summary: after fighting all day, Charles comes back to camp eager to "see" you.
pairing: charles smith x f!reader
rating: explicit! (mdni)
word count: 2.8k
warnings: it's just smut. With feelings. Charles and reader are in a relationship of some sort. Very horny and feral Charles. Rough piv sex, vaginal fingering, kissing, allusion to oral sex. Mentions of blood and violence. Spoilers (sort of) for chapter 3 mission Magicians for sport. English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes. Pics are mine, except for Charles that i found on Pinterest. Title from the song Call of the heart, by Intrigue. Not proofread cause I am too tired. Dividers by @/olenvasynyt
a/n: This user (me) got possessed by the smut spirit after seeing this picture of Charles... so idk, i wanted to write some simpler smut again. And we can never get enough of Charles Smith smut sooo yay! I hope it's good and you all enjoy!
Thank you to my magical baby @thedilfdiaries for being my draft once again, and for helping with the moodboard choice, I love you so very much 💙❤️✨. And to my pretty @mezzaninebeetle55 thank you for hearing my horny thoughts about this man and for your support, love youuu honey🫂🫶🏼
The rain of bullets keeps echoing through Charles’ mind as Taima leads him back to camp, clouds of red dirt rising around them. He left the battlefield more than an hour ago, parting ways with Arthur as soon as they were far enough from the makeshift army sent by the Braithwaites. The adrenaline rush from today’s events hasn’t settled yet. Charles’ whole body is tensed as a bowstring.
It was a close call for them, especially for Arthur. If it wasn’t for Charles’ composure and swiftness, the other outlaw would be laying dead in a corn field.
Arthur wanted to pay Charles a drink, as a thank you for saving his life today, but Charles politely declined. He only needed to say your name out loud for Arthur to understand. He gave Charles a knowing smile before taking the south road to Saint Denis. You’d be worrying sick if neither of them was back before the nightfall, their absence would definitely mean that something went wrong. And Charles needs you. After this failed encounter with death, you’ve been plaguing his mind, rendering him restless.
Charles tightens his grip on Taima’s reins, only noticing the state of his hands. The blood shines on his split and bruised knuckles from the beat up they inflicted those bounty hunters earlier. His brown vest has turned a shade darker, burgundy dots spilled all over the fabric. His shirt isn’t in a much better condition. You’re probably gonna be mad for all the scrubbing that it will take to make his clothes look clean again.
His mind is suddenly filled with images of you crouched over the basin, a pile of wet clothes seated next to you. You slowly rolled your sleeves up your forearms, smiling at the warm sun pouring down your silhouette. You didn’t see him sitting there that day, cleaning his shotgun away from all the agitation that comes with having to cook lunch for so many people. Charles completely forgot about the oil and the rag resting on his lap. The buttons of your shirt were opened, far too low for a fine lady like you, the lines of your breasts taunting Charles like never before. Every time you moved your hands down the washboard, pushing up your chest, he tried to look away, heat seizing his entire being. Reality blurred and suddenly he was tracing a path of kisses along your exposed cleavage, torturously slow, losing his mind at the way you were panting, your chest rising as you took a jerky breath every time his lips parted from your skin. “Charles” Your soft voice moaned as Charles' face nuzzled further down your open shirt, his nose brushing the side of your perked nipple. “Charles…” The metallic sound of his shotgun hitting the ground made him jump. Charles' eyes focused on you again. You were still doing laundry by the water, smiling at him and beckoning for him to come closer. Charles stood up and walked to you, trying hard not to trip on his own feet. You looked up at him, asking questions about his shirt and the deep cut you found in it, and if he wanted you to mend it for him. He nodded, feeling his heart soaring at the way your lips stretched into a soft smile every time your eyes set on him. He knew right there and then that you probably cast a spell on him. The kind that makes a strong man like him weak in the knees every time he gets the chance to sit close to you, to talk to you, to touch you. You became his every thought, and the sole vision of you made his heart race, a feeling he had never been familiar with.
It’s the reason why he races back to you. He caresses Taima’s mane, slowing down as the path leading to camp appears in front of them.
Javier’s shadow becomes neater as Charles rides through the bushes.
“Who’s there?” Javier asks gruffly.
“It's me, Charles” Taima comes to a halt beside him.
“Where’s Arthur?”
Charles dismounts his mare, replying in a rush while leading the animal to the hitching post. Javier was about to ask the other man a second question, but Charles was already gone when he turned around. He flicks his rifle back on his shoulder and focuses on his guard duty once again.
Charles doesn’t have the time. He needs to find you. He strides through camp, boots thumping heavily on the dirty soil, quickly scanning the place; eyes never stopping long enough on the people surrounding him, afraid that an extended stare would become an invitation for a late afternoon small talk. He doesn’t have the time for this. He could ask them where you are, but Charles doesn’t need people prying. He walks to the tent you share with the girls. No books in sight, no sewing kit either, that means you’re probably in his shared tent with Bill and Hosea. You’ve taken the habit of taking naps there, pretending that it was a better spot, something about the soil… and the peace. Mary-Beth, Karen and Tilly are spending most of their time yapping in the women’s tent, which can be inconvenient when you’re trying to catch up with your sleep. They gave you an earbashing the first time they caught you there, but quickly suspected something was going on between you and Charles… But you aren’t there either, only a pile of clean clothes belonging to him.
Noise of agitation reaches Charles' ears. It’s Trelawny finally coming back. Everyone runs towards him, ready to help him with his injuries.
Charles takes advantage of the sudden commotion to walk down the path leading to the lake without being noticed, hoping to find you somewhere along the shore.
A gust of wind brushes the side of your face, a fallen strand of hair tickling your skin. You pause, trying to tuck it behind your ear as best as you can, when you suddenly feel a familiar warmth enveloping your body. You smile, leaning back into the man you just spent your entire day thinking about.
Charles fell into steps behind you quietly a couple of minutes ago, and he thought you didn’t notice. You looked so carefree, hair flowing with the wind, skirt swifting as you walked, a single white flower held between your fingers. He admired your beauty for a moment, debating if he should disturb your peace or not, but he couldn’t help but to walk to you, the mere sight of your silhouette awakening the hunger he carries for you deep inside of him.
Charles’ hands hold your hips firmly, stopping you from turning to face him. He pushes your hair to the side, revealing your bare neck to his lips. You shiver when he kisses you.
“I was afraid to scare you, sneaking up on you like that” Charles murmurs, before he closes his mouth on your soft skin again.
“I knew you were following me”
“How come?”
“The wind told me” You reply softly, and Charles laughs against the column of your throat, leaving open mouth kisses there. “Charles…” You breathe out, turning your head in an attempt to kiss him. But he doesn’t let you, leading you to the woods instead.
“Where are we going?” You giggle as you walk clumsily, Charles arms wrapped around your shoulders. You try to turn around, desperate to see him, but he stops you, pressing your ass against his crotch, the hardened shape of his cock poking you through the fabric. You gasp when you feel him, heat seizing your face.
Fallen leaves crunch underneath your feet as you walk deeper into the clearing. The birds are singing their praises to the evening light. Charles flips you around and kisses your lips, slowly caging you against the first tree he sees.
You’re breathless, adjusting against the rough bark of the tree, trying to touch Charles’ chest, needing to feel him underneath your fingertips.
You try to help him out of his vest but stops when Charles suddenly hisses against your lips.
Your eyes snap open, looking at him, retreating your hand from his bicep carefully. You hold your fingers in front of you, noticing the blood stain on your skin.
“Charles that’s… you’re bleeding” You warn him, hands unbuttoning his shirt quickly to take a better look at the damages.
“Just a graze, nothing to worry about” He retorts, pushing you back against the tree. He wraps a hand around your neck, letting his thumb brush your pulse point, and kisses you deeply again, tongue battling with yours as you continue getting rid of his shirt.
“Let me see” You protest when he parts from your mouth to catch his breath.
When he leans over you to kiss your neck instead, his hands fiddling with the buttons of your shirt, you cup his face and pull him away.
“Charles. I am serious.” Your tone has lost its lightness this time, and Charles has no choice but to concede.
“Fine” He sighs, annoyed, but you can see that it doesn’t turn off the lust in his eyes though, and you have a hard time staying still while watching him take off his shirt right in front of you, his chest heaving from earlier kisses. He looks glorious, skin shining lightly from the sweat and the evening sun.
But it’s only now that you realize the bloodied state he is in.
“Charles. We need to take care of this” You frown in concern, scanning his whole body in search of other injuries.
“This is not my blood” He replies smugly, seizing your hand in his.
“Well this….is very much yours” You press your finger into his wound again, deliberately this time, and rien raise your hand in front of him. Charles almost whines from the pain, but doesn’t say anything.
“We should go back to camp, I’ll patch you up” You step aside, glancing at his naked arm, already visualizing how you are going to stitch him up.
Charles’ hand grabs yours, stopping you from walking away. He pulls you to him, and silences your protests with another bruising kiss. This time he leaves you disoriented.
“This can wait… But I…I need you now. Please” Charles says in between kisses, his hands finishing to unbutton your shirt.
Your heart is pounding in its cage, and a wave of desire forces you to surrender. The sight of him so desperate to have you here now, the feeling of his lips, his hands on your skin… You would be a crazy woman to deny the both of you such a pleasure.
“Okay… But then you’ll let me…”
Charles silences you, his lips swallowing the last words of this sentence.
Your back hits the tree once again, and this time Charles hands are exploring more of your skin. He fondles your breasts while kissing your neck, and you hurriedly free him from the confines of his pants. His hard cock springs free and you start to stroke him languidly as Charles’ mouth suckles at your nipples.
You moan his name when it starts to feel too much, the need to feel him touch your pussy burning low in your stomach. You quicken your pace, stroking his cock a little faster, and Charles smashes his lips against yours.
“My darling… you should stop or I won’t last” He says, almost quivering. You let go of his length, gathering your skirt around your waist, and sliding down your bloomers with one hand. Charles’ cock twitches at the vision of you, flushed and desperate against that tree, lips parted as you pant little pleas. Charles’ hand cups your cunt. He smears the wetness on his fingers before inserting two of them inside of you.
“You’re so warm, so wet for me…I wish I had the time to put my mouth on you” He whispers in your ear, quickening his pace.
“Next time… Whenever you want but right now I am close, Charles…so close” You whine, out of breath.
Charles grants your wish, drawing circles on your clit with the pad of his thumb. You come undone on his hand, and Charles doesn't let you catch your breath nor come back to your senses. He turns you around, and you find yourself face against the tree, forced to put your hand underneath your cheek to avoid getting any scratches.
Your scent, the sounds you are making for him, the feeling of your warm cunt, everything about you is driving Charles crazy right now, and he can’t take it anymore.
He spits in his hand covered in your wetness and strokes his cock with it, asking you to hold your skirt a little higher. You do as he says and arch your back, the hot air blowing on the naked skin of your thighs. Charles’ cock brushes your ass as he grips your hips firmly, his hand caressing your lower back. You are soaked, cunt pulsing in anticipation of having him filling you up. One of his fingers trails down the back of your thigh, and you shiver, bucking your hips backwards.
“I thought you needed me…” You start saying, but the sentence turns into a high pitched moan as Charles eases his cock inside of your pussy, slowly.
"I’ve been thinking about this for the whole ride back, trust me" He says, amazed by the way you are stretching around him. His hold on your waist is firm, and he takes his time to push as much of his length as he can.
You cry out, definitely not prepared enough to take him fully. Charles shushes you, ordering for you to breathe and relax, and enjoying the contraction of your cunt around his member as you do. He could come right here, just by being inside of you. But he wants to drag it out, just for the sake of hearing you beg for him to fuck you harder.
You wiggle your ass a little, silently waiting for Charles to move, waves of pleasure flooding your lower stomach again. Charles pulls back a little, before slamming his hips back into you. You moan again, with each thrusts of Charles cock deep inside of you.
“Oh Charles it’s too much…” You whine, peering at him over your shoulder.
“You gotta relax for me” He replies as he trusts into you again, getting close to bottoming out in your cunt. He lets one of his hands caress your sides, before groping your breast, pinching at your nipple. You throw your head back against the tree, nodding and repeating how good it feels, close to frenzy.
It’s dizzying, and shutting your eyes does nothing to temper down the overwhelming feeling of being fucked roughly by him.
“Charles… Take what you need and fuck me harder, please” You moan, lifting your head from the tree, holding yourself with two hands against the bark as you back up into him.
“I got you, I got you, I am just… Oh gosh you just feel so good” A deep moan escapes his throat as he adjusts his position to hold you more firmly, and makes you rear bounce on his cock.
The grip of his fingers on your soft skin is hurting you deliciously, and the pain combined with the weight of his cock twitching inside of you is going to make you come again.
You slide one of your hands down your skirt, and touch your clit as Charles bucks his hips into yours mercilessly, each thrust making your tits bounce, completely spilling out of your shirt.
There is nothing else in this world but the smell of sweat, blood and cum, the sounds of your whines and Charles’ pants, the feel of his skin against yours, as you bring each other to the edge.
You clench around him as you come, coating his cock in your wetness. Charles twitches inside of you and pulls out slowly before it’s too late. You keep chanting his name as you catch your breath, a little disappointed not to feel him spill deep inside of you. Charles can’t hold it anymore when he watches you, leaned against the tree, completely disheveled. He moans your name and shoots his cum on your ass, soothing the freshly bruised skin of your hips with the tip of his fingers.
You’re still struggling to keep your balance, catching your breath, when you feel Charles cleaning you up with his discarded shirt, and putting your bloomers and skirt back into place.
You slowly stretch back into a normal position, not in any rush to readjust your shirt and button it up. You smile as Charles pulls you towards him and kisses you.
“That was… what happened to you?” You giggle against his lips.
“Just… I missed you a lot I guess” He replies, bashfully. “Thank you” He adds as you press a kiss on his cheek.
“Let’s get cleaned up and we will take care of this new injury, I will try to turn it into a nice scar” You cup his face in your hands and caress his scar with the pad of your finger.
Charles takes your hand in his and leads you to the lake, stopping to pick up the flower you let fall when he led you away earlier.
“Come here” He motions for you to stop and tucks it under a strand of hair, before cupping your chin and tilting your head up to kiss you deeply.
a/n: thank u so much for reading! Consider leaving a reblog or a comment, they are always making my day 🥰
⚜ MASTERLIST | AO3 | PREV | NEXT
⚜ tags: Mature. Third-person Arthur POV. Canon-typical violence. Period-typical misogyny. Medium to High Honor Arthur. Original Character(s). Kidnapping. Sexual Themes.
⚜ word count: 5,250
⚜ summary: The train is northbound. The mark is cornered. And the job has already splintered in a way neither Arthur nor Dutch could have planned.
Outside the Telegraph and Cable Office, a bracket clock ticked inexorably towards nine. A pale, polluted morning loomed over the glass canopy of the train shed, the air stinking of sulfur. Weary-looking porters hustled about at the behest of their superiors, who barked orders from their shaded, stationary posts. With Dutch nowhere yet in sight, Arthur stood with his back to the brick, the restive twitch in his jaw concealed behind the latest issue of The Saint Denis Times.
The feud between old plantation families, the Grays and the Braithwaites, began almost a century ago and has come to a head on the streets of Rhodes in a bloody shootout. Most of the Gray family, including Sheriff Leigh Gray, perished in the ambush as the streets pooled with blood. Witnesses at the scene of the battle say bodies littered the streets. Soon after, apparently in bitter reprisal, several men stormed Braithwaite Manor, executing everyone inside.
Arthur stared at the print, bitterness occluding his depths. He discarded the paper in a fly-ridden bin and did not think of Sean.
Peering around the corner of the building, he observed the pockets of passengers taking shelter under the platform's wrought iron shade. It was easy to pick out the performers among them, sat with battered valises at their feet, warding off the slow-creeping humidity with patterned fans and speaking endlessly of nothing. To their credit, many of them were put to work hauling set pieces and oddly-shaped instruments down to the loading dock—never at rest, it seemed, even when waiting for a train.
Then there was Elsie—revealed as if from behind a curtain. She stood with a stillness that drew the eye like cross hairs to a doe. Her hat was a teal color worn low on her brow, her lips painted in a carmine frown. Sun-peeled posters for The Sleeping Beauty and the rest of the vaudeville circuit were pinned to the wooden board behind her. She held in her gloved hands a small book, though she never seemed to turn a page—as if it were a prop against unwanted company more than a way to pass the time.
Arthur tensed, drawing back on his heel.
"Good morning, son!" Dutch swaggered from around the opposite corner of the telegraph office, dressed the part of an upscale traveler in his tailored coat and crimson ascot. Arthur didn't look half as smart by contrast and resented any comment that fact might earn in advance. "How did you boys get on? Enjoyed the show, I take it?"
"Sure," Arthur said tersely, casting a furtive glance at their bustling surroundings. He'd slept like hell. His bed at the Bastille had been too soft, somehow, the sheets submerged in a sickeningly sweet perfume that'd made his nose itch. He found respite instead on the adjoining balcony to his room—smoking, sketching—until the city itself seemed to succumb to a sleeping spell and he with it.
He drew closer to Dutch, the question that'd been dogging him all night low and urgent on his tongue: "Did you know about the business with this dancin' woman and that feller she's marrying?"
Dutch lifted a brow. "Why? You find somethin'?"
Arthur reported what he and Trelawny had seen at the theater: the portmanteau with Elsie's initials, handled with suspicious care; the paper spotted in her dressing room, branded with the Pacific Union's letterhead; and meeting Miss Rose herself, all grace and grease paint and something to hide.
"Oh, that's good..." Dutch grinned, thumbing the patch of hair on his chin. "That just about seals the deal, don't it?"
"You knew she was wrapped up in railroad money?" Arthur pressed, heart sinking.
Dutch scoffed as if this were all rather inconsequential. "Oh, I don't know, son—I suppose Trelawny may have mentioned the possibility..."
"And you didn't think that'd be somethin' I might wanna know?"
"Well, Arthur," He said slowly. "Now you know." He clapped him on the shoulder, hard, as if to rouse him from his doubtful slumber. "C'mon, son—if the likes of you and I are too yellow-bellied to—"
"—It ain't about that—"
"—I know that things have been…crazy." Dutch conceded, his grip on Arthur's shoulder tightening in a bracing squeeze. "We've lost folks. We've…ruffled more than our fair share of feathers around here already, no doubt—but if we're gonna get ourselves out of here, if we're gonna go home—this is an opportunity that we cannot afford to let pass us by!"
The train came screaming.
Arthur grit his teeth, the rhythmic, metallic clang of the locomotive piercing his eardrums as it slowed to a screeching halt. Black plumes erupted from the smokestack like an industrial geyser. Passengers queued along the grimy platform, presenting their tickets to the attendants posted at the entries to each car. On the train's gilded side sheathing, the Pacific Union branded itself in proud advertisement.
"Sure are a lot of folk gettin' on." Arthur observed with quiet unease.
"They're dancers, Arthur," said Dutch with a sardonic smirk. "What are they gonna do? Pirouette us to death?"
Arthur huffed a laugh, despite himself. "Fair enough."
As he scanned the clustering crowd, his eye caught on a flash of teal. "There she is," he said quietly, inclining his head in Elsie's direction. "What'chu want me to do?"
"Keep an eye on her." Dutch instructed. "Make sure you see which car she boards—we want the one just ahead. I'm gonna see about our tickets. Trelawny mentioned he'd left a pair with a 'discouraged man' inside..."
Watching dutifully after their mark, Arthur merely grunted in reply. Dutch peeled off towards the ticket window, adjusting his ascot as he went.
A stone-faced gentleman with a black bowler hat shouldered his way to Elsie's side. Towering over her, he leaned down to say something in her ear. Then like a skiff, he split the sea of passengers with Elsie following in his wake—making a beeline in the opposite direction. With a tense glance of deliberation towards the ticket office, Arthur followed.
He kept a careful distance, weaving his way through the clumps of travelers as he tailed the pair down the platform toward the end of the train. At the very last car, a porter was positioned to assist Elsie aboard. With grim satisfaction, Arthur took note of the portmanteau as it was handed off from the bowler-hatted escort to the porter, who disappeared with both Elsie and the trunk inside.
Dutch found him a moment later, tickets in hand. "How's it lookin'?"
"Good. This is the one we want." Arthur murmured, nodding at the car to their left—the one directly ahead of Elsie's. "So—you gonna let me in on the rest of this genius plan of yours? Or am I just the lucky bastard who gets to try and read your mind about it?"
Dutch looked at him sideways, the crow-footed corners of his eyes narrowing as he pressed a ticket to Arthur's chest. "Y'know, son—I'm beginning to think you're trying to be insulting."
"I'll take that as a yes for mind readin'."
Ignoring him, Dutch approached the platform's edge with confidence. "Good day, sir!" He greeted the worker with a smile, earning little in return besides an impatient glance at his offered ticket.
"Day coach to the front, lads." The porter ground out, waving them off to make way for the the wealthy-looking couple queued just behind. "Next!"
Arthur looked at his own ticket to confirm. These were luxury cars, reserved for travelers befitting their class. Trelawny's connections had secured them passage, yes—just not ease.
Dutch's smile was strained. "Of course. Excuse us." Spurned but far from humbled, he turned on his heel and signaled for Arthur to follow. Gaze rolling skyward, Arthur fell into step beside him.
"God damn it, Trelawny…" Dutch groused under his breath, turning his ire on Arthur's underwhelming ensemble of tanned leather and denim. "You know, you could have at least tried to look halfway presentable."
"Oh, so this is my fault?"
"Shut up, Arthur."
A sharp whistle signaled last calls for boarding. Quickening their pace, Arthur and Dutch half-jogged along the length of the platform, past the telegraph office, all the way to the front of the train where the belches of smoke were most oppressive. This time their tickets granted them swift entry—to a car that was close to packed with half the city. Rows of wooden benches stretched the length of the car with people crammed shoulder to shoulder across. The heat was no friend to the smell, and from the back corner a baby keened, their mother's embarrassed shushes doing little to quell the child's open-throated shrieks.
The train lurched forward.
"Greedy bastards…" Arthur muttered under his breath, watching an elderly woman struggle to remain upright as the train stuttered in motion along with the other unlucky souls who boarded too late. "Sellin' more tickets than they got seats."
"Indeed." Dutch gestured to the far end of the compartment. "C'mon. Let's try the next one."
With a glower fixed at the back of Dutch's raven-haired skull, Arthur followed. He led them through the first vestibule as the train gathered velocity on its way out of the city. The second car was nearly as cramped as the first, as was the third—but by the fourth an empty booth revealed itself near the back.
Wordlessly, they slid into the available seats. Arthur shifted in an attempt to get comfortable, the wooden bench creaking beneath his weight. Though it'd be a far longer trip on the saddle, the train wouldn't arrive in Annesburg until well near nightfall. He considered making a wisecrack to Dutch about neglecting to bring his pack of traveling playing cards but thought better of it.
Instead he turned his attention to the window, counting steamboats on the murky Lannahechee before they disappeared from sight, leaving the city and all its unsavory modernity back where it belonged.
In the row behind them, two women conspired in hushed voices.
"Oh, you're petty," said one with an air of indulgence that reminded him of Trelawny.
"I am not!" Whispered the other in protest. "I'm concerned. You heard about what happened to her in Philadelphia. She'd be better off retiring now, with some dignity, before an injury does it for her."
Arthur stilled, listening closely. Were they talking about Elsie?
"She is getting a bit on in years, isn't she?" Mused the first, pityingly. "How old is she now? 32, 33?"
Arthur scowled to himself.
"Old enough to be perfectly cast as Carabosse, if you ask me."
"Oh, you're terrible…"
The pair dissolved into a fit of mirth and Arthur resolved to tune them out.
Hours passed. The bayou bled from mossy sunset to the deciduous hardwoods of Roanoke Ridge. A blood orange sun burst through the pockets of leaves, bathing the windowed car in shades of vermilion, like a train moving untouched through wildfire.
Arthur, who'd been dozing, jerked to attention at the press of an elbow to his ribs.
"Rest well, Sleeping Beauty?" Dutch drawled.
Arthur gave an ironic snort, rubbing the back of his stiffened neck as he eyed the passing scenery for familiar landmarks. "Reckon we gotta be close."
"Yes." Dutch agreed knowingly as he rose to his feet. "Why don't we go on and stretch our legs a spell, hm? Perhaps pay a visit to the buffet car…"
Arthur knew well enough that this was more of Dutch's theatrics for the benefit of any ears who happened to be listening than a real promise of sustenance. Still, as Arthur stood to join him with his throat dry and his belly empty, he reckoned a splash of whiskey would have been more than welcome.
But there was work to do.
The gossiping dancers sitting behind them didn't so much as look their way as they passed by.
The difference between the two cars was laughable. Rather than stiff wooden benches, these seats were covered in a plush, scarlet velvet material. Their occupants were finely dressed and comfortably spaced, chatting quietly or amusing themselves with newspapers and embroidery. A few of them glanced Arthur's way as he and Dutch walked down the aisle, apparently annoyed by the intrusion, but wisely said nothing when met with his rugged countenance.
Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
They earned no such attention once they reached the buffet car, where a party was in full swing. Someone tickled the keys at an upright piano, where a liquor-doused gentleman stuffed cash in a tip jar and slurred his request to hear them play "One-Eyed Riley" just one more time. Patrons crowded the bar, laughing gaily, tossing back handfuls of peanuts and mouthfuls of brandy, cigar smoke curling around their heads.
Such was their merrymaking that Arthur and Dutch slipped unnoticed to the back, where they halted at the door. Through the small, circular window, Arthur spied the bowler-hatted man from before—Elsie's escort—lingering in the space between the two compartments. Standing guard.
Arthur drew back, exchanging a meaningful look with Dutch. With a shared nod, they slipped through to the open-air vestibule.
At a distance, Arthur took for granted the man's size—but in the cramped space between cars where his boots sought careful purchase on the rumbling steel beneath them, the bowler-hatted man's height and breadth was undeniable. He had a face carved from limestone and a ragged cut from temple to cheek, the skin pink and irritated from poor healing. Fresh by at least a week, Arthur wagered. He felt his own chest expand, his stance widen. The legibility of inevitable violence was something of a comfort to Arthur, who had had quite enough of playing dress up.
"Good evening, my good sir." Dutch began with an oily charm that ricocheted like a pebble off the side of Mount Shann. Though he spoke loudly so as to be heard over the train's rhythmic chugging, the rest of Dutch's preamble was lost to Arthur, his focus trained on the slow curl of the guard's ham-like hands and their distance from the leather holster at his side.
Arthur met his eyes—beady ones hidden beneath a protruding brow that glinted with a kind of recognition. Not, I know you but, I know what you are.
There was no telling who moved first—but Arthur moved quicker.
The first punch, quick and dirty, knuckles to nose. A smattering of crimson on that limestone face that sent the bowler hat whipping in the wind. With a pained roar the man seized him by the shirt collar, tight enough to choke. The floor lurched suddenly beneath their feet and Arthur was slammed against the wall, his bad shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact.
His teeth clamped down hard on the inside of his cheek. Vision white, copper on his tongue. He spit with rage. Dutch said something—a warning?—and Arthur spared a heartbeat to notice the tight curve in the upcoming tracks.
A flurry of grappling fists and shuffling feet. A battle for balance. Drawing on the whole of his strength, Arthur surged forward, using the turn of the train as leverage to launch the man over the railing and onto the rocky earth below.
Heaving, Arthur steadied himself against the frame, wind whipping the ends of his hair as he stuck his neck over the side to see what became of his opponent. At first all he saw was a mound of man, growing smaller with distance as the train barrelled on for Annesburg. But then the mound moved, shuffling to his feet before the train curved around another turn and he disappeared from sight.
"Well done," was Dutch's grim praise.
"They knew we was comin'." Arthur darkly replied, voice gravelly from adrenaline. He rolled his shoulder, the surrounding muscles protesting painfully as he withdrew from the vestibule's precarious edge. "I ain't sure how, but…"
"Then we best be quick about it. C'mon."
Nodding, Arthur lifted the brass lever of the final compartment and waved Dutch inside. He quickly followed after, shutting the door behind them with a clang.
It was like a palace—the finest hotel Arthur could conceive, let alone afford, but on wheels. Thick carpets, polished wood paneling, ornate brass fittings for every knob and handle. It was as lavish as they'd seen in Leviticus Cornwall's train all those weeks ago in the Grizzlies, with the wintry air sharp on their skin and feet frozen in their boots. The icy dread that'd lodged itself in Arthur's gut had failed to thaw since.
And seated amidst the sumptuous upholstery with eyes as wide as fine china saucers was—
"…Mister Callahan?" Elsie shot to her feet, looking between the two intruders in alarm. She was dressed down slightly from what Arthur had seen her wearing on the platform, her hat and tailored jacket hung on a rack near the door. She wore a creamy, silken shirtwaist tucked into a ankle-length skirt of a bluish-green material and a look of profound confusion.
On the claw-footed coffee table, Arthur spotted something unexpected: a Snowberger Milk Chocolate bar, half-eaten. Back in Clemens Point, Little Jack had left one by Arthur's tent as thanks for replacing his Penny Dreadful book—the one that was lost with all their other treasures in Blackwater. It wasn't one of those fancy boxes of imported chocolates, dressed in ribbons. It was a woman's indulgence of a few cents at a train station kiosk, squirreled away to savor in the privacy of her own car.
Arthur's bloodied mouth formed a stoic line. He inclined his head. "Miss."
Dutch looked between them, amused. "You two already know each other—well, ain't that just fine? Seems to me like I'm the odd man out."
"Who are you?" Elsie's nostrils flared imperceptibly, fists closing at her sides. "Did Marcus permit you?"
"In a manner of speakin', yes, I would say that he did." Dutch chuckled. "Ain't that right, Arthur?"
"Somethin' like that."
This was a familiar dance, watching Dutch work the room, the space he took up with his long, confident strides, the ease with which he helped himself to a glass of something strong from the samovar as if it belonged to him. It was a trick he'd taught a young Arthur however many years ago, when he was a boy with all rage and no finesse—that there were perfectly civilized ways to intimidate a man without once reaching for one's gun.
Elsie stood stock still, arms at her sides. "I'm afraid you've neglected to answer my question."
"And I'm afraid the answer would be of little comfort to you, besides." Glass in hand, Dutch sat in the chair opposite hers, crossing ankle over knee and spreading his wingspan over the armrests. His rings gleamed in the low lamplight, the amber-colored liquid sloshing against the side of the glass with each steady rock of the train. "But if you must know, I'm something of a dreamer—a seeker—a man of opportunity."
"An American," said Elsie, unimpressed.
Dutch chuckled. "Quite. Quite. Now, the last thing I want is for any of this to get ugly. But our friend Arthur, here, well—he's real good at ugly."
Arthur stood unmoving, jaw set, eyes fixed off to the side.
Elsie swallowed. Her eyes lingered on Arthur, probing, before she sank into her seat with deliberate control.
"I sensed you'd be a woman of reason." Dutch purred, dripping with condescension. He shifted in his chair, leaning forward to set his drink on the table between them. "Reason and intelligence. Which is why I have no doubts as to the caliber of your cooperative spirit."
"And with what do you envision my cooperation, Mister…?"
"We're here for the money, Miss Rose."
Elsie pinched her brow, blinking. "What money?"
Arthur took a deep breath, jaw flexing. Here we go.
A low, dangerous laugh rumbled in Dutch's chest. "We've only got so much rail ahead of us before this steel palace of yours arrives in Annesburg, madam—and I do not intend to disembark empty-handed. Now." His voice grew sharp. "Are you gonna save us the trouble of telling us where it is? Or should old Arthur here start acquainting himself with your things?"
"While I'm mortified by the notion that you'd find yourself a guest in my car and your efforts wasted, sir," Elsie said icily, jutting her chin. "He'd find little more than my underclothes."
They stared at one another in a chilly impasse. When Dutch spoke next it was clipped of its usual charm. "Arthur. You said you saw them bringin' that trunk back here?"
"Yes."
"Then go. To work."
Truthfully, the work had already been done. A mahogany secretary's desk separated the seating area from the sleeping quarters. Scarlet privacy curtains to match the rest of the decor were drawn back with golden ties, revealing an ornate storage hutch against the far wall. Pressed between that and the wall was a short cot, mussed from light use. And under that, partially concealed behind the dangling corner of a duvet, was the portmanteau. Arthur had spotted it almost at once upon entry, the way a hunting dog quartered a field by instinct rather than deliberation.
It was the ease of it that shamed him.
With an almighty thud, Arthur lifted the portmanteau out from under the bed and onto the desk. "Where's the key?"
"I—I'm unsure." Elsie stammered, frustratingly truthful. "What is it you want with that—?"
Arthur's look was steely as his word. "Then I suggest you get sure, miss."
"I've told you, I—"
"We don't got time for this." Dutch interjected, bored. "Just bust open the damn thing and be done with it, will you?"
Grunting, Arthur withdrew his revolver and smashed the butt of the grip against the lock—once, twice, three times—before it finally gave way with a satisfying metallic clink. His pulse thrummed with effort and anticipation. Holstering his weapon, he pried open the portmanteau, the compartments splitting to reveal—
"Papers."
Not cash. Not jewelry. Only stacks of documents, some loose, others organized in neatly-labeled manila envelopes.
Arthur's blood ran cold. He spun on Dutch, whose brow was furrowed in consternation. "Ain't nothin' here. Just a bunch'a goddamn paperwork!"
"I should'a known…" Dutch rumbled darkly, as if to himself. "Ain't nobody with a robber baron for a daddy gonna ship his cash around in a woman's suitcase..." After a heartbeat of deliberation he ordered: "Keep looking. See if you can't find something useful in there. Miss Rose and I are gonna sit tight and have ourselves a chat…"
Arthur sifted through the papers with haphazard urgency, scouring their contents for something—anything—resembling the promised fortune. He felt a spark of hope when he found a ledger, though it dwindled fast, for it only contained mundane touring logistics; dates and cities, attendance figures, itemized expenses for things like rail transport and lodging and fabric tights. Deeming it useless, he dumped it on the table and kept digging.
Among the unsorted files, another paper with that now-familiar company letterhead caught Arthur's eye. He scanned it quickly, finding it to be some form of internal correspondence full of polite, impersonal language about "logistical cooperation" and "mutual financial benefits" and other such institutional bunk that Arthur could care less about. Cursing Bill Williamson's idiocy under his breath, he tossed that aside too.
"What're we lookin' at, Mister Morgan?"
"I—I ain't sure yet. Gimme a minute."
Finally, something surfaced that could be halfway understood. It was a deed with the title: POWER OF ATTORNEY printed in bold lettering on the header. Though Arthur was far from fluent in legalese, even he was able to gather the gist of what he was reading. It appeared to be an agreement granting a Mister Percival Hall "temporary" executive power over all legal, financial, and medical affairs on the behalf of…Elsie Rose. Arthur took the flourish at the bottom to be Percy's signature with an empty space beside it where Elsie's should be. For some reason, his stomach sank.
"I ain't a man who much enjoys being kept in suspense, son—"
"Then you come take a look at all this—crap." Arthur shot back, dropping the deed as if he were a man that cared about dirtying his hands. He stepped aside, eyes flitting past Elsie's searching gaze and falling to the floor between them. "Might as well be written in goddamn German…"
Dutch shot Arthur a look of covert fury as he hauled himself up from the armchair to investigate. He snatched the papers, scanning them quickly. He blinked. Slowed. His brow rose towards his hairline, an opportunistic gleam lighting a spark in the keen, dark depths of his eyes. A look Arthur knew.
When he lifted his head, Dutch was smiling.
"Would you be so kind as to enlighten me about what it is I'm lookin' at here, Miss Rose?" He inquired, fanning out the papers before her like a winning poker hand.
Warily, Elsie leaned forward, eyes darting over the text with what looked like growing dread. She straightened, throat bobbing. "Those would be drafts of my marital settlement. And they're entirely outside the realm of your business."
"Still workin' out the kinks, I imagine?"
Elsie looked cold, which Dutch took as an invitation to probe further.
"Well! It would seem that Mister Percy Hall has got you in quite the bind, doesn't he? I'm seein' here that your dearly beloved thought to include a list of moral conduct stipulations…" Dutch went on, gesturing wordlessly for Arthur to continue his search. "How romantic."
Arthur kept digging.
It wasn't only what the portmanteau held that struck him—but what it didn't. There were no artifacts of Elsie's youth, no triumphant press clippings of her accomplishments, no letters of love and sentiment; merely an armful of documents that legislated the woman's life down to the letter, yet failed to account for the whole of it.
One last envelope could be found at the bottom of the trunk, sealed with the word CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the lip. Arthur steeled himself and tore it open.
Photographs—but none like Arthur had ever seen. They were haunting, sepia-toned renderings of what looked like a pair of skeletal feet, all taken from different angles. The smallest bones and ligaments on the outside of the foot appeared…crushed, somehow. The photos themselves were attached by paperclip to corresponding medical records. It did not take long for Arthur to surmise who they belonged.
"Jesus…" He swore under his breath.
Dutch looked over, expectant. "Let's have us a look, son."
Arthur's hand, always so trigger-sure, hesitated in mid-air.
"Wait." Elsie was on her feet, white-faced, eyes boring into Arthur's. Entreating. Sickening. "Please."
His mouth ran dry. Dutch, with a huff of impatience, snatched the envelope himself and carelessly rifled through its contents. Pleased, he held up one of her files so as to make their sensitive details more legible in the light. "My word…it would appear you took quite the tumble, Miss Rose! You have my condolences."
Elsie swallowed, breathing hard. "Sir, if it's money you're after, I'm afraid you won't find it in my personal effects."
"You wanna know something, madam? I'm inclined to believe you're right." Dutch eyed her like a gator did a spoonbill. "Clearly, there ain't a bond, jewel, nor pile of cash on this train that'd be more valuable than you."
Valiantly, Elsie fought to maintain her composure, but Arthur saw the hummingbird of her pulse thrumming against her throat. Her eyes snapped to the vestibule, muscles tensed to bolt.
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary." Dutch's voice was almost as a croon now, taking his time as he slipped the exposing documents back into their envelope. "You're a very pretty bird, Miss Rose, and though we are rather brutish men in comparison we would hate to have to cage you. Instead..." He pressed the envelope back to Arthur, who watched him closely. "I reckon we're due to arrive in Annesburg any minute now, and once we do, the three of us shall depart. Together."
Arthur jolted. "Huh?"
"Just for a little while," Dutch said pleasantly, as if he were suggesting the trio sup in town with the soot-coated miners and whores. "Long enough, perhaps, to send a telegram to Mister Hall regarding his…displaced asset."
Ransom. Arthur's gut fell through the tracks. Jesus.
"I—I can't." Elsie stammered, eyes glistening as fissures formed in her porcelain composure. "I—we—we're due in Chicago next week, I—"
Dutch lifted a gentling hand. "All the more reason, I'm sure, that your betrothed will be swift in his reply...and in our compensation."
Elsie sank to her seat for a second time, looking faint. Arthur gripped Dutch by the elbow, pulling him aside.
"This ain't good, Dutch." He rasped.
"I disagree." Came the reply, lethally calm.
"You sure about this? This ain't just money, Dutch, you're talkin' about takin' a woman—"
Dutch's eyes flashed with malice. He spoke low and rough through gritted teeth. "Do not. Question. Me. Not now."
Arthur stared back, searching hard for the man he knew. He gave a curt, bitter nod.
The floor gave a violent jerk beneath their feet. Oil lamps affixed to the damask wallpaper flickered in their sconces. Arthur cursed under his breath, swiftly crossing to the window to squint out into the dark, where the sparse pinpricks of light that belonged to the approaching mining town drew nearer and nearer.
"Shit."
"Arthur—get this trunk packed up now." Dutch ordered. "Bill, Micah—they'll be waitin' for us—compatriots of ours, Miss Rose. Real nice men, I assure you. Simply the finest—as long as you keep showin' us that cooperative spirit of yours. Do I make myself clear?"
Elsie, close to tears, nodded.
"No funny business?"
She shook her head.
"Good. 'Cause otherwise…" Dutch positioned himself near the exit, placing a hand on the frame to steady his weight. Subtly, he opened his coat to reveal the holstered Schofield at his hip. "I'm afraid you'll find all of our senses of humor lacking."
Arthur made quick work of packing up the portmanteau, stuffing documents in mismatched envelopes, snapping the compartments closed and leaving the busted lock behind. He swallowed the ball of lead that'd formed at the base of his throat as the train came to a shuddering halt.
He turned. Elsie was staring at him.
Dutch opened the door to the yawning night. Were those shadowed figures looming on the platform Micah and Bill's? Ready and waiting and damn near hoping for all hell to break loose?
"After you, Miss Rose." Dutch said with a flourish of false geniality.
Drawing to her full height, albeit shakily, Elsie stepped from behind the coffee table. She pulled from the coat rack first her jacket, then her hat, securing both on her person with practiced dignity. Then she crossed the room as she did the stage; tight, controlled, focused.
And though she spared no lingering looks for her traveling home, she made a deliberate effort to meet Arthur's gaze as she passed, her expression brimming with a powerful force he recognized as well as his own reflection: hate.
With a lift of her chin and a tremble in her gait, Elsie Rose led her captors off the train.
What would Arthur and reader’s first fight as a couple look like?
tysm for this request! i love a good domestic feud lol 🙂↕️i hope you enjoy!
Boil Over
plot: arthur and gn!reader get into their first fight as a couple after he gets home bruised and bloody one too many times
warnings: descriptions of violence, suggestive themes, argument with resolution
established relationship, angst ending in fluff, maybe kinda medium-low honor!arthur? idk
wc: 1.5k
Thick drops of rain hit the tent's canvas walls in an unrelenting pace, resembling percussion in an orchestra — a crescendo of thunder and lightning in the skies. There was a heavy feeling of impeding doom filling the air, being carried into the night by the thick clouds wreaking havoc upon whoever dared to step foot outside. Every now and then, white-hot bolts illuminated the Heartlands for a brief second before the darkness of the next roll of thunder took over. The whole world seemed to be asleep, no windows offering lights to the uninviting outside, everyone barricaded into their homes, and for good reason; no sane person would even consider leaving the comfort of their abode in this weather.
Unluckily for you, Arthur Morgan was no sane person.
He had promised you over and over again that he be back before the sun had set and, naive as you were, you had believed him. It was unusual for you to ignore your gut feelings so often, to throw caution into the wind, but unfortunately, every ounce of rationale seemed to leave your brain when it came to the man in question. He had talked a big talk about your anniversary; a dinner in town, a bottle of wine, and, most importantly, some time alone. With the way he was talking, you stupidly believed him — even bought a dress for the occasion weeks ahead. Now, as the day had finally come, Dutch had sent him out on some special secret mission yet again, and who was Arthur to say no to Dutch?
You should have known. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes high. Besides, whatever it was that he had to do was important business. More important than your relationship? You didn't dare think of the answer to the question, but deep in your heart, you knew.
Another crack of thunder made you flinch under the flimsy blanket you were tucked in, shivering from the cold. If only there was another soul in the tent to warm yours. Your heart ached at the empty space next to you. It seemed like hours that you were tossing and turning in your shared bedroll, not sleeping a wink. You tried to blame the storm outside for your lack of sleep but couldn't even pretend it was. While your body was sore from a long day of work and fatigued from insomnia, your mind was wide awake — sorrowful, hurt, and angry.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, you heard heavy boots hitting wet earth at last, barely distinguishable from the sound of rain on canvas. You shot up in an instant, anxiously awaiting your lover's return.
The second Arthur entered your small, shared space, the world stopped for the both of you; his hat was still perched on his head, droplets of rainwater dripping onto the floor and forming a small, sad puddle of water. His shirt clung to his chest, the two top buttons were undone, revealing a heaving, bloody chest. A deep gash peeked out from underneath, its length could only be assumed by the large tear of the fabric. Everything you had planned to say had suddenly vanished from your mind — you only looked at him, mouth agape and all color drained from your face. His eyes, icy blue and cold, fixated on yours in an instant.
It only took him one large stride to reach you.
His hands were on you in your undergarments in mere seconds, exploring you, staining the white satin crimson. Only when he realized you still stood in shock did he stop, eyeing you quizzically. A flash of hurt crossed through them when you took a step back.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You had finally found your voice again — sharp and low.
Arthur swallowed dryly. He had never seen you like this; dark circles under an angry pair of eyes, cold skin traced with deep red blood. It felt like someone stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife when he understood it all was his doing. A coyote and its prey. He moved back towards the entrance, reeling slightly.
"You think you can just have me then and there, dragging in the dirt like a wet dog, smelling like one too?" The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface of your worries had finally reached a boiling point. He shrunk under your gaze, and you were far from done. "I have had enough of you, Arthur Morgan! For a whole year, I have been putting up with all that you put me through, but this was the last straw-" You breathed for a second before you lowered your voice, carrying a threatening tone.
"You leave me hanging one more damn time and I'm gone. I don't care if you're bruised and bloody — hell, I don't care if you're missing an arm, I mean it."
Arthur said nothing at your outburst. He knew he had it coming, and he damn well deserved it, too. It didn't mean your words didn't sting, though. Shame crawled across his insides at the feeling — he had no reason to feel hurt. It was his own damn fault he couldn't keep anything good in his life going. A year ago today, he had kissed you by the stables in Blackwater. He would remember the way your laugh made people turn their heads forever, even now that everything had changed for the worse. You were there, waiting for him in your tent at every hour of the night. You had been nothing but kind and forgiving to him since, no matter how undeserving he was of your mercy.
It all seemed to dawn on him at once, pouring down on him like the storm raging outside; you weren't like him, turned cold and cruel from a life that made you so. You were his delicate flower in a barren desert, and he had been tearing out your leaves and petals one by one until there was nothing left.
How would he ever be able to make it up to you? Hell, could he even?
Every second that he waited twisted the blade further into both of your hearts, he knew that. Then, Arthur did something he had sworn himself he would never do.
He fell to his knees in front of you, gaze fixed on yours.
You furrowed your brows at the gesture — Arthur Morgan; terror of the west, stone-cold killer, on his knees, looking up from below you with pleading eyes. Your heart skipped several beats at once. Of all the things you had expected him to do, this wasn't one. A calloused hand took the Hat off his head and brought it to his chest, revealing an earnest face under a crumbling facade.
"I know I'm a bad man," he began, still fixated on your face "and I know damn well that I deserve everything that I've got comin'. But please -" His voice broke, and so did your resolves.
"- don't make me live without you. You're the only thing I got that's still worth fightin' for. You make me wanna be a better man jus' so hell won't keep me from you when we're both gone." He took a deep breath before his last words, "Please, forgive me."
"Get up." Your voice was softer now, when you moved towards him and cupped his chin with your thumb. He complied.
As he rose to his full height, towering over you like he usually did, he no longer felt like a vast, unreachable force. You were at eye-level now, a blind understanding forming between the two of you when you wrapped your arms around his waist, uncaring of the still-damp clothes. He reciprocated immediately, since it was the only right and true thing for him to do so. Under his soft touches, he felt his flower bloom again, spreading its' blossoms into his own chest.
"I forgive you." You whispered into the nape of his neck, hearing his heartbeat quicken. He didn't reply, just squeezed you a little tighter.
The rain had stopped now, and thin rays of sunlight had fought themselves through the crevices in the tent. Arthur gently guided you towards the bed and rid himself of the wet clothes before settling next to you. He was warm, as always, when you rested your head on his shoulder, eager to get a few more hours of sleep before the inevitable force of Susan Grimshaw would drag you back to work.
When you awoke, the afternoon sun stood high in the sky, and Arthur was gone. In his place, a bouquet of hand-picked wild flowers, a chocolate bar, and a note.
Would you be willing to write a RDR fiction with Molly? Like where reader is one of the gang and hates how Dutch treats her so they subtly try to convince her to leave him but end up falling for her.
A Quiet Kind of Leaving
Molly x fem!reader
Request
Wc: 9250 words
You came to the gang because of Arthur.
That was the simplest version of it, the one people in camp repeated when strangers needed an explanation and the one Dutch liked best because it made you sound like one more soul gathered in by loyalty, fate, and his particular brand of mercy. Arthur vouched for you, and in the world you were living in that meant more than most church blessings and nearly as much as money. It meant you had a place by the fire, a bedroll of your own, a share when there was one to be had, and the unspoken understanding that anyone who wanted to question your presence would have to look Arthur Morgan in the eye while they did it.
You had known him before all of this became your whole life. Not before the outlawing, exactly, because Arthur had been half made of trouble and dust since the first day you met him, but before the gang became your only constant horizon. He found you at a bad time, the sort of bad time that might have become the last one if he had chosen to mind his business, and instead he offered you a horse, a meal, and the rough, grudging shape of trust. You took all three. By the time you met Dutch, you had already made your choice. You were not joining because Dutch dazzled you. You were joining because Arthur asked if you needed somewhere to go, and you were tired of having nowhere.
For a while, it was almost enough.
The gang had a rhythm then, even with all the fear and the running and the constant need for money. Work, return, eat, sleep, watch, move on. Pearson cooked, Hosea sighed, Bill complained, Javier laughed, Sean made noise for the sake of it, and Sadie burned through grief so hot you could feel it from three bedrolls away. Miss Grimshaw kept everything from dissolving into total disorder through force of will alone. Tilly and Mary-Beth had quiet ways of surviving. Karen made loudness look like power, which was sometimes true and sometimes not. And Dutch stood in the center of it all like a preacher who had mistaken himself for God and found that no one around him was eager enough to correct him.
Molly O’Shea did not fit the camp the way the rest of them did.
It was not because she was weak, though some people liked to say so when she was out of earshot. It was not even because she was soft, because there was a hardness in her too if one knew where to look. It was because she carried herself like someone who had not been born to weather this kind of life and had not been given a fair chance to decide if she wanted it. She moved through camp beautiful and dissatisfied, every fine line of her face tightened by some private discomfort no amount of money shortages or mud or smoke could fully explain. People called her Dutch’s girl as if that told the whole story. You thought it explained less than anyone believed.
At first, you did not think much about her beyond the obvious. She was pretty in a way that drew eyes without trying, and proud in a way that made people punish her for not pretending otherwise. She did not do much camp work. She kept to herself. She had a sharp tongue on the rare occasion she chose to use it. More than once you saw the others dismiss her with the easy contempt reserved for women they did not understand and were unwilling to try. There were whispers that she thought herself above everyone else. Whispers that she was foolish for staying. Whispers that if Dutch treated her coldly then she must have done something to deserve it. You had heard all that kind of talk before. It usually meant the truth was uglier and smaller and far more ordinary than people wanted to admit.
What changed your view of her was not one grand moment but the slow accumulation of many small ones. Dutch would call for her with that honeyed tone of his and then ignore her the second she appeared. She would sit near him during meals only for him to turn his full attention to some fresh scheme, some argument, some performance for the men. If she tried to speak, he cut across her without looking. If she looked unhappy, he made it sound unreasonable. If she withdrew, he called her ungrateful. If she stayed close, he seemed irritated by her presence, as though wanting kindness from the man who had promised her the world were some childish flaw. None of it was loud. That was the most vicious part. There were no bruises to point at, no dramatic scenes anyone could not laugh off afterward. There was only a woman being worn down in plain sight by a man who needed admiration more than he needed honesty and liked his women devoted but never inconvenient.
The others saw it.
That was what sat in your stomach like a stone. They saw it, and they chose not to see it too clearly. Dutch was the center beam holding up the whole miserable structure. To speak against him openly was to risk more than hurt feelings. It was your place, your protection, your next meal, your share, your safety on the road, your standing with people who would kill for one another and sometimes because of one another. So the gang learned the same trick people everywhere learned under men like him. They noticed just enough to feel uncomfortable and then looked away. Some did it out of fear. Some out of loyalty. Some because they had troubles of their own and could not bear one more thing to carry. And some because it was easier to think of Molly as difficult than to admit that Dutch liked keeping someone near who was lonely enough to stay.
Arthur saw it too, though he did not say much. Arthur saw most things and spoke on half of them at best. One evening, after Dutch had left Molly standing in the middle of camp with some unfinished sentence hanging in the air between them, you found yourself staring after him hard enough that Arthur noticed. He was cleaning his gun by the wagon, face shadowed by late light and his hat brim, movements steady and practiced like he could strip and rebuild the thing in his sleep.
“You keep glaring like that, you’re liable to burn a hole in him.” he muttered without looking up.
“Would save somebody the trouble of shooting him.”
Arthur huffed a laugh at that, though it died quick. He glanced toward Molly where she had retreated to Dutch’s tent with her shoulders stiff and her chin too high. “Wouldn’t help her much now.”
“No” you said. “It wouldn’t.”
He went quiet for a few seconds, oilcloth in hand, expression unreadable in the way he got when he was thinking something he did not want to say aloud. “Ain’t much room in this camp for people telling truths Dutch don’t want told.”
“That supposed to stop me?”
“That’s me telling you to be smart.” He snapped the revolver back together and finally looked at you fully. “You help if you can. Just don’t go mistaking help for martyrdom. Dutch hurts people. He don’t always do it with bullets.”
——————————————————————
That should have been warning enough. Instead, it only made you look harder.
You started with the smallest things because the smallest things were hardest to forbid. You sat beside Molly at dinner when no one else bothered. You answered her when she spoke instead of letting her words die in the air. When Pearson served out something barely fit for a dog and she made a face, you bit back your smile and told her she was right, which startled a laugh out of her so brief and bright it vanished before anyone else could hear it. You brought her a blanket one cold morning when the fog cut through camp like knives. She tried to refuse it on principle and pride both, but you left it near her anyway. Later that day you saw it around her shoulders.
She mistrusted you at once.
You couldn't blame her for that. Kindness in camp always came with some weight attached, whether it was pity, curiosity, or desire for gossip. Molly watched you with that careful, narrowed gaze of hers whenever you approached, like she was trying to decide where the insult would arrive. Sometimes she answered you sharply. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes she looked at you as if your attention embarrassed her more than Dutch’s indifference ever had, and perhaps it did. Neglect could be explained. It had rules. It was familiar. Care without a clear price was something else entirely.
One evening, after Dutch had spent the better part of an hour holding court by the fire while Molly sat close enough to hear every word and might as well have been invisible, you found her a little way off by the water with a cigarette burning low between her fingers. The camp behind you was all lamplight and laughter and clatter. Out by the shoreline it was only frogs and dark and the gentle creak of tethered horses shifting in sleep. She did not turn when you approached, but her shoulders went tight enough to tell you she had marked your steps.
“If you’ve come to pity me” she said, voice thin with irritation she had likely been storing all night “go back.”
“I didn’t.”
“Everyone does sooner or later.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
That made her look at you at last. Moonlight caught one side of her face and silvered the edge of her hair. She was lovely even angry, which probably annoyed her more than anyone else. “Is that your great wisdom, then?”
“No” you said. “My great wisdom is that Dutch talks like a man in love with every sound he makes.”
For one suspended second you thought she might slap you. Then a startled, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It changed her whole face. Softer. Younger. Sadder too, somehow, because it showed what strain usually kept hidden. “That” she said carefully “is a very dangerous opinion to say aloud.”
“Good thing I said it out here.”
“You are Arthur’s friend.”
“Unfortunately.”
That won you another smile, real this time, though small and tired around the edges. She took a drag from her cigarette and looked back over the water. “You ought not waste your time on me.”
You leaned your forearms on the railing beside her and looked where she looked, out over the black ripple of moonlit water. “Maybe it ain’t wasted.”
“I am not one of your strays to rescue.”
You said, gentler now. “Didn’t think you were.”
She did not answer. But when you pushed away from the railing and left her to the quiet, she did not tell you to go. The next morning she nodded at you over coffee as though some invisible line had shifted.
It went slowly after that. You learned that Molly liked music more than talk, though she could talk plenty when she forgot to guard herself. You learned that she hated being looked at when she was upset and yet could not bear being left alone too long in it. You learned that she had come from a life with more polish than this one, but not necessarily more love. She liked little luxuries when she could get them, good soap and clean fabric and anything that made camp feel less like dirt rubbed into skin. She could be vain in the harmless ways beautiful women were punished for and selfish in the ordinary ways every human being was when tired, frightened, or heartsore. She was sharper than the gang gave her credit for. She noticed dynamics quicker than most of them did. She simply had nowhere useful to spend that knowledge.
You also learned how often Dutch left her waiting.
Waiting for him to return. Waiting for him to explain himself. Waiting for him to soften after he had gone cold. Waiting for him to mean the promises he scattered like confetti whenever he needed the room warmed in his favor. It infuriated you on a level you tried hard not to show because anger would help her less than patience. Men like Dutch made patience feel like surrender. You had to keep reminding yourself it was not. Some rescues happened all at once. Others had to be smuggled out piece by piece.
You were not foolish enough to think you were subtle, not really. Camp missed less than it pretended. Tilly clocked it first, giving you one long look while washing clothes at the edge of camp and saying nothing at all. Mary-Beth noticed next, because Mary-Beth noticed every ache in camp and knew how to pretend she did not. Karen asked once, late and a little drunk, why you were forever walking after “that poor unhappy creature” but there was no real bite in it. Sadie looked at you, looked at Molly, and decided it was none of her business, which from Sadie was practically a blessing. Miss Grimshaw watched the whole thing with the disapproval of a woman who had seen too many bad endings and did not have the appetite for another.
The men, when they noticed, mostly ignored it.
Arthur said the most. He caught up with you one afternoon as you were coming back from the creek carrying water and Molly’s shawl draped over your arm because she had left it near the bank. He fell into step beside you, easy as breathing. “You’re getting tangled” he said.
“You say that like it’s news.”
“I’m saying it like I know you.” He cast a glance toward camp, toward the place Molly sat near Dutch’s tent pretending to read. “You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get before you decide something’s yours to fix.”
That stung because it was not entirely false. “I’m not trying to fix her.”
Arthur nodded once, accepting the distinction because he understood the important part. “Good. ’Cause you can’t. People ain’t clocks.”
“I know that.”
“She’s tied up in him something awful.”
“I know that too.”
He was quiet for a few beats, boots soft in the mud, a heron lifting from the reeds as you passed. “You be careful” he said at last. “World ain’t kind to women for much. Ain’t kind at all when they start turning to each other for the things men think belong to them.”
You nearly dropped the bucket.
Arthur kept walking like he had not said anything remarkable, but there was a slight redness high on his neck that gave him away. He was not embarrassed by you, not exactly. He was embarrassed by having said it aloud. That tenderness in him had always been wrapped in awkwardness, like he did not quite trust gentle things unless they were injured. “You don’t know what you’re talking about” you said, because habit demanded some denial.
He snorted. “Sure. I don’t.” Then, more softly “I ain’t judging. Just saying if I can see it, others can too. So mind yourself.”
You looked ahead to where Molly sat with her head bent over pages she was not turning. Dutch was nowhere in sight, which was becoming more common than not. “Has she said anything?”
“No. But she don’t have to for me to know you look at her like she’s a fire in winter.”
You did not answer. Arthur, mercifully, let the silence stand.
You had known for some time by then that your concern for Molly was no longer concern alone. The change had not happened in one dramatic lurch. It came quietly, embarrassingly. In the way your body noticed her before your thoughts did. In the way you found reasons to cross camp if she moved. In the strange tenderness that overtook you when she laughed, because it felt less like hearing amusement and more like watching someone break the surface after a long time underwater. You liked the bite of her wit and the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide under it. You liked how carefully she listened when she let herself. You liked the soft texture of her silence when the two of you sat side by side without speaking. Wanting her felt dangerous in the practical ways Arthur had named and in a more private way too. You did not know if there was any future in it beyond pain. You only knew that your heart had moved before you gave it permission.
What you did not know was whether Molly felt anything like the same.
There were moments that made you wonder. Her gaze lingering a beat too long when she thought you were not looking. The way she relaxed around you by degrees, as though your presence had become something her body trusted before her mind caught up. The rare times your hands brushed over some small offered object and she went still in that way people do when surprise runs deeper than they planned for. But there was always Dutch between you, not only as a man but as an idea. Molly had tied her pride to him. Leaving him would mean admitting a hundred humiliations at once. And beyond Dutch there was the world itself, with its laws and sermons and sneering little certainties about what women could be to one another and what they could not.
——————————————————————
The first time Molly said anything close to it, she was half angry and all shaken.
Dutch had spent the afternoon in camp and somehow managed to be especially cruel for the privilege of being present. He ignored her until she tried to speak to him in private, then made a little performance out of being burdened by her need for attention. It was all low enough not to cause a scene and loud enough that anyone nearby could hear. You were mending tack a few feet away. So were two others. Nobody intervened. Nobody even looked up for more than a second, which was perhaps the most obscene part. Molly flushed with humiliation and Dutch, having made his point, kissed the back of her hand like he was some gentleman in a drawing room before walking off to talk plans with Hosea.
She held herself together for perhaps twenty minutes.
Then you found her behind the largest wagon, breathing too fast and pressing the heel of her hand against one eye as if she could stop tears by force. When she heard you, she cursed under her breath and turned away. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“That makes it worse.”
You leaned against the wheel opposite her and gave her the dignity of not crowding too close. “All right.”
She laughed once, bitter and strained. “No, it isn’t all right. That’s the point. Nothing is all right. He makes me look a fool and they all let him. Every one of them. They see it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “They see it and they let him.”
“I know.”
“Ooooh shut up.”
That hurt more than it should have, though you understood it. Being witnessed in misery was its own kind of exposure. “Would you rather I lied?”
She turned then, sudden and fierce, eyes bright with tears she clearly despised. “I would rather you stop looking at me like I’m worth saving.”
You stared at her. “And if you are?”
Something changed in her face. Not softened. Not eased. Something more startled and frightened than that, like you had kicked open a locked door and light had gone somewhere neither of you could call back. She looked away first. “You should not say things like that to me.”
“Why?”
She folded her arms hard across herself, a shield too thin to be useful. “Because I have enough trouble without…” Her mouth tightened. “Without inventing more.”
The air between you went taut. Camp noise drifted around the wagon in pieces, distant and ordinary, absurdly normal against the shaking edge of the moment. You took one careful step closer. “Molly.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t pity.”
“I know.” She said it very quietly, which frightened you more than if she had shouted. “That is the trouble.”
You stopped moving.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she finally looked at you again, there was no anger in her expression, only fear and a rawness you had not been allowed to see before. “You think I don’t know what this world does to women?” she whispered. “What men do. What they call us. What happens if the wrong person decides to notice the wrong thing. I am already made a spectacle of every day by one man. I won’t be made a deviant too.”
You said nothing at first because anything careless here would cut. She mistook your silence for retreat and gave a brittle little laugh. “There. You see? Even you—”
“I’m thinking.” You cut in, soft but firm. “That’s all.”
She went still.
Then you said “I know what the world says about women. I know what men think they own. I know there are places where a woman can be ruined by rumor alone. I know all of that. What I don’t know is why you think I’d ask anything of you that would put you in danger.”
Molly’s breathing was still too quick. “Because wanting itself is dangerous.”
There was no point pretending otherwise. “Sometimes.”
“And you…” She pressed her lips together. “You ought to be smarter than this.”
“I usually am.”
That won you the faintest, most disbelieving look.
You took another step, still slow enough for her to stop you if she wished. “I’m not asking for anything, Molly. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m telling you I see what’s happening to you and I hate it. I’m telling you I think you deserve better than a man who starves you for attention and calls it love. And I’m telling you that whatever else this is, it ain’t pity.”
For a long moment neither of you moved. Then her face crumpled in the smallest way, too proud for sobbing and too hurt to hide all of it. “You make it very difficult” she murmured.
“I know.”
When she started crying, she did it soundlessly. You moved only when she leaned toward you first, and then you were there with one hand at her upper arm and the other hovering before settling carefully at her back. She let you hold her. Not tightly at first. Then with a kind of desperate restraint, as if she was using the last of her strength not to cling. Her forehead brushed your shoulder. You stood there in the shadow of the wagon with camp all around you and held her while she shook.
After that, things between you could no longer pretend to be simple.
Nothing was said openly for several days. It did not need to be. Something had been acknowledged, and both of you moved around it with the charged caution of people aware that one wrong word could force a reckoning neither was ready for. Molly avoided being alone with you for a day and a half, then sought you out so obviously the following evening that Mary-Beth looked down into her book to hide a smile. You went with her to fetch water. Neither of you spoke much. Your shoulders brushed once on the walk back and neither of you moved away.
——————————————————————
A week later, you kissed her hand.
It happened almost by accident. Or not accident exactly, because your body had wanted it for longer than your mind could justify, but without planning all the same. Molly had cut her finger on the edge of a tin and hissed under her breath. You took her hand to look at it, more instinct than thought. It was a shallow cut, already beading red. She watched you with that unreadable expression of hers, half amusement and half something more vulnerable. “Will I live?” she asked.
“Hard to say.”
“You are a dreadful nurse.”
“I’m an excellent one.” You tore a strip from some clean cloth and wrapped it around her finger with exaggerated care. When you finished, her hand remained in yours for one suspended beat too long. Then two. You looked up. She was watching your mouth.
It would have been smarter to let go.
Instead, you turned her hand and pressed your lips to her knuckles, very lightly, a touch more felt than heard. Molly inhaled sharply. When you glanced up again, her face had gone still in that stunned way people went when they had been struck somewhere tender. You let her go at once and stepped back, heart battering your ribs. “Sorry” you said, though you were not.
She stared at you, then at her own bandaged finger as if it now belonged to someone else. “Don’t apologize, she said at last, voice low and unsteady. “Not unless you mean it.”
You did not. The look in her eyes told you she knew it.
From there, the slope steepened.
The first actual kiss came on a rainy evening when most of camp had taken shelter and Dutch was away from camp again, chasing one of his plans with Micah and whoever else was foolish enough to follow. You and Molly had ended up crowded under the same canvas near the supply wagon while rain drummed so hard overhead it made speech feel private. She was shivering a little from damp and temper both. You gave her your coat. She took it without arguing, which told you how far gone her patience was. For a while you talked about nothing. Then about books. Then about Dublin, because she started speaking of home in that careful distant tone people used when homesickness was too sore to prod directly.
“I thought once” she admitted, eyes fixed on the curtain of rain just beyond the canvas edge “that if I went far enough, I might become someone else entirely. More interesting. Less… hemmed in.”
“And did you?”
She smiled without humor. “I became wetter. Dirtier. Much less properly dressed.”
You laughed. She turned to look at you, and the sound seemed to catch between you.
It was a small space under the canvas. Her face was close. There was rain and the smell of horses and wet earth and the faint soap scent that clung to her no matter the camp around it. You saw the moment she made the choice not to move away. It flickered through her features like fear making peace with want. You reached up slowly enough for refusal. When your fingers touched the side of her neck, she shuddered. “Molly.”
“Don’t say my name like that unless you intend something wicked” she whispered, which was the boldest thing she had yet said to you and so obviously said to cover trembling.
“Maybe I do.”
“Then you ought to know better.”
“I don’t.”
She laughed once, breathless. Then she kissed you.
It was not practiced. It was not careful either, once it started. There was too much hunger in it for that, too much shock at being wanted and allowed to want in return. Her hand caught at your sleeve first, then your wrist, then finally your shoulder as if she needed some more solid grip on the world. You kissed her back with every ounce of restraint you had left and still it felt like stepping off a cliff. She tasted faintly of coffee and rainwater and something sweeter you could not name. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours and both of you were breathing too fast.
“We are damned” she said softly.
“Probably.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.” You tipped your head enough to brush your nose against hers. “But it’s honest.”
She made a sound then, half laugh and half ache, and kissed you again.
For a little while after that, the world narrowed. Not because danger vanished. If anything, it sharpened. But joy has a ruthless streak to it. It can make hazards seem distant simply by insisting on being felt. You and Molly became experts in secrecy the way other women became seamstresses or mothers or saints. A hand at the small of her back while passing behind a wagon where no one could see. A look held too long only when camp was distracted. Late walks under the excuse of air. Conversations by the riverbank in which very little of the important part was spoken aloud. The occasional kiss stolen in shadows so brief and burning they left your whole body alight after.
And yet, for all the sweetness, the hurt remained. Dutch still treated Molly as something alternately decorative and burdensome. The gang still watched and looked away. She still flinched at any sharp male attention near the two of you, as if one wrong expression might spell catastrophe. Once, after Bill made some crude joke about women becoming “too close” when left to their own devices, Molly went pale enough that you had to leave camp with her for an hour just to get her breathing steady again. Out away from the others she was furious at herself for it, which only made you hold her face between your hands and tell her fear was not shame. She nearly cried at that too.
The worst nights were the ones where Dutch summoned her and kept her. Not always for anything you could easily name. Sometimes it was only to have her nearby while he spun his myth at someone else, as if her silent presence were one more piece of furniture arranged to flatter him. Sometimes it was to soothe his vanity after being crossed, and sometimes, you suspected, because he could feel her slipping from his orbit and wanted proof that gravity still worked. There were worse nights too, the ones where he wanted her body simply because he could, where he reached for her not with tenderness or hunger that saw her as a person, but with that same selfish certainty he brought to everything he believed belonged to him. Molly would come back from those evenings thin with rage and exhaustion, and sometimes with something even harder to look at written across her face, a sickened, hollowed misery that made her seem as though she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She never said everything plainly, but she did not have to. You learned not to ask questions immediately. You would sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and wait. Sometimes she would talk in broken, bitter pieces about how used he made her feel, how filthy it left her, how even his touch seemed less like want than possession. Sometimes she would only lean into you, trembling with all the words she could not afford to say where walls had ears.
“Why does he keep me?” she asked you once, late and ragged, after Dutch had spent hours with his hand on her wrist as if ownership could be reaffirmed by touch alone. “He does not even like me half the time.”
You considered lying and chose against it. “Because you loving him says something he likes hearing.”
Molly shut her eyes. “And if I stop?”
“Then he’ll hear something else.”
Her eyes opened again and fixed on you. “You say that as though stopping were simple.”
“I know it ain’t.”
“I built my whole foolish self around him.” Her laugh was a wreck. “Do you know what a humiliation it is to realize I have become one of those women? Waiting. Excusing. Hoping every cruelty is only a mood.”
You took her hand. “There are worse humiliations than being deceived by someone who meant to deceive you.”
“Name one.”
“Staying once you know.”
That landed. You saw it. Molly stared at your joined hands for a long time. “And if leaving ruins me anyway?”
You squeezed her fingers. “Then we ruin together.”
She looked up sharply.
You had not meant to say it aloud. Or perhaps you had, somewhere below language, and it simply escaped before the rest of you caught up. The silence that followed felt huge. Then Molly whispered “You would go?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“If you’d have me.”
She studied you so intensely it made your skin feel transparent. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Maybe not every part of it.” You lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap there. “But I know enough.”
She did not answer then. She only leaned into you until her forehead rested against your shoulder and stayed there a very long time.
The idea of leaving changed everything because once spoken it could not be unthought.
——————————————————————
At first it was more dream than plan. Little comments slipped into conversation almost as jest. How far west could one get before Dutch’s name stopped meaning anything. Whether a woman could buy decent dresses in Saint Louis. If ranch work paid better when no one was stealing half the wages. Which towns had enough people to disappear in and not so few that every stranger got remembered. You and Molly discussed it in fragments, both of you pretending each fragment was harmless in case either needed to retreat. But beneath the caution something solid was forming.
Arthur noticed first, which did not surprise you. He found you cleaning tack near the horses and crouched beside you with the weariness of a man who had long since given up being surprised by trouble, only ranking it according to urgency. “You’re planning something.”
“You always say that when I’m standing still too long.”
“This ain’t that.” His voice dropped. “This about her?”
You kept your eyes on the bridle in your hands. “Maybe.”
Arthur was quiet for several seconds. When he spoke again, all roughness was gone from his voice. “If you’re thinking of getting her out, do it right.”
Your head came up. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
He looked offended. “What, you want a sermon?”
“I expected more disapproval.”
Arthur made a face. “From me?” Then he glanced away toward the main camp, where Dutch’s laugh carried loud and false through the afternoon air. “I got plenty to disapprove of already. Ain’t adding you to the list for wanting something better.”
You swallowed hard. “She’s scared.”
“She should be.”
“That helps.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Means you keep your head. Dutch catches wind, he’ll make it about betrayal. Men like him always do when someone takes back what he thinks is his.” Arthur shifted, forearms braced on his knees. “You’ll need money. Provisions. Timing. You can’t just go moon-eyed into the night and hope civilization rewards your bravery.”
You stared at him. “Moon-eyed?”
He scowled. “You heard me.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. It faded fast. “Would you stop us?”
Arthur looked at you then, straight on, all blunt honesty and bone-deep fatigue. “No.”
The relief that swept through you was so sharp it nearly hurt. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I ain’t saying it’ll be easy.” He hesitated, which for Arthur often meant he was about to say something that cost him. “You know she might choose not to go.”
“I know.”
“And if she does?”
Your hands tightened on the leather strap. “Then I stay as long as I can stand it and get out when I can.”
He nodded once, accepting the answer because it was the one he expected. “All right.” Then, softer. “For what it’s worth, I think she’d be a damned fool not to.”
That conversation steadied you more than you wanted to admit. Arthur’s blessing was not magic. It did not make the plan safe. But it made it real. After that, you began setting things aside in earnest. Not enough to draw attention, never in one place, never at the obvious times. A little cash skimmed from your own shares. Ammunition. A knife Molly could conceal more easily than the heavier guns. Dried food. Spare clothing. Information gathered through eavesdropping and casual questions: which roads were most watched, where trains ran less regularly, which towns had boarding houses that asked fewer questions if coin was good. Molly did not help much at first because planning frightened her. The more concrete escape became, the more it ceased being fantasy and started becoming loss.
She loved you. You knew it before she said it.
You knew in the way she looked at you after bad nights, as if your face were the first livable thing she had seen all day. You knew in the care with which she learned your moods, in the way she touched your sleeve to get your attention when words would do just as well, in the fragile anger that took her whenever anyone in camp slighted you. Love had made her bolder in some places even as fear sharpened others. Once, when Dutch barked at you for interrupting one of his speeches to hand Arthur a message he had asked for, Molly went cold enough beside him that even Dutch noticed.
“What is that look for?” he demanded, turning on her with theatrical irritation.
Molly tilted her head, all silk over steel. “No look at all, Dutch. Perhaps your conscience is inventing things.”
You nearly choked on your own breath. Dutch stared at her for two long seconds, then laughed as if she had made a joke and turned away. But afterward, when you caught Molly alone by the tent, your hands were shaking from delayed alarm. “What the hell was that?”
Her own hands trembled too, though she covered it by adjusting her cuffs. “A very poor decision.”
“He’s going to notice.”
“He already notices everything that concerns him.” Her smile was thin and strange. “I think I am simply tired of pretending his cruelties are all weather.”
You caught her wrist before she could move away. “Don’t get yourself hurt for me.”
Molly’s expression changed at once, temper giving way to something rawer. “It is a bit late for that.”
That night she told you she loved you.
Not in a dramatic rush. Not with moonlight and poetry and all the impossible romance novels would demand. It happened because she had come to you after another terrible conversation with Dutch and found you cleaning your revolver by low firelight near the edge of camp. She sat beside you without a word. After a while you put the gun aside and laced your fingers through hers in the shadow between your bodies. She leaned into your shoulder. The fire popped softly. Somewhere in the dark, horses shifted and snorted.
Then Molly said, almost conversationally “I am in love with you, and I think it has ruined whatever sense I had left.”
You froze.
She gave a tiny, miserable laugh. “Well. That was graceful.”
You turned toward her so fast you nearly upset the oil tin. “Molly.”
“There is no need to say it back simply because—”
“I love you too.”
She stopped. Completely. Even her breathing seemed to pause. You could barely see her face in the low light, but you felt the exact moment disbelief gave way to hope. It moved through her like a shiver. “Do not say that unless—”
“I mean it.”
The words hung there, more sacred than any prayer you had ever heard. Molly’s hand tightened hard around yours. When she kissed you, it was with tears on her cheeks and a fierceness that made your chest ache. You kissed her until both of you were shaking. Then you rested your forehead against hers and let the truth sit between you at last, bright and terrifying and real.
——————————————————————
After that, leaving became inevitable.
The practicalities were ugly because practicalities always are. Love did not exempt you from logistics. It only gave them higher stakes. The best chance came when Dutch planned a job that would pull a good number of the gang away from camp and occupy the rest with waiting, worrying, or cleaning up after it. You listened more carefully than ever, trading glances with Arthur across fireside discussions when Dutch’s back was turned. Arthur never nodded. He never needed to. The understanding sat there between you like a loaded gun. When the shape of the plan finally settled, he found a moment to tell you only this: “Night after tomorrow. Most of ’em gone by dusk. Go before dawn if you mean it.”
You told Molly that same night.
At first she went very still. You had taken her a little way beyond camp on the excuse of needing air, and now the two of you stood among trees silvered by thin moonlight while insects sang around you. “So soon?” she whispered.
“There won’t be a better chance for a long time after this.”
Her arms wrapped around herself. “I thought perhaps…” She trailed off. Perhaps there would be more time. Perhaps wanting it long enough would make it less frightening. Perhaps she had not really believed the dream would solidify into a date.
You stepped close. “You can still say no.”
Molly laughed once, sharp with nerves. “How kind of you to offer me cowardice.”
“That ain’t what it is.”
She looked at you, eyes huge and dark in the low light. “I am terrified.”
“I know.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
“You’ve got me.”
“That is not a place.”
“It can be!”
Her face twisted then, love and fear fighting openly. “You speak as though that should comfort me, and God help me, it does.”
You took her hands. “Listen to me. We leave before dawn. We take the south trail first so it looks wrong if anyone follows sign too quickly, then cut east at the creek. There’s money enough to get us to a town where nobody knows us. Arthur’s given me the name of a place we can lie low a spell.” You swallowed. “I won’t make this sound prettier than it is. We may have to sleep rough. We may have to work mean jobs. We may end up hungry before we end up stable. But you will not spend another year standing in camp waiting for that man to decide whether he sees you.”
Molly shut her eyes. Tears slid free at once. “Do you swear it?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t leave me halfway when it turns ugly?”
“No.”
“You won’t regret me?”
That one nearly broke you. You lifted her hands and kissed both her knuckles slowly, reverently, before answering. “Never.”
She opened her eyes. The fear was still there. So was something steadier now. Choice, perhaps. Or desperation finally deciding to become courage because it had run out of room to be anything else. “All right” she said, voice shaking. “All right. I’ll go.”
You pulled her into your arms and held her so tightly she laughed through tears and complained you were crushing her ribs. You did not let go until she made you.
——————————————————————
The last night in camp tasted strange.
Everything ordinary became unbearable for being ordinary the last time. Pearson shouting about supplies. Uncle half-drunk and useless. Sadie cleaning a knife with murderous concentration. Tilly and Mary-Beth talking in low voices over mending. Dutch moving through camp like he owned every breath taken there. Molly kept to her usual places, which was harder now because you could see the effort in every line of her body. Once your eyes met across the fire and the force of having to look away nearly undid you.
Arthur found you just before midnight by the horses. He handed you a folded piece of paper and a little extra cash without ceremony. “Map’s rough. Money ain’t much. Best I can do without folks noticing.”
You took both and stared at him, throat tight. “Arthur—”
“Don’t.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “You get her out, you keep moving for a while. Don’t settle where Dutch can find you easy if he gets it in his head to look.”
“Will he?”
Arthur’s expression went flat. “If he thinks it insults him enough, yes.”
You tucked the money away. “Why are you helping?”
He looked at you like the answer should be obvious. “Because somebody ought to.” Then, after a beat “And because you’re my friend.”
For one ridiculous second you thought you might cry. Arthur, perhaps sensing the danger, clapped your shoulder once with almost painful force and stepped back. “Go on. Finish getting ready. And for God’s sake don’t get sentimental till you’re twenty miles away. You know I'm not good with it.”
Molly was waiting where you had arranged, just beyond the last wagon, in the thin dark before dawn when camp was all banked coals and sleeping shapes. She had a small satchel, your knife at her boot, and fear written all over her despite the determined lift of her chin. She looked more beautiful than you had any use for. “I nearly did not come” she confessed the moment you reached her.
“I thought so.”
“How did you know?”
“Because I know you.” You took the satchel from her, freeing one of her hands so you could hold it. “You’re here anyway.”
She let out a shaking breath. “Yes.”
You moved through camp like ghosts. Every step felt too loud. Every shifting horse sounded like an alarm. Dutch’s tent loomed in the dark to one side and Molly’s hand tightened convulsively in yours as you passed it, but she did not falter. At the hitching post you found the two horses already set the way you had arranged. Arthur had been there, then. Of course he had. You mounted first and turned to help Molly into the saddle. Her fingers were ice cold in yours.
Then a voice came out of the dark.
“So this is how it is.”
Both of you froze.
Miss Grimshaw stood a little way off in her wrapper and boots, arms folded hard across her chest, face unreadable in the gray before sunrise. For one terrible second you thought she might shout and wake the whole camp. Molly looked half sick. You slid partly between them on instinct.
Miss Grimshaw’s eyes flicked from you to Molly and back again. “I ought to stop you” she said.
You did not insult her by pretending otherwise. “Probably.”
She sniffed. “Don’t get clever with me.” Then her gaze landed on Molly and something surprisingly like pity crossed her features before being tucked away. “If you’re going, go now. And go fast. He’ll take it poorly once he notices.”
Molly stared. “You knew?”
Miss Grimshaw’s mouth hardened. “Child, I know everything in this camp worth knowing. I simply choose what can be survived.” Her eyes flashed toward you. “Can you survive this?”
“We’ll try.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No” you said. “It ain’t.”
For one long breath she looked as if she might say more. Then she stepped aside. “Go on then” she muttered. “Before I come to my senses.”
Relief hit so hard your knees weakened. Molly made a tiny broken sound that might have been thanks. Miss Grimshaw did not acknowledge it. She only turned away sharply and disappeared back into the gloom of camp without another word.
You rode out at a walk until the trees swallowed the last sight of camp. Then you urged the horses faster.
The first hours were terror. Not dramatic terror. Not gunfire and pursuit instantly at your backs. Worse, in some ways. It was the waiting for it. Every snapped twig sounded like riders. Every bend in the trail looked like a place men might appear from. Molly rode stiff and silent, glancing back too often until you caught her eye and shook your head. “Forward” you told her. “Keep looking forward.”
She nodded once and obeyed.
When the sun finally rose in full and nothing had yet come tearing up behind you, some small knot in your spine loosened. Not much. Enough to breathe deeper. You followed the route as planned, taking the wrong-looking trail first, then cutting off where the creek bent and running the horses through shallow water to break sign. Around midday you let them rest in a sheltered patch of woods while you ate in silence. Molly’s hands shook so badly she could barely unwrap the food. You took it from her, broke bread in half, and handed it back wordlessly. That was what love looked like sometimes: not speeches but practical mercy.
By afternoon the fear changed shape. It became less about immediate pursuit and more about the vastness opening ahead. Camp was behind you. The life you had both known, miserable as parts of it were, had still been structure. Now there was only road. Molly seemed to feel it too. She rode close enough that your knees nearly brushed when the path narrowed. “What if we’ve been foolish?” she asked suddenly.
“We have.”
“That is not what I meant.”
You looked at her, at the strain in her face and the determination under it. “Being frightened after a decision don’t make the decision wrong.”
She swallowed. “And if I wake tomorrow and want to turn back?”
“I’ll tie you to the saddle.”
That startled a laugh out of her. It vanished quick, but not before it eased something. “Brute.”
“Only when necessary.”
By evening you were far enough to risk stopping. Not safely, not permanently, but enough to let the horses drink and make a small hidden fire. Molly sank down beside it with all the grace of a queen collapsing in private. Her hair had come loose from its pins. Dust marked the hem of her skirt. She looked exhausted, disordered, and more alive than you had ever seen her in camp. For a while you simply sat opposite one another watching the low flames.
Then Molly said, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it. “I did it.”
You smiled. “You did.”
“I kept thinking something would stop me. Him. Me. God.”
“Maybe God was busy.”
Her mouth twitched. Then tears welled up with no warning. She covered her face at once, mortified, but you were beside her in a heartbeat. “Hey.”
“I am being absurd.”
“No. You’re tired.”
“I am free.” Her voice cracked on the word. “I think that is making it worse.”
You cupped the back of her head and drew her carefully against you. She folded into your arms without resistance, shaking with exhausted sobs that seemed half grief, half relief, and all aftermath. You held her through every one. When she finally lifted her head, her cheeks were wet and her eyes red-rimmed, but there was something almost disbelieving in her expression. “You’re still here” she said.
And you nodded.
“You said you would be.”
And you repeated the gesture.
Molly touched your face then, fingertips trembling against your cheekbone as if she were verifying you by touch. “I love you” she whispered.
You kissed her, slow and warm and certain. You murmured against her mouth. “I love you too.”
——————————————————————
The days after were not easy. You had not expected easy.
There were long rides and poor food and two nights sleeping on the ground under weather not kind enough to hold off rain. There was the constant need to weigh every stranger by threat and every town by whether it was worth the risk of staying. Molly proved less useless than camp had liked to assume, though not always gracefully. She could complain magnificently while still doing what needed doing, which you considered an admirable skill. She learned to tie bedrolls tighter, to check a horse’s legs for heat, to keep one hand near the knife you had given her when men in saloons looked too long. You learned the precise face she made before saying something cutting to a fool and how to head it off with a touch to her elbow if discretion mattered more than satisfaction.
There were sweet moments too. More than either of you had dared hope, perhaps because no one was rationing them now. Bathing in a creek and laughing when Molly splashed you with all the dignity of a wet cat. Sharing a blanket on a bitter night and waking tangled together, both too warm and refusing to move. Eating stale bread in a town neither of you had heard of while Molly described, with enormous seriousness, the inn she intended one day to bully you into affording. Holding hands in the dark where no one could see and realizing that secrecy chosen by caution felt different from secrecy enforced by shame.
The place Arthur had marked on the map turned out to be a small town mean enough to be forgettable and busy enough not to pry if one paid on time. You took a room under false names and spent the first full day mostly asleep from sheer depletion. When you woke in the narrow bed with Molly curled against your side and sunlight striping the wall, the reality of what you had done arrived fresh. Not as panic this time. As wonder.
Molly woke slowly, blinking up at you with sleep-soft confusion that turned, over the course of a breath, into memory. Then into a smile unlike any you had seen on her in camp. Not strained. Not brittle. Not trying to be sharper than the hurt beneath it. Just happy. It changed her so completely you had to kiss her on principle.
“Well” she murmured after, mouth curving against yours “it seems we have scandalized the world and survived the night.”
“Barely.”
“You snore.”
“That’s slander.”
“It is observation.”
You laughed and rolled partly over her until she squeaked and accused you of crushing her. The room was poor. The future uncertain. Dutch still somewhere in the world behind you like a storm not entirely outridden. None of that vanished. But for that morning, with Molly warm under your hands and light coming through thin curtains and no camp at your back, hope felt less like fantasy and more like work already begun.
Later, when you both rose and dressed and stood by the window looking out at a street that knew nothing about Dutch van der Linde or the woman he had neglected or the friend Arthur Morgan once brought into camp, Molly slid her hand into yours openly. There was no one in the room but the two of you. Still, the openness of it made your chest ache.
“What now?” she asked.
You looked at the town, the road beyond it, the whole uncertain life waiting to be assembled piece by hard-won piece. Then you looked at her. “Now” you said “we build something he never gets to touch.”
Molly’s eyes filled, though she was smiling. “Do you think we can?”
“Yes.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I’m choosing to be.”
She studied your face, then nodded once as if accepting not certainty but courage, which was the truer gift. “All right” she said softly. “Then let us begin.”
And because beginning was all any two women in love had ever really been promised, you did.
im kinda obsessed with forced proximity, esp with john... i feel like he would get embarrassed easily (but hes real for that bc me too)
(love your fics diva, never let them dim your sparkle 💖)
i got this one twice so i thought i would start with this!! also that meme made me laugh thank you my queen for always supporting me it means a lot xx
Going in Circles
plot: arthur is sick of john and f!reader bickering during missions, so he traps them on a ferris wheel lol
warnings: language, jealousy
trope(s): enemies/rivals to lovers, forced proximity, grumpy x sunshine kinda
wc: 2k
Saint Denis — the oasis of the Lemoyne swamps, a pillar of Civilization in the midst of bogs and muddy rivers, America's southern pride. The sun was beginning to set, only slivers of golden rays and warm, bright speckles of light managed to break through the concrete and brick facades of the city for one last time before the buildings would be swallowed whole by the darkness. The heat was heavier, almost tangible here on the cobbled streets, making people flee into their abodes even during night time. Soon, the hustle and bustle of the afternoon crowds would be replaced by their more sinister counterparts but for now, it was eerily quiet in the city. Barely any noises could be made out, except for one gravelly, exasperated voice echoing through the park it stemmed from.
"I'm beginnin' to grow real tired of you two idiots, you know?" Arthur huffed in annoyance, John and you trailing behind him with your tails tucked between your legs. Faces red from both anger and shame, neither of you dared to speak a word, lest you would feel the older man's wrath dig into your guts any further. You swallowed thickly and pushed a sweaty, sticky strand of hair behind your ear. It wasn't like you to behave like this, to mess up during missions.
Not usually.
You had always taken pride in your well-composed and reliable nature, evident in the hard work you had put in to finally fight alongside the big guns of the Van der Linde's. There was just something about the raven-haired man indignantly trudging beside you that irked you. Yes, John Marston made you furious, with his snide comments and eye-rolling at your every move. You had noticed it ever since you stumbled upon the patchwork family at Horseshoe Overlook, the way he surveyed each step you took, each bite of food, each shot of your revolver.
For some reason, he had grown to hate you — so naturally, you hated him, too.
As Arthur seemed to have said everything he wanted to say, and John and you still refused to utter a single word, the three of you moved to your destination in silence, giving you time to rethink where everything went south.
It was supposed to be a simple stagecoach robbery, with Arthur distracting the drivers and you two cracking open the trunk as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, it turned out to be neither the former nor the latter, and ended with John and your bickering being heard all the way from the bush you were hiding behind and Arthur having to flee the scene with bullets hailing down on him. It was a close call — way too close — and made you shudder despite the heat. Nothing had happened, but the fact that it could have had taught you a lesson you desperately needed taught.
"All right, here we are." The brown-haired man's booming voice tore you from your racing mind.
You both looked at him incredulously. In front of you, an amusement park, the latest addition to Saint Denise: very en vogue, unlike anything you had ever seen. Very unlike Arthur. He chuckled at your mirrored expressions and gestured you to enter.
"I'm givin' you two the chance to redeem yourselves," He explained, leading you past shooting ranges and candy booths, to the most humongous structure of them all: a ferris wheel, metal spokes creaking dangerously. "I need you two to stand watch in lookin' for Bronte's men. This thing right here is the highest you gonna get in this place."
"Why the hell can't you do that yourself?" John found his voice first, a mix of fear and annoyance in this tone. "Or just her-" He loosely gestured in your direction.
You were about to retort, enraged at his suggestion that you do this alone, but Arthur quickly stepped in. "Enough of you! Both!" He turned to the younger man first. "If you think for one second I'm gonna get on this deathtrap just because you fools hounded the whole of Lemoyne on our asses, you're dead wrong, boy." The threatening tone made John shrink under his gaze, making you chuckle.
"And you, miss-" Arthur turned to you now, promptly shutting you up. "Get up there too, because four eyes are better than two, and because I said so."
You nodded quickly in response, fearing what might happen if you defied him again. If there was one thing about Arthur Morgan, it was that he could make people do whatever the hell he wanted, even John Marston and you. After the discussion came to a quick end, you begrudgingly stepped into one of the capsules together, mutually agreeing that the instigator at hand should be the one to pay. Your eyes widened in fear as the vendor shut the door to the outside, 10$ in his hand that came straight from Arthur's pockets.
"How long do you plan on keeping us up here?" You yelled down, panic in your tone.
Arthur raised his head and gave you a devious smile. "Payed for the whole night."
For the first time in what seemed like months, John and you looked at each other. Your heart was pounding straight through your chest — the thought of being stuck on a metal contraption 100 feet in the air with a man who hated your guts was literal nightmare fuel. Neither of you knew what to do, and since simply opening the door and leaving was not quite an option, you opted for an awkward silence. A tension that could be cut with a dull blade hung in the air; it was clear that, whoever spoke up first would do so to blame the other for their misfortune. Alas, the silence persisted.
John was seething. He should have been celebrating, drinking with his friends around the campfire after a job done well — instead, he was trapped in here with you for the entirety of the night. He glared at you from the other side of the small enclosure, feeling like an animal in a zoo.
"What the hell is your problem with me?" You finally spoke up after the moon had long risen.
"Ain't got a problem, dunno what you mean, woman." The man huffed, but even in the pitch dark you could see him averting his gaze.
"Whatever." You rolled your eyes and turned to face the window. From up here, where you couldn't smell its foul stench or hear its unmelodious sounds, the city sure was a sight to see. A small smile graced your lips at the twinkling lights below, despite the circumstances.
"What the hell have you got to smile about?"
Your mood immediately turned sour at his words, and you furiously turned back to face him. "Alright, I'm done." You stood up in the shaky cabin and stepped over to his side, piercing his chest with your index finger. "You're gonna tell me why you hate me so much, or you're gonna shut the hell up and do what we were told, you understand me?"
Shock was painted on the man's face at your sudden outburst, and you expected an equal amount of energy at his answer. Instead, he slowly put your hand off him and cleared his throat.
"I'm just tired of you actin' like you own the place-" He began, calmly and almost threateningly. "Walkin' around with these stupid frilly skirts, smellin' of rosewater and thinkin' you're all that."
You looked at him, stunned. Of all things you had wracked your head about on why he despised you so much, the way you dressed and smelled was certainly not on your list. Embarrassment, and a hint of hurt crowded your mind as you sat back down across from him. Your knees touched briefly before you pulled away, almost as if he had burnt you. It took you a second before you opened your mouth to speak again, but John was not done yet.
"You might fool the other guys, battin' your pretty eyelashes and giggling like a schoolgirl-" Pretty? "But not me. I know your play. You're not gettin' any special treatment just 'cause you look nice." Nice?
You looked at him for a moment, dumbstruck. Never in your life had you felt so flattered and insulted in a single sentence, and you couldn't help but laugh at the insinuation that you dressed up to have things done for you. While the thought was amusing, you couldn't leave the accusations at hand hanging in the air.
"I don't know if you've noticed, Marston, but I pull my weight just as much as any of you around camp-" Your voice was low and angry. "Hell, I probably do more than most — not everyone can be the boss' lapcat and get away with everything!" He narrowed his eyes at you and turned to reply, but your final words shut him up quicker than he could think. "The fact that you think I look pretty doing so is frankly none of my damn concern."
It was rare for John to be at a loss for words, but the situation at hand had him too stunned to speak. Suddenly, he was glad that this conversation — which had been more or less imminent — took place at night, where you couldn't see the way his face reddened at your words. It was quiet in the capsule now, both of you having said what needed to be said.
Your mind was racing with thoughts, replaying the conversation in your head over and over again, most often the parts of John saying you dressed nice, and smelled nice, and looked pretty. You wanted to feel angry at his words, but instead you were angry at yourself for the way they made you feel. There was no denying that he was an attractive man, with his quick wit and stormy eyes and slim waist, and the thought of being the object of his affections made your heartbeat quicken. It had never occurred to you that he may have looked at you in the same way you had done before he turned sour.
"You're right." John sighed, clasping his hands together in defeat. "I was bein' real unfair to you, wasn't I? That ain't no way to treat a Lady like you."
"Are you screwing with me right now?"
"Have I really been that cruel? That you don't believe me?" He sounded genuine and hesitantly sought out your hand with his in the dark.
"You drive me up the walls, woman. But that ain't your fault, it's my own." His fingers grasped yours, surprisingly soft and warm. "I suppose I had a hard time believin' someone as kind and nice lookin' as you hangs around us thieves and killers by choice."
Your face reddened, not expecting the sudden shift in demeanor he was displaying.
"Well," a deep breath you didn't realize you had been holding escaped your lungs. "I guess I enjoyed the back and forth, too. Otherwise I wouldn't be sittin' in here stuck with you. Which was your fault by the way."
John didn't argue back, just chuckled at your jab. He squeezed your hand and stood up to sit next to you. The small space was awkward to navigate with his long legs, but he eventually settled beside you, thighs touching. His body so close to yours set you on fire, you were glued to your seat unmoving. The sky in the distance began to gray. Soon, Arthur would return with a knowing look on his face after a job well done — but for now, it was only the two of you, on top of the world, and you had to take your chance.
"Hey, John?"
"What is it, pretty girl?" his voice was barely above a whisper when he turned to face you, noses almost touching.
You didn't reply. Instead, you closed the gap between your lips. In an instant, he reciprocated. Kissing John Marston felt like kissing a man starving, a man quenching his thirst of your mouth, uncaring of whether he could breathe. If kissing you was the last thing he would do, he would die a happy man.
