#the pinkertons are still around

[blanche-elizabeth-devereaux]

The way Sadie calls Arthur "honey" when they're rescuing Abigail from the Pinkertons strikes me through the heart every time I hear it ("do it my way, honey, it's for the best").

The tone & warmth in her voice hurts. It's her subtle acknowledgement of how obvious Arthur's decline is, yet still not saying it directly in order to allow him that dignity. Simply trying to help him in a way that he'll accept 💔 because he's used to being the one doing the protecting, not the other way around.

[lonely-cowboy]

one and only ↠ arthur morgan masterlist. main masterlist.

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader summary: although you left weeks ago, arthur still feels guilty for all he did (and didn't) do to you. he just can't seem to get you out of his damn head. word count: 3.7k warnings: none really? just sad arthur

author's note: AHAHAHA i'm finally back, and i present to you my first arthur morgan fic!! for more info on this request and a lil update on my comings and goings, look here <3

On a typical night, going to the saloon would’ve been a treat for Arthur. When he was able to spend a night out – some nights with the gang, other nights just with you– it meant he was safe. He didn’t have to worry about Pinkertons on his tail or whatever trivial chores Ms. Grimshaw had in store for him the next day. On a typical night, Arthur would’ve enjoyed the saloon.

But tonight was far from typical.

Arthur found himself huddled in a corner with a whiskey in hand, mindlessly fidgeting with the splintered wood of his lonesome table. Though his hat was tipped low to ward off any friendly patrons, Arthur’s eyes were focused on the bright moon outside. Its pale light filtered through the dusty window, casting shadows across Arthur’s rough features. 

Tonight, Arthur was not treating himself. He didn’t deserve such a thing after all the Godawful things he said to you. No, tonight, Arthur would punish himself. He would drink and drink and drink until he was so overwhelmed with misery that the only way to cope was with a good, hard fight. He’d find the biggest, sturdiest patron he could, sauntering over so audaciously that any right-minded man would already be angry with him. And without a word, Arthur would punch that man square in the face, waiting readily for a retaliating punch. After that, he’d let his hands drop to his sides, leaving him defenseless as he took punch after punch in punishment.

Tomorrow was sure to be one hell of a morning.

With a soft grunt, Arthur turned his gaze away from the moon. He didn’t deserve to look on something so pure, something with beauty only contested by yours.

Instead, he turned his attention to the crowd of rowdy drunkards and dancing fools, eyeing them for his victim. 

Lord, he deserved to be hit. Punched, kicked, bitch-slapped.

And still, none of it would be punishment enough for all he did to you.

Arthur cursed at the memory of that night only a few weeks ago, the night you finally left him. He didn’t blame you for leaving– oh, no, he could never blame you. You had every right to leave. Truth be told, he was surprised you stuck around as long as you did. 

But that night… he could never be angry at you for that. Not when you were oh-so-sweet, looking up at him with those big, helpless eyes and praising him with love he surely didn’t deserve. You were nothing but good to him as you confessed your fears of Dutch and where his needless obsessions would lead Arthur. You begged him to run away with you, leave the gang behind and quit risking his life every damn day. You were so desperate for him to leave, tears welling in your eyes as you clutched the front of his shirt… nuzzling your nose against his… peppering kisses along his lips and cheeks…

And what did he do?

Told you it was a nice dream, of course. Sure, he had his fair share of fantasies, mostly that involved a quiet life with you. But that was all it was to Arthur, a fantasy. He could never actually leave the gang. No, he could never. Surely you knew that, didn’t you? You knew Arthur well enough to know he’d never leave these good people behind. ‘course, you couldn’t understand, could you? You’d been with the gang barely even a year, you couldn’t understand the love he held for these people. These people who weren’t just his gang but his family. How could you ask him to leave his family?

And that’s when Arthur knew you were gone for good. The way you had stared at him then, pulling away from him as if he had just stabbed you in the heart– in a way, he had. The tears still trickled down your cheeks in steady streams, but your desperation was quick to turn to hurt, to anger. 

“Thought maybe I was your family,” you mumbled then. “I see I was mistaken.”

What a goddamn fool he was to watch you leave. Not a word of protest left his lips as you leaped onto your horse and galloped off into the night, so easily abandoning the life you had built there, your life with him. 

The first few days, Arthur was sure you’d return at any minute. He dodged Dutch’s requests to join in on whatever senseless plans he had, sending Charles or Javier in his stead and instead disturbing Ms. Grimshaw with questions of “Anything else I can do for ya?” Whatever it took to keep him busy and in camp, awaiting your return. 

Every minute of every day, his eyes were glued to the treeline, ears perked and waiting for the sound of horse hooves. One evening, Arthur had been fetching water from the lake when he heard the thundering of hooves, some surprised voices. Immediately, he abandoned the bucket, tossing it carelessly to the ground before sprinting back to camp. 

You were back! You had to be back, it had to be you.

Quickly was he proven wrong. It was only Charles, a large buck strapped to the back of his horse.The excitement hadn’t been in celebration of your return, no, only in glee that at least one of the men was finally doing his part around camp.

My, that’ll keep us fed for days!

Finally, someone’s puttin’ in the work…

Arthur turned away with a frustrated grumble. Where the hell were you? 

He made his way back to the shoreline to retrieve the forgotten bucket, though not without noticing the snickers and jeers from Bill and Micah. Arthur had made no effort to hide his desperation to find you; the two of them had seen him drop his bucket and rush to camp clear as day. 

Not that Arthur cared. So what if they laughed at him? He wasn’t ashamed for loving you the way he did. 

Eventually, Arthur could no longer keep himself busy with chores. Dutch oh-so-terribly “needed” him for this job, some train robbery that would take him far outside of camp. Reluctant as he was, the work kept him distracted for the week. 

Except at nights when he lay on his bedroll– listening to Sean’s snoring and John’s sleep talking– wishing you were there beside him. He’d lay with his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you close as you rested your head against his chest. He would trace patterns along your soft skin as you rambled about an argument you had with a local seller over the price of peaches or the old letter you and Tilly had found from Uncle’s second wife. Arthur would watch you intently as you spoke, burying his nose into your hair while he pressed delicate kisses to the top of your head.

But then the job was done, and Arthur was back at camp thinking of you every second of the day, no longer just at night.

By then, Arthur began to doubt your return. He worried about never seeing you again, loathing himself for all the terrible things he said and wondering if those would be the last words he ever said to you. Arthur was never much of a religious man, but he prayed to God that wouldn’t be the case.

For a few days after that successful robbery, Arthur tried to keep a steady head. He tried to go about his business as usual, which only proved impossible when he was so distracted by you. So in a final attempt to put himself at ease, Arthur took a few days away from camp to just… spend some time on his lonesome. He occupied himself with hunting, fishing, riding, the usual. 

But mostly, he remained huddled in his tent with his journal in his lap. He focused on drawing but found that he could only draw you. He couldn’t help it. For Christ’s sake, he couldn’t even draw his damn horse who was standing right in front of him! When his attempts at drawing failed, he tried to write which proved equally as miserable. 

With nowhere to go and nothing to ease his worries, Arthur decided he needed to be punished for what he did. Maybe then you’d come back to him. And if you didn’t… maybe it would at least help him to not feel so guilty. He doubted it.

That brought him to the nearest saloon. And there he sat, scanning its patrons for someone strong enough to give him a good beating.

But his eyes were drawn instead to a young couple tucked away in a far-off corner, holding each other tightly as they swayed to the hum of music. Arthur watched as they clung to each other, away from the noise of the saloon and huddled away in their own little world. The moonlight fell beautifully upon the pair, revealing bright teeth that smiled lovingly and crinkled eyes as they shared a quiet laugh. Their love was radiating so purely off of them, making it as though they were the only two people in the world, the only ones they would ever need.

For a moment, Arthur thought he saw you. He could picture you sitting across from him now, the image so vivid with the way you would lean your elbows on the table just to be closer to him. You would watch him silently, though he could see hundreds of thoughts behind your eyes. And somehow, Arthur would know that one of those hundred thoughts was a desire to dance. So without another word, he would stand and offer his hand to you, the corners of his lips quirking into a smile as you beamed up at him and took his hand in yours. He’d pull you flush against his chest, one hand holding yours while the other found its place on your hip. You’d knock his hat back affectionately, complaining how you couldn’t see his pretty eyes. Arthur would laugh quietly, making some remark on how they weren’t that pretty, a claim you’d be quick to refute. 

But no, that couldn’t happen because now you were gone. His beautiful girl, the kindest soul had had ever known… The one so perfectly crafted to him he couldn’t even begin to imagine a life without you. Even now, when you were nothing but dust in the wind, Arthur couldn’t imagine his life without you. 

What an idiot, what a fucking idiot. 

Only he could be so foolish as to give up something as perfect as you. Goddamnit, he should’ve run away with you. He should’ve taken your hand and run. Run far, far away and never once look back. Sure, he loved the gang, but his affection for them could never outweigh what he felt for you. He knew then that he could never be as happy as he was when you were in his life.

“You fool…,” Arthur growled as he pushed away from the table and marched outside.

This late at night, the small town roads should have been empty but they were teeming with handfuls of people, workers scurrying to get home and families enjoying a cool evening walk. Arthur watched them from the saloon’s porch, leaning against one of its beams as he lit a cigarette. It was hopeless to think it would take the edge off. 

He released a billow of smoke from the side of his mouth as he glanced up at the moon. He could only hope that somewhere– wherever you were– you were looking up at it too, sharing this last peaceful moment with him.

“Thought that was you in there.”

Great. Now he was imagining your voice, the calming sound bouncing around his skull in a dull echo. Perhaps this was punishment enough, yearning for you in this way.

“I know you heard me.”

Arthur couldn’t help but be drawn to the sound of your voice, his eyes searching for its source despite knowing you wouldn’t be there.

Only… you were there. Standing in the road with your arms crossed protectively over your chest, there you were.

Jesus, he was hallucinating now? 

Arthur must have looked absolutely dumbfounded at the sight of you, your lips shaping into a small smirk. 

“I’m real, I promise.”

Arthur’s chest blossomed with warmth, heat creeping up his neck in a bashful blush. How was it possible you knew him so well that you could immediately tell– just from a look– he thought he was hallucinating?

Arthur watched intently as you moved to toe the dirt road, your nervous tension clear in the set of your shoulders and pursed lips. He put out his cigarette quickly out of respect for you, his eyes locked on you even as he tossed it to the ground. He wanted to move closer to run his calloused hands along the skin of your arms or even just to feel the warmth of your proximity. But he remained glued to the porch, his boots suddenly too heavy for him to lift his feet.

A long silence passed as Arthur stared longingly at you, your attention focused on a particularly fascinating pebble that you nudged idly. Arthur wished you would just look at him, but he knew he didn’t deserve to lose himself in the comfort of your eyes.

The silence finally ended when you kicked your pebble too far, just out of reach. With your only source of entertainment gone, you looked up at Arthur. He could see the way your shoulders sagged, though from exhaustion or disappointment he couldn’t tell.

The look on your face was expectant, waiting. He supposed you wanted him to say something. It was only fair. He was yet to say a single word, and with the way he just let you walk away all those nights ago… He owed it to you.

“What’re you doin’ out so late?” Arthur rasped. “It ain’t safe for ya.”

“You know I can handle my own just fine.”

“I know.”

And that was the truth. Arthur did know how well you could handle yourself, feisty as you were. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do everything in his power to keep you safe. You didn’t need him, but he would always be there if ever you did.

Assuming, of course, you would have him around.

A garbled noise left Arthur’s lip as he struggled to find his words. It was so difficult when you looked at him like that, your brows pinched together with confusion. You didn’t look at him coldly as you should have, only with concern.

“You’re, uh… you’re still around,” he said.

You idiot, ‘course she’s still around, she’s standing right in front of ya!

“Sure am.”

You moved to the side as a pair of young men squeezed passed you to get into the saloon. It was then that Arthur noticed how exposed the two of you were. Being just off the main road and standing so far apart– your voices echoing into the night– he was sure everyone in town could hear your conversation. 

Pushing off the porch beam, Arthur took a step back and gestured to a set of wooden chairs shoved up against the saloon wall.

“Why don’t ya come take a seat, sweet–?”

Arthur cleared his throat, hoping it was enough to hide the way he so desperately longed to call you sweetheart. But you had heard. He saw it in your knowing smile as you trudged up the porch steps, taking Arthur up on his offer and sitting down gracefully. Cautiously, Arthur took the seat beside you.

From the way you were sitting– with your legs crossed tightly and your hands gripping your knee anxiously– Arthur could tell you wanted to say something. He dared not speak, fearing that if he did you might never speak to him again.

“It was harder to leave than I thought,” you admitted suddenly, your words coming out in one quick breath. Another pause. “Guess I understand why you couldn’t leave the gang…”

Arthur sucked in a breath as he scratched his chin nervously. “Darlin’, I shouldn’t ‘ave–”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I get it.”

For a terrible second, Arthur considered ending it at that, choosing to be silent. Again. 

No, he couldn’t do that to you, not again. You deserved better than that.

“No, it ain’t right. I did wrong by you. I shoulda been better.”

There was a flicker of hope in your eyes, mixed with the lingering pain. 

Arthur released a steady exhale as he took a moment to consider his words. Why was it so difficult to talk to you? You had only ever given him a safe, comfortable space to talk, to be vulnerable. Why was he struggling so damn bad now?

“Tell me what’s on your mind, cowboy,” you murmured, the same way you always did when his long silences persisted. “Why’re you havin’ a hard time?”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He deserved to be yelled at, he deserved your anger. But here you were, patient as ever, speaking in the kindest of tones. Lord, he didn’t deserve you.

“I guess… I dunno. I don’t wanna mess this up. I’m scared, darlin’… So goddamn scared.”

“Of what?”

“Losing you.”

There it was, plain and simple: he didn’t want to lose you, ever. 

He could barely survive a few weeks without you, how on earth would he survive his whole lifetime? However long it was.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” Arthur repeated in a whisper, turning away from you timidly. “I can’t.”

He let his hat hang low over his eyes, hiding from your intense gaze. Only seconds later did he see you out of the corner of his eye, peeking forward to meet his eyes under the brim of his hat. Carefully– as if trying not to spook a startled horse– you reached up and tipped his hat back.

“Can’t see those pretty eyes.”

Arthur risked a glance at you. You offered him a loving smile. 

In that moment, he let himself hope, hope that his worst fear might not come true after all.

“No need for all that, they ain’t–”

“Oh, hush now. They’re real pretty.”

“Ain’t nothin’ special…”

“They’re special to me. Ya know why?”

Arthur hummed in encouragement, his brows furrowing. He couldn’t believe there was anything that special about his eyes.

“’cause whenever I look in them, all I see is love.”

And when Arthur looked at you then, he looked at you with just that.

“Well… it’s ‘cause I love you.”

It didn’t matter if you left him, it didn’t matter if this was the last time he ever saw you. It wouldn’t change how he felt, would never, ever change the way his heart swelled with so much love at the mere thought of you that he didn’t even know how to handle it. He’d love you if you left, he’d love you if you stayed. He’d love you with every breath, even his last. And even then, when he was long gone, he’d still love you.

Arthur waited for you to speak, the anticipation clawing at his throat. He swallowed hard to avoid choking on his own words, but the longer you said nothing, the more he feared it would be of no use.

“I can’t afford to lose a love like that,” you whispered sincerely. 

Maybe you didn’t say it, but Arthur could see it in your eyes. The same love in his eyes was reflected in your own.

“Talk about my eyes all ya like… they sure ain’t as pretty as yours.”

Your smile widened, a visible warmth spreading throughout your cheeks.

Arthur shoved his worry aside as he stood from his chair, offering his hand to you. You didn’t take it immediately, staring at his scarred skin silently. Arthur was hit by a wave of insecurity; he was almost tempted to pull his hand away with a quick apology. But before he could, your soft hand slid into his, and you let him pull you to your feet.

Christ, how had he ever gone this long without your warm touch? Already, his heart was pounding faster. And you were only holding his hand! He was sure he might implode the second he pulled your body against his.

Thankfully, he didn’t.

You took a step closer to Arthur, your chest nearly flush against his. Your hand remained entwined with his, your other coming to rest on his shoulder. With some hesitance, Arthur snaked his hand beneath your shirt and placed it on your hip, pulling you ever slightly closer. His finger brushed against your skin, reveling in your warmth.  

Inside the saloon, music continued to play. Faint as it was out on the porch, that didn’t stop the two of you from swaying to the gentle rhythm. You then began to hum softly, so softly that Arthur could barely hear that sweet voice of yours. He leaned closer to hear you, his cheek coming to rest atop your head in a way that felt all too natural. He worried then that you might pull away, but you did quite the opposite.

You rested your head against Arthur’s chest, snuggling closer to his warm skin and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. Your humming slowly died down as you focused on the racing beat of his heart. This was a different kind of music to your ears. 

With your humming gone, Arthur took it upon himself to keep it up. He mumbled along the words to the muffled tune, pressing kisses to the top of your head between every breath. Together, you stayed wrapped in each other's arms. Every now and then, Arthur added a flourish that had you grinning like a little girl, his strong arms twirling you around and around. 

As he pulled you back to him, you stopped short to admire his rugged features. A smile tugged at your lips, one that Arthur wanted to kiss right off.

Instead, he met your unyielding gaze, mirroring your loving look.

“I ain’t losin’ you again,” he muttered.

He spoke it as a promise, a promise that he would never let you go again. Because if he did… he could never live with himself. No, you were the only thing that mattered, the only thing worth keeping around. He would never lose you again, his one and only.

[eternalsams]

Let Me Go ➛ Arthur Morgan

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

warning/content: bit of fluff, angst, rdr2 spoilers, high honor arthur, mention of death, tuberculosis, horses death (it's a fair warning), little bit of blood

summary: there is only one thing Arthur wants, get you somewhere safe, no matter what it costs.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: english isn't my first language, please take that into consideration. This is also my first time writing for Arthur, please be indulgent!

red dead redemption masterlist main masterlist

Arthur didn't think he'd let himself fall in love a second time. The first time it happened, his heart had been broken as he was on one knee, proposing to Mary. He swore he'd never let any other woman sneak her way into his heart ever again, he would've done anything not to feel that tightening feeling in his chest if he ever got rejected once again. But Eliza happened, they met in a bar in the West. She was a cute waitress, he was still young and handsome. And he almost felt like he could fall in love with her when she gave him a son, he was ready to. He wanted to forget his own promise and be a real family with her and little Isaac. But it all ended way too soon when he stood in front of those two graves next to the cabin they thought they'd be safe in.

Years passed by and he couldn't look at any woman anymore, his heart broken, stained by grief and sorrow. And after the Blackwater disaster, he didn't even had the thought of seeking comfort in a woman's arms. So when Charles came back to camp with your curled up figure in his arms, he didn't pay much attention. Strauss was harassing him to collect some debts for the gang and meeting a new unfortunate soul brought back by Charles was not in his plans. But one night you came up to him and tried having a conversation with him. You spent hours talking with him, captivated by his low voice telling you all kind of stories about people he met, animals he'd seen.

And from the moment he started falling for you, he just couldn't stop. You were just so easy to be around, to talk to. He loved spending his late nights chatting with you close to the camp fire, telling you his exploits and you telling him the funny stories that happened at camp while he was away. The first night you spent together was the best one of Arthur's life if you'd ask him, simply holding you in his arms for hours, feeling your heart beating close to his.

But right now, the feeling of your heart beating close to him was everything but comforting. One of your arm were tight around his waist, trying not to squeeze the air out of his sick lungs. John was right ahead, his horse galloping through the trees to escape Dutch's madness and the Pinkertons. You tried your best to hold onto Arthur's rifle in your hand, sometimes letting him go to aim the barrel at the agents surprising you on your way as your lover rode his horse like his life depended on it. Except yours did too. His breathing was starting to grow heavy and loud, feeling like he had to spit the blood out of his lungs.

"Pinkertons on the left, they'll keep the others busy!" You heard John shout and looked to your left. You could hear Micah's voice behind you, insulting you and calling you traitors. "This way!" John indicated but before Arthur could do anything, you were both ejected from your horse, tumbling on the ground. Arthur was quick to make sure you were okay before taking his rifle from your hands and shooting the Pinkertons up the hill. You crawled your way to his horse and soothed him, murmuring sweet things to him as you watched him suffer in pain, blood spurting from his wounds. When all the agents were killed, Arthur came running back to you and gently caressed the horse's neck. "Come on, guys. Let's go." John called after you. You looked up at Arthur and could see fresh tears in his eyes as he watched his horse live his last minutes. "Gimme a second." Arthur asked and leaned over his horse, whispering a thank you to him.

You stood onto your feet with John's help and Arthur grabbed his hat before turning to the two of you. "What about the money? Abigail gave me the key." He asked before looking into your eyes. He once told you he'd get you a part of the Blackwater money and you'd get a ranch somewhere in the west, somewhere nice where the two of you would grow old and die happy. But now that he was sick and dying, you didn't really know if you could even get that ranch with him. "The money's not important, Arthur. Let's just get out of here and find some place safe to hide for a while." You tried to convince him, seeing the hesitation in his eyes. He wanted to give you that money, to you and John. He didn't need it but you did. John's family did. "If you want the money, you head down. I gotta go to my family." John said in turn, holding you upright in his arms.

Arthur looked at you and nodded before putting his hat on his head. "I'm coming with you. I'm gonna get you out of this bullshit if it's the last goddamn thing I do." He said to John before taking your hand in his and helping you walking up the hill. The three of you started running up the cliff as you started to hear new gunshots behind you. "Come on, sweetheart, up we go!" Arthur made you run in front of him, making sure you weren't forgotten behind. You quickly ran up John who also helped you not to fall but often looked over you shoulder to check if Arthur was still following. When you realized he was being too slow, you ran down to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him up. "Don't you worry about me, darling. Just keep running, I'm right behind you." He tried to push you off him. "I'm not leaving you alone, Arthur."

When you reached a high point on the cliff, Arthur pushed you down behind a rock before giving you his two pistols. Two customized Cattleman revolvers. On each handle were a buck and a doe carved. Arthur had them engraved after your first night together, saying you'd always be with him, and him with you. "Remember what I taught you?" Arthur asked you as you looked down at the pistols. "Both eyes open and hold your breath when pulling the trigger." You repeated what he always told you when you trained shooting with him. He smiled at you before taking his rifle from around his shoulder and firing at the Pinkertons with John. You sighed and checked if the guns were loaded before aiming at the Pinkertons, the three of you eliminating them one by one.

"We need to get outta here. Let's go!" John called as he started walking back. You shot another agent and joined John as Arthur tumbled on his knees, his breathing heavier by the minute. You took his hand in yours after you put the pistols back into Arthur's holsters. "Come on, Arthur. Stay with us." You hurried him as you pulled him with you. "You two go..." He breathed out, gently pushing your hand away. "No, Arthur. You're coming with us." You immediately said, refusing to even think about leaving without him. "Keep pushing, Arthur." John encouraged him. "No." He said before coughing more blood. You were about to pull a tissu from your satchel but he wiped his mouth with his hand. "I think I've pushed all I can. You two go." He straightened up and looked at you. "Go with John, sweetheart. Don't make this harder than it is."

"No. You're coming with us, Arthur Morgan. Don't even think I won't drag your heavy body with us." You walked up to him, frustration clear in your voice. That made Arthur chuckle then cough. He softly grabbed your face in his hands and looked into your eyes, lit by the moonlight. "I know you would, darling. That's why I need you to go with John and don't look back." He told you before sending a heavy look to his friend behind you. "No..." Your voice broke and you grabbed his wrists to pull his hands away from your face. "We ain't all gonna make it. And you know it." He tried to reason with you but you refused to listen to him. John came up behind you and grabbed your arm to pull you with him. You snatched your arm from his grip and ran up to Arthur, taking him into your arms. "Please come with us. Don't leave me alone." You cried, your tears rolling down your face and soaking his shirt collar. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head. He pulled back and took his pistols out of his belt, handing them to you. "Keep them with you." You reached for them and looked at the carved doe on the first one. Arthur's finger brushing over the worn wooden handle. He then gave you the second one, where the beautiful buck was standing proud, forever engraved into the wood.

"It would mean a lot to me." He closed your hands around his guns before kissing your forehead. He then took off his hat and walked up to John, holding himself onto the younger man's shoulder. He placed his hat on John's head and smiled at him. "Keep her safe for me." He said in a low voice, but not low enough for you to miss it. "No!" You screamed and was about to reach for Arthur but John's arms wrapped around you, pulling you with him as you fought to join your lover. Arthur looked away, not able to watch your tears, and grabbed his rifle, loading it with the shells he kept in his bandolier. "I'll hold them off. Run and don't look back until you find somewhere safe to stay." He ordered, ignoring your cries. "Come on, lady." John tried to pull you with him but you fought with everything you got. "Please. There ain't no more time for talk." Arthur said, looking at you one last time, his eyes shining with tears.

Your knees gave away and if John wasn't holding you so tight, you would've fallen on your knees, scraping them on the rocks. Arthur simply looked at you, trying to memorize how your face looks like, even all red and puffy from crying, you were still the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes on. "Arthur, please..." You pleaded, thinking this was just a bad dream, that your Arthur would never give up and leave you alone. "Go with John, darling." He said, not having the strength to hear your cries more longer. "Arthur!" You called after him. "Just go with him!" He shouted back at you before pausing. You tried not to take it personally and looked at him. "Promise me you'll come back to me." You murmured into the quiet night. The gunshots would eventually come back but right now, all you heard was the wild life. "I love you, darling. Now go." He only said. "Promise me, Arthur!" You tried to run to him but John started walking back, pulling you with him. "Go!" Arthur shouted at you as he noticed more Pinkertons running your way. John saw them too and pulled you harder as you cried in his arms to go to Arthur. "Come on, we gotta go."

"No! We can't leave him! John, please!" You cried out as he made you walk away from the love of your life. Eventually, you heard him shout at the Pinkertons and the gunshots started all over again. When John thought you wouldn't try and run to Arthur no more, he let go of you and only took your hand to run away with you. It was like your body was acting on its own, your brain not following the recent events. You lost the only thing close to a family, lost the sweetest creature you've ever met. You still remember when Arthur first helped you ride his stallion by yourself, you were so scared to do it on your own, the horse was enormous next to you. But he turned out to be the sweetest thing in the world, answering to your calls and keeping you safe when Arthur wasn't there for you. And now you just lost Arthur. Arthur.

It wasn't fair.

The moment John saw a man riding towards the two of you on his horse, he pulled his scarf over his face and took out his gun. "Sir, we need your horse. Right now." He pointed his gun at the man and helped you get onto the horse when the man got scared and tumbled down the saddle. John quickly mounted the horse and had you wrap your arms around him to secure you. He kicked the animal's rear and started riding away. "You okay back there?" He eventually asked you but all you could do was stare at the cliff where you left the man you loved. When you turned to John, you could see the sun rising on the horizon and hoped Arthur could watch it one last time.

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@photo1030 @valoxwayward @minimisthios @literally-starscream @pinescent-and-gingerbread @sarahsmi13s @mackyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

@mountains-of-the-moon @cy1-ix @lisgoe @kkumquats @ql0mp @girl-calmdown @birthofvcnus @istillwatchthomassandersvines

@zae-heeyyy @herrera2k @sophieseems @spacemanarchives @loudbluebirdmentality @kappywilliams @rosesrdr2photos

@terriblefaun @lotvsflwr @nekoreddragon @elijahsfirstrodeo09 @eateraa @floydsglasses @peppermint-saddies @themorbidbones @y0ur-fr1endly-queer

[margowritesthings]

BITE ME

pairing: Vampire!Arthur Morgan x Human!f!reader word count: 4091 words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, explicit sexual content, explicit language, piv intercourse, fingering (r receiving), biting and blood play, vampire feeding authors note: happy halloween my loves! this is a day late, but time isn't real anyway so we can all just pretend it is yesterday... right?? anyway, this au is now living rent free in my mind. i'm obsessed.

taglist:@cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries@delilah-grimes@mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i @sickvictorianangel

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

The wooden panels nailed to the broken windows of the manor allow for tiny slats of moonlight to invade onto your skin, bathing you in a white glow. Peering through the gaps, you can see the distant campfire those bastard Pinkertons set up down by the swamp, but you know they’re surrounding you, boxing you into Shady Belle like fish in a barrel. 

It’s been three days of a stalemate, the Pinkertons keeping their distance, brave enough to come with guns and firepower but just cowardly enough to not advance towards the monster they’ve heard only legend of, lest he rip their throats out and drain their life away. No, they’d rather wait around until they can drag his starved body out and be hailed heroes.

That “monster” sits mere feet away from you leaning against the wall, pale skin paler still, his chin tilted upwards as he fights the weight of his own skull. It’s killing you, watching your Arthur grow weaker by the hour. Three days of hiding out in Shady Belle, unable to leave for fear of being hunted for sport, but it’s been much longer since he last fed. They have you trapped, completely and truly. If Arthur held even half his usual strength, it would have been so easy to escape. He’d have overpowered them in seconds, no matter their numbers or firepower. But for that, he’d need to feed on the blood of another, which has made things much harder.

You try to relax your worried features when you see him start to wake, rubbing the crease out from between your eyebrows formed by the frown you hold whenever you watch him sleep, too scared to look away in case he stops stirring. 

“Arthur…” You whisper on an exhale, quickly moving to sit beside him on the little bed. As always, his skin feels like marble, cold enough to seep through his shirt and scatter goose pimples over your arms. You’re used to the cold, what you don’t like is the thin layer of sweat coating him. Vampires shouldn’t sweat, but they also shouldn’t go so long without feeding, and the thought of this being a symptom of time running out terrifies you more than any number of monsters out camping in those woods.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Arthur shuffles to make room for you, guiding you to rest your head on his hard chest. There’s normally more muscle here cushioning you from his ribcage, but with Arthur so sick you can feel every bone beneath you.

“You get any sleep?”

There’s always the option to lie so he worries less, but Arthur knows you too well for that, so only the truth will have to do.

You shake your head, “Was keeping watch. They haven’t moved, think they’re still shit-scared of you, actually.” 

Absent-mindedly, Arthur’s hand gravitates to the top of your head, stroking your hair in such a way that sends tingles down your spine. Even now, in the midst of perhaps the most danger you’ve ever been in together, his very touch has the power to calm you instantaneously. 

He huffs a laugh, though you notice the slight wheeze to his breath when he does and another pang of worry hits you, “Course they are. Call themselves goddamn hunters, couldn’t catch a cold in Colter…” A pause, where you fill the silence with that tiny little laugh you’ve barely been mustering lately, then, “You should get some sleep, darlin’.” 

“Not tired.” You protest, almost childishly, burying yourself further into Arthur’s chest. In truth, you’re exhausted, and even though he already knows it, you won’t admit it. You can’t tell him that you’re too scared to fall asleep in case you wake up alone, that there’s no point anyway because nightmares of him withering away to nothing here beside you will drag you back awake soon enough. 

You both know this can’t go on for much longer. Something has to be done, and you know you have to be the one to do it. It’s just the convincing… 

“C’mon, baby…” He starts, but you won’t hear it. You’re not going to sleep. You’re going to fix this.

“You have to feed on me.” You blurt out, glad to be nuzzled into your beloved’s shirt so you don’t have to see whatever expression your statement has pulled from him. 

It’s not spontaneous, no sudden solution that has sprung into your mind this very moment. You’ve suggested it before, albeit never so forcefully, Arthur brushing you off like the idea is unfathomable. Explaining that he would never feed from you, terrified he’d lose control and hurt you. He could never hurt you. If there are such things as absolutes, that is one of them, you know it.

“No.” He’s blunt, clearly hoping his tone had enough force to end it there. But you’re strong, your will to keep fighting for him an everlasting force enough to match his. 

“Arthur-” You unravel from him to sit up and meet his eye, yours pleading, his hardened. 

“Darlin’, I said no. I mean it. I promised you I would never hurt ya’, and shit have I broke a lot of promises in my life… but not that one. N-Never that one. No.” 

“You’re going to die, Arthur. If you don’t do this you’re going to die and you’re gonna leave me all on my own to face those bastards a-and,” Dammit, when did you start crying? “And I can’t do it without ya, Arthur you know I can’t-”

“Yes you can-”

“Well I don’t want to!”  You shout, bursting the bubble of quiet around the Manor, your echo riding the wave of birds flocking out of the trees. Sobs threaten to break your strength, but you have to say this. It’s the very last card you have to play. After a few moments, tension between you growing palpable enough to cut with a knife, Arthur closes his mouth, letting you continue. 

“Arthur, you’re all I have left… You think I’m a sharp enough shooter to get by them? Fine. But say I kill ‘em all, then what? Find somewhere to live and carry on? I ain’t… I can’t lose you, Arthur. But I can save you, if you let me. Please.” 

Time feels as though it stops entirely when you see Arthur actually considering your words. Tears streak your cheeks, but your boots could ignite right on your feet and you might not notice in this moment. He looks so tortured in thought, no doubt imagining the life you would lead if you left him behind. He’s sure you’re strong enough, he knows you can do anything, but his heart breaks thinking of you all alone. 

You reach for Arthur’s hands, feeling his cold skin tremble. 

“I… What if I lose control? What if I hurt you? Sweetheart, you know what I get like when I-”

“But you won’t. You know how much blood I can afford to give you, and I know you, Arthur. You’d never hurt me.” 

You elect not to tell him that any blood that runs through your body belongs to him already, your heart pumping it through your veins only for him. 

You don’t tell him you’d die for him, because you know he’d never let you. 

He’s silent, contemplating. 

Please.

Please.

“...You start feeling faint or anything, you fuckin’ tell me, alright?” His tone holds an attempt at sternness, but it bothers you none. You can hardly hear him for the rush of relief flowing over you. 

“I-I will. I promise.” And you mean it. The two of you are two entwined souls, neither trusting the other to have enough will to keep fighting if anything happened to them. 

Arthur takes a deep breath in, almost like he’s giving himself an extra few seconds to back out of this, before sighing it out. 

“Alright.”

The breath that hitched in your throat an age ago releases and you wipe your tears away hurriedly with the back of your hand. 

“Oh, thank you, Arthur…” You’re so ecstatic, so grateful that he’s letting you save him that all you can do is launch yourself over to him, kissing him with all the passion the universe has offered you to gift him. Your hands fall to either side of his face, caressing his marble skin in a way that emits a tiny groan from him. Over the last few days, you’ve cuddled up to him a lot, but there hasn’t been much contact like this. Needy and wanting, loving and layered with everything from I Love You to Let Me Save You. Arthur is a starved man, but not just for blood. For you, body, blood and soul. 

Arthur snakes one arm around your waist, even with his reduced strength still able to pull you over to straddle his lap. You’d have protested, citing that he’s too sick to be holding your weight like this, but now that this is really happening you’re getting kind of nervous, and the thought of being so close to him, arms wrapped around your frame while he feeds on your blood, comforts you hugely. And there’s no backing out, not from this, so straddle him you will. 

Despite everything, Arthur’s cool touch sets you aflame. He trails his fingertips up and down your spine, his other hand firmly gripping your ass. His tongue teases your bottom lip until you open up to him, tasting him as he does you. He tastes…like Arthur. He might argue that he’s some monster, committing evil acts in the name of survival, but you know better. He’s your Arthur, he always has been. 

The world melts around you, leaving just you and Arthur, loving each other, saving each other. That one long kiss breaks into smaller ones, until Arthur is peppering your lips, cheeks and nose with tiny kisses, glistening red eyes welling with emotion.

“It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it? You were always gonna save me…” He whispers, almost like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

“Always. And you’re gonna save me right back, cowboy. But first…” You look down between your two bodies, to the arm you’re holding out to Arthur. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Does it hurt?” You surprise yourself with your answer to his question, though you stand by it. You’re not scared, you could never be scared with Arthur. But nervous?

“A little. But I’m right here with you. And if you need to stop or take a break or you start feeling off, tell me or tap my arm.” You nod slowly, placing your hand into Arthur’s, “I need a yes, sweetheart… I can’t do this to you unless you’re sure.”

“Yes, Arthur. I’m sure. Please.”

There is one final, apprehensive glance in your direction, which you reply to with another tiny nod. He raises your flesh to his mouth, flashes of his white fangs visible now in the moonlight as he parts his lips. 

It’s… strange. A small scratching feeling when his teeth puncture the skin of your wrist that pinches your brows together. There’s a second of nothing, before Arthur starts to feed and steals the breath right out of your lungs. 

It’s like you can feel every vein in your body, all connecting and tugging your lifeforce through to your wrist for Arthur to feast on. You can tell the second the first drop hits his tongue, the shudder that wracks through his shoulders and down his spine. His eyes roll back in… pleasure? You’ve seen him feed before, usually such a violent affair, but this is different. You feel vulnerable to him, and as though you hold every ounce of control all at once. 

When he groans, deep carmine eyes locking onto yours, you feel it all over, your thighs clenching around your suddenly wanting pussy. 

… An unexpected side effect. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the blood rushing around your body, or even the downright ravenous way Arthur is looking at you while he feeds on your blood, but you seem to be physically squirming on the bed, desperate for any kind of friction you can get. Fuck, you’ve never seen anybody react to being fed on like this… Then again, you’ve never seen feeding look or feel like this.

From even the smallest drop of you, what little colour that remains after his change has returned to Arthur’s skin and he looks much closer to alive than just minutes before. He looks himself again, right down to the cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It does maddening things to you, not at all helping your growing state of arousal. 

When his teeth sink out of your wrist, you watch crimson beads pool at two tiny punctures. Without breaking eye contact with you, Arthur lifts your hand back up to him, running the very tip of his tongue agonisingly slowly over the skin, pulling an honest to god whimper from your parted lips.

“You did so good, my good girl…” Arthur coos, an undeniably pleased look upon his face. He’s told you before, that with his heightened senses, Arthur knows when you want him. You also know how energised he gets after feeding, and how all of these factors are leading to a tension so intense between you you’re almost scared of the outcome.

There’s a smudge of blood on Arthur’s lip, one that you reach out to rub away with your thumb. Quick as the predator he is, he grabs your wrist before you can pull away, slipping your thumb into his mouth and sucking the blood gently off. Upon release, he drags one sharpened fang across the pad of your thumb and you shudder, craving that feeling of the bite more than you truly understand.

“A-Arthur…” You whimper, shuddering in pure anticipation and need. 

“I know, sweetheart… Christ, I knew you’d taste good, but this? Fuck, you’ve ruined me, baby…”

You can’t wait a second longer, certain you’ll perish unless he is kissing you in the next moment. Entangling your grip into his collar, you find Arthur only too malleable to your touch, all but pouncing on you, locking your lips together. His tongue demands entrance as he easily positions you to be laying under him, Arthur covering the entire length of you and thensome. 

“How do you feel, angel?” He asks between kisses, large hands roaming your body, tugging your clothes out of being tucked into each other to make it easier to take them off, “Y’alright? Don’t feel faint?”

“I’m okay. I just- I-I need you, please.” You’re pleading again, this time for very different reasons, “Did you get enough?” 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, sweetheart…” He growls, pulling the buttons of your shirt open feverishly. And then his lips are back on your skin, kissing your neck, licking at the skin whilst his hands work your zipper. You moan again, some wanton part of you wishing he would bite down again, marking you all over. 

Arthur is losing control in the best way, growling and grinding his erection against your leg as he tries to pull your jeans down. With a little help, he manages, tugging your undergarments with them so you’re completely bare for him. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful… my perfect little feast. Fuck, I’m tortured by every second I’m not buried deep inside that weeping cunt of yours,” At that, he runs a finger over your slit, drenching the tip of his finger in your slick, “but I think you deserve a treat for being such a good girl for me…” 

There’s no time to consider his offer as he plunges two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them, curling them to hit that sweet spot he knows so well. You scream, absolutely loud enough for any Pinkerton vampire hunters to hear.

“That’s it, huh? That what you needed? That pretty little cunt filling?” He taunts, thumb swirling over your already soaking clit. You can’t speak for crying out, but you manage a nod, feeling yourself stretch around a third finger in a way that has your heart racing even faster.

With your pulse pounding, you can really feel the wounds on your wrist starting to ache and burn. It's a strange sensation, but one that seems to blend into everything else in some twisted bout of pleasure.

Arthur must notice your eyes flickering to it, as he guides your hand back up to his lips with the hand not inside you, pressing the softest kisses over the holes in your skin. 

“Look what you did for me… My saviour, my perfect girl…”

“I’d die for you, Arthur.” you confess, the sweetness of his kisses and the languid circles of his fingers pulling you so close to the edge you can feel tears forming behind your eyes.

“It’d never come to that, beautiful. I’d burn the world down before I let your life ever hang in the balance.”

You believe him, too, and the emotion is suddenly too much. You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you need him closer and all you can seem to think to do is untangle your wrist from his grasp and slip your thumb into his mouth.

He knows what you’re asking for instantly, and you swear you see his inky pupils blow until his eyes are nothing but a reddened void. 

“Oh, my pretty little feast…” He groans, pricking your thumb with a fang and sucking gently at the blood. It isn’t nearly as intense as your wrist, but you still feel that tugging everywhere and you can’t stop the lewd moans that fall from your lips as you come undone. 

Writing, screaming his name, you feel Arthur suck harder on your thumb, moaning himself at the taste of you. It’s not nearly as much as he was taking before, but enough that your blood blooms over his tongue and fills every one of his senses. He is a man obsessed, and it’s the most beautiful sight as you cum for him. 

The waves of euphoria crash over you, each more intense and wonderful than the last. Arthur orchestrates your orgasm through his own pleasure, drawing perfect patterns on your clit in time to his thrusts. 

When you come down, he’s there, releasing you from his fangs again to free his lips for yours. Your lips lock together, his body crushing yours into the mattress. You love the feel of all his weight on you, especially when you can feel every pulse of his throbbing cock through the denim of his jeans. Jeans that must go, so you snake a hand into what little space you can between your bodies to reach for his buttons. Arthur helps you, and he’s soon naked on top of you. Wrapping nimble fingers around his shaft, you run your thumb over the rosy head of his cock, swiping at the bead of precum already leaking. He’s desperate for you, and it drives you wild. 

You’re already guiding him to your soaked entrance, grinding your hips pathetically, needily. Arthur chuckles softly, taunting you with the smallest of hip movements to slide his tip into you, but stopping there. 

“Arthur.” You whine, eyes pleading, cunt dripping for him. Your hands roam the expanse of his back, feeling each muscle twitch under your touch, scratching at the cool skin like a cat in heat. 

“I know, baby, I know… I’ll make it better.” He purrs, finally sliding the entire length of his cock into your heat. It stretches you in that beautiful way only he can and you moan, deep and visceral. Your nails leave white scratches across Arthur’s back as your hands float up to cup his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss as his groin presses hard into yours.

“Oh, my beautiful girl… I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’re gonna hear you up in Saint Denis… them Pinkertons out there are gonna think I’m draining every last drop of that sweet blood out of your precious little body.”

Such a violent image, but somehow… you enjoy the thought. You’d bleed for him till the end of time, gladly… you’d lay down your life on a slab and be Arthur’s for the taking. 

You can’t think of the words to tell him how much you want what he’s telling you, letting the passion guide you to bite down on Arthur’s lower lip. A taste of his own medicine. He has no blood of his own to give, but you’re biting down hard enough to have drawn some if he did, dragging another feral grown from the depths of his throat. 

True to his word, with just a few perfectly timed thrusts, you’re screaming his name, cunt fluttering around his thick cock and squeezing every inch of it. That full feeling is so wonderful, so bone-deep and euphoric you’re on the precipice of another orgasm in seconds. He can tell, slowing down and hanging you right over the edge with a wicked grin on his face. You whine and whimper, clawing at the back of his neck to pull him even closer.

“What do you want, little feast? Use your words.” He pushes, still dragging his cock up against your walls in the most torturous of ways. 

“I want… I-I need… I-I… urgh!” You cry out in frustration, each syllable leaving your lips earning another thrust that dizzies you to the point of cock-drunk stuttering. Fuck words. You’ll show him. 

With a strength you didn’t even know you possessed, you pull Arthur closer, guiding him to the crook of your neck. 

“Angel, I don’t know if I can control myself if I taste you agai-”

“Please…” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet Arthur’s movements, clit grinding deliciously against his pubic bone. 

Arthur’s eyes meet yours and you’re lost in them, convinced you’ve never been held so close to climax for so long before, but your body knows what it wants, what it needs to get there with Arthur. 

“Fuck, if I could die, you’d be the death of me…” Are the last words he speaks before sinking his teeth into your neck, in perfect time with a deep thrust of his cock. You scream, in pain, in pleasure, all of it, finally falling over that cliff and crashing into the waves below. You drown in your orgasm, dragging Arthur down with you as he sucks the sweet ichor out of your veins. With your blood on his tongue and his name on your lips, you cum together. The vibrations of his carnal moans tickle your neck, layering yet another juxtaposing sensation onto you. 

He releases, only to whisper sweet words of praise into your bleeding skin, “Look at you, giving me this… you’re doing so good for me, ain’t ya? My little angel, my good girl…”

And he’s biting down again, and you’re chanting his name, legs wrapped tight around his hips, tears you don’t remember shedding streaking down your cheeks. It feels like you stay there for an eternity, connected mind, body and soul. You would stay there for an eternity with him, if he’d only let you. But that’s another story…

It stings a little when Arthur unleashes his teeth from you, and you wince. His hand is there instantly, caressing the surely reddened skin as his brows pull together, “You okay? I didn’t go too far, did I? Y’feelin’ alright?” 

You shake your head softly, a blissful smile gracing your lips, “I’m perfect.” 

“Damn straight you are.” He remarks, slowly sliding out of you and lowering his weight onto the bed beside you. 

“What about you? How are you feeling?” You ask, entwining your fingers together and holding them up into the moonlight. There's a streak of your blood crossing over a few of Arthur’s knuckles. It suits him. 

“Never better.” He says honestly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, darlin’. I’ll never be able to thank ya’ enough for what you did, but I promise you I’ll get us out of here alive. Well… y’know what I mean.” 

You giggle, sure you may never get used to the fact that the love of your life is dead. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Arthur. You’ve given me your life a million times, it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

And you mean it. You would do it a thousand times over, giving your life to Arthur while he gives his afterlife to you, saving each other until the end of time. 

[springsylph]

Touch and Agree | Charles x Reader

charles smith x f! reader | no warnings | 2.1k | ao3 |

was trying to get back into writing but i was struck with an indescribable sadness once i thought about how useless charles must’ve felt after burning his hand in blackwater. so. i raise you unknowingly touchstarved reader versus Charles™

The horses have slowed to a trot by the time you press your cheek to the frosted window.

You hear Arthur shout some muffled declaration of success as he and Charles’ shadows curl around the front of the stable. The gang is likely aware of their return, senses now heightened by hunger and the frigid winds of Colter. But you feel the need to relay the message to the few still silently huddled in the corners:

“If you’ve been praying, today’s your lucky day.”

Tilly, arms crossed tight over her torso, is the first to pipe up from her spot near the fireplace. “Micah finally saw his sorry behind off the nearest cliffside?”

“Miss Tilly!” Grimshaw hisses, scandalized. The only thing stronger than Grimshaw's personal gripes are the exigencies of the gang. “No more of that. You know we need all the hands we can get.”

Karen, squished next to Mary-beth and a now slumbering Sadie on a wooden bench, scoffs. “Didn’t think we counted meat hooks as hands.”

That gets a snort out of John, who realizes too late that his body isn’t quite healed enough to handle said snort. A flick to the forehead from Abigail quiets him down in his cot before she turns to find you still gazing out the window.

“I’m assimin’ Arthur and Charles are back?”

You nod. “With one…two deer, by the looks of it.”

Your inhale is sharp when Charles pulls his catch over his shoulder with a jerk, beckoning Arthur to follow after him to mask his discomfort. The tension leaves your spine only after the last dregs of his shadow disappear into the stable.

Half-turned to Abigail, you mumble, “Does Charles look a little...off to you, these days?"

"Off," she repeats. The darkness under her eyes colors her words. "Off how?"

"You know," and you make as though to say something of substance before your eyebrows pinch together, "off.”

Abigail looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “If you’re waitin’ on Charles to scream bloody murder, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a burn to do him in.”

Another brick is slotted into a broken wall. 

“I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Charles. I think his hand is botherin’ him again.”

Abigail’s sigh dusts the cold air with its warmth. “I…suspect most things might look a little off since we've been cooped up like this. But we’ve got O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on the prod." She looks at Jack, now sitting cross legged at her feet and fiddling with the corner of John's blanket. Abigail had given up on herding him toward the fireplace some time ago. She strokes a featherlight hand over his head. "No sense in stressing yourself out over somethin’ Charles would’ve told us ages ago. It's good that he’s up and movin' though, ain't it?"

Your momentum stalls.

It should be. It should be.

Blackwater has left none unchanged. If you weren’t dead, you were shot, and if you weren’t shot, you were waiting for it. Hands bound. Body trammeled by fear and constant surveillance. From anyone else, this haste would be a blessing. A miracle, even, in light of all that'd been lost.

From Charles, it reads more like a warning.

But you don't think your feet have been planted here long enough to question their habits.

You say nothing and return your still numb cheek to the window. Will it always be like this, you wonder? The second guessing. The wary eyes. There’s a certain degree of trust that you aren’t privy to yet. Somehow, it feels worse knowing that everyone is making an effort to be so kind to you despite it. You know plenty who wouldn’t do the same.

Better dead than dead weight. 

The creed still lingers. Subsisting on what little you've gleaned in the short time you've been running with Dutch's group. Perhaps that's the root of this peculiar sense of worry. Of pity. You and Charles don’t speak often—there's a general lack of overlap in duties, for one, and he mostly keeps to himself. But you've always been one for actions over words. Charles was frighteningly capable, and more than willing to prove it time and time again.

To him, the burn he’d suffered may as well have been a bullet to the leg.

Your only issue is that no one else seems to see it.

You’re tracing shapes into the windowpane when movement just outside startles you. Charles, bow in hand, stalks toward one of the smaller cabins before veering off toward the small stream that lies just behind the stables.

You're springing up and stumbling out the front door before your brain has time to temper your heart. Someone shouts after you—likely Grimshaw, from the way it rakes over your ears. But you ignore it in favor of grabbing handfuls of your skirts and pushing through the powdery snow.

When you round the corner of the stables, breath short and chest tight, you find that Charles hasn’t gone very far at all. He's leaning against a crooked tree, face all taut lines as his fingers fumble with the grip on his bow. A frown plays at your lips when you notice the path of his footprints, stretching a few paces farther before it loops back to where he stands.

“Charles?”

You think you hear him exhale through his nose before he meets your gaze with the same smile he usually does. Bright. Unwavering. A little squinty, since the sun is in his eyes. “You good?”

Right. The usual pleasantries. You've conversed with him in your head for much longer than you have in person.

“I’m uh, fine." You blink stupidly. "Are you?"

“Mhm. Right as rain.”

Your eyes can't help but slide to the bow he clutches just out of sight. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest.

“…I’m just holding it, for now. Till my hand heals up, at the very least.” Charles holds up the offending appendage. “Not like I have anything better to do."

It's hard to tell if he's intentionally skirting around the point, or if he really does think there aren't any better uses for his time. The frown you'd been fighting off finally gets the better of you once Charles returns to adjusting his injured hand on the bow's grip.

"I don't think you should be doing that," you insist. Because he really shouldn't be. At all.

"Afraid I can't do that," he replies. "I'm one of the few here who can hunt worth a damn in this weather. I get sloppy, we starve.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’s what I know.” He says it with enough certainty to make you almost believe him. “Go back inside and warm yourself up. 'Preciate you checking on me, but if you freeze to death, they’re gonna laugh knowing you came out here without any gloves on.”

You clench your fists. Feel the ice that's settled there begin to splinter under the pressure and breach the thick skin of your palms. Fine, then. You’ll speak to him in a language he can understand.

Though your march over is less than graceful, he parts with the bow with surprising ease. Charles’ warmth, much like the rest of him, is tailored to perfection. Your fingertips graze remnants of the finery on the parts of the parts of the bow that his hands have warmed.

His eyes flick over you. Placid. Confused, too, on account of the ever-tightening grip you have on what you hope isn't a prized possession. His vexation becomes clearer once you step away, full hands now hidden behind your back. You have to take an extra step back for your own peace of mind.

“Charles Smith,” you begin, “I’d like to strike up a deal.”

“A deal.”

“I won’t repeat myself. We’re losin' daylight here.”

Chin tipped upward, you don your favorite facade.

Confidence.

"You focus on takin’ care of that hand, and I won't tell Arthur and Hosea you've been messin' with your bow."

His face belies a slew of unvoiced expletives. But you know Charles to be the—somewhat—gentle sort, so there’s no need to brace yourself. Even if he isn’t entirely convinced, you can at least hope that he’s found a little amusement in all this.

“You said ‘strike a deal,’” he says slowly. “This smells like a threat.”

“Deal, threat, whatever strikes your fancy.” It didn’t matter so long as he stopped stretching himself so thin.

He seems to mull over your words for a bit, no longer leaning up against the tree. There is, however, a small chance that he’s trying to find the right assortment of words to get you off of his back.

“We’ve got two deer.” You continue. “If Pearson is as frugal as I remember, that’ll keep us all for about a week. Should be more than enough time to get your hand back in order, right?”

“Hm.”

There’s a moment where Charles’ uninjured hand begins to stretch towards you. You just barely remember to lean out of the way before he drops his arm with a defeated sigh.

“So no bows—”

“No knives or guns, either. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“—Then how’m I supposed to keep up my strength? Can’t just sit idle, you know. We’ve got people here who need taking care of.” He takes three steps forward, and you take three steps back. “We’ve all got weight to pull out here. I’m of no use to anybody if I’m sitting out over a little burn like this.”

There goes that nasty word again.

Use.

You can joke all you want, but that’s what this boils down to.

“Well, you…just need something to pull on, right? Keep your hands busy?”

You hold out your hand.

The corner of Charles’ lips twitch downward. "I’m keeping my knives on me—"

"Take it."

"…What?"

You laugh. Loud and exaggerated enough to shake the snow off the trees. "Some gentleman you are, lettin’ a lady’s hands grow cold.” You flex your fingers. “My hand. Take it."

You use the awkward silence that follows to explain yourself.

"I figure it's got a little more give than a bow. And it’s got enough resistance to scratch that itch. You ever feel like shooting, ask for me. Hopefully it’ll have you feeling stupid long enough for your hand to heal up."

He brings a hand up to block the sun from his eyes, and you find yourself strangely missing the gold it cast on him. "That's not something I should be asking of you."

"Works out great, don't it? You're not asking, I'm offering, so there's no problem." Or, at least there wouldn't be if things go the way you know they will. It's no well-kept secret that Charles isn't too keen on extra company during his downtime. No one faults him for it, either.

Any chance of him taking you up on your suggestion is slim.

The wind is thunderous where Charles is quiet, snaking through the empty trees.

"Whether you take it or not, I'm walking off with this bow. But I'm not about to let you run yourself into the ground."

You flex your fingers again, and they tremble.

Charles shakes his head, and you're sure you've won—

"Alright. I'll do it."

Well, that's not good.

Violently off track and suddenly very unsure of how to proceed, you drop your hand. Charles, evidently resolute in his decision, says nothing more as he approaches.

You stumble back a bit as his body nears, wishing that the head you house on your shoulders was screwed on a little tighter. You think it's begun to spin when he takes your hand into his own; gently, as if scooping up a wounded bird from the forest floor.

He opens his mouth, then promptly closes it, brows furrowing as he inspects your palm.

Something is loud.

It's your heart, you realize. Stuttering with each squeeze of his bandaged fingers. Consequences are not beneath you, it seems.

You allow him a few more experimental squeezes than you would've liked, but you can't quite shake the strange tremor that races up your throat the longer he holds you.

Nothing is said until he pulls his hand away.

“And I can do this, whenever?”

Your tongue is miles away. “I, uh. No.” Wait. Voice crack. “I mean—yeah. Yes. Whenever.”

Charles makes no note of your vocal blunder, instead taking one last look at the bow you hold before beginning to make his way back to camp.

He taps the hand at your side as he passes. Leans to talk right into your ear. “Keep these wrapped up for me, will you?”

He’s gone before you have a chance to tell him that you would’ve done it without his say-so.

(Damn it, you think. Palm tingling. I’m in some deep shit.)

[nthspecialll]

Charles rode home, back to camp, back to the place and the people who had been his support the last half year, the people who had saved him and whom he had saved. He had known there had been troubles, he had seen it first hand, but he had not known that what he would arrive back to would be death.

Charles didn’t know what had gone down at Beaver Hollow, he had expected to come back to arguing, maybe some silence like there had been the last couple of weeks, quiet muttering and side glares. He had just buried Eagle Flies, yet another person who was manipulated by Dutch, one of his people, a young boy who just wanted to keep his people safe, to keep their people safe.

What does he return to? Grimsaw laying on the ground, gunshot to the stomach, eyes emptily staring out at the ransacked camp that had once been home.

I wonder if he thought it was the Pinkertons for a moment or if he knew that the inevitable had finally happened, that they had snapped, that his home was no more, that once again he was on his own, that his family had turned on one another.

I wonder if he feared walking in the area, afraid of whos dead body he would find next. Would it be Arthur with a bullet to the head? Would it be Javier with a new wound running along the scar on his throat? Would it be John with a knife still embedded in his stomach? Who of his brothers would he find next slaughtered by their own family?

He probably knew that the hole he was digging for Susan wouldn’t be the last, he probably knew he would make more, that he would find more bodies if he just walked the area. He was probably already grieving as he followed the hoof prints hammered into the ground, he knew whatever he was going to find would not be pretty.

He hadn't need to be a master tracker to find the next bodies, the distinctive horses he knew that John and Arthur rode, laying dead on the mountian, guns, saddles, personal items still left just like the animals he knew the people had cared deeply for had been left in a hurry.

He knew Arthur was sick, he knew that he was close, he would never have made it far, he had probably known since seeing Susan's body that he would find Arthur's too.

He was used to tracking animals to hunt, to eat, to survive, to find their hoof prints and broken branches showing their direction, now he was following an obvious trail of slips in mud, bullet shells and blood to find his friend's body, to give him the peace he deserved.

And finally, on the edge of a cliff, head tilted towards east where the sun rose, laid the body of his friend, his skin pale and his face beaten.

Charles had to lift his best friend, carry him down the mountian and up another to be able to forfill his wish, to be faced to the evening sun on a ledge, except Arthur had changed since then, he was no longer the same man so Charles faced him towards the sunrise, so he forever could feel the peace he had hopefully felt in his final moments.

I wonder if Charles went back, tracked John, found out he made it out alive, went back, tracked Dutch as far as he could before realizing it was not worth it before finally giving up and accepting that that was it.

Tilly? Abigail? Jack? Sadie? They had stayed but where did they go? He could track John, he could track Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier and Bill but what about the others? Did their bodies lay somewhere? Discharged as quickly as Grimsaw had?

Charles had loved being around others, but at what cost? How many bodies had he buried? How many times had his heart been broken because Dutch had made a mistake that had costed a life?

Maybe it was better being alone in the end.

[reaveries]

▬  a warm place for numb fingers (18+)

summary: after a conversation with a friend, tension arises between the reader and arthur. action is ultimately forced into her hands... or fingers, more like.

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader

warnings: mature content (18+)// explicit descriptions of fingering, cunnilingus, and some good ol' fucking

word count: 5.7k (estimated 23-minute reading time)

a/n: this goes out to all the cold and horny girls out there. i see you and i salute you. enjoy the fic

masterlist archive of our own

The chill was an inescapable thing and it followed her closely wherever she went. It burned her face red whenever she emerged from the mining town cabins. When she’d been forced to ride against it in fierce storms, it possessed her hair to lash violently across her cheeks in a blinding fury. And once those storms passed, it continued to insatiably lap at any skin left exposed to its gnawing teeth. Numbness in her fingertips became commonplace, leaving her defenseless as her trigger finger trembled beneath thin leather gloves. Like a starved coyote, the chill searched for any scrap of flesh it could find and devoured it to the bone. It wasn’t forgiving, as nature often isn’t.

She draws her coat closer to her body now, but the little winds continue to hungrily nip at her cheeks and dust them pink. What once ravaged her has become meek since they’ve descended the peaks of the Grizzlies. But it’s still there, and will continue to be until spring thaws the world. 

“Can’t believe I’m lookin’ at one of the most wanted outlaws this side of the Dakota.”

She looks up from her feet and sees Karen smiling, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She brings it to her lips and draws out the smoke.

“God, if the Pinkertons knew how big of a baby you really are, maybe they’d have tried their luck in Colter,” she says with a cheeky grin.

“That’s the only way those fuckers could’ve taken me down,” the outlaw says, laughing bitterly into her scarf. “I’ve never done well in the cold. Every day that I wake up and can’t feel my toes, I’m closer to packing up and fleeing to New Austin. Thinking of building myself a house made of cacti.”

She walks through the frost-laden grass to where her friend stands, overlooking the Dakota river.

“You’re fulla shit,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “The day you leave this bunch will be the day God, himself, shoots you off your horse. Got too much love in your little heart for the lot of us.”

The woman chuckles dryly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Got too much love for you, Karen,” she says in a sickeningly sweet tone and leans in, tilting her head dramatically to the side as if to give her a sloppy kiss.

“Get the hell away from me!” Karen screeches and fumbles to push her away. 

The outlaw stumbles backward lazily with her head thrown back in laughter.

“You play around too much, you know that?” Karen says, shaking her head, but the forceful tug on the right side of her lips gives her away. 

She smiles down her nose at the blonde woman, “Yeah, that’s what I keep hearin’.”

Once they both settle down, Karen extends the cigarette to her, offering whatever she can manage as it quickly dies out. She takes it between her forefinger and thumb and lets the smoke warm her from the inside.

“You know what I overheard some of the workin’ girls sayin’ when I was in town?” Karen speaks up as the smoke escapes the woman’s throat. 

She hums in question. Words out of the mouth of a working girl can hardly ever be taken for truth, but damn if they weren’t entertaining.

“Apparently, the number of clients they get skyrockets in the winter months. Somethin’ about men subconsciously wantin’ to be warmed up so they seek out activities that make ‘em break a sweat.”

She nods, “I guess that makes enough sense.”

Karen shakes her head, “That’s not all. The girls were also sayin’ that as it gets colder, the men are more and more riled up. Almost like it’s something with the moon, but instead of turnin’ into the dogman, they just wanna bury themselves in a woman real bad. But all I’m hearin’ while these girls are sayin’ this is that we got ourselves a bunch of fools too dumb to think clearly down in that little town.”

She stomps the life out of the cigarette with the toe of her boot, her spurs jingling as she drives it into the dirt. 

“Ain’t no way that’s true,” she says with a sardonic smile. “That last part, sure, but the moon’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Well, somethin’s gotta explain it,” Karen says and crosses her arms defensively across her chest. “I can tell ya, once it gets colder the men start lookin’ at ya different. I never noticed the link ‘till now but it kinda makes sense.”

She has to fight the laugh rising in her chest as she tries to seriously process the idea that men are becoming more aroused due to a giant orb in the sky. It takes everything in her not to but Karen sees right through her.

“It ain’t that ridiculous, you know. You can’t tell me you ain’t never noticed Arthur actin’ different.” 

The amusement rapidly drains from her face and is replaced by a look of bewilderment. 

“What are you talkin’ about Arthur for? Arthur and I are just friends, we ain’t like that,” she sputters out. 

“Oh, sorry,” Karen says, putting her hands up, “I forgot you was still on that.”

Her flustered reaction surprises even herself, causing a creeping warmth to crawl its way to her cheeks. A biting retort fumbles dumbly in her mouth.

“I’m not on anything. Don’t know what got in your head but it ain’t never been like that between Arthur and me.”

“It ain’t just in my head, honey. Everyone here knows it. You think folk ain’t seein’ the way you two touch up on each other the way you do? How neither of you goes nowhere without the other? Get real. It’s plain as day to everyone but yourself.”

She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one is near enough to hear their conversation. Instead, she sees that the camp has slowly come to life while she’d been distracted by Karen. Folk have begun their morning chores, migrating from washboards to clothing lines or splitting logs of wood in two. Her eyes flit across their faces until they land on the one she’s searching for. He’s far enough away, speaking with Pearson by the food supplies wagon. The cook waves his hands around animatedly but he’s turned away from her so she can’t tell what they’re speaking about. Arthur looks past the man and meets her eyes. He smiles and nods at her, to which she returns with a forced thin smile of her own. 

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Karen,” she mutters, and without turning to say goodbye, walks away.

And yet, Karen’s words burrow themselves deep within her mind and linger in the spaces between each normal thought as the day continues. Surely she'd been exaggerating and not everyone in camp suspects her and Arthur to be intimate with each other. Karen just thinks she knows more than she does sometimes. It was very much like her to be overly confident about certain things, proclaiming them as fact even past the point she knows she’s wrong. Then again, that also wasn't the first time someone had mistaken their closeness for something more amorous in nature. Dutch, having watched her throw an arm around Arthur and share from his bottle, assumed the pair had made themselves official. This prompted some proud fatherly spiel wherein he clapped Arthur on the back and congratulated him. It was vague enough that neither of them knew what he was referring to until later. Once they both realized, it gave them a good doubled-over, tears-from-the-eyes sort of laugh. But Arthur quickly cleared it up with the man, assuring him that there was nothing of that sort going on. Apparently, Dutch remained unconvinced.

As she sharpens her knife, an interesting thought intrudes past the others. For a moment, she wonders if Arthur might be an exception to this phenomenon the working girls were talking about. He never spoke of women the way that most men did. So, if he’d ever been interested in that sort of way, she wasn’t privy to it in the slightest. But, he’s still a man and he isn’t immune to the desires of men. Could it be possible that Arthur wishes for a woman to warm his bed at night? Or perhaps, on the coldest nights, a woman to warm himself inside?

Her blade slips against the whetstone and nearly slices her hand open as depraved imagery flies behind her eyes. She curses loudly and the knife drops to the dirt with a muffled thud.

A horse gallops and skids next to the hitching post beside her and the rider quickly flies off the mount, hitting the earth with heavy feet. She looks up from her hand and it’s him. There’s a pristine buck carcass flung over the back of his mare from a hunting excursion he must be returning from. 

“You alright?” He asks in a raised voice, meeting her with a walk that holds no patience. He looks down at her hands, likely expecting to see them covered in blood. His shoulders drop in relief when he can’t find any.

“I’m fine,” she says, standing up quickly and brushing dust off her pants. She forcefully clears her head of the intrusive thoughts, worried he might be able to see them if he looks too close.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, woman. Don’t know what I’d do if you went and chopped off your trigger finger,” he says, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“You’d have to find a new riding partner, that’s for sure,” she quips unenthusiastically.

A breath of laughter leaves his lips to tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“Naw… There ain’t no replacin’ you. Ain’t a single person here has what it takes to put up with half the shit you and I do. We’d just have to teach ya to shoot with four fingers.”

His tone is lighthearted but there’s a hint of sincerity to his words that makes her cock her head in intrigue. He notices the change in her expression and quickly backpedals.

“Ah, don’t let that get to your head, now! I can barely tolerate ya most days. There’s just… no denyin’ you’re one of the best shots here,” he says, avoiding her eyes.

She smiles smugly and pats his chest.

“Tell me something I don’t know, cowboy.”

“Like I said, I can barely tolerate ya,” he says, swatting her hand off him. “Anyways, you mind takin’ that buck to Pearson? I need to have a word with Dutch about tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” she says and slips past him to retrieve the fresh game. 

She hoists the buck over her shoulder and nearly gasps from the unexpected weight. The animal is nowhere near light and it’s a wonder he managed to cleanly take down the thing. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of her boot scuffling in the dirt as she steadies herself. 

She stumbles over to Pearson’s wagon and throws the carcass down on the ground. The cook is nowhere to be found so she figures she’ll save him the trouble and put her sharpened blade to good use. The knife cuts cleanly through the skin like warm butter, separating the hide from tender pink insides. As she’s making the final incisions, she looks up from the gruesome sight and sees Arthur talking to Dutch outside his tent. He seems relaxed enough, his hands resting on the buckle of his gun belt while he talks. It’s something he does often, just like someone might stuff their hands in their pockets for the sake of keeping them occupied. An endearing little action. And yet, for some reason, the common and utterly insignificant act of him doing this makes her forget herself. 

Maybe it’s the suggestion of him holding a different object hidden beneath the confines of denim, right below his loose grip. Because the longer she looks, a vision of him taking himself into a fisted hand begins to overshadow her mind. He’s lying in his cot, and while everyone else huddles together for warmth in their makeshift beds, he’s fucking his hand in the darkness of his tent. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted slightly, but no noise escapes his lips to save himself the mortification of someone walking past and overhearing. He quickens the pace of his pumping hand and breathes out a quiet, ragged moan as he coats his stomach with ropes of sticky seed. His chest heaves, then slows to normal before he wipes the evidence away with a worn shirt.

Arthur looks at her with a confused look on his face. He waves a hand slowly in mock greeting to rouse her from her dazed state. Dutch, mid-sentence, turns to look over his shoulder, but she averts her eyes before they can meet his. 

“Holy shit,” she whispers. She frantically finishes skinning the deer with her chin to her chest to hide the furious blush tormenting her cheeks. 

Once she’s finished, she practically sprints back to her tent before Arthur can ask her what her deal is. She closes the flaps hastily and goes to sit on the edge of her bed to collect herself. 

It’s not like she’s never fantasized about a person before, and she’s taken people to her bed more times than she can remember. This flustered feeling isn’t rooted in some virgin-like innocence, and yet she might as well be a pastor’s daughter with the way she’s blushing over it.

It’s because it’s him. He’s her partner. Her friend. Someone who’s grown to understand her better than she understands herself. She’s been the same person for him ever since they crossed paths in Montana all those months ago. Many feelings, albeit platonic, have come and gone since that fateful encounter, but lust? Lusting after a friend may be the most foreign feeling she’s stumbled upon in all her years of living. 

A griminess so thick and so palpable enshrouds her, weighing heavily, filthily, on her skin. And there’s only one solution that comes to mind.

She straddles the firmness between her thighs as it bounces rhythmically beneath her. A moan unintentionally escapes her lips in response to the merciless feeling down below. Her blouse sticks to damp skin and plasters itself lewdly against the curves of her stomach and chest as her hips rock back and forth. Another moan. This one more pained than the last.

Her thighs have always burned something fierce whenever she’d mount her horse directly after a bath. Soft, herbal-scented skin would grate against thick cotton of riding trousers, eliciting the pained gritting of teeth. But this time, the minor uncomfortable sensation is preferable, simple, compared to the complexities of her consuming thoughts from earlier. A hot bath was her saving grace as it turned out. It cleared her head and made her feel like her normal self again. Whatever thoughts she’d been having of her partner had been washed away and left behind at the bottom of the steel tub like some tainted baptism.

She rides through the trees that fringe the perimeter of camp and calls out to Javier, who stands guarding the entrance. He gives her a short wave, and nothing else. The two of them haven’t talked much, despite having ridden together for over a year now. Most of the men in camp tend to keep to themselves, she’s noticed. It’s a shame the talkative Irish man went and got himself killed in Blackwater. He knew how to have a good time. He always claimed the two of them were kindred spirits, but she heavily denied it each time since it read like an insult. 

She swings herself off the saddle and, like a moth to a lantern, migrates toward the fire to warm herself. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon and with it any amount of heat it provided, leaving her a shivering mess. Dinner bubbles inside the stew pot, prompting her to grab a portion before taking a seat on one of the logs.

The fire is reduced to glowing embers that do little to warm her bones. She nudges the logs with her boot but they just shift and plume ash. Sighing, she tugs closed the lapels of her coat and brings a spoonful of venison stew to her lips. The steaming broth slides down her throat and settles in her belly, making a furnace of her stomach. It’s a nice feeling, one that quiets her mind.

Suddenly, the log shifts as someone sits beside her. 

“Where’d you disappear off to?” He asks. “I couldn’t find ya anywhere.”

Arthur settles to sit hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, a bowl of stew in his hands. He’s wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a light jacket, but not much else to protect him from the cold. In fact, when she looks around, no one else seems to mind the chill as much as she does. Maybe Karen was right in calling her a baby.

“Nowhere special. I just had to go into town for a bit,” she says, taking another sip of the stew. 

He nods his head, “Had to go into town and get yerself a bath, huh?”

She turns sharply to look at him, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I could smell the lavender oil the minute ya hitched yer horse,” he explains. “What’s that about? Are ya plannin’ on finally actin’ like a lady or somethin’?”

She shoves his shoulder with her free hand.

“Shut up Arthur. You act more like a lady than I do,” she accuses. “Also, it might do ya good to take a bath for once.”

That last part she says a little lower than the first. Sometimes when they’d be out on extended errands they’d bathe in the river together. But no matter how much he scrubbed his skin, the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat would linger in the closed tent when she lay beside him in her bedroll at night. She always put up with it though because it likely meant she didn’t smell much better.

“The hell’s that s’posed to mean?” He asks, looking visibly taken aback.

“It means you smell like—”

“Naw, not that. Whatchu mean I act like a lady?”

“Oh. It means you’re goin’ all soft, big guy. Take it as a compliment,” she says, trying to suppress a smile.

“Great. First Dutch, now you. I ain’t goin’ soft, girl. And I sure as hell ain’t turnin’ into a woman,” he says, looking away from her and shaking his head. “As if you even knew what it meant to be one. Look at yerself!” He adds with an indignant wave of his hand that gestures from the top of her head to her feet.

She doesn’t need to look. Her coat is crafted from bear and bison pelts, made to fit a man larger than herself because the trapper lacked the expertise to tailor one for a woman. It keeps her warm enough, which is all that should matter. Wearing clothes that flatter her figure ranks relatively low on her list of priorities when every day is a fight to not freeze to death. On top of that, folk have always been mighty eager to remind her of her femininity whenever she dared step outside the docile role of her fairer sex. Which, in her line of work, was often.

“I’ll have you know I consider myself an expert on the matter… ma’am.”

She starts to snicker but when she looks over at him his jaw is set and he’s giving her a side-eye that makes the noise die in her throat.

“Keep callin’ me a lady and see where it gets ya, woman. Y’ain’t gonna be laughin’ when I’m forced to prove myself to ya.”

If there was ever any heat being produced in her body, it's all gone and rushed to her face just now. She stares at him, unblinking.

“What?” 

“Mm, s’what I thought,” he says, bringing a spoon of potatoes and broth to his lips. “Now, if you’re done foolin’ around, are you comin’ with us tomorrow or not? Dutch said you might but I know you’ve got a lot on your plate as is.”

He said he’d prove himself to her. Prove that he’s a man. There’s hardly any innocent way to interpret that.

“Tomorrow?” She asks. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

He looks at her all funny-like, slightly annoyed even.

“Did you drink the bathwater or somethin’? The O’Driscoll told us they was all holed up in some cabin not far from here. Mentioned Colm is with’em. I only told ya about it a handful of times.”

She hears him but isn’t really listening. The phrase repeats on a loop in her head. She wants to ask him what he meant by it but the moment’s passed and she knows there’s no real answer. If asked, he’d just say he was teasing her and there’s nothing more to it. 

He calls her name, bringing her out of her stupor. She opens her mouth to say something but the wind picks up. A bone-rattling shiver possesses her, making her shrink inside herself. He stares at her, unphased by the chill but with concern etched into his handsome features.

“Sorry, Arthur. I- I don’t know where my head’s at,” she says through clenched teeth.

“S’Alright,” he says, looking her over. “I forget how sensitive you are to the cold.”

He sets his bowl on the ground and brings his hands to cup around his mouth, heating them with hot breath. He then takes her hands into his and clamps around them, transferring warmth to numb fingers.

“Jesus, you’re freezin’,” he says.

He brings her hands close to his mouth and repeats the same action, trying to warm them back to life with his breath. He presses into her palms, massaging heat from the pads of his fingers into hers.

Had he done this simple gesture for her yesterday, she likely would’ve just felt grateful to feel her fingers again. But today isn’t like yesterday. Yesterday, she wasn’t acutely aware of the ever-present moisture nearly dripping down her thighs or the dull, aching pain at her core as it practically begs to be filled by a man. Yesterday, she didn’t envision that man to be Arthur. She didn’t envision herself blissed out and bouncing on his cock, being guided by his hands gripping her ass and forcing her all the way down on him every time. She also didn’t visualize their sweating naked bodies pressed against one another as he hoists her legs around his waist and fucks her relentlessly against the side of his wagon. Yesterday was, without a doubt, much easier than today. Today she’d thought of all these things and more.

She watches attentively how he holds her slender fingers in the thickness of his own. Those hands have snuffed out the lives of many, brutally at that. She’d seen them wrapped around the necks of men, crushing their windpipes and severing their spines when he’d been provoked on the wrong sort of day. Lots of blood on those hands. But there’s just as much on hers and in this moment, those blooded hands are so tender towards her. 

If these same hands could kill without remorse, yet be so gentle when the time came for it, then by God, what else were they capable of?

She slips her hands out of his faster than she intended to.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she whispers, looking away.

“Sure. Maybe that’ll help ya to start actin’ normal again. Get the blood flowin’ to yer brain and such.”

If only he knew it was doing the opposite. Blood is flowing elsewhere and she’s the furthest from normal she’s been in a long while.

She stands up, leaving the bowl of stew unfinished on the ground.

“Here’s hoping,” she says, her hands clasped together to preserve his heat. 

Her boots crunch ice-bitten dirt loudly beneath their heels as she makes her way through the quiet camp and to her tent. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the flaps close shut behind her. 

“What… What is wrong with you?” she asks no one. Her tent is empty, and even though she wants to be alone, this is no comfort.

Her palms dig into the concave of her eye sockets, rubbing them furiously to wake herself up. She groans and shrugs off her coat, letting it collapse onto the floor. Her boots are kicked off her feet and her shirt is made quick work of before it’s thrown violently across the room. Her pants meet the same fate, being unbuttoned and kicked off, then kicked again so they lie atop the other garments. She collides with her mattress in a huff and lies there to stare at the ceiling of her tent, chest rising and falling rapidly.

She’s not going to be laughing when he’s forced to prove himself to her. 

Why is that phrase repeating over and over in her head? More importantly, why is she closing her eyes and slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her combinations?

She pauses. It’s wrong to do this. So wrong. To touch herself with visions of him in her head is sick. But she needs it so badly, so desperately she needs this to be taken care of. The throbbing at her core ultimately wins over her conscience, and forcefully pushes guilt to the side.

Her fingers slide between the delicate folds down below, the slick moisture coating her digits easily. She imagines it’s his hand. Large and warm, playing with her and teasing out moans by dancing around her clit. He asks her if it feels good, but only incoherent noises leave her lips. 

He chuckles and the breath of his laughter hits her center as he dips his head between her thighs. Lips replace fingers, sucking and leaving open-mouthed kisses heavy with tongue, ravishing her like a starved man. Her thighs clench around him and her calves tremble against his bare back. She whispers praises to him when she can find the words. 

Please keep going. You’re doing so good. So good.

Both of her hands tangle themselves in his hair. She can’t help but pull on the strands the minute he slides his thumb inside her all the way to the knuckle. Her back arches off the cot at the sudden sensation but he pulls her back down, locking her in with a hand wrapped around her thigh. She can feel him smile against her, momentarily letting up the relentless forces of his mouth. He’s loving watching her squirm beneath him, because of him. 

But the combined sensation of his thumb fucking her and the concentrated movements of his tongue at her clit nearly drive her to the edge. She squirms and brings her knees up around him, causing him to pull away and leave her empty.

Ya have to keep still, darlin’.

He coaxes her legs back open, spreading them apart with firm hands. But before he can return, she whispers desperate words that fall sweetly on his ears. He changes direction and begins to kiss his way north, traces of her still on his lips as they press wetly to her stomach, then her breasts, and then her neck. While he trails up her jaw, she tugs down his union suit from where it gathers at his hips. He assists her clumsily by shaking it off his legs and kicking it to the floor, where it now lies atop her own discarded clothing.

Before he takes her, he hovers on rested elbows and searches her face for any sign of reluctance. Only half of his features she can see clearly as warm oranges and yellows flicker across it from the lantern at her bedside. The fringe of his hair tickles her forehead, teasing her into closing the distance between them. With a hand on the back of his neck, she brings him down to her level and connects their lips. Their mouths move roughly against one another, their noses squishing and bending against the pressure of their touch. 

He’s warm, so warm. His mouth is hot against her tongue and the points on her body where the two of them meet are ablaze with a fire that spreads down, and down, until it rests in a sweltering mess at the apex of her thighs. She needs him, were the words she’d whispered. And she needs him now. She reaches down between their two bodies to where his cock grazes against her legs and with a sure hand, takes hold of it and guides it to her entrance. She can’t see it but it feels thick in her grasp; her hold not permitting thumb and forefinger to meet. 

The head slips gently inside and opens her up to him with a slow, shallow movement of his hips. He removes his lips from hers and rests his forehead against her own, looking down and indulgently watching himself disappear inside of her inch by inch. It fills her deliciously, stretching her open until he eventually bottoms out and their pelvises lie flush with one another. She lets out a sharp exhale at the contact, knowing he’s sheathed fully inside of her. Before he moves again, she brings her legs around his waist and crosses her ankles so his movements are limited to being shallow and forceful. 

The cot squeaks beneath them as he pulls out and thrusts back in, slow at first. He quickly picks up the pace, pistoling his hips to give short thrusts that fill her to the hilt each time with a near-bruising force. One hand wraps around the meat of her thigh and another hand starts rubbing furious circles at her clit. She throws her head back with a wide-opened gasp at the explosive euphoric sensation of being filled by him and the simultaneous attention given to the sensitive nub. He goes even faster when he sees how close she is, and within seconds she unravels beneath him. 

She notices through her clouded gaze his brows screwing together and lips parting as her soft muscles throb around the swell of his cock. It’s too much for him. He hurriedly pulls out and releases himself on her belly, coating it with spurts of his seed. He looks at her breathlessly through hooded eyes.

The two of them lie panting, him still stationed between her legs with a heaving chest and weary gaze. He leans down and places a chaste kiss on the inside of her thigh before slumping beside her and laying there in his nakedness.

She cums hard against diligent fingers. Hot and tingly ecstacy spreads from her core throughout her limbs, fluttering her eyes to the back of her skull and leaving her a panting mess. Once that passes and the drowsiness that always follows a dumbing climax sets in, she realizes she’d conjured a strange ending to her fantasy. It was one of genuine intimacy, not driven by the carnal desires of her body. 

Thankfully, sleep takes over before she can begin trying to process whatever that means. She drifts off as remnants of pleasure buzz beneath her skin and warm her beneath ticking sheets.

Morning comes quickly, and the accompanying chill of a new day forces her off the cot in search of heavier clothing. She pulls fleece-lined chaps over jeans and buttons them at the waist before throwing on the bear coat she’s worn every day since Colter. As she slips her arms into the clothing, she thinks back on last night. There’s no reason to make a big deal of it. Surely men get off with much worse ideas in their heads about the people they know. She hopes all of that is behind her now that it’s been forced out of her system.

But this is not the case. 

This hope is massacred in vain shortly after being conceived. For the day is ablaze with yearning, shame, and raging inferno. 

Accompanying Arthur to the hideout was soon realized as a mistake. Every small, inconsequential thing he did served to stoke the fire blistering her loins. Every word whispered atop the secluded hillock, every incidental brushing of skin, and every intentional one too. It all fanned incessantly at consuming flames.

She rides back to camp alone with heavy pockets and a heavier conscience. And as she approaches the grounds, she sees her friend, the blonde woman, standing guard outside. Without thought, she throws her reins and swings herself off the horse, hitting the earth hard and swift. A blustering storm brews inside her, fighting against fire and losing. She approaches Karen, treading heavily over branch and stone, a wild look in her eyes.

“Karen!” She calls out.

The woman turns to face her, her rifle lowering just as quickly as it’s raised.

“Oh, it’s just you. You here to tell me I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about again? If so, you can keep on walkin’, bigshot.” 

She sighs and runs a frustrated hand through her wind-tangled hair.

“No! No, I- I didn’t mean it,” she says, with an unmistakable sound of desperation in her voice. “Karen, you were right.”

Karen’s tensed shoulders sink beneath her coat and her features soften. She doesn’t seem to understand, but she’s no longer angry. It’s difficult to be when her friend stands before her, uncharacteristically vulnerable and fumbling with words.

Whatever forces are at work here, be it the chill, the moon, or an unknown third thing, it can be certain she is out of her depth, adrift in deep ice waters. And he is calling to her like a siren’s song but she knows it is an illusion she has conjured up and there is no solace allowed to be found there. He cannot take her like she needs so deeply to be taken by him. It would ruin them, for certain. Because they are not a wholesome people, and despite that, their bond has been forged by goodness. Something like that is uncommon for folk like themselves. It should be held closely, protected from whatever may destroy it, even if it is from herself. It’s for that reason she withdraws her hand, rides alone, averts wandering eyes, and tries her utmost best to quench the flames.

And yet, it has been only a day. 

“You were right.”

[grison-in-space]

worker uprisings are not an upside.

I see this rhetoric here all the time, and it drives me up the wall. So you're all getting a good rant here: a worker uprising is not good.

The worker uprisings that bought the NLRB paid for it in blood and lives, and another uprising means that we will have to find the price to buy it again. And there will be families, people, and lives blighted in the meantime. Worker uprisings are not upsides for anyone and they are not fucking consolation prizes. They happen when things go bad, horribly bad, and they generally only result in positive change insofar as they create so much chaos, bloodshed, and disruption that the overall situation has to change. In the mean time, people are still left dead, destitute, and maimed. If we can avert a worker uprising by using nonviolent means of pressure to force accountability, we should do that, because it results in vastly more stable outcomes for everyone. If this pissant, damn-fool shortsighted Supreme Court decision goes through and violence is the only remaining option to enforce change that anyone sees, that is a bad thing.That is not a flood gift. People will die fixing that bullshit. People did die fixing that bullshit!

You know how we got the NLRB the first time, back in 1935?

It took almost fifty years of labor unrest in the United States before we got the NLRB. Let's start with the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 (which was majorly disruptive but happened before labor unionizing was widespread). That's a great template for your fucking worker's uprising: there's no union leadership to coordinate fury and direct it properly, so when workers lose their shit after the third goddamn time wages get cut (not "fail to keep the pace of inflation," actually "you get less money now"), they all kind of do things on impulse without thinking much about long term strategy. The fury just erupts. In the case of the Great Railroad Strike, angry workers burned factories and facilities, seized rail facilities, paralyzed commerce networks, and existing power structures panicked and called out militias, National Guard units, and federal troops to forcibly suppress the workers. About a hundred people died.

Let me pop a cut down while I talk about what happened next. Spoiler: there's a lot of violence under the hood coming up, and like all violence, it absolutely sloshes around and hits people who aren't necessarily directly involved in conflicts.

You have continuing incidences of violence over strikes throughout the next several decades as nonviolent strikes are met with violence from pro-employer forces and workers resist with violence back. I can't even list all the violent incidents here that ended in deaths, because they were frequent. The 1892 Coeur d'Alune labor strike broke out into an actual shooting war and resulted in a number of deaths, not to mention months of detainment for six hundred protesting miners; the same year, you have another shooting war kicked off between hundreds of massed paid private Pinkerton security and striking workers in Pittsburgh through the Homestead Strike. Imagine how that's going to go down today.

And the thing about violence like this, and tolerance for violence, is that eventually you just get used to using it to get your way. You actually also do see quite a bit of violence conducted by striking labor workers, sometimes without recent provocation from management. For example, the national International Association of Bridge Structural Iron Workers embarked on a campaign of bombings from 1906-1911 that eventually culminated in a bombing of the office of the LA Times that killed 20 people. Do you want to live in a world where the only way to resolve conflicts like this is to risk someone bombing your office because your boss mouthed off at his cause? Even if he's right, do you want to risk losing your life, your arms, your friend, your sibs, to someone who thinks that the only option available to him to address systematic inequality is violence?

And you think about who really suffers when violence erupts, too. Look at the East St Louis massacre in 1917, when management tries undercutting the local white-run unions by hiring black folks who are systematically excluded by the unions. (If you think labor solidarity is free from the same intersectional forces that hit every other attempt to organize in solidarity for humans, you really need to go back and revisit your history books. We can do better and we should, but when we set up our systems and hope for the future, we have to be clear-eyed about the failures of the past.) Anyway, when labor tensions between white union workers and management's preferred use of cheaper, poorer, less "uppity" black people erupted, the white union workers attacked not management, but the black parts of town. They cut the hoses to the fucking fire department, burned huge swathes of East St Louis belonging to black homeowners, and shot black folks fleeing in the streets.

Money might not trickle down, but violence sure fucking does. The wealthy insulate themselves from violence by employing intermediaries to do all the dirty work for them, or even to venture into any areas that might be dangerous. When we resort to violence as the only way to solve our problems, inevitably the people and communities who pay the highest blood prices are the ones who have the least to provide. You think any of those robber barons are going to wind up on the ground bleeding out? They have their Pinkerton troops for that shit. The worst they lose is money; the rest of us have to stake our bodies and our homes.

No one should look forward to a worker uprising. If the Supreme Court is stupid and short-sighted enough to reduce avenues of worker redress to extra-legal means, the worker uprisings will come back around again, sure enough, and we'll all write our demands in blood once again. But the whole fucking POINT of the NLRB is that the federal government objects to having to sort these things out when they dissolve into open violence, so it sets rules about what the stupid short-sighted greediguts fat cats up top can do to reduce violence erupting again.

Anyway. Best thing I can think of right now is to get a Congressional supermajority in with the eye of imposing limits and curbs on the Court. Because look, I'll march if I need to, but I ain't going to pretend the thought puts a smile in my mouth and a spring in my step. Fuck.

[agyraty]

Ohh can you do Javier x reader angst?? Where in the last fight where the reader chose Arthurs side instead of his and they like reunite somewhere in the future where the reader has a kid now but is taken a back when she meets Javier again because they both still really much love each other but never really said anything just one finale goodbye

I love this!! I’m definitely thinking on adding on to this and making a part two because I love the concept.

(Btw I need more requests 😔 I have no ideas on what to write at the moment and need help)

—

Old goodbyes, New beginnings

Wc: 1.6k

—

You never thought that you would see the day the Van Der Linde gang had its fallout. But here you are, pistol in hand, Arthur and a wounded John standing by your side. Dutch, Micah and his friends stood just a few feet away from you, their guns pointed and ready to fire. But your eyes were on Javier.. it hurt seeing him in the opposing side, although you should have known this would happen by how he’s been acting.

You joined the when you were just 19 back in 1994, and you were there when Javier first joined in 1995. you two were practically inseparable from the moment you met. He was a very skilled and charming man, not to mention he was extremely handsome. And over the 4 years of knowing him, you fell in love. And so did he.

A relationship blossomed between the two of you two years ago from now, and at first, it was amazing. He was such a loving man, and he cared deeply for you. Just as you did for him. Each time he’d go on a mission, or vise versa, you’d both be thinking about each other the whole time, and how much you missed one another. He’d even put his life on the line if it meant you were safe. He loved you, and you loved him.

But recently, as everything began to fall apart, Dutch, the gang, everyone began to turn in each other and the pinkertons were close to capturing you all, you had noticed him becoming.. distant, easily irritated. At first you thought maybe he was just stressed or worried about what would happen, but now you are begging to think that he’s choosing Dutch. That he’d rather be on his side than be with you since you disagreed either Dutch. Overall he had completely changed from the man you once knew..

Your glossy eyes scanned his figure as he stood across from you, his pistol pointed upwards at the air, unsure of what to do.

Your lip quivered slightly as you spoke. “C’mon Javier.. don’t be dumb. Please, Just listen to me.” You pleaded, not even bothering to hide the desperation in your voice. You loved him for Christs sake, even if he had changed, you couldn’t just stand around and watch him make a mistake.

His deep brown eyes stared at you, lips parting, not exactly sure on what to say. You could see he was trying to figure it out, to make a decision.

You tuned out Micah and Arthur’s back and forth banter, all your focus directed to the man you loved, standing a few feet in front of you. You could feel your heart splitting. Why was it so hard for him to make a decision? surely he hadn’t lost his way completely..

Surely he still loved you..

He shook his head, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he clenched his teeth. “No.. no you’re the one being stupid.” He gestured at you with his gun that now aimed at you. “Dutch fed us, clothed us, gave us a place to stay and you’re turning on him?”

Your shaky hands tightened around your gun, eyes narrowing. “No Javier.. he betrayed me, betrayed us, when he started listening to that rat.” You gestured to the blonde standing beside Javier.

“Please.. just come with me, don’t do this.” You pleaded desperately, eyes glossy with tears, the pain you felt growing as you saw him look at you with a cold look in his eye. There was no love in his expression. He was betraying you just as Dutch had.. why?

“Javi..”

He looked away as soon as you spoke his name which you called him often. He used to love it when you did.

“Don’t,” he started, but before he could speak another word, a large group came rushing into camp, interrupting the stand off. It was none other than the Pinkertons, lawmen who had been chasing after the gang for months. They found you.

“Damnit, Go!” You, Arthur, and John went one way, while the others went the opposite. You looked behind you, eyes catching Javier’s figure, who was behind the others, firing some shots at the men on their horses.

You didn’t know at the time that it would be the last time you saw Javier, for many years.

—

“Norman, stop Messing around, you’re gonna bump into someone.” You sighed, attention loosely on the young boy that ran around the streets of black water. You shook your head as he continued to chase around the golden dog that yelled and panted, it’s tail wagging vigorously behind him.

“Alright, anything else I could get you, Ma’am?” Asks the store clerk as he steps over to you, placing the peach you had asked for in your hand carefully. You shook your head, a small polite smile gracing your features. “No, this’ll be all.”

You dug into the pocket of your weathered pants, pulling out a few cents and handing it to the man. You turned your attention to your horse, stepping carefully over and dropping the plump peach into the saddle bag. A huff escaped your parted lips, you just wanted to go home and rest. These past few days had been even more eventful then normal, You were exhausted.

Cecil barked, his paws pattering against the dusty stone floor as Norman chased behind him, giggling loudly. But suddenly, you heard the boy let out a grunt, and a loud thud, along with a soft curse, a voice that sounded so familiar.

You quickly turned away from the horse, eyes searching for your son, who was now sitting in the floor covered in dust, along with a man in front of him who you didn’t quite get a good look at. Hurrying over, you reached down, grabbing Norman just below the arms, helping him up to his feet.

“I am so sorry, I told him to watch out—“ you stood up, eyes turning to the man, and paused, breath hitching in your throat upon seeing who stood before you.

“Y/n..?” He uttered quietly, in clear disbelief, just as you were.

You studied his face, noticing the smile lines and soft crows feet he had beside his eyes, along with how his frame filled out more. You couldn’t be seeing things, could you? At first you doubted it was him until you called his name. “Javier?”

If it was him, He sure didn’t age much.

Javier’s wide eyes traced the soft features of your face, the bags beneath your eyes, and the hint of smile lines that began to form. He noticed your hair had grown longer, and grew slightly lighter from days in the sun. Although it’s been 12 years, you were still just as beautiful in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” You stood up straighter, not seeming to be able to take your eyes off of him. You could feel your heart thudding against your chest, as swirl of emotions happening within you. You missed him, god you missed him so much. Seeing him here.. it brings back old feelings you tried so hard to push down. But you’re still angry, angry at the fact he chose Dutch over you all those Years before.

“I’m looking for a place to stay.. figured I’d look here. I always liked Black water.” His voice still carried the same thick accent, not wavering a bit.

You nodded and hummed a sound of understanding, looking down at the stone road. There was so much you wanted to say, but you couldn’t find the right words. You wanted to jump into his arms, but you also wanted to scream, tell him how badly he hurt you.

“So uh.. is this your boy?” He asked, eyes casting down to Norman, who stood a bit behind you, patting your golden retriever.

“Yeah.. this is Norman, I had him 5 years back.” You glanced behind you, before meeting Javier’s eyes once again. You felt your heart jump, just as it did all those years back.

“Oh, his father must be a lucky man, Having you at home,” He said softly, a hint of something in his voice you couldn’t quiet pin. “And knowing he has such a handsome son.”

You shook your head, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “No uh.. his father isn’t here anymore. He left when he was born.” Back then, you had met a guy named victor. He was very handsome, and he was good for you. And you tried to love him like you did with Javier and push your memories behind, but you couldn’t. And then he got you pregnant.

And once he did, he switched completely from a charming man, to a rude asshole. And he left after you gave birth, leaving you alone to take care and sustain for your child, and let’s just say it has not been easy.

“Oh,” Javier didn’t exactly know what to say, a bit shocked at your words. “I uh, I’m sorry.” His dark eyes traced your face, watching as you shook your head.

“No, it’s okay.” You pursed your lips together, taking in a deep breath. “So.. how have you been?”

The Spaniard scratched his chin, shrugging a bit. “I’ve been doing okay. I went to Mexico after what had happened. Let’s just say I got into some trouble. Which is why I’m here. Lookin’ for a new start.”

You nodded and listened to his words intently, humming. “This is a Great place. Maybe I could help you, Y’know, find a place.” A small smile graced you features as your gentle eyes met his once more.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” His lips curved into a smile just as yours did. For a moment you two stood there, looking at each other, your cheeks burning with a soft blush, stomach doing flips. You missed him so much over these past years, you don’t even care how angry you were, you’re just glad to see him again.

“Why don’t you come over? I’m making Peach Cobbler.” The words just fell from your mouth, but you didn’t care. All the exhaustion you felt before disappeared, the only thing fueling you was the hope that he would say yes so you could spend more time with him. Get to know what he’s done in 12 years. And maybe even become friends or, hopefully something more with time.

He nodded, smile growing. “I’d love too.”

—

[mothandpidgeon]

The Outlaws (Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader) - Chapter 2

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader

rating: T (eventual E 18+ MDNI)

wc: 1.7k

summary: Wanted for murder with a bounty on your head, your only hope of escaping the Pinkerton detectives is an outlaw named Joel Miller and his sidekick Ellie. But Joel has other plans for you.

tags: old west au, enemies to lovers, grumpy Joel, handcuffed together, period/genre/canon typical violence, alcohol, morally grey characters, reader has backstory, no use of y/n

authors note: Posting this today in honor of act ii. Yeehaw. As always, thank you @ezrasbirdie for the beta and support in this (you really need to tell me to stfu about these two) and in life.

Joel once took Sarah to see PT Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth. Each ticket cost him two quarters. She pulled him by the hand past the tents with Tom Thumb and the giantess, straight to the exhibition of wild animals. There were all sorts of exotic animals in the menagerie– giraffes, elephants, snakes. You remind him of the tiger. Beautiful and cunning. Fierce. Dangerous unless it’s kept under lock and key. 

Which is why he’s grateful he kept these old shackles in his saddle bag. 

You’re in a friendlier mood once camp is set up and a rabbit is roasted on a spit. He knows it’s a rouse, that you’re still spitting mad and hoping to slit his throat in the night. On that train, you were the demure damsel in need of a rescue. Soon as he put that cuff on your wrist, you turned into a fire breathing dragon. 

You can be as mad as you’d like. You’re no match for his strength or his revolver. 

They sit around the fire, Joel and Ellie propped against their saddles. It’s a cool evening, a steady breeze blows off the river. The stars paint the purple sky and the cave is illuminated with the orange glow of a fire. There’s plenty to celebrate. Though, even when they score a good amount of money, gold pieces, and get away without a scratch, Joel never feels much satisfaction. Despite his personal quandary, it would be a beautiful night, really, if Joel weren’t sitting there waiting for you to do something foolish. 

He can tell you’re meditating on some new escape plan, knows better than to look at you too long. A girl like you, pretty and with that sharp mouth, is the type that knows how to use her womanly wiles. You’re desperate enough to try just about anything and he’s not giving you the chance. 

You must think he’s stupid enough to fall for it too. He reluctantly passes you his flask and, after you drink, you wipe your wet lips with a seductive  finger. 

Ellie’s being a real chatterbox, recounting each moment of the robbery as if she’s writing her own nickel weekly and peppering you with questions. He’s not surprised she’s taken a liking to you. There aren’t too many of the female persuasion out here. Maybe she can see some of Tess in you. He doesn’t. Tess was always calm and controlled. And when she was angry, she never fucking spit at him. In fact, he resents you for making him think about Tess at all. 

“Ten thousand dollar bounty, huh?” Ellie asks you. “What’d you do?”

Joel’s seen more than a few people running from the law but none of them look like you. You’re no Annie Oakley. 

“My sweetheart was fooling around with my sister so I killed em both,” you say. 

“Really?” Ellie asks. 

“No,” you say. 

“What was it really?” she tries again. 

“Leave it,” Joel says. 

He’d be just as cagey about his past. Outlaws don’t live by any code but if they did, questions like that would be frowned upon. 

Ellie grumbles at him. 

“I’ve got ten on me too,” she tells you. 

“Your daddy must be proud,” you say, looking to Joel. 

They respond in unison— “He’s not my Pa,” and a “I ain’t her daddy.” 

You do a lousy job suppressing a smile. 

“So this is the infamous Miller gang? Ain’t much of a gang if you ask me,” you say. 

Joel grinds his molars. 

“We used to be a proper one. Most of ‘em are in prison now. And then we lost Tess to a bout with fever. And Tommy left,” Ellie recounts. 

“Who’s Tommy?” 

“Nobody,” Joel says same time as Ellie tells you, “His brother.”

You look Joel up and down. 

“That’s enough yakking for tonight,” he says. “I’m turning in. C’mon.” He pulls the chain. 

Ellie laughs. “I should warn you. He snores something awful.”

You scoff. “Is this some kind of ploy so you can wake up on top of me?” you protest. 

Joel’s patience is wearing thin. He’s got half a mind to turn you loose and let the wolves deal with you. 

“You can quit the belly aching, missy. I ain’t taking that thing off til you’re with the sheriff in Jackson.”

“You’ll wear him down eventually,” Ellie encourages. 

“Ellie, go to sleep,” Joel orders. 

She rolls her eyes. 

“What if I got to use the privy?” you ask. 

“Hope you like company,” Joel says. 

You huff. 

“You at least going to give me a blanket? Cold out here,” you say. 

Joel’s only got one in his bed roll, a beautiful Pawnee blanket he bought off a trader from Kansas woven with geometric patterns. He knows it would be gentlemanly to let you sleep with it but you’re no lady. 

He sighs as he hands it over. You wrap it around your shoulders with a self-satisfied look on your face. 

“Anything else I can do for you, missy?” he says with mock cordiality. 

“You can stop calling me missy,” you say. 

“G’night, missy,” he says. 

It’s not your best plan. But just because it’s simple doesn’t mean it won’t work. 

First step, you wait for Ellie and Joel to fall asleep. The girl takes a while. She’s got a dime novel with a cowboy on the cover that she flips through as the flames die down. You watch her through your cracked eyelids, pretending to have already drifted off yourself. 

It’s hard to tell if Joel’s out. He uses his saddle as a pillow and you’ve positioned yourself on the other side of it, your arm outstretched so you don’t have to be too close to him. 

He murmurs to himself. You strain to catch what he’s saying. At first, there are words you can understand. The name Sarah passes his lips. But then you hear him make a sound you can only describe as a whimper. 

It gives you pause. You’ve never been a nurturing type but it pulls at your heart strings, almost makes you want to put your arms around him. You imagine a hurt puppy inside that big, snarling dog of a man.

His sharp silhouette is highlighted in the amber glow of the campfire. It’s a shame he’s such a mean son of a bitch because he really is easy on the eyes. Then he rolls over. His unexpected motion nearly twists your connected arm out of its socket and you bite your tongue to keep from swearing. That bastard has you chained up like a dog. You do all you can to control your temper, swearing soundlessly. You can’t afford to wake him. 

You wait a long while, listening to him grunt and snore. Once you’re sure he’s good and asleep, you move. 

It’s a process. You begin by flexing your wrist. An innocent gesture that could be explained by sleepy twitches. He doesn’t stir. 

Eventually you feel bold enough to inch towards him, pulling the chain carefully along the ground. You crawl on your belly until you’re in front of him, then you dare to lift your hands up. 

The chain clinks against the buzz of the night insects and you swear it’s so loud you hear it echo off the mountains. You hold your breath, wide eyed, every muscle in your body taught. 

Joel doesn’t wake. He might be pretending but his chest still rises and falls slowly. Either he’s a hard sleeper or he’s deaf. Might be a little of both. You’re always tired after the rush of a big score. 

Ellie hasn’t woken up. Her eyes are closed, mouth hangs open. Down for the count.

You flex your fingers before you begin the next step, lick your lips and take a steadying breath. 

You’ve picked pockets before. Never tried it on a sleeping man, though. You keep your touch light, delicate, unbuttoning his waistcoat with one hand. It falls open for you and you can’t help but smile. 

The key to the handcuffs is tucked in the inner pocket. You saw him put it there. All you have to do is lift it out, unlock the cuff, and you’re a free woman. What you’re going to do after that, all alone in the middle of god only knows where, you’re not sure. But that’s not of material importance until you have that key. 

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip and you move slower than molasses in January, easing your first two fingers into the little pocket. Your fingertip connects with metal and your heart jumps. Pinching the ringed end, you hold on and pull. It’s awfully heavy. 

Because it’s not the key at all. You’ve fished a pocket watch out of Joel’s vest. Damn it. It’s a dainty little thing— fine gold with intricate scrollwork engraved on the back. The face is all busted up and it doesn’t seem to be ticking. Most importantly, though it’s not a key. You need that goddamn key if you want to get— 

The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked makes you freeze. Joel’s awake, dark eyes shining in anger. You’ve had guns pointed at you on a number of occasions but still it makes your blood run cold. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“You’re dreaming,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t think that’s cute. The scowl on his face just deepens. 

“Alright,” you say, raising your hands in surrender.

You put the watch back in place and crawl back to your spot. 

“Gimme the damn blanket,” Joel growls. 

You toss it to him, cowed. But what did you expect? This had never been a very good plan.

Once you hear the hammer of Joel’s gun go back into place, you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s quiet for a while as Joel gets under his blanket and you know he’s laying there waiting for you to fall asleep. 

You try to settle down, wrapping your arms around yourself. The night air bites at you now that you’ve lost your blanket privileges.

“Sarah a sweetheart of yours?” you ask him. 

His head snaps your way so fast you think his neck might break. 

“You was talking to her in your sleep,” you explain. 

“Say that name again and I’ll wring your neck,” he says. 

He sounded like he meant it before but you feel like he’s looking forward to putting a bullet in you. You shiver. You’re smart enough not to say another word. 

---

Chapter 3

I'd love to hear from you! Comments and reblogs appreciated. My asks are always open!

[shiftythrifting]

This incredibly cursed PINKERTON memorabilia???? Found in NE OK

[propepsi]

Okay. Listen up Weezer community. Why do you guys hate literally every Weezer album there is? This fanbase is so divided it's actually insane. If you say you like an album, somebody's gonna tell you how much they hate it. If you say you hate an album, somebody's gonna come after you and call it a masterpiece. I think the only exception to that is the blue album because how do you hate blue. That being said, here are my opinions:

I like Raditude. It's fun and silly and a real connection to youth. Plus, Put Me Back Together is a hidden gem and y'all are SLEEPING on it. (It's my favorite song so if you haven't heard it, please give it a listen.) Also, I hope you realize that Can't Stop Partying is SATIRE and that Rivers didn't even write those lyrics; they were given to him.

Pinkerton is fucking weird, but it's also a good album. Across The Sea is diabolical, but everything else on that album is pretty great, weird as it is. (Hell, even Across The Sea has a good sound if you ignore the premise and read a little deeper into it.) Pinkerton was an essential album. It reflects Rivers' depression at the time after the release of Blue, which was misinterpreted by the audience at the time. The whole album is about the deeper, darker, more honest parts of himself, and I appreciate that about this album.

Red is a fantastic album, and y'all need to give some love to The Spider. That song is wonderful. Red actually might be my favorite Weezer album of all time. Cold Dark World is kinda trashy, but it has a good sound. Plus: Scott Shriner has a kickass voice and I will be hearing nothing else. Also, Automatic isn't even close to being bad. Y'all are just weird.

Green is also a fantastic album. It is simple and somewhat pop-y, but goddammit it's a good album. The lyrics may be a little in-genuine, but they're still Rivers, and they're not devoid of feeling like every says. Emphasis on O' Girlfriend.

Blue is objectively fantastic, but that's not really controversial. I don't think I can name a time I've come across an avid hater of blue. It's their first album, so even if you don't like it, you just have to respect it. Also: Buddy Holly is a good song. Deal with it. Also, No One Else is a satire piece.

Make Believe is NOT as bad as y'all say it is. I've edited this post, and before I said that Beverly Hills was the only Weezer song I didn't like, but that the rest of the songs were really good. I've changed my mind. I don't know if it's bias or not, but after more listens, Beverly Hills has actually grown on me. I think this album is essential especially because of Pardon Me, a song in which Rivers gives his heartfelt apology for hurting those around him in order to be a 'better rockstar.' Also, Haunt You Every Day is a fantastic track.

Those are my strongest Weezer opinions laid out. I really wanted to voice some of my positive beliefs to spread around the joy of Weezer's music instead of trying to hate. But, all in all, we all have the right to our own opinion. Although this fanbase might not agree on everything, at the end of the day we all know what their best album is, and that is Christmas with Weezer.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Caught in the Rain: Charles Smith x Reader

You ducked inside the tent, squeezing as close to him as you could, your eyes couldn’t help but peek at the flap of the tent threatening to break open to drench you both once again in the horrible elements. Your clothes were already sopping, you were soaked to the bone, your hair was sticking to your face and neck, and your boots were surely needing a good few days out in the hot sun to dry them out.

And you’re sure Charles is in the same hole you’re in, maybe even deeper.

You both had been out in West Elizabeth looking to hunt down some more meat for dinner as Pearson was droning on about low supplies once more. Dutch had Arthur busy dealing with some nonsense for the camp that when you both had volunteered, you were both sent off on your horses without a second thought. You both were in the vicinity of Strawberry, passing by trails that pointed directly to the little town along the river multiple times when an awful storm suddenly hit. You were nearly blown off your poor horse by gusts of wind as claps of thunder surely scared away any prey ripe for hunting.

Charles barked over the rain to head into the trees for shelter, you both were hoping to find some long forgotten cabin before the rain became too bad. Sadly, after about ten minutes of searching, Charles had given up hope on the plan and snatched up the tent off the back of his horse and tried to set it up as best as he could.

You tried to hitch the horses close by, the poor things were scared by the lightning flashing across the sky and the claps of thunder that shook the woods around you.

You heard your name called from behind you, and when you turned around, you saw the tent put up and being battered by fat droplets of water. It looked less stable than usual in a storm, poor Charles looked absolutely rattled inside as he held the flap of the tent open for you.

And there you were, sitting all huddled up in the tent, shoulder to shoulder with your lover shivering for warmth.

The flap of the tent had been pulled closed, though, the howling winds and heavy rain threatened to rip open the flap and bring the elements inside of the tent too.

But for now, everything was stable. You could hear the horses snorting nearby where you had hitched them and the inside of the tent was mostly dry.

Everything was okay.

You leaned against Charles’ broad shoulder, laying your head against him as you couldn’t help but shiver. Even though he was drenched with cold rainwater, soaked through his clothes to his skin, he still gave off warmth. He practically radiated it. Charles brushed the soaked strands of hair off of his face and squeezed off the excess water from his clothes before sighing and looking over at you all huddled up to his side by this point.

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. There were no worries right now: No thoughts about O’Driscolls or Pinkertons or bounty hunters wanting to drag them all off to jail for being with Dutch’s little gang. There was suddenly no storm, no cold and wet clothes, no horses outside getting soaked, or a tent about to blow over with both of you in it.

It was just calm inside of the tent as you both looked each other in the eye.

Charles smiled at you, placing an arm around your waist to draw you in closer, almost knowing that you were going to sponge up all of the warmth he produced. He nearly had you in his lap at that point.

“You cold?” he half-laughed at you still shivering.

“I was getting drenched hitching the horses! Of course, I’m cold. I’m soaking wet!”

“I can think of a way to help warm you up.”

You caught him looking at you with a smug smile on his face as he tugged on your soaking wet clothes that were still dripping. You threw your brows up at the idea of even doing it right now, but something inside of you started to burn with desire.

“Charles!” you whined as he pressed a kiss against your cheek. “What if the tent falls down?”

With a smirk on his face, all he said was “It’s happened in the woods before.”

[verdemoun]

Sean drops reform school lore when he’s drunk but Kieran shares O’Driscoll lore and the gang are genuinely shocked he took so long to break because he will not shut up.

"Arthur you just might be my best friend and it bothers me how casually some people in the gang tell you that you're dumb 'cause you ain't but... Christ you are thick sometimes. I took you to an O'Driscoll hideout NEAR Valentine. I made a point of saying it was just passed Valentine, and told you I saw O'Driscolls riding around NEAR Valentine how could I have made it more clear they owned the town."

"Gotta say one thing Dutch did right was shooting Colm's brother. That feller may have been the most heinous, vile son of a bitch I have ever had the displease of meeting. His 'funeral' is still the best damned party I've ever been to." "... That was in 1886 how long were you with the O'Driscolls?" "I mean I wasn't riding with them at the time just y'know how it is gangs running into each other my previous outfit got invited." "Your previous gang were invited to the celebration of Colm's brothers death." "Ye."

(overhearing someone having the 'there was a second rat' discussion) "Don't be dumb. Colm sold out other gangs to authorities all the time after Six Point he probably tipped Cornwall off about Valentine out of spite for the train score. Hell some of the O'Driscolls were known Pinkerton informants Colm just told them what they were allowed to tell the Pinkertons, kept the heat off hideouts."

"Lmao Colm is a bottom." "What the fuck Kieran."

"We were actually under orders not to shoot to kill in interactions with you guys because Colm wanted the joy to himself. Also he really believed Dutch cared enough to send someone looking if he captured any one of you alive he'd been trying to plan something like the parlay for years." "Thanks for the heads up." "It could NOT HAVE MORE OBVIOUSLY BEEN A TRAP."

[flo-zoinks]

hi!, I just recently started following you since I also love red dead redemption and found your content entertaining, I don’t know if you answer these types of asks but I have two questions you could answer both or just one! Up to you completely <3

so the first is who are you top five or favorite rdr1/rdr2 characters?

the second is more just out of curiosity, I never finished rdr1 due to me getting interested in my new hyperfixation, although I loved rdr1, did Jack become an outlaw to kill Ross, and that was his only goal or is there more?

Heyy you're so sweet!!!! I answer all kinds of asks 😘

Firstly: my top 5 are: John, Jack, Javier, Bonnie and Trelawny :)

Secondly: I believe Jack became an outlaw for multiple reasons, past the killing of Ross. Jack grows up with everyone leaving him, only around gang members to a former-gang father who continually struggles to fight his "inner self" and revert back to his old ways, forcing the Marstons to be affected again and again by the old-gang lifestyle, until it ends up killing John and Uncle. At this point, almost the entirety of Jack's key life moments were defined by outlaws and not any other factors. This thought, the idea that his life was shaped and formed by Outlaws, leaves him to believe that it's the only path for him to follow as well, like it's his 'predestined life'

Jack will say in combat lines like "I'm John Marston's boy!" Indicating he believes that somehow those Outlaw traits were passed down to him, seeing himself as the next John. In fact we only find that during the credits Jack's first name is John too, playing into the idea of Jack predestination to follow his Father's footsteps. To him, it's the only path possible, the life cut out for him, his life was decided from the second he was born into outlaws.

Next, he says in combat too "I got nothing to live for, anyway!", which indicates much more too. Outlaws have been argued by sources to have ended between 1899-1918, due to the modernising of cities including a stricter law and unsustainable life living as old gangs did. To be an outlaw at that time would've considered "silly" or perhaps "borderlinde suicidal". Jack would know this, they've known it since 1899. So why still be an outlaw? Tying with the first point, he didn't value his life. Jack is incredibly smart, and knows the life is unsustainable, but doesn't believe he deserves more. Believes, he has nothing more life for, and that this life will be the early death of him too, perhaps even wanting it.

Final point, is Edgar Ross. We hear in the side mission as the people closest to Ross complain about the Bereau still chasing him, wanting more and more work despite his retirement. In addition, Edgar Ross's retirement slip gets it's own article in the front news of 1914, highlighting all his 'brave acts' of killing Bill, Javier, Dutch and John. It's clear the Bureau still keep tabs on him, so for Jack to kill Ross, (especially in the 1914 law department), the Pinkertons and Goverment would've rained hell upon him. That's why I believe he waited until his Mother's death too, because the idea was almost again suicidal. Once again, Jack knows. Knows he will have to go on the lam, will be one of the last literal outlaws. However, the side mission is optional. Jack would've been an outlaw anyhow, regardless. But it is an incredibly big factor, as it's the only side mission started by the player, not the character of the mission. Jack intends to kill him, does it despite all consequences to choose an outlaw life.

I wanna talk about post-ww1 but THAT'S A POST FOR ANOTHER DAY

Thank you for letting me yap!!!! ♡

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 37

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/152613556

She crated everything of importance, then lingered around for a bit, equally relieved and sad to finally leave Shady Belle. Relieved because she had never liked it here and sad because this time she was definitely losing the tent. Sadie had told her that they were going to move fast, so they would only take the important personal items. Aside from Charles, there were no other men left to lug the big stuff - Uncle wouldn’t touch anything due to his lumbago, Swanson was perpetually stumbling around drunk and Strauss argued that if he had been built to do this kind of work, he wouldn’t be needing a collector for his debts in the first place.

She sat at the table as the day was still bluish, her breath misting a little and wondered where Arthur was and how he was doing. It felt a little ironic that she had arrived in this country on a ship in less than pleasant circumstances and now he was leaving on one the same way. Like a silly relay team, they had connected and brushed fingers for a second, then they were thrown hundreds of miles apart. Anger and longing mingled and intertwined in her heart. She thought of how he had explained to her in the Bayou that he didn’t have any other means to make money and that he needed money to break off. She understood that this was his only trade and yet, in her heart, she also resented him for it. Arthur was a smart, capable man. Most people in the gang were. They could do a million other things. Instead they were all addicted to easy money, and the funny part was that it wasn’t even easy.

She approached the horses and patted Frost's neck, cooing to him that his owner would be back, then climbed on Cricket and rode this particular route for the last time. Despite hours of thick, dreamless sleep, she was tired and worn out. Like a bucket brimming with water, she had reached the limits of her capacity. Every added drop now just slid off because there was no more room in her. Sister DuBois used to say bad news come in threes so if there was one more shoe to drop, she expected it to happen soon. 

Work was surprisingly boring. Despite their promise the previous day, the detectives didn't return. But the lunch crowd doubled in size, full with with people who wanted to mingle and gossip about the robbery. She fulfilled order after order, her plates meticulous and perfect but also repetitive and boring. When her shift ended and she walked out of Antoine's, Sadie was leaning against a lamppost nearby.

"Did you find a spot?" Savigne walked up to her. 

"Did. Ain't great but it's well hidden. Pinkertons are in a frenzy. ‘M sure they gonna find and swing by Shady Belle soon."

Savigne exhaled with frustration. Ever since the Heartlands, the gang's prospects were continuously declining. It was obvious to everyone but themselves. Every spot they picked was worse, with every move the noose drew tighter. If it wasn't for Arthur, she would have moved a long time ago, but here she was schlepping her stuff around with them and living off crates. Why even work in one of the most prestigious restaurants in the country if you're going to live like a fucking homeless person?

"You ready, Sugar?" Sadie straightened.

"Yeah, let's go. I still don't know what we're going for, but I guess you would have told me if it wasn't private."

"Feel crabby," Sadie rolled her shoulders. 

Savigne blinked up to her and half chuckled. "I thought that's just the way you are."

Sadie gave her a side eye. "More crabby than usual."

They checked Cricket out of the stable and tied him and Sadie’s horse a block away from the clinic. Then they filled out forms and waited in the small lobby. Sadie paid upfront and asked Savigne to get checked first when prompted and she relented. Maybe she would get some candy out of it and hell, even that would be an improvement to her current mood. Finally they were guided into a small, spotless room and she looked around with approval. You would expect all clinics to be clean, but in Saint Denis if that was your expectation, you were in for a rude awakening. This, no doubt, was one of the fancier ones. The clinics in the poorer neighborhoods stank worse than the neighborhood itself, which was an impressive feat. She poured herself a glass of water and inspected the books on the shelves - a mixture of medical works in French, German and English. 

A few minutes later a stunningly handsome, tall man with sandy hair, a slim mustache and soft hazel eyes walked in, their folders at hand. Savigne did a double take - in another life she would have been smitten with this man. Impeccable suit, well picked spectacles, an attitude exuding professionalism, discipline, precision and care. 

"Ladies!" She heard the slight French accent in his perfect English. "I'm Doctor Polleux. Welcome. Who goes first?"

"My friend here," Sadie ushered Savigne into the chair. 

She sat down, enchanted by the turn of events. She liked clean, well kept, professional, beautiful people and she liked watching them display their art whether it was food or medicine or something else entirely. His hands were silky and warm as he shook hers - clearly the hands of a man who handled delicate skin and turned book pages and wielded intricate tools instead of guns.

“So…” the doctor said and pulled a chair to sit closer. “…nice to meet you, Miss Ricci.”

“Likewise,” she breathed and took another sip of water. Up close, he looked even more handsome. There was a bit of yellow in his hazel eyes and his lashes were long and dark. She sat up a little and hoped that she didn't look like roadkill after the day she had yesterday. Was it odd to be enchanted by some stranger while Arthur was fleeing for his life, fate unknown? Perhaps. Had Arthur made that choice without even talking to her and practically abandoned her? Absolutely.

“Can you state your complaints?”

“She fainted a few times,” Sadie stepped up to stand behind her chair. "Overall tired. Gained a little weight. You get the picture.”

"W-what?" Savigne stammered up to Sadie and and turned back to the doctor. "Just a tiny little bit," she said hastily. "Also, the fainting - more like I was a little dizzy.”

“We had to carry you,” Sadie crossed her arms and threw a foot out. “And, like I said, y’aint exactly light no more.”

“That’s bull-” Savigne bit down the rest of the word, cleared her throat and glanced at Polleux sitting in front of her. “My friend exaggerates.” She glared up at Sadie, irritated. She was perfectly well and only here to do this woman a favor and there was absolutely no reason to mention any weight gain. 

“I see. Let’s get your blood pressure and all that. Please take off your coat.”

The doctor checked her vitals, her eyes, her ears, then put on his stethoscope and listened to her heart and her lungs. His touch was light and soft and she enjoyed his sharp attention on her, even if it was purely professional. 

“You seem a bit anemic, but otherwise fine.”

“Thank you,” she smiled and wished she had met him when she was cleaner. Judging by the immaculate white of his shirt collar, he was the kind of man who would have noticed that.

“Any unusual complaints?”

She inhaled and thought on this, milking her moments in the chair. "Well...I have a weird flutter in my stomach sometimes.”

He paused. “A flutter?”

“Yes, right here," she pointed to her abdomen. "It's not painful or anything. Feels like bubbles.” 

Savigne was pleased when he didn't give her a dismissive look and instead asked “May I see?”

"Certainly, doctor." She unbuttoned the bottom buttons of her blouse and pulled it up to reveal her chemise underneath. When he leaned in she smelled his cologne - very faint but vibrant and fresh, like his hands and his eyes.

He inserted the earpieces, held the bell of the stethoscope against her stomach and listened for a while. 

“When was the last time you bled?”

This gave her pause. “I don’t bleed very regularly,” she explained as she tried to remember. "Never have. But it’s been a few months. Maybe…three?” It occurred to her then that for a long time now she had been expecting a period that had never come. He moved the bell around, listened attentively, then folded it away as Savigne flitted through her memories and tried to pinpoint an approximate date. 

“Any nausea?”

“Sometimes. I threw up a few times, but the last one was weeks ago and..." Ecco's memory floated by and with it, her stumbling to the street and finding a dark corner to unload her stomach like some homeless wretch. "...I'm a cook," she explained as she wiped the memory away, "and I could have tasted something off." Then, eager to gain his approval, or any reaction whatsoever beyond the mild disinterest he was gracing her with, she added: "I work at Antoine's." If he was impressed he didn't show it, which bruised her ego a little.

“Your friend mentioned weight gain?”

“Just a little,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Her dresses had been adjusted twice now but that wasn’t because she was enormous, only because she enjoyed a perfect fit.

“Mood swings? Cravings - that sort of thing?”

“Yeah but I have a stressful job,” she tried to gloat again. "It can be hectic at times." Again, he didn't react other than a mild "hmmm" which was disappointing. God, how much weight did I gain? she thought, a little deflated. Sure, I'm no staggering beauty like Sarah but I’m practically invisible to this man. 

“A fluttering you say…”

“Yes. Like bubbles.”

“Hmmm…”

Polleux gave Sadie a look and Sadie looked back, silent and unblinking.

“Miss Ricci, I think it’s safe to say you’re pregnant.”

Savigne blinked at him, then grinned and giggled with childish delight. “Very funny. I know you read my file, doctor.” He was flirting with her after all and that gave her a hefty boost of confidence.

His brows pinched and he opened her folder again. “What did I miss?”

“I was told the ship I arrived on had a typical outbreak of cholera a few days in. But the real kicker was the smallpox that broke out after.”

“Yes, I see.” He looked up at her with raised eyebrows as if he expected further explanation. “I mean…I almost died. Most of the passengers died.” His expression didn’t change at all. “Doctor Polleux," she cleared her throat. If he had a sense of humor, it was as dry as the Sahara. "I'm sure you're pulling my leg because we both know I can’t get pregnant.”

Those cool professional hazel eyes assessed her for a long moment. 

“Who told you that?” was his late flat question.

“I’m sorry?” she stammered. 

“Who told you that…” he repeated calmly and added “…nonsense?”

This threw her off and she struggled to find a response. Either he was exceptionally gifted at delivering dead pan jokes or he wasn't nearly as good of a doctor as he pretended to be.

Clearly ‘Sister Rodriguez’ would be a ridiculous answer so instead she opted to mutter a defensive “Everybody knows that.”

He gave her an owlish blink and closed her file.

A short silence ensued.

“There is no direct correlation between smallpox and female fertility,” he said carefully.

Something coiled around Savigne’s throat and started tightening.

“W-what?”

“There is no link. Scientific link. I know there are some midwives tales, but they’re incorrect,” he said calmly. "It might have made you less fertile but clearly it hasn’t made you sterile. While not the only criteria, the fact that you bleed indicates you’re fertile.”

“I bleed very irregularly,” she quickly countered.

“Indicates perhaps low fertility. But not infertility.”

She looked at him like he was speaking in tongues. “That’s…you’re clearly mistaken.”

He shifted in his seat, gently reached out to place the files on a nearby table. “I understand this comes as a surprise to you,” he said slowly, “and I’m trying to be…delicate. But there is no in between or 'a little bit' here. You are pregnant.”

“I can’t be!” she lobed back, now skidding dangerously close to irritation and panic.

His eyes, soft and warm when he had entered, hardened a little. He seemed to take her objection as an affront to science itself.

“Miss Ricci, I’m going to be direct…”

What the hell were you until now? she thought sourly.

“…unless you swallowed a pocket watch, there’s an extra heartbeat in your abdomen.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

He calmly studied her as her hyperventilating picked up speed.

"Check again! Please!"

"Certainly." The stethoscope was pulled out again and he meticulously listened to her abdomen as Savigne watched him with hawk-like attention and a growing sense of dread. 

He cleared his throat and put it away.

"I stand by my diagnosis."

The room darkened and brightened back up as if something monstrous had flown in front of the sun.

“This is...can't be," she panted. 

"Would you like to hear?" he held out the earpieces to her and she recoiled as if he had slapped her. "No!"

"I would," Sadie spoke up. 

She crouched down as Polleux offered her the headset and under Savigne's disbelieving stare, listened intently, then grinned up at her. There was a forlorn look in Sadie's eyes and it only disappeared when Savigne angrily slapped the bell on ther stomach aside. Sadie cleared her throat and moved back to her spot as the man sat back in his chair.

"Judging by your reaction, this was not planned," he remarked. "I'm sorry to hear that. I’m going to give you a few minutes with your friend.” He rose to his feet. “I will be back.”

The monster flew across the sun again Savigne felt herself go boneless on the chair.

“You faintin’ again?!” Sadie remarked above her and next thing she knew, she had grabbed a book from the shelf to fan her face. “Listen here,” she hissed, then softened her tone, “Savigne, honey, calm down, okay?”

“I can’t be pregnant,” she mumbled. Moving her lips was an entire endeavor. The dark spots were back.

“Well…” Sadie chuckled nervously, “…gonna have to go with the doctor I paid fifty fuckin’ bucks for on that one.”

Savigne tried to speak but words wouldn’t come out. Her mind went blank every time she tried to think about it; like it was so big, it wouldn't fit into her head. “I can’t,” she tried again. She hadn’t bled in a long time and she had gained weight and also her breasts had been sensitive for months now, but these were all fragments, tiny brush strokes on a painting, how could they add up to a child? She had been sexually active since she was a young girl. True that it hadn't been nowhere near as rampant and consistent as it was with Arthur, and true that her previous partners had pulled out more often than not…but still!

“Remember, children,” droned Sister Auchter in her spinning head, “the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. It is vain to do with more what can be done with less.”

“Calm down. It’s fine.”

“How…the fuck…” Savigne panted, “…is…it fine?!”

“Don’ make me hit you with this book,” Sadie hissed, fanning furiously. “Will, if I have to.”

She wheezed for air and loosened her top buttons, too. Impossible, she thought and yet, deep deep down, in the dark folds of her gut where instinct ruled, somehow it rang true.

She almost erupted into laughter at the absurdity of her situation. A child out of wedlock! Worst thing a woman could do to herself. A scarlet letter that she had hung around her own neck. And now of all times! The room did a full flip and settled down again.

The other shoe, she thought then as her humor curdled into misery. Has to be. Bad news come in threes. 

“It’s okay,” Sadie crouched down and grabbed the back of her head to press her face against a shoulder. “It’s fine. Breathe.”

Savigne exploded into sobs. “Oh my god! I want to die.”

“The hell?!” was the other woman’s gentle scolding. “Settle down. What if it was TB or somethin'?”

“At least that would kill me,” she cried harder.

“Hush sugar, just calm down. We’ll think of something, okay?”

“That’s right,” Savigne whispered hastily as she pulled back, “I heard there are places we can go! Doctors that will-”

Sadie gave her a look. “No.”

Savigne’s face fell. “What do you mean, no?”

“You know how many women come out those feet first?!” was the vehement hiss. “Ya gonna have to shoot me before I let you go near!”

“But…but…I can’t shoot!” Savigne wailed.

"Just breathe. Easy. Calm. Breathe."

Sometime later the door opened and closed again. 

“Miss Ricci,” said the doctor, settling in his chair across from her again as Sadie vacated it. He handed her an immaculately clean handkerchief. “I understand your worries. You might think this is the end for you, but you’d be surprised how many women come here in your condition. You are not alone.”

She wiped her face furiously and cried harder. “Can you give me something? A…a remedy?”

“No. You’re too far along. Heartbeat audible with a stethoscope means at least twelve weeks, probably more. Any concoction someone might offer you is likely to kill you. Do not - I repeat - NOT drink it.”

“Hand the damn thing over!” she sobbed.

The doctor and Sadie exchanged a look. “I’ll never understand why this country is so damn…puritanical,” he sighed and scraped his chair closer. “Young lady,” he started as if he wasn't a only a year or two older at most. “I understand you’re not married. Personally, I don’t give a damn. I’m a doctor, not a priest. Now…let’s be pragmatic. Is the father still in the picture?”

“He will be. He’s away,” Sadie piped up.

“That’s good,” he remarked.

“I will kill him when he returns!” Savigne yelped.

“I would rethink that strategy,” Dr. Polleux said drily. Then he turned to the blond woman: “Does she have others to lean on? I know she doesn’t have a biological family,” he sifted through the file.

“Course she has,” Sadie said, clenching her shoulder.

Savigne just cried and let them talk it out. Her head was reeling, everything was is shambles. Someone was standing in the room that was her mind with a sledgehammer and meticulously smashing every piece of furniture into smaller and smaller pieces until there was nothing but dust.

“Excellent! Women with experience in the matter?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. A little laudanum if she gets too worked up but keep it on the low end. I know it’s passed around like candy these days, but personally I don’t think it’s good for the baby. I recommend regular check-ins. And she is a little underdeveloped.” He eyed Savigne with some scrutiny. “There are maternity houses…”

“She ain’t goin’ there,” was Sadie’s sharp interruption. “Like I said, she got people.”

“I admit…I wouldn’t recommend it,” Polleux said with some resignation. “One hears barbaric things. But it would at least be a safe birth and if she doesn’t want the baby…”

“No maternity house for Savigne,” Sadie squared her feet as if she was going to get into a fistfight with the doctor over it.

“I’m glad for that. If money is an issue…I have sent many unwed mothers to the workhouse.”

“She good,” Sadie growled. “We got money, too.”

“I know she’s working but she might not be able to much longer. In this country, for whatever reason, that’s a scandal. I’ve seen mothers work in fields all over the world but here we get hung up on such things.” He turned to Savigne again. “You will start to show soon,” he said calmly and ignored her whimper of disbelief. “Only reason you haven’t already is because you’re undernourished and it’s your first. Your stomach muscles haven’t expanded before. But that will change very quickly. If you must, stick a ring on your finger and lie would be my suggestion. Wouldn’t fly in a small town but in Saint Denis, nobody knows their neighbors’ name.”

He watched her cry for a while longer, his face calm and composed. No sympathy but also a complete lack of judgement. “Of course I suggest you do it for real when the father returns, so he can claim the child. Otherwise things might get…complicated for both of you.”

“But I can’t have a baby!” Savigne sobbed miserably. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a baby?”

“Miss Ricci," he pushed his spectacles up with the faintest impatience, "I hope you’re not making a case for immaculate conception.”

“No but…”

“Or claim that you don't know how babies are made.” Savigne decided that she didn't like Doctor Polleux after all. Not even a little bit.

"I want a second opinion!" she spat. 

"Sure, that's your prerogative. Like I said, I stand by my diagnosis."

His complete confidence made her panic even more. “But…”

“Good news is that it’s only six months out - give or take.”

“Oh my god,” moaned Savigne, dizzy with overload. “What’s the fucking bad news?”

The doctor didn’t even flinch at the vulgarity, just looked at her, cool as a cucumber.

“Bad news is the same.”

“Thank you doctor,” Sadie said hastily and started to button up Savigne’s blouse. “We'll be back.”

The blond woman pulled Savigne to her feet and stuffed her arms into her coat, then hustled her out of the room. They stumbled through corridors and then back through the waiting room where Savigne’s clearly unwell state alerted the waiting patients and scared a child enough to make him burst into wails. Once they exited the clinic, Sadie turned her by the shoulders and propped her up against a wall. “Now listen, I need you to pull yerself together here! You’re pregnant, you ain't dyin’.”

“I can’t be! Sister Rodriguez said-”

“Bitch lied. Let’s go.” She grabbed Savigne’s arm and dragged her towards the horses.

The Saint Denis crowd parted around them, a sea of eyes brimming with curiosity, revulsion, sympathy at her state. Nothing felt as lonely and humiliating as being in a vulnerable state in a big city. People glanced at her like she was rude for crying in public, for making them uncomfortable and marring their perfect day. Women tsked with disapproval as they glided by and men averted their eyes, reluctant to shame her further. Don't you understand that it's crude to be upset in public? they said silently. That it's uncivilized to cry and moan out in the open? That’s what closed doors are for.

“Cheer up, sweetheart!” someone yelled.

“I'll cheer you up..." Sadie’s head snapped back, "you son of a..."

“She was a nun,” Savigne sobbed. “Nuns can’t lie.”

“Doctor didn’ even give you nothin’ and you gone stupid anyway.”

Savigne stopped in her tracks and forced her to stop, too. “What are we going to do?” she whispered with urgency, grabbing Sadie’s jacket.

“We gonna go back to camp,” she growled, peeling Savigne’s claws off herself, “Then we gonna eat. Then we talk.”

“But…”

“Asked n’ answered. Let’s go!” She dragged Savigne further down the street. For her size, Sadie was remarkably strong.

“Oh how dreadful!” was a tittering whisper from nearby.

“Then look away you ugly cow!” Sadie yelled before she turned back to Savigne and jabbed her head at Cricket: “Up you go. Preferably before I shoot someone.”

Savigne wiped her palms over her face, took a deep shuddering breath and put a foot in the stirrup. Then she blinked and looked over her shoulder: “How come you’re so calm?”

“I knew,” was the dry retort. 

“W-what?”

“I know what a woman with child looks like,” she glared. “My babies never grew full. But I been there. Three times.”

Savigne slowly climbed up the saddle and somehow found the decency to feel a little abashed. “I’m sorry.”

There was a curt nod. “‘M sorry too, Savigne, I am. Sorry y’aint ready. Sorry yer dumb man ran off. Sorry you had nobody around you honest. Or nobody to teach you. Cry about it, sure. I know I did. For my babies and Jake. Cry about it long as you need. But then you get up and go on. Life comes at you and you got no choice.”

“I can’t do this,” Savigne whimpered.

“You can and you will. Women been doing it since dawn of time. Your mom did it.”

“My mom wasn’t alone,” she hiccuped. “She had a husband.”

”First of all, y’aint alone. What the fuck am I? Furniture? Second, Arthur gonna come back.”

“We don't know that!” She flinched a little at the hard reaction in Sadie’s eyes.

“He ain’t dead," the blond woman hissed and inched closer to Cricket, her eyes blazing. "He was dead, I would have to give ya his bag, don’ I?” She shook Arthur’s satchel in Savigne’s face, her sisterly patience clearly running thin. “Y’aint gettin’ it cause he ain’t dead. Maybe will be by my hand or yours when he come back, that’s a different story. Now…” she swung herself up into the saddle and gave Savigne a fiery glare that didn’t brook arguments. “Camp. Food. Talk. Let’s go!”

She rode on and Savigne swayed on the saddle and turned Cricket to follow.

He had never been homesick before. Probably because, discounting the hellhole he had ran away from as a child, he never actually had a home. His home had been the gang and for over twenty years, he had never been apart from it. Even now, in this godforsaken place, he was with them. And yet, he was homesick. A deep painful yearning was burning through his gut, threatening to bore a hole through him as he longed for his tent. Not the old cot he had slept on for years. His tent of barely six months.

He sat apart from the others, elbows on raised knees, back against a crumbling ruin of a wall, trying to to ignore the sunburn that was blistering his skin and the dizziness dancing behind his eyes. That proved to be easier to ignore than Dutch's incessant droning in the background and the homesickness in his gut.

Turns out, washing up on a shore a thousand miles away with nothing but the clothes on your back and the bruise of colossal failures in your heart gave you a hell of a perspective.

Hindsight was cruel; there was little of value to be found in that garden of regret. But, spurred by his thirst for pain, he went digging anyway. He thought of Luther and he dug that bitter soil every day, every hour of every day. And just like Luther, he reached the same revolting truth:

Vanity.

Vanity had watched him from the corner of the room as he argued alongside Hosea to Dutch, all the while smiling coyly at his hubris. Vanity had cooed encouragement into his ear as he had lied on the bedroll the night before, thinking the plan was solid and doable and most importantly - his ticket out. Vanity had squeezed his shoulders and cheered him on as he sat that morning to watch Savigne ride away and Vanity had insisted all would be well. No trouble, Vanity had whispered, no worries, no hesitation. Hesitation is defeat. It had held his coat as he dressed up, had sat on the saddle behind him on Frost as he rode out, had followed him step by step when he fled from the gunfire and had crouched next to him in that deserted building as they waited for nightfall, purring that it wasn't over yet. Vanity had aided his steps as he boarded the ship and the next morning when he stood at the banister to watch the endless stretch of water, drifting away from everything that had any value to him, Vanity had stood with him and soothed his regrets. Vanity had woken him on a strange shore and urged him to go on, to fight, to try, to live. For what? To amuse me, little boy, Vanity smiled. To entertain me. To please me.

The colossal pompousness of thinking his participation was going to prevent another Blackwater! His gut had advised caution but his arrogance had won out. In the end, his arrogance always won out.

Now it was time to feast on the fruit of that arrogance: the loss of his home; the loss of a future with the woman he loved; the loss of a friend and last but not least: the staggering loss of a parent.  

But, in this vast dark ocean of despair, a single source of consolation: Savigne didn't need him anymore.

Truthfully, she never had. Her independence had been the source, the inception point of his desire for her in the first place. The way she had come and gone to camp, full with her own purpose. Her steadfast march through life. He was just the brute who had saved her from other brutes. And now that the last of them was rotting in a swamp, his mission was complete, his role fulfilled. She could finally ride on and prosper. Perhaps she would get that dinner shift. Perhaps she would go to New York. Maybe she would meet a man like Dunham. She had Luther, she had Sadie, she had his money and she would be happy. Hosea had told him that making her happy would make him happy and in a twisted, ironic way he had been right. He just hadn't known that the price of making her happy was removing himself from her life.

In this, at least, he had accidentally succeeded.

A hand landed on his shoulder and a water canteen appeared in front of his face. "Son," Dutch sighed and dropped down next to him. "How are you holding up?"

"'M fine," he rasped and took a swallow. 

"What a shithole," Dutch muttered, leaning his head back on the broken wall.

"Don' like islands no more?" Arthur chuckled bitterly as he took another mouthful. 

"I have to admit," the older man drawled, "The plan is going to need changing."

They sat in silence for a long while. The heat was as bad as Lemoyne heat because it had a habit on settling on everything like dust. There was no escaping from it in the shade, in the open, wet or dry. It was in your eyes, your lungs, between your toes.

"We need to get off this island," Dutch said at last. "Hercule says he can provide us a boat."

Arthur didn't answer. He wasn't interested in getting off the island. He had made peace with the fact that this was his final destination. 

"We need to get back to our people."

They better off without us, he thought but didn't say it. It was simply too hot to argue.

His silence must have bothered Dutch enough to push on: "They need us."

They need us like they need the plague.

His huff of amusement stirred Dutch: "You disagree?"

He sluggishly scratched his beard. "If you say so, Dutch."

"I know you're tired. God knows I am, too. But if we stay here, we will die."

That's the plan. Better than any of yer shit plans, that's for sure. Turns out, better than mine, too.

Dutch flustered a little at his non engagement. "He was like a brother to me," he offered at last. It was a seldom moment of sincerity for Dutch and Arthur took a deep breath and nodded and hoped that would be the end of it but of course he wasn't that lucky. "But we have people depending on us! You have people depending on you!"

Any other day, this would infuriate him. This cheap attempt to dangle Savigne in front of his nose to make him get up and trudge on. Today it only amused him. That's the thing, he thought, she don’ depend on me and she don’ need me. In fact, she better off without me. I played my part in her life, I killed that asshole and cleared the ladder for her. Now all she gotta do is climb and all I gotta do is die.

Dutch prattled on and on but Arthur hardly listened. There was a vast sadness in him, for things that would never be, but also gratitude for things that were. He hadn't managed to touch that untouchable thing - a family of his own - but he had come very, very close. And somehow, in the mayhem that was his life, he had stumbled upon a woman to allow himself to be vulnerable with; and when he had unwrapped his heart to her, she had handled it with care and tenderness. If that was all that was in store for him, so be it. It was more than he deserved.

Night crawled in and the music of the jungle changed. Dutch left his side at some point and at some other point he was given something to eat and he chewed on it listlessly. He wasn’t hungry but it helped to pass the time. Then true dark set in and he was looking forward to it, because night meant sleep and sleep meant dreaming. The same dream he had had since he had fallen into this hellhole. He wasn’t interested in escaping from the island, but he was very happy to escape from reality.

He stumbled to his hammock and lied in it, swinging and watching the stars, waiting for his eyes to grow heavy. Waiting for sleep to end the nightmare that was the day. And eventually, it did. 

Their tent stood before him, in this perpetually repeating dream, location unspecific and unimportant. What was important was the tent and what it stood for - home. White drapes hitched to the ground, firm enough so they wouldn’t blow in the summer breeze, but loose enough to let the air in. The thicker maroon canvas rolled up and tied off. In his dream, it was always summer. Maybe because that’s when he had built it. Some indeterminate time between twilight and the earliest hours of daybreak. 

Instantly he was in front of it, pushing open the flap to step in. The light in here was a muted blue, as if the tent was encased in ice. The covers on the bed were piled up and he knew she was there. A feeling of deep pleasure surged through him, cool in contrast to the hot flare of his homesickness. He unbuckled his gun belt and in the dream, it didn’t jingle. Then the belt of his trousers. One by one he peeled off all his clothes.

Then he carefully crawled on the bed and lifted the covers. A flash of her toffee skin, the curve of her buttocks, the slope of her hip. In reality, Savigne rarely slept naked. She claimed that if something unexpected happened and they suddenly had to run out, she would die of shame if she was naked. He remembered bursting into laughter at her admittance and he also fondly remembered how annoyed she had been at his mirth. But in the dream she was always naked. He moved the covers further: the gentle indentations of her spine, the soft shoulders and the waves of dark locks. He slid in behind her and settled against her back. This was his favorite position and maybe that’s why he dreamed about it so often. She was smaller and fit perfectly into his chest. He tucked an arm under his pillow as his other hand glided over her hip, her waist, up an arm, then down to rest against a plush soft breast and he spread his fingers to gently grasp it. 

She stirred a little and took a deep breath. Her skin was smooth and soft. He kissed her neck as he shifted to adjust behind her with little to no gap. Her hair smelled of lavender, the way it had when she had first approached him in Valentine way back when, but her skin smelled of lemon drops and that was new. He paused at the change, cautious. The dream was precious to him and the last thing he wanted was a deviation, a disfigurement, a change to it. Because it was perfect as it was. 

She sighed and dreamily grasped his forearm, her clutch weak with sleep. In his dream he somehow knew it was Sunday and the whole day was ahead of them, so he didn’t want to wake her yet. But when she did wake, he would make love to her, slow and lazy and he felt his cock between them harden at the thought. Then they would sleep some more, eat breakfast and go to Valentine. And there, in that warm pool of water he would make love to her again - this time rough and aggressive. His appetite and need for her never waned and he was fascinated by that. Why had that first tryst in the woods not been the end of it? Why had he circled back again and again, unable to stay away? It had to be the curse of good things in life.

“Welcome back,” she mumbled as he kissed her shoulder. 

Then suddenly the dream diverged again, sharply this time, because she said “You’re late, Arthur.”

He froze for a moment, finding himself in unfamiliar territory and not happy about it. This was all he had left and he liked it fine the way it was. Although it wasn't unpleasant, he didn't like that she smelled like lemon drops and he didn't like that she spoke those words. Before he could dwell on it though, she mumbled “Don’t smush the grub”. 

He blinked in confusion. “What d’ya mean?” he whispered, alert and wary.

She sleepily tugged at his hand resting on her breast and guided it to her belly. She pressed his palm flat on her pear shaped bump and folded her hand over his to keep it in place. He rose on his elbow in surprise. Under his fingers, the tremble of a rabbit heart, soft and hurried.

“The grub,” she murmured.

In his gut, currents turned, collided, swirled, spiraled and converged to form the point of a vortex. It grew and grew and expanded into a maelstrom that yawned open with quiet force. And in its dark center blossomed a dazzling flower of understanding. 

Arthur flinched awake and the hammock rocked wildly as he struggled to sit up. 

“Can’t be,” he mumbled softly into the thick cacophony of bug chorus. A sharp shake of his head to disperse the spell of sleep followed. The dream unfurled and blew apart like an apparition as he clutched at it. “Can’t be,” he said again, mouth dry. 

And yet, in his gut, it felt true. An instinctual certainty, like lining up cross hairs on a moving target and knowing the exact moment the bullet would fly true. 

He fell back into the hammock and gulped deep breaths of the soupy air. He ran his hands over his face and then wiped the sticky film of sweat on his shirt. His heart hammered in his chest as the dream lifted and evaporated. It was still dark and the only sounds were the chirping of bugs, the croaking of frogs and the snoring of the other men. He shifted in the hammock and straightened a little to settle back in, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again. He lied there and thought and thought, and the more he thought, the more it seemed true. He thought on the little things and he thought on the big things. His mind flooded with memories, by themselves subtle and tenuous like wispy strings. But when he lined them up and coiled them together, there was a solid, firm rope in his hands. No wonder my plans derail, he huffed a quiet chuckle of disbelief to himself, 'm blind as a bat. 

It’s a dream, let it go, his head tried feebly. You’re just spinning tales.

But his gut held firm: you're going to be a father.

Rapture exploded and expanded in his chest and he took a slow, deep breath as it burned through him with blinding heat. He lied dazzled and faint as a tidal wave of pleasure rolled over him. And then another. And then one more. 

But underneath those waves: a dark undertow:

He had left his woman and his child behind, defenseless and alone.

Again.

The notion prickled the hair on his arms like the advent of a thunderstorm.

Years later the spiral voyage of his life had turned the same bend. Maybe the mere irony of fate. Or maybe a test of capricious gods to see if this time he would choose differently.

And he had chosen the same.

He scrambled out of the hammock, fully awake now and stood weak and trembling for long minutes, grateful that everyone else was fast asleep. Then he grabbed the half empty packet of cigarettes and walked away from camp on shaky legs.

Dark thoughts clawed at him. All this time he had convinced himself that she didn't need him. That his part in her life was complete. That she was better off without him. For days now he had taken countless casual risks, had tempted death, even chased it every time he had popped out behind a wall or a tree to shoot back just a little too early or had remained in the open just a little too long. His steps faltered as he realized that an enormous calamity had swum by him like a great shark in dark waters and he hadn’t even known, merely now felt the wake of its departure. His vision blurred with the afterthought. Because alone maybe she would have moved on and prospered. But a woman with child? His child?

The shark hadn’t swum by after all. It was merely circling.

What man would darken their door? Micah? O’Driscolls? Another group of drunk vagabonds? Come to bruise and smother what he had neglected and abandoned. Come to hurt what he loved.

He stood breathing the thick air of the jungle and watched the blue of daybreak settle around him. A new day was dawning. The fever dream of the past week shriveled and dissolved and the fool who had wallowed in aimless self pity gasped his last breath. A great weight rolled off his shoulders. He shifted on his feet and and straightened his back. Made a promise to an asshole in a swamp, he thought. And ‘m damn right gonna keep it.

Hercule heard the approaching steps and rose a little to see who it was. It’s the runt of the litter, the sickly man, he thought when Arthur strode out from under the trees and headed towards him. Only he didn’t look so sickly today. Today he looked like a whole new man. Taller and bigger somehow, with a different gait.  “Can’t sleep?” Hercule asked as he fished out a cigarette from the offered package.

The American grunted affirmation as he lighted first Hercule’s cigarette, then his own.

He was curious why this blan, this white man approached him now. All these past days as they marched to lose the men following them, he had barely spoken, rarely eaten, never even met his gaze. He had just trudged around with the rest of the group and whenever they ran into trouble, his friends had slapped a gun in his hands and he had shot back. His marksmanship was spectacular, but it was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it. He just did it reflexively, as if this was his second nature, something he could do in his sleep. His compatriots treated him like a formidable warrior, but Hercule had been convinced he would die within the week. He had seen people give up before. They had that particular look in their eyes.

So when Arthur’s cool blue gaze locked with his now, he was naturally startled to see a different man looking out. His curiosity turned into intrigue.

“Different climate?” This wouldn’t be the first man who looked tough until he met the Jungle. 

“Got things on my mind,” the other man grimaced.

“Your people back home?” 

The man exhaled out a long cloud of smoke, nodded, then quickly glanced over his shoulder before he said “My family.” The timbre of pride was palpable and pulled a grin of approval from Hercule:

“Lucky man.”

They didn’t talk for a while, just watched the day break as they smoked. The jungle sloped downwards ahead of them, lush and thick as he watched a flock of parrots take flight. Hercule had run into all manner of folk in his life and he liked to think that he was a good judge of them. These Americans acted like a band of brothers, a pack. The fancy man, the cunning one was the leader of the pack. But interesting enough, this man here was no follower. No, he was his own wolf.

“You got kids?” he was asked suddenly.

“Unfortunately no,” Hercule mused. “My life too crazy for that right now. Some day, I hope. When all this is behind me.” Then, just because it was the polite thing to do: “You?”

Arthur squinted into the distance and took a moment before he uttered a confident “I will.”

Hercule resisted the urge to smack him on the shoulder. He got the feeling that this man didn’t like being touched. “Congratulations.”

The cowboy nodded, then turned and gave him an intense look.

“Tell me ‘bout this boat.”

He sobered at that. “I need a favor first.”

“Name it,” was the flat response.

“Fussar. He’s enslaving people. Exploiting them, using them. They live in horrible-”

Arthur’s hand waved away the rest like it was unimportant. “Name it,” he repeated.

He hesitated. A no nonsense man. Not interested in plight and tragedy, just here for a transaction. So be it, he thought. “I need him dead.”

A nod as he smoked and scanned the horizon line. “Anythin’ else?”

Hercule huffed a half chuckle despite himself. “My apologies,” he laughed. “I think I made it sound too easy. Fussar has a small army in his command.”

The blue eyes flicked at him and his grin dissipated. Yeah, forget the others. Forget the fancy leader. Or the one with the cruel eyes and the big belly. This was the man he needed in his corner. Because, if he asked it, this man would burn the world and light his cigarette on the embers. 

“You got guns?” was the casual question.

“Of course,” he licked his lips.

Another silence ensued. He watched the bigger man smoke and wondered if he had had a heatstroke earlier. He had looked pretty miserable and spent. Now he stood shouders rigid, oozing competence and confidence. In truth, Hercule had offered the boat in a moment of desperation and hadn’t been too concerned with keeping his word. Now he thought he damn better made sure to arrange it for real, because it wouldn’t do to cross this man.

”Get me them guns,” Arthur said as he crushed his stub under a heel. “And that boat. Fussar is dead. He just don’ know it yet.”

Hercule watched him turn and stride back to the ruins of the church. Over the years, he had met many who vowed the same. But this was the first time he actually believed it.