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Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏𝟎 ─

Warnings/MDNI: angst, threats, mentions of violence & murder, a bit of spice. Syno: Pointing fingers at you means pointing fingers at him. ✰ 4K +++ Arthur's pic by e from Pin. ★ Prev I concept m.list

"And why may I ask you think that Miss O Shea?"

"Because Dutch--it's a strong intuition. Who else could have done it? Think for yourself, who hates this gang as much as she would." A rational part of her felt bad….bad that her lover had taken your land, your life away from you, but she had to get this gut feeling out. What if next time it's Dutch whom you make your target?

"She's just a broken girl. There's no way all those bastards did was her doing."

"She left the camp with Charles days ago before that. When Abigail was sick-"

"For God's sake, Miss O Shea- Charles! CHARLES! C'mere my boy'!" The long haired dropped his axe which he was cleaning and instantly walked over inside the tent.

"Yes Dutch?"

"Did (Y/N) do something suspicious the day you and her took the youn' one to the clinic?"

"No Dutch. She was with Abigail the whole time. Why?"

"Nothin', jus' asking. Off you go." Dutch shut the flaps and sat down with a conspiring look on his face. "Darling. Without proof, it's better if we keep such theories to our minds." He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I don't want any more drama in this camp. Especially anything related to Arthur….he's done enough."

Molly frowned and looked away, this time choosing to be silent. But there was someone else who hates silence. Who will do anything but remain silent. And he heard it all.

Micah.

❀˖°

"Why are you always dressed like some damn widow woman?" His drawl startled you so hard your heart nearly stopped.

"I---wha-" you stammered, clutching at the wet shirt you'd been hanging.

Arthur scoffed, brushing your hands away from the line. "Leave it. Ain't your chore anyhow."

"But-"

"I don't like you doing laundry. S'gonna ruin your hands. Don't step near it. Leave it to the others. Got it? Now c'mon." Um.. Isn't that the same man who once asked you to wash his clothes?

Crazy how men have more mood swings that one can even count-not that you are complaining. You hate doing any fucking chore.

He steered you firmly toward the tent, heavy palm at your back. Before he could even flip open your trunk trying to find God knows what, you fumbled it yourself. "Fine! I'll change," you muttered, heat rising in your face.

You will be damned if he finds those herbs.

"You better," he said, commanding as ever, already turning toward the flap. "Wear that red one I got you. And hurry it up. we're headin' into town. Need some supplies. Hosea's liable to lose his damn mind if he don't get his tobacco."

Damn, that was close.

His rambling, oddly casual in contrast to his rough handling, smoothed your thundering heartbeat just a little.

"Y-yeah," you murmured, voice small. "I'll be out in a minute."

Arthur nodded once, satisfied, and ducked out. But not before leaning down to press an abrupt, possessive kiss to your mouth, all teeth and scrap.

The noon sun bled gold across the plains as Arthur helped you onto the horse, his hand lingering on your waist longer than necessary. He swung up behind you, the creak of leather punctuating the silence before he nudged the horse forward.

"Town's not too far," he drawled, voice low against your ear. "Figure you oughta see what's 'round here." His arm rested heavily against your middle, as though guiding the reins required it. You knew better.

Arthur hummed under his breath, almost content. "You can pick somethin' too, y'know. Anything. Maybe a ribbon or some other stuff you like. Ain't no reason you shouldn't have even more nice things now that-" He cut himself off, a grin ghosting his face. "Now that we're set."

❀˖°

The horse's hooves struck the dirt rhythmically, carrying you both closer to the bustle of a nearby town. He spoke as though it were any ordinary afternoon between a man and his wife. "Y'know," he drawled, voice slow, as if he were just thinking out loud, "I've been wonderin' what we oughta plant next spring. Horses'll need better feed if we're gonna keep ridin' this far out. Corn maybe. Or oats." He glanced your way, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Reckon you'll have a say in it, bein' the lady of the camp an' all." Before you could answer, Arthur clicked his tongue at his horse, the animal snorting. "Ain't it somethin’? Just ridin' like this, no one botherin' us. Feels near… what married folk oughta feel. Don't it?"

His blue eyes slid to you, soft in a way that only churned your stomach. Then his mouth was on your neck ravenous and sudden. You shoved him back as hooves clattered behind.

"Can you stop, Arthur!?"

He laughed, loud and rough, straightening only as the wagon rumbled past. The sound lingered, meaner than mirth. "Stop?" he echoed, savoring the word like it was sweet on his tongue. "You ever think what you're askin’? Tellin' a man. yer husband, to stop, when he ain't got a mind to? I mean, look at yerself. A walkin' damn feast."

That was it. That was how the whole trip went. Torturous. For you, that is.

It was around four when you came back. A damn flower tucked behind your ear, red dress clinging, jewels he'd insisted you wear, like you were some theatre girl on display.

"I'll take the supplies and set 'em up," he said gruffly, sliding down from the saddle. "Go on now. Fetch me some o' that coffee you make with yer' pretty hands pretty girl..."

You nodded, solemn, and drifted toward the wagon, tying up your hair roughly. Thank God you'd brought the shawl. The air had turned sharp, and that dress, well, its fit was just too good for the occasion. Any other day and back at home, you would have definitely enjoyed wearing it. For someone who was a man, a man who lived far off from the city folks, Arthur had good taste when it came to selecting outfits and other embellishments for you.

The fabric slipped for only a moment, but long enough for Molly's eyes to catch the cut of your bodice from across the camp. She rolled her eyes, lips curling as she pitched her whisper loud enough for half the women nearby to hear.

"Two men dead in camp, not even a month gone, and some folk prancin' about like this. Shameless. Bet their bodies ain't even cold yet."

Karen gave a short, derisive snort. "One can't just stop livin'-"

"That ain't my point and you damn well know it, Miss Jones." Molly's voice cut sharp, the judgment in it hanging heavy. You caught the looks from afar, the sneers curdled like sour milk on some faces. Mary and Tilly included. Of course they are not fans of you.

You pretend not to hear. Your hands stay steady as you grind the beans, measure the grounds, and boil the water. Coffee. That's all you can allow yourself to think about. Not the way their words claw at your back. Not the way the shawl slips again and sets off another wave of mutters.

When the pot is ready, you take a careful breath and carry it over. Arthur's hunched with a grin tugging at his beard, a deck fanned between his fingers, chips stacked careless at his elbow. The men laugh, curse, and slap the table as cards change hands.

He doesn't look up right away, but when he does, his eyes flick to the steaming mug in your hand and linger. A slow curl of a smile touches his mouth, one that makes your stomach knot, knowing the others are watching.

"Now that's service," he drawls, tossing down a pair of kings. "Ain't she somethin'?"

Arthur doesn’t just take the coffee. His hand drifts, casual but firm, to pat your hip before pulling you to sit on his lap. The men howl at his winning hand, but Arthur's eyes don't leave yours, amusement flickering in the set of his jaw. You shift, uneasy under so many stares, ready to excuse yourself back to the safety of the fire.

That's when Micah's voice cuts in.

Where did he come from, son of a -

"Well, well . Ain't this cozy. Little lady playin' house while the men lose their shirts."

"Got a problem Micah?"

You were ready to retreat when Arthur's hand clamped harder at your hip. You stiffen, pulse quickening, his hold not cruel but unyielding, his way of keeping you tethered when every bone in you wants to flee.

Micah's grin is poison. His voice drips with it. "Nah, jus' stating my opinions. I was thinking... that she's not better off with those lawmen? Yeah, no, that sounds way more accurate-"

The scrape of Arthur's chair cuts sharply. He finally releases you and lurches to his feet, knocking the freshly made coffee cup.

"How about you say it clearly… mhm?" Arthur's voice rumbles low, dangerous.

Micah doesn't falter. He leans forward, eyes glittering with spite.

"Clear? Fine. You ever stop an' think maybe her daddy, or her, did it? That maybe it weren't no stranger that ratted us out?"

The camp goes silent, then erupts as Arthur surges. His voice crashes through the air, raw and furious, before fists nearly fly. Dutch and Hosea wedge themselves between the two men, pushing Arthur back, shouting his name, while Micah keeps spitting venom like a man begging to be killed.

Your chest pounds. The world tilts. It feels like you've been branded in front of them all, your name, your blood, dragged through the mud. And to think that time is near that your blood is LITERALLY dragged on this very mud that you stand on....

"Both of you! What the hell is gotten to you?!" Dutch boomed.

"How about you control this son of a bitch then!" Arthur pointed to Micah, and John appeared on the scene too, equally baffled, and your eyes met his for a moment.

"No, it's fuckin' you who has fuckin' LOST IT, ARTHUR! IT'S YOU IF YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED!" The leader retorted, welcoming a chilly silence again.

"Fine, Dutch. I do everything for this camp. Fight, bleed, steal. and this is what I get? This is what she GETS!? Suspicion and SPIT?!" His voice cracks into a roar. "TO HELL WITH IT!"

Arthur doesn't look at you when his hand finds your wrist. He doesn't ask, doesn't soften. He just drags. His stride is thunder, and you stumble to keep up, heat stinging your face as camp stares after you both.

Your feet stumble, heart hammering as he drags you away from the firelight, past the muttering, wide-eyed faces. Dutch's voice bellows after, "Arthur, boy, you better come back here! Don't you turn your back on me, son! HOSEA YOU SEEING THIS BULLSHIT?!"

But Arthur----nah, he doesn't slow a bit. His grip is like iron bands. You're half-lifted, half-swung as he hauls you up onto his horse like you weigh nothing, his jaw tight as stone.

The leather creaks under his hand as he pulls himself up after you, the rage rolling off him so thick you can hardly breathe. He doesn't look back once.

❀˖°

The ride into town is near silent. Arthur doesn't speak, not once, not even when the horse's hooves start to echo against the cobbled street and lamplight glances off wet windows. The town looks half-asleep, a few wagons parked outside shuttered stores, the air thick with the smell of rain and horses.

He reins the horse to a stop outside a modest two-story inn. A sign creaks above the door, Silver Spur Hotel. The windows glow faintly yellow from oil lamps inside.

Arthur swings down, ties the reins with a rough tug, then looks at you. "Come on." The warmth that radiated from him earlier today was totally gone.

Inside, the front desk clerk blinks awake from his stool, startled to see someone this late. Arthur pulls off his gloves, leans an elbow on the counter.

"Need a room," he says, voice low and final. "For a few days, I'll settle the account when we go."

The clerk stammers, eyes flicking from Arthur's mud-splattered boots to your shawl-wrapped figure behind him. "Y-yes, sir. We've, uh, one left, double bed. That fine?"

Arthur grunts in assent, signs the guest book with his usual blunt scrawl, B. Martin. The clerk hands over the key and mumbles something about breakfast hours, but Arthur's already steering you toward the stairs.

The room upstairs smells faintly of dust and tobacco. A small oil lamp flickers on the table, throwing light across the single brass bed, a washbasin, a cracked mirror. The walls are thin enough that you can hear faint laughter from the saloon across the street.

Arthur drops his satchel by the door, shoulders tense, hat still shadowing his eyes. He doesn't say much at first, just goes about lighting another lamp, setting his gun belt on the chair, every motion too careful, too measured.

When he finally looks your way, his voice is rough, clipped. "Sit down. Rest. I'm gonna keep watch awhile."

You obey, perching on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of your shawl. This goes on a while, with you leaning against the headboard and him sitting at the other edge, staring at his back, which clearly still radiates anger and now fatigue. You had taken off your own jewelry at this point, and it kind of made you feel even more colder, more anxious, more empty...as if stripped off of everything.

Do something before he thinks of something idiotic and questions you. Question HIM, (Y/N). Strike while the iron's hot.

"Arthur…" your voice breaks the quiet, fragile and small. "You shouldn't've gone stormin' off like that. Camp....n-needs you..."

The words are meant to sound selfless, concerned. But deep down, you're grateful, oh so utterly grateful for the distance from their eyes, the scrutiny, their whispers, Micah's laughter that still curdles your stomach, Dutch's whole fucking existence....fuck them all. Being in the town, surrounded by normal people for once makes you feel a bit lighter at least.

Arthur turns toward you, the lamplight catching in his eyes, sharp, tired, angry. "I break my damn back for Dutch, for all of 'em. Hunt, fight, bleed, keep their sorry hides alive. And what do I get?! Accusations!. Spit in my face. I'll be damned if I sit quiet while that snake Micah runs his mouth. That son o'va' bitch."

Damn...kettle is still hot it seems.

You gulp and decide to add extra layer of misery in your voice and slowly, hesitantly crawl to his side. He feels your weight behind him and lets out a furious sigh.

He wanted you to look like a show girl right? Let's act like one then.

The silence between you stretches until you break it with your whimpered sniffle. "Y-you also think like the others… that I did-i-it?"

The way his head snaps toward you makes your heart leap to your throat. "I--jus'--I don't know what to do. If I don't do something...you get angry, everyone thinks I am useless, spoiled. Hollow. And if--if i do--then i am--"

"What do you mean by others? Did someone say somethin' to you?"

"Dutch--a-and sometimes Molly-"

That name freezes the air. He turns sharply, eyes narrowing, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Dutch said somethin'? What?"

You swallow, clutching your shawl tighter around your shoulders. "H-he was just mutterin', y'know? Said maybe… I couldn't be trusted wit-, not after… after that."

Arthur's jaw flexes hard. He stares at the small flame on the nightstand for a long moment before speaking again, voice low and dark as gravel. "Dutch said that, huh? That you was behind it? Funny… he's got a lot to say when I ain't around. Always schemin', always pointin' fingers."

He takes a slow step closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots.

"Listen here, woman. I don’t give a damn what Dutch thinks. Or Hosea. Or any of 'em. You hear me? If they wanna whisper, let 'em. They don’t matter. Not like you do."

Then his tone shifts, softer but no less dangerous. "But don't you ever lie to me. Don't you ever play me for a fool. You do, and I'll know."

You gulp and his words makes more tears flow. If he and everyone are going to be the reason to be in constant anxiety and tears then might as well use your tears for good. For your safety, as your weapon.

"Is--are they gonna kil-l me?-"

Arthur's head jerks toward you, his expression unreadable for a long, unbearable second. "What?"

But your eyes are already glassy, breath trembling out of you in short, uneven gasps. you stammer, voice breaking. "I don't know! You--you looked at me just now like they did, like--like----My fault was takin' Abby to the clinic…I shouldn't have!"

You push back, your back hitting the bedframe with a soft thud. "You're angry," you cry, shaking your head. "You always get so damn angry, Arthur, and I don't know what you'll do. I just--please don't let them hurt me. Don't let you hurt me....again.., please..."

Your words come out in jagged sobs, your hands trembling as you press them to your chest. The tears stream faster now, real or not, it doesn't matter. The sound fills the small, dim room, fragile and pleading.

Arthur's breath catches. His shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of him as his eyes flicker over your face, guilt creeping in where anger had been. "Now, hey, darlin', my sweetheart" he says slowly, his voice rough but softer. "Don't say that. Don't be scared of me."

You shake your head, curling into yourself on the far side of the bed. “I c-can't HELP IT" you choke out. "You look at me like that, and I think maybe you hate me too....yeah...you do."

He kneels down beside the bed "Stop it now, stop cryin'. Ain't nobody gonna kill you. Not Dutch, not Micah, not anyone. You hear me? You're safe."

You sniff, staring at him through wet lashes. "I don't feel safe…"

That was a blow to his whole existence as a man. His wife, his friend, his honour, the one person he swore to protect, said she didn't feel safe with him. What kind of man would ever want to hear that? The words cut through him deeper than any bullet could. He wanted to bash his head against the wall, to make sense of the ache spreading through his chest. His hands went cold when he saw the glimpse of you in the back of his mind, as if a memory was being unlocked... this was the same condition when he had seen you for the first time. A little lost girl arriving at the camp in tears and shaking, whose relatives considered her nothing but a piece of dirt on their shoes. Just like how the fucking camp does now it seems.

He'll be damned to make you feel lost again. Like you ain't got no home.

He could see it all now, how this life had drained you, stripped you of colour and calm. The running, the hiding, the gunfire echoing through sleepless nights. Watching men die, some at his hand. The whispers. The accusations. And the Word itself...

His voice cracks somewhere between anger and despair. He moves closer. "Damn it…" he mutters under his breath, looking at you, small, trembling, knees drawn to your chest on the edge of the bed. You look like a ghost of the woman he met, and that breaks something inside him.

"I' m sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just, hell, I don't know how to talk right sometimes. I ain't…" he starts, then stops. The words don’t come easy. "I ain't ever meant to make you feel that way. You hear me? Not once. You think I'd hurt you? After all this?"

He sighs, deep and shaky, before reaching out, slow, careful, and placing a hand on your arm. When you don't pull away, he slides closer, tugging you into his chest. "I won't let nobody touch you. Not while I'm here."

You bury your face in his shirt, his scent of leather and smoke grounding you as his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. His thumb brushes slow circles into your shoulder, quieting your sobs. "Shh...forget what they said back there."

You cry harder, the sound muffled against his shirt, and his embrace only tightens. You tremble in his hold, and he just holds you tighter, his cheek pressed to your hair.

After a while, when your sobs quiet into hiccups, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, the kind of tired that sits deep in the bones.

"You're safe now," he says quietly. "Long as you're with me, you're safe."

Then he presses a kiss to your forehead, reverent, with the intention to remove all your worries, and holds you there against his chest again, until the room feels small and still and almost peaceful.

That's the moment when you not only realize that he's calmed down but also, how great of an exaggerated act you can put up on and make him be on his knees.

Outside, the town is silent save for a wagon wheel creaking down the distant street. Inside the hotel room, it’s just his heartbeat against your ear, steady, grounding, a sound that makes you finally breathe again.

He doesn't move for a long while. When he does, it's only to whisper,

"Get some rest, sweetheart. I'll keep watch. Ain't nothin' gonna happen to you while I'm here."

❀˖°

The next morning, you woke up to him holding you in a protective embrace against his naked chest. The scent of the ointment from his bandage hit your senses. Your hands were resting on his shoulders, which you first wiggled to feel your bones. Your whole body was begging to be stretched due to being held in a still position, which perhaps could have been for hours. You didn't know when he went to sleep, but you did....thankfully and SURPRISINGLY. You were shocked at your own mental capacity, because...it wasn't like being with Arthur was any better, he could've done the same as the rest believed them, blamed you, and punished you for things you (actually) had done. But something told you he wouldn't.

Behind all his "manliness", you could see he was still pathetic as ever. As if grateful to you that YOU had accepted him as your HUSBAND. As if you would. But it was satisfying to know that he was still insecure, the very same Arthur, who once knelt before you with a trembling hand in a little café, was still that same desperate man behind the scars and the thunder in his voice.

Then, his eyes fluttered open, those ocean depths finding you immediately, soft in a way that made your stomach twist.

"Mornin', sweetheart," he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep. His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, trailing down until his mouth caught yours in a slow, almost tender kiss. "Didn't mean to hold ya so tight," he murmured against your skin.

You only hummed faintly, your voice small in the quiet morning light. His hand slid up your side, rough fingers tracing the edge of your ribs. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his breath warm, his chest pressing you gently back into the sheets.

You stiffened beneath him, not fighting, but not yielding either. Your heart picked up, beating hard against your ribs. You were just about to find your voice, say something, when a heavy knock broke through the room.

Arthur froze, groaning low against your shoulder. "God..." he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The knock came again, firmer this time.

He stood, tugging his pants on, grabbing his gun and yanking the door open with a glare that could've killed. The gentle voice that came through and how Arthur's shoulders relaxed confirmed that it was. Smith. "Dutch wants you to come back.....He sent Micah off somewhere else."

Arthur's jaw tensed, but his shoulders dropped just slightly. "He did, huh?” He looked over his shoulder at you for a moment before turning back. "I'll come back when I want or if I want." Charles studied him, then gave a single, knowing nod. "Alright. Just...don't stay gone too long if you plan to come back... We need you, brother. Dutch does too."

When he left, Arthur shut the door with a loud scoff, the noise echoing softly in the small room. He stood there a moment, hands on his hips, staring at the floor like he was deciding whether to punch the wall or light a cigarette.

"So they miss us now, huh?"

His eyes trailed down, slow and deliberate, taking in the sigh of your red dress, the loose fall of it over your shoulder. That tiny, lazy smile curved his mouth again, the kind that always came right before trouble.

"Well, now. Ain't that a sight for sore eyes. Didn't notice last night just how damn good that dress looks on you."

You stiffened when he came near, sitting upright on the bed as though the posture could somehow keep the space between you. Two strides and he was on you, pressing you gently back into the mattress with a laugh that rumbled deep in his chest. "Hell, you could wear a sack and still look like trouble."

His fingers toyed with the loose strap at your shoulder, tugging it down just enough to make you squirm. "This color suits you," he murmured, eyes flicking over every inch like he was memorizing it. "Red. Knew it would. Like fire burns to look at it. My favourite.."

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, his stubble scraping your skin. "Ain't nobody come now. Ain't nobody to tell us where to go, what to do." His voice softened, thick with that stubborn devotion again. "Just me 'n you, darlin'. The way it oughta be."

His mouth finally crashes onto yours, hot and demanding. The kiss is messy, overwhelming, and you barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling away just enough to study your flushed face.

When you looked up at him, his hair still a little disheveled, his eyes dark and warm with want, you could see it clear as day. To him, this wasn't some stolen moment. It was home. The way he looked at you, touched you, it was as if he'd built his whole fragile sense of peace around your heartbeat.

"Ain't that a look," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your lower lip. "You look at me like that again, I might just forget we're supposed to be restin'."

You don't answer. His thumb lingers, calloused, tasting faintly of tobacco and something bitter. You catch it between your teeth, hard. His breath hitches with a grunt. "Now what's that for, honey?" he asks, half-laughing, half-curious, thinking it's play.

You hold his gaze, biting down a little harder this time with a bit of tongue, not enough to draw blood but enough to make your point. The pressure, the fury, it's all that's left of your voice.

Arthur smirks, utterly oblivious. "Careful now," he drawls, his voice dipping low. "Keep bitin' like that and I might take it as a promise, sweetheart.."

He doesn't see the flicker in your eyes, the fury he mistakes for flirtation. He just smiles, content, thumb still caught between your teeth as if you'd chosen to hold it there.

"Hell...this was what I was dyin' to see for as long as I remember. I'd be a fool to not ravish you right now.." That was the moment a thought came into your mind.

Perhaps Dutch's strongest warrior wasn't that strong after all.

★ Next

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