#the pinkertons are still around

[shiftythrifting]

An absolute shitload of Pinkerton badges... there's gotta be at least 20. Maybe 40. The box in the back left is stuffed with them. Anyone who knows american history knows these belonged to some particularly awful swine, though these badges are much newer than famous events like the homestead strike.

[javierduffy]

drabble about chapter 3 javieran late night discord (campfire) conversations because i love writing the turning point where javier finally lets himself start making moves 💔☹️

“so,” javier gestures with his bottle, the last quarter of it sloshing to get his conversation partner’s attention, “tell me about yourself.”

“oh, i’m…” kieran fiddles with his hands, pries his eyes away from javier’s bottle as the other man takes a swig of it. if he let himself look any longer, they’d end up on his lips. “i’m just me, sir. just kieran duffy. ain’t got much to tell.”

“mh.” javier grunts a reply, and kieran would think that’d be the end of it, if not for the bottle thrust at him to punctuate the response. he thinks javier is just tipsy enough not to be offering essentially backwash on purpose. he hopes it is a kind gesture. he takes it and a swig to boot. rather not be drinking with a man so pretty, but he’d rather not be one to resist one, neither.

“”just” you say. what makes you so little?” javier’s beginning to pop another beer open on his seat. without the light of the moon, the scout campfire now feels like a long, long way from the clemen’s point camp, and he now feels like no one in the world could hear his curiosity. like not a soul in this world around could accuse him of gentility.

kieran, taking the new bottle as an offer to keep the old one, finishes off his drink. shakes his head like it’s bitter. like he isn’t trying to pick apart which taste is the beer and which is javier. “i ‘unno. suppose- no one’s cared so much before. i feel so little, i can’t say i feel right justified in going around and advertising myself. plenty of interesting folk around, and they sure don’t look like me.” javier cocks an eyebrow.

for once since months ago in colter, dark brown eyes meet green, and they stay there. grass plants it’s roots in rich soil, and it feels like home. kieran can see javier’s eyes flicker to his lips, and he convinces himself it meant nothing. uproots himself and looks back at the fire.

javier lets his eyes roam kieran’s profile a bit- his long lashes, his hooked nose, his sunspots- and suddenly he really, really needs another drink. he’s parched. he mirrors the other man’s fixation on the fire with another swig. “can’t say any of us nowadays look too alike. not unless you get the privilege of being born in the city, with money. every man has his story. if you think it is a competition, maybe you should consider yourself lucky that you haven’t lived enough chaos to be “interesting”.”

kieran snorts, “you don’t know the half of it… sir.” he tacks the term messily onto the sentence, hoping it’ll be enough to keep javier from strangling him to death for his tone. instead, he turns to see javier with a wide smile, drooping eyes creasing like a canine with it’s fangs bared. it makes kieran feel cold- like prey who yearns for the warm embrace of his predator’s breath on his neck.

“tell me then. what makes you so interesting and me so ignorant?”

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: Oh. My. God. I am so sorry this got delayed so many times. This is such an important chapter to me, it plays such a pivotal role in "Y/N's" development that I kept scrapping it and starting over. I didn't want to give this to you guys until it was perfect, and I think I've gotten about as close as I can. I'm predicting one more story chapter and then possibly one short epilogue.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Arthur's gone and you're own once more. The familiar ache of grief lingers as it always does. But the clouds must always part for light. Through death and grief, you still manage to find yourself.

It always seems to be cold at night, now that Arthur’s no longer there to keep you warm. You curl into yourself, knees tucked to your chest as you smother your face in the thin pillow on your cot. You press the fabric tightly to your mouth, trying to keep the sounds of your crying out of the other’s dreams. 

There should be no surprise that you’re on your own again. Beating a dead horse doesn’t make it move, but somehow, you keep finding yourself tangled in the reins, dragged along by the memory of men who’ve long since let go. You wonder, sometimes, if your life is one bet of many between god and the devil, seeing which one of them can get you to break first.  What you could have done to draw their ire, you don’t know, but you’re not sure how much more pain and loss you can handle. Your lifetime is filled with the empty graves of those you’ll never see again. Now, Arthur’s is just another headstone to add to your endless cemetery.

You worry that you’re too loud on the harder nights. But no one’s ever complained that they hear you crying and you figure they’re all probably too busy mourning in their own way to notice the way you do. 

Abigail is practically an empty shell of herself without John. As much as they fought she doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Especially knowing he’s in jail, destined for the noose, and there is nothing she can do about it. 

Karen’s not doing much better. With Sean in jail alongside John, she’s fallen to the drink. She’s adopted a fatalist view that, without Dutch, you are all doomed to die at the hands of the Pinkertons. Sometimes, looking at the depressing faces of those around you, you think she might be right.

Stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with only two rotting cabins between what was left of the gang, you are a far cry from the fearsome outlaws you once were. This is no longer the Van der Linde gang. Now, you’re barely any better than a group of desperate wanderers. 

You know sleep won’t come to you tonight, you’ve been tossing and turning for hours. Any longer and you’ll wake everyone else up. Wiping roughly at your eyes, you slip a blanket around your shoulders and head toward the creaking door of the cabin. You try to keep in mind that one wrong step and the groaning wood below you will alert everyone. 

Barefoot, you walk along the muddied planks of the porch and head towards what’s left of tonight’s fire. It’s not ever-burning as it once was. The gang takes care to ensure if anyone were to come looking for you all, you wouldn’t be such easy targets. 

You sink onto the log before the dying fire, with embers glowing faintly in the darkness. Sparks flicker and leap from the blackened wood, a futile effort to reignite the flame. Their struggle is in vain, though, there is no life left to kindle, no warmth to revive. The fire is gone. 

Light footsteps make their way towards you, but you keep your gaze steady on the flickering struggle before you. “I’m gettin’ real tired of this,” Sadie’s disappointed sigh is a familiar one as she comes to stand behind you. 

“Were you in town again?” You ask, ignoring the glare you feel boring into your back. She stares at you for a while longer before letting out a rough sigh and throwing herself down beside you. The log shifts slightly under her weight and you dip towards her. 

“I was,” she grumbles, something white balled up tightly in her fist. You turn towards her finally, eyes narrowed on the paper in her grasp. Her face is drawn tight, jaw set angrily as something vengeful burns within her gaze. 

“What is that?” You ask, tone inquisitive but not truly interested. Her eyes dart towards you before she shakes her head and tosses the paper to the dying fire. What’s left of it, licks eagerly at the paper, trying its damndest to burn brighter.

“Nothin’, don’t worry about it. Why can’t you sleep?” Her switch in conversation is quick and far from subtle. Your head tilts slightly in curiosity, gaze switching between her and the paper that’s slowly curling up at the edges. She’s hiding something, it’s easy enough to tell from the way she refuses to meet your eyes. Besides, she’s snuck into town plenty of times, you’ve never seen her come back this riled up before. 

You jump to your feet and she startles at the quick move. “Don’t,” she snaps, snatching at your wrist as you rush by her and swipe the paper from the fire pit. Sadie gets to her feet, hand held out with an expectant look as she waits for you to give her back to paper. When you don’t comply immediately, she says your name, voice low and tense, a warning. 

Lips curling up slightly in challenge, you leap back as she lunges for you, holding the paper away from her. “What is it?” You tease, curiosity curling over the lingering ache from earlier. 

She snaps your name again and you flinch back in surprise, “I mean it, don’t look at the goddamn paper.” You’d only been joking with her, trying to focus on anything other than Arthur. Now, there’s a familiar churning feeling of dread as you look at your friend. She’s not angry at you, she’s angry at the thin sheet you’re holding. There’s something on here she doesn’t want you to see, not for her own sake, but for yours. 

Your breath quickens, heart dancing dangerously fast against your ribs as you finally look at what’s in your hand. She hisses your name but you stubbornly ignore her, frowning when you realize it’s a torn-out piece of a newspaper. It’s a smaller article from the local St. Denis paper stand, talking about a ferry being lost at sea. 

“Oh, god,” you whisper, hand coming up to cover your mouth as bile rushes up your throat. You bite down on your tongue until the taste of iron fills your mouth, holding back the nausea. “This is him, isn’t it?”

Sadie lets out a rough sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“You were just gonna hide this from me?” You nearly shout, taking one angry step towards her. Her brows turn down in guilt, mouth settling into a thin line as she shakes her head. “No? You weren’t?” You demand, tone rough with grief. “You were just going to wait until I put the pieces together myself?”

“Dammit, woman, you’re barely holding it together,” she barks out, snatching the paper from you once more. She turns her back on you, shredding it into pieces so small you’ll never be able to finish reading it. “I was going to wait until I didn’t think you were on the brink of completely fallin’ apart. Besides, it doesn’t say anything about the people on the ship, we don’t know what happened.”

“We never will!” The words tear out of you, a sharp, bitter exhale. A panicked smile twists your lips as you struggle to keep yourself upright. “Sadie, your husband is dead, you know that. You have your answer. I never will. I will never know what happened to him. And it doesn’t even matter because he left me!” Your voice cracks, a sob slipping free despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “I shouldn’t care about that goddamn bastard, but I do.” You turn away from her, shoulders caving in as you wipe roughly at the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

There’s a beat of silence behind you. You miss the way her face falls, her hardened exterior falling away just for a moment. She looks at you with something like understanding, pity more likely. She steps forward, her arms winding around your shoulders, trying to hold you steady through the pain. You struggle against her hold for a moment but she keeps her grip firm, forcing you to succumb to the small comfort. 

You sink into her embrace, breath hitching as the grief claws its way up your chest, relentless and unyielding. You can’t keep doing this. You aren’t made to endlessly love and lose, to watch pieces of yourself crumble with every goodbye. It feels as though there should be nothing left of you- no bleeding heart, no raw edges. And yet, every time you think you’ve reached your limit, life finds a way to push you further. 

But life, pain, and the ugly company of grief never stops or goes away, despite how much you wish they would. 

A few weeks later

Physical pains and ailments heal. There may be scars left behind, but for the most part, you can be wholly healed. Anguish of the mind and heart is a different beast to conquer altogether. That sort of pain ebbs and flows. It doesn’t slip away neatly. It comes and goes, sneaking upon you when you least wish for it. 

Distractions can dull the edge. The looming danger of death and the law from any of your multitude of enemies helps. But more often than not, the weight remains a leaden burden on your shoulders and a gnawing ache deep in your chest.

For now, the pain has numbed into something dull that makes you clench your teeth and hiss. But if you force yourself, you can find steady ground to stand on. You can keep yourself calm and sated, if you focus yourself on the anger rather than the grief. 

Anger comes easier than healing. It lashes out at the world and balms over the constant pain, if only for a little while. You find yourself getting into more and more fights around camp. The forgiveness of shared grief has its limits and you’ve been testing them for a while. You’re curious how far you can push before you’re forced out by the rest of them. 

Sadie’s efforts of finding a new place for you all to hide don’t go unappreciated. But this cabin feels like a cage, no matter how far you’ve come from the mud and chaos of the old abandoned camp.  The tight space presses against you, the silence weighs heavy against your chest and constricts around you tightly. You hear the faint rustle of the trees in the wind, but it’s a vacuous cavern inside. 

The memories of Shady Belle plague you like a ghost. The brief moments when you could almost forget everything pressing down, but now, that place, too, is just another reminder of what’s been lost. Memories of nights spent with Arthur or sitting outside and listening to Javier play his guitar are tainted with loss and rage. 

Sadie and Charles provide you brief comfort, but it will never be enough to make this place feel like home. You try to shake thoughts of Arthur, what the gang once was, and everything that came before. You’ve been running for so long, from your past and who you once were, but it feels like you’re being dragged right back. 

Unable to handle the suffocating silence any longer, you take Arthur’s bow out from the chest under your cot. You grab a handful of arrows and jump to your feet. Throwing the door of the cabin open, you stride past everyone lingering outside. A few people give you odd looks, but they don’t stop you from leaving. You’ve become a dark cloud around camp, your presence heavy and actions unpredictable. It’s almost a relief for them when you’re gone. 

Lady’s just as restless as you are, except the dumb beast doesn’t understand that neither of them are coming back. Charles doesn’t know what happened to Diablo or the other horses when he fled St. Denis and you’re not interested in looking for them. She’ll just have to live with the pain, same as you. 

“Let’s go,” you mutter, swinging onto her saddle and leading her out of camp. It’s as if a weight slips from your shoulder the further you get from camp. The tight grip constricting around your chest loosens and for the first time in days, you can draw a full breath as the world opens before you. 

The thick groves of trees thin and give way to sprawling plains of grass and wildflowers that stretch endlessly. Steering Lady off the trail, you ride her hard and fast, determined to put as much distance between yourself and those suffocating cabins. Dirt kicks up under her hooves, flying up behind you as she pushes herself to the limit. 

The world around you blurs into streaks of green and gold as memories and grief slip away from you. You lean forward over Lady’s neck, urging her to go faster even as she huffs beneath you. You’re racing the wind, chasing after a dream that’s been lost to you. The air lashes at your face, the sting sharp and cold. Your eyes burn and you tell yourself it’s the wind, even as wet streaks drip down your cheeks.

Bright beams of sunlight streak across the ground, illuminating the path forward. Morning dew glistening under the light, transforms the earth into a field of stars beneath your boots. You draw in a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill your lungs, and tighten your legs around Lady’s sides, signaling her to slow. Her chest heaves beneath you, each breath a puff of steam in the cold air. You can feel her desire to keep running, that shared, desperate need to escape clawing at both of you. 

But she’s exhausted, and no matter how much you’d like to keep going, you can’t push her until she collapses. You’re tethered, whether you like it or not, you’re always going to be pulled back to camp. It’s a cage and a haven. Though you hate the confinement, deep down you know survival outside of it might be beyond you. You don’t trust yourself not to wither in the wilderness alone. 

The sound of water rushing draws your attention and you turn towards a green hill rousing in the distance. Guiding Lady toward it, you crest the incline and slip off her saddle, letting her graze.

Below, a river carves through the land. Its rushing currents are strong enough to carry something away with no hope of return. You step closer to the edge, peering down as the sunlight dances on the water’s surface. It runs like liquid gold, unnaturally beautiful, almost hypnotic, like the siren call of a sailor’s doom. 

A herd of deer drift alongside the river, their presence serene and almost make the idea of simply drifting away, peaceful. Your foot inches closer to the edge, slipping on the wet grass, and for a split second, the earth feels like it’s tilting forward.  

“You don’t usually ride out this far.” 

The voice snaps you back, and you gasp, spinning around. Charles stands behind you, one hand on Taima’s saddle, watching you with a calm but expectant expression. 

“I can’t stand being there,” you say, moving toward Lady. Your hands fumble with her saddlebag, needing something to occupy them. His eyes flick briefly to the river, then back to you, his gaze sharp and knowing. 

“You’re not the only one.” He strolls to the edge and whistles softly.  “Far drop.” 

You keep your hands busy, pretending to rummage through your belongings. “I’m a good swimmer,” you tell him, voice flat. 

“Not that good.” His tone is clipped, a warning wove into his words.  

You let out a sharp breath and finally turn to face him. “What do you want, Charles?”

He shrugs, resting one hand on his belt as his dark eyes assess you. “Thought you might want some company.” He pauses, his voice lowering. “Or, at least someone to keep you from doing something stupid.”

You wince, knowing how it must have looked. You’re hurt and desperate, but you’re no fool. The river might be pretty, but you’re not looking to drown yourself in it. “It wasn’t anything like that,” you insist, and Charles gives you a sharp, assessing look. “Charles,” you snap, exhaling in frustration.  “Honestly. I just,” you take in a slow breath, shaking your head, eyes downcast. “I need a break.”

“Alright,” he says simply. “We’ll take one together.” He walks back to the cliff’s edge, dropping down to sit with his legs dangling over the side. He glances over his shoulder and motions you to join him. 

Your fists clench at your sides as you take slow, reluctant steps toward him. The dew on the grass seeps into your pants as you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap. Out of the corner of his eyes, you catch his profile, calm, steady, and scarred. 

The aftermath of St. Denis lingers on his face. A fresh scar cuts along his jawline, a reminder of how close he came to joining the others who didn’t make it. Yet, with some of them gone, he seems more at ease. Charles never agreed with Dutch’s grandiose visions, and though he and Arthur had a bond, it’s clear the gang’s collapse has freed him from some invisible yoke. He wears his hair in a braid lately, speaking with nearby tribes and helping them when he’s not in camp. 

If it wasn’t for some odd honor-bound obligation he’s got to you and a few others in camp, you don’t doubt that he’d be riding free by now. Still, he stays with you, and selfishly, you’re glad for it. 

A gunshot cracks through the quiet, echoing among the hills. Birds take flight from the treetops as a hunting group crashes through the grove below. They circle around the herd of deer and let their bullets fly wild. Their hounds snap at the flanks of the animals, jaws clamping around the soft throats of the doe. 

Charles scoffs, shaking his head in disgust. “You don’t kill the does,” he mutters angrily. “Just the bucks. These men... they have no respect for the laws of nature.”

You let out a sardonic huff of laughter, gesturing toward the chaos below.  “Welcome to the future of our country,” Your gaze drifts toward the horizon, where smoke from St. Denis factories smudges the sky. Even this far out, civilization stretches its claws, unstoppable. “The west is dying, Charles. The time of outlaws, of freedom, is being shackled and destroyed.”

You turn to face him, meeting the same burning anger in his eyes that’s been smoldering in your own for weeks. It’s the first time you’ve seen that fire in him so clearly- the shared, silent rage, you’ve both been trying to suppress. “Our time is over,” you tell him, voice low with finality. 

His eyes narrow, jaw tight with defiance. For a moment, he says nothing, but then he rises to his feet, his movements purposeful. “Maybe,” he says, his voice steady, “but not today.”

Without another word, he strides toward Taima, tightening the saddle and checking the reins with precision. “What’re you doin?” You call after him, brows knitting together in confusion. 

He gestures toward the hunters below, his tone sharp. “You want to do something stupid. Fine. But take it out on someone who deserves it, not yourself.” 

His words hit like a slap, and before you know it, he’s leading Taima down the hill. 

You linger in the sharp sting of what he said only for a moment. Jumping to your feet, you rush to Lady, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you mount her. With a kick of your heels, you follow Charles down the path toward the hunters, your rage finally finding a target. 

For the first time in a long while, the weight around your chest lightens. You might not be able to fix the world, but you can make sure someone pays for tearing it apart. And as you ride beside Charles, you remember why he’s still here. He’s not just keeping you alive, he’s giving you something to live for.

Sitting inside the cabin, the smell of venison drifts toward you. After the incident with the hunting party, you and Charles salvaged what you could of the herd. Neither of you liked the idea of anything going to waste. Some materials were given to the local tribe, and the rest have been feeding the camp for days now. 

Last night, you’d scoured the woods for herbs and other ingredients and discreetly left them on Pearson’s cooking table. You were growing desperate for a flavor other than plain meat. Judging by the faint smell of mint wafting through the air, it seems he finally took the hint. 

Propped against your flimsy pillow, you run your fingers along the worn leather of the journal in your lap. For weeks, you’ve toyed with the idea of opening it, of seeing the world through Arthur’s eyes. 

Here, in the rare serenity of a quiet camp, you finally give in. The journal is as you would expect, sketches, details of some of the more pivotal moments for the gang. Every once in a while you’ll find a sketch of someone and a brutally honest recollection of how Arthur thought of them. Some of them are less flattering than you would have thought, you’re almost worried for how he might have seen you. 

You make it through his entries about Blackwater, the sun setting lower in the horizon as the light from the window gets dimmer. Outside, voices grow louder as people gather around the fire for dinner. You force your eyes to stay on the page, blocking out their drifting voices. 

His entries after the mountains are almost amusing. He’s clearly frustrated about something, though, he skirts around directly addressing what it is. Only a few times are you directly mentioned, for the most part, he avoids writing about you. But you catch glimpses of yourself hiding in the pages. A half-finished sketch of your hand holding his, the beginnings of your face abandoned before he can finish. 

There’s an entry a few weeks after you acquired Lady. A sketch of her and Diablo grazing together, their noses nearly touching as they crane their necks towards the grass. Surrounding the drawings are small notes about herbs and foliage he’d collected on his hunting trips. Among those sketches, there’s a small blurb about the horses.  

Diablo seems to be taking a liking to Lady, odd pair, I think. 

An odd pair, you suppose there’s not a better way to put it. Something that never should have worked, a devil and a lady, yet it still clawed and fought to find its way. In the end, though, one of them was always going to be left behind. You can’t help but wish it hadn’t been you.

A rough sigh escapes you, and you flip past the next few pages. Then, you stop. A familiar pair of eyes stare back at you. 

You’ve changed so much since this journey began. Your skin is weathered, your once-pristine hair is now more often than not dirtied and knotted from the wind. Your body has grown leaner, stronger, shaped by the relentless movement and harsh diet. The woman in the red dress from St Denis was already a stranger, someone you couldn’t recognize. 

Even from Arthur’s view, you still don’t know her. The general shape of your face remains. You have the same slope to your nose, your jaw still tilts the same way. But your eyes are so different. He drew them with fire, with life, with a fight you had once thought yourself incapable of. 

You feel invulnerable as you stare down at her, as though her fire can be passed so easily to you. The feeling flickers and fades, replaced with the same familiar ache you’ve grown used to. 

You can’t make sense of it, how he could have seen you so kindly, and yet still walked away. 

“Got that look in your eye again,” Sadie’s voice cuts through the stillness, startling you. She leans against the doorway, one hand lingering on the revolver strapped to her hip. 

“What look?” You mutter, glaring down at the journal. It feels too raw, too personal to keep reading. Torturing yourself with thoughts of him isn’t getting you anywhere. He’s gone. You’ve faced death all your life- mourn, move on. That’s how it’s meant to go.  

“Angry,” Sadie tells you, voice soft and knowing. “Like how I looked after I lost Jake. You ain’t look like that when you lost your husband.”

You shrug, fingers tracing the lines of your face through Arthur’s eyes. “Arthur was nothing like my husband. He leaves something to be mourned,” you tell her simply. She watches you a moment longer, but when you get to your feet, her expression sharpens. 

“Going somewhere?”

“Out,” you reply curly, the cabin walls closing in around you. You’re growing tired of the suffocating way Charles and Sadie hover as if they’re both waiting for you to break again. That moment on the cliff, your grief by the fire, it was all a lapse of judgment, nothing more. You’ve fought too damn hard for your freedom just to throw it away because the men you love always leave you behind. 

“Need some compan-”

“No,” you snap, cutting her off. Your tone leaves no room for argument. 

You step outside, the balmy evening air clinging to your skin as you head toward Lady. You don’t know where you’re going, but that’s fine. You just know you need to figure out how to live for yourself. And you can start by riding. 

The moon hangs heavy in the sky, its light threading through the plains like silver threads. Clouds roll overhead, slowly swallowing the stars. You smell rain in the air, a promise of a storm tomorrow. You’re sure you’ll be holed up in the cabins tomorrow while it pours. 

For now, you have the trail and the night for yourself. You let Lady take the lead, her slow gait a soothing rhythm as you settle into the ride. Normally, you don’t risk staying away from camp overnight. There are too many lawmen and bounty hunters looking to make a name for themselves. Tonight, though, you make an exception. 

A loud whoop cuts through the stillness, yanking you from your thoughts. You pull Lady to a halt, eyes roaming the dark horizon. A lone rider crests the hill, silhouetted against the moonlight, his path set toward something hidden around the bend.

“Must be my lucky day!” He hollers, voice manic. There’s a flash, the sharp crack of a gunshot splitting the quiet, and a scream follows. 

You curse under your breath, driving your heels into Lady’s sides. The two of you round the bend in time to see the rider poking his head into a finely adorned carriage. The driver slumps lifelessly over the reins, blood pooling beneath him.

Grimacing, you draw back into the shadows of the hill. “Alright, ladies first,” the bandit taunts. He reaches into the carriage, his groping hand causing a shrill shriek before he’s grabbing a woman and tossing her into the dirt. You grit your teeth, tucking yourself further out of sight, hoping to go unnoticed.

The glint of his revolver catches the moonlight as he climbs into the carriage. From inside, the muffled sounds of arguing give way to fists striking flesh. The woman lies with her face obscured by her hands. She flinches and sobs with each punch landed and the noises make Lady shift uneasily. Her hooves snap against the dried brambles of a dying bush. 

“Damn horse,” you mutter, eyes clenched shut as the noises momentarily pause. 

“Who’s there?” He calls out. It’s barely a moment before his patience snaps and he fires a warning shot into the air. “You don’t want me to come find you,” he warns, voice low and tight. 

Knocking the brim of your hat down, you let out a resigned sigh and turn the corner, forcing yourself into the open. “Howdy,” you call out, trying to mimic the casual confidence Arthur used to have in moments like these. Bandits, outlaws- they all recognize each other through the ease with which they face situations like this. You only hope you’re a good enough liar. “Just passin’ through, friend, no need for problems.” 

For a moment, his gun dips to his side. Then, his face is twisting into a wide, erratic grin. “Nice trail isn’t it? Perfect for catching big fish,” he says, swinging the revolver toward the woman’s husband. She whimpers loudly and grasps at the slumped-over man. You can hear his shallow, wet breaths from where you sit. 

“There ain’t no need to shoot ‘em,” you tell him, voice steady despite the tension coiling around you. “There’s a fence not far from here, you’ll get more money selling that carriage than you will killin’ them.”

He crackles and it makes your skin crawl. “Where’s the fun in that?” He sneers, cocking the hammer back as he points the gun at the woman. 

This man laughs, taking far more pleasure in tormenting others than in the act of robbery itself. He’s malicious, sadistic—the very picture of a perfect outlaw. For a fleeting moment, he sees something in you, thinks you might be cut from the same ruthless cloth. But he’s wrong, and there’s something exhilarating about stepping beyond the mold your family and husband once shaped for you, discovering who you can be on your own terms.

Your hand drifts to the revolver on your side, slowly easing it out of your holster. His head snaps toward the sound of you pulling the hammer back, but it’s too late. From your spot atop Lady, all you see is blood splatter as his body drops to the floor. The woman screaming lets you know you hit your mark near perfect. 

Opposed to the man now bleeding out in the dirt beneath you, there’s no thrill in the kill, no satisfaction. Just the cold thrum of your nerves, the slight tremor in your hands as you slide off Lady and stride toward the couple. 

With the bandit dead, the woman’s husband seems to make a miraculous recovery. He springs up, blood still streaming along his chin. “Thank God for you, sir-”

He stops short when you tip your hat back. Perhaps his ears were still ringing from one too many blows, dulling his senses, or maybe he was simply too pigheaded to grasp the fact that he’d just been rescued by a woman. You level him with an unimpressed glare. “Not a problem,” you say flatly

“Oh, good heavens,” the woman gasps, whispering your name with a startling familiarity. You freeze, eyes wide, as your blood runs cold. 

Elsbeth Morton. 

You’d know the voice anywhere. Of all the people you could have run into, she’s the last you’d ever want to see. Your tormenter through finishing school. She used to cut your hair in your sleep, stain your dress, and make your life a misery for sport. 

Her sneer hasn’t changed, though the lines around her mouth suggest her spite has only deepened. “Well,” she drawls, voice laced with faux pity, “I see nothing much has changed for you. Still scrounging out an existence in the dirt, are we?”

Your jaw tightens. “Elsbeth,” you grit out. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs, short and derisive in a way that makes you bristle. “For what? Subjecting me to this humiliating spectacle? Honestly, I think I preferred the company of the bandit. At least he had the decency to get on with it instead of pretending to play the hero.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay calm, but she doesn’t stop. “It’s almost tragic,” she continues, brushing the dirt from her skirts as if trying to erase the sight of you. “You’re still so desperate for approval, aren’t you? Trying to prove you’re something you’re not. What’s next? A big speech about how strong and independent you are?” She snickers, tugging her husband to his feet. “We both know better.”

Your voice comes out low and steady. “You’ve always been good at pretending you’re better than everyone else, Elsbeth.” God hates you, you’re sure of it. If he doesn't, why is she here? Dragging you back to everything you loathed about your former self—the vapid, dependent, hollow shell of a woman who had once believed her worth was defined by the man standing beside her.

“Pretending?” she snaps, narrowing her eyes. “Darling, I don’t need to pretend. You can wear all the trousers you want, but we both know you’re still the same timid little girl, hiding behind a man and hoping no one notices she doesn’t belong.”

Her words cut, but they don’t sting the way they once would have. Instead, they ignite something, a fire born not of anger, but clarity. 

You’re not the man bleeding out in the dirt, killing for the joy of it. But you aren’t the polished girl she remembers, desperate for a man’s approval. You’re something else entirely. Unbound by society, free to choose your own path, you’re a beast of your own creation. And if there is one thing you’ve learned about yourself- you love putting your past in the grave. 

You let out a slow breath, your hand drifting toward your revolver. “Elsbeth,” you call, voice sharp enough to cut through her self-satisfied grin.

She stops, turning back with an arched brow. “What now?” she huffs. “Come to beg for my acceptance? Or just another pathetic attempt to-”

“That husband of mine,” you interrupt, voice cool as steel, “was good for one thing.” You draw your revolver, the barrel leveling with her chest. “Teaching me to shoot.”

Her eyes widen, her sneer faltering as her hand instinctively flies to her necklace.

Your lips curl into a wicked smile. “Now, how about you hand over those pretty jewels?”

She scoffs, but you see the way her grin falters, the slight fear in her eyes. You shoot her a wink and take a step closer, reveling in how she stumbles back. 

“And while we’re at it,” you continue, voice tightening into a sharp, mocking edge, “why don’t you hand over those earrings too?” You laugh, waving your gun recklessly as you shrug with a faux playfulness. “Actually, what the hell, I think I’ll take that dress—seeing as you’ve gone and gotten it all muddy anyway.” You take a step forward, your gaze narrowing on her trembling hands. “Hell, even that hair ribbon. You always did like rubbing your finery in everyone’s face, Elsbeth. Let’s see how you like losing it.”

She stares at you, disbelief flickering in her wide eyes, her hands frozen in hesitation. “You can’t be serious,” she whispers.

“Oh, I’m dead,” you pull back the hammer of your gun with a slow, menacing click. The sound hangs in the air like a threat. Your eyes narrow, and a dangerous smile tugs at your lips. “Serious.”

She moves hesitantly, every motion weighted with reluctance, disbelief etched across her face. You, the woman she used to torment and cow with a simple look, now dismantling her composure piece by piece. The power shift is palpable, and for the first time in your life, you watch Elsbeth Morton falter.

“Go’n now,” you say, your voice cutting through her trembling silence. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Her husband flinches as she begins to remove her jewelry, her fingers trembling as she unfastens each piece. You hold out your hand, and she hesitates, her face flushed with humiliation as she steps forward to place them carefully in your palm, one by one, like a chastened child.

He glances at you, then at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disgust as if the sight of her submitting is too much for him to stomach.

Your eyes narrow on him, your hand tightening slightly around the revolver. The smug smile creeping onto your lips says it all—you’ll deal with him next.

You understand, finally, that you’re no longer the woman shaped by the men in your life. The husband who failed you, the outlaw who abandoned you, the society that tried to break you. People will learn that you aren’t afraid to take what’s yours anymore, because for the first time, you’re carving your own path, and God help anyone who tries to stand in your way.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy

[hihomeghere]

Prompt 53 and 45 with javier?

Word Count : 1.2k

Warnings/tags : Cursing, angst, happy ending

Prompt: "You heard me. Take. It. Off.” "Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

Divider by @saradika

I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, so y’all get it a day early

Sean was back, which was cause for celebration. Everyone’s spirits were high, if not by the great news then by the copious amounts of alcohol that were flowing through camp. A slight chill blew through camp as the sun descended past the horizon. You could hardly feel it, your cheeks flushed from the beer you had gleefully partaken in. 

It felt good, having something to celebrate after all the damn hardship you’d been dealing with. The mess that happened back in Blackwater, on the run from the law and Pinkertons alike. Even if what you were celebrating was the return of a foul-mouthed Irish man, instead of some prodigal son. Although if you asked Dutch, they were one in the same. The evening had been going so well you had almost forgotten about Javier. Almost. But that infectious melody from his guitar strings had managed to wind its way over to where you were sitting. You could even hear it over Dutch’s gramophone. His voice carried through camp, as he spoke words you couldn’t quite understand, but ones that you could feel. Ones that made your heart clench painfully in your chest. 

You tried to better your mood, uncapping another bottle as you watched Karen and Sean. A small smile tugged at your lips, you were happy for her, truly. Even if she cursed his name half the time, you could see how much she loved the man. And he seemed to be pretty smitten with her, too. Told half the camp in too much detail about how he felt for her, well what he’d do to her. 

A bitter feeling started to settle in your belly as you took another swig, your own romantic predicament weighing heavily on your mind. 

Javier.

You huffed, pushing yourself off the crate you were sitting on. Perhaps you just had to get closer to the gramophone to fully block out his voice. You plopped yourself down on the grass in front of Dutch’s tent. Nursing your beer as Dutch spun Molly around.

“Lookin’ a little down there miss.” Arthur’s voice rang out, an easy smile on his lips. “Up we go” He said, holding out his hand for you to take. You sighed, letting him pull you to your feet. “Reckon you’ve had about enough of this.” He said, gently taking the bottle out of your grasp. 

“Arthur.” You huffed, shooting him your best glare. 

“Excuse me.” He chuckled, holding up a hand in surrender. “Would a dance make it up to ya?” He asked. You hummed, pretending to mull it over.

“Alright, fine. But only because you look so terribly lonely.” You said, your words relating to your own situation rather than his.

“Unfortunately miss, that is too true.” He said with a small chuckle, spinning you around in a small circle. 

“Why ain’t you dancing with someone you like?” You asked, your hand returning to his shoulder.

“I like you, now don’t I?” He said with a small pout.

“You know what I mean.” You said, rolling your eyes.

“Well I could ask you the same question.” He said with an amused huff.

“I don’t like anyone in camp.” You huffed, wishing you hadn’t said anything at all. Arthur had a way of drawing the truth out of you, too much like Hosea in that regard.

“You and Javier still hung up on that little quarrel?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Life’s too short.” He shook his head, “One of you's got to be the bigger person here. Don’t let something as stupid as pride keep ya from each other.” You pursed your lips, avoiding his eyes as you danced. You knew he was right, you still loved Javier, even if he was a bastard sometimes. 

“You outta be wearin’ a coat, don’t need ya getting sick.” He sighed, pulling away from you to shrug off his jacket. He placed it around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “Think we got ourselves an audience.” He mummured into your ear, your eyes flicked upwards. You hadn’t noticed a certain guitar had stopped playing. You caught Javier’s piercing gaze, his lips pulled down in a frown. Arthur kissed your forehead before pulling away, and you swore you saw fire dance in his dark eyes. You tore your eyes away from him, walking towards the Pearsons wagon. You had to get something in your belly before the night was over, or you knew you’d regret it in the morning. But with the amount of butterflies currently swarming in your stomach, eating was the last thing you wanted to do. 

“Take it off.” You jumped, turning to find Javier standing a few feet from you. His arms crossed over his chest as he glared at you.

“Pardon me?” You asked, furrowing your brows as you tried to calm your racing heart.

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.” His tone was indisputable, his dark eyes shooting straight through you. You had once upon a time loved that they seemed to see through you, able to pull you apart at the seams. Now you just wished he’d look away. 

“The hell are you talking about?” You huffed, crossing your arms. 

“La chaqueta- the jacket.” He huffed, throwing his hand up. Irritation laced in his tone. You wrinkled your nose, looking down at yourself. Why did he want you to take it off so bad? “So Arthur’s your new lover, hm?” He growled, his eyes narrowing.

“My new lover?-“ You scoffed, shaking your head, “Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

“It seems pretty clear to me.” He huffed, motioning to his coat. 

“Oh lord, it was cold! It is cold. He was being a gentleman.” You threw up your hands, rolling your eyes. The two of you glared at each other, the air thickening as though a lightning storm was brewing. You gave in, shrugging off Arthur’s coat. “There, happy?” You asked, folding his coat under your arm. His lip twitched, but he didn’t say anything. “Unbelievable.” You muttered, pushing past him. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. 

“If you were cold you should have come to me.” He huffed.

“And why’s that?” You snapped, “You made it clear there was nothing between us.”

“There is everything between us!” He said, tightening his grip on your wrist. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you couldn’t escape from the conversation. “Everything. You have crawled under my skin, where I go- you go. Stealing my heart away like a damn thief in the night.” He was rambling, the words spilling front his lips like water from a font. “I wake and my first thought is of you. I cannot eat, drink, rest, without thinking of you. So do not tell me there is nothing between us.” His chest was heaving with each breath, his eyes wild as he stared at you. 

You threw yourself forward, crashing your lips against his. His facial hair tickled your lip, your hands grasping his face as you pulled him closer. He wasted no time in reciprocating your actions, his hands gripped your waist, holding you tightly against him. You only parted for air, panting as you pressed your forehead against his. 

“You are a foolish man.” You whispered breathlessly, looking up into his mocha eyes.

“For you? Always.”

[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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[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.)

[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. 

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel

Chapter 1: elation >chapter two >>chapter three

low to medium honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he's alive. He's been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, low honor Arthur, smut, naive reader

WC: 2481

Hi, I’m unwell about him and I needed to post this bc I need people to talk to about it and I probably also need help lmao also may be a bit ooc. New to posting here 😳😖😵‍💫

Tags: innocence kink, size kink, vaginal and oral sex, no TB thank god. Arthur is sweet still but has mean tendencies obviously

Arthur’s new visitor has him hot under the collar.

The snow up here is about to overtake Lucky, the loyal Clydesdale you had known since you were a girl. His legs amble forward, winds whipping his mane and tail about. Hunkering over him; gripping his reins for dear life, you try to urge him further. Your throat is tight with nerves and of course the impending reality that Lucky has been slowing down. That the weather has only been getting worse since you started riding out. The last thing isn’t worth mentioning.

As if he could hear you over the blizzard winds, you clutch tight to his reins.

“Please Lucky, you can do it, boy. You can’t leave me here,”

His hooves trudge through the snow, his big legs managing to stay above the snow fall. He falters a bit here and there, more often as you go on. Grunting and shaking at his tack. You pat along his strong neck. The cold turns the moisture in the air to ice, the heat in his breath disappearing.

“I’m sorry, Lucky…” Shuffling onward, leading him on. Frost gathers over your coat and you would think the landscape beautiful if not for the lethality of it all. You’re not sure if people are meant to survive in places like this. With nose numb and fingers creaky in your thick gloves, you know you have to stop. Scanning the horizon for anything resembling a shelter, imagining yourself curled up in Lucky’s side, you can see the soft glow from a cabin a ways down the road. The only vestige of humanity you had seen for miles on what feels like the edge of the world. Windows glow with the tell tale orange of a warm fireplace. Your foot nudges into Lucky’s side for your last push, your last chance.

“Go!” you slap the reins on his neck, working him up to a trot. You approach and see what looks to be some sort of barn. It’s a small stable, a nice place to put a horse or two, maybe a dairy cow. Another horse lazily sleeps, fresh hay for his bedding. At your entrance, he perks up but stares oddly, easing back. Lucky knickers and snorts, just happy to be inside, you think.

“I’ll be back, hopefully not too soon…” You leave him there while he starts mooching the hay laid out for his new roommate. You pat his flank and watch the ice melt from his lashes.

Braced for the cold, arms crossed over your chest, you pull your legs forward through the snow outside. It’s a fight to get through the piles of snow, clouding around your lower thighs. Finally, you're on the wooden steps of the porch, which creak a bit underneath your feet. Panting, you meekly pat on the door.

“Please, I need help,” you shout, trying to speak over the blizzard. “Is anyone there?” You can hear the crackling fire, feeling like it’s warming you already. Heavy steps come to the door.

“Who’s out there?” A gruff masculine voice answers your call. It grates over your nerves, though if you weren’t alone you might have found it to be soothing. With any luck, he’s the father of a nice family whose heart would be softened by a lone young woman near frozen to death on his front door.

“Please, sir. I promise it’s just me,” your pleading seems to have done the trick and the man opens the door. Finally hitting you with a heat you had almost forgotten. He moves to the side after sizing you up. Hesitating even for a second causes him to dip his head to direct you inside. Forcing your stiff legs to lift. He takes a moment to analyze the gap you left behind. Carefully, he shuts the door and pulls the curtain closed. Maybe he had been robbed before? Lonely homesteads were easy and preferable targets for bandits. Typically neighbors were miles away, if you had any neighbors to speak of or to.

You get a better look at him, tall and strong, chest the size of a barrel. The sleeves of his plain white shirt are rolled up and the top two buttons are undone. Leather suspenders keep his deep brown trousers up. He stands as if unsure what to do with his body besides intimidate you with it, showing not an ounce of uncertainty on his face.

There is no one else here and if there is, they’re in the other rooms of his quiet and moderate home. The house smells of coffee, a disarming smell. Salt pork and boiled potatoes too. Certainly provisions that could last through this harsh winter.

“What the hell were you doin’ out there?” His tone is accusatory and judgemental. He must think you an idiot to be traveling in this weather and maybe he wasn’t all wrong. Instead of talking, your jaw clicks your teeth together. The hard look he gives you melts away and he helps you out of your coat. He's almost surprised to see you, eyes stuck on every piece of you revealed to him. Snowflakes and icy debris are shed from you and you sigh. You try your best to get your natural reactions to stop but they insist on ceasing on their own. The man huffs, stepping towards the percolator on the stove. You watch on, feeling strange that he hasn’t really invited you to sit or do much of anything else.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” he takes a seat by the fire in a big chair seemingly made just for him. He sets down the coffee before taking a match and striking it, lighting the end of a cigarette he retrieved from the table. The coffee steams gently and you take it; seeing as you're very sure he had made it for you. Jerkily, you move to sit as he sets his eyes on you. The couch is soft and warm, homely with a pretty blanket, thick and colorful patterns. While his gaze seems easy and relaxed, he watches you like a hawk.

“No, I… was getting something for my granny. She’s not feeling too good. Ma sent me to get something for her. The doctor, I suppose. Didn’t make it too far,”

He exhales. The smallest noise of amusement.

“I can imagine,” You take a sip of the coffee. Warm and sweet smelling. “What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” You stare, feeling a bit like a child being scolded by this man.

“Oh well, I-”

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed. If it weren’t for me, well…” scratching at the darker scruff that grows on his face. His hair is that same light brown, almost blond. He sucks the smoke out of the slim roll of paper. It's bitter and acrid, a contrast to the warm smoky fireplace. Your brows furrow. Deciding to change the subject before you say something out of turn, you take another sip out of the enameled cup he had given you. The smoke he inhaled releases in a cloud around his features, obscuring the knowing smile he wears.

“I’m sorry mister, but I don't think you gave me your name…” He ashes his cigarette, tossing his legs up on the table in the center of the room. The weight of him and his leather boots don’t rattle the table, he’s careful with himself.

“Arthur. You married?” His gaze is as hot and red as the cherry burning on the end of his cigarette. You almost start to feel uncomfortable. If there weren't a blizzard outside, you might consider walking out. He hadn’t even given you a chance to say your name. Your nervous look only seems to enthrall him more. You only now notice he’s looking at your hands but thick gloves still encase your fingers.

“No, I'm afraid not,” You contemplate telling him a lie but think about when you might have to remove your gloves. You’d rather not get caught in a fib. Though perhaps his rather brusque flirting might have come to an end should you have warned him of a man who would be looking after you. Being out here by yourself seems to have him convinced that no one truly was looking after you anyway.

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself? Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” The butt of his cigarette meets its end in the ashtray on the table. Your face tweaks into a small nervy smile, nodding. “You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Your fingers start to twiddle, feeling your face warm, maybe because of the flames licking at the logs on the hearth. He’s certainly not the ugliest man you’ve ever seen nor the oldest, you frown at such an oddly self deprecating comment. You’re surprised he doesn’t already have a wife and several children running around, reading stories by the fireplace that you sit in front of. You revert back to old tactics.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind too much,”

“Ain’t no trouble,” His hands seem to itch to be doing something, he also seems to twiddle his fingers. One hand propped over the arm of his chair.

“Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He stands, hands on his knees and then he’s going into the next room. It gives you a chance to evaluate the room you're in. The mantle has all sorts of strange little knick knacks, the walls, plenty of… distinctive hunting trophies and supplies. Several gleaming guns in different finishes are displayed proudly. Although pretty, they don’t seem unused. If anything, well loved and worn. You’re starting to feel every bit the lamb in the wolf’s den this man is already treating you as.

He comes out of the room, holding a pair of cotton long johns in a cream color. You’re not sure why he thinks you need them but he has been nothing but hospitable if not a bit too strong on his pleasantries and very blunt. It can be lonely out here in the country, so you offer a small smile. He stares at you, even as you awkwardly side step him and go to his bedroom. You close the door and sigh, nice to just have a moment to yourself. Away from the strange man and the cold. The warm smell of fabric and the natural musk of the wood calm you, along with the faint smell of something distinctive to him. You claw and peel at the layers of your clothing, riding gear and boots. You notice how wet your clothes are from the melting ice. Perhaps he knew better than you did.

You slip into the warm cotton of what must be his long johns. They’re nice and feel almost new. Far too big for you. That man, Arthur, did seem to be quite big. Here in the quiet room, you can remember the wind, the cut of the cold air against your cheeks, hear the wind rattle the glass. You're glad to be out of all of that.

It’s a rather modest room, a bed, an armoire, a nightstand, a cabinet. Cigarettes and a few cigars, several empty bottles of bourbon. Some old faded photographs but you're not so brave as to pick them up. The room is severely lacking in the touch of a woman department, bed pushed up against the wall. The smallest mirror adorns the wall, dusty and plain. You turn to the door and see him, standing there.

You startle and put your hand to your chest.

“You scared me Mister…” no last name to utter has you confused, he had never given you one. Your smile isn’t forced but it fades a little when you see him looking at you.

“Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” he’s really giving several once overs that feel like thrice overs, drinking you in like those bottles of bourbon. Your face feels hot again. He stares at the junction between your legs, up to your chest and then finally your face. You don’t think you've ever seen a man look at you like that; not that you spend very much time around men. The type of men at the saloons in town were no good for you, or at least that’s what Ma would say.

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” he puffs up in pride a bit, you tilt your head. Hopefully he hadn’t been watching you snoop around, or even worse, changing. You nod, a small gesture.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” he makes space for you to exit down the small hallway. You try not to brush against him but he’s so big, fills up the sparse room between you and the wall. He drops his arm on the door frame, making you pass underneath him. Looking up at him, you can make out the color of his eyes, a pretty summer blue. His shirt and suspenders smell clean and wintry. He makes you feel minuscule, a mouse and cougar. His features; squared and rugged from weathering the elements, are set in a stony expression but there’s excitement in his eyes.

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” he says. His hands twitch again, the one in the door is a tight fist. You know that you can’t leave. And you wouldn’t beat him should he chase, you doubt you’d even make it to Lucky. Especially now that he insisted you put on his underclothes. The temptation to be in dryer clothes has trapped you here. You flinch as his hand descends to rest on your neck and collar, rubbing. His body moves forward, taking your silence as acceptance.

“Please, I-“

“I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman,” his hand squeezing at your shoulder, you don’t dare to move. Broad chested, he seems to block out all of the light from the meager lamps and the fireplace.

“Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He eases off you and guides you down the hall, your heart thumping out of your chest. Certainly not because of the romance but the claustrophobic feeling of being alone with a man such as him, big and very strong in his advances. Thankfully, not too strong. Yet, a voice in your head warns.

If you made it, thanks for reading and pls send feedback 💝😭 I have split the chapter into 2 parts because it was way too long. I will be posting a "chapter 2" but chapter 3 will be chapter 2 for people who read the long version. I was just too excited to post it and didn't think about this LMAO

[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.

[primasveraas-writing]

go gentle into that good night

Hosea outlives Arthur.

word count: 2087

warnings: major character death

---

Hosea’s joints protest when he sits back down; his shoulder and back in particular ache. But he ignores it, just as he’s done for many days prior, and settles in at Arthur’s bedside.

The other man attempts a smile at him. His lips are cracked and bloodstained. It’s a sorry sight; Arthur’s face is stained purple and yellow with bruises, and worse still are the signs of sickness that have refused to fade. Under the bruises, he’s sickly white. His eyes are blackened and red-rimmed and clouded with fever. Every inhale is a wheeze and Arthur shudders with pain on every exhale.

Hosea reaches out to his boy, wiping the sweat from Arthur’s face with a handkerchief. He tries to smile back.

“You don’t hafta…” Arthur whispers, and Hosea shakes his head.

“Stop that, Arthur. I’m going to take care of you.”

Three days ago, Arthur had directed him to a veteran’s homestead, not far off from camp. At first, Hosea had protested that he should go with Arthur or stay with Tilly and Jack, but the Marstons needed to flee far and even weeks after Guarma, Hosea could only manage to travel short distances. Arthur had pleaded with him, told him that Hamish would take care of him, and said that he’d find him soon. He’d been lying, Hosea knew, about that last part. But Arthur had begged between coughs, and he couldn’t deny that their family was finally beyond saving, so he’d gone. And when night fell, Arthur still hadn’t appeared.

Hosea had left Dutch to his madness. John was said to be dead; he’d left young Tilly and Jack behind. They’d parted with words of love, but he’d abandoned them to their fates nonetheless. Maybe the gunshot wound in his shoulder prevented him from holding a rifle, maybe he’d felt sapped of strength since returning to the mainland, but knowing this made the farewell no less painful. And in the early hours of the morning, Hosea decided he would not let his goodbye to Arthur be final. 

“It’s dangerous,” Hamish had warned. “The law’s been all over the area. Not to mention your own people running amok…”

“He’s my boy,” Hosea had said. His throat was oddly tight. “If he’s out there, I have to look for him.”

So he had. He started at Beaver Hollow to find dead Pinkertons and Susan Grimshaw staring sightlessly into the surrounding woods. It was some hollow, bare consolation that he hadn’t recognized any other bodies, but the weight in his gut had only deepened. After closing Susan’s eyes and whispering a soft farewell, Hosea continued on into the night. He wandered until he found more bodies; first of lawmen, then Arthur’s horse. 

He’d known then that what he discovered next would break whatever pieces remained of his heart. He’d climbed the mountain. And although the sight of Arthur’s ruined body on the rocks had indeed shattered him, when Hosea heard the rattle of his breath, something like hope warmed in his chest.

On the fourth morning, Arthur sits, propped up by pillows with Hosea in a chair next to him. He’s been awake for almost an entire hour. He doesn’t talk much, for if he does, then coughs will tear through him, and blood will dribble from his lips, and Hosea cannot stand to see that any more times than he already has. But Arthur is awake, obediently taking sips of water until he starts to cough and retches some of it up. When that happens, Hosea wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulder and holds him while the fit passes, watching as blood and phlegm and bile spill from Arthur’s mouth. Then, when Arthur is done gasping for air, Hosea leans him back against the pillows with shaking arms. It takes several minutes for his breathing to return to its normal, trembling wheeze.

“Do you remember…” Arthur starts after Hosea has cleaned him up, and Hosea shushes him. But Arthur shakes his head and continues on, his voice a rasp. “We talked about how we wanted to be buried. D’you ‘member?”

“I remember,” Hosea says quietly. He takes Arthur’s hand in his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb. The skin is cracked and thin.

“Facin’ west,” Arthur murmurs. “Please, Hosea. Don’t want it any other way. Hamish’ll help you.”

“I’m not going to bury you, Arthur,” Hosea says, frowning at the man before him.

“Well somebody’s got to,” Arthur says, and he has the nerve to crack a smile. “I’m dyin’, Hosea. ‘s only a matter of time.”

“You’re going to get better, do you hear me?” Hosea’s voice cracks. “ I went back there to save you. And I have.”

“You have,” Arthur agrees. “But look at me.”

Hosea does. Arthur’s chest rises and falls unevenly. Each breath is shallow and pained; Hosea is sure that under the bandages wound around his chest are broken ribs, and underneath that, lungs ruined beyond repair. His right hand is broken; his face is swollen and flushed. Somehow, Hosea didn’t think it could get any worse than it had been when Arthur returned to them on the shores of Guarma. He’d been half delirious, exhausted, and gaunt. And the coughs had been awful. But now, looking down at Arthur, he knows it's far, far worse. This is not the man he knows, not even when that man had been at his hurt and sickest. This is the shell of a person who’d once been living.

“‘m sorry,” Arthur says. His eyes are still closed, but he squeezes Hosea’s hand. “Ain’t right to bury your child. I’m sorry, ‘sea.”

This is the worst pain he’s ever felt. With Bessie, it had felt like the ground had been swept out from under his feet, that he was drowning. With Arthur, it feels like the world is at an end, like even if he surfaces there will be no air to save him. With Bessie, he’d hated dawn for coming, but now Hosea cannot see a future without Arthur in which the sun still rises.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Hosea whispers, the words barely audible. Arthur doesn’t respond, lost to pain or sleep. Hosea bows his head, resting his forehead on their intertwined hands. 

Arthur slips deeper into fever that night, shivering against the cold despite the blankets covering him and the fire roaring in the hearth. It feels cruel. As if Arthur weren’t sick enough- and Hosea knows that Arthur’s body can’t take much more. There will be no fighting off this bout of illness.

Hosea tries to sleep when Arthur sleeps, although he’s afraid that Arthur will slip away without him realizing. He can’t tell which he dreads more- the prospect of holding Arthur’s hand as he breathes his last, or waking and finding him already gone. All he knows now is fear and grief as he watches Arthur die.

Moments of lucidity and consciousness are fleeting. Mostly, Arthur groans in pain or coughs. He’s no longer able to stomach the mouthfuls of broth Hosea spoons into his mouth. It’s quiet, aside from the ragged sounds of Arthur struggling to breathe, and impossibly lonely. 

Arthur is going to die.

There is nothing now that Hosea can do other than watch it happen.

He wishes they had more time. That Arthur felt just a little better, that they could have one last ride together, one last fishing trip. One more conversation that lasts more than a few minutes before Arthur falls asleep. He wishes they could talk about all that’s happened, about Dutch, about how John got away. About their hopes for the Marstons and the others who got out in time. He misses Arthur already.

In the end, he decides there are only two things worth telling. Before Arthur dies, Hosea only needs him to hear two things, and maybe then, he’ll be able to let Arthur go.

When Arthur wakes next, it’s because of a coughing fit that lasts for several minutes. As soon as it fades, Arthur slumps back, his eyes shutting. He hardly acknowledges Hosea when he wipes the blood and spit from his chin, and Hosea pauses.

“Arthur, wait,” he says suddenly, and Arthur’s eyes slowly open again. “Don’t go to sleep just yet, I need to tell you something.”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur wheezes, blinking the fatigue away. He tries to sit up, but Hosea sets his hands on his shoulders and pushes him back down. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just-“ Hosea breathes in. “I need you to know, Arthur, that you are loved.”

“Hosea-”

“The way Dutch treated you weren’t right. It weren’t- weren’t the way a father should act. And I’m sorry if that made you feel as if you weren’t appreciated. But there’s people who care about you, son, and always will- me, John, Tilly, Abigail, Jack. I need you to know that.”

There’s a long pause. Something works its way across Arthur’s face- first, confusion, then something much different, something that reminds Hosea of when Arthur was small, still learning to trust them, still figuring out that he wouldn’t be left behind, that he was safe, that he had family. 

“I know, ‘sea,” Arthur breathes, and when his eyes close, a tear slips from under his eyelashes and runs down his cheek. 

Hosea wipes it away, and blinks back tears of his own. 

As Arthur sleeps, Hosea begins his second refrain, unsure of whether or not Arthur can actually hear him. But he speaks softly anyway, recounting each act of kindness he’d ever seen Arthur do. Rescuing John, taking Jack fishing, bringing the women coffee in the morning. The way he’d cared for his horses and for Copper. The way he’d spoken about Jack and Eliza, before it became too painful to recall. Taking Lenny under his wing, standing up for Molly before she’d died. Giving money to strangers on the street, helping anyone he came across who looked like they needed a hand.

“What’re you talkin’ about, old man?” Arthur mutters hours into it. His eyes are cracked open; he looks bleary and confused.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea says. “And I know you don’t believe that. But I know it. I’ve seen it.”

Arthur shakes his head, but Hosea squeezes his hand, tight.

“You’re a good man,” he says again. “If you’re not going to die believing it, die knowing myself and a few others know it to be true.”

Arthur mumbles a protest, but he’s already being dragged back under by the fever and the exhaustion. Hosea doesn’t mind. He hopes that Arthur can rest.

He’s said his piece. Now, he prays that when Arthur goes, it’s gentle and quiet.

Arthur is conscious, but clearly in agony. He pants, thrashing in the bedsheets, and Hosea shushes him, smoothing the blankets down. 

“That’s alright son,” Hosea says quietly, pushing a sweaty clump of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “You’ve done good. You’ve fought long enough.”

Hosea clutches Arthur’s hand tighter. Once strong and nimble, his hand feels thin and frail in Hosea’s. His skin is clammy and cold.

“You rest now,” the older man continues. “I have you. It’s alright.”

Arthur’s eyes slowly open a minute later. He looks at Hosea, really looks at him- for the first time in days, there is no clouded confusion of the fever in his eyes. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, his breaths coming in labored wheezes, and his face is gaunt. Heavy purple bags under his eyes stand out against his pale face, and he’s so weak he can’t turn his head. But his eyes are clear. There’s just a single moment, an instant, where their eyes meet- before Arthur’s eyelids flutter closed again and Hosea is left alone.

Hosea wakes to daylight creeping in through the window, flooding the small room of the cabin. The first sounds that register are birds chirping, and then that is drowned out by Arthur’s breathing, ragged inhales shaking his unconscious frame. There’s a rattle in his chest that’s worse than ever, and each exhale stutters.

There’s a weight in the center of Hosea’s chest, a gaping pit in his stomach that threatens to swallow him. 

“I love you son,” Hosea whispers, and he hopes that at this end, Arthur can hear him, or at least he knows the words are true. 

They stay like that, father and son, as the sun rises. And when Arthur breathes his last, he is not alone, and in his final moments before oblivion, he is loved. 

[shiftythrifting]

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

[allthemeniveloved]

It Will Come Back - Part 8

Summary: Arthur and the others return from Guarma worn and weary, prompting you to call on Arthur for help with rescuing John.

wc: 4.9k

ao3 link

Tags: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader, fluff, angst, hurt comfort, reminding myself that this is a love triangle story, did you miss Arthur?

a/n: EEEEK! This might not be everyone's favorite chapter but this is for sure one of mine. Btw, this'll be the last chapter that clings heavily to the canon storyline for any of you hoping to avoid real spoilers.

And the day that we'll watch the death of the sun That the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on Then you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs

Wasteland, baby I'm in love I'm in love with you

The swamp was alive with a suffocating tension as the remnants of the gang scrambled to leave Shady Belle. The failed Saint Denis bank robbery had sent shockwaves through everyone, and with the Pinkertons closing in and the law hot on their trail, there was no time to mourn, rest, or even think. Sadie, sharp-eyed and determined, had stepped in to take charge amidst the chaos, her voice calm yet firm as she directed the others. “We can’t stay here,” she said, helping Abigail bundle Jack onto a horse, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Lakay’s far enough out to give us time to breathe, but we’ve gotta move now.” The gang, rattled but desperate, followed her lead, pulling together what little they could carry from the crumbling mansion as the clock seemed to tick down.

You worked alongside the others, your hands trembling as you stuffed supplies into saddlebags, your mind reeling with the thought of those still missing. Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill had disappeared after the bank job, and no one had heard from them since. Abigail’s distraught cries were a constant reminder of the others you had already lost: Hosea and Lenny, gone forever. The weight of it all sat heavy on your chest, but there was no time to grieve. The law could arrive at any moment, and Sadie’s steady leadership was the only thing keeping the group moving forward.

The journey to Lakay was grueling, the horses trudging through thick mud and water as the humid air clung to your skin. The swamp seemed to close in around you, the dense trees and hanging moss creating an oppressive atmosphere that matched the mood of the gang. Dahlia’s steps were careful but unsteady as you followed the caravan of riders, your eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. Sadie and Miss Grimshaw led the way, all eyes fixed ahead, while Pearson’s wagon groaned under the weight of the camp’s salvaged supplies.

When Lakay finally came into view, it was a dismal sight—ramshackle huts barely standing on the edge of stagnant, murky water. The air smelled of decay and mildew, and the buzzing of mosquitoes filled the humid night. It was far from a home, but Sadie called it safe, and that was all that mattered. “Get settled,” she barked as the gang began to dismount. “We’ll rebuild here. It’s not forever, but it’ll do for now.”

The camp quickly descended into controlled chaos as everyone worked to unpack. Miss Grimshaw and Pearson began setting up stations, muttering under their breath about the lack of space. Sadie helped the rest of the women while you lingered near the outskirts, your eyes darting back toward the swamp trail. The longer you waited, the harder it was to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. Where were they?

-

Twenty-six long days had passed since the gang had relocated to Lakay, and the tension in the swampy camp had only grown heavier with each sunrise. The shacks were barely holding together, the air thick with mosquitoes and the stink of stagnant water, and the days stretched endlessly as everyone tried to scrape by. You’d nearly given up hope of ever seeing the missing men again. Every night, as you lay awake on your makeshift cot, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were alive, or if they’d met the same grim fate as Hosea and Lenny. 

After Saint Denis, the weight of everything made the idea of leaving feel impossible. You told yourself it was practical to stay, that you needed their resources and protection, but deep down, you feared you didn’t have the strength to survive alone out in the unforgiving wilderness. As much as you hated the chaos, abandoning the gang felt like stepping into an even darker unknown, and you weren’t sure you had it in you to face that kind of uncertainty alone. 

The thought of John in prison was a weight that never left your chest, pressing down harder with each passing day. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to dark places, imagining him locked away in some cold, damp cell, surrounded by unforgiving walls and cruel guards. Was he being fed? Was he hurt? The unanswered questions gnawed at you constantly, leaving you restless and sleepless most nights.

Worst of all was the fear that you might never know the truth. The uncertainty tore at you like a jagged edge—what if the law had decided he wasn’t worth keeping alive? What if they’d already executed him, leaving you here, clinging to the hope of a man who was gone? You tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on the slim possibility of rescue or escape, but the gnawing doubt refused to be silenced. The idea of him out there, suffering or worse, while you were helpless to do anything, felt like it was breaking you piece by piece.

Then, one humid evening as the sun dipped below the swamp, the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats shattered the quiet. You bolted upright, your heart leaping into your throat as you ran to the edge of camp. The sight of five riders emerging from the mist left you breathless—Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill, their figures gaunt and weary, their clothes tattered and caked in dirt. They looked like they’d been through hell, their faces hollowed with exhaustion and their eyes haunted.

Arthur dismounted first, his movements slow and deliberate as he scanned the camp, his gaze finally landing on you. You didn’t hesitate; your feet moved before you even realized, and you ran straight to him, your chest tight with emotion. “Arthur!” you cried, your voice trembling as you threw your arms around him, holding him tightly like he might vanish if you let go.

He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but then his hands came up to rest on your back, his touch grounding and steady despite the weight he carried. “Easy now,” he murmured, his voice rough and hoarse, but there was a flicker of warmth in it that made tears spring to your eyes. “I’m here. I made it back.”

You pulled back just enough to search his face, your hands gripping his arms as your gaze swept over his tired features. “I - we thought you were gone,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Twenty-six days, Arthur. Twenty-six days, and we heard nothing!”

His brow furrowed, guilt and weariness mingling in his eyes as he glanced toward Dutch, who was dismounting nearby with a grim expression. “It wasn’t easy,” Arthur said quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion. “We got stuck… in more ways than one. But we’re here now.” Only then did you notice that Arthur’s face was uncharacteristically red, the skin across his nose and cheeks raw and peeling as if he’d spent days under an unrelenting sun. You frowned as you looked at him, curiosity stirring in your chest. 

He didn’t offer details, and you didn’t press him. The relief of seeing him alive and back at camp was enough, for now. As the others dismounted and the camp stirred with murmurs and questions, you clung to Arthur a moment longer, your heart still racing. Whatever hell they’d been through, you could tell it wasn’t over—and neither was the fight to keep the gang together. 

You grabbed a bowl of stew from the pot Pearson had set up, the steam rising in swirls as you carried it over to Arthur, who looked like he could barely stand. “Here,” you said softly, nudging him toward a crate to sit on. He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as he watched you, but he finally sank down with a heavy sigh. Sitting across from him, you studied his sunburnt face, the peeling skin and exhaustion in his eyes, and an unexpected wave of relief washed over you. You didn’t think you’d ever see him again, and the fact that he was here—alive, even if worse for wear—tugged at something deep in your chest. “You okay?” you asked quietly, your voice softer than you intended. 

Arthur glanced at you, his brow furrowed, and muttered, “Didn’t figure you’d lose sleep over what happens to the likes of me.” Though his tone lacked its usual edge, as if he wasn’t sure he believed his own words. You hesitated, the mix of guilt and gratitude swirling in your chest, leaving you unsure how to respond. “Of course I do,” you finally said, your voice barely audible as you looked away, unable to face the question lingering in his tired gaze.

Your fingers began to fiddle with the edge of your sleeve. “I was worried. I didn’t know if you’d come back, and… I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Arthur’s expression softened, though he still looked uncertain, his fingers idly turning the spoon in the bowl of stew. 

“Guess I didn’t think you still gave a damn about me,” he admitted, his voice low and gruff, like he wasn’t quite sure how to say the words. He leaned back slightly, his tired eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place. “But I appreciate it. More’n you know.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the sounds of the camp distant as the weight of the past weeks hung between you. Despite everything, Arthur’s presence grounded you, his steady strength a reminder that you weren’t as alone as you feared. “Well,” you said quietly, offering a small, tentative smile, “you’ll have to get used to it, Arthur. Like it or not, some of us do give a damn.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I reckon I’ll try to remember that,” he said, his voice lighter now, though his weariness lingered. He picked up the bowl of stew and began to eat, his movements slow but steady, and you stayed beside him and studied the worn features on his face.

Arthur’s beard had grown wild and uneven, the sun catching on the lighter strands that peppered the thicker growth along his jaw. It framed his face in a way you weren’t used to, making him seem even more rugged, almost untamed after the time he’d been gone. Your eyes lingered, tracing the curve of his jawline beneath the sunburnt skin, down to the faint hollow of his throat just visible beneath his open collar, the worn fabric clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. You’d thought you might never see him again, and the realization hit you all over again, making your chest tighten. He shifted slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he finished his food, and you couldn’t help but study him further—the sharp lines of his features softened by exhaustion, the way his collarbone rose and fell with each steady breath, grounding you in the moment. Despite the grime and wear, there was something reassuringly familiar about him, something that made you feel, if only for a moment, like everything might still be okay.

The silence between you was heavy, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “I owe you an apology,” he began, not meeting your gaze. “For what I said when I found out about you and John. I was angry, and… I shouldn’t’ve said half the things I did.”

You swallowed hard, the memory of that confrontation still fresh in your mind, the sting of his words lingering even now. “Arthur,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly.

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “I know,” he said quietly, his tone laced with guilt. Tears stung your eyes as you leaned forward, your hands clasping together in your lap. “I never stopped caring about you, Arthur,” you sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I still care about you. And when you said those things, it… it felt like I lost a part of you that I’d always counted on.”

His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long sigh, finally looking at you fully. “You didn’t lose me,” he said, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet sincerity. “I was hurt, sure, but that ain’t an excuse for the way I acted.”

You nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips despite the tears threatening to spill. “I just want us to be okay again.” you said softly.

Arthur’s expression softened, and he gave a small, weary smile. “We’ll be alright,” he said, his voice steady.

Arthur glanced up from his stew, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he caught your lingering gaze, and a faint, wry smirk tugged at the edge of his lips despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “Careful, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “John might not take too kindly to you lookin’ at me like that.” His words jolted you, and your face flushed as you quickly looked away.

You shifted uncomfortably under Arthur’s gaze, your cheeks still warm from his teasing, but the weight of everything left unsaid between you pressed down too heavily to ignore. Clearing your throat, you quickly changed the subject. “Arthur,” you began quietly, your voice trembling slightly, “John was arrested after the bank job in Saint Denis.”

Arthur froze, the spoon in his hand hovering mid-air as his tired eyes widened slightly. “Arrested?” he repeated, his voice rough and low, his brows furrowing. “What’re you talkin’ about? I thought he and Abigail had both gotten away.”

You blinked, taken aback. “She did,” you explained quickly, guilt tightening in your chest. “But when she got back to Shady Belle, she told us she saw him being taken away. Pinkertons caught him right after everything started.”

You blinked, your heart sinking as the realization hit. “I thought you knew,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking. “We’ve all been waiting—hoping for news. But it’s been weeks, Arthur. Abigail hasn’t heard a word since she saw them take him.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he set the bowl aside, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and worry.

Arthur’s gaze hardened, the exhaustion in his eyes giving way to a sharp focus as he leaned toward you. “Where’s he bein’ held?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slightly as you admitted, “We don’t know… Abigail saw them take him, but she couldn’t follow—no one’s been able to find out.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at the ground, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed deeply and said, “I’ll talk to Dutch in the morning… see if we can come up with somethin’.” The words barely left his mouth before you collapsed to your knees in front of him, the desperation you’d been holding back spilling over as you wrapped your arms around his torso, clutching him tightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your cheek pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. For a moment, Arthur froze, his arms hovering awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Then, with a quiet sigh, he rested a hand gently on the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your shoulders as he held you close. “It’s gonna be alright,” he murmured, though his voice was rough, and the words seemed meant as much for himself as for you. As he sat there, comforting you despite the lingering ache in his chest, he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from caring for you—no matter the cost.

Arthur let out a quiet sigh, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer, letting your weight rest against him as the dam finally broke. You sobbed into his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly, releasing everything you’d bottled up for the past month—the fear, the guilt, the sleepless nights wondering if John was still alive, and the unbearable tension of holding it all in. Arthur didn’t say anything at first, his hands moving in slow, comforting strokes along your back as he held you like he had all the time in the world. His warmth and steady presence grounded you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself collapse fully into your grief, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a rhythm that soothed your racing heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between sobs, your voice cracking as you tried to pull yourself together. “I shouldn’t… you’ve been through so much, and here I am falling apart on you.” You made to pull back, but Arthur’s arms only tightened around you, keeping you close. “Don’t do that,” he said gruffly, his voice softer than usual but carrying an undeniable firmness. “You’ve been holdin’ all this in, and it ain’t good for you. Hell, I’d feel worse if you didn’t let it out.” His words broke through your reluctance, and you buried your face against him again, tears streaming freely as he rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, the roughness of it oddly soothing. “You ain’t gotta carry all this by yourself anymore, alright?” For a brief moment, the weight of your burdens felt just a little lighter, shared in the quiet strength of his embrace.

Arthur shifted slightly, his arms still wrapped securely around you, and murmured, “C’mon, darlin’, let’s get you off this cold ground.” Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you as he stood, holding you close against his chest. You blinked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. “Arthur, you don’t have to—”

“Hush,” he interrupted, his voice soft but firm, his eyes meeting yours with a steady warmth. “You’re worn out, and you’ve been carryin’ too much for too long. Just let me do this, alright?”

He carried you into one of the small, rickety shacks at Lakay, the floorboards creaking faintly under his boots as he stepped inside. He laid you down gently on the small cot in the corner, adjusting the blanket to cover you before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing against his, not wanting him to go. “Arthur… don’t leave,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dim light.

He hesitated for a moment, the faint flicker of something unspoken crossing his face, before he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, pulling off his hat and setting it on the floor beside him. He eased down beside you, his large frame careful not to take up too much space as he leaned back against the wall.

As you settled into the thin mattress, the tension in your chest began to ease, replaced by the quiet comfort of having him near. His hand rested lightly on yours, a grounding presence that kept the dark thoughts at bay. “Get some sleep,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, the exhaustion in it betraying his own need for rest. You nodded, your eyes drifting closed as his steady breathing filled the room, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a fragile sense of safety begin to take hold.

-

The soft light of morning filtered through the gaps in the shack’s weathered boards, painting faint golden lines across the floor. As you stirred, the faint ache of exhaustion still lingered in your body, but the overwhelming heaviness of the previous night had begun to lift. Turning your head, you spotted Arthur slouched in a wooden chair near the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and despite the awkward position, he seemed to be fast asleep, his face relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks.

A warmth bloomed in your chest as you watched him, the sight of him staying by your side all night melting away the residual anxiety that had haunted you. He hadn’t left, even though he had every reason to. The slight rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his breathing—it all grounded you in a quiet, fragile peace you hadn’t felt in what felt like forever. You sat up slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but the creak of the cot under your weight made his eyes flutter open. Blinking groggily, he shifted slightly and looked at you, his voice rough with sleep as he murmured, “Mornin’, darlin’.”

You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met his tired gaze. “You didn’t have to stay,” you said softly, your voice still hushed from the morning quiet, though there was a warmth in your tone you couldn’t quite hide.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he sat up straighter in the chair. “Figured you might need someone around,” he muttered, his voice gravelly but carrying a hint of that familiar gruff affection. “Didn’t seem right, leavin’ you after all that.”

Your smile grew a little, and you tilted your head, watching him as he stretched, his muscles stiff from the awkward position he’d slept in. “Still, you’ve been through hell. You didn’t owe me that,” you replied gently.

Arthur shrugged, his eyes meeting yours again, softer now. “Didn’t feel like I owed it,” he said simply, a faint, tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Just felt like the right thing to do.”

You looked away briefly, heat rising to your cheeks as his words lingered in the space between you. “Well,” you murmured, glancing back at him, “thank you… for everything.”

He gave a small nod, his gaze steady but warm. “Anytime,” he said quietly, leaning forward as he rested his forearms on his knees, the moment settling between you like a fragile truce.

Arthur let out a long sigh as he ran a hand through his too-long hair, his tired eyes fixed on the floor. “Let me go talk to Dutch, see if I can get him to focus on somethin’ that actually matters for once. John’s done too much for this damn gang to be left rottin’ in a cell.” He glanced up at you then, his expression softening despite the weight in his voice. “It ain’t gonna be easy, though. You know how Dutch is—he’ll want it to fit into some grand plan of his own.” His tone carried the quiet determination of a man who had seen too much but still refused to let go of what little hope remained. 

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but Arthur seemed different now. The man who once spoke about the gang’s loyalty and Dutch’s vision as if they were gospel now carried an air of quiet skepticism. His shoulders, though broad and strong as ever, seemed weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion—a kind of disillusionment you hadn’t seen in him before. There was a tiredness in his eyes, not just from lack of sleep but from seeing too much, knowing too much. And yet, that same sense of strength and resolve remained, a spark of who he was, but tempered now by an understanding that things had to change.

You grabbed his hand tightly, your grip firm as if to anchor yourself in the moment, and your voice trembled with gratitude. “Thank you, Arthur—thank you for not giving up on him,” you said, the words spilling out in a rush.

Arthur gave a small nod, his gaze steady but distant, before rising from his seat and heading for the door. As the shack’s wooden door creaked shut behind him, a faint glimmer of hope stirred in your chest, fragile but undeniable, as you clung to the thought that maybe, just maybe, things could turn around. 

-

The chaos at Lakay had been nothing short of a nightmare. The Pinkertons had descended on the swamp like a storm, gunfire echoing through the murky night as the gang fought to hold them off. By the time it was over, the once-crumbling camp had been completely abandoned, supplies scattered and spirits broken. The gang moved north in a frantic retreat, the chill of the approaching mountains biting at their heels as they set up a rough, makeshift camp at Beaver Hollow. The air at the new hideout was thick with tension, the gang fractured and on edge, their collective grief and frustration palpable in every hushed conversation and distant glare. You had barely settled before slipping away, the weight of everything driving you into the woods to hunt, the repetitive task the only thing keeping your racing thoughts at bay. The cold morning air bit at your cheeks, and each breath escaped your lips in soft, misty plumes that hung briefly before disappearing into the gray dawn.

It was there, among the trees and damp leaves, that Arthur found you, his broad figure cutting a familiar silhouette against the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. His approach was slow, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor, and you didn’t look up until he was standing a few paces away. “Dutch doesn’t want anyone goin’ after John,” he said flatly, his voice carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. He paused, his hands resting on his belt as his gaze lingered on you. “Says it’s too risky, that we’ve got bigger problems right now.” There was frustration in his tone, but also a thread of resignation, as if he’d already fought this battle and lost.

You turned to face him fully, your bow slipping from your grasp as his words hit you like a blow. “Arthur, no,” you said softly, shaking your head, your voice trembling as desperation clawed its way to the surface. “We can’t just leave him there—Dutch can’t just decide that.” You took a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides as tears threatened to spill. “Please, Arthur, you’ve got to help me. You and Sadie—you know where he is. We can get him out.” 

His jaw tightened as he averted his gaze, clearly torn, but the conflict in his expression only made you press harder. “I can’t do this without you,” you added, your voice softer now, pleading. “John doesn’t deserve to be left to rot while Dutch spins his schemes. Please.”

Arthur sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he shifted his weight. His hand lifted to rub the back of his neck, his tired eyes finally meeting yours. “It ain’t that simple,” he said quietly, though his voice lacked conviction, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. “Dutch… he’s diggin’ in his heels, and things are already fallin’ apart. If I go against him—if we go against him—it’ll only make things worse.” His words were heavy, but you could see the cracks in his resolve, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if grasping for a solution he couldn’t quite reach.

You stepped closer, your voice firm and trembling with frustration. “If you won’t go, I will,” you said, the words rushing out before you could stop them. Arthur’s head snapped up, his jaw tightening as his tired eyes bore into yours. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice low but carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. He took a step toward you, his broad figure looming as he softened his tone, though it remained firm. “You know I can’t have you goin’. You’ll get yourself killed before you even get close to that damn place.” His voice broke slightly, the faintest edge of worry cutting through his words. “And I… I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily speechless, your hands curling into fists at your sides as his words hung between you. “Then what, Arthur?” you finally asked, your voice trembling. “What do we do? Because I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Arthur let out another sigh, his shoulders sagging as he looked away, clearly conflicted. “I’ll help you,” he said finally, his voice quieter but laced with determination. “But we’re gonna do this smart, not reckless. I ain’t about to lose you over this, y’hear?” His words carried a weight that settled deep in your chest, but there was a flicker of relief, of hope, as he added, “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking as you whispered, “Thank you, Arthur. Please… bring him back to me.”

Arthur looked at you for a long moment, his tired eyes softening, though the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, girl,” he muttered, his voice low but laced with that familiar gruff affection.

The words hit you like a quiet storm, leaving your chest tight as you stepped closer. Without thinking, you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the rough stubble brushing against your lips. “Thank you,” you murmured again, your voice filled with gratitude, as his smirk faded into something more tender.

A faint blush crept up Arthur’s face, his usual composure faltering as he glanced away, the stubble on his cheek still warm where your lips had touched. You watched as Arthur disappeared into the woods, his broad shoulders framed by the stark trees, each step carrying him further into the misty morning. A tangle of emotions swirled in your chest—gratitude for his willingness to help, guilt for asking so much of him, and a quiet, confusing ache that lingered from the soft blush on his face when you kissed his cheek.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

tag list: @photo1030

[not-neverland06]

𝚂𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Tensions rise as you continue to pull against Dutch's taut leash. You seem to be the only one who sees him for the trickster he is. Infuriatingly, that means you and Arthur butting heads about the man. But you don't expect your latest fight to end with him coming back to you nearly dead.

As much as you’d love to bask in the newness of whatever this is that you have with Arthur, the law has other plans. While the gang has grown comfortable, fat in their complacency, the Pinkertons have gotten closer. You are beginning to realize just how rare these moments of peace are in the life of an outlaw.

“I’m gonna sell her, I swear,” you tell Arthur angrily as you try and get a stubborn Lady to obey your commands. You finally feel comfortable enough to head back into Valentine, you know the woman he’d been with is gone, Arthur told you as much. You doubt he’d have any reason to lie about something as silly as that.  

Arthur laughs and leans down, smoothing over Diablo’s mane. “No, you ain’t, you like her too damn much.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce. “I’ll sell her to a glue factory, instead,” Lady lets out a stubborn noise, flicking her head back and forth. “Unless you start to listen, you insolent little bastard.” Arthur brings Diablo to a slow trot while you relentlessly tug on Lady’s reins to no effect.

He watches you struggle, laughing as he hitches up Diablo. When Lady comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, he lets out an amused sigh and comes forward to take her reins from you. You hand them over easily, nudging the horse with your spur in retaliation.

He hitches her next to Diablo and rounds her to stand at your side, holding his hand out for you. You take it in your own, relishing his touch as he helps you down from your saddle. Your movements are still clumsy but you’re starting to get a little bit better at riding her. Even if she still refuses to listen to you. 

“If you stopped insultin’ her, I’m sure you’d get along better.” Arthur leads you towards the general store and you glare up at him. 

“Whose side are you on, Mr. Morgan?” He chuckles and leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek. It’s chaste and near prudish, but you still find yourself flushing. 

“Not on anyone’s side, sweetheart. But if you want to start getting along with her, you’ll just have to learn to trust her.” You nod, not listening to anything he’s saying, too busy admiring how handsome he looks. 

He seems to realize what you’re doing, rolling his eyes and pushing you forward. A man’s voice booms through the air, interrupting the both of you. “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” You pause, turning to face the man watching you from the porch of the hotel. Men with large guns move around the side of the store and come to stand in front of him.

Your brows furrow, eyes roving across the street, suddenly noticing the stark lack of people out and about. You’d been so distracted by Lady that you hadn’t realized just how dead Valentine was. Something glints in the sunlight on the roof beside the hotel. You narrow your eyes, peering through the glare and seeing a man with his rifle pointed at you and Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” the man calls out, sounding wholly unapologetic. Arthur’s hand tightens around yours and he drags you slightly behind himself. “I should introduce myself,” the man drawls. 

You take note of his finely tailored clothes, and the way he’s not fully leaning against the wall because he doesn’t want to dirty his suit. The pocket watch attached to his vest is real gold, something you haven’t seen a whole lot of in Valentine. He’s too prim and proper for a low-down town like this. He could easily have been one of the men from the city you grew up in, upper-class and elite. He’s not from around here and he seems to, at least, vaguely recognize Arthur. You don’t see this going any way but bad. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, I believe you’ve heard my name before.”

“God dammit,” Arthur curses under his breath, he nudges you further back in the direction of the horses. Your foot freezes in the air as you hear the familiar click of a rifle being loaded right by your ear. Swallowing hard, you risk the slightest glance back and see another black-suited man with the tip of his rifle pointed squarely between your eyes. 

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Cornwall. “I know what you want,” Arthur calls out, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding yours. “But leave her out of it, she’s got nothin’ to do with any of this.” 

Leviticus laughs and tilts his head patronizingly. “If she’s with your ridiculous little gang, then she’s got something to do with what happened to my train.” Your eyes flutter shut, dread filling every crevice of your body as the realization finally sinks in. In your last days in the mountains, the men had gone off to rob a train. 

They’d mentioned the same name a few times but you’d never cared to pay attention to it. It comes back to you now. Leviticus Cornwall. He was here to collect what they’d stolen.  

“I know you are your master’s favorite little lapdog, so why don’t you go fetch Dutch for me and I won’t have my men splatter your lady’s brains against your boots.” Your nails dig into Arthur’s palms, body tensing with fear as you lean further into him. 

Arthur gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, keeping you firmly tucked into him. “I’m afraid neither of those things is gonna happen, Mr. Cornwall,” Arthur calls out to him. He leans slightly towards you, voice lowered so even the man behind you can’t hear, “When I tell you, make a run for the horses.” 

You so desperately want to look towards where you know Lady and Diablo are hitched by the saloon, but it would only give your plan away. Instead, you force yourself to focus on the man with the rifle pointed at you. You maintain eye contact with the barrel of his gun, refusing to look away. 

You try and force your heart to be silent and still, hoping you’ll be able to hear Arthur’s order over the rushing force of your blood. Arthur keeps a tight grip on your hand as the men begin to close in. 

“I’ll only say this once, Mr. Morgan. This will be your only chance to escape my wrath, alive.”

“Right,” Arthur moves you in front of him and you suck in a shuddering breath when you see just how many men surround you now. They’re everywhere, on the roofs of buildings, on horseback pacing the streets, and the worst of them have their guns trained right on you. “Well, I’ll say this,” he rips his hands out of yours and practically tosses you to the side. “Run!”

You don’t think, just blindly follow his orders and take off towards the horses. The shots start going off instantly, mud flying up around you as bullets narrowly miss you. You run in a wild pattern, trying not to be such an easy target. 

“The times of outlaws is over, Mr. Morgan!” Leviticus calls from behind you, voice tainted with wrath as it penetrates the air. “There’s no place for you anymore!”

You’re running with the instinct of a prey trying to outwit a predator who's actively snapping their maw. It feels futile, though, when you’re so wholly surrounded. Arthur comes up behind you, hand snatching up the back of your shirt and dragging you faster behind him. 

Your feet scramble to keep up with his pace as you make for the horses. The men seem to catch onto your plan faster than you’d hoped. One of them jumps in front of you but his body topples to the ground before he can say a word. When you turn, Arthur’s got his revolver out and the end of it is smoking. 

You’d barely even had time to process the threat before Arthur had shot him. You’d never seen what a quick draw he was in person before. If you weren’t feeling the breeze of bullets whistling past you, you’d have time to be impressed. 

You reach Lady and she’s already stomping and kicking her legs out, terrified by all the noise. You grab her reins, hands shaking as you try and keep yourself steady. You don’t have time to let Arthur help you up. You place your foot in the stirrup and jump, you’re barely seated before she goes flying. 

You lean forward, holding on tight as she moves like fire’s licking at her heels. “Come on, Lady!” You shout, not once looking back to see how many of them are after you. The sounds are getting closer and you swallow bile down as you risk a look over your shoulder. 

Arthur’s just behind you, turned in his saddle, and shooting at as many of them as he can. Lady lets out an odd squeal and your brows furrow, glancing back at her. You see a streak of red across her side and feel your blood rush to your head. 

They’d shot her. They’d shot your damn horse. You don’t even like her all that much, but right now she’s the only thing between you and a bullet through your head. Forcing yourself up, you slip the revolver out of your holster and turn like you watched Arthur do. It’s disorienting, feeling your hips rocking forward while you try and keep a steady aim behind yourself. 

There’s no way for you to know which of them actually managed to knick her. But if they can hit your horse, they’re not far off from hitting you. You don’t have time to take in deep breaths and settle yourself, you can only start wildly shooting and hope you hit one of them. You don’t care to spare your bullets, firing off without any real aim and spotting a few drop from their saddles. You don’t know if it's you or Arthur that claims the kills but they eventually start to slow down and the space between you all grows wider. 

Arthur tucks his gun away and rides up closer. “We need to get back to camp,” he shouts. You nod your head and follow along the path behind him. Your gaze drifts towards the wound across Lady’s side and you run your fingers through her mane as she races back home. 

You brush out Lady’s coat as you wait for Arthur to finish up with Dutch. Hosea had promised that Lady would be fine, horses were sturdy but she’d have to make it through a lot worse if she wanted to stay with the gang. You understood what he meant but you didn’t appreciate it. 

It’s only as you finish up with her that you realize what happened on the way back. You’d seen and, possibly, contributed to more killing and you hadn’t felt a thing about it. Not only that, Arthur had seen you shooting at men with no remorse. 

Your heart flips itself into a knot in your chest as you look over to where he’s speaking with Dutch. He was quiet on the ride back and you’d assumed it was because he was worried more people would show up. What if it was because you ruined your image for him? The only former lover of his you know about was a lady like you. But, now, he sees you as someone who’s perfectly fine riding around and shooting at men without question. What if he doesn’t want you now?

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to get your fingers to still. You’d been shaking from the adrenaline for the last few minutes. Your blood is still rushing so fast you’re getting dizzy standing still. You try to convince yourself that it’s just the nerves of the day getting to you, but you’re not so sure. 

Arthur finally turns away from Dutch and heads back towards you. You give him a shaky smile but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his brows are set with anger and he’s glowering at you. 

You feel your stomach drop as you scramble for a way to explain why shooting at those men was so easy for you. “Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. Your face falls flat and you feel like you might throw up. Has he somehow found out about your husband? “I didn’t realize they’d hit you,” he reaches forward and you frown with confusion. His thumb brushes against your upper arm and you hiss. 

Off instinct, you swat his hand away, fingers stinging at the force. You glance down and notice blood soaking the sleeve of your shirt. One of the bullets had done a little bit more than graze you, leaving a deep gouge in your arm. “So you touch it?” You ask him, only now starting to feel the pain of the wound. 

He stutters over a defense before rolling his eyes. “Come on,” he sighs and places a light hand over your back. He presses you forward, herding you towards his tent. “Let’s clean it up.” He sets you down on his cot and begins rummaging through the chest he keeps next to it with all his supplies. Glancing up at you, he asks “What were you apologisin’ for?” 

“Oh, um,” you feel a bit silly now. You almost don’t want to say it but that doesn’t feel fair to lie straight to his face. “I feel sick that you saw me shoot at those men.”

His brows furrow and he pauses his rummaging. He glances around like he’s waiting for you to finish but you just shrug. “Oh,” realization dawns on his face and he looks a little stunned. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you stutter and stumble over your words as he walks over to you with a cloth and some alcohol. “Yes,” you finally land on.

He tips the bottle over, soaking the cloth in the liquor. “Darlin’, I’ve seen death more times than I can count to. I don’t care about a little shoot-out. I only care about you bein’ alive.”

He presses the cloth to your wound and you jerk back, hissing in pain. He mutters small reassurances to you, soothing you like a bucking horse. “You mean that?” You ask through gritted teeth. 

He laughs a little, kneeling and smiling at you. “Kill as many men as you like, sweetheart, just don’t point that gun at me.” Despite the aching pain in your arm, you find yourself smiling back at him. 

The new spot for camp isn’t awful. The town nearby isn’t much to write home about. Two families have been feuding here since before the war. They haven’t seemed to fully accept this new society you live in. And you’re sure that their crops thrive on Braithwaite and Gray blood rather than water.

You weren’t allowed to go into town with Arthur and the others. None of the ladies were. Dutch had said that the people here wouldn’t react well to so many unmarried women. Especially not women like Karen. She hadn’t appreciated the dig, but she hadn’t argued with him. 

You found it difficult to follow along blindly to Dutch’s whims. Sometimes it feels like you just traded one master for another. Your father, then your husband, and now you can’t do anything without Arthur constantly running to Dutch to get his approval. As much as you’d like to pretend you have a newfound freedom, you know that Arthur will never leave the gang behind. Dutch has practically brainwashed him into a loyal soldier. So long as you love Arthur, you’re stuck under Dutch’s thumb- and he knows it. 

“I said go and get another slab. How hard is that?” Pearson’s voice carries through camp, his tone tight and irritated. Your brows furrow and you turn in your seat to see what he’s fussing about now. 

“It would be a lot easier if I wasn’t havin’ to fight with a goddamn fool the whole time!” Sadie picks up a slab of deer meat and hurls it at the man. He throws his hands up, just barely managing to catch it in time. 

You stifle a laugh, figuring you should have known what was causing him so much grief. Sadie’s been having to follow his every order ever since Dutch changed her over from Mrs. Grimshaw to Pearson. You know it’s driving her mad, same as you, to do nothing but cook and clean all day. 

Even when she was married she had gone out hunting and fishing with Jake. They’d always taken care of your land, they were never house servants. She only knows how to cook because she’d had a husband to take care of, not an entire camp. 

You place your book down on the table before you and get to your feet. You figure you should step in before this gets nasty. Again. You’re worried Sadie might actually stab the man. You can see them both considering it as you approach. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement. Pearson thought he was getting a quiet assistant and Sadie just plain hates him. 

“Mr. Pearson!” You call out before they can say anything else. You lift your hand in greeting and he grunts noncommittally. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need Sadie’s help with a task.”

Sadie’s lip curls up at him and he crosses his arms, leaning back like he has any power to hold over you. “Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

You glance away, eyes down like you’re flustered. Your hand hovers over your stomach and you grimace, “I’m afraid it may be more feminine in nature.” His face blanches and he turns back to the slab of meat before him. 

“Get.” He waves Sadie away and refuses to look at either of you. 

You grin at her, holding your arm out and nodding towards the trees around camp. She chuckles slightly, looping her arm through your own and following alongside you. With Dutch and most other men out of camp today, you can afford to explore a little further than you might normally be allowed. 

“Has he been giving you much grief?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a scoff and sets you with a deadpan look. “What the hell do you think?” She doesn’t actually give you a chance to answer and continues with an angered tone. “He seems to be of the belief that women are of better use quiet and obedient.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in consideration and nod. “Most men think that. We haven’t yet reached a point in society where women hold much power, Sadie. Do you expect a group of outlaws to be fighting for our rights?”

“I don’t want none of them fightin’ for me. I just want to be able to take a ride, go huntin’,” she throws her hands up and sighs, “somethin’.”

You realize you do have a slight bit more freedom than she does. Arthur often takes you into towns with him or, at the very least, on some rides for space away from everyone. She’s been holed up with all these strange people since they first rescued you. You purse your lips and give her a sympathetic look. 

You lead her further towards the grove of trees and hope some new scenery will help her calm down. 

Arthur’s white button-down shirt lay across your lap. Needle in hand, you check it over to make sure you didn't miss any holes or tears. Satisfied with your efforts, you get to your feet and walk towards Arthur’s tent. 

You don’t sew or fix anything up for the others unless they’re willing to pay. You find yourself doing this naturally for Arthur, without telling him. You're not sure if it’s because your finishing school teacher had ingrained into you the good qualities of a wife, or it’s simply because you want to. 

Part of you will always resent the fact that you can’t recognize your own actions versus your training. You try to keep those thoughts at bay most days, but sometimes, when you do something like this, it’s a little more difficult. 

Orange light glares into your eyes and you lift a hand to block it. Peering through one eye, you watch as the sinking sun sets against the horizon. Orange, red, and pink swirl and dance around each other to create a scene so perfect it almost doesn’t feel real. 

It makes you think of Arthur, of how he would draw it. He’s incredibly gifted with art, even if he won’t admit it. Even with a piece of charcoal, he manages to capture the life of the animals he sees or the people around him. 

After working a few odd jobs in camp, writing a letter for someone or doing some tailoring, you have some meager savings. You’ve been considering buying Arthur a proper drawing kit. You’re sure it would be foolish to spend it all on him, but you’d think he’d like it. 

The people in camp only think he’s good for shooting and providing muscle. As much as they care about him, they don’t see the value in some of his finer skills. And you know it affects him. Anytime you catch a glimpse of one of his drawings he immediately starts tearing his work apart, always calling it trash and a waste of time. You wish that he could see the beauty of his creativity like you do. But a skill like that isn’t rewarded around here and you know he’ll never truly understand just how much more he’s capable of than what he’s been told. 

Your gaze moves from the setting sun to the table in his tent. His journal rests on the edge and you frown. He doesn’t normally leave it behind. Reaching forward, you snag it off the edge and tuck it under his pillow. There are a lot of nosy people in camp, you doubt he’d want anyone getting their hands on it. While you fuss with that, you notice the picture on his table. Or lack thereof. 

It’s been a while since you’ve paid attention to the interior of his tent. Most of the time you’re here, you’re focused on him. But you can’t help and snoop, just a little. The picture of his mother is still there, along with a folded-up one of the gang. But the picture he used to keep of his former lover is gone. 

Curious, you take the shirt and turn towards the chest at the end of his cot. You bend over slightly, undoing the buckles and propping the edge up. 

You lay the shirt flat, straightening out any wrinkles, and your hand accidentally slips toward the turned-over picture frames beside his clothes. You lift the first one and find another one of his mother. Pursing your lips, you debate if you should dig any further. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t notice anyone watching you or coming close. You bend over a little more and rifle through another frame. 

There it is- the picture of the woman buried beneath the rest. You don’t blame him for keeping it. You know how much she meant to him. You’re just curious as to why he went so far as to bury it below the rest. 

Someone clears their throat behind you and you let out a squeak, slamming the lid of the chest shut. You whip around and find Arthur leaning against the post of his tent. “Arthur,” you're breathless as you clutch at your chest, not having even expected him back in camp yet. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“No,” he lets out an amused huff, “I don’t imagine you did.” He nods towards his chest and you flush with guilt. “What’re you doin’ in there?”

You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and shrug innocently. “Just putting away a shirt I fixed up for you.” He moves away from the post and takes a slow step towards you. 

“And that’s all?” He looks completely serious, as though he’s about to start interrogating you, but you can hear the slight tease lingering at the end of his words. 

“Yes,” you lie, “that’s all.”

“Alright,” he stops in front of you and chuckles a little. “I’ll pretend to believe that. How ‘bout next time you want somethin’, you just come to me?” You nod your head and he steps around you. He takes his hat off and places it on the table, running his hands through his hair. 

“Actually,” you grin at him as he turns around, “there is somethin- wait, what is that?” You demand, pointing to the deputy’s badge on his shirt. 

He glances down with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Bill went and got us deputized. Don’t know how, but Dutch seems to think it’s best if we want to stay here.” You try not to sigh at the mention of Dutch. He’s been getting stricter ever since the incident in Valentine and Arthur’s obeying him like a leashed dog. It’s beyond frustrating. 

“I can’t believe they gave you all badges,” you can’t help but laugh. The sheriff has got to be touched in the head to have looked at those men and thought they were anything but outlaws. 

“Buncha fools,” Arthur grumbles. He sees the look on your face, the way you bite your lip to keep any more laughter from escaping, and sighs. “Quit laughin’ at me, woman. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” You shake your head mutely and he rolls his eyes. “What did you want?”

“Right,” you clear your throat and let out one last huff of laughter before straightening up. “I need you to do a favor for me. Sadie’s been itching to get away from camp, especially from that old bastard Pearson. Could you take her out for me, tomorrow, or sometime soon? I’m worried she’s going to drive a knife through his skull if we don’t deal with this.

Arthur doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowed and head tilted in a way that makes you think he’s going to say no. You risk a step forward, taking his hand in your own and pulling him close. “Oh, please, Arthur. It would mean the world to me.”

His eyes meet yours, and you widen them, giving him your best pleading look. He holds out for a minute longer than you thought he would before letting out a rough sigh. “Alright, alright, fine. But she better not cause any damn trouble, she’s got a worse temper than Bill.”

You can’t promise she won’t, so you just lean up and press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. He rolls his eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up towards his, narrowing his eyes at you, “Come on, give me a real kiss,” you smile slightly and wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet you halfway. You suppose there are worse ways to have to pay him back. 

Arthur and Sadie were both out on a supply run before you even woke up. By the time you’re properly dressed and cleaned, you can see the wagon cresting over the hill. Your eyes widen with alarm when you see Sadie with the reins, driving the horses even worse than you do. 

You know she’s driven a wagon before. You think she might just be trying to give Arthur a heart attack. You can hear them shouting at each other from where you stand and you snicker. You wonder if those two were separated at birth or something, they get along about as bad as most siblings you know. 

You go over to Arthur’s tent and rifle through his bullets until you find a few extra for the revolver in your holster. Eventually, you’ll have to start buying your own supplies. But he doesn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he hasn’t caught on yet.

You load the bandolier on your hip and walk out to meet them as they return. Sadie doesn’t quite park the wagon in time, nearly taking out Bill’s tent as she drives them back into camp. “Enough!” Arthur barks, ripping the reins out of her hands. “I am never lettin’ you drive again.”

“Didn’t know you were such a coward, Arthur,” she taunts, hopping out of the wagon. You find yourself grinning when you see the clothes she’s sporting. Pants, a new hat, and some fresh boots. You’re sure Dutch won’t appreciate her use of camp funds but you applaud her latest show of rebellion. 

You round the horses to greet Arthur as he gives Sadie a bewildered look. She hauls a sack of flour out of the back and tosses it at Pearson’s feet. “Have fun?” You ask airily as you greet him. 

He whirls around on you and points an accusing finger towards you. “I said no trouble.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” you admonish, swatting his hand away. 

He purses his lips in irritation and crosses his arms. “She nearly killed me drivin’ back. Women can’t drive!” You gape at him as he hops out of the wagon and begins storming towards his tent. “They can’t!” He shouts and you gasp, face twisted in a bewildered smile. 

“Arthur!” You admonish, chasing after him. He shakes his head, not looking at you. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a madman. “Think I don’t remember how you drove when we came down from the mountains?”

“You broke the wheel,” you throw back at him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears, he continues his stubborn march towards his tent. “Oh, Arthur, come on.” You catch up with him and dart in front of him so he can’t get around you.  

“How about a ride to calm you down?” He looks to Sadie and then back at the wagon with a sickened look and you laugh. “On the horses,” you laugh and grab his arm, dragging him to Diablo and Lady. “Sadie ain’t the only one feeling cooped up,” you tell him. 

His low sigh sounds a little apologetic but you hadn’t meant anything against him. It was Dutch keeping you under lock and key. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But we can’t risk too many of us bein’ seen.”

“Dutch can’t risk it, you mean,” you grab onto the saddle’s horn and swing up, glancing down at him. 

He frowns, mounting Diablo with more grace than you can manage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bat your lashes and shrug, leading Lady towards the edge of camp. “Nothing really, just that it seems to be Dutch forcing us all to lay low.” You take the lead through the trees, ducking underneath a few low-hanging branches. “No one else seems to be as worried, or even know what’s going on out here.”

Arthur slows down and you’re forced to match his gait if you want to hear what he says. You turn back in your saddle and give him a questioning look. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s distant like he’s gazing at someone closer to a stranger than a lover. 

“You’re doubtin’ Dutch?” His voice is low, tone giving nothing away to you. 

“Well,” Lady shifts restlessly underneath you, seemingly sensing the change in your mood. “Not doubting per se. I just don’t think things are as dangerous as he makes them out to be. It just seems to be-”

“Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your arm?” Arthur snaps, pointing towards the slight bullet wound left behind by Cornwall’s men. You blanch as he nudges Diablo forward, quickly surpassing you. 

“No Arthur, I think I remember getting shot at pretty damn well.” You’re getting angry now too, you really hadn’t meant much by the comment. But he had to realize how out of proportion Dutch was making everything feel. The “threats” surrounding you, the grand plan of escape, it was all too magnificent. 

“Look, you can’t be questionin’ Dutch like that. If we stop trustin’ each other or start turnin’ on each other, it’s all gonna fall apart faster than you can blink.” He slows slightly so you can catch up with him but it doesn’t seem as natural as it normally does. 

“That’s not what I was trying to imply Arthur. I’ve been in camp for too long. The world outside seems so distant to me. It’s just hard to believe we’re in any real danger.” You try to downplay what you said. Pretend you hadn't been suggesting exactly what he’s accusing you of. Playing the ditzy little lady used to get you out of trouble in the past, but now, he sees right through you. 

“Well, we are,” he snaps, “and you’d do your best to remember that. Just because you can’t see it, don’t mean it’s not real.” There’s a sense of finality to his words that tells you the conversation’s over. Whatever hope you’d had of a peaceful ride is gone. 

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, knowing no matter how much you care for Arthur, he’ll always pick Dutch over you. And worse, he’ll pick Dutch over saving himself. He’ll never understand just how much he’s worth, or how much he means to everyone around him. He’s a martyr through and through. Always prepared to make a sacrifice, even when it’s not needed.  

You tighten your grip around Lady’s reigns, eyes cast down as you follow along silently beside him. He leads you onto the path towards town and you wonder if you should just head back. You could lie, say you’re feeling sick, and be done with him for now. 

You’re already upset by how the day’s turned, no point in prolonging either of your misery. “Arthur,” you call out. He hums, turning slightly, just barely facing you. “I’m going to go back to camp.” 

He pulls on Diablo’s reins, turning him around so he can properly face you. “I thought you wanted to get out?” He asks, sounding on edge and a little snappy. 

You shrug dismissively, not bothering with an excuse. “Changed my mind-”

“Told you it’d be worth a pretty penny,” your brows furrow as a strong Irish accent starts talking a little further up the path. It sounds startlingly familiar.

“Those wagons are always worth the trouble,” Arthur’s quick to ride up beside you. He doesn’t hesitate as he takes Lady’s reins out of your hand and leads you both off the path. You’re silent as you follow him off the safety of the trail. He tucks you both behind some trees. You have just enough coverage that they can’t see you but you can still see them. 

There’s a sharp pain slicing up and down your back the closer the Irishmen get. You hiss through your teeth, shifting uncomfortably as they continue to talk. Arthur keeps his head low, hat tilted down and you follow suit. They pass by without much fuss and Arthur picks his head back up to watch them go. 

“O’Driscolls,” he curses and the painful familiarity suddenly makes sense. “We need to tell Dutch,” he says, already making his way back to camp. You follow him without much argument, as eager to get back as he is. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach, toiling in hurt the whole way. You know Dutch has instilled a paternal familiarity into Arthur but it hurts knowing the man you chose will always choose someone else. 

Pearson’s ambling back into camp just as you and Arthur arrive. You’re tempted to just go back to your tent but you follow Arthur, knowing he’ll probably need someone else to back up what he saw. “Dutch!” He calls out, interrupting whatever scheming conversation he’d been having with Micah. 

Dutch walks towards you both, Micah following slightly behind, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You grimace at the wet, choking noise. He’s been looking worse and worse everyday. The circles under his eyes are so dark he looks like he’s been knocked across the face.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Dutch asks, eyes briefly darting to you before looking back at Arthur. 

“Saw somethin’ out on the road.” You cross your arms, mind drifting as you wait to be called into the conversation. You’re roughly jarred out of your reverie as a strong, clammy hand lands on your shoulder so suddenly you’re nearly dragged to the ground. 

The smell of sweat and moonshine sours your nose and nearly makes you gag as Pearson leans against you. “Gost ‘ome news,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he gestures vaguely towards Dutch. 

You struggle under his weight, doing your damndest not to fall into the mud. Arthur frowns and knocks Pearson’s arm off your shoulder. “Get off ‘er, you damn fool,” he grabs him by the bicep, roughly jerking him straight and relying on his strength to keep them both upright. 

“Now, Mr. Pearson, Mr. Morgan, I believe you both have news to share. Seeing as Mr. Pearson is close to toppling over into the mud, he can go first.” Arthur’s lips purse in irritation but he says nothing, only shakes Pearson to wake him back up. 

“Met ‘ome fine mens in the bar. O’durshels, wanna purl.” You narrow your eyes at him and your face twists with confusion. You’re not the only one, the other men around you already look tired of having to deal with Pearson’s inebriated state. 

Sadly, years spent married to a drunkard means you’ve learned the language of liquor quite well. “He met some O’Driscolls in a bar, they want to parley,” you translate, looking to Dutch. 

His brows set with something you don’t recognize and Arthur scoffs. “It’s a damn trap.”

“‘Course it is,” Micah snaps. “Don’t mean we can’t use it to our advantage.”

Arthur drops Pearson’s arm and the man goes tumbling face-first into the mud. He takes a menacing step towards Micah who only grins up at him. “We’d be a bunch of fools to go anywhere near this.”

“Arthur,” Dutch barks his name out like an order and Arthur pauses, still leering over Micah. “I believe Mr. Bell might be right.”

“Oh,” you glare at him, smiling with disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Those men are bastards,” you spit the word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed and step towards Dutch. Micah darts forward, protecting him like you’d actually try something. 

“Arthur,” Dutch warns lowly, intense stare set on you. Your skin crawls with the weight of his gaze. You feel like he’s pulling you to pieces, digging around to see which parts of you are weakest. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Arthur walks forward. He’s gentle as he grabs your arm, but he leaves no room for argument as he leads you away from Dutch. 

“Arthur,” you admonish. “You can’t be thinking about this.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch. “But I ain’t got a choice.”

You laugh in disbelief and shake your head at him as he parks you beside his tent. “Of course you do. You’ve got the same choice as any of us. Just say no.” You’re praying that he sees sense, that he doesn’t go along with what is a clear trap. 

He only shakes his head and turns back towards Dutch. You should have known. Even if he knows there’s danger, he’ll ride in headfirst so long as someone else doesn’t get hurt. You feel something like disgust twisting you up and irritating the anger already present. 

You look towards Dutch and he’s already got his eyes on you. He doesn’t wear it plainly, but you see the satisfaction on his face as Arthur comes to stand beside him and leaves you. As if you were ever a threat to his authority. 

You turn away from them all, unwilling to watch them ride off as you storm back toward your tent. If they want to go be a bunch of fools, so be it. It’s not your business what mistakes men make with their freedom. 

It’s Sadie that wakes you, her hand on your shoulder, shoving you insistently. Your eyes are slow to flutter open, your mind racing to remember where you are and who you’re with. “What?” You slur, one eye open as you try to orient yourself. 

“They’re back,” she hisses, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet. You sit up slowly, hands landing in your lap as you let your head sink between your shoulders. You listen to Sadie’s rushed footsteps as she runs away from the tent. 

You’re moving slowly as you rub your eyes, trying to force yourself awake. Whose back?

You try to remember the events of the day and then the realization hits you like ice. Your heart palpitates as you scramble to get up. You chase after Sadie, feet bare in the mud as you run to the entrance of the camp. You’re not looking to give Arthur a happy welcome back, you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

You see The Count’s white head parting through the trees first, then Baylock. You come up behind Sadie, peering around her to see if you can spot Diablo through the trees. You know it’ll be hard with his striking black coat, but you figure you’ll manage some hint of him, even through the dark. 

Dutch and Micah are slow as they amble up to you. Your brows furrow and there’s an intuitive gnawing feeling in the back of your mind. John comes out of his tent at the sound of hooves, moving to stand beside you. A few others join the welcoming party but you’re not paying any attention to them.

You move away from Sadie and take a step closer to the men now broaching the perimeter of camp. Your hand balls into the fabric of your night dress and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize they’re riding back alone. 

Red-hot anger hits you like a hammer knocking a blade into place. You run towards Dutch, not even waiting for him to be fully off his saddle before you start hollering at him. “Where is he? Did he have to stay behind? What’s going on?” 

Dutch holds his hands up, lips curled back in irritation as he skirts around you. “There were some complications,” Micah snipes as he jumps down from his horse. His lips are twisted up, humor coating his rotten voice. 

Your chest heaves with panic, heart tapping an odd pitter-patter as you try and process what the hell that means. 

“Complications!” You shout, uncaring for the way the others are staring at you. “Where the hell is Arthur?” Dutch tries to walk away from you, giving you a bewildered sort of look. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of ranting madman wandering in from the woods. You may be ankle-deep in mud, wearing nothing but a nightgown, but you are not crazy. And you will not let him treat you like you are. 

You shoot forward and shove at the back of his shoulder. You catch him off guard and he stumbles slightly. You reach for him but Micah rushes forward, snatching up your left wrist before you can try again. You don’t see anything but red as you whip around and snap your hand as hard as you can against his cheek. 

You hear the sound your skin makes against his, see the bright burning mark on his face, but you feel no sting. You rip your wrist out of his hold and turn back towards Dutch. “You wicked little-”

“You left him, didn’t you?” You interrupt Micah’s low-brow insult and wait for Dutch to answer. He’s got a surprised look on his face as he takes you in. As if he hadn’t expected you to do anything but sit back and obey. 

His silence is the only answer you need as he tries to turn away from you again. “After everything he’s done for you! You just leave him!” You sound more heartbroken than he looks and it’s devastating. He left him to the mercies of O’Driscolls and he doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“We didn’t leave him!” Dutch shouts, voice cracking slightly. He snatches up your arm, dragging you away from Micah and trying to isolate you from the others. He’s pulling you to his tent, trying to keep you silent so you don’t cause a big scene in front of the rest of camp. You won’t let him do this, you refuse to let him keep his perfect mask of the unfaltering leader. 

You dig your feet into the ground and feel the cold wet rush of mud filtering around your legs as he tries to drag you forward. “This is childish,” he snaps, glaring at you and letting your arm go. You know there’ll be a nasty purple bruise where he’d held you but you could care less right now. 

“You didn’t leave him? What the hell do you call this?” You gesture around wildly, not fully comprehending that this isn’t just one bad dream. “You don’t understand the cruelty of those men. What you just left him to-”

“Excuse me?” Dutch’s voice is low now, no longer is he shouting. Instead, he stalks towards you in two easy steps. 

“Easy,” John warns, coming up behind you both. 

Neither of you pay him any mind. You take a step closer, nearly nose to nose with Dutch, refusing to be intimidated by him. “This isn’t your fight, Mrs. Rowe. These aren’t your people, how dare you-”

“Arthur is my people,” you interrupt, voice a deadly whisper. “How dare you leave him. Fearsome Dutch Van der Linde,” you taunt and his nostrils flair at your impudence, “can’t even keep his people safe. Tell me, if you’re such a great leader, a man who’s always got a plan- what is it? What is your great plan? How are you going to get my Arthur back from this?”

Dutch’s face blanches and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen anything genuine appear. He almost looks concerned. And not for himself or his image, but for Arthur. It makes you hesitate for a moment, startling a step back from him with a furrow between your brows. 

“I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes wide like he’s trying to convince himself. He turns and looks at the rest of the gang, most of them having woken up while you’d been shouting. “I have got a plan!” He yells, turning back towards his tent and storming off. 

Micah follows behind him, shoulder slamming into yours as he passes. You grunt, tripping forward and glaring at his back. You wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes. 

Your mind races with everything the O’Drsicolls had put you and Sadie through. Your skin crawls with the way their hands and weapons had felt against you. You swallow the bile in your throat and turn towards the horses. 

John is right behind you, having been lurking at the edges of your and Dutch’s fight. “Where’re you goin’?” He asks with a tired sigh. 

“Where do you think?” You snap, reaching for Lady. 

Charles calls out your name and you turn to see him standing behind John with Hosea. Out of everyone in camp, you’d think these would be the three men joining you, not trying to stop you like they clearly are. 

You scoff in disbelief, a sardonic smile on your face. “That's it?” you demand, a disgusted glare directed at each of them. “You’re just going to abandon him too?”

“We’re not abandoning him,” Hosea objects, taking a step closer. You flinch away from him and he frowns. “You don’t know these men-”

“The hell I don’t! I’ve got the scars from what they did to me. I barely survived it.” Hosea winces away from your words. 

“Dutch has a plan,” he tells you, but it doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. “We just need to wait.”

“What’re you going to do?” Charles adds, and it feels remarkably like they’re circling you, herding you away from your horse. “You don’t even have a gun and you’re just going to ride into an O’Driscoll camp.”

“I will,” you tell him, all the sincerity in the world backing you up. 

“And you’ll get yourself killed,” John snaps. “I want them dead just as bad, but you are only going to get yourself hurt or caught. We only need some time, we’re not abandoning him. But we can’t just go in guns blazin’.”

“When has that ever stopped any of you?” You snap. You feel all your anger, all your determination, slip right out through the bottom of your bare feet. You know from their faces there’s going to be no arguing with them. They’re just as bad as Arthur, just as blind. 

They truly believe that Dutch has any clue what he’s doing. How could you possibly be the only one to see the truth of what he is? He’s a conman, decorated as a friend, father, brother, leader. He takes whatever form he wants and he knows how to use it against those around him. There’s no plan, there’s no grand escape to some tropical paradise. 

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Charles tells you and you wish you had the energy to cry. You want to weep for Arthur. Here stood the people he would sacrifice himself for, and they aren’t going to kill a few O’Driscolls to save him. 

You let them lead you back to your tent and look toward the horizon. You’re not going to be allowed to leave this camp. And even if there was a plan to rescue Arthur, you’d never be told of it. All you can do is wait. 

You stay up all night, sitting by the fire and forcing yourself to tolerate the feeling of Charles watching you the whole time. You don’t know what it is that makes you look away from the flames and towards the trees, but something pulls at you. 

As the sun crests the horizon, you place your cup of coffee down and turn. Over your shoulder, barely visible, a horse struggles along the path. You squint, head tilting this way and that so you might be able to better make out what it is. You get to your feet and hear Charles follow you. 

“Oh, god,” you gasp, making a run for the horse just as the rising sun illuminates it. Arthur is slumped over Diablo’s head, blood soaked through his shirt. You don’t make it to him before he slips off the saddle and lands in the mud. Diablo stands over him, nosing at his neck and cheek. 

Charles races behind you as you slide into the mud, hands roving over Arthur’s chest until you find the burned-over wound on his shoulder. You press your fingers to his throat, holding your breath while you pray to feel the beat of life within him still. 

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper when you feel the faintest thud against the tip of your fingers. Charles kneels beside you and you both throw an arm over your shoulders, lifting Arthur to his feet. “Susan!” You scream the old lady's name until you see her stumble out of her tent. 

A few of the other’s still awake all stand, Dutch included. “He needs help!” You shout, Charles helping you drag him towards her. 

“Bring him over here!” She shouts, clearing off Arthur’s cot and motioning for you to lay him down. You stumble under Arthur’s weight, ankle rolling the wrong way as you struggle to keep up his limp body. Charles helps as much as he can but you can barely stay standing. Dutch runs over to you, you share a brief look before he slips Arthur’s arm off your shoulder and carries him the rest of the way to Mrs. Grimshaw. 

You turn towards the tent of women and by now they’re all up, watching everything with wide horrified eyes. “Tilly, help me,” you demand, rushing towards the water boiling for Pearson’s stew. She snaps into action, racing behind you and passing you a cloth to lift the scalding pot off the fire. You both carry it over to Mrs. Grimshaw and she barely spares you a glance, too focused on Arthur. 

You can’t look at him for too long, can’t bear to face the way his eyes stare up at nothing. He looks too much like the corpses you’ve seen. But you know you felt life inside him. You couldn’t have made something like that up. 

Mrs. Grimshaw slices through his shirt and hisses at what she sees. You move past Dutch and peer over her shoulder with Tilly. “Oh, you fool,” she mutters. You shake your head when you see what he’s done to his shoulder. You know he did the best with what he had, but gunpowder is a risky move to close up a bullet hole. 

If you’re not careful with how you treat his wound, it’s more than likely to get infected. Besides the gunshot, judging from the bruises on his body, you can tell he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He’d barely been there a day and they’d nearly killed him. If what they’d done to you wasn’t reason enough to want the O’Drsicolls dead, this was. 

“Susan,” Dutch whispers and he sounds so disappointed, “sit by him. Take care of him. Keep him alive.” You refuse to look at Dutch, dipping a cloth into the purified water and wringing it out. You pass it to Susan who only nods her head. 

Tilly draws the tent flaps closed, pushing Dutch the rest of the way out. Susan presses the cloth gently to the area around Arthur’s wound and his shoulder jerks slightly. “He’s burned himself up,” Tilly mutters, rooting through his supply trunk and ripping up some of his clean shirts for extra cloth. 

“Closed up the wound,” Susan mutters, “but we’ll need to watch for infection.” Her hand drifts down his chest, pressing down on one of the purple and yellow splotches along his ribs. His eyes shoot open for a moment, a pained groan coming from his cracked lips. 

“Broken rib?” You ask, rooting around in his table for some of the ointment Hosea had made for him. She hums an affirmative and you hear Tilly rip up some more cloth for binding. 

“It’s gonna be a long night, you best listen to every damn thing I tell you,” Susan snaps, not taking her eyes off of Arthur. You nod your head silently, pulling out the tin of salve and presenting it to her. Your eyes drift towards Arthur and you let out a shuddering breath, not willing to look at his broken form for more than a few moments. 

Susan helped the most the first night Arthur was back. It was because of her that he made it. Tilly and you assisted her the best you could. But she had the knowledge only a doctor should as she staved the infection away from his wound. 

She wasn’t capable of a miracle, but this seemed damn close. Still, even with all the work you’d put in, someone had to stay by his side at night, make sure he didn’t slip away quietly. You volunteered yourself, opting to let them watch him during the day while you slept. 

His recovery was a slow one. You have to make sure his ribs are wrapped tight enough to encourage them to heal again. You need to ensure he doesn’t flip around in his sleep and do any more damage to himself. More importantly, you have to do everything you can to keep his fever down. 

Despite the heat of the day, it seems worse at night. Sweat soaks through his clothes and blankets, he’s constantly twitching with shivers. You try and make sure the cloth along his brow stays cool, but he seems to heat them up like a fire. 

There’s no puckering green skin around his wound, none of you can figure out where the infection is stemming from. You don’t have the medicine he needs to fight it, only sheer will and prayer. 

You lean forward in your chair, pressing the back of your chilled fingers to his cheek. Same as the night before, it’s hot to the touch. You’re surprised your skin doesn’t sizzle as it touches his. His breaths come in short pants as you slip the cloth off his head and dip it into the bucket of water beside you. You wring it out and place it gently along his brow again. 

Standing, you perch yourself on the edge of his cot and peel back the bandages on his shoulder. It sticks slightly to the skin, yellowed and bloody as the skin works to heal itself. He’d done the best he could with the gunpowder, but all it had done was stop you from getting below the surface and healing what needed it. 

Your eyes are fighting to stay open after being awake all night. You know the sun will rise soon, that you’ll have an opportunity for rest. But you haven’t been able to sleep well, not since he was brought back. You nearly drift off and then you think of him dying while you’re dozing away. 

He might have made it through the first night, but there are no promises with things like this. Your hand slips into his and you let out a heavy sigh. You take in his sallow face, the gauntness of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. His beard has grown longer than you’ve ever seen it, his hair nearly reaches his shoulders. You don’t recognize this beaten man below you. This isn’t the Arthur you know. 

You squeeze his rough hand in yours, “You better not stop fighting, you stubborn bastard.”  You feel a familiar burn in the back of your throat and look away from him, choking down your tears. You can’t cry over him again. You’ve done it so often your eyes have run dry. 

Just as you’re about to get up to leave, his hand twitches ever so slightly in yours. Your brows furrow and you glance down at his hold on you. It was nearly imperceptible, a barely there movement. You watch his arm carefully, seeing if anything else happens. When he doesn’t move again you dismiss it as your mind playing tricks on you. 

Again, almost as if he knows you’re going to leave him, his hand twitches. This time, you can’t dismiss it as a reflex or simply something your addled brain has conjured up. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if he’s trying to hold on to you in every way he can. His fingers squeeze your palm weakly, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

“Arthur?” you breathe, voice trembling as your heart skips a beat. You turn back to his face, ragged and pale, the shadow of the man he once was. But there’s something in the faint wrinkle of his brow and the uneven parting of his lips. It’s the most life you’ve seen in him in days.

You’re practically shaking as you move further up the cot. You stick yourself as close to his side as you can. “Oh, Arthur?” you plead, leaning closer, searching desperately for any sign that he’s still fighting. A low mutter slips from his cracked lips, the sound so faint it’s almost lost in the silence. You freeze, straining to hear, your breath caught in your throat.

You’re so close you can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours. His lips move again, his ribs quaking with effort. It’s a whisper, barely audible, but you hear a cracked version of your name slip through his lips. 

This is the most you’ve gotten from him in days. There had been moments where, as hard as it was to accept, you’d begun to realize he could be dying. His lips move again and if you weren’t watching him so intently, you might have missed it.

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. “Arthur,” you choke, nearly crying with relief. Your body slumps over his with the relief that he’s not been lost to you yet. You clutch your hand in his as though sheer will can keep him with you. For a moment, the unbearable weight of your fear is lifted.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you press your forehead against his. “You’re still here,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Just keep fighting for me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t have the strength, but his fingers twitch again, his grip just a little firmer. It’s enough for you. You hold on to him like he’s your lifeline, and in a way, he is. You can’t let him go, not now. “I’m here, Arthur,” you promise, voice shaking but just steady enough for him to understand you. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a flicker of hope in the darkness. It’s fragile, so fragile, but it’s there.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to start coming back around. Most nights, he’s still groggy and spends more time asleep than awake, but the fever has broken, and that’s enough for you.

You no longer go to sleep every night worrying he won’t be there in the morning. Now, when you check on his tent, you find him waiting for you, even if it’s with little more than a tired glance and a hoarse word or two. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn’t have much energy for anything beyond picking at some stew and lying down, but you don’t mind.

You stay by his side, fussing over him as you fluff the pillows behind his head. He’d teased you the other day, comparing your fretting to Mrs. Grimshaw. You’d laughed, too relieved he felt well enough to joke to take offense. The memory makes you smile as you smooth the blankets over him.

“Quit,” he mutters weakly, swatting at your hands.

“Oh, hush,” you retort, tone light as you sit back down in the chair by his cot.

His hand catches your wrist before you can settle. When you glance down, you find him peeking up at you through one half-lidded eye, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tugging gently.

“Arthur, I’m fine right here,” you reply, hesitating. His cot isn’t exactly spacious, and you’re worried about jostling him or hurting his still-healing ribs.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs again with what little strength he has.

“Oh, alright.” You laugh slightly and shake your head. “You’re so stubborn,” you grumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Carefully, you climb onto the cot, curling into the space he makes for you on his good side. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

You comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, thinking that maybe you’ll cut it for him when he’s stronger. His breathing slows against you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s nearly asleep when he rasps out a question, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Why didn’t they come?” He rasps against your shoulder, nearly asleep as he asks.

Your hands still in his hair, and the quiet around you feels suddenly heavy. His arm tightens around your waist, as though he senses your hesitation. You close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

How are you supposed to answer that?

You could tell him the same tired promises Dutch fed you, that there was a plan, that he was never really abandoned. But you’ve been here, tending to him alone for days. You’ve watched Dutch only appear when Arthur’s too far gone to notice, his visits perfunctory and brief. And you know, deep down, what Arthur would never admit, if he keeps believing Dutch’s lies, it’ll kill him.

You swallow hard and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Arthur,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm enough to hold his attention. “You’ve given Dutch everything, and he left you there. He left you to die.”

You hear him exhale, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you continue, leaning closer so your words sink in. “I just- I need you to know the truth. He’s not the man you think he is. He never was. Please, Arthur, when you’re strong enough, tell me we’ll get away. We’ll leave this all behind before it’s too late.”

You fall silent, letting your words settle in the quiet. He doesn’t respond, his breaths deepening as sleep overtakes him again.

You tighten your hold on his hand and rest your forehead against his temple. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “You deserve better.”

You doubt he’ll remember this when he wakes, and maybe that’s best. But you had to say something, you had to try. It feels wrong, though, to try and twist Arthur’s loyalty. You’ve barely had a chance to know either of them the way they know each other. 

Still, you can’t shake what you’ve seen. Dutch’s words, his cleverly painted lies, they turn into nooses, and he’s got a rope around everyone in camp. You know his kind, once he sinks his claws into someone, there’s no letting go. 

You glance down at Arthur’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, and your chest tightens. He deserves to be free of Dutch. At the very least, he deserves to see the truth and to live for himself instead of chasing someone else’s dreams. 

Doubt still creeps alongside you. Did you have a place to say anything at all? 

You brush a hand through Arthur’s hair one more time, listening to his breaths as they even out. Curling closer around him, you drift to sleep with your heart heavy, praying he sees the truth when he wakes. 

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona

[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.”

—