somewhere out there, a universe where arthur didn’t die alone, bruised, battered and sick on a mountainside, exists in the crook of the northern star.
in this universe, he dies old and half deaf. years of unprotected gunfire and explosions had a tendency to kill the nerves in your ears. he dies with aching joints and sun-spotted skin, and blessedly, to the sound of you humming as you stroked the scar on his chin with the pad of your wrinkled thumb. you were nestled against him in bed, sharing the warmth of your old body and his old body and making a den of heat beneath the quilt of your shared bed.
he had been staring down at you and admiring the way the sun dappled the roots of your hair and the way your lashes brushed against your skin. even with the grooves of life upon your flesh you were the most beautiful thing he had seen.
“your name is carved in my ribs.” he had said to you quietly, breath heavy and hard to lift. “i was born to love you.”
you tilted your head up to look at him. an unspoken question welled up in your eyes with crystalline tears. as he squeezed you against him with the strength of the arm he had wrapped around your waist to give you a kiss on your forehead, you knew.
what a beautiful life you had together. through the shelling of the band and Dutch’s betrayal it had always been the both of you. you made a life beneath the wood in the homelands of Rain Falls, who had passed years before. children came and went, and so did grandchildren — who often pulled from Arthur the richest laughs you’ve ever heard.
you leaned up and kissed his jaw, his eyes, the apple of his throat. through each you whispered words of gratitude. words of love. words of promises.
“ill find you, morgan.” You said cloyingly, your voice wavering. “you’re not so clever as to hide from me.”
and you hummed, and sang quietly under your breath. and when his chest finally stopped rising and falling and the strong heart ceased, you knew you were to follow soon after.
having javier in your arms after he barely survived guarma. he’s real tired, his body weight fully pressed against you as you hug him tightly.
he spends the whole night feeling you, his hands running up and down exposed skin. your hands are on his body too, tracing the newly patched injuries with gentle precision.
you brushed his greasy, unkempt hair back that was already falling out of his ponytail. his eyes closed as you raked your fingers through his hair. you thought he was about to fall asleep on you, until he opens his eyes and your gazes meet. his hand finds your chin and lifts it to level your face with his.
Something I thought of whilst I ate my lunch and waited for my next class 🙃
I love English Literature so much but my teacher is so annoying
I will be using s-x instead of the actual word bc I don’t want this to get taken down 😭
SA warning for Dutch’s hc and ig vegetarians on Charles’ hc…
Arthur:
Arthur arrived back to your shared tent from a mission, he seemed tense, and released a frustrated sigh as soon as he pulled the canvas down.
He found you walking up to him and helping him take his jacket off so he can completely relax. He turned back to you and gave a small kiss to your lips which made you both smile now that you’re finally in the comfort of each other.
“Dutch is pissing me off,” he always vented to you, he knew you provided the best support, “he doesn’t understand what’s best for the gang anymore.”
You nodded in understanding, familiar with the topic as Dutch was starting to scare everyone in camp. “Try and get some rest,” you suggested to him and tilted your head towards the cot as you folded away his jacket.
He laid down on it and waited for you to join him before getting on top of you and kissing you so deeply. You reciprocated as much as you could but Arthur was in control.
Whilst his lips were on yours, he started tugging at your clothes to take them off. You broke the kiss and pushed him off of you and left the cot.
“I don’t feel like having s-x tonight, Arthur,” you sounded so fed up and vulnerable.
“Why not?” He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful or pushy but he just wanted to understand how you felt.
“It’s just…it feels like every time we see each other, you’re only interested in having s-x with me,” you explained your thoughts.
“I’m glad you told me,” he was angry at himself for making someone he loves feel so uncomfortable, “I do love you, I’m sorry I made you feel like I was just using you.”
“It’s okay,” you sat on the cot next to him and held his hand in yours.
John:
You became worried at how late it was and John still wasn’t back; he went out on a robbery job with Arthur and Charles. You were shifting around in the cot, unable to go to sleep with the anxiety you were enduring on John’s wellbeing and whereabouts.
As if he read your mind, you heard someone walk through the cot and it made you shoot up to find John jumping at your sudden movement.
“You’re late,” you addressed him, sighing in relief at his return.
“Law came, had to hide out for a while before coming back,” he explained as he stripped to his sleep attire, “sorry, darling.”
“I was really worried,” you hugged him once he laid down next to you on the cot, “are the others back?”
“Yeah, Sean came too” he patted your back affectionately, “and we brought back a lot of money.”
“That’s good,” you pull back and smiled, grateful for his successful performance.
His hand started to wander from your back to your ass and he started smirking at the gasp you just released.
“Do we have to do this now?” You closed your eyes in annoyance. You didn’t remove his hand, hoping he would understand your message and retract it himself.
“No, we don’t have to,” he did as you hoped with furrowed brows, “is everything okay?”
“It’s just that we see to always have s-x and I’m starting to feel like that’s why we’re together,” you looked away from him as it was a sensitive topic, “I know I shouldn’t be thinking like that and I’m sorry but I just can’t help it.”
You covered your face with your hands and John moved them away so he could look into your eyes, “I should be the one apologising,” he spoke so gently, “I’m sorry it felt like you had to do all of that just to make me happy.”
“I know it wasn’t your intention,” you nodded and laid down on the cot again for him to do the same. Your head was on his chest as you heard his heartbeat against your ear.
Dutch:
You were lying on your side, exhausted with his repetitive behaviour, it hardly showed on your face with how wide your eyes were. Dutch closed the tent’s canvas with the intention that the two of you will be intimate.
He walked to the cot and grazed his fingers over your hip, a smirk formed on his face just at the thought of having you all to himself.
Looking up at him, your expression remained lifeless, “we’ve been having doing it nearly every night…I feel like you’re just using me, Dutch.”
He furrowed his brows in disbelief, “after everything I’ve done for you,” he retracted his hand from you and spoke in a frustrated tone.
“Do you know how stressed I am?” He continued, “the last thing I need is you nagging that I don’t care about you. Did you even think about how I feel?”
“I’m sorry, Dutch,” you wiped the tears in your eyes, “we can have s-x if you want.”
You gave in to his manipulation and all he could do was smile, “don’t complain again, dear.” He climbed on top of you and pushed your shoulders into the cot.
You couldn’t prevent your tears from flowing as he had his way with you.
Micah:
Micah was in a playful mood as the two of you tackled each other on the cot. It wasn’t rare for him to give flirty compliments but trapping you with his arms and kissing you repeatedly all over your face while you giggled under him wasn’t common.
You enjoyed the moment and attention he gave as he couldn’t get enough of you, “why don’t we get started?”
His suggestion caused your heart to drop as you realised that you’d have to bring up the topic you have thought over multiple times, “I’m not in the mood.”
“Don’t be like that,” he reached for your skirt and started pulling it down when you pushed his hand away.
“I said no, Micah,” your tone was a lot sterner as he wasn’t listening to you.
“Okay,” he collapsed next to you and stared at the ceiling. You’ve never denied s-x with him in the past.
“Look, there’s something we need to talk about,” you sat up and looked over at him. You wanted him to understand your feelings.
“What?” He hated being confronted by you but looked over at you regardless to get it over with.
“I just feel like we only having s-x, we can’t even call it a relationship at this point, I want to do the other stuff couples do,” you broke down, it wasn’t easy drumming a point to him and you felt like it was a lot to ask for from him.
“C’mere,” he pushed your head into his chest so you could sob into him as his other hand found your back and patted it awkwardly, “I’m sorry, okay?”
He pulled your body back to look into your eyes and show how genuine he was being. You nodded and resumed your position in his chest.
Charles:
Charles wanted to take some time away from the gang and spend it with you. Disguised as a hunting trip, Charles already caught a variety of different animals which would satisfy the camp and now he could focus all of his attention on you.
“You made that really nicely,” he referred to the rabbit you cooked over the fire he made.
“Thanks,” you smiled as Charles stood up and walked closer to you. You were looking through a pouch attached to Taima’s saddle when Charles lifted your chin towards him and placed his lips over yours.
His other hand found your back which gradually travelled towards your ass, gently gripping the area caused a sudden gasp to erupt from you.
“Shall we continue this in the tent?” He looked into your eyes with a lustful expression.
“It feels like you just took me on this trip to sleep with me,” you moved your face away from him, “I want to have s-x with you, but I don’t want this relationship to only be that.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” he moved his hand away from you, feeling as if he was making you uncomfortable.
“Well that’s how it feels,” you replied, looking down at your feet to avoid eye contact with Charles.
“I love you more than you could ever know,” he didn’t expect anything from you, he just wanted you to hear it, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I love you too,” you looked up at him as Charles held his arms up for you to hug him. You accepted his offer and wrapped your arms around him, he rubbed your back soothingly and kept looking at your face to find a smile.
Javier:
The entire camp was singing along to Javier’s guitar playing. It always seemed to put them in a good mood to end the day off.
Once everyone retired to their tents and it was just you and Javier, he discarded the instrument and had his lips moving over yours. You happily kissed him and pulled back with an innocent smile which was heavily different to his lustful smirk.
You were immediately put off when he suggested you take off your clothes. He instantly noticed your tired expression, “what’s wrong, cariño?”
“It just feels like whenever I see you, we end up naked,” you pulled your skirt over your knees as a distraction to reality.
“Is that what you think?” he wanted to pull you into his embrace and comfort you. He was hesitant to do so in case you feared he had ulterior motives when touching you.
“I’m sorry if I sound selfish,” you looked up at him as your lip quivered at the sensitive topic, “I understand if you don’t want to continue seeing each other anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” He couldn’t believe you thought he would ever leave you, “I can’t live without you.” His hands held yours and squeezed them gently reassuringly, “clearly I’ve been an idiota estúpido, and I want to make things right with you.”
He looked into your eyes and kissed your hands with genuine intent of his word.
Sean:
The presence of sunlight creeping into the crevice of your tent and disrupting your sleep pushed you to wake up and start on the chores. As you lifted yourself off of the cot, you were pulled back and collapsed into your initial position.
The culprit, Sean, climbed on top of you to prevent you from leaving, “where do you think you’re goin’?”
“To be an abiding member of camp?” You playfully tilted your head and tried pushing him off of you to no avail.
“You shouldn’t be that eager to get screamed at by the old bat,” he referred to Miss Grimshaw, “you should just stay here with me,” he lowered himself so that both of your chests were comfortably laying in contact.
“And what would we do? Play dress up?” You used a prissy voice to extend the teasing.
“I have something much better in mind,” his hand went to the strap of your nightdress as he slowly pulled it down, his eyes remained on yours as a sleazy smile took over.
Your smile completely dropped and caused him to notice and stop himself from continuing, “everything okay?” he checked up on you.
“Sean,” you started and he immediately felt like he was in trouble, “does everything we do have to be turned into s-x?”
“Um, no,” he didn’t understand that was how you felt.
“There’s no other reason for you to keep me around?” Your voice became shaky and he stood up from towering over you.
“I like bein’ with you…talkin’, sittin’, all that boring stuff. Not just…that.” He tried to reassure you with a supportive hand to the shoulder. A small grin tugs at his mouth and he began talking to lighten the moment, “though it is a bonus.”
Kieran:
Kieran’s lips couldn’t leave yours as you both laid on the cot of your shared tent. He would range from deep and passionate kisses to gentle and sweet pecks.
It made you feel secure in his hold, he couldn’t get enough of you, his arms were wrapped so tightly around you it prevented you from leaving (not that you wanted to anyway).
“I love you,” he said it a lot and he always meant it.
“I love you too,” you smiled against his lips.
He pulled away from you to look over your body once again before unbuttoning your shirt. You wanted to say something so badly, but the words were caught in your mouth. The subject has been weighing on you for far too long.
Once he was finished with your shirt, he tried to take it off but you scrunched the opening with your hand to prevent him from doing so.
“I don’t want to have s-x right now,” it took a lot to get the words out.
“Oh, that’s fine,” he tried to button your shirt again to keep your modesty
“You’re fine with it?” You looked down at what he was doing, “I thought you’d be angry…”
“Angry? Why’d you think that?” He looked back up at you with a confused smile and furrowed brows.
“I don’t know,” you did but you didn’t know how to explain it.
When he was finished, he dropped beside you and pulled you into him, nuzzling his nose into your hair affectionately.
Hosea:
You were sitting with Hosea and most of the gang by the campfire, laughing along to whatever crap they were talking about.
Instinctively, Hosea wrapped his arm around your shoulder. You immediately shuddered and he felt the vibration against his palm.
“Are you okay?” He tightened his grip around you protectively and searched for any sign of distress on your face.
“Yeah,” you smiled but he felt something concerning through it.
“What’s wrong?” He wanted the truth, he knew something wasn’t right, that there was something on his mind and you weren’t telling him.
“I’ll tell you later,” you shook your head and tried to brush it off, hoping he would forget.
“Come on,” he stood up and urged you to do the same. You hesitated but got up anyway and took his hand as he walked towards your shared tent.
He let go of your hand as soon as you got inside. You went to sit on the cot, he kept staring at you, waiting for you to say something as you just started messing with your hands, wondering how you were going to word what you wanted to say.
“Y/N…?” He wanted you to start talking.
“Hosea…?” You copied his way of speaking.
“Please talk to me,” he sat beside you to look less intimidating.
You knew you had to say something so you just told him what has been on your mind, “I love you.” He placed a supportive hand over yours, “but, I’m starting to think we’re just using what we have to sleep with each other.”
He nodded at your confession, although what you said was far from the truth, he understood it was what you thought and felt.
“My dear, if that were all I wanted, I would not invest my time the way I do.” He didn’t force you to look up at him, instead, allowing you to take your time to adjust, “I’m far too old to waste time on something that isn’t real.”
He kept his eyes on you, when you did finally look up at him, he wrapped his arms around you and brought you into a hug.
hiii i love your writing so much and how you characterize all of them aa🤩🤩 is there any way you could do charlie x reader (f) angst? :3 if you’re not feeling it that’s cool to though i survive u either way 😻
Thank you, anon! I am so glad to hear that 🤍 I have tried my best, as I’ve never written for Charles before, but I hope I did him justice. Enjoy x (also i didn’t know whether you wanted with or without comfort so i chose with jic)
Whiskey Scars
plot: you have been with charles for a while now, but as you get injured on a heist, he has a hard time forgiving himself.
charles smith x f!reader, angst with comfort
warnings: canon typical violence, gunshot wound, mentions of death, mentions of alcohol, relationship angst
wc: 1.6k i think
pics are from pinterest
Charles Smith was no stranger to death. He had witnessed its cold hands grasping at his loved ones’ throats, and felt its fingers reach for his own. He had watched the light leave his enemies’ eyes before they hit the ground when he was guided by the reaper’s scythe himself, their faces contorted in fear and anger, their hearts pierced by his arrows. He never forgot, and he always hurt - whether it was through a death on his side, or one by his own hands. He learned to cope, and to forgive, but he never forgot.
A gloomy mist cast its long fingers over Clemens Point, as though the night was not ready to give way to the morning just yet. Charles was glad, in a way. The fog felt cool, clinging to his exposed skin in a more comforting manner than the unforgiving Lemoyne sun.
He still felt exhaustion settled deep within his bones, he never slept well when he couldn’t feel your hair tickle his nose, and the rhythm of your slow breathing beckoning him to join you in your dreams.
He never wanted you to leave; he knew that wherever Micah Bell went, chaos followed. The only reason protest never spilled from his lips was because he knew Arthur would protect you with his life, and he knew that you could handle yourself.
He was anxious, the feeling spreading through his entire body, from his heart hammering against his ribs to his trembling fingers. He cursed under his breath when his unsteady blade sliced into his skin instead of the piece of wood he was trying to distract himself with.
He was about to reach for the rag in his boots to clean up the blood the wound had drawn when he heard the galloping of hooves, and incoherent, anxious shouting.
Never had he been on his feet so quick. He knew something was wrong when he saw your horse uneasily trotting in front of Micah. Fear shot through his bones, fear and anger.
“Where the hell is she?”
It took him mere seconds to grab the man who had just dismounted from his horse by his collar and push him against a tree with ease.
“Calm down, you bastard, she’s-” Micah never got to finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Arthur breaking through the treeline at a concerning speed, your body slack against his chest. The sight reminded him of an injured doe; you were unconscious, but he could see your chest heaving, struggling to fill your lungs with air.
He discarded Micah on the ground and took no notice of his colourful language in response. He had a tunnel vision on you, and you alone.
Your hair obscured your face when Arthur dismounted and handed you over to Charles. Both of them treated you with a sort of care one would treat precious porcelain.
“We were ambushed.” Arthur explained hurriedly while following Charles to your tent. “O’Driscolls.”
A heavy feeling settled in your lovers’ heart. He knew what these men, these monsters were capable of. He had seen and felt it first hand, and had the scars to prove it.
“Fought like a cougar, that one. I think she took down most of them before I even got out my gun.”
“What the hell happened?” Charles asked again, calmer this time. His voice was quiet, broken. He laid you on your bedroll with all the care he could muster. Blood covered your chest and face, mingling with the one still seeping from his hand. He couldn’t pinpoint where it came from. There was so much blood.
“She took a bullet to the shoulder. Fell off her horse, too.” Arthur’s voice was laced with guilt as he continued. “I did the best I could, Charles. Killed everyone of them Bastards. Me and Micah.”
He knew his friend was telling the truth, and usually he would scold him for his vengeful ways, but God, how he wished to see every son of a bitch who laid hands on you swing.
“Get Grimshaw. And Swanson. I need them to help me patch her up.”
Charles tried his best to stay his usual calm, collected self, but his resolves were faltering with each gush of blood your wound emitted. He needed help.
A small crowd had formed around you in your tent, head in Charles’ lap, still unconscious. Susan said this was good, you couldn’t feel the pain, then. Swanson added that it was a clean shot, that you were lucky. The comforting words did nothing to calm his nerves. Neither did Arthur’s reassuring arm around his shoulder. The only thing on his mind was your shallow breathing and ashen skin.
Charles said nothing. He cleared your face of strands of hair sticking to your sweat-soaked forehead and closely watched your chest moving up and down, scared it might halt at any minute.
Arthur was by his side the whole time, guilt eating away at him. There was no sight of Micah.
Some time had passed. He didn’t know how long. Didn’t care. Your breathing was steadier now. His wasn’t.
“She’s gonna be just fine, Charles. She just needs some rest, and someone to look out for her.” Tilly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve been here for hours now, get some sleep and let me take care of your girl. She’s gonna need you to be well-rested once she wakes up.”
If it were anyone else suggesting this, he would have told them to leave him alone, to tell them you needed him and only him. But the lack of sleep and the adrenaline wearing off made him feel almost drunk, in a stupor.
He nodded hesitantly, and Tilly knelt down next to him; a quiet gesture to hand over responsibility for your life.
Three days. Three days it took you to finally open your eyes.
You woke up in shock, mind still in the battle that had occurred days ago. It was the dead of night, and it took you some moments to realise you were back in your camp. You shot up from your bedroll and were immediately forced to lie back down by the throbbing pain in your shoulder.
A glance to your left and right revealed that Charles was nowhere to be found. In his stead, there was a bottle of water and, what you could only assume to be Pearson’s stew.
Your stomach emitted a low rumble in response, and you wolfed down the mixture of miscellaneous meat and vegetables in a matter of seconds. You did the same to the water, and felt the strength slowly creep back into your sore and tired body.
You assessed the damage: purple bruising bloomed beneath your chemise, and your ribs ached in protest as you lifted the fabric. You assumed some of them were broken, the fall you took from your horse explaining the seething pain and angry bruises. Your fingers continued up your body, reaching your shoulder. You felt the coarse thread of the makeshift stitches poking your fingertips, and the memory of the bullet burying itself within you made your heartbeat quicken and your body shudder.
Scars ain't nothing to be ashamed of. You remembered your words to Charles as he expressed insecurity about the jagged edges along his jaw. They're testament to your survival.
You decided to take your own words to heart instead of worrying about the cosmetic mishap the quickly-applied stitching would lead to.
The empty spot besides you felt cold, and you missed the way a pair of strong, heavy arms felt around you. Where could Charles possibly be?
For a while, you decided to wait for your love to return to you, until your joints and muscles ached for movement and you opted to find him yourself instead.
After a much needed stretch, careful not to tear the stitches in your shoulder, you quietly opened the tent flaps.
It was peaceful outside, nothing could be heard except for the odd cricket and the crackling of fire. You turned to the light source to find someone there, your Charles, leaning against a log. He was alone, the only company he kept was a bottle of Guarma Rum.
Your heart broke at the sight. Charles rarely ever drank, and it was even more rare he did so on his own. Especially since he had found you.
You made your way over to him in slow steps. Had he been sober, he would’ve immediately heard the cracking of branches and rustling of leaves you left on your clumsy trail towards the fire. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, though. Clouded by liquor and pain, by a lack of sleep, and the weight of the world on his sagging shoulders.
You placed a soft hand on his back when you reached him, and he swiftly turned around - knife at your throat. It took him some time before he realised you were real, and you were you, not some figment of his imagination, or the ghosts that had been haunting him ever since he lost you to the shadows.
His gaze softened and he lowered the knife. A calloused finger met your cheek as he touched you gently, still not quite believing his eyes. Still unsure whether you were a drunken hallucination, or an angel visiting in his dreams.
“Come back to bed with me?” Your voice was raspy from the prolonged lack of speaking, but it was your voice nonetheless.
“Thought I’d lost you.” His speech was slurred, and you could see tears glistening in his dark eyes. “Thought I’d lost my pretty lady.”
You gave him a soft smile and took his hand. Despite his state, he was careful to not touch your wounds. He let go of you briefly, only for his fingers to roam across your entire body, as though he wanted to make sure there were no more injuries. No more bruises for him to seek revenge for.
A fools business.
He remembered Arthur’s words when he admitted to him he ways in which he wanted to hurt whoever had hurt you.
By the time you had reached your tent, his racing mind had gone quiet again. His brain was consumed by thoughts of you, by the sight, the smell, the feel of you on him.
The best revenge was that he had you, and you had him.
These were his final thoughts before your hair, tickling his nose and your even breathing lulled him to sleep.
summary: you go about your quiet cabin life on a slow summer day, sugar-dusted pie on the sill, dirt worked deep beneath your nails. But the past still whispers through the trees, telling stories of campfire smoke, a gang of outlaws you once ran with, and a certain boy who carried the night in his eyes and wolf-claws on his cheek. Some loves are meant to stay buried. Others are only waiting to find their way home.
warnings: mentions of abuse (SA, physical, mental), cheating, angst.
genre: 40% smut, 40% angst, 20% fluff.
notes: very canonverse (except for the epilogue which I heavily modified)
wc: 8.6k
The first thing you always felt afterward was the cold.
Not the night breeze—though the wind cut through the trees in thin, whistling ribbons—but that hollow, creeping cold that settled under your skin the second he rolled off you. The ground was hard beneath your back, damp soil pressing into your spine through your clothes, but it was the emptiness he left behind that made you shiver. No weight, no warmth, nothing grounding you to the earth. Just the sound of him catching his breath in short, satisfied huffs and the faint jingle of whatever trinket he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Good girl,” he muttered, the words slurred with liquor and smugness. He didn’t touch you after. He never did. Not that you wanted him to either. His hands were gross, already busy buckling his belt again, the clink of the metal biting into the silence.
You stayed where you were, staring up through the branches. Moonlight fractured through the pine foliage, scattered into pale shards across your skin. If you focused hard enough, it made the bruises on your hips look like shadows. If you pretended hard enough, once he left… this never happened. But your skin still stung where his grip had been too tight. Your wrists still ached. Your breath felt borrowed. And the flesh between your thighs still burned, reminding you that this was your reality now. This was the way you survived.
He hummed to himself as he dressed, some tuneless half-song that made your stomach twist. He never looked at you, not once, as if your body had already ceased to exist the moment he was done using it.
“You keep quiet now,” he said, more habit than warning, as he put his hat back on. “Ain’t nobody need to know.”
As if anyone would want to.
As if you’d ever dare to speak of it.
As if anyone would listen.
He stepped back onto the narrow path leading toward camp, boots crunching over dry twigs. Every sound of his departure grew fainter, the scrape of spurs, the lazy whistle he’d slipped into, the cocky slur in his footsteps.
Then nothing.
Just the wind.
Just the trees.
Just you.
Finally, you exhaled, shaky, soundless, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
You fucking hated Micah Bell.
You pulled your skirt down with tired fingers, sitting up slowly as the chill sank deeper. Dirt clung to the backs of your thighs. Pine needles scratched at your palms. You brushed them off, but the shame and his scent lingered, heavy and clinging in a way the earth never could.
-
Washing dishes was not your favorite chore. It wasn’t difficult, no, just dull. Repetitive. And that was exactly why it unsettled you. When your hands moved on their own, your mind wandered off wherever it pleased. To places you rarely visited. To places you hadn’t seen since the summer of 1899.
These days, most thoughts were kind. Gentle. Grounded in a life finally sturdy enough for the quiet to feel comforting instead of dangerous.
Most days.
But some days… some mornings when the sunrise found you alone, the dark had a way of slipping through the cracks of your cabin walls.
And sometimes it brought Micah Bell up with it.
Bastard.
The sponge in your hand dragged over stubborn potato skins clinging to the tin plate so hard it squeaked. You scrubbed harder. It didn’t help.
You didn’t know how you had stayed. How you survived that long. No, you didn’t know how. But with distance, with time, with more life lived than you expected to back then… now you understood why.
You couldn’t be unkind to her, the twenty-something you were then, she was only surviving. She knew the world outside camp far too well. She had hell for a home before a silver-haired conman with a soft smile and a rattling cough offered her a temporary tent and a warm campfire to sit around on breezy nights.
“Just until you figure it all out,” he’d said. And he meant it.
So yes, you stayed.
You stayed for the honest conman. You stayed for the safety of campfires and coffee brewed too strong, for the comfort of a girl named Mary-Beth who taught you how to read. For the mornings when a dependable, and very handsome, gentleman named Arthur tipped his hat respectfully and called you “m’lady”. You chuckled, your grip softening around the sponge.
As if you was one.
You stayed for the evenings when a girl named Tilly saved you a bowl of stew without needing to be asked. And the afternoons when another named Karen swore she’d teach you how to shoot even if it killed her, even though you were hopeless and never really learned. You wondered where she was now.
You stayed because you didn’t know where else you could go.
And of course…
Of course you stayed for him.
For a certain boy with long black hair that curled wild when wet, and wolf-claws forever carved into his right cheek. The one whose shoulders always hunched, whose eyes always brooded, as if the weight he carried was too big for one person, but he carried it anyway.
-
You couldn’t exactly explain how this thing between you and him had started.
You couldn’t even name what it was, had someone ever found out what you did when no one was looking.
The closest word you could think of—the only one that didn’t feel like a lie—was ‘agreement.’
You see, there wasn’t much work a woman could do for a gang of outlaws. Not real work. Not the kind that felt important enough to justify a bowl of stew, especially not when you were one of the most recent additions to the group, and nearly all the useful tasks were already taken.
Karen didn’t count, she was half gunslinger herself, fearless and loud, living on whiskey and trouble, and working shifts like the men did. Molly didn’t count either, for different reasons. She simply existed above it all, protected by the pedestal Dutch had carved for her.
Mary-Beth and Jenny handled the mending, Tilly the laundry, or sometimes the other way around. Point was, those jobs were spoken for.
Mrs. Adler had joined grieving, but even then, by the end of it all, she’d stormed her way into something fiercer, riding out with Arthur and Charles as if born for it.
Miss Grimshaw… she was cold to you, cruel some days, but you couldn’t deny she worked harder than anyone. Everything passed through her hands before it could be called done.
And Abigail…
She had… She had young Jack. And they always said that raising a child in a world that wanted to swallow him whole was more labor than anybody else’s combined. But what would you know. Plus her history with the gang ran deeper than yours ever could.
Sure, you helped with the other ladies’ chores, except Karen’s, Abigail’s, and Molly’s whatever-that-was. Laundry. Picking herbs nearby. Helping Mr. Pearson peel potatoes. Tending horses. Mending clothes. And sometimes when they were short of hands, you even assisted with medical tasks, even though the sight of an open wound turned your stomach and left your head spinning.
But none of it felt like real work.
A true, needed, exclusive contribution.
And as Grimshaw, and later bastard Micah, never stopped reminding you: If they decided you weren’t useful enough, Dutch would give the order and drop the dead weight. Discarding you like the stray you’d always been.
Yes. You’d heard variations of that threat your entire life.
You’d been sent to relatives as far back as memory stretched, their household the only “home” you knew. They fed you, yes, but not without reminding you what it cost them. How much of a burden you were.
You had to pull your weight then, too. First sweeping floors and cleaning outhouses at the saloon they found you a job in. Then serving drinks and waiting tables when they decided you were mature enough, because the owner’s daughter wanted someone else to take the men’s wandering hands.
Years went by like that. And you hated every second of such chore, the ass-grabs, the rotten breath in your ear when bending over to pour a drink, the fingers sliding under your skirt when a man wanted his table “wiped,” the forced kisses you narrowly avoided, and the times the owner offered you up to smelly strangers as if you were just another item on the menu.
“She’s also available for beddin’,” he’d say, and every single time you heard this your gut would twist.
You were lucky there was almost always someone prettier, younger, and more desperate to take the fall. Almost.
You remember the one time you tried standing up for yourself, told your boss you’d work double shifts if he’d stop offering your body to his customers.
He looked at you like you were ridiculous, then threw you out for your “audacity.”
Said you were wasting space and food.
Said “whorin’” was the only career someone like you could ever aspire to, and that eventually you’d have to cave.
He hadn’t even sounded cruel. Just truthful.
Practical.
Like he was educating you before releasing you into the world.
And maybe he was right…
Although you weren’t sure they could call it “whorin’” when you were only sleeping with one man…
He came back to camp one night with a busted lip, smelling of Kentucky bourbon, and a piece of the very same bottle embedded in his forehead. You were camped near Blackwater then. He’d gotten into a fight at the saloon, some lawman off-duty called him a pretty boy or something, and he’d answered with a “decent kicking,” or so he’d told Dutch.
None of that explained the glass shard sticking out of his skin.
You stood outside his tent while he got scolded half to hell, waiting until the gang leader stormed out before stepping inside. It was late, half the camp was asleep, but Miss Grimshaw had ordered you to tend his wounds and you weren’t about to protest. You had to pull your weight, after all.
Inside, he sat slumped on a cot, quiet, brooding, a storm barely contained.
You didn’t dare speak.
You’d learned drunk men didn’t like to be spoken to unless they did it first, and besides,you’d never talked to him before. Barely even knew what to look at.
“I’ll pull it out,” you warned, voice soft to match the midnight hour.
He grunted when you removed the shard, relieved when it came out clean. Besides a few hisses when you poured alcohol into the wound, he said nothing. Whatever thoughts he had were somewhere far from you.
“Miss Grimshaw will take a look at it tomorrow, stitch you up if you need to,” you announced. “I don’t know much about it. Don’t want it to scar ugly.”
It was partly true, you didn’t want to ruin anyone’s face, but mostly you couldn’t stomach the thought of sewing flesh.
“You don’t know?” he asked, voice deep and hoarse enough for you to wonder how many packs he smoked a day.
“I… don-,” you answered, cleaning the shallow cut on his lip. “I’m still learnin’ the ropes.”
He didn’t respond.
You were nearly done when he spoke again.
“How’d a pretty girl like you end up tendin’ the wounds of a fucked group of bastards like us?”
You scoffed quietly. He was drunk. You ignored him.
“You got pretty hands, missy,” he added after a moment. “They’re real soft.”
You hid a smile, not at the compliment, but at the audacity. He sure looked young, perhaps a year or two younger than you, yet he thought he could call you missy.
“How’d a pretty boy like you end up with a bottle to the face?” you asked as you put the supplies away, matching his tone. Not flirting. Just giving him a taste of his own.
He chuckled, amused. “I ain’t a boy. And I sure as hell ain’t pretty.”
“You sure talk a lot for someone with a busted lip, mister.”
“You sure enjoy bein’ mean for someone supposed to be nursin’ me.” He said, and you didn’t recall ever smiling at a drunk man before.
“Well, you sure get scolded a lot for someone who’s supposed to be the boss’ favorite son.”
You said it without thinking, forgetting you’d been around for way less than a month. Forgetting you weren’t supposed to speak unless spoken to.
His amusement vanished instantly.
“And you’re awful nosy for someone who’s been here a week,” he snapped.
Your stomach dropped. You regretted speaking at all. This was why you always kept to yourself.
“Mister—”
“You don’t know the half,” he muttered, “I ain’t his favorite,” not yelling, just irritated, tired. “I’m nobody’s—” he lowered his voice, bending over to take off his boots, “favorite.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Jesus,” he sighed to himself, “why does everyone keep sayin’ that?”
You stood up.
“I’ll leave now. If there’s anythin’ else I can do—”
“There’s only one thing you can help me with, missy, and I doubt you’ll want to.” He mumbled, tugging off his other boot, not even looking at you, speaking more to himself or to the air.
You had already dropped the tent flap behind you when you heard him add in a low voice, barely meant for human ears, not meant for you to listen.
“Doubt any woman here wants to, actually. Or any woman at all… ‘less I pay her.”
You stopped mid-step.
Your former boss’ words echoed in your ears and for the first time, they felt welcome… in a strange, twisted way.
There it was… the solution to your predicament. The thing that could put the constant anxiety to rest, the one that screamed you weren’t contributing anything meaningful.
A task exclusive to you.
Something useful.
Something no one else seemed to be doing.
Here was the thing you could offer.
The thing that could buy you some time until you ‘figured it all out’ as Hosea said.
You traced your steps back into his tent.
“I want… to,” you announced softly.
He looked up, startled, clearly not expecting you to return.
For a moment he just stared, confused, blinking through the fog of liquor and the weight of Dutch’s scolding. Then he sighed. Deeply.
“Listen, miss… forget it. I’m half-drunk and angry, and my head’s poundin’ like hell. Just go to bed, will you?”
His voice wasn’t irritated anymore, just tired. Bone-tired.
“Then let me help,” you offered with a small, wavering smile. You stepped toward him and took his hand, warm, startlingly warm against the cold night air. “It’ll feel real nice, I promise.”
A lie. You didn’t know if it would. But you had to sell the service somehow.
Your heart pounded. Shame pooled low in your belly, heavy and sickening. There wasn’t a soul in this world who truly cared for you, so there was no one to disappoint, and yet offering yourself like this made something inside you twist. Made you feel like a dirty thing. Like every mean-spirited warning that nasty saloon owner spit at you had been a prophecy.
You didn’t let yourself think further.
You just guided him, gently, insistently, pulling him by the hand to the small table beside his cot.
Then you turned around, bent forward slightly, taking shallow breaths so he wouldn’t hear how your chest pulled tight. You gathered the thin skirt of your white chemise, lifting it just enough. You usually didn’t sleep in drawers.
“Miss, you don’t have t—” he started, voice low behind you.
“But… I want to.” You cut him off by reaching back and taking both his hands, placing them on your hips, using them to hold the fabric in place, and your heart struggled in your chest. “You don’t?”
There was only silence for an answer.
Long enough that you wondered if he was just as uncomfortable as you were. If this wasn’t helping him at all, if you were making it worse. Torturing him with your presence.
But then you heard the soft metal clink of his belt. The whisper of fabric as his pants slid down. A quiet, shuddering breath as he stroked himself, palm slick with saliva, trying to get fully hard.
“I’m gonna—” he cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh… Is it okay?”
You swallowed. “Sure.”
The wet tip found you easily.
He pushed in just an inch, barely, and stopped.
“Just… tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.
You nodded, and since you didn’t protest, he slowly eased the rest of the way inside.
You were too wrapped in shame and dread and the impossibility of tomorrow — how were you supposed to look him in the eye in daylight? — to notice how slow he was moving. How long it took him to fully settle inside you.
You only realized once his hips met yours, his balls pressing lightly against the back of your thighs, that it hadn’t hurt. Not beyond reason.
He was… gentle.
He started moving, falling into a rhythm, cautious, steady. Like he didn’t know you, didn’t know what you liked, didn’t know how to move with your body, so he was treading carefully.
You could almost swear he didn’t want to hurt you.
And it felt… nice.
Surprisingly nice.
His thick cock nudged a spot inside you that made your breath catch, and every time his hips met the curve of your ass, the warmth of him lingered.
Wet sounds filled the tent, quiet but unmistakable. Skin against skin. And sometimes a low grunt from him, dragged out of his chest as your body tightened around him.
You kept your mouth shut. Clamped. No moans, even when one tried to rise when he hit that one angle just right.
It was quick.
Surprisingly quick.
No kisses.
No tenderness spoken aloud.
No pretense.
Just an exchange, a simple job, as simple and transactional as sweeping floors for money or mending clothes for a living.
You felt him twitch. You knew he was close. And you were still not, but this wasn’t about you. It never was.
He pulled out fast, but not fast enough, spilling hot across the back of your thighs.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. You heard him try to adjust, to angle himself away too late. “Let me—”
“It’s okay.” You straightened, letting your chemise fall. “I’ll take care of it. You should rest.”
You didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Your cheeks burned and the embarrassment thickened your throat.
He hesitated.
“Look, miss… we can pretend nothin’ happened,” he murmured, as if sensing your shame, maybe feeling it too. “Or never talk about this again. Either way.”
You nodded, gathering the small medical box, turning toward the flap of the tent.
Maybe this didn’t have to happen again.
Maybe he wouldn’t even want to.
“Sleep well, mister,” you whispered.
“It’s John.”
He said, voice impossibly raspier.
“John Marston.”
-
Your cheeks burned for days after that night, hot and embarrassed, especially whenever you caught sight of him across camp. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. John was either out on guard duty or gone on whatever fool task Dutch had sent the men on. And he never mentioned anything about that night, not to you, not to anyone else. At least judging by the way nobody looked at you strangely, and the girls still treated you like always.
Maybe it didn’t need to happen again.
Maybe it had just been a strange accident, a one-time thing born of anger and whiskey and your own desperation.
Part of you felt relieved… and another part worried. You’d have to find some other way to contribute, then. Some other way to matter.
One evening, the air had turned sharply cold the way it did on the Great Plains, the kind of cold that nipped your knuckles even through your sleeves. The sun had long since disappeared. You were bent over a table wiping dried blood off it—those damn boys and their stupid knife games—when you heard a man clear his throat behind you.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.
Even with little time in camp, you had already learned the sound of his voice. It was pretty recognizable. It always came out just a bit hoarse, like years of tobacco had lodged themselves in his throat.
And you knew exactly what he was here for before he even asked.
“Miss,” he said, the first word he’d spoken to you since he’d told you his name a couple weeks ago. “You, uh… you doin’ somethin’?”
You straightened slowly, giving yourself a moment. Your grip tightened on the blood-stained rag. One breath. Two. Deciding.
Because if you said no, he’d leave.
And if you said yes… well, you already knew what you were agreeing to.
Your indecision didn’t last long.
Some minutes later, your left cheek was squished against the rough bark of a pine trunk, your palms braced against it, as his cock slid in and out of your cunt from behind. From this angle, you could see faint flickers of campfire light between the trees—a safe distance away. His hands didn’t touch your skin this time either; they only held your skirt up, practical and impersonal.
It was quiet.
Only the wet sounds of joined flesh layered over the wind sweeping through the tall, yellow grass of the Great Plains.
And like the first time, it didn’t hurt. Not during, not after. No bruises. No stinging skin. Just a soft, manageable shame… one that faded a little more every time.
And oh, there were more times.
The same tree line as that second night. A dense thicket halfway to Manzanita Post. An old abandoned cabin where the Lower Montana River met Flat Iron Lake. Behind a fallen oak by the lake shore during a storm, both of you soaked to the bone…
Always from behind. Always quiet. No kissing. No endearments. No eye contact. No conversation beyond his soft, hesitant warning: “Only if you want to. You don’t have to, miss.”
But somehow, you always… wanted to.
It was easy. Rehearsed. Predictable.
Your little unspoken agreement.
And it worked. You liked it that way. Almost.
It was clinical, physical, almost anonymous…
He simply accepted what you offered and never asked for more.
And then… what newspapers would later go on to call the Blackwater Massacre happened.
Chaos. Screaming. Blood. Lots of it.
Dutch yelling. Hosea pulling people by the arm. Arthur firing rounds you couldn’t even hear over the ringing in your ears.
One moment you’d been standing near your tent, the next you were being shoved onto a wagon and ordered to flee north. No time to pack. No time to think. The little you owned—your spare shirt, the thread kit, the book Mary Beth had lent you—left behind without a second thought.
Others lost more, however. So much more. Some even their lives.
Jenny gone.
Davey Callander coughing up the last of his life in Abigail’s arms.
His brother and Sean missing, presumed dead.
Mary-Beth crying so hard for everyone her whole small frame shook.
You hadn’t been with them long. So no tears fell from your eyes. But seeing all that grief—real grief, sharp and blinding—made you think about your own mortality for the first time in years. About how fragile you truly were. How easily you could be the next name whispered around a campfire, the next grave in the mud. And how even with all these men’s “protection,” the world was cruel, unforgiving, and absolutely did not care if you lived or died.
Out there, without them? You’d last maybe an hour.
John had gone ahead during the escape, scouting the path to follow… and then got himself lost in the snowstorm. Abigail begged for someone to go look for him, begged like a woman who’d lost her last hope. And then, Tilly whispered to you that John was Jack’s father, that he was practically… her husband. And you would have never guessed. They barely talked to each other, in fact you had never seen them together. The dynamic seemed messy and exhausting. Nothing you wanted any part in.
Arthur and Javier found him eventually. Hauled him back on horseback, limp and half-frozen, pale as the snow around him. John didn’t look like John. He looked like death. Freshly carved.
Miss Grimshaw—the only one among the women whose hands didn’t shake—treated his wounds with Reverend Swanson’s assistance, both in prayer and in practice. Abigail stayed by his side every hour she could. They still argued, somehow. Even with him half-conscious. Even in front of everyone: you, the rest of the women, Strauss, Swanson, poor widowed Mrs. Adler, and young Jack, playing with sticks in a corner.
Sometimes you’d help change his bandages. Carefully. Quietly. You didn’t say much. You didn’t need to. Up close, you felt bad for the man, genuinely. His skin was cold, his breathing uneven. The man who’d once bent you over a pine trunk now couldn’t even lift his head.
And that was that.
With him incapacitated, your late-night duties were naturally suspended.
A relief, honestly, because the cold up there in the Grizzlies was unbearable. You couldn’t imagine letting someone fuck you in a snowbank, your feet numb and your thighs shaking, snowflakes melting on your back.
But you didn’t have to imagine for long.
You didn’t know how he’d found out.
Micah Bell was opportunistic, observant, and predatory. And sometimes that was all a man like him needed.
Maybe he’d noticed John talking to you before conveniently disappearing out of sight together. Maybe he’d seen you return to camp some time after, flushed and a little breathless.
Maybe he’d just guessed.
And guessed right.
It didn’t matter how.
What mattered was that he knew enough.
He approached you the first time as you were discarding rabbit bones behind the old stable in Colter, the horses’ crude shelter from the snow. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, your nose numb, your breath white in the air.
You hadn’t even heard him approach.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been slackin’ off, little miss” he said, voice low, casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Heard y’ain’t contributin’ enough,” he pulled out a box from his pocket, lighting a cigarette. “Dead weight, if you ask me. And I think Dutch oughta know. Can’t be draggin’ extra mouths around in times like these.”
Your stomach knotted. Not because of him, though that too, but because the words sounded familiar. Too familiar. You could almost hear him say them in your own voice.
“But now, don’t you worry, little miss” he added, taking a slow step closer. “I know a way even scroungers can be useful. Real useful. And it ain’t anythin’ you don’t already know how to do.”
You froze.
He leaned in, breath sour and scalding against your ear.
“Just help me,” he murmured. “Same way you been helpin’ Scarface.”
So he did know.
Your mind raced. You tried to decline—stuttered something about chores, about food prep, about helping Mr. Pearson. For a heartbeat, you even considered lying. Telling him you and John had something claimed, something that would get him angry if you were with another man.
But—
But what if Micah was right?
What if Dutch decided you were dead weight after all?
What if they left you here—
in the freezing, merciless jaws of Ambarino?
You didn’t want to die here.
And you couldn’t afford to choose.
You needed to be “useful” when “useful” was required.
You needed to surrender any little dignity a lifelong ‘scrounger’ like you had left, because at this point survival was the only commodity you could afford.
Your silence was enough for him. He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t ask for one.
He grabbed your arm tight and dragged you into the old barn. Not for shelter from the cold but to avoid witnesses. He decided only the horses would see. Their breath clouded the air around them, hooves shifting anxiously on the frozen ground.
And then it happened for the first time.
Unlike John’s, Micah’s hands were everywhere, grabbing, groping, clawing like he wanted to leave marks that would last. He tugged your shirt apart so roughly the buttons flew. You had to sew them back later in secret, biting your lip the whole time.
Unlike John, Micah bared you. Stripped you open to the cold, to his gaze, to the stinging air biting your skin.
Unlike John, he wanted to hear you. Made you moan. Demanded it.
“Say my name,” he hissed, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “C’mon now. Say it.”
Unlike with John… it hurt. During. And after.
Especially after.
Between your legs. In the tender, torn places of your body. And deeper still, somewhere inside your chest, where the old fear lived.
When he was done, he left you there—half dressed, freezing, shaking more from shame than cold—before stepping into the storm like nothing had happened.
You pulled your clothes together.
You fixed your hair.
You breathed until breathing didn’t hurt.
And you swore you’d never let it happen again.
But deep down you knew that was a promise that neither you nor Micah Bell were ever going to let you keep.
-
The thin, ugly potato peels still clung to the plate where the previous night’s dinner had been served, showing no signs of surrender, sticking to the metal like a bad memory. You eventually decided to abandon them in the sink, a little water, a little soap. Some things just needed time. There was little in this world that time couldn’t soften, at least a bit.
You grabbed a burlap sack and your little shovel, and stepped out the back door into the slanting gold of early morning.
The sun hat fell low over your eyes, the breeze was cool, and the mountain air tasted clean enough to make a person believe the world had only ever been kind.
The morning was yours. Quiet. Unguarded.
You figured you could finish weeding before the heat settled in. Maybe even get some work done in the front patch too. The back garden was for food: tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, fat little squashes trying to creep into one another’s space, and the damned potatoes that grew exactly where they wanted, not where you told them to. The front was for your little flower bed. And your ginseng. And your wild mint. And the yarrow.
You kept those herbs close always. Old habits. Old training.
Miss Grimshaw had taught you the basics once, in a land far away from this one. Hosea used to say he’d made so many tonics he could do it with his eyes closed.
You used to laugh at that.
Now you understood exactly what he meant.
You knelt in the dirt and started pulling weeds. Some came easy, thin little things that surrendered with a sigh. Others fought, clinging deep into the soil, roots thick and tangled, refusing to be dislodged unless you used both hands.
Some people were like that too. Stubborn. Unwanted. Hard to uproot once they’d sunk themselves into vulnerable places.
You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist and reached for another weed when something shifted in your chest—nothing visible, just that small, familiar tug toward memory.
You had been picking herbs that morning too…
-
For the following weeks after the incident in Colter, the saloon owner’s words clawed their way back to the front of your mind.
You felt like a whore. Through and through.
The gang had somehow made it out of the Grizzlies alive and now you found yourselves in the Heartlands, camped near a cow town called Valentine. Horseshoe Overlook, a pretty enough perch overlooking the Dakota. Rough country. Wind sweeping through the grass, air crisp but merciful.
Rough, yes. But also beautiful.
John.
He was back on his feet. Weak at first, stubborn about it, but slowly regaining his former strength. You were happy for him. Almost. If you were capable of feeling anything between the misery and hopelessness Micah had carved into you, you would be happy for him.
John hadn’t touched you since Blackwater, before the ferry incident. He spent most days sitting beneath the huge shadow of an oak on the outskirts of camp, facing the cliff. Most of the time he’d be studying a map, sometimes he’d be bickering with Abigail; and other times, brooding with that hollow look in his eyes. And more than once, you wondered if he sat there debating whether to jump.
But, even with the John chapter closed, you didn’t have to worry. You could still make yourself “useful.”
Micah had made sure of that.
He was diligently trying to fill John’s boots—God, he was—and you hated yourself for letting him. At this point, you’d been with him almost as much as with John, and the thought alone made your stomach turn. It wasn’t just disgust. It was rot. A sickness deep in your chest, sour and shameful, like something festering where no one could see.
Each time he dragged you out of sight or behind a tree line, each time he pushed his weight on you, each time you heard his laugh too close to your ear… you felt the ground tilt under you. Felt yourself shrinking into someone small, filthy, unlovable.
Someone who existed only to be used.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the camp’s returning party boy made things worse.
Sean had come back—good for him, truly—but the drinking increased tenfold. One night, Javier had pulled you onto his lap, so drunk you were surprised he could stay upright. Asked for a kiss on the cheek, slurring and smiling. You hesitated but leaned down anyway, figuring it would get you out of there quicker. But just as your lips touched his cheek, he turned and pecked your mouth. A stupid, sloppy little thing.
Bill and Sean had laughed it off nearby, teasing him, hollering.
You’d slipped away fast.
No resentment. Javier was a good man when sober.
You just made a note: stay away from him when he wasn’t.
And Sean… well, there had been an incident with him too. You’d seen Karen slap him earlier and storm off, so you assumed they had some sort of thing. So when he tried to kiss you beside the campfire later—right in front of Uncle and Mr. Pearson—drunk on whatever poison was in the bottle he was holding, it took you by surprise. You turned your head just in time; and luckily, he only caught the corner of your mouth.
No one laughed this time.
But no one scolded him either.
You left quickly, praying Karen wouldn’t hear of it.
Of all this mess, only one thing had resembled good news: Micah getting locked up.
Young Lenny delivered it, breathless atop his reliable Maggie. “There are talks of hanging him,” he’d said. Arthur—and you, though more discreetly—were the only ones who celebrated. Probably only Dutch cared enough to send someone to fetch him. And he ordered his best man to do the job.
Luckily, Arthur took his time.
Heavens, you fucking loved Arthur. Thanks to him, you were free of Micah’s demands for a while, the Strawberry jail had bought you precious days of peace. But Arthur couldn’t delay the mission forever. Luckily, even after Micah was freed, he lingered around Strawberry. Wandering around, he claimed, looking for a “peace offering.” He didn’t want to return empty-handed to Dutch.
It was good while it lasted.
But one cursed morning, he returned. Like a bad winter does every year.
You’d been sent to pick yarrow and burdock root. Sweet Kieran had mentioned they grew near water, so you walked down to the Dakota River until you reached what was left of a burnt-out town. LIMPANY, the charred sign read. Even in daylight, it felt wrong to be there, haunted.
You’d strayed too far from Horseshoe.
Too far from the watchful eyes of Lenny or Bill or Karen keeping guard.
And maybe you should’ve listened to wiser people.
Because he found you.
Your sack was only half-full. You were bent over the cold ground, fingers numb, breath puffing white in the early morning air.
And behind you…
A shadow you pretended not to see.
A voice you prayed wouldn’t speak.
A man you wished you could rip from your life as easily as you tugged yarrow from the soil.
He wanted you to celebrate his return, his “rebirth,” he called it. Said he’d been sure he was gonna hang. And you… God, you wished he had. You wished you could turn back time and beg Arthur to let him die.
He took you in daylight.
Even rougher. Crueler. More degrading than ever before.
The sun hadn’t even climbed past eight. Not even enough time for camp to fully wake.
As you bounced helplessly beneath him, legs splayed and digging into the cold earth, you felt it again. That familiar collapse inside your chest. That awful certainty blooming like poison.
Worthless.
Just like your relatives always said you were. And from your current position under the most despicable man you’d ever met, it was hard not to believe them.
When he finally left—luckily he never lasted long, although every second in his arms stretched into a lifetime—you stayed still for a moment. Just breathing. Just existing under the open morning sky. Then you picked yourself up with stiff movements, grabbed your half-full sack of herbs, dusted your skirt, and stumbled toward the riverbank.
The cold water bit at your hands. You didn’t care. You splashed yourself clean as best you could, refusing to look at your reflection because you already knew what you’d see: a woman who kept finding herself in the same filthy place, and the worst part was that she wasn’t even trying to climb out.
Next time he tried to drag you somewhere, you told yourself, you’d resist. You’d object. Maybe even fight back. Maybe if you worked harder at your other chores—really poured yourself into them—maybe then you wouldn’t have to… pull your weight that disgusting way. What a silly thought it’d been, the one that had started everything that night in Blackwater. Absurd. In retrospect, one of the stupidest ideas that ever came to anyone. None of the other women were doing what you were doing, and they got to stay. They were safe. Fed. Kept. You told yourself that over and over, as if repeating it would make your legs strong enough for the climb back toward the Overlook.
By the time you reached camp, Miss Grimshaw was standing there waiting, hands on her hips. And you knew exactly what that meant. She always scolded everything that had ears—claimed you all as “my girls,” bossed you all around like a nest of hens—but on that day her glare was special, it could’ve cut a tree in half.
And you remembered why.
You were supposed to help Mr. Pearson with breakfast. But thanks to Micah, you hadn’t shown on time, so she’d had to do it herself while half the camp sat “hungry and irritated,” in her own words.
If it was true…Poor Jack. Poor Lenny and Bill after a long night on guard. You felt guilty for that. Ashamed.
Tilly tried to reassure you later, saying Grimshaw blew everything out of proportion, that it had happened to her before, but your nerves were shot. You’d already broken once that morning, you didn’t have it in you to bend again.
As punishment, Grimshaw gave you double the work for the day, and you did it all with the knot in your throat burning like fire. You didn’t cry when she scolded you again for good measure. You didn’t cry while you sewed socks, scrubbed blood out of shirts, and disposed of rotten carcasses. You didn’t even cry when you caught sight of Micah across camp later that afternoon, drinking a beer like he hadn’t ruined your morning.
But by the time the sun dipped behind the ridge and the stars took their places overhead, you felt like a single touch, the wrong touch, could shatter you into a million pieces. Your eyes prickled, ready to betray you the moment you blinked.
Micah was right, wasn’t he? Soon, they would decide you were dead weight, of course they would. Miss Grimshaw herself had said you were slacking off: “taking your sweet time under some tree like a lazy child instead of chopping vegetables for breakfast.” And you deserved it, for letting that bastard keep you like that this morning.
But that’s what faces from your past always said. That you’d amount to nothing. That you were good for nothing. That ‘whorin’ was the only way for you.
By the time Arthur, John, Charles, and Sean, who had been gone since the previous evening, rode back into camp, dinner had already been served. The firelight flickered across their faces, and everyone seemed in high spirits. Sean especially, hooting about a train heist gone spectacularly right. Good for them, truly, but in all honesty… you didn’t have it in you to care. Not after the worst day you’d had in a while.
You heard the laughter from across camp as you scrubbed the dinner dishes under the dim lantern light, and the sound made your chest ache.
A camp full of joy, and you the only sad soul in it.
When you were finally done, you slipped away toward the girls’ tent. You didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to pretend, didn’t want to be seen, and you certainly didn’t want to be around when Javier and Sean began to drink. The music from the campfire—warm, wild, happy—only made the tears press harder behind your eyes.
You sat down on the blanket you had for bed, work clothes and all. You didn’t have it in you to change. You dusted the thin fabric a little, just to keep your hands busy.
And then you heard footsteps approaching behind you.
Please, you thought, let it be anyone but Mary-Beth. You liked her, but you didn’t have a single word left in you.
“Hey.” A voice said softly.
Not Mary-Beth.
“Are you… doin’ something’?”
Your fingers stopped.
You hadn’t heard that voice in a while…
Long enough for the question to surprise you. Yet not long enough for you to forget what he meant by it.
John.
Indeed. It had been a while —two camps ago, to be exact— since he’d come to you.
You wiped a stray tear off your cheek before turning, hoping he hadn’t seen it glint in the lamplight.
He was smiling, a little. Never wide. You had never seen him smile wide. But the hint of one tugged at his mouth, relaxed and easy. You hadn’t seen his lips do that since the night you dug that shard of glass out of his forehead.
Tonight he looked… pleased. With himself. With the world. With the successful heist that Sean wanted everyone to credit him for, even though you’d watched John spend days sitting under that tree outside camp, map in his hands and charcoal tucked behind his ear, planning and recalculating and brooding.
You wanted to say no.
You were tired.
You were hurting.
You were barely holding yourself together.
But hey, you had helped Micah celebrate his return, hadn’t you?
How could you not help John celebrate his success?
You must have stared too long without answering, because he hesitated.
“If you don’t want to, I und—”
“No.” You cut him off quickly.
Because the thing is… you needed him tonight.
Not romantically.
Not lovingly.
You just needed something—someone—who didn’t make you feel like utter garbage.
You stood up, locking your gaze with his, letting your eyes beg for what you didn’t trust your voice to hold.
Yes, you needed him tonight. In a way Abigail wouldn’t have appreciated. Sorry to her, truly, but you needed her husband tonight. You needed the warmth of his body pressed to yours, the gentleness of his cock sliding in and out of you, the sweet sounds of his hips colliding against the soft flesh of your ass. You needed to drown in his scent, in the quiet kindness he didn’t even know he had. Needed him to scrub Micah off your skin, off your mind. Needed him to erase Grimshaw’s words, today’s misery and tomorrow’s dread.
And God, you hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.
“I want to,” you said, voice small but steady. “Follow me. I know a place.”
Limpany looked even more doomed under the moonlight, hollowed, skeletal, its shadows long and crooked. Yet somehow it didn’t feel as threatening or horrible as it had that morning, with Micah as company. Now it was just a dead town, nothing more. A place nobody cared about. A place nobody remembered. A place nobody would look.
You didn’t know what had happened here; the past was just char and ghosts. The fire must have been years ago. It might’ve once been a pleasant little town by the Dakota, with children playing by the river instead of the silence now settled there.
Not much was left. Under the pale light you could make out the carcass of a two-story saloon, a general store, the jail cells. And next to them, the sheriff’s office: roof half-gone, walls still standing. But most importantly, a desk intact enough for him to bend you over. So that’s where you led him.
His footsteps followed you in silence.
“Found this place while pickin’ plants this morning,” you said. First words uttered since you two left camp.
His eyes scanned the gaps where roof beams used to be.
“You shouldn’t stray too far from camp, miss,” he murmured, “This here’s O’Driscoll country.” He picked up a half-broken bottle, turning it in his hand. “A young lady all by herself can attract the worst sort of company.”
You watched him examine the glass. Despite your sour mood, the warning warmed you. It was… nice. Someone caring, even a little. Even occasionally. Maybe if you’d listened earlier, maybe that bastard wouldn’t have—
You took the bottle from his hand and set it back on the desk. He looked at you closely. You hadn’t brought him here to think about your misery. You had brought him here so he could help you forget.
You turned in the tight space he’d left between his body and the desk, his breath matching the river’s slow rhythm outside. Your fingers pulled your hair to the side and your skirt up, muscle memory guiding them, even though it had been weeks since he last touched you.
“Here, please,” you requested softly, directing his hands to your hips so he could hold your skirt. Then, you braced your palms on the dusty desk, bending over the hard surface. You’d done your part. Now all he had to do was what he always did.
His dominant hand undid his belt and suspenders. You heard him stroke himself, spit slicking his palm. Then the familiar, generous tip of his cock slid past your split drawers, pressing into you, slow, careful, gentle. He always took his time, easing into you inch by patient inch until he filled you completely.
As usual, he set a pace, unhurried and steady. He never fucked you fast. Never rough. Just deep, slow, thorough. And this was what you needed.
But when you closed your eyes to sink into the feeling, your mind didn’t empty. It flooded. Memories. Fear. The sting of the bruise on your neck. The crack in your voice earlier. The things you didn’t let yourself think about.
Your eyes burned. You opened them to the window frame, the silhouette of the burnt saloon blurred through tears. He wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t. Not from behind. And you were grateful.
The first tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. Silent. You let them fall. As long as there was no voice, no weeping sounds.
A low grunt behind you reminded you he was still there, hands steady on your hips, a tall, warm body pressed close. And that’s when it hit you: That—that exact moment—was the only time you ever felt safe. When he was inside you, Micah couldn’t reach you. Hell, even if he walked through that burnt doorway right then, he couldn’t touch you. Because John was already taking you. Because in those moments, you belonged to him. Him alone.
To John.
“John,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your breath shaking. His name like a reminder that it was him behind you. Him and not Micah.
“John,” you said again, your body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried alone. Your voice cracked, tiny, broken, not even meant for him to notice.
But he did. He always noticed more than people thought.
A comfortable weight settled across your bent back, solid, grounding, comforting. Warm breath touched your neck… and then…the unmistakable softness of lips.
His lips.
Pressed to the burning bruise Micah had left. A soft, gentle peck that made your heart stutter, as if bracing for a storm to break.
“John?” you whispered his name like a question you didn’t expect answered.
Yet he did.
He straightened and pulled you back against him, not roughly, not lustfully, just holding you. Welcoming you. Your spine pressed to his chest, his arms sliding around your waist, his hands meeting beneath your breasts. Holding you, not using you.
And as hot tears streamed freely down your face, you realized that was the closest thing to a hug you’d had in years.
There, in his arms, you were safe. Safe as long as he was inside you. Safe even if that bastard tried something. John would protect you. You knew it without knowing why.
You were always quiet, trained quiet, scared quiet. Always except tonight.
“John—” you moaned, louder this time, loud enough for anyone walking by to hear. Your voice cracked wide open, with raw pain.
And bone-deep pleasure.
You cried harder in his arms, quiet sobs slipping out with his name—his name you gasped again and again as he thrust into you, pushing hot tears and pent-up hurt out of you until they streamed down your cheeks, down your neck, pooling warm beneath your shirt…
But then, he stilled inside you.
Lowering his head.
His lips hovering beside your ear.
Something human.
Gentle.
Alive.
“John?” you breathed again, your hands sliding over his where they held you, just over your ribs, your chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm.
“It’s alright, miss’.” He answered, voice low, soft, unguarded. Pressing another kiss to the bruise on your neck, reassuring you that he was still there. As if it would help it heal. A gesture tender in a way he probably was not aware of.
“You’re okay, darlin’.” He promised, breath warm against your skin. And for the first time all day, those sweet words, whispered so gently against your ear, made you believe you were.
forget-me-not: knight!arthur morgan x princess!reader
a/n: this is so self-indulgent lol, but i'm a sucker for the knight x princess forbidden love trope. inspired by this absolutely breathtaking art by @phantomnotghost.
tags: angst, forbidden love, tragic romance, medieval au
in medieval times, forget-me-not flowers symbolized remembrance, loyalty, and faithful love despite separation. ✿
he knelt before your lifeless form, hands trembling beneath his metal gauntlets despite his stoic expression. arthur had vowed to protect you; that was his duty, his life’s purpose. and he failed.
for the first time, the weight of his armor felt crushing as he regarded your now pierced flesh with a reverent gaze, rivers of blood pooling from your lacerated figure into the soft earth below. the jewels from your crown lay strewn and shattered, a sickening reminder of the end of all that arthur once knew.
he reached out a tentative hand before pulling back. it felt cruel to touch you with such harsh metal, as if the mere act would somehow wound you more. but he was forbidden from ever feeling you with his bare hands. a knight was never to share something so intimate with the princess; he was to be just a distant shield.
except, he wasn’t just that. foolishly, arthur was helplessly yours. utterly and completely.
soft droplets of rain began to fall as the sky seemed to share in his grief. he was watching them pepper your paling skin when a delicate, sky-blue petal tucked in the pocket of your gown caught his eye: a forget-me-not.
his throat tightened. of course you’d carried one with you. you always did.
they were a secret language of longing and devotion between the two of you. arthur would pick the dainty buds from sunlit fields and leave them hidden between the pages of your books. in turn, you would have them be planted all over the kingdom. once, in a bold act of defiance, you ordered for an entire garden to be planted right outside of his living quarters. there had been whisperings about it in court, and he thought you had gone completely mad, but you didn’t care. you needed him to know that your heart was his and his alone.
he took a shaky breath and, following in your bravery, removed a single gauntlet. with bare, calloused fingers, he gently placed the forget-me-not behind your ear. his love for you was deep-rooted, just like the flowers you had sewn for him. he would never forget, he could never forget, the tender bloom of romance with each lingering look and exchange of soft petals.
Thinking about Arthur yet again, how he’s so smart and doesn't realise it.
(Short thought baby semi- connected to main fic)
He hasn’t had much of any advanced formal education and it didn't bother him much at all… until he met you. A twinge of embarrassment tugs at him when he doesn't understand certain words you use. Frustrates him quite a bit when it happens more than once in a conversation. Like when it starts storming and you point out the cumulonimbus clouds and the bountiful precipitation. He might be the one teaching you how to collect it and filter it but his unspoken questions of what the hell those words mean stay rooted in his head and make him feel very inadequate.
He’s never upset at you, or even really at himself – for once, it makes him confront the fact that he was cheated out of a lot in his life. He’ll often poke fun at you and your “big” words but he likes that you’re smart in that way, even if it makes the gap between your upbringings all the more evident. You don't quite understand the way he views it. Don't get why he laughs and calls you ridiculous when you tell him he’s the smartest man you’ve ever met. Or when you suggest that his writing and illustrations could make a good book one day. He wonders if you mean it but typically settles on the idea that you're just pitying him. He can't see that when he shows you how to make a fire or clean a gun or how to saddle a horse, or one of the very many other things he's taught you, that you're amazed by him. Maybe you can explain the science behind photosynthesis but he knows how to spot which plants you can eat and which ones will kill you.
If it was someone else, some uppity society man then he'd have no problem seeing, flaunting even, his superior capabilities and knowledge of the world despite his unique upbringing; hell due to his unique upbringing.
But he’ll probably never see it that way when it comes to you so he’ll read those books he finds on his travels that expand his vocabulary and teach him things no one really NEEDS to know. He’ll bring up whatever he's learned the next time y'all talk and he'll try to not make it obvious that he's been studying. It takes you a little while to realize just why he keeps bringing up random facts and using unnecessarily large words but when you do you make sure to compliment him and try not to make too big a deal (he gets embarrassed easier than you'd think). You’d start leaving books around for him and he’d start reading em. Maybe it all started as a way to ease that small insecurity of his but he ends up remembering he quite liked reading and learning. Heals that little boy in him who lost his momma and all of a sudden wasn't learning much of anything good anymore, just a bit. Makes him look at the world differently after too. The same way the things he’s taught you changed the way you saw things. Now when the rain starts to pour he knows just how it happens, and you know just what to do with it.
HE'S SO FREAKING UUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!
