure do look lonely, cowboy,’ she said in a low tone, as she took to the stool next to him. She toyed with a rogue curl, wrapping it slowly around her finger and gave him another of her suggestive smiles.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, wanting nothing more than to escape from this place and her smile, that seemed to invite more than just companionship. An invitation of five minutes of happiness and an empty coin purse.

‘I don’t think you care all about that,’ she said with a wry smile as her thigh glissaded against his.

‘Nah,’ Arthur said with a slight slur, ‘I don’t suppose I do.’ He took to his drink again, finishing the remainders and beckoning for another.

She grinned at him as he drank. The light from the bar reflected off of her, as Arthur resisted the very visible swell of her breast pushed high past her corset.

‘I have something else that will make you feel better,’ she said coyly, as Arthur tried not to stare, both his patience and resistance waning.

Maybe it would make him feel better. He was always being told to lighten up, to not take things so seriously. It seemed to work well for all the other fools at camp.

‘Lead the way,’ he grumbled, as she stood, taking his hand as she walked upstairs.

She led him into one of the rooms in the building, a red light cast against the walls. Arthur felt himself beginning to get drunker by the second as she guided him to the bed, standing before him.

‘Take off your clothes,’ she commanded with a leer, and Arthur’s head began to swim. He couldn’t see anything else about her other than she was pretty, and he was drunk.

He shrugged out of his jacket as she removed her shawl and stepped out of her skirt. A smirk played on her lips as she licked them, her hair trickling in long, dark curls around her. Arthur was starting to understand why the others would frequent the girls so often.

She found her way to him, standing over his lap as she pushed him gently to the bed, her small, soft hands caressed his chest as she straddled him, biting at her lip.

‘Please,’ she murmured as his head grew heavy, his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment, ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day.’

Arthur grabbed at her hips as a small moan escaped her. He could feel himself growing hard as she gently writhed on top of him.

‘You can have me,’ she said in a seductive whisper as she stroked his face and ran her fingers through his hair.

But it wasn’t enough. The fog of his beastly urges waned as he tapped on the side of her leg, moving her off.

‘How much do you want?’ He said, although not unkindly.

‘Pardon?’ she said, her wide eyes searching him.

‘It ain’t you, darlin’,’ Arthur said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, passing her a twenty-dollar bill.

‘I sure don’t charge that much, mister,’ she said, but took the bill without much argument.

‘I would have been happy to do it for free,’ she laughed softly with a sad smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

‘Sure,’ Arthur mumbled, taking his jacket. ‘It’s all for free until I’m asleep and you rob me blind.’

She blinked at him, enough of a confirmation for all he needed to know. He couldn’t believe he was foolish enough to even think any of this was a good idea.

‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ he said, leaving the room and the woman behind.

He made his way downstairs in some haste, breaking free again into the outside world, his head spinning far too much for what it should be for the afternoon.

He stumbled and swayed along the way back to camp as he tried to shake off his inebriated state, cursing himself for ever allowing this to happen. His body was so much different than his mind and while he was in no doubt he would have got his money’s worth, it wasn’t the way he liked to court women. It made them feel cheap, hell, it made him feel cheap.

Not that any woman would take him for him alone. Mary certainly didn’t and Eliza... Well, that didn’t even bear thinking about.

Without much command, Montague led Arthur back to camp, knowing that his owner was in no fit state to be taken anywhere else. 

The whiskey churned in his stomach as he leapt from the horse with no grace. Dutch was already storming towards him.

‘I hope you haven’t been causing any trouble,’ Dutch said, his eyes narrow as Arthur stumbled slightly towards the heart of the camp. 

‘Me, Dutch? Never,’ Arthur replied with an indignant snort. 

‘Good. We’re heading into a new town tomorrow. Rhodes.’ The gang leader said as Arthur removed his hat, shaking out his hair. 

‘Sure thing,’ he said, as the older man walked off, eyeing him suspiciously.

Arthur sat at the table, his head in his hands as the late afternoon sun bathed him in its welcoming warmth, wrapping him in a sarcophagus of comfort. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before Arthur was asleep.