#the other Cornwall Gang

[poparthuriana]

Cador’s Cornwall Gang: Aalardin du Lac, Cador, Caradoc Briefbras, Guinier/Tegau, and the Maiden of the Pavilion

Lancelot Stans: Bellangere, Blamore, Bliant, Blioberis, Bors, Ector de Maris, Lavaine, Lionel, Palamedes, Safir, and Urre of Hungary

Werewolves Anonymous: Alastrann, Bisclavret, Gorlagon, Marrok, and Melion

[oceantornadoo]

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

masterlist | next

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 VIII

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 VIII: The Noble Heart of an Outlaw

The gang needs to relocate - leaving Owanjila proves to be a turning point, back east, back to the Dakota, back toward Limpany.

CW: masturbation, voyeurism, violence against women, injuries, death

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“No, no, it’s a step here, yes, Güera, there you go-”

Javier is the world’s most patient instructor, with you having stepped on his boot an uncountable number of times. But dismayed he is not, keeping one arm on your waist and holding your other hand. You blow upward at your hair that has fallen over your eyes, but laugh as Javier smiles and tries to lead you into the steps once again.

“And uno-dos, uno-dos- alright now, you’re getting it now!” He laughs as you make it through an entire set of steps without stepping on his boot once. Next to the campfire, he hums the tune of a song long lost to his homeland, “And - aqui-!” He dips you down, and you squeal in delight and surprise.

“Arthur.”

Arthur Morgan is drawn out of his darkening thoughts as Dutch smacks his shoulder. He had been staring into the fire, its orange tongue reaching up and out from its heart. He had been trying to ignore Javier and you dancing next to the campfire as the evening dusk settled in on the horizon. 

Grinding his teeth for a moment, he sniffs and then spits on the ground before following Dutch back toward his large tent. 

“You said you found somethin’ other than Strauss’s debtor out there?” Dutch looks over his shoulder, cracking his knuckles before spinning the large ring on his pinky. Arthur grunts and gruffly shoves his hand into his satchel, and the tell-tale sound of 

Dutch unfolds the paper, looking at it for a moment before snorting. He leafs through the second, third, and fourth - until he looks at each one of the crinkled posters. Dutch van der Linde, leader of a gang with thousands of dollars of bounties over three different states, looks up at his enforcer with a glint of satisfaction in his eye before folding the papers in half and tossing them on the card table amongst his accouterments.

Arthur purses his lips, “Much as I wanna ignore ‘em, Ruth found ‘em in Strawberry. That’s awful close. We’re still awful close to Blackwater and all that heat.”

“Old girl - take a look at this, makin’ Arthur here look like a real outlaw.” Dutch points at the papers as Hosea clears his throat as the older man slowly walks up to the tent.

“A new wanted poster?” Hosea asks, reaching the table and taking a look a the papers, raising his eyebrows as he unfolds them each one by one, “Well damn. Where did these come from, Blackwater?

“Ruth found ‘em when we were in Strawberry.” Arthur nicks his jaw to the east, in the direction of the small mountain town.

Hosea frowns, refolding the papers and placing them face down on the table, “We need to move east, Dutch. Other side of Valentine.”

“East? Into all that - civilization?” Arthur hisses, agitated at the thought of encroaching woodlands and people.

“Well, we ain’t gonna get around Blackwater to go West. Hell, West Elizabeth is too hot. And you seen what Ambarino looks like - we ain't gonna get through them mountains and northwest. It's the only way.” Dutch states firmly - pointedly.

“I don’t like it either, but I think that’s our only option now. New Hanover is pretty big. Enough room for us to lie low.” Hosea adds in agreement with Dutch, his hand smoothing down his neck as he considers the lack of options.

Arthur sighs, clenching his fingers around his gunbelt. “Fine. Fine. When are we goin’?”

“I’m gonna send Charles and young Sean ahead to find a new spot tomorrow morning. I’ve heard talk of a few good areas. By the time we get the camp packed up and heading out, I’m sure they’ll have somewhere procured.” 

Hosea nods in agreement, and Arthur continues to look at his boots, a silent sign that he too is in lockstep with Dutch’s plan.

Dutch claps his hand on Hosea���s shoulder as he steps past his oldest comrade toward the campfire.

Lording over his kingdom, Dutch van der Linde gives his orders.

“In the morning, we move. Ain’t no need to do it now - everyone get some rest. Susan - at dawn you get this camp together.” Dutch booms over the gathering, closer to the main campfire.

Susan nods, looking over toward the men loitering, “Alright, you lazy bums, you heard the man. No getting drunk off your sorry asses tonight.”

You look up to Javier, who snorts lowly, “You heard the boss. Thank you, Güera. Told you I would get that dance out of you.”

You smile back at him and nod, giving him a faux curtsey as he laughs. You bid him goodnight and head in the other direction, making your way over to the women’s lean-to, where Mary Beth sits on her knees packing before she lies down for the night.

“I’m gonna go wash before tomorrow. I’m sure I won’t have any time in the morning.”

“Gonna be okay alone?” Mary Beth asks, looking up from packing her books into her small chest at the head of her bedroll.

“Sure, I’ll just be on the other side of those boulders. Moon is bright - ain’t nothing out there, I’ll be quick.” You smile down at her as you pull a clean chemise from your leather bag. “Be right back.”

Just far enough from camp to ensure your solitude, you lay your folded chemise on the flat surface of a rock along the lakeside. Leaning over, you unlace your boots, one after another, and place them neatly on the ground. You unbutton your vest, shrugging it down your arms, and that too gets folded on the large rock.

You unlace your skirt, shimmying it down your hips until it flutters to the mossy ground below. Finally, you unbutton your creamy blouse, laying it with your other clothes until you are clad only in your chemise and bloomers. Taking a deep breath, you begin to enter the water.

You grit your teeth against the shock of cold water against your feet, up your calves as you wade into the lake. Your chemise quickly gets waterlogged the further you move, bracing yourself as you move deeper into the dark water. Finally, you reach where the water is just above waist deep. Taking a deep breath, you dip down and fully submerge yourself underneath Owanjila’s surface, quiet as a grave in the night.

-

“Alright, well, we’ve got our marching orders. I’m going to turn in. Staying up later is for you younger men.” Hosea waves off at the two of them as he paces away from Dutch’s tent toward his own sleeping roll. Dutch and Arthur both mutter goodnight.

“We’ll be fine, Arthur. Have faith - I ain’t steered us wrong in the long arc.”  

“Always got faith in you, Dutch.” Arthur looks up his feet to meet his foster father’s gaze, he knows when Dutch is looking for the validation of Arthur’s loyalty, as if it would ever falter. Outside of Hosea, Arthur’s been beside Dutch the longest. There is a reason that he’s the enforcer of the gang - and it wasn’t just the fact that he could ensure compliance through physical means.

Dutch claps his hand heavily on Arthur’s shoulder. “Always gonna ride with you by my side, son.”

Arthur nods, closing his eyes as his chin drops.

“Night, Arthur,” Dutch says as he pulls the canvas closed. The last thing Arthur sees in the tent is the flash of Molly O’Shea’s red hair. Sighing, he rolls his head as he rambles over toward his own wagon but doesn’t stop at it, moving further into the wooded area along the lake’s shoreline. He scratches at his jaw as he stares at the ground, ducking between trees to get far enough from camp to relieve himself.

Arthur stops at a tree about ten feet back from the water and goes to lift the buckle of his gunbelt until he hears movement, probably just a deer. His hand hovers over his holster - more through muscle memory than anything else. He looks toward the lake, past the tree he stands behind.

It wasn't a deer.

It was you. You, half-submerged in the lake, a chemise plastered over your body, the wet cotton snug as a second skin.

Arthur shouldn't be looking, he shouldn't be leering. But he is somehow locked in place, his legs refusing to move as his fingers tighten on the bark of the tree he is hidden by. 

You turn back toward the shoreline and draw your hair into your hands, wringing water from it. Arthur’s breath hitches. Christ, in the light of the moon, he can see the water sluicing down your body. Your chemise hides nothing as you wade toward the shore.

He can see your pebbled nipples press against the wet cotton. The soft curve of your breasts. How your waist dips inward before flaring at your hips. How easily that creamy white fabric soaked through; he can see the shadowed triangle of dark hair at the jointure of your thighs.

You step further from the water, and Arthur holds his breath as you emerge. The chemise, threadbare and soaking. As you come to stand at the very edge of the lake, the gentle, clear waters still dripping down your body, you shiver slightly before padding over to your pile of clothes. 

Reaching downward, you grab the wet hem of your chemise and start to pull it upward - baring your knees - your thighs - your…

This - this was too much. He swallows and turns away, some sense of morality finally overpowering his need as he quickly paces up the hill, further into the trees. Arthur finally gets to what he came out this way for, lifting his gunbelt with one hand and unfastening his pants, drawing himself out and emptying his bladder against the tree.

Dirty old man…

The stream of urine peters off, but Arthur could curse himself as his cock is completely hard in his grip. He stares down at his pelvis after swallowing, his fingers now wrapped around his girth, pulsing with hot blood in his hand. He bites his lower lip as his thumb draws back his foreskin, the head of his cock slipping out, the last few drips from his bladder shining in the moonlight.

It's been so long since he’s done this - giving into these base urges. Arthur gives his shaft a slick pump and hisses near immediately at the reaction in his gut. A shiver went down his spine, the tightening of his testicles as they drew closer to his groin.

He braces his forearm against the tree trunk and leans his forehead upon it, the rim of his hat pushed back, completely subservient to his arousal. 

He pumps again and closes his eyes to the feeling. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, in that damn translucent chemise, the cool waters of Owanjila sluicing down your body. Your nipples are hard, pebbled, and visible against the fabric. The swell of your breasts, curves that his hands could engulf should he strip that fabric down. Your blonde hair; darkened, wet, and plastered against your back.

Arthur finds a rhythm, hard and fast and desperate; the night air is interrupted by the slick sound of skin on skin, the loud breathing through his nose, the jingle of his spurs as he spreads his legs further.

“C’mon now-” He grits as he pumps himself shamelessly.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter in conjunction with beating his cock. You’re there, standing, soaking wet, the fabric hiding nothing. Not the curve of your waist, the subtle flare of your hips. Not your soft belly, trailing downward to the triangular thatch of dark hair over your cunt, he could see that through the damn cotton. You might as well have been naked - 

Arthur grunts, his hips thrusting forward, biting down on his lower lip as spurts of his spend landing on the tree trunk, adorning the bark in stripes of white.

He lets out a long breath before tucking his softening cock away. Redoing his pants, guilt and shame bubble low in his gut. He tries to shake the image of your body in the lake from his mind. 

But much to his chagrin, it lingers.

-

Morning comes entirely too quickly. Susan’s shrill voice seems to echo off the hillside as she furiously packs up the camp - ordering items to be boxed, wagons to be loaded, loafing old men to get off their asses.

By midmorning, the ragtag group of outlaws has finished packing and sets on their way heading east - away from West Elizabeth and Blackwater. Skirting north of Strawberry, the gang heads toward New Hanover, and hopefully, more breathing room.

You sit patiently next to Hosea, who drives one of the full wagons, the two draft horses snorting as they pull the heavy load. The afternoon sun glints off the river at Cumberland Falls, where the wagons slow to cross the running water. You know where you are, realizing that the clear waters that the horses are muddying through is the Dakota.

That means the fork in the road you can see ahead leads east toward Valentine, and south toward…

“H-Hosea, can I ask a favor?” 

He places his hand on your knee reassuringly, “Of course, sweet girl.” 

You look at the road heading south, the rest of the wagon train taking the fork that leads east. You swallow, looking back to Hosea.

“I need to see it, It's south of here. Please, can you take me…- then, then we can meet back with the rest of the gang.”

“See what?” Hosea’s eyebrow raises, questioning, unsure of what you are referring to.

“My old home. It’s here, along the Dakota. Hosea, please-” You plead, your voice hoarse with the threat of oncoming tears.

Hosea swallows, looking over his shoulder, back to you, and over his shoulder again. He waves back to a rider, then pulls on the reins of the draft horses hard, bringing them and the large wagon to a halt on the road.

Arthur meanders next to the wagon, his mare heeling next to Hosea. “What’s this?”

“Arthur - take Missus Shaw down the road. She needs to get some closure. Meet back up with the rest of us.” Hosea motions to the southward road, away from the slow-moving wagon train.

Arthur frowns, runs his hand over his stubbled jaw, and nods begrudgingly without putting up further argument. He shifts restlessly on his mount, and the mare stomps her feet impatiently.

You take Hosea’s hand, holding it tightly as he assists you to climb over him and down the wagon, your boots squelching in the mud of the road as you land. You look up once more to the elder outlaw.

“You stay strong, dear girl.” Hosea leans over and cups your face, petting your cheek lightly as you swallow and nod up to him. The older man straightened up and cracked the reins of the draft horses, and with the creaking and groaning of wood, the wagon started lumbering down the road again.

You turn toward your companion, saddled high on his Kentucky Saddler, and blow a breath out your nose as you reach up toward him expectantly.

Arthur grumbles under his breath but leans over and extends his arm down for you to take. With a speed that nearly unseats you, he pulls you up effortlessly and helps you sit on his horse's rump.

Hosea looks back over his shoulder as you get settled.

Your hand firmly presses against Arthur’s back. He gives Hosea a two-fingered salute and digs his spurs into the mare’s side, yanking her reins to the right as she whinnies and jumps into a canter down the dirt road, heading south. 

-

Limpany, or what is left of it, stands set back from the road. Blackened, charred building frames amongst blackened, charred ground. Dead trees stand stark against the cloudless blue sky. Even the birds stay away - the only life is rats that scurry among the debris as Arthur’s mare plods along the road in the cold, clear Dakota.

A pain claws at your throat. Behind your eyes burns with unshed. Your grip on Arthur’s jacket tightens, but he doesn’t notice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“What th’ hell happened here?”

You don’t answer, stunned into silence as the mare comes to a stop in the meadow just north of the carnage. You cry out, sliding down from the horse’s rump, surprising Arthur as you stumble slightly before gathering your skirts and running further into the wreckage of the town. Past the sign you painted with Amos’s help. Past the skeleton of the saloon that Ulysses kept running. The Sheriff’s Office where Hilliard would sit behind the desk, sometimes with his boots crossed upon it when things were quiet. Past the paddock where Aethon would trot around.

The fragile beams of your cottage with your husband are all that is left of that life. Everything burned to cinders, a black scar against the riverside. Your bed, your clothes, your kitchen table. All gone.

“Missus Shaw!” Arthur calls out, swinging his leg over the horse and landing on the ground, quickly hurrying after you.

You stand in the middle of the small town, your life, your new beginning, everything - gone.

A wail escapes your mouth as you collapse to the ground, tears overflowing down your cheeks as your fingers dig into the dirt - dirt mixed with blackened ash.

“Ruth…Ruth, c’mon-” Arthur whispers, his hands gently pulling on your shoulders to help you sit up. He gets down on one knee and gathers you closer to him, and you shudder as you take in a loud breath and cry into his shoulder.

It is several moments of this, of his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back, him speaking in hushed whispers to calm you down. You are finally able to regain your composure as you pull back and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, mumbling an apology. 

Arthur shakes his head, brushing it off, and stands up, extending his hand to help you up as well. “Is there anything y’think left from here?” 

You swallow, swiping at your bleary eyes, and nod, your lip quivering. “I-I know the sheriff k-kept a box under his desk. If it’s s-still there, there may be some g-gold in it.” You take his hand, and he tucks you into his side, his arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you slowly make your way toward the burnt husk of the sheriff’s office. Your eyes mist over again when you think of Hilliard. 

“Here, let me see if anythin’ is there. Don’t want you falling through the floor.” Arthur leaves you by the foot of the stair, and you wipe at your eyes again, looking back over the charred remains of Limpany. You take one more shuddering breath as you hear the groan of metal on metal behind you before Arthur’s heavy steps come closer.

“Here, you should have it.” The cowboy holds out a gold bar in one hand with his hunting knife in the other, where he must have pried the lockbox open with his blade.

You shake your head, pushing it back toward him, “I don’t want it.” He doesn’t push, tucking the bar into his satchel.

“Alright, well we got that. I reckon we should catch up with the rest of them, if you’re ready.” Arthur grips the hilt of his hunting knife, looking down at the blade for a moment.

You look around at what is left of the town. A cool breeze rolls through the river valley as you feel a tear slip down your cheek once more. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and then opening them again, to see Arthur with one hand outstretched toward you, a pillar of strength, a safe place, a -

A shape moves behind Arthur, and you barely get out a scream before another man crashes into him, the two of them stumbling toward you and knocking you to the ground as they roll head over heel on top of each other.

“Ain’t you know this here’s O’Driscoll territory, Arthur Morgan?” The man yells as he scrambles on top of the gunslinger. Arthur chokes as he struggles against his attacker, but with the element of surprise, the man is able to straddle Arthur’s chest, both hands around his neck, squeezing hard.

You look around, the horse is clear on the other side of the remnants of town, where Arthur’s rifles and guns are stowed. His revolver, on his belt, was underneath him as he tried to shove the man off of him. He gasps, hands on his attacker’s forearms. 

From your vantage point on the ground, you spy his hunting knife on the ground between you; he must have dropped it as he was tackled to the ground. You heave yourself up, grab the knife, and throw yourself at the man, sinking the blade into his body, praying you didn’t hit Arthur in the struggle.

You feel it, nauseating, the inches of metal in your hand cutting through skin, through sinew, through muscle and tendon and meat. Liquid gushes over your fingers, shaking as it guides the hilt deeper.

The robber screams, swinging backward with his elbow, cracking against your face. You fly back, collapsing to the ground as your vision whites out for an instant. Face down, you groan in pain as you turn your face to the side to clutch at your nose, coughing loudly against wet leaves and the damp ground.

Arthur takes the opportunity to knee his attacker in the stomach, throwing him from his position several feet away. He hacks, sitting up, coughing deeply as he attempts to catch his breath, hand rubbing at his neck. He rolls to his knees and stumbles to his feet, heaving, glancing at the man, who writhed against the ground, his groaning turning to wet gasps. 

The knife was buried in his neck.

Arthur grimaces as he wipes his hands on his black pants, the man’s blood staining his palms and a large swath of his blue denim shirt.

You groan again, whipping your other hand to cover your face as soon as you realize you’re covered in blood, gushing from your nose. You curl into a fetal position on the ground against the piercing pain in your head.

Arthur regains his footing and walks toward you. He notices you are writhing in pain and moves faster. “Shit,” he curses, his voice rougher than usual. “Hey, c’mon, let me see your face.”

He stoops down next to you and takes both of your shoulders in his hand, lifting you into a sitting position. Your eyes water as your hands cover your nose and mouth, blood seeping between your fingertips.  Your whine is muffled behind your palms, which you refuse to move.

“Ruth, I gotta see if your nose is broken,” Arthur says quietly, one of his large hands moving from your shoulder to your wrist, tugging your arm from your face gently. You groan again, shutting your eyes tightly as you allow him to pull your hands away.

“Don’t look broken.” He mutters, his other hand moves to your cheek, lightly moving your head back and forth as he inspects your nose. Bruising and swelling have already started across the bridge of your nose, blood still runs down your face in a trickle. 

You open your eyes blearily, gritting your teeth. Arthur removes his hands from your cheek and wrist and unties the black bandana at his neck. “Here, don’t want you ruinin’ any of your nice handkerchiefs.”

“Thanks,” you groan, taking the bandana and placing it under your nose to stymie the oozing blood. 

Arthur stands up, giving you his hand, which you grab. He pulls you up and steadies you as you sway. You groan again, holding his bandana up to your nose tighter.

A gurgling noise drew both of your attention to the man sprawled out on the ground a few feet away. He had stopped moving, blood pouring out his mouth and from his neck. Arthur lets go of your arm, walking over to the man and kicking at his side with the toe of his boot. When he gets no response, he leans over and grasps the hilt of the knife, pulling it slowly from the man’s neck. It slides out with a wet, squelching noise.

“Looks like I owe you a body, heh.” Arthur drawls, taking the blade of the knife and wiping it on the man’s shirt before sheathing it on his gun belt. He spins around, a wry smile on his face, which falls immediately when he sees you. Your hands are at your side, the wet bandana hanging limply from your fingertips. Your cheeks are pale, and blood drips under your nose. You stare at the man on the ground with wide eyes, your frame swaying slightly.

“You alri-”

You immediately turn away and retch, emptying your stomach onto the ground.

Arthur runs a hand down his face, sighing. You wipe at your mouth, the other hand on your knee as you stoop over. You spit on the ground and wipe your mouth again. Your sleeve is hopelessly bloody from your nose, which, thankfully, has slowed its oozing. 

Unfortunately, you make the mistake of looking back at the corpse on the ground and immediately retch again.

Arthur looks at you, dry-heaving at the sight of blood you’d spilled, eyes red rimmed in grief, the darkening bruising on your face.

This wasn’t any life for you.

It’s been nothing but trouble after trouble for you since the moment you’ve joined the gang, he realizes as you sniffle. Getting thrown from Boadicea and cracking your ribs. Getting so sick from Jack, you were a bed for several days.

Looking like a battered woman because he was unable to protect you from a lone attacker. 

Added to this troublesome attraction he had for you - it had been years since he’d been forced to take care of himself like a damn teenaged boy - years since anyone but Mary had occupied that space in his mind.

No. He wasn’t going to do this again. You deserve better than that, you deserve better than this. 

And he sure as hell doesn’t.

-

You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand for the umpteenth time, frowning as your skin is stained red. You wipe your hand against your vest and groan as you press your forehead against Arthur’s leather jacket.

Your head pounds with each painful step of the mare, slowly plodding toward Valentine. Arthur had muttered something about going to the doctor in town. You moan softly, clutching at his waist as Valentine comes into view, farms and ranch fences dotting the roadside.

Arthur was being short, curt, and silent. He leads the buttermilk Saddler mare to the hitching post outside the train station. He swings himself down, his boots squelching in the fresh mud. Without a word, he ties the horse’s reins to the hitching post and turns back up to you, holding his hands out for you to take.

“C’mon.” He mumbles, and you slowly move your hands to his shoulders, and he pulls you gently from the horse’s rump, as he has so many times before, but something this time is different.

You land gently on the ground, your feet sinking into the mud much as Arthur’s did. 

You look around, perplexed, knowing there was a doctor’s office further into town. “Isn’t the doctor-”

Without meeting your gaze, he grabs your hand, turning it over between you. You make a small noise of confusion. You can see his jaw clench.

Arthur quickly opens his satchel and shoves a clip of bills into your open hand. “There’s enough there to get you settled in Saint Denis.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait, no… stop, Arthur…” you frantically try to push the money back at him, but he yanks your arm, closing your palm around the clip. He pulls his second revolver from the holster on his belt and shoves it at you as well.

“You don’t belong with us.”

He was leaving you, leaving you here, shipping you off. 

“Arthur, don’t!” Your voice cracks as he lets go a heavy, mournful breath. Without making eye contact with you, he turns around, back towards his mare waiting in front of the station.  

“No!” You yell, hitching up your skirt, and dart after him, catching up just as he swings himself up on the horse’s saddle.

You grab onto the hem of his beaten-up leather coat with your free hand, pleading with him as you look up at him, tears uncontrollably running down your face, frightful with darkening bruises across the bridge of your nose.

“Missus Shaw.” Arthur drawls in a low register, there is a regretful tone in his voice, “You’re not for this life, this gang. You’ll be safer without us.” He does not look at you, his eyes hidden under the rim of his old gambler hat.

“Arthur, please,”  you cry, your voice cracking, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone, I’m begging you.”

“You aren’t for this.” Again refusing to make eye contact with you, Arthur Morgan gently pushes your hand away from him, pulling on the horse’s reins, and clicking his tongue at the mare, spurring her into a quick canter toward the way out of town.

“Arthur!” You weep as he pushes his horse around the station and over the railroad tracks. He gives no response, not even looking back at you.

You stand there, on the muddy road in front of the Valentine train station, weeping as the closest thing you have to a man in your life leaves you, riding off into the sunset. You’ve watched him ride away from you before, what feels like ages ago, on the hills outside of Blackwater, and Hosea was able to convince him to turn back.

His silhouette grows smaller as he urges his mare into a gallop, rushing away from the livestock town and out into the rolling hills of the Heartlands.

You’re alone again. Left standing outside a train station with a wad of cash and a revolver. Back to where you started, after Frederick’s death, after Limpany, after the loss of your child.

You’re utterly alone in this world.

-

END CHAPTER III: OWANJILA

[heavenlymorals]

Biblical References in Both RDR games.

I love biblical references so much. When it comes to literature, it's probably my favorite type of symbolism. Like I genuinely get so happy when I connect things to the Bible which is what I'm going to do right now 😊😊 I also like the way that religion is incorporated into RDR as a whole, including the main characters' reaction to it.

So yup, here are just a few references or connections that I was able to make in no particular order.

Also, some of these are complete reaches and I'm aware of that, but fuck it, it's my blog and I do what I want 💪🏼

- The character and tragedy of Issac. In the Bible, Issac is the child of Abraham who is asked to be sacrificed by God by his father as a test of faith. God eventually intervenes to save Issac because he only wanted to test Abraham's faith. Dutch is shown as a God-like figure to the gang, as their devotion is to him. Arthur, indirectly, sacrifices Issac by not being there and by following what Dutch wanted. Arthur, Issac, and Dutch are parallels to Abraham, Issac, and God.

- Leviticus is the book that comes after the book of Exodus. After the gang's escape or exodus from Blackwater after the Blackwater massacre, they are met by Leviticus Cornwall, who becomes the next obstacle for the gang. After the gang's exodus, they get in trouble with Leviticus.

- The image of the deer and a mountain. Psalm 18:32-34 in the Bible says, "It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way blameless? He makes my feet like deers' feet, and sets me upon my high places." In Arthur's condemnation of Dutch, Micah, and their evil, he becomes steady in his identity and beliefs, like a deer's feet on a mountain, which is where he dies in the end. W symbolism.

- The mission "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah." In the Bible, Sodom and Gomorrah were two cities that were so morally depraved and evil that God decided to destroy the both of them, saying that if there was even one good person in those cities, he'd spare them, but there weren't. In those missions, you also do two evil acts, going from one and then BACK to the other. You rob the bank and then go BACK to collect the debt from Edith Downes. So you finish one evil deed and to straight to the next. This can also show how morally bankrupt Arthur's apathy made him at this point in the game.

- Micah's guns say "Vengeance is hereby mine." This could be a reference to Roman's 12:19 "vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." Micah's violent nature makes him take his anger out on the world.

- "Your father is seduced by him with the forked tongue. It's no use hoping." The blind prophet to Arthur. Pretty straight forward symbolism, it's a nod to the snake that seduced Eve, just like how Micah manipulates Dutch.

- Dutch walking away from Arthur when he dies and though he realizes his wrong doing and feels shame, his pride forbids him from apologizing or saying he was wrong. This can be a parallel to how Adam and Eve run away from God when they feel shame over believing in the snake, but their pride won't allow them to apologize to God, hence damning them like how Micah damned Dutch.

- There were twelve ACTIVE gang members before the Blackwater massacre. When I mean active, I mean gang members who are canonically consistent (so not uncle, Swanson, Strauss, or the girls) on going on jobs for the gang. Micah, Bill, Javier, John, Hosea, Arthur, Charles, Sean, Lenny, Josiah, Mac and Davey Callender. Christ had 12 disciples and Dutch is portrayed as a savior to the gang, or a Christ like figure. And would you look at that, there is a traitor in both groups of twelve (Micah and Judas).

- Both John and Arthur's graves have scripture from Jesus's sermon on the mountain (Matthew 5:1-12). John's is blessed are the peacemakers and Arthur's is blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

- The go back for the money ending. If you go back for the money and have low honor, you'll see that the camp is engulfed in flames as you try to get the money. The fight with Micah is brutal and you die faced down in the dark. This death is an allegory for going to either hell and purgatory as you choose a final evil act of leaving your brother to possibly die just so you can get money as an act of revenge. If you have high honor, you are still surrounded by flames, but you still have a chance at heaven given that you die facing up seeing the light one final time.

- The help John ending has similar connotations. If you have low honor, you die by gunshot and are shrouded in darkness, which can symbolize the absence of God's light and how Arthur's final act couldn't absolve the lack of guilt he feels for the rest of the actions that he KNOWS are evil (click here for a my interpretation of Arthur's morality). In high honor, though, you get to crawl to the mountain side and see the rising sun, symbolizing heaven, warmth, and a new purity.

- In low honor, the coyote goes down to a dark cave, representing damnation and the rejection of holy light. In high honor, the deer steps into a heavenly field of light. Love that so much to be honest.

- Just the very Catholic vibe of Arthur's redemption. Doing good deeds, feeling guilt, all that.

- John's new life is basically this: "Let him who stole steal no longer, but rather let him labor, working with his hands what is good, that he may have something to give him who has need." -Ephesians 4:28. John gives up his old life to be an honest laborer, a rancher, and a proper man.

- The Strange Man in RDR rides on a donkey, which is pretty interesting because Jesus Christ also made his grand entry on a donkey.

- Just the Strange Man in general to be honest. Some say he's God, others say he's the Devil, and others say he's Cain from the Bible, which is my personal favorite theory but whatever.

- Dutch's horse could be a reference to Revelations 6:8- "And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." Dutch's rash actions caused the death of the gang and RDR's incarnate of Hades or Hell was Micah, following him. Dutch is the only one, canonically, to have a pale horse.

- "Am I prepared for eternal damnation? Am I passed any kind of saving? Or is that just fairy tales?" Arthur in his journal. I love this line so much because of its very agnostic nature whilst still showing the Christian mindset of 1899 America. This line also shows that Arthur is canonically agnostic which is a yippee from me because it's like the only thing me and this man have in common lmao 😭

- "Bad news awaits you, sir. Sadly, sooner than you think. But beyond the news, paradise awaits. Paradise.." Blind Man Cassidy to Arthur. Sorry but I just love that. High honor Arthur lived such an awful life but he still has a chance at paradise and heaven? Love that so much.

- God (pun intended), I love biblical symbolism. Couldn't you tell?

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 26: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Summary: You get caught up in town with Micah when running for supplies, and Arthur is none too pleased about it. 

*This image is not mine but comes from Pintrest, posted by Duknan

Word Count - 14, 290 (Sorry this is a long one!)

A/N: This one took me awhile and I was about to post it, and then decided to rewrite and reorganize some passages. I know there are strong opinions of Micah Bell out there, but don't hate on me. This will have some sympathies towards our favorite antagonist. Just trying to delve into his character a bit.

Special thank you, as always, to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my cheerleader and beta-reader.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - still in progress but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

The convoy of wagons and horses carefully snakes its way down the narrow mountain path from Colter. The crisp, frigid air is filled with the sounds of creaking wood and squelching mud as the horses plow through melting snow and sludge underfoot. The last remnants of delicate snowflakes dance in the wind, skipping about like crystalline winter fairies before landing on riders and wagons alike. 

Dutch has decided that you all have been hiding up in the wicked winds and snow of the Grizzly Mountains for long enough and it is now time to leave due to several factors. The robbery of the train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall was a success, there is a new addition to the group with Mrs. Adler (who is still recovering from the loss of her husband and home), John is slowly on the mend from the wolf attack, but most importantly, there are O’Driscoll’s afoot in the area. While Dutch is not intimidated by Colm O’Driscoll, he is certainly well aware that his own gang is wounded and not up to snuff as they usually are. It’s best to move the group while he can, getting you all to a more temperate area, and regroup with a new plan for the gang’s future. 

While Arthur is still a little cantankerous about what happened in Blackwater and, of course, the events after, you and he have at least reconnected to some extent, which has calmed your nerves a bit from the calamity that led to the gang’s abrupt escape to the mountains. It is hard enough to deal with what has happened without having to fret over your still fairly new relationship with a man who has spent years barricading himself off from anyone else. 

Sometimes, you can steal Arthur away and get him to relax with you, finding comfort in warm embraces and delicious kisses, to feel warm, strong hands holding each other when it seems like the world around you is about to fall apart. But it doesn’t take much once Arthur is away from you to ignite his vexation once more. 

Dutch currently leads the gang through a shallow end of the frigid river and across the rocky riverbed, which wreaks havoc on the wheels of the old wagons. This is probably not the most pleasant path, but it is a more direct route to your destination and the sooner you are off this damn mountainside, the better. 

But of course, as luck would have it, the wagon that Arthur and Hosea are driving barely makes it to the other side of the bank before one of the wheels breaks. The vehicle groans and wobbles before the wheel pops off entirely, causing it to lurch, the axle stubbornly planting itself into the gloopy, frigid mud. 

“Ah, shit!” Arthur hollers, tossing the reins down in a heap at his feet in frustration. 

Upon hearing the loud snapping of wood, and Arthur’s even louder cursing, the convoy stops. “Everything alright back there?” hollers Bill from up ahead, twisting in his saddle to try to get a better view. 

“Does everything look alright to you?” Arthur shouts sarcastically, losing his patience by the second.

“Well, what’s going on?” Javier peevishly asks, curious as to how long this will delay them as he’s eager to get out of the cold and on to the new camp.

“I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur’s breath huffs sharply out of his nose like a bull as his burly frame jumps down from the wagontop and he lumbers around the side to assess the damage.

A grunt of aged exhaustion bubbles from Hosea’s weathered lips as he too climbs down from the driver seat where he’s been sitting next to Arthur for the last several hours. The old man works the stiffness out of his joints as he moves to stand next to Arthur, blowing warm air into his hands and flexing as he adjusts his gloves. “Well, no sense grumbling about. Let’s get it fixed, then.” 

At this point, Charles Smith has sauntered over to see if he can lend a hand. While Arthur, Hosea and Charles toss playful banter at one another while fighting with the unwelcomed repair, you eagerly capitalize on the moment of reprieve to climb out of the back of the wagon to stretch your legs and back. Taking advantage of being in his close proximity, you opted to ride with Arthur rather than riding your own horse or up with the girls in their wagon, but your butt is not thanking you for that decision at the moment. 

Rolling your neck as you rub the tired muscles nestled there, you catch sight of the O’Driscoll that Arthur had caught up by Mrs. Adler’s place. Curious about the new arrival, you take a moment to study him as he stands tethered to the chuck wagon. He seems skittish and frail like a baby duckling trying to stay close to its nest. He doesn’t seem to be all that impressive and even though Dutch thinks this young man may have some valuable information, you are more inclined to think he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur is convinced that this little man is trouble, but you are not so sure. To Arthur, the only good O’Driscoll is dead O’Driscoll. But something in the man’s terrified and untrusting eyes tells you that he hates Colm O’Driscoll more than anything. 

While the torture has not ensued just yet, the gang has not exactly been hospitable to this hostage. With the others distracted, you take the opportunity to approach the O’Driscoll yourself. You observe him with a piqued interest as you get closer to him. He doesn’t seem to be that dangerous as he shutters and shakes, nervous of every move around him. The hazel eyes nest in deep sockets, ringed with dark circles, and continually dart all around him. And it dawns on you that he is not looking at the convoy of people who hold him captive, but at the treeline and distant hills. It’s as if he’s more worried about the outside threat from someone else than he is about being left with the Van Der Linde gang. 

“Hello,” you say softly, your voice low so as to not startle him. The man doesn’t reply when you catch his attention, but just stares at you with wide, distrustful eyes.

But you meet his uneasiness with your usual gentle smile. “I brought you some bread and water.” He watches your hands float to the canteen around your shoulder and then to the linen napkin in your palm. His eyes widen even more with a spellbound awe, the gurgling sound of his painfully hungry stomach filling the awkward silence as you push the items into his cold hands. “It’s okay. Here.”

His hands are still bound, but at least Bill tied them in front of him and thankfully, he is able to hold the food and canteen on his own without you feeding him. You hand him the items, but quickly step back, mindful that this is still an O’Driscoll in front of you. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice feeble as he swallows the bread down. His eyes are sunken and dark from lack of food and his clothing is tattered and ripped. He is a sad sight, indeed. “This is m-mighty kind of you, ma’am. I know you all don’t have reason to trust me. But I-I appreciate the kindness just the same.”

A chuckle crosses your lips as you watch as the O’Driscoll quickly shoves the bread through his chapped lips. “Well, we may be a group of outlaws, but we’re not heartless. But if you do know something, it would be wise of you to tell them.” His chewing slows as he takes in your warning, nodding slightly in acceptance of his fate. “You’re Kieran, right? That’s your name? I’m Y/N.”

“That’s right. Kieran.” A small smile begins to bloom across his dirty face, a shred of relief fluttering in his chest like a butterfly at the act of mercy. But he is soon distracted from your kind face to the commotion going on behind you. 

“That man.” Keiran nods past you, eyebrows raised in apprehension at the individual who is still ranting and cursing while fixing the broken wagon. “That’s Arthur Morgan, isn’t it?” 

Your demeanor instantly drops at the idea that this potential enemy knows Arthur’s name, alarmed at the mere thought of Arthur being endangered. Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask?” 

“Nothing! I-I don’t mean nothing by it,” Keiran quickly yammers. “It’s just-”

“Just what?” You take a slow, deliberate step closer to him. He cringes when he sees your fiery eyes darken and your shoulders set defensively. 

Kieran casts his fearful eyes downward, afraid he may have offended the one person who has shown him any kindness in this situation. “It’s just…I’ve heard talk of him, is all.” 

“What kind of talk?” Your once pleasant and sympathetic tone has turned hard and untrusting now that Arthur is threatened. 

“He’s just…an enigma of sorts.” Kieran risks a cautious look up at you again, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he wobbles in the cold air. “I heard talk of how he’s bested men when he was way outnumbered, against the odds. H-how he has what’s been told a “dead eye”. You know, where you can aim your gun and…and kill a man with such accuracy that it’s unreal. I heard he can beat a man to death with his bare hands within five minutes! That he once wrestled a wolverine-”

“It wasn’t a wolverine,” you interrupt Kieran’s nervous rambling with a sigh. ”It was a bobcat.”

“Oh.”

“And yes, he is all of those things.”

Kieran nods at your confirmation of his fears. “It’s just funny to see somethin’ you’ve been warned about in the flesh. Like seein’ the devil in person, you know?”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your jacket closer to you. “I wouldn’t piss him off.”

“He seems real kind to you, though.” A shred of hope glimmers in Kieran’s eyes that maybe this demon he’s heard so much of is not so bad. Or, that this angel of mercy standing in front of him may be the key to calm that demon. 

“Yeah, well, he likes me. There aren’t too many that can say that.”

“Y/N!” Suddenly, you hear Arthur’s gravelly voice calling out your name. Turning your head in his direction, you see Arthur standing with a look of concern plastered across his weathered features. “Get away from that piece of shit and get back over here. C’mom, time to move!” He sharply waves his arm at you, impatient to have you back at his side. Arthur still doesn’t trust this O’Driscoll, which means he wants you nowhere near him. 

“Well, Kieran, it was nice chatting with you.” You give him one last tired smile before collecting the canteen and turn to head back to the wagon. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kieran calls to you, his fitful eyes following you as you retreat back to where Arthur looms in the not-so-far-off distance as he eyes the prisoner with a cold and hateful gaze. Arthur’s countenance doesn’t waver when you smile up at him, placing a loving hand on his forearm. The only crack in his angry, rugged wall is when he gently places a large gloved hand to the small of your back, ushering you into the back of the wagon once more. 

Hosea wants to stay in an area called Horseshoe Overlook and with no other idea readily in mind, Dutch agreed. It’s still a bit of a journey from the base of the mountainside so it is suggested that the gang takes a brief stop while someone heads over to the nearest town on the way to the Overlook. Supplies were low before you even left Blackwater all those weeks ago, and you’ve been scrounging ever since for the duration of your stay in Colter. Pearson needs his food stock replenished, and you need medical supplies as everything you had stockpiled has gone to caring for John after being attacked by the wolves.  

Safest to travel in small numbers, you offer to go yourself. You know what to look for on both the food and the medical supplies. But Arthur is not about to let you go anywhere on your own in an area he is unfamiliar with, so without question, he will be escorting you. 

“Micah, why don’t you head over there with them?” suggests Dutch, puffing away on a cigar, the smoke encircling his dark curls like a vaporous crown from where he sits perched upon his horse, observing the small group of you that has collected in front of him to discuss what the next move will be. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with around here, best to send backup just in case.”

The mere idea that Micah should ride along with you makes Arthur bristle. “I don’t need any ‘backup’, Dutch. Certainly not from him,” he growls, waving a flippant hand towards Micah.

“Fine with me, I don’t want to be baby-sittin’ you anyway, cowpoke,” sneers Micah in response, his hands instinctively settling upon his gunbelt. The gang hasn’t stopped for more than twenty minutes and the air is already charged with the animosity between the two men. 

“That was not a suggestion,” Dutch muses back at the two pouty overgrown children. “Now, get going and be careful. We don’t need any attention right now.”

“We’ll be fine, Dutch,” you quickly interject before either Arthur or Micah can launch another insult. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this done, shall we?” Shaking your head playfully at the two bickering outlaws, you head over to saddle Blue for the quick detour.

The lemon-yellow sun of the late morning dodges between rolling clouds as the three of you head out, riding in silence, with Arthur along your side and Micah trailing behind you. The nearest town is about an hour’s ride and is more of a trading village for those like yourselves, traveling between the mountain pass and down into the more populated territories. Upon arrival, you are quick to notice that there is no flourish or panache here. It is a series of rows made up of simple buildings, each marked with their specialty. The outlying area is littered with small houses and cabins nestled into the hillside for the full-time residents. But the trading post is meant for in-and-out traffic, a quick stop between destinations. 

“Huh, seems…’quaint’,” you hum, looking over the dusty little village, watching the people lumber about their tasks. 

“That’s one word for it,” mutters Micah, clearly unimpressed with the destination. His mustache twitches as he sucks his teeth in disappointment. 

“Let’s just get what we need and get outta here,” reminds Arthur, his gaze skimming over the open area. He sits rigid atop Buck, his worn gambler’s hat pulled down over his crystal-blue eyes and assesses any possible threats. “We don’t need to be lingering too long out in the open.”

“You’re such an old woman, Morgan. What could possibly happen in a shitty little town like this?” complains Micah, waving his hand impatiently at the small expanse of buildings.

Arthur pitches back an equally bitter glare. “This old woman will put her boot right in your ass if you keep running your mouth, Micah.”

“Boys!” you snap sharply, raising your hands up at each of them to halt their childish bickering. “Let’s play nice just for a bit, hmm?”

A mocking grin rolls across Micah’s face as he urges Baylock forward past the two of you, causing Arthur to roll his eyes in annoyance. 

“Come on, handsome,” you coo sweetly to Arthur. “Forget about that fool and let’s find ourselves some food.”

He turns towards you, tilting his head up just enough for you to catch a lifted eyebrow from under the brim of his hat. “Should I be offended you use the same pet name for me as you do that damn horse of yours?”

A cheeky grin decorates your face, making your eyes glitter mischievously. “Considering how much I love this damn horse of mine, you should be flattered.” You reach down and pat Blue’s neck, drawing a knicker from his wide chest.

Arthur absolutely adores your playfulness, but the mirth slowly drains from his eyes as his gaze returns to Micah who is heading over to the gunsmith. “It’s a good thing you’re here, Y/N. Otherwise, I’d tear that weasel a new ass the minute I get my hands on him.”

“I know, I know,” you muse as you follow his line of sight. “But like you said, let’s get this done and then you don’t have to deal with him for awhile, yeah?” Arthur only nods in agreement as he nudges Buck to follow you down the narrow street to the nearest hitching post outside of what appears to be the closest thing to a general store. 

While you and Arthur go about securing some canned goods and clean bandages, Micah has been busy procuring more ammunition from the smith. Reconvening at the horses, the three of you pack the saddlebags with the new supplies. You casually walk around to the other side of Blue to stuff the last bit of goods into the dusty leather bag and you let your gaze wander, taking in the simplicity of the little town.

As you scan the front of the post office, which sits next to the general store, your eye catches something. You do a double-take as the blood drains from your face, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Oh hell,” you whisper under your breath. Your blood runs cold as ice when you see a sketch of your likeness and your alias scrawled upon a browning piece of paper that is nailed to the bulletin board of the post office. 

Noticing your change in mood, Arthur follows your sight-line and sees the object of your trepidation. He cautiously walks over and yanks the poster down, reading it over as he returns to the horses where you and Micah are standing. And Arthur is none too happy about this, either. You give Arthur a worried and guilt-ridden look as his lips flatten into a hard, angry line as his hands fist around the parchment, crumpling the edges. 

Bounty to be paid of one hundred dollars

By decree of Sheriff Franklin Langston, be on the look out for this woman known as Mrs. Evageline Callahan. Wanted for robbery of the Red Rock Savings and Loan and the assault of a law officer. Wanted alive. 

The bounty notice details the robbery in Red Rock where you had planted yourself as a decoy before helping Arthur crack the locks and safes, and the local Sheriff there has targeted you as an accomplice. But what the notice does not go into detail about is how the sheriff tried to play on your supposed vulnerability. He had escorted you to a hotel room under the pretense of “protection”. But it quickly became obvious to you that his protection was the furthest from his mind.

While locked in a room with the scoundrel, you secretly drugged him before he could take advantage of you and you slipped out from under his unconscious nose, walking right out the front door with no one the wiser. No doubt the respected lawman’s pride is hurt that not only was he fooled by a woman, but a woman who got the best of him in the end. 

Anger and worry swirl violently within Arthur’s chest, making his heart beating rapidly. He has tried to keep you out of harm's way, but it seems he’s failed. He stupidly thought that he could be an outlaw and still keep you innocently protected from the life that comes with it. You are the one thing that he holds most precious, like a delicate flower in the cold morning frost, to be safeguarded at all costs. 

He had asked you not to do that job. Begged you, in fact. But how could you tell Dutch Van Der Linde ‘no’? And with you there to pick the locks of the vault at the bank, Arthur and the others were able to come away with a hell of a lot more cash than they would have without you. And, with no casualties, too. But that has also opened the door for you to be implicated as an accomplice and now on the law’s wanted list. 

Micah looks over Arthur’s shoulder at the offending paper being fisted in his gloved hands. “Well, what do ya know, she’s an ’outlaw’ now,” he chuckles. “Shit, this day just keeps getting better and better. Don’t look so glum, there, cowpoke.” He lands a teasing swat along Arthur's arm. “Thought you’d be happy knowing you two really are made for each other.”

“Shut up, Micah!” you and Arthur both yell in unison.

“Arthur? Arthur, I’m sorry,” you mutter sheepishly as you place your hands on his bulging forearms. But your plea only makes his teeth grind in anger at himself even harder. 

“What you got to be sorry for?!” His nostrils flare slightly when he turns his flashing eyes to meet your anxious gaze.

“Well…”

“Hey!” 

Before you can finish your thought, someone’s sharp voice cuts through the crowd. Whipping your collective heads in that direction, the three of you see an older man standing outside the general store, pointing his bony finger at you, his bespectacled eyes wide with shock. 

“That’s her! That woman they’re looking for!”

Your whole body freezes, paralyzed with fear as the man’s voice carries through the dusty street, announcing your presence to everyone. A crowd of curious onlookers descends upon the square at the noise. Arthur quickly places himself in front of you like a shield and you shrink behind him, cowering as your hands come up to grasp at the back of his coat as if you could draw courage from his sheer bulk.

“We don’t want no trouble.” Arthur addresses the crowd, holding one hand up in peace. “But if anyone makes one move towards her, there will be trouble.” Your breath catches in your throat as Arthur draws himself up to his full height, widening his stance and shoulders pushed back to make himself even more massive than already is. His neck tightens as his chiseled jaw clenches painfully. His hand instinctively hovers over his holstered gun, a clear warning to those around him. Likewise, Micah takes a defensive position flanking Arthur’s side to hide you from the crowd, both hands just itching to take hold of the weapons on his hips. 

It’s as if time stands still, not even a bird making a sound, as a breeze flits through the street, rolling dead leaves about like discarded paper. Arthur can feel your fingers trembling through the thick material of his coat. Your terrified eyes dart in all directions, waiting for someone to make the next move. The bitter, coppery taste of blood creeps into your mouth as you bite down on your bottom lip in anticipation. But you don’t have long to wait. 

A single gunshot rings out, planting an ill-aimed bullet a mere yard from your feet. Gasping in panic, you jump backwards into Blue’s side, causing him to whinny loudly as he rears up in fear. Arthur’s arm immediately spins as if of its own accord to find the source, the offending shooter instantly crumbling in a heap with a red weeping hole in his chest. 

A woman’s scream cuts into the tension-charged air as things explode into chaos everywhere. Arthur and Micah pull their weapons, firing in a whirlwind of motion with you placed behind them.

“Move!” Arthur roars, shoving you to your feet as you scramble in frantic movement.

The three of you sprint through the streets, trying to elude the townsfolk. But shots are fired from all around, causing you to constantly change directions. Shots ring out, whizzing past your head, and you let go of Arthur’s jacket to cradle your head, but by doing so, you eventually get separated from him. 

You get a glimpse of Arthur as he throws himself behind a stack of barrels seeking shelter from the onslaught while you and Micah tuck yourselves behind a wagon on the opposite side of the street. But every time Arthur tries to make a break to you, a spray of bullets knocks him back, holding him in place. 

“We gotta get outta here!” hollers Micah over the deafening pandemonium, grabbing your shoulder and trying to pull you towards himself. 

“Not without Arthur!” you scream back, shoving his hand off of you. 

But you watch in horror as a group of men descend on your outlaw. With the townsfolk distracted with Arthur, Micah grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. “We gotta go! Big man can take care of himself!”

But you dig your heels in like an obstinate horse. Your eyes shoot back to Arthur, his keen scrutiny moving between the mob and your petrified face. He lifts his hands and begins to fire at the men coming down the street, trying to keep their attention away from you and Micah.

“Get the hell out of here! Go!” he yells at you, waiving you to move on. Too numb with the fear of leaving Arthur to move of your own accord, you absentmindedly allow Micah to drag you away from the square. 

Micah leads you down the narrow street amongst the shouting of everyone around you, keeping along the buildings and firing into the crowds to ward off any following. Shards of glass and wooden splinters cascade into your hair as a rain of bullets from all directions ricochet off of the buildings and fills the air with choking clouds of smoke that burns your throat every time a shriek of panic escapes your lungs. Your feet scramble to keep up, desperately trying not to lose your footing and drag Micah down with you. Your head ducks into Micah’s side, blindly following wherever he leads you as your hands maintain a death-grip on his jacket.

You and Micah bolt in various directions, your worn boots zigzagging in the dirt, trying to elude the mob, but it seems there are guns pointed at you at every turn. This may be a tiny town, but they do not tolerate any trouble here, the whole town arming themselves to protect against any threat. Shop owners, the blacksmith, any able body pops out with a gun in hand and aimed at you. Micah skids to a halt more than once to change directions, seeking out an escape route. 

The spray of bullets pushes you down yet another alley between the saloon and the small hotel, dodging between smaller barrels and crates that litter the ground. You lost the mob by ducking down this corridor, but dread freezes your breath when you find yourselves at a dead-end. You pause gasping for air with your hands on your knees as your head swivels, scouring the alley for a way out. Off in the distance, you can hear the shouts of your pursuers all around you. And they are getting closer by the minute. 

Micah’s back rounds like a cat getting ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and coiled tight like a spring. His eyes narrow and dart, assessing his surroundings.

And then the damnedest thing happens. Surprisingly, Micah pushes you behind him, holding his arm protectively over you and places himself between you and the oncoming crowd. 

“Get ready.” His voice is low and serious, not carrying the usual arrogance and tasteless jokes that spill from his filthy mouth. “Here.” And he pulls another gun from his belt, shoving it in your direction. You stand there staring at the piece in your hand as if it is a foreign object, its cold metal almost burning your skin, before looking to him once more for more explanation.

Micah holds his two guns, both hands angled upwards and ready to fire at the first person to breach the corner, expecting a full-on shootout to erupt in the narrow alley at any moment. 

“When they come, bullets will fly and you gotta be ready to move,” he says over his shoulder to you. “You shoot the first thing you see comin’ round that corner and don’t stop. We’ll push our way out. We need to cut a path and make a run for the horses.”

But being separated from Arthur, you suddenly become dizzy and short of breath. “Wait, there’s got to be another way!” Your voice elevates in pitch and volume with a vehement shake of your pounding head. “We’ll get gunned down for sure if we go out there!” 

“No time. I gotta get you out of here, princess.” Micah’s sudden concern for your safety confuses the hell out of you, silencing your protests. “Unless you know how to hide in plain sight?” 

In a split second, his comment causes an idea to form in your mind. A crazy idea. How do you hide in plain sight? And before he can even comprehend what is happening, you wrap both hands around Micah’s face, drawing him to you and crash your mouth into his. You pull him along with you as you backpedal towards the side of the building. 

Taken off guard, Micah stumbles a bit as you pull him overtop of yourself when your back hits the hard wood-siding of the saloon. His eyes shoot wide open with shock, but he quickly reciprocates your actions. Micah doesn’t question your plan or motives in the slightest despite the danger you find yourselves in and, taking full advantage of the close proximity to you, he thrusts his tongue into your mouth. You whimper at the sudden intrusion as the stale tobacco scent that carries on his mustache fills your nostrils. You can taste his foul breath as his saliva mixes with your own and you try not to gag. 

Almost immediately, you begin to second guess your little scheme and your trembling hands land on his shoulders about to push him off of you, but the sounds of the encroaching crowd right outside the alley halts your decision. Your eyes split open and look past Micah’s shoulder toward the street and you begin to see the blur of running men, the sunlight glinting off of the guns in hand in their attempt to hunt you down. So instead of pushing him off of you, your fingers quickly fumble as they pull Micah’s jacket and hat off him, tossing them to the ground at your feet, for he’d be recognized for sure if anyone sees that white hat and coat of his. 

The hollering and commotion of your pursuers gets louder and louder. Your heart pounds in your ears, sweat beading at your temples. While you are in a panic about being found and gunned down like dogs in the alley, Micah seems to have completely forgotten about the mob on his heels. Having dropped his own guns at his feet once you were pressed against the building, his rough hands are now free to grasp and pinch at your hips as he pushes his pelvis into yours, grinding into you. 

The crowd of people are at the end of the alley now and in desperation to sell the facade, you lift your leg up over Micah’s hip, pulling him in tighter to you and cover his face with your hands to shield him from the hoard of men that run past the alley entrance. Thankfully, the mob surges past you without so much as an afterthought, thinking that the two of you are just another drunken lot behind the bar who are too impatient to get a room.

The wave of commotion eventually recedes, the shouting and hollering slowly getting more faint as the mob moves down the street. As soon as you feel you are in the clear, you instantly try to push the disgusting outlaw off of you. 

“Stop.” The muffled demand pushes past your lips which are being devoured, Micah’s tongue swirling around your mouth. You shove his shoulders, but he doesn't move, his face still smashed against yours. 

You try to turn your face away from him in an attempt to break the sloppy kissing that Micah is desperately trying to prolong. “Stop it.” You push at him again, but his greedy hands clamp down painfully on your hips, refusing to give you up. 

“Okay, that’s enough!” you holler, using your anger to summon all of your strength and roughly shove him from you. Heat flushes throughout your whole body as you try to draw slow, calming breaths into your lungs. Micah stumbles backwards a bit at the change of direction, with a huge, smug grin plastered on his dirty face. 

Just the mere sight of the greasy man makes your skin bristle with goosebumps. A hateful, contemptuous scowl spreads across your heated cheeks as you spit into the dirt. “You’re a bit of a lunatic, you know that?”

Micah licks his lips as if he’s just tasted a most delectable dinner, his tongue dragging along that repulsive mouth of his as he rocks back on his heels. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’. Besides, that little performance was all your idea, Y/N”. He waves his finger accusingly at you. 

“Ugh, what the hell is wrong with you?” you groan, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as a choking sound erupts from the back of your throat.

“So many things, sweetheart...so many things.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of here, please. We need to find Arthur.” Micah’s conceited grin instantly drops from his face at the sound of Arthur’s name, his sullen eyes following you as you shove past him and stomp your way back towards the street. 

Sticking close to the shadows and hugging the storefronts, you carefully make your way out of the village, scanning for Arthur or any of your pursuers. 

“There! Over there! There’s two of ‘em!” Your blood runs cold and your heart nearly stops when the shouts of one of the townsfolk alerts anyone within earshot to your and Micah’s location.

“Fuck!” Micah immediately clamps down your hand and sprints, dragging you to your horses which are only a few yards out of your reach now. Upon reaching the hitching posts, Micah hurls you in front of him towards Baylock who is nervously pawing at the ground. The horse tosses his head in agitation, his haunting blue eyes rolled and ears pinned back.

Suddenly Micah lets out a stifled grunt, lurching forward when a bullet bites into the flesh of his shoulder. Like a bear that has been provoked, he angrily spins around, roaring at the top of his lungs and rapidly firing into the oncoming cluster of men, mowing them down in a spray of red to buy you time as you frantically climb into Baylock’s saddle. 

With one last defiant shot into an unlucky local’s skull, Micah swings himself up behind you and you take off, heading for the obscurity of the woods and leaving the dirty little town behind. 

Your heart thunders loudly in your ears as Micah’s horse pushes hard through the woods to head back to camp. The sunlight peppering through the trees is like a kaleidoscope of color, blurring and swirling and making you nauseous as Baylock races through the brush, snorting heavily as he carries his burden. Your hands are white-knuckled as your fingernails dig into the leather of the saddle horn. 

In your adrenaline haze, you vaguely feel Micah pressed against your back. Your body begins to go limp and Micah wraps an arm around your waist to secure you from falling and getting trampled under the horse’s hooves while his other extends in front of you, hand fisted around the reins and urging the horse on. 

You’ve been riding for thirty minutes with no other riders on your heels when you finally pull your mind together. “Stop! Micah, please stop!”

“Can’t stop now, princess!” He shouts from behind you. 

“Please!” You grasp his hand in yours, squeezing desperately. “I have to stop!”

Your touch instantly resonates with Micah, the feeling of your fingers along his skin radiating through his arm like electricity, and he immediately pulls back on the reins. The horse skids to a halt, dancing in agitation at the abrupt cease of motion. “Woa, boy, woa”, Micah snaps sharply. 

You desperately try to catch your breath, your chest heaving for the brisk air as you fold over the saddlehorn. For once in his life, Micah mercifully sits quietly behind you, waiting for you to regain control of your breathing and taking notice of how your body moves pressed against his. 

“We have to go back,” you finally manage to breathe out.

“What?” he snaps. “Have you lost your mind?! Ain’t no way in hell we’re goin’ back there!”

“But we left Arthur back there!” A mixture of fear and pleading infuses your voice, matching your tear-rimmed eyes that shine in the fractured sunlight of the trees as you look over your shoulder at Micah.

“He can take care of himself!”

“But what if-“

“Look, you want to go back there, Y/N, be my guest.” He waves his arms back in the direction that you just escaped from to emphasize his point. “But you’re goin’ on your own! I already got my ass shot getting you out! Or did you forget that?” 

You bite your lip at his statement, guilt flooding your chest.

“Best thing to do is head back to camp and wait for Morgan there.”

You hate to admit it, but Micah is right. Arthur had a crowd on his tail but nothing worse than what he’s had before. With you out of the way, that leaves him free to worry about his own ass. You know Micah won’t help you find Arthur, and you will be of little use to Arthur now, anyway. And to his point, Micah does have a bullet in his shoulder right now because of you. You both need to get back to camp safely so you can assess the damage. That is where you will be the most useful.

“Alright. You’re right,” you brokenly whisper, casting your eyes to the forest floor in defeat. “Let’s head home.”

“Now, you’re making some sense,” he smirks, his dirty blonde locks swaying over his shoulders as he nods in victory. Micah digs his heels into Baylock’s side and the horse spurs forward once more, heading into the thick of the woods. 

The idea of leaving without Arthur is like a knife in your chest and feels so horribly wrong to you, like a betrayal. The trees begin to blur again and seem to be almost suffocating as they surround you, offering you coverage, but also yet another obstacle to your heart's desire. 

You twist your neck to look past Micah and back towards the town. There is no sign of the townsfolk, but no sign of Arthur, either. Your heart sinks as you slowly turn to face forward again, a silent prayer on your lips. 

—--------------------------------------------

*This image is not mine, but was posted on Pintrest by Len

You and Micah ride into the makeshift camp, quickly dismounting and make your way into the circle of wagons. You are met with looks of confusion and a cacophony of questions from your fellow gang members when they note your frazzled state and Micah’s bleeding shoulder, not to mention that Arthur is not with you. But before you can even string coherent thoughts to answer your friends, the sound of hoof-beats fills the air. Your head snaps back to the tree line and you see Arthur barreling through the trees at full speed with your horse in tow. His eyes, bright and shining, dart in every direction, scanning the group of people, hoping to find your face.

Trembling hands cover your mouth as your eyes flutter with the wave of relief to see him safe. Letting out a huge breath, your wobbly legs sprint towards Arthur. Buck hasn’t even come to a full stop yet before Arthur springs from the saddle, his worn boots barely touching the mud-packed earth before he strides in your direction.

As soon as you are close enough, you hurl yourself into his large frame and throw your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in the crevice of his neck with a choked sob, his heady scent of sweat and leather engulfing your senses. His arms immediately wrap tightly around you, lifting you clean off the ground, relishing the feeling of your warm, able body against his once more. 

“Y/N! Are you alright?!” Arthur finally puts you down and leans back, holding you at arm’s length to get a good look at you, his keen eyes skipping around and taking in every inch of you from head to toe. 

“Yes, I’m fine, Arthur,” you laugh incredulously. “Are you alright? What happened? How did you get out of there?”

But Arthur just shakes his head, waving off your question. Because it doesn’t matter to him if he is alright. It is you that is his sole focus. “‘Bout lost my mind leaving you with this idiot.“ He throws a nonchalant wave in Micah’s direction. 

Your lips press together in a slight grimace. “Well, to be honest, Micah saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would be in jail or gunned down in an alley right now.”

Arthur’s body freezes, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Come again?” He turns to look at Micah who just grins, arms crossed over his puffed-out chest. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Arthur,” Micah gloats. “Although, a little gratitude for saving your woman’s life would be nice. But, don’t worry.” He holds his hand up as if to halt any further argument on Arthur’s part. “Y/N thanked me enough already.” He shakes his eyebrows suggestively with a knowing curl of his lip.

Micah's hungry gaze sweeps over you and you feel Arthur's entire body tense. “What the hell is he talkin’ ‘bout?” He spins on you now, eyes flashing and demanding an explanation. 

You can feel your cheeks burn red-hot and your chin drops to your chest to avoid looking at either Arthur or Micah. And with a deep, regretful sigh, you relate the story of your escape to Arthur, including how you had to kiss and paw at Micah in hopes of blending into the background behind the saloon to evade the town’s attention. 

Arthur stands there listening to your story without a word. His whole body radiates like lightning in a bottle, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes deeply, the muscles in his jaw twitching. You watch him carefully as he processes this unwelcome information, his fists clenching open and closed like a pump. 

You can see Arthur’s thoughts flashing like a roaring wildfire across his face. You're not sure if he’s going to punch Micah in the face, or tear into you for pulling such an outlandish stunt. He can’t be jealous, as that was certainly not the intent of your actions. But then again, Arthur doesn’t want anyone else even looking at you, let alone touching you. Least of all Micah goddamn Bell. 

Seeing Arthur’s clearly visible disdain for the situation, Micah cannot help himself but to twist the imaginary knife in the outlaw’s gut right now. “What’s a-matter, Morgan? Jealous?” His beady eyes twinkle with a sinister mirth that would make the devil himself blush.

Arthur shoots a death-stare back to Micah. “What the hell do I have to be jealous of you for?” 

Micah simply shrugs, the smugness just oozing from his very being. “Maybe ‘cause your woman kissed me? Maybe she liked it more than she’s letting on?” And his vulgar eyes flick to you, causing you to gasp at the audacity of his statement. 

And that is the last straw. 

Finally, the stress of the day causes Arthur to snap like the tension of a high-strung bow and in a second he lunges at Micah with a speed that belies someone of his stature. The other men of the camp are quick to intervene, prying the two outlaws apart as arms and fists grapple at each other in a blur of force. You try to wedge yourself between them once Bill and Javier carve an ample enough gap for you to squeeze into. You plant your wide-open palms on Arthur’s chest, pushing back against him with all your might. But it is like holding back a waterfall, too powerful and too full of chaotic energy to contain. 

“Stop it! Knock it off, both of you!” You come up on your toes, trying to catch Arthur’s burning gaze and distract him from Micah. “Arthur, please!” His chest heaves, but the moment his eyes land on you again, it's like a switch has been pulled. You center him as always, rationality starting to return to his fractured mind. 

With Arthur calmed to an extent, you turn your ire onto Micah. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” But the scheming outlaw can only stare back at you, an argument sitting on his tongue, and yet nothing comes out as if weighing his next words carefully. 

“I ain't dealin’ with this bullshit,” Arthur seethes, staring down Micah as his arm wraps around your shoulder, curling you into himself and turning you towards your shared wagon. 

But Micah Bell just cannot help but throw oil on the fire. 

“You’re not even gonna stitch me up after savin’ your pretty ass, Y/N? Typical. You don’t give a shit about anyone else, but Arthur. Mighty ungrateful.” He waves you off dismissively, shaking his head in disappointment. 

Before you can even stop him, Arthur spins out of your grasp, closing the distance between himself and Micah in a mere few steps and grabs ahold of a fistful of Micah’s shirt. The weasel can say what he wants about him, but Arthur will not abide any derogatory comments towards you. 

“You’re as stupid as you are ugly, you know that?!” hollers Hosea to Micah, his weathered fingers clamped around Arthur’s shoulder, trying to push him back once more. 

Arthur’s arm shoots up, about to land a fist into Micah’s mocking face, but it’s halted in place as both of your arms encircle his bicep to keep the dangerous limb at bay. 

“He’s right, Arthur. It’s the least I could do.”

Your shaky, yet definitive voice stills Arthur as he turns to look at you in confusion. “What?!”

An apprehensive sort of smile floats across your lips as you cup your soft, warm hands around his face. “Why don’t you get something to eat, head over to our wagon and calm down a bit. Your head is out of sorts right now. In the meantime, I’ll deal with Micah, yeah?”

But Arthur isn’t having any of it. He just shakes his head at the very notion of it. “I just need some time alone with you, is all,” he says sharply, starting to pull you away from the others. But you can’t let things end here like this. 

“I know.” You stop your feet from moving to prevent him from dragging you off. “But can you give me a minute, please? Let me get Micah patched up first,” you plead.

“Now, wait a minute,” growls Arthur, his brow drawn in frustration. “I thought you’d be coming with me?”

“I am and I will.” You nervously shift your weight from hip to hip under Arthur’s intense gaze, trying to keep your voice low and calm to mask the rapid beating of your own heart. “Let me take care of Micah first and then I’ll come with you.” 

Arthur’s sapphire eyes dart past your shoulder to see Micah standing there in surprising silence, loving the delicious tension he’s created and anxiously waiting to see the results. 

“No, he can handle things by himself. He's a big boy,” huffs Arthur. “Or let Ms. Grimshaw do it. C’mon now,” he insists, harshly pulling at your arm. 

“Arthur, just wait a second, will you?” you push, starting to get a little annoyed at the possessiveness. “Let me finish what I’m doing then I’m all yours.” 

“You know what, forget it!” he hollers, throwing his hands up in frustration as he steps back from you.

“Arthur, please, just give me a damn second, will you?!” Your hands try to grasp his forearm, but he’s quick to yank himself out of your reach, as if the very idea of you is detestable right now. 

“Nevermind!” And Arthur storms off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender, leaving you standing there staring after him. You watch his broad shoulders lumber quickly towards the wagon, his whole body radiating an angry energy that is dangerous for anyone to be pulled into. 

You should go after him. But then again, he is so angry right now, maybe it’s best to let him cool off, first. He’s probably right, you should just let Ms. Grimshaw handle Micah’s wound. But you do owe Micah a debt. He did save you from that mob. And in a gang, debts need to be paid. 

With a deep, regretful sigh, you tilt your head back and close your eyes, knowing you’ve just made a grave error in judgement. Arthur isn’t the only one who has a hard time navigating matters of the heart. Like your own father, you tend to be more pragmatic than sentimental sometimes. But you are only trying to keep the peace. 

“Well?”

Micah’s voice cuts into your temple like a nail hammered through a board, pulling you back to the matter at hand. You open your now-throbbing eyes to look over at the smug man, who is standing with an expectant look on his face. 

“Come on,” you mutter with an eye roll. “Get yourself over to the table and let’s get this over with, please.”

—-------------------------------------- 

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Clem

Unfortunately, since the gang has yet to make a permanent camp, your med tent is not fully set up. You pull out a table and a few crates of the meager medical supplies that you have and whatever you were able to shove into Blue’s saddle bag while in town. Digging through what is available, you pull out your needles and thread and a bottle of whisky you keep for sterilization. 

You’ve chosen to set up this makeshift operation far enough away from Arthur, lest he and Micah get into it yet again. But it’s close enough where Arthur can keep an eye on what you’re up to. And simply seeing you in such close proximity to Micah makes Arthur’s skin crawl. 

“Alright, let’s see what the damage is,” you sigh with the weight of resignation heavy in your tone. “Unbutton your shirt, please.” You toss the instruction over your shoulder as you pour fresh water into a bowl and shake out a clean rag. You can hear the shuffling of fabric and Micah’s pained grunting behind you. When you turn around, you freeze, eyebrows shooting to your hairline, to see that instead of just pulling back his shirt, Micah has stripped himself of the garment altogether, sitting there topless in just his trousers and a satisfied grin. 

You simply stand there, knuckles turning white as you grip the cloth in your hand, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “Really?”

He innocently shrugs. “Just want to make sure you can get to what you need, Y/N”, he says, motioning to himself, a wicked grin creeping along his mustached lips. 

A measured sigh and eyeroll leave you as you slowly make your way over to him, careful to leave a gap between the two of you as you move behind him. 

You have to give him credit, Micah tries not to flinch when your fingertips dance along the open wound on his left shoulder, assessing the depth of the bullet hole. The cool rag must send lightning through his entire body as you clean the ugly gash embedded into his skin when he shudders under your careful touch. But the fact that you work gingerly is not lost on him. Ever so vigilant to his surroundings, Micah can feel how you delicately touch him, trying not to inflict further damage. His head tilts back slightly, those usually distrustful eyes closing for just a brief moment in silent gratitude. 

You keep your discerning eyes focused on the minute work, and therefore you do not notice Micah watching you, his gaze skipping over your face and down to your fingers, small and unmarred unlike his own. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you work the thread through the needle, the lips of your perfect mouth pulled taught in concentration.

But soon enough, you push the needle through his flesh, pulling the thread through the pulpy meat of his shoulder and proceed to stitch the wound closed. You work efficiently, but quickly, desperate to get this chore done so you can then deal with Arthur who’s stare you can feel burning a hole into you from where he is vigilantly watching like a hawk from your shared wagon. 

Sensing when the deed is almost complete, Micah clears his throat and begins with awkward chit chat, trying to prolong your attention by asking about your horse, talking about how it must be better to be out of the cold of the Grizzly Mountains, anything that springs to his mind. His fingers drum along his thighs as his knee begins to bounce.

At first, you just dismiss the odd behavior, trying to focus on the final stitching of the wound. Micah winces slightly, biting his lower lip, as the stitches get pulled a little tighter than they probably should in your frustration at his incessant babbling. Micah Bell has rambled more to you in the last fifteen minutes than he has spoken to you in the entire time you’ve known him. 

With your task now complete, you clip the thread with your scissors, tucking the needle into the water bowl to be cleaned properly. You walk around to stand in front of him, wiping your hands with the wet cloth in exasperation.

You narrow your eyes at him, suddenly very suspicious of his good nature. “What do you want, Micah?”

The outlaw looks at you a moment, his head tilts slightly to the side considering your question carefully as he pulls his shirt back over his shoulders. “I’d like you to sit and talk to me.” 

His answer floors you, so simple a request with no foul comments to follow. But there has to be more to it than that. “Sit? That’s it?“ you ask in disbelief.

“MmmHmm, and talk to me. You seem to enjoy everyone else’s company, yet we never talk.” He leans back a bit, hands resting on his knees. 

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips before you can even try to stifle it, accompanied by a skeptical lift of your eyebrow. “There’s a reason for that.”

He just shrugs, frustratingly quiet to your answer. 

“What on earth would we ever talk about?”

“What do you and Morgan talk about?”

“That’s none of your business”, you snap sharply.

That familiar, annoyingly smug grin crosses his face once again as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you talk about me?” he needles, shaking his eyebrows.

“Only about what a pain in the ass you are,” you respond flatly. 

“Ahhh, so you do talk about me.” 

You shake your head, crossing your arms in frustration at the absurdity of this whole conversation, confused as to what he’s getting at. “Arthur and I talk about everything and nothing.” 

“Alright,” he concedes, pointing at you. “Let's do that, then.” 

“What is this, Micah?“

He holds his hands up in surrender, a feigned innocence. “This is me trying to be the better man.”

“Better than who?” you challenge. 

“Don’t worry Y/N,” he chuckles at your defensive reluctance to his parley. “I won’t jump ya. Unless you want me to.”

For the life of you, you can’t figure this man out. One minute, he’s a disgusting pig. The next, he’s trying to be your best friend. Either way, Micah Bell makes your skin crawl as he’s just as creepy when he’s trying to be nice as he is when he’s an ass. 

“Fine. I’ve seen the way you treat your horse. A man who loves up on his horse can’t be 100% bad.” You give him the slightest of grins before you can even stop yourself.

“That's the spirit!” He smiles triumphantly and waves a finger smartly at you. “I can't be 100% bad.” 

Assuredly, what you do not realize is that to Micah, you could’ve just given him the world. A kind word or gesture, even just the smallest inkling that you don't completely hate him, makes his black heart race just a bit more. 

To you, you see the effort of this conversation as a way to get past the ugliness with Micah. To him, he sees this as a window of opportunity, a moment of weakness in your armor where he can sneak his way in. 

But as you stand there motionless, unsure of what to even say next, your hesitancy at Micah’s peace offering is more than enough of an answer for him right now. A defeated chuckle ripples from his tobacco-stained teeth with a slight shake of his blonde head to go with it. 

“You know what, Y/N? Forget it. Forget I even asked.” The furrowed line between his eyebrows relents a bit as his eyes soften just ever so slightly as he concedes to what you suspect that he already knows deep down. He pulls his lips inward as if debating on what to say next, leaving an awkward and pregnant silence between you. Your gaze skips about, looking for any reprieve other than staring into Micah’s cold and unreadable expression that can unnerve you like a mouse caught by a viper. “Go on, then. Scoot on back to your beloved,” he says with sarcasm and just a hint of disappointment. 

After cleaning up the needle and thread, you head back to your shared space with Arthur to find him brooding, leaning against the side of his wagon as he cleans his gun. He says nothing at first, but you can sense his hostility. You smartly don’t say a word, but set about getting yourself ready for the evening.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” you finally ask. 

But Arthur won’t look at you. Like a silent, stoney mountain, he remains stoic and ominous, his rough fingers still working over the weapon in his hands. Cursing under your breath, you reach over and snatch the gun out of his hand to get his attention. Those steel-blue eyes instantly snap to your own. Brows furrowed with elevated agitation, his hand shoots out to grab for the piece, but you pull your hand back to keep the object of his distraction out of reach. He stares you down, lips pulled tightly with a sharp snort escaping his nose.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” His voice carries low and rumbles deep within his chest. 

“Of course I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Arthur.”

“That so?”

“Of course it is! How can you even question that?” you ask, shaking your head, taken aback by his doubt.

“You’re mine,” he says darkly, his blue eyes settling with the piercing, glowing quality of a stormy sea. 

Arthur’s possessiveness is not something new, often rearing its ugly head, but his ire is usually directed at others, not you. And while the idea of being wanted by someone is endearing, you also resent his distrust. “I am not some horse that you own, Arthur,” you warn. 

“I should come first with you.” He points at your heart. “I shouldn’t have to share you with anybody.”

“Are you really going to stand there and lecture me about sharing my time with other people? Really, Arthur?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, suddenly incensed by his accusation. “Let’s talk about you, then! How many nights am I going to our tent alone and lonely? All because you’re running around for god knows what?”

Arthur’s lips pinch together in an instant, eyes burning at your audacity to throw such a thing in his face. “Hey! That’s different! I am providing!” He shoves his thumb sharply back into his rising chest. 

“And I’m not?” you counter defiantly, with a snapping shake of your head, a flush of heat blossoming across your face. 

Arthur bites his lip before he says something really stupid, the argument right there on his tongue, dangerously close to exploding like a powder keg. His hands plant on his hips as he paces around the small area in front of you, the nervous energy clearly tearing throughout his body and unable to contain it. “What, you two are all friendly now?” Arthur retorts bitterly, waving off in Micah’s direction. 

“Sweet Jesus, Arthur you can’t seriously be jealous?” Your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose before dropping to your side with a deflated slap, your face turned to his in earnest. “No, we are not ’friendly’ but I don’t want to fight with him all the time, nor do I want to endure the disgusting comments anymore.” 

You begin to fidget with the pendant of your mother’s necklace you always wear and Arthur’s anger shifts in a new direction. “Has he been messin’ with you? I told you I’d take care of it if he hassles you.” 

A deep sigh escapes your chest as your gaze raises to meet his once again. “I don’t want to cause a problem around here, Arthur.” 

“You are not the problem,” he hisses. He steps up closer to you now, standing only a foot from you, so close that you can feel his hot breath blow across your chilled cheeks.

“Why are you so riled up about this?” 

“Why? That snake has his mouth all over you and you’re asking me why I’m riled up about it?! Why are you not riled up about this?” Arthur's eyes suddenly narrow at you, his head tilting just a fraction, as he looks you over like you were a mark. “Unless he’s right and you did like it.” The very idea of it causes your eyes to shoot open and your chest tighten as the air gets sucked out of your lungs. 

“Don’t you even start with that!” you hiss sharply at such an insinuation. “Now, you listen to me, Arthur Morgan. There is nothing, NOTHING, between myself and Micah Bell. You got that?” 

Arthur’s silence pulls the escalating argument to a screeching halt. He stops and takes a moment to really look at you, your chest rising and falling with panting breaths, your eyes shimmering with offended, hurt-filled tears. Arthur closes his eyes, hanging his head shamefully, clearly realizing he crossed a line. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, why are you so upset about this?” you push softly, setting your hand on his forearm. 

“Because there ain’t much difference between him and me, that’s why!” he hollers, finally reaching his breaking point. The revelation sets you on your heels. Your large, love-filled eyes blink rapidly as you attempt to process this new level of self-doubt in him.

“You can’t honestly think that?“ you breathe in wonderment. “What, you think I’m going to leave you for him?” 

“No,” his tone lowering with a flat and unsettling calm. “I think you’re gonna leave me because you realize I’m just like him.” 

The anger within you from moments ago immediately dissipates like ether as this boulder is dropped. “Arthur, you are nothing like Micah.” 

“Really? What makes you say that? Huh? What is really all that different between us?” He stands in front of you, hands on his hips as he towers over you, demanding an answer.  

You cross your arms, holding Arthur’s hard gaze. “Well, now that you mention it, you’re both a couple of asses.” 

“Ha ha, very funny,” he bites back with sharp sarcasm. “I’m serious, Y/N. What makes us all that different?” 

“Well, for starters I’m not in love with Micah. Arthur, I can’t keep having this same conversation with you.” You press closer to him, placing your hand over his heart. “This. This right here is what I want.” You can feel the rapid fluttering under his ribcage, the heat of his skin through the worn fabric of his shirt as your fingers splay open like a dove’s wingspan. “The way you make me feel when I look at you, Arthur, is why I won’t look at another man.” 

His brows furrow as his eyes fall to your hand, noting how your fingers lay against his chest as if they have always belonged there. Slowly his gaze meets yours, as if searching for the shred of doubt that he is always afraid of finding there.

“You are a good man who does bad things, Arthur. That doesn’t make you a bad person,” you confirm with a calm and enchanting tone. Your hand floats from his chest to cup his face, the curls of his beard prickling the skin as his strong jaw sets upon your palm. 

“Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Arthur sighs as he shifts his weight. “I guarantee anyone else outside this gang will beg to differ on that one,” he pouts, giving a dismissive flick of his hand in the air. 

“I thought I’ve made it very clear that I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Stop worrying about what could go so wrong and start thinking about what could go so right, Arthur. We need to work on that.”  You reach your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly to you. His hard body presses to your own pliable one and you can feel the hard line of his chest and torso, his thick thighs. His coat, which is like a second skin, carries notes of forest pine and leather, a comforting aroma that instantly feels like home to you. Your fingers curl through Arthur’s hair as you cradle his head, your nose buried in his honey locks that will forever smell of woodsmoke, bringing your soft lips to his ear. “I would die without you, Arthur.” 

Slowly, Arthur’s body relaxes and melts into yours as you whisper in his ear, your warm breath catching against his skin. His rigid chest softens as he presses you against him, desperate to keep you close as if he’d fold you up into his rib cage to wrap you around his very own heart. Sometimes, for Arthur, the worst place for him to be is inside his own head.

A smile cracks at the corner of Arthur’s mouth at your previous statement. Suddenly, the monster of self loathing within him goes silent once more, retreating back into the dark caverns of his heart, as he dips his head into the crook of your neck and wraps his arms tightly around your waist, squeezing with just enough pressure. Once again, you have calmed and centered him, quieted his swirling storm of self-sabotaging thoughts that continue to plague him. 

You turn your face into him, placing a multitude of gentle kisses along his neck, drawing a faint groan from him. “It was either kiss Micah or die,” you whisper in Arthur’s ear before placing your lips to the cuff.

Arthur huffs out a grunt that rumbles in his chest and tickles your own as you still stand pressed together so tight that not even air could seep between you. “Still not seeing the choice.” 

You giggle at his understated playfulness. “It will haunt my dreams, now. Literally the stuff of nightmares.” You pull back from him to gaze into his troubled blue eyes, your thumbs drawing across his cheekbones before your fingertips roll gently through his beard. 

“I love you, Arthur. Don’t you ever doubt that.” Your smile carries a warmth and love for him in this moment that is larger than the very universe itself, like he can see the stars themselves in your sparkling eyes. Arthur gives you a feeling of being safe. And in turn, you offer him that feeling of being cherished. For all we ever want in this world is to be healed, to find that other half that speaks to your soul. To be with that person who will hold your vulnerabilities in their hands and breathe life back into you when you feel lost.

But a dark cloud dusts his features once more. “I gotta admit, Y/N, I’m scared of the kinda love I feel for you.” Arthur’s voice drops to almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid to admit it outloud, the syllables caught in his throat.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know it will ruin me.” He brushes his large hand over your hair before tenderly holding your face. “And I know I’ll let it.” 

The emotion overtakes you and you drop your gaze before he sees the tears gathering in your lashes. Because it occurs to you that you’re not sure if he wants this relationship or not. You can clearly see the turmoil in his eyes from it. His new life with you could cost him his old one with his gang. 

Arthur is a soul torn between two worlds. He wants you, but he also wants “the outlaw life”. You are not making him choose, but he feels that he needs to. For you. To keep you safe. And you are not sure if you want to broach this subject again with him, afraid that if you push it, you may not like the answer you get.

You wish Arthur could see how wonderful he is in your eyes, how happy he makes you. Arthur may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for you. Those blue-green eyes light up your whole day. You don’t just see a man standing in front of you. You see your whole world. 

Arthur is the one who is the most special to you. The one you will lose sleep over. The one you will never tire of talking to. He is constantly on your mind. He makes you smile without even trying. Arthur is the only one you do not want to lose and to always have in your life. 

The world may view Arthur as nothing but a despicable outlaw, one forged in lawlessness and brutality. But they do not see what you see. He is a man born out of conflict, a product of his environment. He is stiff and frightening in the eyes of others, an unyielding and merciless force to be reckoned with. But to you, he is vulnerable and tender. Arthur carries the brunt of the ugliness in this world, and yet still claws at the hope of finding a shred of happiness for himself. 

You gently press your forehead to his, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, Arthur.” You hold him to you for a brief moment before looking up into his face, your eyes wide and searching. “You have stolen my heart. You are worth so much more than you think. You are the very reason I keep going. You crossed my path when I needed you the most, after I lost everything. I couldn’t do this without you. You are everything I need. And I don’t ever want this to end.”

Arthur softly draws the cool evening air into his lungs as his tired eyes float across your face, mapping every line, every radiant detail that he has come to covet so dearly. The setting sun shines its copper light down upon you, casting your frame in a warm and almost unearthly glow, as if you are a spirit from another realm altogether, not even meant for this world let alone for the likes of him. 

“I really had no idea what I needed ‘til you showed up in my life with every bit of it in one package,” he laments. “One day, there you were, shining brightly like the sun.” He smiles despite himself at the memory of it, lifting a thick, calloused finger to gently pull a wisp of your hair from your eye before settling his hand along your graceful neck. “And for the first time in a really, really long time, I had hope that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life in the dark.”

Arthur is not a man of many words, but when he does speak in those private, hushed tones with you, it makes your eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. “Please, Arthur. Let me be the temptation that you never deny yourself. I can be your safe place where your darkness can shine without judgement. Without fear.

“I know this is hard for you, Arthur. And I’m not trying to make it any harder. If anything, I’m trying to make it easier for you. I don’t care that we sleep outside on a cot in a tent. That just means I get to hold you closer to me to keep warm. And I don’t care that you’re an outlaw. Because, if anything, that means you will do anything to protect me. But I need you to trust me, Arthur. Just as I have learned to trust you.”

Arthur brings his fingers up to pinch at his temples as if trying to keep his head from exploding. “Why do you put up with me?”

“I thought I just went over that.” You smile at him. “Because Arthur, I may be yours. But that means that you are mine. Remember? I told you that in Colter.”

“Hmmm, that’s right. You did mention something about that,” he grins, his cheeks running pink as he remembers that wonderful night up in your little ramshackle cabin in the mountains. “I guess you were pretty adamant about that.”

“When it comes to you, Arthur, I am always adamant.” Your fingers lace behind his head, woven into his thick hair again as you gently pull him down to your velvety lips for a deep and passionate kiss. When you separate for a staggered breath, you begin to whisper sweet nothings to him, peppering strategic kisses along his chin and neck, along his cheeks and nose and along those plump lips again. “You are mine to kiss…to hold…to yell at…to whisper to…to worry over…to trust…to be angry with… and to love beyond measure.” 

—-----------------------------------

Later, the evening has draped its dark blanket around the earth once more. The crisp air fills with the sounds of the first signs of the frogs coming out for the Spring, their chirping so loud, yet seamlessly melded into the landscape at the same time. There is a humid thickness that settles over everything, bathing everything in a dewy layer that carries the smell of yet-to-fall rain. 

This is just a quick layover before you reach Horseshoe Overlook in the morning. No sense in setting up a fixed camp, so everyone has a bedroll on the damp ground and congregates around multiple fires, huddled for warmth under their blankets. Everyone is blissfully asleep before the day begins anew again with another set of challenges. 

You and Arthur have set up your little nest against his wagon, his bedroll laid out with blankets and a little fire going in front of you to keep you warm overnight. The two of you lay intertwined, perfectly content to be together and away from everyone else. You have finally drifted off to sleep, curled up against Arthur, his bulk and warmth a calming presence. He sits with his back propped up a bit, watching you doze so contentedly as you lay across his torso. His left arm cradles you protectively to him, his fingertips dragging lazily along your arm and shoulder. 

The fire is still stoked fairly well at this late hour, casting its soft golden hues across your sleeping form as the heat of the flames envelopes you both. Arthur stares into the fire, watching the hypnotic flames lick up and around the wood, its coals flaring crimson and pulsating like a heartbeat. 

He reaches over to his satchel, careful not to move too much and disturb your slumber, and pulls his journal out, lying it upon his thigh and opening the precious pages to write. His thoughts are still swirling from earlier:  seeing your image on a wanted poster, leaving you with Micah, and then later fighting with that idiot. But it was seeing you with Micah afterwards that has set his nerves ablaze. But Arthur doesn’t want to burden you with it any more than he has already. You are stressed enough as it is, he doesn’t want to add to it. Losing Jenny and Mac was hard for you, causing you to doubt your abilities as a doctor. You’ve been terrified of losing John to his injuries. You almost drowned trying to save Lenny from the icy waters in Colter. And now, you are hunted, just like the rest of the gang. It burns Arthur from the inside out to see such pain and turmoil behind those serene eyes of yours, always a window to your very soul. So as usual, he opts to pour his thoughts into that leather-bound book of his like it is a church confessional. 

We came down the mountain pass today. Sure glad to get out of that awful cold. But, of course nothing is ever easy for us. Maybe rightfully so. The wagon busted a wheel and had to get that fixed. The gang needs things so Dutch sent Y/N to the nearest trading post before the closest town to see if she could round up some food and medical supplies. She’d know better than anyone what we need. Of course I took her, but for some damn reason Micah was sent along with us. That man just irritates me to no end. I don’t know why Dutch keeps him around, but who am I to say anything?

But unfortunately one of my worst fears came true. We was in that village and there on the post wall was a wanted poster of Y/N. That damn bank robbery back in Red Rock. I was hoping to keep her safe from all this ugliness, but looks like I failed at that. Now she’s bound to a life of looking over her shoulder, same as the rest of us. I never wanted that life for her. Seems like everyone who gets near me gets pulled into my kind of trouble. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Y/N got pulled from me and had to rely on Micah to get her out because I wasn’t able to do it. In the midst of trying to escape, she had to kiss that ugly bastard. He had his hands all over her. Makes me see red just thinking about it again. But the worst part is that she had to tend to him once they got back to camp. He wasn’t ugly to her, which is a surprise, but in fact made me even more uneasy. I don’t know what’s going on in that twisted mind of his, but I fear he may have Y/N in his sights. That worries me because I can’t be around all the time to protect her and I have no idea to what lengths he’d go to get what he wants. Things are bad enough after Blackwater, I can only hope I can keep Y/N safe from Micah as well. I do love her so. I think I had to live through what love is not to really understand what it is. She’s a damn fool for loving a man like me, but I’m too selfish to let her go. And I’d die a thousand times if I lost her. I pray Dutch has a plan to get us all out of this mess once and for all. And then maybe, just maybe, Y/N and I can start a real life together. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

Several yards away, across the make-shift camp, Micah sits cross legged on the cold, damp ground, poking at his fire with a stick. Half-heartedly satisfied with the glowing embers, he reclines back against his saddle and rotates his arm in the air, trying to stretch the stiffness from his newly-repaired shoulder. A sharp pain cuts through his nerves when his skin pulls taught at your carefully-placed stitches. Micah stifles a yelp as his hand shoots to the wound, his face wincing until the radiating wave of pain finally subsides. The pain is a stark reminder to the tumultuous thoughts that plague his mind that he’s been desperately trying to bury since this afternoon. 

With a long, tired sigh, Micah lifts his weary eyes across his campfire and instinctively seeks out your sleeping form that is currently tucked into Arthur’s side. He observes how your face carries such peace and tranquility as you slumber under your lover’s protective arms. Micah shifts uncomfortably as if he can’t be contained within his own skin as the day’s events roll about in his mind, replaying over and over again like that goddamn gramophone of Dutch’s. 

He hates you. At least that’s what Micah tells himself. But he doesn’t really. You just make him feel things that he claims don’t exist. Or at least, tries to. It is that lingering taste of you on Micah’s lips that has innocently seduced his cravings for you to run wild in his soul. And now that he’s tasted you, he realizes how starved he really is. 

It is becoming clear in Micah’s mind that he is quickly becoming consumed by you, just as Arthur has, attracted to you in ways that he can’t explain and long forgot. He craves your attention like a man in the desert craves water. And he thinks about you more than you realize. 

You are both the first and last thing on Micah’s mind each day. You are becoming his weakness, just as you are Arthur’s. He aches for the feeling of your fingertips along his dry, scarred skin. The reality of it is, his heart breaks a little more every time he hears your name. And a piece of his soul dies when he hears Arthur’s, and not his, on your perfect lips. It is a whole different kind of pain when one’s heart cries, but their eyes don’t. But Micah will stare into the blinding sun before he looks into the mirror to see what can be done to fix that.  

Micah has always known that the two of you are like oil and water. But he was hoping that deep down, maybe you were just looking for an opportunity to hate him a little less. But he sees now that will never be the case. And that is the thing about it. Not only do you despise his very guts, but you are also that enamored with Morgan. And there are few things Micah can do about that. 

Micah would often watch you with Arthur when he thought no one was looking. It is much more than love you have for Arthur. You take care of him, you look after him. You make sure he is fed and clean. You mend his clothing with such precision and care. You rub his shoulders when he aches and your soft fingers dance along his forearms when he’s returned after a bad job. 

It is like a knife in Micah’s heart to know that you would never do these things for him. You could cruelly break his heart of stone without even realizing it. But that’s all he has to give to you, as he has never given it to anyone else. In fact he’s not sure any woman ever would accept it. But he’s come to terms with that because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But what infuriates Micah is that he’s sure that Arthur doesn’t either. 

Micah pulls his bitter gaze back to the flames in front of him, his lips twisted in a pinched and frustrated expression. He flings the stick he used to stoke the fire into the heated bed of coals with a huff before bringing his clenched fist to his lips. If he had any presence of mind, he’d swipe the unshed tears from his hardened eyes before anyone sees. But Micah Bell hasn’t cried in years, not since he was a kid. It’s such a foreign concept that he isn’t even aware that it's happening. 

His vision begins to blur as he watches the burning wisps of red and orange engulf the jagged wood, noticing how they elegantly wrap themselves around the ugly, charred wooden scales like silk, offering warmth and consuming it until the fire and wood are one. 

And that is when Micah realizes that you are the fire. And he has been cold his whole life. 

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Lee

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*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

[cowboysanddragons23]

While it's funny throwing hate towards Micah and well deservedly so, Micah did not betray the gang before Guarma. Micah is first and foremost a survivor, so it wouldn't benefit him at all, at least at the time (and its also true that he had a wanted poster of Dutch on his camp, but that was more professional curiosity more than anything else).

-The Valentine gig went wrong because Arthur and the rest had a bar fight, where Tommy got brain damage and on top of that, Micah shot down Strawberry, killing a lot of people, amongst them, lawmen. Add also the heists of the Cornwall train and oil, which led to the Pinkertons on their trail.

-The Rhodes gig went wrong because Dutch overestimates himself and thought the Grays and the Braithwaites were dumb idiots because they were Southern and hated each other. Instead the Grays and the Braithwaites end up playing them and finding out they were behind their issues (no thanks to Arthur being sent to do jobs for both of them, instead of sending one division for one and other for the other family).

-The Saint Denis gig went wrong because, once again, Dutch is so full of himself that he couldn't see that Angelo Bronte has no reason to be his friend since: First, Dutch destroyed his liquor business with the Braithwaites, costing him money and an important asset. Second, he is an opposing gang leader, which naturally means that he is competition and third, Dutch refused him (and mobsters are not people you say no without dire consequences). This, summed to Dutch robbing the trolley station and the Grand Korrigan boat heist, along with the shootout at Bronte's mansion, his kidnapping and killing of Bronte because Bronte played him like a fiddle and embarassed him and now he wanted revenge. In the words of John "We should have never gone after Bronte."

-Now we reach Guarma and Micah does betray the gang after coming back from there: Aside from his obsession with the Blackwater stash of money from the Ferry heist and while Dutch is reassuring the gang, Micah has a look of disgust and outright hatred for Dutch, because while Micah is a scoundrel and a dishonorable piece of shit, he makes no pretenses about that and he is honest with himself about it. Dutch on the other hand, pretends that he is a hero, even though he is just as full of crap as Micah (ex. Dutch calls himself a man of the people, yet he has the most luxurious clothes, horse and tent, while the rest of the gang has minimum commodities at best.).

So, while Micah did have a hand on the gang's downfall, Dutch bares the 80% of the blame: He got too reckless, imprudent and arrogant. In the words of Arthur: "We don't need a rat. We got sloppier than the town drunk."

[08melancholie]

A tumblr exclusive!!

short Micah imagine under cut, something I've been thinking about for quite some time now...

words: roughly 1k

You've groaned in sync about seventy times now, taking a small smoke break from chopping the wood Dutch ordered you both to do—among the other leftover four of God-knows how many chores in camp the two of you are punished with doing, all because you robbed and killed a few people and... may have accidentally almost brought law right to the camp.

You take a seat on the small hitching post, sighing in relief for this small break as Micah hands you a cigarette from his pack. "Thanks." You place it between your lips and take your matches out while Micah loosens his neckerchief and undoes the first few buttons of his red undershirt, letting it hang open just enough to let some cool air hit him.

You light your cigarette and wait for Micah to place a second one in his mouth before putting the fire to the tip of his own, Micah's cheeks hollowing to suck in a cloud of smoke which he holds in a moment, before exhaling out into the sky. "Still can't believe it.." Micah grumbles under his breath and you sigh with a small nod in agreement.

"Tell me about it," You continue, pausing to take a small puff of your cigarette before continuing on. "and we still have to feed the chickens after this. Knowing Dutch—he'll have some stupid goddamn leftover task for us after all this, too."

Micah gives a small, agreeing chuckle, taking a drag of his own himself. "That's on us, now, ain't it? Us and our big eyes, smaller brains, girl." You laugh at his statement, which is true; you saw a coach riding down the street, alone—and it had none other than 'Cornwall Kerosene' written on the side, Mr. Leviticus' dear company meaning a huge payday, maybe. You robbed that coach as soon as you'd have seen it, unaware of a backup a few feet back that just followed the wheel tracks of the stolen stagecoach all up to camp. Thank God that you parked it outside camp, otherwise they'd have ridden in and seen many.. unfortunate faces that they would have recognised instantly.

The two of you got a very long lecture on safety around camp, on your recklessness, your carelessness for the gang's safety... you could go on. However, this talking-to ended with a punishment; overtaking all chores in camp for a week to 'learn to appreciate it'.

Bull. Shit.

Your jaws went slack at the news, and you've been giving Dutch the silent treatment all morning. Were you at fault for it? Yes. Was this punishment a total overkill? Yes!

It was insanity! You had no time to go find leads or do jobs with others—or alone—and were stuck in camp all day; washing dishes, sewing, doing laundry, tending to the horses, and much more. This felt damn cruel by now.

You slip off the post and sink down to lean against it, sighing as you seat yourself on the ground and puff on your cigarette. Micah follows suit, taking a seat next to you and leaning back with a small groan, the two of you enjoying your cigarettes silently—per usual.

As time passes, Micah takes his final blow of the smoke and tosses the cigarette, when he feels your weight next to him shift—on him. Your head rests partially against the post and his shoulder, hands which are in your lap stilling completely, your eyes gently shut. He looks over and contemplates shoving you off, waking you to get back to work—or leaving you to rest a bit.

He was aware of how much this exhausted you, seeing how your energy mostly focused on shootouts and robberies, not doing chores. These things had you dead by the end of the day, and you so-and-so had trouble sleeping, some nights going fully without it.

So in the end, he goes for the last option of the three. He leans you in more comfortably against himself and, seeing how your eyes shut and face scrunches slightly from the sun, which hits you directly in the eyes, he slips his hat off and covers your face with it. He thought about leaving you alone there, but had a feeling you'd slip off the post without a support, so he stayed.

Surprisingly enough, he leaned into you as well, moving his head to your hair and laying his head against yours; you've always had a nice, floral and nature-like scent, which he could really smell when he brushed his nose against your hair.

And who'd have deemed it possible; Micah feel asleep.

It wasn't until a man shook you both out of your deep slumber that the two of you woke up and looked at the source of the disturbance.

"I don't think sleeping will get any of these chores done quicker," Dutch looks between both of your tired states with a small 'hm?'. Well, that ends your break.

He leaves and the two of you get up, brushing your trousers of dirt before walking back to the wood-chopping station.

You place a log down; Micah swings the axe; the two of you share a small chuckle at the situation.

You hadn't noticed, or chose not to notice, the hat still present on your head—but Micah didn't mind it much.

[nthspecialll]

Could you talk a bit about the wapiti tribe? I am not there yet and I doubt I will since every time I boot the game a wave of sadness hits me as my Arthur cough reminding me of his unchangeable fate and my aim is worst that a blind drunk out of his mind but I come to really like Eagle Flies and would love to know more about him

(Sorry for bothering, I should just play the game instead of bothering you with ask. Feel free to ignore)

Oh yeah of course, I will give a general idea without too much spoilers and then some more heavy spoilers underneath the cut.

Since you are mentioning Arthur's coughing I am guessing you are in chapter 6 or at least past chapter four where you help Eagle Flies steal information from Cornwall Tar and Oil company.

The general plot with the tribe is one that has been seen many times in real life, the army wanting to move Native Americans from their land and onto a reservation (or a rez, which I have seen some Native American now a days call them on tikok, idk how I ended up on Native tiktok but I get to see some beautiful powwows and regalias). The problem with the tribe is that they have moved onto a reservation but they are now told to move again because they have been told there is oil in the area.

The army isn't allowed to just move the tribe but need proper reason and what Colonel Favours has resorted to is framing the Natives as mean or foul. He makes a bunch of contracts and deals, then says the Natives doesn't keep and thus he can hold back medicine, food and vacines. But the truth is, they do hold up their end of the deals, it is the army who doesn't, but who would believe them.

Rains Fall, the chief, tries over and over to take political and lawful action, peaceful action together with Captian Monroe, a part of the army who was sent to make a report on the situation but is in truth helping the tribe the best he can. Meanwhile Eagle Flies gets more and more angry because he can see the army doesn't have any interest in holding their end of the deals, so he acts out.

Dutch is also introduced to Eagle Flies and pushes him to do more and more, to attack and fight. He tells Eagle Flies to humiliate the army, Eagle Flies ends up captured and tortured, meanwhile Dutch draws attention away from the gang and "people will blame everyone on the Indian situation" (his words), aka he pushes his crimes on the natives.

HEAVY SPOILERS UNDERNEATH

Not to mention the mission where Eagle Flies dies, when they attacked the Oil Company, that was Dutch's idea, he encouraged it! And what did the Natives gain? Nothing, meanwhile the gang gained a shit ton of money.

Rains Fall says to Arthur in A Fine Art Of Conversation, which is after their sacred spot was burned down by drunk army men: "when we find out medicine and surplies are being deliberately withheld, how can we not see it as something personal? When they destory our sacred sites? How can I convince Eagle Flies and the others not to fight back?" to which Charles replies "Maybe that is part of why they destory these things, they want you to fight back." Which is pretty much what the army wants.

After Eagle Flies and a big part of the tribe is killed, Rains Fall gives up and moves to Canada with the help of Charles, though even more of them are murdered in Wvyoming by the army. They will make it to Canada but as nothing but "Just a few families", Rains Fall will come back in the epilouge where you can meet him after he visited his son's grave.

And sadly all of it was for little, the reservation did not hold oil.

[queer-ragnelle]

La Tavola Ritonda PDF is now available to read! Enjoy!

ID: When Isotta had returned to the pavilion, the tables were set out and food was prepared, and when water had been brought for their hands they sat down to eat. As they ate, Gariette looked out and saw Palamidesso going by looking for them, and pointed him out to Sir Tristano. Tristano got up and went to meet him, taking him by the hand and leading him into the pavilion, where he disarmed and sat at the table. They all passed that night in great joy.

Medieval Literature scans | Arthurian Retellings scans | Ko-fi ⤥Italian Name Guide Below Cut

Prose Tristan Gang

King Meliadus of Liones (Meliodas of Lyonesse)

Queen Eliabella (Elizabeth)

Tristano (Tristan)

King Marco of Cornovaglia/Tintoile (Mark of Cornwall/Tintagel)

King Amoroldo of Irlanda (Morholt of Ireland)

King Languis of Irlanda (Anguish of Ireland)

Queen Isotta the Blonde (Isolde 1)

Gouvernale (Governal)

Brandina (Brangaine)

Dinadano (Dinadan)

Daniello (Daniel)

Brunoro the Black/Ill-Cut Coat (Brunor le Noir/La Cote Male Taile)

Dinasso the Seneschal (Dinas)

King Scalabrino (Esclabor)

Palamidesso the Pagan (Palomides/Palamedes)

Isotta White Hands (Isolde 2)

Gheddino (Kahedrin)

Logres

King Artù of Camellotto/Longres (Arthur of Camelot/Logres)

Queen Ginevara (Guinevere)

Chieso the Seneschal (Kay)

Lucano (Lucan)

Fata Morgana (Morgan le Fay)

Pulzella Gais (Morgan's daughter)

Merlino the Prophet (Merlin)

Orcadians

King Lotto (Lot)

Queen Albagia of Organia (Morgause of Orkney)

Calvano the Lover (Gawain)

Agravano (Agravaine)

Gariens (Gaheris)

Gariette (Gareth)

Mordarette (Mordred)

Welsh

King Pellinoro of Gaules (Pellinore of Wales)

Prezzivale lo Galese (Percival of Wales)

Amorotto di Gaules (Lamorak of Wales)

Adriano (Drian)

Agravale (Aglovale)

French

King Bando of Benoich (Ban of Benwick)

Dama del Lago (Lady of the Lake)

Lancilotto of Gioisa Guardia (Lancelot of Joyous Guard)

Astore di Mare (Hector de Maris)

Lionello (Lionel)

Bordo (Bors)

Briobris (Biloberis)

Galasso (Galahad)

Others

Brunoro the Brown (Brunor father of Galehaut)

Bagotta (Fair Giantess)

Galeotto (Galehaut)

Sagramore (Sagramore lol)

Meliagans (Meleagant/Melwas)

King Brando of Magus (Bademagus)

Beast Glatisanti (Questing Beast/Glatisants)

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 22 - Had But Our Loving Prospered Well

Summary: As Dutch readies the gang for their next big score, Arthur is sent to Saint Denis to settle unfinished business, only to face a ghost from his past. Meanwhile, Kate's come down with an illness, but a vivid dream sparks a newfound resolve to secure her and Arthur's future—no matter the cost.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: About 10k words. I really enjoyed how this one turned out. I think it does a good job at setting up what's coming next while also keeping you on your toes. Guess you'll have to read and see ;)

And Happy Thanksgiving to all those who celebrate! I am so thankful for all my readers <3

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Been a while since I put pen to paper. Feels like there ain’t enough time in the day anymore, though Lord knows I’ve been wasting plenty of it trying to keep my head above water. We’ve moved again. Ran from the law again. Stirred up more trouble. Same damn story, just a different setting. This time it’s Saint Denis—a place I heard was one of the seven wonders of the world. Well, if this is what they call a wonder, I reckon I’d be just fine never seeing the other six. It’s crowded, loud, and full of people who’d stab you in the back soon as they look at you. One of those people bein’ Angelo Bronte. Slimy, conniving bastard who’s got this whole city dancing to his tune.

He’s the same one who took Jack from us, but somehow, he’s also got us rubbing elbows with the mayor at some swanky garden party. Don’t ask me how that makes sense. Dutch’s idea, of course. Or maybe Hosea’s, hell if I know anymore. What I do know is he insisted Kate come along, dressed us all up like damn peacocks. I felt ridiculous, but then I looked at her. My Kate. She took my breath clean away. Lord help me, there’s nothing in this life I wouldn’t do for that woman.

The party itself? A circus. Drunks, phonies, and clowns as far as the eye could see. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some fun. Hell, I think Kate might’ve even enjoyed herself. It’s a memory I’ll carry with me, no matter how all this shakes out.

Still, this place ain’t sittin’ right with me. Dutch and Hosea keep goin’ on about opportunities, but I don’t see much besides folks with too much money and too little care for anything else. I better keep my head down while I can.

I introduced myself to a couple of Indians, father and son. The son is so angry and the father is; I don’t know exactly what. Something both impressive and frightening. And kind too. He’s a great man being defeated by powerful, awful forces. I don’t know why, but I agreed to help them. Seems they, like us, have a problem with that ape Leviticus Cornwall. 

And then there's Dutch, always in the middle of it all. He’s pushin’ Kate into things I’m not sure she should be a part of. Keeps talkin’ about loyalty, like I ain’t proven mine a thousand times over. Says Kate could help with this new scheme coming up—some high-stakes poker game on a damn yacht in the harbor. Wants to dress her up like some famous singer to get us in. The idea makes my skin crawl. She’s too good for this kind of life, and Dutch knows it.

I’ve been trying to keep her close, tellin’ her to stick to camp, help with the girls. But she ain’t the type to sit still. She’s got this fire in her, this restless spirit that makes her want to be out there with me, shoulderin’ the same burdens. And I love her for it, but it scares the hell outta me too. This gang is a powder keg, and when it blows, she’s gonna get caught in the blast.

John said something the other day that stuck with me—never thought I’d be takin’ advice from him, yet here we are. He told me I gotta start thinking about what happens after all this. If there’s even gonna be an "after." I don’t know what that looks like, but I know Kate deserves better than this life. Problem is, I ain’t sure I can give it to her. Not yet. Not while there’s still so much to fix, so much to make right.

I guess we’ll see what the day brings. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur closed his journal with a soft thunk, the familiar leather creaking as he slid it back into his satchel. Stretching, he winced as his muscles protested—stiff from too many sleepless nights and too many hours in the saddle. Dawn was just beginning to break, but Arthur had been awake long before the first hints of sunlight painted the horizon. Not that it mattered much. These days, the weeks were a blur, the days bleeding into each other with each task, each job, and every damn mission Dutch insisted on. No end in sight, just more running, more scheming.

He sat on an old, weather-worn chair perched at the front of Shady Belle, the crumbling manor they called home. Its once-grand façade was faded and cracked, much like the gang itself—held together by little more than stubbornness and dwindling hope. The morning fog clung low to the ground, curling around the gnarled tree roots and the broken fence posts, giving the place an eerie stillness.

It was mid-September now—Arthur only remembered because Sean’s birthday had passed a few days back. Some of the gang had stayed up late, passing a bottle around the campfire, trading stories about the fiery Irishman. Arthur had stayed longer than most, his heart heavy with memories of laughter now silenced by a bullet.

The chill of fall was creeping in, carried by the night and lingering in the shadows, though the sun would soon burn it away. Arthur inhaled deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs, chasing away the stale dampness of the manor. For a fleeting moment, it felt good—clean. He let himself savor it, knowing the day ahead would likely choke him with its demands.

Dutch had a plan, as always. This time, a high-stakes card game aboard a river boat in the Saint Denis harbor. Every detail had to be perfect. No mistakes. No run-ins with the law. Not this time. That meant a shopping trip to the city with Trelawny, of all people, to gather supplies and scout the area. Dutch wanted every angle covered, every loose end tied tight.

And then there was Kate. Dutch had insisted she play a role in the job, her part pivotal to getting them through the door. Her cover? A famous Italian singer, the kind who’d catch the eye of the city's most elite. Arthur had protested—loudly. But Dutch was unyielding, Hosea backing him up with reassurances that it’d be fine, just like the mayor’s party. Arthur didn’t care much for that; polished shoes, fake smiles, and too many lies—but Kate had taken it all in stride, and she was confident she could do it again.

Arthur wasn’t so sure. He didn’t like the idea of her standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by strangers who wouldn’t think twice about exploiting her if things went wrong. But she was stubborn, determined to help the gang any way she could. Arthur had no choice but to pray he could change her mind in the next two days. If he couldn’t, he’d be right there beside her. No way in hell would he let her face it alone.

Lately, though, his worries stretched far beyond jobs and plans. He’d noticed the signs—Kate sleeping more, eating less, missing chores because of her headaches. The girls had told him as much, and Arthur knew the cause. Shady Belle was no place for someone like her. Sure, it had walls and a roof, but they were cracked and rotting, letting the rain and wind slip through. Mold crept up the corners, and the damp chill seeped into your bones at night. Arthur did what he could—pulling her close when the nights grew too cold, letting his body heat shield her from the worst of it. But it wasn’t enough. It ate at him, watching her put on a brave face, pretending she wasn’t struggling just to keep his worry at bay.

But he always worried. Now, with Dutch’s plan looming and Kate’s involvement hanging in the balance, the concern gnawed at him, heavy and relentless, like a stone pressing against his chest. He sighed, shifting his weight in the creaky old chair, debating whether to head back inside and kiss his woman goodbye before the day’s chaos swept him away.

Before he could move, the door creaked open, and Mary-Beth stepped out onto the porch. The young woman was wrapped in a heavy wool coat, her night chemise peeking out from underneath, and she held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a white envelope pinched between her fingers. Her other hand clutched her coat tightly against the morning chill.

“Mornin’, Arthur,” she greeted softly, her voice warm and familiar. “Figured I might find you out here.”

Arthur smiled, tipping his head in acknowledgment. “A fine mornin’ it is, Miss Mary-Beth.”

She handed him the coffee, and he accepted it with a grateful nod. The warmth seeped through his fingers, chasing away the lingering chill. If there was one thing about running all these damn jobs, it was the way the girls showed their appreciation in small but meaningful ways. It reminded Arthur why he kept going—why he fought so hard. Not just for himself, but for them, too.

Mary-Beth lingered as Arthur took a tentative sip of the bitter black coffee. Then, almost hesitantly, she extended the envelope toward him. “Letter came for you,” she said, her tone light but with a hint of something else—curiosity, maybe. “I think it’s from that woman.” The last two words carried a subtle edge.

Arthur chortled, raising an eyebrow as he took the envelope. “That woman, huh? You mean Mary Gillis?” He turned the letter over in his hands, the elegant script on the front unmistakable.

Mary-Beth pursed her lips. “Gillis? Thought you said she was married to some Linton fellow?”

Arthur sighed, suddenly feeling like he’d been cornered. “She um— well she was. Barry Linton. But he passed not too long ago.” His fingers found the edge of the envelope, ripping it open as he spoke.

Mary-Beth folded her arms, her gaze sharpening with interest. “Then tell me, Mr. Morgan, what’s this widow doing still writin’ to you?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know, darlin’. That’s what I’m fixin’ to find out.” He unfolded the letter, but he could feel her eyes lingering.

“You best get along before Miss Grimshaw catches wind you’re up,” he added pointedly, trying to nudge her away without sounding outright rude.

Mary-Beth narrowed her eyes at him, clearly unimpressed by his attempt to dismiss her, but after a moment, she relented, turning back toward the door. “Alright, fine. But I’ll be keepin’ my eye on you. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He chuckled under his breath as she disappeared into the manor, shaking his head at her audacity. Then, finally, he let his gaze fall to the letter in his hand, the words waiting for him like the clouds on the horizon:

My dear Arthur,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to thank you for your help with Jamie. He and Daddy are still arguing, but I understand that Jamie is thinking of going back to college. Whatever happens, I believe you saved his life, and we are all truly grateful.

Oh, Arthur. I have made such a mess of my life, time and again. Why can I not change and be the woman I want to be? Why couldn’t you change and be a man and put down all those fantasies that cloud your judgment? Life is very confusing, and I see now that I am not very good at it.

I am afraid we have got ourselves in another mess. It’s not my fault, but I need your help. I’m staying at the Hotel Grand in Saint Denis. Oh, Arthur. I know it is wrong of me to ask you, but I have nobody else, and for what we had together, I beg of you, even though I am ashamed to do so.

Yours,Mary

Arthur sighed heavily, folding the letter with a deliberate care that belied the storm brewing inside him. He slid it into his satchel, the weight of it feeling heavier than any of the supplies or ammunition he carried. His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted out over the misty swamps, the sluggish waters reflecting a pale, muted sunrise. Mary Gillis. Always finding a way to haunt him, always pulling at the loose threads of a life he’d tried to leave behind.

The first time she’d called for his help, he’d nearly ignored her altogether. He’d wrestled with the question, torn between letting old flames die and doing what he thought might be the decent thing. It was Kate who’d convinced him in the end, her soft-spoken wisdom guiding him to answer the plea. "Helping others isn’t a weakness," she’d said, resting her hand on his, heart full of understanding. And so he’d gone. He’d helped Mary with her brother, with her troubles, and with it, he thought he’d finally put the past to rest.

But that was months ago. Months filled with battles, with losses, with a love that had rooted itself firmly in his chest and refused to let go. His heart belonged to Kate now, the woman who lay sleeping just upstairs, wrapped in the meager warmth of their shared cot. Whatever dreams Mary might still cling to, whatever fantasy she still entertained of what they once were, Arthur knew better. She’d signed the letter “yours,” but the truth was she had never truly been his.

They’d been just a couple of lovesick kids, foolish and reckless, trying to carve out a life in a world that seemed determined to keep them apart. Her father had despised him, calling him poor, unworthy, a scoundrel who’d ruin her. Maybe the old bastard had been right, in his own way. Mary, for her part, had always wanted him to change—begged him to leave his ways behind, to live a cleaner, safer life that had no place for a man like him.

He’d tried, God knows he’d tried, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. Her rejection of his proposal had shattered whatever hope they’d built together, and they’d gone their separate ways, two hearts too stubborn to meet in the middle. At the time, Arthur had been furious, heartbroken. But with the years came clarity. She’d done the right thing by walking away, as much as it had gutted him. He’d have ruined her, and she’d have resented him for it.

Now, though, her reaching out again felt like opening an old wound that had barely scarred over. She must’ve been desperate to dredge up the past and call on him once more. Still, Arthur had made her a promise all those years ago—a promise to be there if she ever truly needed him. And damn it all, he’d meant it. But that didn’t make him regret those words any less now.

He sighed again, the sound heavy in the stillness, and turned back toward the house. His boots creaked softly on the steps as he ascended to the bedroom he shared with Kate. The air inside was quieter than the swamp outside, a hushed calm broken only by the occasional murmur of the gang stirring below.

Kate lay curled beneath their blanket, her hair splayed across the pillow in a tangled mess that caught the pale morning light. The sight of her tugged at something deep inside him—a mix of love and guilt that settled in his chest. She looked so peaceful, her face relaxed in sleep, a stark contrast to the restless energy she carried during the waking hours.

Arthur knelt beside the bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. He leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. Her skin felt warm against his lips. She stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.

“Be back soon,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth.

For a moment, he lingered there, his hand resting on her shoulder as though drawing strength from the simple touch. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Whatever the day held, he’d face it. But as he made his way back down to the waiting world, he knew his thoughts would stay rooted here, with her. 

Always with her.

 ━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate was lost in the throes of a feverish dream, her mind teetering on the edge of consciousness. Somewhere in the haze, she felt Arthur's lips brush against her temple—a fleeting touch that tethered her briefly to the safety of Shady Belle. But like water slipping through her fingers, she drifted away again, into a world both foreign and familiar.

She was standing in the bayou, its dark, twisting mangrove trees reaching like skeletal fingers toward a starless sky. Their roots dive far below the depths, peeking out in gnarled braids. There was no moon, yet the scene was bathed in an eerie glow, as if the shadows themselves emitted a pale, unnatural light. The air was thick and heavy, like the fever clinging to her skin, and she felt the weight of unseen eyes watching from just beyond the edges of her vision. Every time she turned, they vanished, retreating deeper into their dark spaces.

The cold water lapped at her thighs, the chill seeping through her soaked nightdress as it billowed around her legs like dissolving smoke. Shady Belle was nowhere to be seen, and she felt untethered, as though the world itself had abandoned her. She wanted to shout, to call Arthur’s name. But her mouth and tongue betrayed her, remaining silent in the oppressive quiet. Her mind grappled for meaning, but the logic of dreams offered no answers, only the inexorable thrill of what came next.

In a blink, the scene shifted, and she stood before an ancient, tortured looking willow tree. Its massive branches drooping low, their weight seeming to bow toward the water as if in devotion—or coercion. Devoid of color and leaves, it looked barren yet beckoning. The tree loomed impossibly large, its roots poking up through the earth as if it was trying to pry itself from the ground. They spread wide and deep, cradling something small and swaddled in a yellow fabric.

Kate’s body moved without her permission, her feet splashed forward sinking into the muck with every step, her hand outstretched toward the bundle. It pulsed faintly, as though alive, the fabric inexplicably dry and pristine despite the muddy water lapping at its edges. She knelt, her fingers trembling as they brushed the delicate cloth.

The earth beneath her began to quiver, a slow, rhythmic tremor that she realized was a heartbeat. It echoed in her chest, though strangely out of sync with her own, as if it belonged to something other. The sound grew louder, resonating in her bones, drowning out the hum of the bayou. It was steady and strong unlike her own, which began to falter under the pressure of uncertainty. 

This heartbeat was mighty.

With a deep breath, she peeled back the fabric. Expecting some fragile, living thing, she froze when all that lay within was a seed. Small, unassuming, nestled within the soft blanket—a peach pit.

A strange disquiet settled over her. What’s this doing here? she wondered, turning it over in her hand. She couldn’t explain why, but her mind immediately thought of Arthur. Before she could rise, a flash of light caught her eye. Looking up, her breath hitched.

Sunken into the tree’s ancient trunk was a mirror, its frame gnarled and alive, twisting like the roots that encased it. But the reflection that met her gaze wasn’t her own—or at least, not as she knew herself.

The woman in the mirror was her, but different. Healthier, fuller. Her hair was smooth and pinned in an elegant style, and she wore a fine dress—proper and clean, with no trace of the rough life Kate knew so well. But her expression was strained, her face marked by some deep, unspoken sorrow.

In her arms, the reflection cradled the same yellow bundle Kate had just unwrapped. The fabric was clean and vibrant, glowing softly as though untouched by the bayou's darkness. Kate looked on, and the image began to fade, its yellow hue leaching into dullness before her eyes.

"No," she whispered, a surge of desperation clawing at her chest. The mirror seemed to flicker, the image trembling as if on the verge of breaking apart. She dropped the seed into the water, her hands reaching out toward the reflection, pleading with it. Tears blurred her vision as her knees sank into the mud.

She clawed at the bark of the tree, her nails scraping against the wood as the mirror began to dissolve into the surrounding fog. The woman in the reflection lingered for just a moment longer, her pained eyes softened, and she smiled at Kate, before vanishing entirely.

As the last wisp of light faded, Kate’s gaze dropped. There, floating in the water before her, was the peach pit. It was glowing now, faintly golden, radiating outward as it nestled into her lap. Reaching down with cupped hands she felt its warmth, pulsing with the steady beat of her heart. Harmonizing, as if they were one.

A soft whisper reached her ears, though no voice could be seen or placed. The words were indistinct, like a lullaby carried on a distant breeze. Yet they filled her with an overwhelming peace, soothing the ache that had gripped her chest. Kate clung to the warmth, holding the seed close to her chest. 

The water began to rise, enveloping her body. But she held onto the tiny pit, clinging to the hope it offered her. Shielding it from the darkness as it swallowed them both. 

 ━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The rhythmic clatter of Belle’s hooves against the cobblestone echoed through the bustling streets of Saint Denis, a steady cadence that drowned out the city’s chaos. The sharp clang of the trolley on its tracks, the overlapping shouts of merchants and passersby, even the piercing cry of a seagull overhead—all of it faded into the background. Arthur’s mind, however, was far from quiet. His thoughts churned, replaying the morning’s work, scanning for anything they might have missed. Anything that could tip their carefully planned mission into disaster.

Arthur and Trelawney had spent the better part of the day digging into every detail of the high-stakes card tournament scheduled aboard the Grand Korrigan the following evening. Trelawney and Strauss were confident they could fix the game in Arthur’s favor, but there was still much to learn. Who were the players? What were the stakes? And how could they infiltrate the riverboat without raising suspicion?

Trelawney, ever the charmer, had already secured the proper attire and spent hours mingling in the city’s seedier poker dens, listening to whispers and picking up useful scraps of information. Meanwhile, Arthur had taken to scouting the boat itself. He’d memorized its layout, noted its docking schedule, and kept a sharp eye on the captain and crew as they moved about their business. Every detail mattered, and Arthur was determined not to leave any stone unturned.

Lost in thought, Arthur rode back toward the heart of town to meet Trelawney at their arranged rendezvous. The weight of the mission sat heavy on his shoulders, his focus narrowing in on the steps ahead. So much so, he almost didn’t hear the voice calling out to him.

“Arthur!”

The shout was sudden, cutting through the din. Feminine, familiar.

He pulled Belle to a halt, glancing around until his eyes landed on a balcony just above street level. There she was—Mary Gillis, leaning eagerly against the railing, her face lit with a mixture of relief and excitement.

“Oh, Arthur, you came!” she called, waving as though the years between them had never passed.

Arthur stiffened in the saddle, his hand tightening slightly on Belle’s reins. He’d forgotten about her letter, about her request for help. Hell, he’d barely had time to think it over, let alone discuss it with Kate. The mission had consumed his every waking moment, and he’d figured he’d have a few days to sort it out—if he even decided to go at all. But now, fate had a way of forcing his hand.

He sighed deeply, the sound barely audible over the city’s noise. “Yeah, I, uh—I came,” he called back, the words tasting like regret the moment they left his mouth.

The smile on Mary’s face faltered slightly as she saw the frustration etched into Arthur’s expression. Her enthusiasm met the weight of his weariness, a stark contrast to the nostalgic hope that had brought her to this moment. She leaned on the hotel railing, her eyes fixed on him as though they could will away the years and pain between them.

"Wait right there, I’m coming straight down!" she called, disappearing into the building before Arthur could even open his mouth to protest.

He dismounted Belle with a heavy sigh, hitching her to the post outside. The doors of the Hotel Grand swung open moments later, and Mary rushed out, her steps hurried, her face alight with nervous energy.

"Arthur," she said again, softer this time, her tone steeped in wistfulness.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. "What is it you need this time, Mary?" His voice was steady but edged, cutting straight to the point. He didn’t want to linger, didn’t want to open doors he’d shut long ago.

Her expression faltered. "I can’t believe you came," she said, ignoring his question. Her voice carried a strange mix of gratitude and regret. "After everything…"

Arthur’s patience was thinning. He looked away, his gaze following a passing wagon down the street. "Sure, seems whenever you call, I come," he muttered, his tone clipped. "Now just tell me what’s goin’ on. I don’t have all day."

Mary took a hesitant step closer, clasping her hands in front of her. "It’s my daddy," she began.

Arthur let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Your father? Christ, Mary, I must be an even bigger fool than I thought."

"Please, Arthur," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "I know my daddy was always hard on you, but he was just trying to protect me. Can’t you see that? He wanted better for me than—"

"Better than me," Arthur interrupted, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing. "That’s what you’re sayin’, ain’t it? Your father was never kind to me. He thought I was trash. Made damn sure I knew it, too."

Mary flinched but pressed on. "Your choices—Arthur, they—"

"What choice did I have!" he barked, rising with an anger that had been simmering for years. "You knew who I was, what my life was. I never left you, Mary. You walked away."

Her eyes welled with unshed tears, but Arthur didn’t let up, the wounds of their past bleeding fresh. "You think I don’t know why? You made the right call, I’ll give you that. But you don’t get to come back now and act like I’m your knight in shinin’ armor. I’m not. And I can’t be."

"Arthur, please," she begged. "You’re still the best man I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t be here asking you if I didn’t believe that."

He shook his head, his frustration boiling over. "You don’t know a damn thing about me anymore. You’re livin’ in some fantasy, Mary. Always have been. This pure life of yours? Your daddy’s still drinkin’ and whorin’ and gamblin’ away your money. Jamie’s nearly run off with some cult, and here you are, beggin’ me to fix it all."

Her lips quivered as she reached for him, but he stepped back, keeping the distance between them. "I’m sorry," she said quietly. "I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—I didn’t know who else to turn to."

Arthur sighed, his anger giving way to something softer, but no less resolute. He stared at her for a long moment, his voice low but firm when he finally spoke, feeling defeated. "This is the last time we meet like this Mary. I’m done doin’ your family favors."

Her eyes widened as she grasped the weight of his words. "Oh, Arthur…"

"I’ve got my own life to worry about now," he said, gentler but unwavering. "My own family. A woman who’s stood by me, who I’ve got a future with. That’s where I’m puttin’ my focus. Not on what might’ve been."

Mary’s breath hitched, and she turned away. "It wasn’t that I didn’t love you, Arthur," she whispered, thick with emotion. “You know that.” 

"Don’t," Arthur said quickly, voice tightening. "Don’t bring that up now. It’s done. We’re done."

She turned back to him, her expression desperate, but he didn’t waver. "Think of what we had," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Of what could’ve been."

Arthur shook his head, his voice firm even as his heart throbbed. "I’ve spent enough time thinkin’ about that, Mary. Now I’m thinkin’ about what I’ve got. And I’m not gonna throw it away for somethin’ that’s long gone."

Mary lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting together nervously. For a moment, silence fell between them, save for the distant clatter of wagon wheels and the murmur of city life around them. Arthur could see it—the shadow of the young woman she’d been, the glimmer of the love they once shared. That flicker hit him like a punch to the gut, stirring memories he’d buried deep.

He sighed, running a hand over his jaw, trying to shake the ache in his chest. Damn it all to hell, Arthur thought. Why was it always her?

Finally, he let out a long breath and stepped forward, resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched slightly at his touch, then turned to meet his gaze, her eyes hopeful and fragile all at once.

"Fine," Arthur muttered, his tone gruff and tinged with resignation. "But this is the last time, Mary. You hear me? The last damn time."

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a fleeting moment, her face lit up, though the weight of her troubles quickly returned. "Thank you, Arthur," she whispered.

He dropped his hand and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at her. "Don’t thank me yet. Just tell me what kinda trouble your daddy’s dragged himself into this time."

 ━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Stealing back the Gillis family brooch had proven to be an unseemly task, though far easier than Arthur had expected. The brooch had found its way into the hands of a pompous collector named Mr. Hugo Abernathy, a well-known figure in Saint Denis. Abernathy had a reputation for exploiting desperate gamblers, trading their losses for heirlooms and sentimental trinkets to add to his collection of gaudy treasures. Arthur didn’t know whether the man fancied himself a cultured gentleman or just another leech, but it didn’t matter. He’d made the mistake of crossing paths with Arthur Morgan. As satisfying as it might’ve been to rob the man blind, this wasn’t about profit—it was about keeping his word to Mary, no matter how reluctant he’d been to give it.

By the time Arthur handed over the brooch, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the bustling streets of Saint Denis. He walked Mary back to her hotel, his boots echoing dully against the cobblestone as he turned his thoughts toward camp. Toward Kate.

As if sensing his distraction, Mary broke the silence. “So,” she said lightly, “tell me about this woman who’s tamed your heart.”

Arthur huffed a quiet chuckle. “She’s far from taming it. Hell, I can’t even tame her sometimes.”

Mary laughed softly, but there was something wistful in her tone. “She sounds... spirited.”

“She is,” Arthur said, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “She’s somethin’ else, Mary. She don’t back down from nothing. She’s kind, too, in her own way. Got a way of makin’ me believe I might just be better than I’ve been.”

Mary hesitated, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face. “And... she doesn’t mind what you do? The outlaw life, I mean. Doesn’t it... bother her? I can’t imagine it’s the life any woman dreams of.”

Arthur’s steps slowed, and his jaw tightened as the words sank in. He stopped, turning to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mary’s eyes widened, realizing her misstep, but she pressed on, perhaps emboldened by old familiarity. “I just mean... I tried to love you, Arthur. I really did. But that life you lead—it consumes everything. I just don’t see how anyone can truly be happy with it. Or with you.”

Arthur’s lips parted slightly, as though the words had struck him like a blow. They pained him deeply, he already struggled with feeling unworthy of Kate’s affections. But it stung especially after what he had just done to save Mary’s family, again. A slow anger began to simmer in his chest. “Kate don’t see it that way,” he said firmly. “She sees me. For who I am. Not for what I’ve done or where I come from.”

Mary faltered, searching for the right response, but her silence said enough.

“That’s the difference, Mary,” Arthur continued, his tone sharpening. “You were always tryin’ to fix me, tryin’ to make me somethin’ I’m not. Kate... she doesn't ask for that. She just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “She loves me as I am.”

Mary looked away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Arthur. I just... I suppose I wanted to understand what she sees in you. What I couldn’t see.”

Arthur let out a breath, long and heavy. “Maybe that’s just it,” he said quietly. “We were never meant to see eye to eye. You were always lookin’ for somethin’ I couldn’t give, and I was too stubborn to realize it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the distance between them suddenly feeling insurmountable.

“Thank you,” Mary said finally, her voice soft and resolute. “For everything.”

Arthur nodded, his expression unreadable. “Take care, Mary.” Without another word, he turned and walked away, the sound of his boots fading into the din of the city.

As Arthur mounted Belle and rode back toward camp, a strange weight lifted from his shoulders. It was as though he’d finally closed a door he hadn’t realized had been open for far too long, letting the past linger like a ghost. Mary had been a symbol of what had always been out of reach—a life of quiet respectability, a pure life. A fantasy where he could be the man she thought he should be. But with every step Belle took, the clarity of his feelings grew. 

That life had never been meant for him. Mary had never been meant for him.

Mary had wanted a version of him that didn’t exist, a man who could walk away from the outlaw life and become something proper in the eyes of society. She’d seen his flaws as barriers, challenges to be smoothed over or removed entirely. That his past was something he could simply erase from his identity. She loved the idea of him, not the man himself. 

Kate, on the other hand, had never tried to change him. She had seen him at his worst—bloodied and bruised, hardened by the choices he’d made—and still, she’d chosen to love him. All of him. The good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

Kate didn’t just stand by his side; she rooted herself there in devotion. She didn’t demand perfection or moral absolution. Instead, she accepted the man he was and encouraged the man he was trying to become. She saw the good in him, even when he couldn’t see it himself. Kate understood that his scars, both visible and hidden, were part of what made him who he was. Where Mary had always sought to mend or reshape him, Kate simply held space for him to be, flaws and all. 

As the city lights of Saint Denis faded behind him, Arthur let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The ache of old memories had dulled, replaced by something warmer, steadier. He thought of Kate’s laugh, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief when she teased him, the strength in her voice when she pushed him to keep fighting for what mattered. She didn’t coddle him or let him wallow in self-pity. She challenged him, called him out, set him straight, and still, she stayed.

The realization struck him like a punch to the gut: Kate was his future. Not some imagined version of himself or a life he could never truly live. Kate was real, and she was waiting for him back at camp.

Arthur urged Belle into a faster trot, eager to leave Saint Denis behind. The past had its place, sure, but it wasn’t where he belonged. Not anymore. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt certain of his path. His future lay ahead with Kate—and he could hardly wait to seize it.

 ━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The camp was alive with the warm hum of camaraderie as Kate sat cross-legged at the poker table, her cheeks flushed from laughter. The early evening sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden hue over Shady Belle as the group settled into their game. Hosea, ever the charming rogue, shuffled the deck with a flair, his mischievous grin growing as he eyed Kate's rapidly increasing pile of poker chips. 

Charles leaned back in his chair, sipping from a tin cup while Javier and Lenny exchanged jabs, their banter bringing easy laughter to the group.

“Now, Miss Kate,” Hosea drawled, dealing the cards with the finesse of a seasoned cheat, “you’d best not let that pretty smile fool us into thinking you don’t know what you’re doing. Although,” he added, nodding toward her hoard of chips, “I suspect the smile ain’t needed.”

Kate smirked, tossing a couple of chips into the pot. “Oh, trust me, Hosea. I don’t need my pretty smile to clean you out.”

A ripple of laughter swept over the table as Lenny slapped it. “She’s got you there, old man! She’s ruthless.”

“I’ll show you ‘old man,’” Hosea grumbled, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

Charles leaned in, his tone faux-serious. “Or maybe she’s just cheating.”

Kate gasped, placing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “The slander! Lies on my good name!”

“Good practice for tomorrow,” Javier said with a sly grin. “Maybe we should put her at the table instead of Arthur.”

The group erupted in laughter as the game continued, the teasing punctuated by moments of concentration. Kate reveled in the lightheartedness, the warmth of her companions easing the dull fatigue that had lingered all day. The strange dream she’d had still nagged at the edges of her thoughts, but the laughter and camaraderie helped soften its weight.

The sound of hooves approaching broke through the chatter, and all heads turned as Arthur dismounted Belle and strolled toward the group. Kate’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. 

“Arthur!” she greeted warmly, setting her cards down. “You’re back early. I thought you’d be out until dark.”

Arthur tipped his hat to the group, his gaze softening when it landed on her. With a small, fond smile, he bent to tilt back her hat and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, completely unbothered by the amused stares from the others. 

“Figured I’d better get back,” he said, his voice low but full of concern. “How’re you feelin’? Grimshaw ain’t been ridin’ you too hard, has she?”

Kate waved him off, trying to mask her weariness with a smile. “It’s alright, Arthur. Just needed a little rest, that’s all.”

Arthur stepped behind her chair, folding his arms as he watched the game unfold. “You want me to deal you in, son?” Hosea asked with a knowing smirk.

Arthur shook his head. “I’ll pass. Looks like y’all’ve got enough trouble at the table already.”

Three hands later, Arthur couldn’t help but notice Kate placing a high bet despite her lame cards. He frowned, leaning forward. “Hold on. Are you whipsawin’ Hosea?” He whispered loudly. 

Kate froze, turning to glare at him with mock indignation. “Arthur Morgan, I cannot believe you right now.”

The men at the table groaned as Charles threw his cards down. “Told you she was cheating,” he said, laughing.

“How’s she even doing it?” Lenny asked, his curiosity piqued. “You can’t squeeze a player by yourself.”

Kate rose with a huff, tossing her cards on the table and dramatically pointing across at Javier. “Ay, pequeño diablo!” Javier threw his hands up in mock innocence. “I swear, it was her idea!”

Lenny leaned back, shaking his head with feigned annoyance. “Can’t believe you’d do Hosea dirty like that. Poor old man.”

Arthur burst into laughter as realization dawned. “You two teamed up on Hosea? Of all people?”

Hosea chuckled, putting a hand to his heart. “I’m touched, truly.”

Kate grinned, collecting her chips and dumping them in her satchel. “No hard feelings,” she said, pushing in her chair, and flicking her hat in a playful farewell.

“You’ve learned from the best,” Hosea replied with a laugh.

Kate looped her arm around Arthur as he wrapped a hand around her waist. “I think it’s time I turned in,” she said, her voice softening as the laughter behind her began to fade.

“Goodnight, Kate,” Charles said with a small nod, echoed by Lenny and Hosea.

Javier smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Sleep well, card shark. Don’t let Arthur keep you up too late.” He winked playfully, “we got a big day tomorrow.”

Arthur shot him a warning glance but chuckled, steering Kate toward the house. “They’re gonna have your name runnin’ through camp by morning,” he teased.

“Good,” Kate replied with a smirk. “Keeps things interesting.”

 ━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The climb up the creaking, weathered staircase to their bedroom was quiet, the kind of silence that wrapped around two people who didn’t need words to fill the space between them. Arthur walked just behind Kate, his gaze focussed on her every movement. 

Up close he noticed the faint pallor in her cheeks. She was good at hiding it, but he could tell she was still feeling unwell. He ran a hand over his jaw, searching for the right way to bring it up without discouraging her mood. Listening to her laughter and the childish banter with Hosea and the other guys struck a chord in his heart. He didn’t want anything to ruin her happiness. But this next job, coupled with her abating strength loomed over his consciousness. Arthur couldn’t let it go. 

As they reached the landing, Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “Darlin’, I gotta talk to you about somethin’.” He was soft, cautious, but it was clear this wasn’t something he could brush aside.

Kate stopped just shy of opening the bedroom door, turning to face him with an arched brow. “That sounds ominous.”

Arthur gave her a crooked smile, his hat in his hands, but before he could continue, Kate pushed the door open—and gasped.

Hanging from a shelf inside the room was an elegant black and gold dress, the fabric catching the dim light like liquid fire. Beside it hung a sleek black suit and a matching golden ascot tie—Trelawney’s handiwork, no doubt. Arthur recognized the attire immediately, part of the plan for the riverboat job, and an uncomfortable weight settled in his chest. 

This wasn’t the first risky scheme they’d run, but something about involving Kate this time gnawed at him. The mayor's garden party had been a simple play to gather information. It had gone smoothly enough, but this felt different. The stakes were higher, the dangers more evident. Kate would be shoved in the spotlight. Open, and vulnerable. 

This wasn’t just another job with the gang. In the past, Arthur would dive into missions headfirst, guns blazing and ready to handle whatever chaos came his way. He’d learned to adapt, to put on a show when things went south, always prepared to claw his way out of trouble. But this time was different. This time, he had something to lose.

Kate wasn’t just another member of the gang. She was a light in the darkness, a reason to hope in a world that so often felt too heavy to bear.

Arthur's unease wasn’t just about her safety—it was about what her involvement represented. Every lie, every con, every dangerous move Dutch made, Arthur could swallow it. It was a part of the life he'd chosen. But dragging Kate into that world, risking her for the sake of their schemes, felt like a line he was dangerously close to crossing. One that gambled with her life. 

She deserved better than this, Arthur knew it was not the future he wanted for her. Yet here she was, caught up in it all because of him. Because Kate is too stubborn to let him take on the world alone. The thought of something going wrong made him feel sick. 

Kate stepped forward, running her fingers lightly over the dress, her expression equal parts awe and amusement. “Well, I’ll be damned. Trelawney certainly has an eye for style,” she murmured.

Arthur crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, an eye for flair and trouble. This don’t change how I feel about you being involved in it.”

Kate turned to him, her playful grin fading as she caught the concern etched into his face. “Arthur,” she began softly, already sensing where this was headed, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that?” he pressed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “You ain’t been feelin’ fine these past few days. You think I don’t notice how pale you’ve been lookin’, or how you’ve been tryin’ to hide it from me? I’m worried about you.”

“I told you, it’s nothing serious,” Kate said, though the edge in her voice betrayed her. 

“Darlin’, it’s serious to me.” Arthur stated. 

She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince Arthur or herself. Her thoughts drifted back to the dream she’d had that morning, the edges of it now hazy, like a half-remembered melody. She could recall flashes—shadows moving like whispers, an overwhelming warmth, and a sense of being drawn toward something she couldn’t quite remember. The dream’s meaning eluded her, slippery and incomprehensible, but it left behind a strange, fluttering feeling in her chest, like the stirrings of anticipation or fear.

Maybe it was just the lingering effects of the fever, or perhaps something more. Kate had noticed subtle changes in her body—a creeping fatigue that left her feeling weaker than usual, a loss of appetite, and persistent headaches that seemed to come and go. She brushed it off as nothing serious, likely just a common cold. After all, a little sickness had never slowed her down before.

She squared her shoulders, meeting his eyes. “I can pull my weight, Arthur. I always have.”

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “It ain’t about pullin’ your weight hon. You’ve got nothin’ to prove to me or to anyone else. I don’t want you pushin’ yourself too hard, not for something like this.” He gestured toward the dress, his voice softening. “If somethin’ goes wrong on that boat…”

Kate crossed the room and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “It won’t. Hosea’s got this all planned out to the last detail. I just have to sing a few songs while you win a couple rounds. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

The fact that Kate rehearsed things with Hosea brought him a sense of calm, but still his anxiety festered. Arthur held her gaze, his deep blue eyes searching hers for any hint of doubt.

 “I just hate that Dutch is puttin’ you in the lion's den while your vulnerable. You mean everything to me, Kate,” he said quietly. “I don’t want a future without you in it.”

Kate smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against his cheek as his warm hands enveloped her waist, squeezing them like he was testing if she were real or just his wild imagination.

“I’ll make you a deal, alright?” she resolved. “After this, I’m done. No more schemes, no more jobs. I’ll tell Dutch I’m out of commission.”

Arthur’s lips quirked into a soft smile, though the worry didn’t fully leave his face. She had made up her mind. “I’ll hold you to that,” he muttered, pulling her into a gentle embrace.

She rested her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding her. “I know you will,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

As they stood in the quiet room, the soft glow of the lantern illuminated the dress and suit like relics from a story neither of them wanted to live, an unwelcome reminder of the weight of the world outside. Arthur tilted his head, his lips brushing against Kate’s hairline with a tenderness that belied the tension coiled in his chest. His hand traced slow, deliberate circles along the small of her back, grounding him as much as it soothed her. 

For a moment, Kate closed her eyes and leaned into him, the warmth of his body chasing away the lingering unease of her dream. Flashes of it teased the edges of her mind—a heartbeat, a pull she couldn’t quite explain. She opened her eyes and pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his chest where she could feel his heart, steady and strong. 

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” she teased, though the mischief in her eyes couldn’t entirely hide the vulnerability beneath. 

Arthur let out a soft snort, his lips quirking into a smirk that made her stomach flutter. “Darlin’, I think you got that backward.” He leaned down to nudge her nose with his, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “I don't know what a man like me did to deserve a woman like you.”

Her laughter was quiet, intimate, the kind that warmed Arthur to his core and chased away the heaviness he carried. She moved her hands to his shoulders, her fingers tracing the lines of his shirt like she was memorizing him. For a moment, all the worry and fear melted away. 

“You know,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, “you could try on the suit—” She bit her lip, her lashes lowering as she glanced up at him, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.“And recreate that night we had in Saint Denis.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow, giving her a skeptical look, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “What, you’re tellin’ me this doesn’t have it’s charm?” He spread his arms wide, gesturing to his body and clothes. His tone was laced with mock arrogance, but the warmth in his gaze betrayed his act.

Kate pressed herself against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Absolutely,” she murmured, her voice softer now, her lips hovering close to his. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, her breath mingling with his. “I want you just as you are.”

Arthur’s grin widened, his hands sliding up her sides to cradle her face. His thumbs brushed her cheeks as he leaned closer, his voice a rough murmur. “Then what are we waitin’ for, to hell with the suit.”

Kate didn’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on her toes, she captured his mouth in a kiss, slow and deliberate. Arthur stilled for only a heartbeat, then surrendered, his hands tightening on her waist as he kissed her back with a fervor that made her knees weak. The world outside the room seemed to vanish, the faint sounds of camp life fading into nothing. All that mattered was the way her lips moved against his, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, the way her body molded perfectly to his, like they’d been made for this.

His tongue brushed along her bottom lip, and Kate moaned softly, her hands sliding to his collar to tug him closer. Their movements grew more eager, more desperate, as they peeled away layers of clothing, discarding them without breaking their connection. Arthur felt his need for her aching between his legs, and he couldn’t stop himself from guiding her backward to the cot. He followed her down, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he ground his hips against hers, drawing a breathless gasp from her lips.

Arthur broke the kiss to trail his lips down her neck, his stubble scraping lightly against her sensitive skin. Each kiss was unhurried and reverent, as though he were memorizing her taste. He reached the curve of her collarbone, then lower, his mouth finding a peaked nipple. He captured it between his lips, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub, and Kate arched into him, a soft cry spilling from her mouth.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as his kisses continued downward, his warm breath ghosting over her stomach. She shivered beneath him, flashes of her dream surfacing again—the heartbeat, the magnetic pull, the sense of inevitability. When he kissed her navel, she swore she could feel it again, that same unshakable connection.

Arthur paused, his lips hovering over her skin as he looked up at her. “You alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, his voice thick with concern and raw desire. His hands caressed her thighs, grounding her in the moment.

Kate laughed breathlessly, her heart racing so fast she thought he might feel it. “I am now,” she whispered, her voice trembling with affection and longing.

Arthur chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating against her skin. His hands slid down to lift her thighs, spreading her open for him. She gasped softly as she felt his warm breath against her most sensitive spot, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“I think I can help with that,” he drawled, his grin turning devilish before he lowered his head and pressed a kiss where she needed him most.

Kate’s body tensed at the first touch of his tongue, her head falling back as a moan escaped her lips, unrestrained and raw. That sound, coupled with the sensations Arthur was drawing from her, made her chest tighten with something beyond pleasure. The rhythm from her dream returned, steady and certain, like a heartbeat resonating deep within her soul. It wasn’t just her body responding to him; it was her heart, her entire being. Arthur’s mouth moved with a precision that wasn’t hurried but deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to explore her, to love her in a way that felt eternal. 

Every touch was a silent vow. A tangible expression of holy devotion, a sacred need that left her trembling beneath him, utterly lost yet feeling more whole than ever.

As the pleasure surged and overwhelmed her, Kate swore she could feel that heartbeat echo in her chest, pulsing with a meaning she didn’t fully understand but instinctively trusted. This moment wasn’t just an escape from the dangers of tomorrow; it was an anchor, a reminder of what truly mattered. What they were fighting for; their future.  Kate cried out his name, the sound trembling with passion and something deeper. Hope. In Arthur’s touch, in his unspoken promises, she knew that whatever lay ahead, there was hope for a future beyond this. For now, she let herself fall into his love, into the steady rhythm that promised her not just comfort but a forever she hadn’t dared to dream of.

AN: I know this chapter and the last one probably feel a little repetitive in the way they're structured; Arthur goes out, Kate is left at camp, and then they come together at night. But I promise the next chapter will include them together. I think you all know what mission is coming up....

Suffice to say, I think I've got the rest of this fic laid out. Well at least I have the bones, I've just been adding the meat as I go along. But it will be 35 chapters, with 2 epilogue chapters (37 total). It feels so far away, yet close at the same time. I wonder if I'll finish this before it hits the one year anniversary in March! ♥️

[marvelobsessed134]

Masterlist #1

This is my first masterlist. Second masterlist is on the pinned post in my profile

How to request, guidelines etc.

Marvel Women

Kate Bishop

Rizz You Up

Kinktober day two: Ghostface!Kate

Kinktober day eight: overstimulation

Natasha Romanoff

Caught

Little skirt

Package delivered

Watching you

Young, and dumb

Need help

GP!Beefy!Nat wakes up to you riding her abs (Drabble)

Captivity (My pretty little mermaid)

Dirty thoughts

Sundresses and breeding kinks

Wanda Maximoff

Control

Best friends sister

Julia Cornwall

In her web

Marvel Men

Bucky Barnes

Honeymoon Suite

Meet Cute

“Want me to suck your cock while driving?”

The one with the slutty maid and the sexually frustrated super soldier

Love me tender series

Steve Rogers

Sam Wilson

Peter Parker

Tony Stark

Mötley Crüe

Nikki Sixx

I’m only me when I’m with you

Don’t be shy, honey

Streamer!Reader headcannons

Behind closed doors

Good girl

Small town romance

Who do you belong to?

You shouldn’t be doing that…

Sneaking around

Kinktober day eleven: public sex

BDSM head cannons

Somebody’s watching me

Better? Better.

Save a horse, ride a cowboy

Tommy Lee

Midnight Comfort

Teenagers In Love

Runaway bride

Can we keep him!?

Friends help each other

Go team

Maroon

Little drummer girl

Sparks Fly series

Pretty When You Sleep

Plus One

Kinktober day nine: manhandling/tights ripping

Halloween party shenanigans

Attention you deserve

Surprise

Delicate flower series

First time

BDSM head cannons

It’s gonna be okay

Vince Neil

Thunderstorms

Sweet dreams

Please

It’s the little moments

Shades Of Cool

Our honeymoon (part one) part two

Kinktober day one: daddy kink

Plaything

She’s a riot grrrl

Mick Mars

Mermaid Motel

Streamer!reader headcannons

You know you want it

Kinktober day four: pet play

Multi-members

Two is better than one

Halloween/fall headcannons

Groupie Love (Gang Bang)

Cinderella (only writing for Tom and Eric)

Tom Keifer

Did you do that to her?

Up behind her with a pool stick

BDSM headcannons

“What is it, honey?”

Tom finding out you’re pregnant

Eric Brittingham

A pleasant surprise

Kiss (only writing for Paul, Tommy, and Gene)

Paul Stanley

I can see you

Underneath the surface

I fall to pieces when I’m with you

Prank call gone wrong

Teach you how

Tommy Thayer

You’re enough

One bed?!

Gene Simmons

Kinktober day 6: possessiveness

Guns N Roses

Izzy Stradlin

Kinktober day 5: handcuffs

Kinktober day 7: crying kink

Slash

Kinktober day 10: vouyerism

Barbie The Movie

Barbie

Starting to really like the real world

You can be the boss (STRLTRW part two, series masterlist coming soon)

CEO!Barbie AU masterlist

Marvel Cast/other celebrities

Sebastian Stan

Put me in a movie

W.A.S.P. (Only writing for Blackie)

Kinktober day 3: humiliation

Stranger Things

Steve Harrington

Domesticated

Daisy Jones and The Six

Daisy Jones

Her good slut

G!P Daisy x Stripper!Reader

LA Guns (Only Kelly atm)

Mistaken

Cindy Crawford

Picnics

Joan Jett

Our secret moments

[poparthuriana]

I have been gifted with a revelation.

Palamedes is Arthur Dent, Dinadan is Ford Prefect, Tristan is Zaphod Beeblebrox, and Isolde of Ireland is Trillian.

That is all.

[lacrymatoryao3]

First Time for Everything

One Shot Smut with Little Plot

Charles and Arthur awkwardly explore each other. Still working on my main fic, but also am on a Charthur jag.

1,557 Words (AO3 Link)

They needed somewhere private, but not in Saint Denis or even Rhodes. Those were still too close to Shady Belle and would risk the rest of the gang hearing rumors from locals. After hushed private discussions, they agreed to make a return to Valentine under the guise of having a robbery lead. Charles was the one to ride in first to get a room at the hotel. He wasn’t there during the shootout with Cornwall’s men, so the owner wouldn’t cause a commotion with him like he probably would with Arthur.

Arthur waited outside the town, on the side of an infrequently used trail that led to the Dakota River. He smoked two, maybe three cigarettes in a row to calm himself with his binoculars on the side of the hotel waiting for Charles’s sign from the window. As the sun set it arrived. From the upper floor in the room the owner always seemed to put people in, he saw the curtains be pulled back to block out the view of the street below.

He urged his horse forward and into Valentine. He pulled his hat down to make it harder to see his face, hoping no one remembered the great black Shire he was sitting upon. He hitched him beside Taima in front of the hotel and walked to the side of the building where there was an outside staircase to the top floor that avoided the lobby all together. Once he was in the hall the door to the room was on his immediate left. He took off his had and smoothed out his ash brown hair, taking a deep breath and lightly knocking on the door.

Charles answered with his long black hair still damp from his bath. No wonder he took so long. He put on fresher clothes, different from the weathered light blue with white dotted shirt he wore during the long and dusty ride, an outfit he started wearing when they arrived in the South. The one with the black trousers, a faded burgundy red overshirt that he only fastened at one bottom button, and a tanned leather vest that was embroidered with small colored beads in a tribal pattern in strips on both sides down the front.

Arthur just stood there, staring at the man in front of him as if he turned him into stone. He could only utter a strained and nervous “hey”.

“Hey,” Charles replied, a soft and equally clumsy smile breaking from his plump lips, “You, uh, should probably come in.”

Arthur nodded, hastily stepping over the threshold so Charles could close the door. He took off his hat and set it on a wooden chair next to a large standing mirror in the corner of the dimly lit room. His ragged satchel joined it, but not before he went into it and produced an unopened bottle of Kentucky Bourbon.

“I… Brought somethin’ for us.” Arthur said, waving the bottle to Charles.

Arthur opened the bottle and took a sip. The burn calmed the fluttering he had in his stomach, though his heart was still racing. He handed it to Charles, who also took one. They passed it back and forth until there was nothing left.

Charles set the bottle on the mantle of the fireplace. The flames caught his figure and created a blazing halo around his wide, strong, and athletic body. A golden glow washed over his dark skin. Despite having little belief in them, Arthur felt like he was looking upon an angel. His doubts possessed him like ghosts manifesting from the shadows. His heart began to race and get caught in his throat.

What if he embarrasses himself somehow? Neither of them knew what they were about to do. He had only been with women and he couldn’t even remember the last time – 5 years at least. In the world they lived in, two men lying together in the same way was seen as unnatural… An abomination to those religious type of fools.

Another thing was Arthur didn’t see himself anywhere near attractive. When he looked in the mirror all he saw was scars, blemishes where the sun he was almost always under kissed his skin, his crooked nose and chipped teeth from so many brawls, lines that set his scowls into the flesh, he still saw the stains of blood that he shed despite them being long washed away. If it came to that, would Charles even still be attracted to him when he shed his clothes?

It was only a moment that felt like an eternity, with both feeling apprehension and doubt, before Charles returned to him.

“You ready?” Charles asked, more bashfully than Arthur had ever heard from him.

“Yeah…” Arthur responded, “If you are, anyway. We don’t got to if you ain’t.”

“I think we’ll be okay.” Charles assured him, resting his large and shaky hands on Arthur’s waist. He pulled him closer, until their chests were crushed and they both could feel their pounding hearts.

Arthur nodded and breathed, “If you change your mind at any point durin’ this, tell me and we can stop…”

The air became thick as they gazed into each other’s eyes, their minds letting go of any preconceived notions they were taught by the world. Instinctually, their faces grew closer. At first their lips traced, savoring the sensation and heat of their breaths and bodies, until they pressed together. They tried to go slow, soft, building up the flame. It didn’t last very long. Arthur took Charles’s face in his hands, his thumb tracing the large scar that snaked along the right side of his face, kissing harder. He slipped his tongue into Charles’s mouth. He grasped Arthur tighter, greeting him with his own. Their faces burned with a hunger and passion neither of them expected to experience with another man.

With eager hands, Charles gently took hold of the kerchief around Arthur’s neck. He untied the knot and pulled it away, dropping it onto the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his broad chest. Arthur let out a low grown as he felt Charles’s rough, calloused hands explore his hair covered flesh.

“I’ve always been jealous of you for this…” Charles muttered, circling the bare halo around Arthur’s nipples.

Arthur chuckled, his face and ears turning a bright red, “Ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

They became emboldened enough to fully undress and joined each other in the bed. In Arthur’s arms Charles felt so warm, his plush skin hiding the hard and well sculpted muscle underneath. It excited him more than he expected, his cock beginning to pulse as it swelled. He refrained from touching it, focusing on Charles instead. He pressed his mouth to an area behind his ear, working downward to his neck.

Charles never experienced such tenderness, such attentiveness to the most sensitive areas on his body. His breathing increased, Arthur’s coarse fingers messaging his breast. His head tilted back for a moment, his throat letting out a soft yet high pitched moan. The ache was becoming too intense to ignore. He reached down, taking hold of his own cock and started to slowly stroke it. He looked down and saw how hard they both were. Arthur’s was slightly longer, but incredibly thick. The skin was pulled taught away from head, which was almost purple at the edges. From the tip, a clear fluid wept in long tears that dropped onto the bedspread. Charles took one of Arthur’s hands, leading it downward to replace his own. In return he took Arthur’s. He looked deeply into his beautiful blue eyes, pupils blown in lust.

Charles filled Arthur’s hand. With each movement his shaft throbbed, eliciting a sigh or grunt from the man it was attached to. Christ… It was the most foreign and erotic thing Arthur encountered. It wasn’t enough. He took Charles’s ass and pulled him closer, until their sensitive members brushed. Arthur couldn’t close his fingers around them both. Their hips moved in rhythm, spreading Arthur’s precum until it covered their cocks and they slid against each other with ease.

Words became rendered useless. The only thing Arthur muttered between the two men’s moans was an often unused ‘fuck’.

Charles started to buck more in his grasp, panting with beads of sweat on his brow. His cock was constantly twitching, begging, desperate.

“Arthur…” Charles gasped, “Arthur, I’m going to-”

“Come for me, Charles. Let it go.” Arthur whispered. He was dangerously close too, fighting to keep it before he was ready.

A few more aggressive thrusts, then Charles tensed. His cock erupted, his seed splattering both of their stomachs. It was joined soon after by Arthur’s. He shook, riding the intensity of their orgasms until they were spent. Arthur let go, rolling onto his back and huffing to catch his breath.

They laid in a stupor for some time, paralyzed by blissful relief. Arthur got up to fetch the towel hanging off the washing stand. He wiped Charles off first before himself, throwing it across the room. He opened his arms and Charles rolled over to rest his head on Arthur’s chest, the two embracing.

“What did we tell Dutch we were goin’ out for?” Arthur asked drifting off into sleep.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” Charles replied with a soft and tired laugh.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VII

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 VII: You, Amongst the Lupines

Time passes, and Arthur jumps at the chance to take you out of camp.

CW: References to child loss, violence, and Arthur being a big mean outlaw.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Mud squelches under his boot. It is everything he is not to scowl at the sound. 

Ain’t no way that Genevieve was going to stay with him now. Not with him sent on this fool’s errand. He was supposed to stay on assignment in Saint Denis, not get his boots covered in mud and horseshit in this backwater town. Genevieve was far too cosmopolitan to be following him around anywhere but Saint Denis. 

Strawberry was just a blip on a map, no matter how the mayor of this town was trying to push it.

Angus Carmody kicks the muck from his boot against the wooden step up to the mail depot. He scowls as the stink of meat from the butcher’s tent wafts his way.  This was a goddamn fool’s errand. He knows that Milton has it out for him. How angry he is about that damned woman being in the wind. He knows also that his trekking around West Elizabeth is a punishment instead of leading the search back in Lemoyne. 

The Pinkerton steps up to the depot’s clerk, standing behind the counter full of mail and other parcels.

“Mornin’.” The man greets, shuffling between boxes and baskets of letters. His full mustache and beard certainly made him blend in with the rough and tumble nature of the town that the mayor was so desperately trying to rid of.

“Mornin’, sir. Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

The clerk stops, setting down a pile of papers on the counter. He looks Carmody up and down, eyes lingering on his polished badge, pinned to his breast pocket.

“Hector Barlow. How can I help you, Agent?” He responds, measured and wary. Carmody is used to this. It is often, out in the West, that folk respond to him with caution and wariness rather than respect. Some sort of Western mistrust of government and authority, he always thought.

“You heard talk of a widow from that town that burned down on the Dakota?”

Hector Barlow strokes his mustache, nodding his head, “Heard about the fire, but not about anyone who survived it.”

“I’m tryin’ to find a Missus Shaw. She survived the fire and my employer is tryin’ to locate her to finalize some business items he had ongoin’ with her husband.” Angus responds, annoyed that this also seemed like a dead end. 

Barlow remains quiet for a moment, “I’ll keep an ear out. She supposed to be around here?”

Carmody pulls a stack of papers that he had tucked within his jacket, “Yes - petite woman, blonde hair if she finds herself up this way.”

“These also - a bunch of bounty posters we don’t got time to chase down.  A few thousand for these. Out of Blackwater. Some hillbilly could find ‘imself real rich if he tries hard enough.”  He shoves several crinkled pieces of paper forward on the worn finish of the counter. Hector nods, mumbling something about bringing them up to the sheriff’s office. Angus lifts his chin in response, before leaving the mail depot. The bright sunshine is an assault on his eyes as he steps outside.

Two other Pinkerton agents stand across the street, near the small town’s general store. Smoking cigarettes, the two men clad in bowler hats seem to stand out amongst the rough and tumble mountain men that peruse the muddy street. 

“Anythin’ here?” One pipes up as Carmody approaches, holding out a cigarette that Angus quickly takes. 

“Nothin’,” Carmody grunts, rooting around his pocket for his matchbook, “We’ll head north, to Wallace Station, to see if there is any word around there.”

He knows there won’t be, but alas, Carmody breathes out heavily before striking a match against his boot, he has his orders.

-

The cold mountain waters of the stream that feeds Owanjila are a shock to the system at first, but you figure that the clean, clear stream could do you no harm as you hoist your skirts to bare your calves, stepping ankle deep into the current.

A sob claws its way up from your throat, and you cover your mouth with one hand, one side of your skirts dipping under the stream.

“Ruth, what are you doing up here?” 

You sniff, wiping your eyes quickly, giving up on keeping your skirts dry as both of your hands cover your face. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” Hosea’s pace picks up as he walks closer to you, and he ignores the ache in his knees as steps down into the stream next to you where you stand, uncaring of the water starting to run over his boots.

“I- I just-”  You hiccup, dropping your hands and looking back into the rushing waters at your feet. 

“C’mon, let's get you out of the stream. Are y’still feelin’ ill?” Hosea pulls you, delicately, back to the shore, where the two of you step onto higher, drier ground.

“No- no, it’s just-” You let go of a shuddering breath as you feel his hand rub gently, slowly between your shoulder blades, “It’s…”

“Missin’ your husband?” Hosea offers.

“Y-yes…” You hiccup, closing your eyes again, unable to stop the tears from pouring forth, “And… and-”

Silence falls between you, interrupted only by the sniffles you cannot stifle and the bubbling of the creek waters as they rush down to collect in the lake. Another harrowing exhale, and you turn to look at Hosea, the older man’s silhouette blurred in your vision over your shoulder. 

“I look at Jack and… my…my little-” You sob, voice cracking,  “He came too early. I-in the winter - he… he just- he was so tiny…my boy-” 

Hosea’s hand immediately moves from your back to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you into his chest, you slightly stumble as you have to readjust your bare feet on the ground. The fur trim on his coat smells of the tobacco he smokes in his pipe. It’s something familiar - comforting - and the fight in you - what little you have left, leaves you as you sink into his embrace. You sob, the ache in your chest clawing its way out like a rabid animal. 

He holds you, rubbing your back, murmuring random words of comfort into your hair. 

-

The coffee is strong and bitter this morning. Maybe the off-handed threats he had been making to Pearson about the quality of his coffee finally sunk in. Or someone else had made it.

Arthur blows on the cup before taking another sip, trying to spare his mouth from getting burned.

His gaze floats, unknowingly searching for those soft golden curls amongst the women. He finds himself seeking out the soft-spoken widow. Missus Adler seethed in her grief. Missus Shaw, well, other than the time he certainly deserved her ire, didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. 

She’d been sick as of recent, catching whatever poor Jack had. Abigail was apoplectic, the lantern in the sick tent blazing at all hours of the night. It was only in the past few days he had seen her out of the sick tent for longer periods.

This morning, he was hell-bent on finally getting a new horse - the old Walker he had been riding got run down by an angry farmer and his mount when he and Javier had robbed a homestead the other day. Finally, after a few jobs, he had enough money to get a horse that he wouldn’t have to rustle - it was just taking the time to go over to Valentine to get one. 

Herr Strauss cornered him the other day, needing collection from a debtor on a ranch near Valentine. He figured he’d get it all done in one day, maybe swing by Strawberry before crossing the state line. For too long he’d been jumping from job to job - homestead robberies and coaches, even sheep rustling with John. That went swimmingly.

Maybe he’d grab Missus Shaw and take her out on the errands he has to do. He finally finds her, sitting across the way near the women’s lean-to, working on a pile of sewing. Arthur dumps out the last bit of his coffee before stowing his cup back in his satchel. He takes the first step toward the women’s tent before being stopped.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks back toward the campfire as the occupant stokes it. Hosea looks up at him with that weathered look about him that only comes about when he is serious about something.

“She’s fragile right now.” His brow furrows, jaw set, “Don’t you go upsettin’ her.”

“I ain’t an idiot, Hosea.” Arthur bristles, scowling back at his surrogate father. He also scowled at the thought of being so damn transparent that Hosea was that quickly able to figure out where he was going.

“You sure as hell are sometimes.” Hosea points up at him, “You can be a real ass-”

A cough interrupts his retort, and Hosea turns his head to hack into his bicep. After he clears his throat, he looks back at Arthur with hard eyes, “I’m tellin’ you, Arthur. The poor girl doesn’t deserve any shit from you. She’s gotten enough recently.” 

Arthur shifts, his hand gripping the buckle of his gunbelt in agitation. He scowls again, the lines betraying his age and lifestyle set in on his face. He dismissively waves at Hosea, stepping past the man and continuing on his original journey toward the women’s area.

“Missus Shaw.”

You look up from the sewing that you are doing - one of John’s shirts that he tore the armpit open. You grabbed it from Abigail’s pile the other night as she was scolding him for his carelessness.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to get outta camp for a bit - y’haven’t had much of a chance lately,” Arthur asks, his large hands draped over the buckle of his gun belt.

“Oh, I mean… maybe after I finish this shirt.” You nod down toward the fabric you are holding in your hands.

“Marston’s shirt can wait. Especially because it's his.” Arthur reaches down and yanks the shirt from your hands, surprising you with his speed. He tosses the shirt back in the pile and you scowl up at him, aggravated at his impetuousness.

“I was in the middle of that!” You complain, but nonetheless take the thread and needle you were working with and store it in the tin next to your seat.

“Serves the dumbass right. Not like he ripped his shirt doin’ any work around here.” Arthur chortles, holding his hand out for you to take, “C’mon, I’m sure you’re sick of staring at the same thing every day. I have some errands to do in Strawberry and Valentine.”

-

From the banks of Owanjila, Arthur leads his horse up through the hills to Strawberry, claiming to need to stop by the General Store for something. He was scant on details but shooed you off to check the mail in the freight depot after he had hitched the horse outside the Trackers Hotel.

You check to see if there is any mail under the pseudonyms that Arthur gave you, and upon finding none, set to leave before the clerk calls out to you.

“D’ya mind bringing these down to the Sheriff’s Office, ma’am?”

You nod and feel a slight unease as the clerk’s gaze lingers on you. In the months since Frederick’s death, you have once again become wary of men - the leering and possessive glares that you receive when it is obvious you are untied to a man. Like those leering and possessive gazes you received before you got married. Those gazes your daddy warned you about, all those years ago. 

Taking the stack of papers, you nod a hushed farewell as you move out of the mail depot and back to the street, sidestepping mud puddles as you lift your skirt above your ankles with one hand to avoid completely ruining the hems.

Your curiosity gets the best of you and as you pass the staircase, you pull the papers back from your chest and look at the contents of the first page.

$5000 Reward!

For the Capture Dead or Alive of 

ARTHUR MORGAN

You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Glancing around, you crush the first poster to your chest for a moment before crumbling it into a little ball that you shove into your skirt. 

You look at the other posters as you quickly duck into an alley next to the hotel, where a large, flowering cherry blossom stands before the cliff face. Shuffling past the gardens, you take a seat on a small bench and warily leaf through the papers.

John Marston. Hosea Matthews. Micah Bell. Javier Escuella. Bill Williamson. Dutch Van der Linde. Each piece of paper that you look at shows fearsome renderings of the men of the gang that you have been living alongside for the last months.

Larceny. Horse Theft. Burglary. Train Robbery. Bank Robbery. Assault. Murder.

The pit in your stomach opens; fear clawing up through your chest into your throat. Hosea, who just this morning dried your tears and held you as you cried? John, who struggled with the pressures of being a young father? Javier, who swears he will get you to dance with him one night around the fire to Dutch’s phonograph, even after your declination, always with a smile. 

Even Dutch, who welcomed you into this motley group when you had nothing but the clothes on your back. 

And Arthur. Arthur, whose cold, angry face stared back at you from the poster, the man who has been teaching you to shoot, who took you out on his errands today - who braved the raging fire at the Adler ranch to save you-

The jingle of spurs makes you look up.

“Arthur-” You hiss as he lopes across the road, moseying as he lights a cigarette.  He gives a grin as he tosses the match to the muddy ground, breathing out a plume of smoke as he comes closer, eyeing the cherry blossoms that wave in the cool mountain breeze. “Get over here!”

You nervously look around you before reaching up handing him the crumpled-up wad of paper you had shoved in your pocket. 

He frowns, then snorts, half a grin as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the ground and mashing it underfoot.

“Five thousand, for little ol’ me?” He looks back to you with a hint of mischief in his eye, “God, that’s one ugly lookin’ drawin’.”

“Arthur-” You scold, completely taken aback at his nonconcern at the situation. 

He shoves the poster into his satchel and holds his hand out for the other ones, curling his fingers in request before you hand the pile to him. He takes them and thrusts them all into that seemingly bottomless satchel of his before turning his gaze back to you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get. If these are comin’ from Blackwater we should get the whole gang outta West Elizabeth.” He reaches for your hand, almost gallantly, and pulls you up from your seat when you give it to him, “We’re gonna head toward Valentine. I gotta stop by a ranch out there for one of Strauss’s debtors. I’m gonna get a new horse and we’re gonna look for a new place to set up. Get on that side of the state line.”

He walks you out of the alley, back toward where his horse is hitched near the mail depot. He slows to allow you to try and duck the large mud puddles underfoot.

Through the main street of town, Arthur does not let go of your hand.

-

The ride to Valentine is long - long enough to be troublesome. You were able to convince Arthur to give you back the wanted poster of him, and you straighten it out as he guides the old Walker on the path out of the mountains and toward the Dakota.

You read the printed text, fearsome in its lettering, all capitalized, “Wanted for activities such as Larceny. Robbery. Burglary...”

Arthur snorts, interrupting, bemused.

“Gotta get money somehow.”

“Assault.” You reply, upping the ante.

“They usually deserve it.” He drawls in response.

“Murder.” You continue, stressing the severity of the crime.

“You’ve seen that. More than once.” Arthur nonchalantly replies, as if killing were the same as stealing a horse. 

It was true - from the O’Driscolls that he waylaid on the road the first day that you met him, the man threatening you at the campfire after the failed Blackwater job - he kills without hesitation. There is a pregnant pause as the poster crinkles under the tension of your fingers.

 “Have you ever raped a woman?”

Arthur stiffens in the saddle, then turns his entire torso to get the closest to facing you that he can. The easy conversation that you had been having immediately ended.

“No. Why the hell you askin’ that?”

“Seems like you’ve done everything else-” You defend your line of questioning, but immediately with that you hadn’t gone that far.

“Have I ever acted untoward to you?” Arthur interrupts, turning back to face the road. He bristles with agitation, rolling his shoulders as he tightly grasps the reins. The old Walker beneath you notices, and throws his head to the side, whinnying. 

“No….”  You try to push the intruding thoughts of Micah from your mind.

“Ain’t that type of degenerate.” He grumbles, “Sides, it wouldn’t speak highly of your smarts if you was out alone with a man who forces himself on women.”

You can tell he’s offended.

Unfortunately, the rest of the ride to Valentine is long, awkward, and silent.

-

By the time Arthur acquired himself a new horse, a strong and tall Kentucky Saddler mare, buttermilk-hide and blackmaned, his gruff silence makes you wish that you hadn’t come out with him at all. Wordlessly, he lifted you back onto the horse’s rump and mumbled something about a job he had to do on the way back to camp. Not far out of Valentine, Arthur guides the horse toward an old, ramshackle ranch house.

“Just stay here. Herr Strauss said this guy is tryin’ to weasel out of payin’.” 

Arthur approaches a thin, middle-aged man in the garden, “Mr. Thomas Downes…”

The man looks up, a hoe in his hand, and squints at the outlaw as he storms closer, “Yep, that’s me.”

“You owe me money.”

It is as if the floor was pulled out from underneath the man. He turns ghastly white in fear, stumbling backward from Arthur’s encroachment. The anger that radiates off the gunslinger is terrifying, even to yourself as an observer.

Downes holds the hoe in front of him as if to fight off the man twice his size, “Please, sir… I’m… I’ll…”

Arthur laughs cruelly, grabbing the hoe and throwing it across the garden. “Really? Threaten me, would you? How’s that debt looking now? You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss. You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

“I don’t have it all!”

You slide down from the horse as Arthur drags the man to the fence, throwing him against the post with frightening force.  You hurry toward the unfurling scene.

“Ruth-” Arthur growls as you push him away. Obviously, you could never move the man without his consent, but for some reason, he allows it.  You stand in front of this miserable man, who gazes up with fear-stricken eyes and a pale, clammy complexion.

“See, look, Mister Downes…. You could do this the easy way and give me the money now that we’re askin’ for it, or my friend over here can get the money from you the way he was gonna before.” You say over-sweetly, holding your hand out to help him up, “I think my way is better for you.”

“I… I don't have a-all of it.” Downes coughs, blood sputtering from his mouth as you recoil in surprise. God, this man was pitiful. 

“Then sell your place.” Arthur barks from behind you, having stepped closer as Downes goes into a coughing fit. 

“W-we already - hrgh - owe more than it’s worth.” The man coughs between words.

You frown, drawing your hand back from where the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You can feel Arthur tensing behind you, and one of his hands finds your waist, and you can tell he is about to yank you behind him. You brush away his arm before he has the chance to do so.

“Whatever you have is fine. We’ll give you more time for the rest. I’ll be sure to come - but Mister Downes-” You cross your arms, trying to look as composed as possible, “You do owe us.”

“Thomas-!” A woman rushes out of the house, followed by a teenage boy, and she falls to her knees next to the man, immediately taking a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Can’t- can’t you see, my husband isn’t well, if we could just have more-”

Arthur does manage to grab you by the waist and maneuver you behind him, and you’re unable to move against his strength. He glares down at the woman and her pleading. “We ain’t nobody’s idea of charity.”

The woman frowns, desperate - “But-...”

“Give it to him.” The stricken man garbles, his breath heaving. With a set jaw, she reaches into her skirt and takes out a small wad of bills, standing up from her husband's side and shoving it into Arthur’s waiting hand. 

Arthur gives you a bemused look after he pockets the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The gunslinger places his hand behind your back and pushes you back toward the horse, holding you upright as you stumble on the first step. 

“You’ll do alright, Missus Shaw.” His hands wrap around your waist like they have so many times before as he easily picks you up to place you on the horse’s rump, but you swear you feel his fingers pulse through the layers of fabric. You swear you feel his thumb press against the curve of the bottom of your ribcage.

Arthur swings himself up on the horse and urges it down the path leaving the ranch. With the horse’s jolting first steps, you wrap your arm around his waist to steady yourself before looking back toward the ranch.

You watch as the woman helps her struggling husband to her feet, and the teenage son stares after you with a vicious, hateful glare. You frown, before turning back around and pressing your forehead against Arthur’s back. They could have just as easily been you. These poor folks, already struggling, are now set back even farther.

The wave of guilt through your throat makes you swallow audibly.

Arthur’s large, gloved hand finds your own slung ‘round his waist, covering it with a gentle squeeze. His fingers press between your own, and for a selfish moment, all you can think about is how warm you feel. As Arthur leads the horse down the road to the east, the thoughts of the family whose miserable lives you just made worse flee from your mind.

How is it that all thought of the folk you just left more destitute than they had been left your mind as soon as Arthur touches your hand? How is it that you feel at ease pressed against a man who was just beating another one for money? How is it, that in this moment, with this murderer, you feel safer than you have felt in weeks?

Arthur hums, in a better mood than he had been all day. He holds your hand against the hard slab of muscle of his abdomen, and you lean further against his back to assuage the concern alight in your soul.

-

The ride northward along the Dakota is quiet. You surmise that Arthur doesn’t want to have further conversations about debt-collecting.  It is not until the two of you have ridden across Cumberland Falls and the pine forests of Big Valley have opened out to a large valley that he speaks again.

“C’mon, been riding for a while, let’s stop and stretch our legs.” He gruffly calls back as he leads the Saddler off of the trail and into the meadow, bright and sunny as the creek meanders through it.  The mountain air, cold and clean, burns your lungs slightly as you inhale, closing your eyes against the sun for a moment.

In that gentle, cold breeze, tall purple lupines sway among the grasses, reaching the horse’s knees as it slowly walks into the open plain. This place is so open and bright, its beauty takes you aback as Arthur slows the horse to a stop. Sliding out of the saddle, he immediately reaches up and takes you by the waist, as was customary, and helps you down.

“Nice out ‘here, ain’t it?”

“Beautiful,” you murmur, shielding your eyes from the sun as you survey the large valley.

Arthur pulls out a worn woolen blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. He lays it out upon the ground, nodding up at you to take a seat. You do so, and a comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Arthur sits opposite you and fiddles with his satchel, looping the strap over his head and hat, placing the bag next to him before flipping the lid open and searching around in it. 

You turn away and look on as a herd of pronghorn does graze in the distance.

“Saw this out the other day.”

You glance back at the gunslinger, to find him opening his leather-bound journal to a page and taking out a small, dried head of blossoms pressed between its pages. He holds it out to you, and your eyes widen as you gaze upon it - gaze upon the outrageousness of it all, the man with a five-thousand-dollar bounty, beating a debtor not two hours earlier, delicately holding the smallest, most fragile dried blossom between his thumb and trigger finger.

“That’s…” You trail off, incredulously.

“Never did tell me why you was named after a plant.”

You ignore the quip as you reach toward his gloved hand and the dried flower. The soft purple blossom, fragile and delicate, exchanges hands as he gently places it in your palm. His fingers linger for a moment, suspended in time.

The proper name, Latin, printed next to sketches in scientific books.

You smile, snorting lightly through your nose, “My mother… There was a heather bush outside her window on the farm she grew up on. Back in Ireland. She used to tell me seein’ those blossoms made her some kind of happy. Would tell me that when I was born, seeing me made her feel the same way. So, Calluna it was.”

There’s an ache in your chest. An ache of fondness. Not dissimilar to the ache that you felt when Abigail held your hand as you cradled her son to your chest in a feverish haze. Not dissimilar to the ache in your chest when Hosea held you to him when you sobbed on the banks of Owanjila. 

Someone thinking of you. These moments, they hack away at the depth of despair and loneliness that you have been drowning in. Maybe... Just maybe, you weren’t just Calluna Shaw, widow, alone in the world.

You look back up at Arthur, that ache fluttering up like a butterfly in flight.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. You can be awful sweet.”

You smile, and with the way his battered heart aches in his chest, he knows he’s in trouble. He can feel the blush bloom across his cheeks and he looks away, desperate to save face. Movement in the distance of the meadow draws his attention.

“Look, how’s about we bring back somethin’ for Pearson’s stew, huh?” Arthur looks out past the waving lupines to where the creek meanders back and forth through the valley. In the soft light of sunset, he points about a hundred yards up the valley.

A pronghorn buck drinks from the stream, finally visible to you as you squint and pull a stray curl of hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Go on and shoot it.” He nods forward.

“Me?!”

“Yes you, Missus Shaw. Come on, here you go.” Arthur gets up from his seat and steps toward his horse, pulling out a rifle for you to take from his saddlebag. You carefully place the blossom on the blanket before standing up, dusting off your skirts as you step toward Arthur and the buttermilk-hided horse.

The firearm nearly drops from your hand when you grasp it, completely unprepared for the weight of the gun. Arthur snorts under his breath as you grasp the Springfield with both hands, holding it up in front of you, and pointing toward the pronghorn in the distance. You frown, the barrel of the rifle swaying as you try to point it. The gun is much heavier than the repeater that Arthur showed you to shoot with earlier.

“C’mere, little lady.”

Oh.

Before you can move, his arms quickly brace yours as he steadies the rifle, heavy in your grasp. Your back presses against his broad chest. A whole head taller than you, you just reach the curve of his shoulder.

You are positive you are blushing fiercely and extremely thankful that he cannot see your face as he leans over your shoulder to line up the sights of the gun. As he does so, you close your eyes, breathing softly out your nose. The leather of his worn jacket - the tobacco he so often smokes, the musk of horse, the tang of whiskey - they all invade your senses as your head spins.

You want to melt into his embrace - he’s tall and broad and handsome in a rugged way. He’s solid and warm and oh, how swept up you feel to be wrapped up in his arms - even if this is in no way intimate. 

You want. You want to keep your eyes shut, tilt your neck, and give him access to suckle at your skin. You want his arm to leave yours and his large hand to engulf your breast. You want to be covered by him, held and possessed, and smothered and cherished. Everything melts away. The debt earlier, Arthur’s anger and threats, the fearful man and his family. It all just…fades.

You want.

“Both eyes open, darlin’.”

At the term of endearment, you steady your arms, holding the firearm jointly with him. Arthur is warm and solid and oh, with his arms around you, you feel so safe.

The buck raises his head from the stream.

Arthur’s breath tickles your ear as his whiskered jaw brushes your temple.

“Now.”

You pull the trigger.

[lotsnlotsofsoup]

Thinking about when Dutch said, "Arthur needs to rest" when I played the mission "A Rage Unleashed" (for the first time) about a week ago.

This post contains spoilers btw!

I know that people have interpreted this differently, some saying that Dutch is trying to belittle Arthur because of his condition and stuff but to me, I don't think that was Dutch's intention (at least his main intention anyway)

First off, let's cover something really quick. Is Dutch even aware that Arthur is sick? Ever since they got back from Guarma, Dutch has been neglecting his relationship with Arthur even more, and this is especially prevalent in chapter 6 since he barely even goes out of his way to talk to him unless he needs him for something. Even then, Dutch hasn't been discussing his plans with Arthur anymore, and the only person being told anything is Micah, as we saw at the end of the mission, "Just a Social Call." (Not to mention their actions at camp too)

(Also, yes, I am aware that he has been using Arthur as "the work horse" for several chapters now, but their camaraderie has significantly diminished, which has altered their relationship. Remember Chapter 3? They went fishing with Hosea simply to bond with each other, and Dutch initiated it as well.)

I think that Dutch definitely recognizes that Arthur is sick, he just isn't aware of the severity of it and the same goes with Micah. I included Micah here as well because, as we know, he started calling Arthur "black lung" which btw, is a lung disease that coal workers dealt with because of their working conditions. Although black lung (CWP) is serious, due to Micah's character, I'm sure that he says it because he is trying to tease/be mean towards Arthur like he always does and isn't actually aware of his actual condition.

On another note, Dutch is definitely aware that Arthur hasn't been the most agreeable with his proposals. In the mission "Just a Social Call" Dutch essentially lies to Arthur because he told him that he was simply going to talk about things with Cornwall and after he shoots and kills him Arthur then realizes that Dutch was actually trying to get revenge which, if he knew that in the first place, he wouldn't have agreed to meet up with them so easily. (Even though Dutch denies it, it's clearly obvious that he did intend to get revenge as shown with his past actions towards Angelo Bronte and Mrs. Braithwathe)

I think that Dutch told Arthur to "get some rest" simply because he didn't want him to get involved with Eagle Flies and the finer details of his plan since Arthur was completely against encouraging the war. Arthur has already shown that he is willing to go against his orders when he went to save John, and I think Dutch could possibly fear this because it could ruin his "big, wonderful plan" or whatever. Arthur is the only person standing in the way of that as of now. (Aside from John, he hasn't really done as much compared to Arthur other than disagreeing with Dutch. Their relationship could be a whole other post, though. Also, fear might not be the best term to describe how Dutch feels, but it is possible that he does feel like that)

As we know, Dutch has an ego and cares about how other people in the gang view him. It's clear that he wants everyone to believe in his plan. In fact, I think he's even struggling to believe in himself because of how ludicrous he's been. Deep down, he knows he's wrong but refuses to admit it to himself. Because of this, unfortunately, it almost feels as though Dutch has kind of given up on Arthur and is just trying to keep him at bay from losing any more faith and acting out against him again. He knows that he wouldn't agree with his newer plans because the "old Dutch" wasn't like that. (Again, people have definitely talked about his past issues, which, if you'd like me to discuss, let me know!)

Is Dutch even self-aware of his actions? Although I think he is, feel free to debate about that in the comments.

I'm still pretty early in chapter 6, so my thoughts may definitely change in the future, but thanks for reading my ramble! If you want to add anything or would like to correct anything, feel free to let me know. :D

THIS IS A REPOST ON MY NEW MAIN BLOG! I am no longer using my old blog, @lotsnlotsofsoup-sideblog

[annaphoenix1994]

The Course of True Love - Book 1 - Masterlist

After a notorious outlaw is found accidentally by Arthur Morgan, Minnie Barlow is befriended by the fellow outlaw after giving up information about Colm O'Driscoll, a gang leader both she and Dutch van der Linde have detested. She is offered a tent of safety in their camp as their search for their rival was incessant as she insisted her stay was interim after taking notice of being too attracted to Arthur, sharing the same taste for hunting, fishing, and robbing, the pair almost imperceptive that they were letting themselves fall in love. As one of Arthur's dear friends and father figure tells it, "the course of true love cannot be stopped, whether it is intended or not."

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, songs, characters, businesses, places, events, locations, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner (Rockstar Games). Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Colter - Outlaws from the West

Colter - Enter, Pursued by a Memory

Colter - Old Friends

Colter - The Aftermath of Genesis

Colter - Who the Hell is Leviticus Cornwall?

Colter - Eastward Bound

Horseshoe Overlook - Polite Society, Valentine Style

Horseshoe Overlook - Americans at Rest

Horseshoe Overlook - Paying a Social Call

Horseshoe Overlook - Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

Horseshoe Overlook - A Quiet Time

Horseshoe Overlook - Money Lending and Other Sins l, ll, & lll

Horseshoe Overlook - We Loved Once and True

Horseshoe Overlook - The Spines of America

Horseshoe Overlook - Who is Not Without Sin

Horseshoe Overlook - Blessed Are the Meek?

Horseshoe Overlook - The First Shall be the Last

Horseshoe Overlook - Pouring Forth Oil l & ll

Horseshoe Overlook - Pouring Forth Oil lll & lV

Horseshoe Overlook - A Fisher of Men

Horseshoe Overlook - An American Pastoral Scene

Horseshoe Overlook - The Sheep and the Goats

Horseshoe Overlook - A Strange Kindness

Clemons Point - The New South

Clemons Point - Further Questions of Female Suffrage

Clemons Point - American Distillation

Clemons Point - An Honest Mistake

Clemons Point - The Course of True Love I, II, & III

Clemons Point - Advertising, the New American Art

Clemons Point - Preaching Forgiveness as He Went