Why has Arthur dropped out of the narrative?

My headcanon is that he's suffering medical complications from his blood transfusion!

This is a lil scene the night of him donating his blood, featuring him being very dizzy and Lord Godalming Sr. being a very good dad. Rated G, no spoilers. Enjoy!

The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea | Part One

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Summary: An attack on Arthur’s imprisoned brother Orm leaves him with no choice but to rely upon you, a friend made due to unfortunate circumstances nearly a decade ago, to provide safe haven while he restores peace to Atlantis. Suddenly tasked with sheltering a sullen former king results in a very different summer vacation than you had originally envisioned, but changes both of your lives forever.

Warnings: Language, Discussion of Injuries, Discussion of Events of Aquaman Movie, Reader Has No Dietary Restrictions, Orm Is A Picky Eater, Arthur Is A Drinker, Alcohol

Word Count: 1781

Sunset Country, Northwest Ontario, Canada – Summer 2019

You leaned back on the lounge chair, looking out over the diamonds on the water of the lake where you had spent your summers since the year you were born. It has been in the family since the 1920s. The footprint of the cottage had changed over the years, as had the neighbours, but never the peaceful scenery. The granite rocks, the crooked jack pines; they had been there for centuries and would remain long after you were gone.

As the world became less and less familiar, the consistency of this place was a comfort to you. It was why you had decided to spend the month of August here for summer holidays. You glanced over at your phone as it chimed with a message on Facebook Messenger. Probably a reply from Tom. You unlocked the screen and looked over the panorama of the coast he’d sent in reply to your panorama of the lake. You really needed to get back to Maine one of these days…

A well-earned respite from the daily grind! It’s a beautiful day down here, too. Enjoy your vacation!

You replied with a GIF of Eddie Murphy in a lounge chair enjoying a glass of champagne with the caption ‘vacation mode’ and chuckled at his reply of laughing emojis. Sure, Facebook and it’s Messenger companion weren’t for the cool kids anymore, but out here with only WIFI, they were the most reliable way to stay in touch with others.

You set the phone down and took a sip of your own cool beverage before burying yourself in the book you’d been saving for this exact purpose. You passed the day reading, swimming a few times, enjoying some snacks, but never really leaving the dock. The lapping of the water on the rocks, and the creak of the floating dock attached to the solid one upon which you sat were your soundtrack. It was heaven.

It was just about time to head up to the cottage, to think about dinner, when two figures suddenly burst out of the water and landed on the end of the floating dock. The water you had been drinking missed your mouth entirely and poured down the front of your bathing suit, the cold shock against your warm skin propelling you to your feet with a gasp.

“Jesus fucking Christ” You exclaimed. “Arthur?!” You squinted at the dark haired, towering man who you had not seen in person in nearly a decade. “What the fuck are you doing here? How did you even…” You trailed off as your manners caught up to your shock. There was someone else with him.

Arthur smirked a little as he strolled across the wooden boards towards you. “Easy Brokedown Girl, can’t I visit an old friend?”

You nodded dumbly, but your eyes were resting on the figure beside him…His blonde hair shone in the long light of the afternoon, his eyes were a pale blue. He didn’t stand as tall as Arthur but was just a broad and perhaps even more imposing due to the stoic look upon his face.

“Orm, this is Brokedown Girl. Brokedown Girl, my brother Orm.” Arthur’s introduction pierced through your thoughts, and you cleared your throat.

“It’s been seven years, Arthur. Will you ever let me live it down?” You smiled to them both and introduced yourself properly to Orm. He nodded in return and that is when you noticed the rips in his black suit…it looked akin to a wetsuit but definitely seemed more advanced. Arthur wore something similar, though with more structure and gauntlets. Most noticeable, however, were the wounds on his brother’s exposed skin. “Why don’t you come inside and tell me why you’re really here…”

You grabbed your things and led them up to the modestly-sized cottage, holding the door open for them as they filed in, finding themselves in the kitchen.

You headed further into the building, through the open dining and living room and down to the hall to grab a couple of towels and the first aid kit from the bathroom, before returned to guide them to sit on the wooden chairs at the dining table. They would take the damp better than the soft furniture of the living room.

A screened in veranda with a pair of day beds and a few chairs was attached to the front of the cottage, facing the lake, accessible from the dining room, while access to the back deck lay opposite, facing miles of uninhabited forest.

You came up to Orm, admittedly intimidated by his handsome appearance and cold demeanor, but set the first aid kit in on the table in front of him.

“I’m trained in first aid; can I help you?” You asked while trying to assess the extent of his wounds.

He shook his head.

“No need. I will see to it myself, where may I get cleaned up?”

You nodded and led him to the bathroom, leaving him with the first aid kit and more towels before coming back to Arthur who had stripped to the waist and was towelling himself off at the table. Well at least he didn’t seem injured. You grabbed him a cold beer from the fridge and offered it to him, hoping it would help him explain what was going on.

He took a grateful, and deep, swallow before looking to you and sighing. “He was supposed to be safe. Our mother had been visiting him, things had been going so well…”

You held your breath at the mention of his mother, holding back your shock, and nodded as though you knew the full story. You were honestly just relieved he’d started talking. Your nod was enough to prompt him into a fuller explanation. Of the attack on the surface, the ring of fire, the trident, finding his mother…that part brought a smile to his face…the battle, and finally the defeat and imprisonment of his brother. By the time he finished his story, Orm had joined you at the table, bandages visible through the tears in his suit, his hair combed back neatly.

“I am going to find out who did this…I am going to bring peace to Atlantis and then all seven of the kingdoms…but I need to keep you safe, little brother. You’ll stay here with Brokedown Girl.” Orm opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but Arthur shook his head and continued.

“No one but my father knows who she is or that she even exists. You know how hard it was for us to get here, it is the safest place for you to be until I fix this.”

You swallowed tightly, processing the extensive information he had just provided to you, and now the fact that you were going to be sheltering his brother.

“Are you certain, Arthur? You know I’m not…”

“You are the safest place in the entire world. There is no one I would trust more with my little brother.” He interrupted you firmly.

You nodded in reply, lost for words at the heartfelt nature of his statement.

“Well,” You cleared your throat “You’ll be needing something food before you head back, right? Steak and potatoes?” You stood and grabbed the ingredients from the refrigerator, seasoning the steaks and washing the potatoes before wrapping them in foil. You could hear them talking to each other quietly as you worked, and you consciously ignored them. It was obviously not a conversation for your ears.

You cooked everything on the barbecue on the back deck, burning any remnants of food off the grill while the steaks rested to prevent any temptation to the local bear population. You made a salad just before you sat down together to eat. Arthur was ravenous, obviously having used a lot of energy to get his brother to you, so far inland. Orm was somewhat more reticent. He tried bites of the steak and potatoes, mostly seeming to gravitate toward the salad, but hunger eventually won out and he cleared his plate as well.

You were already planning on going into town to get him some clothes. You’d make sure to buy some food more to his liking as well. The sun was beginning to set when Arthur announced he would get going. The two of you followed him down to the dock as he pulled his suit back onto his torso while walking.

“I will come back once it’s safe.” He grabbed Orm’s forearm and pulled him in for a hug. Orm seemed somewhat stiff in the face of the affection but nodded as Arthur pulled back.

“Just remember you can’t text me out here, ok?” You reminded him, giving him a hug. “Be careful…” You said firmly but offered a smile.

“Don’t you worry about me, Brokedown Girl. Just make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.” He patted your head, and you shot him a look of annoyance. Orm did not look overly impressed with his comment either. Neither of you had the opportunity to reply, however, as he promptly leapt backwards into the lake, leaving a ripple of wake in his trail as he shot off through the water.

You turned to Orm, the light of sunset playing off the water onto his striking features and swallowed.

“Well…I’ll, uh, show you your room.”

He turned to you and nodded. You were close enough to see the stunning blue of his eyes. A shade reminiscent of some tropical waters off in the Pacific somewhere. You managed to turn away before he saw you swallow visibly, or at least you hoped that was the case. You led him back up into the cabin and down the hall past the bathroom and towards the bedrooms. You stepped into the one beside yours, looking out over the water.

“Will you be comfortable in here?” You asked.

He nodded quietly. “It will do, yes.”

You smiled a little, relieved. “I’m just next door, please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be up for a while yet reading, but I understand in you’ve had a long day?”

He nodded again. “I will retire for the night.”

“Good night then.” You smiled again and stepped out, leaving him to his privacy.

You cleaned up the kitchen and sat on the veranda as the night closed in, cooling off from the heat of the day. You tried to pick up your book again but found your thoughts drifting…drifting back to Arthur’s words, back to his brother just down the hall. You sighed as you looked out over the water and couldn’t help but feel like your life had just become very, very complicated.

Read Part Two

Masterlist

Abigail Roberts A-Z Alphabet Fluff Prompt

Rest of letters here. T: Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, and gifts?)

We see in the epilogue that Abigail definitely tries to make things special for John sometimes. She'll buy him a new shirt, she'll make his favorite food, she seems to decorate the place extra nice and genuinely just wants to spend time with him. For Jack, she wants each birthday to be as special as possible since she feels she can't give him much. She'll make cinnamon rolls or French toast in the morning. She always saves money to buy him a new book or takes him to the bookstore, bakes a cake, and gives him the few gifts she and John could buy or make him. She'll try to buy something affordable from the catalog, with John giving suggestions on what he THINKS Jack might like……..it doesn't always work, but he tries. In the modern au, she'll take him to an arcade with his friends. (YES, THEY EXIST STILL.) That, or the movies and some restaurant.

Needless to say, she puts a lot of time and effort into dates, anniversaries, and gifts. 

U: Ugly (What would be a bad habit of theirs?)She worries and paces so much I bet she could make a mark on a wooden floor. I'd also say maybe checking in on people too much. Some people like Jack and John think it's bossy and nosy, but she's trying to help for the most part. If it's Jack or John………or Uncle, she's trying to make sure they're behaving.. On a lesser scale, she either seems to have great posture or really bad posture, no in between, it seems. Finally, her squinting at the sun really damages her eyes, causing her pain.

V: Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

She knows she's beautiful, but she doesn't bother putting much effort into her looks. In Canon, she wears the same outfit for years. She also wears a simple bun and a braid at night. She could be curling her hair or wearing it up like the other ladies, but she doesn't. I thought she wore the lightest makeup, but I don't believe it at the end of the day, and she wouldn't waste the little money she had on it. Modern Au is just as beautiful but doesn't spend a lot of time on her looks, either. She wears her hair naturally. Mostly in a bun or braid, but she is more likely to wear it down here. She wears light makeup. Eyeshadow, eyeliner, lipstick and foundation. She goes for a more natural look, but red lipstick looks stunning. She doesn't bother with beauty trends, just what she feels comfortable with. She is also less fashionable than Molly. She cares about being comfortable and "age-appropriate." Meaning she doesn't dress like a "mom," but she's not wild either.

W: Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Abigail learned this lesson after all the hell she was put through with John. Her heart felt incomplete, but she never would admit it, even when L.H. Arthur would point it out. She resigned herself to being alone. She felt no one would ever love a single mother, especially one with her past. She had given up on love. Could she be pulled out of that mindset? Yes, but it would take someone very special. IMHO, a woman would have better luck with this. (Granted, women can be super judgmental.)   Xtra (A random headcanon for them)  This was posted in a seperate link because the HC I picked needed some explaining. Y - There was not a Y for the list.

Z: Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Abigail hates sleeping on her back anymore. Sleeping outside on the ground for so many years has really messed with her back. She's a side sleeper now, but she sometimes rolls onto her back anyway.

𝐏𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 🎃🎃

► SYNOPSIS:

The residents show off their Jack-o'-lanterns, and the competition is tough.

Meanwhile, someone is missing from the scene.

▍characters: MC, comte, leonardo, mozart, arthur, theo, isaac, vincent, dazai, jean, sebastian, napoleon

▍rating: G 

▍tags: Humor; Crack; Mentions of Blood

▍wordcount: 2,238

masterlist

▍a/n: Happy Halloween, everyone! I hope you enjoy this. Have a spooky day <3

It's almost Halloween in Saint Germain's mansion, and as per tradition, MC takes it upon herself to properly introduce the residents to the fairly new holiday for their current time period - hoping that it would bring nothing but fun times for anyone. This year she steps up her game by adding an element of competition to the pumpkin carving.

The dining room is transformed to accommodate the display of the spooky creations - chairs put aside and pumpkins lined up to be rated by the trustworthy judges, namely MC and Comte. Why them? Because they've been scouted as the most unbiased ones, in theory, because they're practically biased in everyone's favor. A loving father figure and a loving…babysitter and caretaker of the mansion. It would make do.

"Alright everyone, let's get started! We're going to be harsh. Remember, this is all just a silly little competition, don't take anything personally!" MC announces, eyes moving from one end of the long table to the other, meeting some excited and some conflicted faces.

***

She puts her attention to the first in the line, Arthur, and begins examining his creation alongside Comte.

They're both puzzled by what they see.

Arthur's pumpkin is… well, first of all, it's not horny. MC is not sure how Arthur would've been able to convey his unrestricted slutty nature into the shell of a pumpkin, but she figured he had his ways. The thing in front of them, however, gives off a different kind of emotion…something to do with deep emotional dread. The face of his pumpkin looks as if it's been tortured. More interestingly, there appears to be something written on the sides…? MC and Comte lean in and squint in order to read the tiny text, but Arthur hides it before they can make anything of it.

"It's notes. For my book. I had to write them down before I can forget."

The tone is nothing like his usual one. Looking up from the pumpkin, MC's blood freezes as the sight is more frightening than the pumpkin itself. Arthur looks sleep deprived, his hair a mess, his foot tapping aggressively against the floor at a fast pace. Right, he did mention something about going through writer's block…

"Oh. By Jove, I really need to go."

A word or two about taking care of himself is well in order, yet MC feels a little betrayed by his lack of interest in this mansion bonding experience.

"Jeez Arthur, your book is not going to go away!"

"No, I mean… I really need to go… to the toilet. I think I drank one too many coffees, Luv..."

***

Next up is Theo, who is finally finished laughing behind his, err, friend's back, and as soon as the two judges are in front of him, his expression undergoes a fast metamorphosis from smug to frightened. He has his pumpkin facing him, preparing it for a dramatic spin which would reveal the carved face on the other side.

"I'd be careful on your place. Especially you, Hondje. Try not to wet your pants."

"Just show it already…"

"Ahem." Theo coughs and tries to build up the tension again, "I made the face of one of the most dreadful creatures known to humankind."

You in the morning waiting for pancakes?, MC thinks, deadpan, while Comte is smiling emptily - he's seen everything. He is not easily amused at this point.

Finally, Theo spins the pumping, revealing…

Revealing…

A cat's…face?

"A cat's face?" MC and Comte's voices overlap - it's one part an honest guess, because it's not the most prominent cat's face they've seen - and one part surprise. And then it clicks. Theo is scared by cats, so naturally…

"HOW are you not scared. These creatures are just vile. I barely managed to carve this."

Uh-oh. The situation is laughable, and Theo is angry. He expects his efforts to be appreciated. As if by telepathy, MC and Comte both nod and smile, passing the notepad to each other to put in their impressions, just like how they did for Arthur's creation. Theo looks smug again. They move on.

***

Napoleon's pumpkin is…

"Well, that sure is a pumpkin."

Comte nods, hand on his chin. "It is, yes. It has a strong Halloween motive to it."

Napoleon blinks, his smile growing a tad more awkward, waiting to hear more.

"A classic Jack-o-Lantern. I almost see the stock photo watermarks over it."

"The what?"

"MC is trying to say that,"

"If all the pumpkins here were the characters of a mobile game, this one would be the poster boy!"

Napoleon is even more confused. But if anything, he prides himself in having good intuition. And the thing it is telling him now is…

"Are you saying that my pumpkin is boring?"

***

The stakes are high for Vincent. Not that every artist is necessarily good at all art mediums there are, much less when it comes to the complex art of pumpkin carving, but the excitement is huge nonetheless. Vincent chuckles shyly at their bubbling curiosity, and like Theo, spins his pumpkin to reveal its face.

It's not a face, however. It's a whole landscape - fields upon fields, threes in the distance, scorching sun above with its rays portrayed for effect. The most eye-catching of it all is that Vincent found a way to stay true to his unique style - the elements of the landscape are consisting of many dashed lines carved into the surface, achieving that familiar feeling of movement present in all his canvases. It's a masterpiece on a pumpkin.

After a round of applause beginning with the judges and following through all of the room, Comte and MC are ready to fill in their remarks on the notepad, but…

"That…wasn't very scary now, was it?"

Vincent rubs the back of his neck, understanding his mistake. "I couldn't bring myself to put any scary elements into this. I'm sorry. The competition's spirit filled me with one too many bright emotions!"

They don't deserve Vincent.

***

Leonardo's pumpkin is outright steampunk incarnate. It's a very intriguing thing to look at, with various types of screws forming the smile and two nuts for eyes; most likely scrap parts from his various intentions and the things he is fixing back in his room. It's the embodiment of the phrase "work smarter, not harder" since the judges notice that there is barely any carving done here. They take back a point for that, impressed or not.

***

"I don't understand this."

"I do." Comte says, eyes scanning over the few lines of sheet music carved into the pumpkin instead of a face, by Mozart. His knowledge of playing the violin comes in handy in understanding the creation of the music genius in front of him, and he analyses it to his best extent.

"It's threatening music notation.", he states, visibly feeling threatened by whatever is going on on this staff. MC doesn't get much of it, but she can tell that it is something absurd-looking, just on the verge of not making sense yet passing for actual music, ruining the lives of the ones convicted to play it.

"Thank you."

***

"On first look, it's a normal Jack-o'-lantern," Isaac explains, a slight smile on his face, gloves on, eyes protected behind goggles. Naturally, the other contestants move a few steps away from Isaac out of concern, but their eyes stay close to what is happening in front of him. The attention is a little too much on him, so he wastes no time processing the demonstration. "But when I add the hydrochloric acid…"

Isaac pours a small amount of the contents of a vial to what appears to be a hidden container inside the pumpkin - the result comes quickly as the lid of the pumpkin is put into place and tons of white fog-like smoke pours out of the Jack-o'-lantern's mouth. Isaac's smile grows just a tad wider while everyone is busy looking at his creation and wowing, and the following round of applause is welcomed by him, too. Maybe that competition wasn't much of a bad idea, after all.

***

"I was inspired by Ai-kun's invention."

Comte and MC raise a brow, mirroring each other almost perfectly, albeit Comte still manages to do it in his own refined way. Isaac is voicing out his frustration in advance and everyone is waiting to know.

"Let me demonstrate." Dazai brings his own pumpkin into view, which, by the way, has a very comical expression. Maybe it's that the eyes are too tiny, or the mouth too crocked, but there is something goofy about it for sure. What is more interesting, though, is that Dazai appears to be spinning a handle at the pumpkin's backside.

Soon its "guts" start to spill through the opening of its mouth, seed and pulp and all that, wave after wave. It's spooky for sure. A bit like a parody of Isaac's creation, but spooky nonetheless. A point for that.

"So what's the mechanism behind it?" Comte asks, notepad propped up against his chest reminiscent of a curious student in front of his professor. Dazai is amused to catch his interest like so, and probably everyone else's at that matter and hurries to explain.

"I burrowed the meat grinder from the kitchen and put it inside."

***

By the time they reach Jean, the last contestant, their hopes are high again. After Dazai nothing can manage to be as much of a headache or to potentially require a conversation on how kitchen appliances are not borrowable for Halloween decoration.

"Jean, what is this?"

A haphazardly cut-out triangle for one eye, eyepatch over the other. A vertical cut in the place of a mouth.

"It's me."

***

Alright, that's all! Comte and I will discuss the results in private and decide on a winner… though I can already tell it's gonna be a hard job."

The dining room gets rowdy with conversation.

"It's a shame that Sebas didn't get to compete as well."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same."

"Man, he would've LOVED to see everyone's demonstrations. I can imagine him, diary in hand and everything."

"He has a diary?"

"It's fine Vincent, we don't have to pretend we don't know when he's not around."

"Anyway, why isn't Sebastian here, anyway?"

"Huh? No really, why is he not here?"

"Where is Sebastian?"

"Good day, Messieurs."

The dining room's doors open with a bang, pushed by the force of a familiar figure. It's Sebastian, but his state is unrecognizable. His usually neat and clean butler's uniform is now all dirtied up with… bits of pumpkin pulp? Is this what it is?

"Forgive my rude demand, but," he puts the object he was holding, namely a pumpkin, on the center of the table. "I would like to participate as well. I hope you're accepting late entries."

It's a…

A whole pumpkin, untouched in the means of carving, not even gutted out yet.

But what it does have, is a butcher's knife stuck in it.

And an ominous red stickiness all around.

"Sebastian, calm down." Comte is the bravest to speak first, keeping his composure. "I know good lawyers. You know I'd never let you-"

"Oh but what's the need, Monsieur Le Comte? This is merely some rouge I spilled."

It's Comte who sighs in relief, but it feels like it's also everyone else in the room.

"I spilled it because I was busy making ten pumpkin pies. You generous messieurs have left me with…quite the material to work with. Copious amounts of it."

Eyes are meeting eyes across the room, some glued to the tips of their owner's shoes instead. No one dares to say anything.

"Some were left in separate bowls, which is fine. But some were left in the sink."

Sebastian grabs the handle of the butcher's knife and effortlessly retracts it from the pumpkin. He takes a cleaning cloth from his back pocket and begins to wipe it clean while talking, still keeping his eyes up. Out of respect.

"Some were in questionable kitchen utensils and other places. A large amount - on the floor."

Napoleon is brave, too.

"Sebastian, we are going to help-"

"What? What was that, Monsieur Napoleon? We're going to hold a competition for doing Sebastian's chores for the rest of the day? Oh how I'd love to be a judge in that! Do count me in."

Before Sebastian gets too scary to be around, the residents head towards the kitchen, carefully going out of forehead flicking range. Arthur is there as well, fortunately having finished his business in the toilet for the time being.

"Ah. Another thing. Since you told me to think of a way to add to this year's Halloween spirit, and I had plenty of time in my hands back in the kitchen all day to think, I've come up with an idea. I hope it will be to your liking."

"Do tell, Sebas. Your ideas never disappoint." Leonardo tries to lighten the atmosphere, almost giving Sebastian a pat on the back but deciding to refrain from doing so at the last moment. He is the head of the small group on their way to the kitchen, everyone already knowing their fate. "I thought we could cut off on fake blood expenses for decoration purposes. We will be decorating with your blood, Messieurs. It's not like it would be lethal to you if I were to borrow some. As far as I'm concerned."

a/n:

"Threatening music notation" is a reference to a twitter account with the same name for which I joked about being run by Mozart.

"But what was the first place prize in the competition?" I . dont. know. Maybe you have a suggestion? Either way, I doubt they'd get to that part anytime soon. Maybe Sebas can have it?

I wanted to draw what the pumpkins look like but I doubt i'd ever have the time for that :D If anyone happens to want to do that instead, i'd LOVE to see them!

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran @thehappycat123 @theuwuisunreal @kiyokirigiri-22 @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @fun-ghoul-neela @salty-fed-up-bitch @coornn @cilokgoang @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @tiny-wooden-robot @joy-the-reader @atelieredux Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

make me write: the thieves of morbhard

from the raedoran cycle. y'all voted for the pining gay thieves lets do it.

taglist (ask to be added<3): @k–havok @theharpywrites @allianaavelinjackson @oh-no-another-idea

“I've got it,” Jack slurs, grabbing at his satchel. Arthur leans his head against the wall behind his bed and watches through half-lidded eyes as Jack produces a weathered scroll case. “Cost me a fuckin' forture, selfish cartograstographer.”

Arthur laughs, lazy and drunk and perfectly content.

Jack manages to open the case and dumps out the scroll inside. He tumbles out of his bed and kneels on the floor, weighting the corners of the map down with loose coins. Arthur slides to the floor with him, resting his cheek on Jack's shoulder. Jack's fingers brush his.

“Where do you want to go?” he murmurs. Arthur inhales a little shakily, trying to focus on the map and not the way Jack's hair tickles his nose.

“Hasal is too cold.” Jack hums with agreement. “Fierodia could be nice.”

Jack traces a finger over the spiky label for Horsa on the western coast. “They supersititious?”

Arthur frowns. “I don't know. Probably.” He peels his cheek off Jack's shoulder and leans over the map, squinting at the ink. “Titrodoreos?”

“Say that five times fast,” Jack laughs, hiccupping.

“Guildins don't have a problem with hollow children,” Arthur muses. “Could be something.”

“We'll get a desert villa on the Eastern Sea,” Jack declares, leaning over the map with a nub of charcoal from Arthur's bag. He makes a sloppy mark next to Titrodoreos. “Supposed to be the city of opportunity.”

“Maybe.” Arthur's vision swims a little. “Guildin laws are stricter than Raedoran ones. Could get our hands chops off.”

“Second choice?” Jack trails the charcoal down the map, slashing a line from the Eastern to the Southern Sea. “Are there really serpents down there?”

Arthur is getting too sleepy for this. “Probably not. Serpents aren't real.”

“That's what some people said about dragons,” Jack retorts, fumbling for the rum bottle. He pouts when he realizes it's empty and he tosses it aside with a sigh. Arthur tears his gaze away from his mouth. “I bet we'll see one on the way there.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Jack lays down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Arthur lays down next to him, turning his head to watch Jack's throat work for a minute. “Do you really think we'll actually pull it off? Steal the crown jewels?”

Arthur lets his gaze wander up the ceiling as well, pretends he can see the night sky past it. Stars swim in his vision, and he makes a stupid wish on one of them. “Yeah, I think we will.”

The Last Honest Men - Part 1 (Reupload)

(From the Story of the same name on my Archive- Reuploaded to include all segments of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis:

"Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself. On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question whether his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch/Grimshaw, Dutch/Molly, Dutch/Hosea)

-

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.

--------

"I heard that Arthur ran into his old girl back in town." Abigail mused while stirring her breakfast.

"Did he now." Dutch deadpanned. He had his bowl before his knees, elbows pressed on top as he leaned into the smoke of the morning fire.  Normally, he would give a rat's ass about the daily affairs around camp. Rather, he had given that drawling idiot very precise instructions to go and fetch Micah from whatever disaster he had crawled into, out in some pokey little outpost called Strawberry. Needless to say, hearing about Arthur instead pulling a Romeo out in bum-fuck-nowhere put a bit of a sour taste in his mouth.

"Bad seasoning?" Pearson caught him rolling his tongue over his teeth to spit out some gristle. "I told Javier to get the good stuff in town, but I think he ran out on me to the saloon instead." The camp cook chuckled and continued chopping carrots.

Abigail glanced between the men, feeling a bit caught between the attitudes. Dutch could tell that she wanted to laugh over his puckering look but its persistence hushed her. She instead shoved her next spoonful deep into her mouth and chewed on it to keep quiet. 

The next voice he heard made the hairs behind his collar prickle.

"And what's this about Mary?"

"It's nothing, Hosea. Don't you start fretting over him." Dutch warned him.

He knew he was about to get an earful when he heard that wheezy windup from the blonde. Dutch shoveled down a mouthful of his slop and blinked away the pain from the heat. It didn't distract him as he had hoped.

Hosea Matthews, his Old Girl...and with the shrewdness of one too. Only a true conman would just sit down without a care to another's frets and dig right into them. Dutch glowered at the man suddenly almost elbow-to-elbow with him, making a point to clear his throat as Hosea adjusted his hat and squinted up at the morning sky, watching where the smoke trail was billowing to.

"Yes, well, he sure as hell fretted over me many times. It must be like we're a family here." Hosea side glanced him, smiling. "He isn't a boy anymore, Dutch. We of all people should know what it is like to wander back into old arms."

Abigail was giving them a funny look, and he did neither of them any honors from the vehement snort he took. Damn them all, giving him looks and those shitty little side looks...it took everything he had to not just toss his bowl into the flames right there, but he couldn't stop the light bounce to his foot. A few "Mm." sounds came out of him, which were better to process with his eyes closed. Mm-mm-mmm....A nod here, a few shakes there and he was exhaling with a fixed smile.

"That we do, my friend." He stressed the last two syllables. "And that we do, to mourn the loss of great women that raised us up into honest men."

He maintained his stare with Hosea, who also was resting in the same position as him. The little shit glanced over him to hand wave Abigail, giving an apologetic smile when she took her cue to leave. Once they were alone at the fire, side by side, did Hosea's expression settle back into that so-tight squint it almost looked like his eyes were mere slits.

"What's eating you now?" He asked. "You've been chasing everyone off all morning with that rotten look of yours."

Dutch slapped a knee and leaned back, groaning up at the sky.

"Not you too. I already got a good cussin' from Molly."

"Trouble in paradise, huh."

Dutch glared at him. 

"You would know, you incessant bastard."

Hosea maintained his agitating calmness. His smile was far too pleasant for the tone of the matter. He too sat up and fussed with his scarf, which had collected some wayward bits of ash.

"Yes, well, twenty-odd years of being your work wife certainly does that to one's intuition." He looked over his longtime partner and gave him a shoulder bump to help lighten the mood. "The best I can do, of course." 

Dutch had to smile at that. He knew Hosea could never hold back his tender nature for long. 

He clapped a hand on the man's back and gave it a rub, though it only took him a moment to feel haunted by how similar this gesture was compared to last night with Molly. The affectionate press against his palm made for a nauseating tingle to crawl up his arm and deep beyond his shoulder. Dutch glanced around them, but everyone else was content to their own morning routines.

"You do it well, I know." He conceded, head down. He dumped his stew into the fire and tossed the plate and spoon into the dirt. Pearson barked something at him from a distance, but all that mattered now was listening to the tranquil hum of his better half. "You're right, I...am just having a morning."

"You riled up more over Arthur, or Micah?" Hosea frowned. He was warming his hands, fingers almost getting licked by stray lines of smoke. "If it's the former then I wouldn't worry. He'll turn up sooner or later."

Dutch squeezed at his knees, thinking for a moment.

"And...Micah?"

It was Hosea's turn to twist his face into a sneer. He nudged a stray ember back into the fire with the toe of his boot.

"If I can project onto Arthur, I'd say he's dragging his feet in fetching that bullheaded buffoon for you."

Hosea was not a lying man, which was amusing in reflection of his trade. Dutch wanted to snort at the spiciness of that answer but to know there were multiple folk in his gang that were not fans of Mr. Bell prodded something twitchy inside of him. He leaned in to get a good look at that cracked old muzzle.

"Is there a problem with Micah, Mr. Matthews?"

Hosea was quiet for a moment, staring at the fire. His nose gave a sharp exhale as he wiped a palm down his face in a tired, exasperated tell. 

"I have faith in you, Dutch." He hissed. "I would have walked away by now if I hadn't. I just fear he will get us into hotter water with that temper of his." His voice dipped into that emotional little rasp that always hurt them both to hear. It was enough to even crumble Dutch's resolve a bit, as they both wore the same concerned expressions for each other.

Twenty-odd years, Dutch repeated in his mind. Twenty-plus long, happy, agonizing years with this fussy old mare who matched him in every duel he could ever instigate. Wits, bullets, some stray hands in questionable places...their bond was their own, tested and fortified by fights like this, by tough choices they had to swallow down. Memories of Colter returned to him, those frigid old ghosts who coughed and shivered, struggling to not crack under the weight of his own pressures...

"Dutch."

He blinked. Hosea was giving him a funny look.

"Maybe you should worry more about your sleep, Dutch...or lack thereof."

--------

Micah was back, much to everyone's bitching. Rather, it was the news, of which Arthur kept his answers curt as he slapped a few more dollars into the collection box. The tired bastard looked more trouble than it was worth to prod, covered in dust, scrapes and a few questionable splattering along his face and jacket. Reluctant as Dutch was to ask just what in God's name happened in Strawberry, he was left to ponder while huffing and puffing away from the rumor mill around the stew pot. 

He took to one of his favorite rocks over by the camp ledge, American Inferno in hand and a heavy exhale to calm his nerves. Micah would be back soon, bless him. A visionary, a no-bars-held sorta fella, so willing and eager to get down and dirty for the sake of progress. The only scrap of information Dutch could glean about Mr. Bell's whereabouts came from an offhand grumble from Arthur that the convict was out scrounging around for a sort of peace offering. 

Now, that was loyalty.

Feeling a bit more satisfied, Dutch opened his book and thumbed to where he had left off. He read a few pages, half focused, as he was also listening to the reverend sounding sober enough to give his daily sermon:

"Yes, as it was said in the writings of good James, he said this- my brethren! If any among you strays from the truth! And one turns him back, let him know. That he who turns a sinner. A sinner! From the error of his way will save his soul from death! And, and, my good friends...will cover a multitude of sins..."

Dutch paused at his current passage. It warmed him to hear Swanson's voice, so full of life again. Even if it only was for the night, the man was free from his devils, free to speak with the zeal of Moses on the Mount, full of love he pleaded for his fellows. In a way, he figured they both weren't so different. He rolled his tongue in his mouth while he thought. Something about the passage just hit him in a funny way, but it was one he couldn't focus on for long.

His back hurt and his right eye had been twitching a bit these last few days. The tiff with Molly and the reminders from Hosea had kept him distant from them both. Sleep had not been a fair weather friend for years and especially not since Blackwater, or Colter...or resigning that he couldn't even go to a picture show in a little dump like Valentine. It had been a blue eyed miracle that he had been free to walk down main street with Trelawny to fetch his boys without being shot at on sight.

"Hi, Uncle Dutch." The sweet voice of Jack came up behind him.

He blinked and cleared his throat, exhaling to prepare a charming smile as he watched the boy step into view, playing with some stick he had found nearby.

"Hey, Jack." He smiled. "What's goin' on, little man?"

"Nothing." The child pouted as he tore some smaller twigs off. "I don't like the church talks."

Dutch watched him for a moment before he shifted his book to one knee and patted the other.

"Come here, son. Let's talk."

The little boy hopped onto his knee without hesitation, staring up at him with those big doe eyes full of wonder. Good kid.

He never had children of his own, but Dutch held pride in feeling that he helped raise plenty of fine men and women in this family he had built with Hosea. Jack was undoubtedly the first grandchild he could say he had, a product of their success for going so long against all the world's evils. 

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Dutch smoothed out the dust collecting in the kid's hair. "Now, you tell old Uncle Dutch why you don't listen to Uncle Swanson's stories."

Jack opened his mouth but paused and closed it, instead looking back down to play with his stick. 

"I don't know what he says. They're all boring."

Dutch blinked and gave a nod. Made sense in the eyes of a four year old. But, this was nothing that a little conman magic couldn't fix. He stroked his mustache while feigning thought, chuckling a moment later.

"You know what, you're right. Even us grownups can find them a little boring." He looked down at the boy, who was now swishing his stick around like a fishing rod. "But, every story has a value, Jack, and one day when you are big and strong, I want to see you with your nose in a book and out of trouble. You understand?"

Jack looked at him funny, said nose scrunched. 

"OK...uh...why?" Clearly, the idea of reading didn't seem too cozy with him. 

Dutch mused and gave that little chin a light knuckle.

"Well, for one, you can learn a lot of things from a book." To prove his point, he picked up his own and situated it just right along his thigh to keep it balanced while he flipped through the pages. "You can...well, you can see new ideas, or you can picture a wild adventure in your head. You might even think up something new that you might want to make your own, one day." He tapped a random paragraph on a page, grinning at the gawking child. "This right here, Mr. Marston, is a whole different world."

Jack looked like he was reeling. His eyes were almost glazed over, that little putty mind working hard to shape everything that was just dumped onto him. This might have been a world of toxic order bearing down on them all, but Dutch would see to it that every child of his had the freedom to think, to challenge, to be.

"Do you understand now, Jack?" He asked, hushed.

"I...think so." Jack whimpered. He lowered his stick and looked up to the biggest man he knew. Dutch could see that obedient sense of wonder in those twinkling little eyes- that sort of look that was taken as gospel. "But...reading is so hard! I don't like it..." He played with his hands. "Mama told me no, but I wanna be a gunslinger!"

Dutch stared. His mustache twitched. Now...that was a proud thing to hear, such a vigorous claim for the cause...but he hesitated to say anything. Memories of Jenny flashed before his eyes. Such a sweet young girl, barely old enough to fill her boots, struck down before she could get the taste of his vision. Jenny...that McCourt girl...he wrenched his eyes shut for a moment to squeeze down the pain. The Adler Miss...too many young bloods, subject to so much loss, so very young...

Now he, he absolutely deserved every bullet for them in this crusade. He demanded their loyalty while knowing their fates. It was enough for him to wheeze and look elsewhere, trying to look past their faces in his mind's eyes. Jenny...

"Hey, Lenny." He croaked.

"Huh?" The young man lowered his axe.

"Stop hitting those logs and come over here."

"Uh, OK Dutch." Lenny was by his side a moment later. He smiled at Jack. "Hey."

"Hi, Uncle Lenny." Jack smiled back, though he looked more nervous than ever.

"What'd you call me over here for, Dutch?" Lenny now had his hands on his hips. As he waited, he took a deep inhale through his nose and looked up at the dandelion puffs floating in the breeze.

It was a very handsome visage. A true man, unshackled and unbothered. At home where he was happiest, but shrewd to philosophy. Agitating as the kid was for digging deep, Dutch appreciated their literary debates. He made a gesture at the young man and found his chuckle wavering a bit from the emotion that surprised him.

"Jack, this man...right here. He is strong, he is proud, he gets his way in this world because he does not listen to those fool men that are out there." His voice shook. "And he does it, right from the heart, with the help of books." He laughed in tandem with Lenny, who had raised his brows as if the old man had gone mad.

"What? I don't know about that, Dutch. The books help a lot but..." He gave pause when he saw the challenge in Dutch's stare. Maybe it was that fancy learning that made him catch on quick and change his tune. Maybe he just knew how to fight his battles, but Lenny wagged a finger while nodding, no doubt playing the same fake revelation game. "Yeah...you know what Dutch...I shouldn't doubt them. After all, they helped you too." 

He bent down, hands on knees as he too smiled at Jack. "I overheard one day that your mama and Mister Hosea Matthews himself were teaching you how to read. It's a big honor to know how, Jack, believe me. Any big man can pick up a gun but a bigger man settles his problems right here." He tapped the side of his head and stood back up. "Dutch and I talk all the time about how great books are, don't we?"

"Right you are, my friend." Dutch mused. 

His smile grew a bit bigger when Lenny stepped away to bring back a stool, took a seat and began to scratch at his chin while recalling some of his favorite childhood stories. Together they swapped old tall tales and nursery rhymes, laughing over the silliness of them while a wide eyed boy with twinkling eyes listened while clutching American Inferno close to his chest.

-----

"And what are you doing?" Grimshaw's voice made him sigh. He peeked around the neck of The Count.

"Just giving my horse some tender care, Susan. Calm your britches."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Being at camp for so long, Dutch knew his old boy was getting restless. The weather was pleasant today, the grass was fresh and dewy...and Arthur ran off to go hunting bison with Charles, which might have made him feel a bit jealous. Him, the poet, preaching of the whole country as every man's backyard...and here he was, stuck at home.

The old buzzard was staring at him with her arms crossed, always unconvinced.

"Then tell me why he has a fresh blanket and a saddle on, Dutch Van der Linde."

"For god's sakes, woman, you aren't my mother!" 

She followed him right into his plane of view, staring down right over the horse's neck.

"Well, for what we used to do, I sure as hell hope not!" She reached for the bridle and began to loosen it. "Damn fool, you're going to ride out and get yourself shot, aren't you?"

Dutch dropped his brush and grabbed the other side of the beast's gear. The Count began to roll his ears back and snort vehemently, prancing in his spot.

"You want a kick in the teeth?" Dutch snatched the reigns out of her hand and grumbled as he began to tuck them back around the hitching post. "Won't be me this time..."

He turned around in time to see her pinching her nose. When Susan looked at him again, she sighed and shook her head.

"What were you going to do, Dutch?"

It was times like this that a stare-down felt more intimidating than just reaching for the holster. Twenty-something years too...Hosea wasn't the only one that could read him like a map. This was a woman who could tear down saloons back in her day with just the spite of charmed men itching to die for her. She had been the head on his shoulder around campfires, the confidante nipping at his ear and one of the few who made him sob for God, disarmed and exposed. As much as he wanted to scowl and sass, he could see the same troubled love in her gaze that came right back to him. He sighed too and rubbed at one of his eyes.

"Just wanted to get out for a bit. Get some fresh air." 

He gestured to the poker table. As they walked together, he felt her arm looping around his. Once they took a seat, opposite of one another, did she shake her head at him, partly amused but mostly flustered.

"You've been a sour one all week, Dutch. Even Karen's been asking about you." She mused from behind threaded fingers. "Said she heard you and Molly going at it, and not in the holy way either."

The best thing to help with biting back his tongue was to grab the box of cards and pop them out. Even just shuffling was a good distraction- a good way to channel that control. Dutch Van der Linde was not falling apart. He just...had a lot on his mind. There was a plan somewhere to get them all out of this, just like...poker, he supposed. As he cut the deck and messed around with a spread on the table, he reckoned that his plans were like poker. He knew the outcomes, knew his cards, figured a little cheat here and there...

"I just got a lot on my mind, Susan." He mumbled, bouncing a Joker card between his fingers. Down it dropped, right into the ratty mess beneath it.

When he glanced up, he was relieved that she was polite enough not to stare at him like an animal. Her eyes too were cast down onto the pool of fading colors, as if there were some spiritual message waiting to be arranged. She nodded, a small breathy chuckle leaving her a moment later.

"That I can agree. Can't say it's been comfortable just waiting here for this long without action but...the people are fed and keeping the place clean." She used her elbow on the table to help pivot back, glancing around the camp behind them. Despite the creeping smoke wafting through the place at the moment, it was relatively peaceful. Jack was struggling through a reading lesson with Hosea and Lenny, Bill and John were arguing about something unimportant at Pearson's table...she watched her girls giggling over an inside joke as they walked by with buckets of water and dirty linens. It wasn't home, but it was a haven.

She turned back to look at him. 

"What is on your mind, dear?"

It wasn't often that she talked like that, not these days. Not with them on the run, not with Molly or the ghost of Annabelle. The affection in her gaze loosened his shoulders and he blinked furiously, convincing himself it was just the smoke stinging at him. Dutch cleared his throat while distracting his eyes with the cards again.

"OK, fine...it is about Molly." He grumbled. "Got up in arms because I forgot to take her to the picture show in town."

Grimshaw snorted.

"Oh, just up in arms? Still the romantic, I see." 

Dutch started, sneering as she shushed right over him.

"Listen, stop for a second." She continued, one elbow on the table now. "Get out of your head, right now. Look at her." She pointed to Miss O'Shea, who was the farthest possible distance between them, sitting at the same rock overlooking the cliff edge that he had been on just yesterday with Jack. "This life ain't proper for a girl like her. We all know she just sticks with us because of you, Mr. Van der Linde."

Grimshaw looked just a moment longer, shaking her head while turning back to knit her brows at him. 

"Taking her halfway across the world, through a blizzard and bullets and the sticky dust here and you have the mind to think her a criminal for wanting one night of decency with you?" She squinted. "I know you better than that, Dutch. It isn't your nature to be so petty, but you sure like to act it when things don't go your way."

Dutch just stared for a moment. His brain struggled to catch up to her mouthing but there was something hot in his chest and wriggly in his gut. His jaw opened, closed, ground his teeth for a moment before a small growl pried them back open in a scrunched, toothy sneer.

"And what do you know about being petty." He said, in almost a whisper.

Grimshaw narrowed her eyes at him, staring long and hard. She shook her head and reached out, grabbing that Joker card and slapping it right on his hand as she stood up and walked away.

"You'll be the death of us all one day, Van der Linde." 

It took a lot in his willpower to not rip the thing in half. He instead tossed it into the grass and brushed it out of his hairs as if he had been soiled. By the time he had returned to the comfort of his tent's front step, fresh cigar plucked and readied, he sighed and turned his head up to the sky. 

He watched the clouds, taking note of the shapes and what they could mean. He was reminded of his younger days, when he used to cloud watch after a big heist to calm down or when he needed to lick his wounds. It had become something of a game between himself, Hosea and Susan back then, to try and one up each other with the most ridiculous finds.

And Arthur...lord, could that kid find a cotton ball through a knitted masterpiece across the heavens. So many times, he had to point out specific shapes to the kid back then, trying to instigate some sort of creativity beyond things at face value. Good times...

He looked down at his cigar and bit through the pain of the deeper puff he took from it. 

"How ya doin?" Hosea's voice caught up to him faster than his boots. Dutch puckered his lips and parted them to waft out the smoke.

"Good, brother." He lied, as did his smile. "How are you feeling?"

After so much hush and questionable rips in his clothes, Hosea had confided in him over a game of dominoes as to what happened between him and Arthur on that big rush out of camp. To think this sensible old badger still had the ornery stupidity to charge out with all the confidence of Nimrod on the hunt for a great bear...it was admirable, but foolish. Colter nearly killed the man, who stood before him now with his sunken face and pained expression, trying to force down the cough that made everyone awkward. Hosea was giving him a small smile while he stepped up onto the planks of the grand tent, waving away the cigar smoke that was coming closer to him.

"Much better...thought those mountains were going to kill me." He admitted while surveying the camp. His chest puffed out as he looked to his friend. "Seems I'll live a while yet."

"Oh, I know." Dutch mused, but he kept his eyes to his boots. He didn't want to think it, but there was a sudden pull to not look his old partner in the face. It had been a sore topic for a while now, the idea of another loss to anticipate.

Hosea clearly recognized the tension, for he swayed in his boots for a few seconds.

"...Found a couple of things in town." He was fumbling for small talk. "Made us some money."

Dutch was staring hard at a tromped-in rock in the dirt. How nice it was, to keep hearing stories of everyone riding out into these escapades, making a mess in saloons and getting handsy with folk with no strings holding them back. Even Hosea, a bastard with one foot early into his grave, was telling him now without remorse of what swindles he had happily foxed his way into. In a way, equally hard to understand, Dutch found himself smiling. Maybe he was getting a bit jealous- stir crazy.

One foot in the grave, indeed, and still flipping the bird to the Judge. Never change, old girl.

"That you do." He mused, finally looking the blonde in the eye. The spark of light in those sweet old sights surely wasn't just the sunlight playing a trick.

"Yes, I like to think I am good at that." Hosea wheezed out a smile. It was kind and patient, just as it always had been; a sort of warm spell that spooked away the demons they both riled.

Dutch felt it again, that heavy writhing deep in the pits of his being, something indecent and rebellious that made his heart stamp like a race horse from the comfort he felt, just as he had stood there like a fool on the very first night he had been an audience to that gentle face and had reveled in that same sense of security ever since.

His eyes were stinging again.

"I..." The sound spilled out faster than he could catch it, but despite the terror of letting it slip, he didn't stop himself.

"I messed up in Blackwater." He admitted, glancing to Hosea and then to somewhere else. Damned him for just happening to chance on Grimshaw as she walked back to her tent that just happened to be in front of him. She gave a fleeting side glance and put up a faster pace to grab what she needed and leave his sights again. The knuckling he felt on his shoulder was enough to keep him focused.

"I made a...god damn fool, out of myself." 

Another nudge to his shoulder. Hosea was chuckling, something that was much nicer to bear than Susan's hissing.

"Yes, well you've done that before."

It wasn't often that Hosea could laugh like this, to be so unburdened by his own well being or that of the others. The man was a natural fusser but now, without any context to go off of besides the same thing they had bickered over consistently since Blackwater...Dutch clicked his teeth and snorted. 

"I know." 

He knew. He was a damned fool, through and through. Maybe later, he'd have a go again at Molly, maybe sweep by and jaw a bit more to Susan. Kind and saintly patient these people all were, his kin- his family. He studied his cigar and tossed it into the dirt, crushing it with the heel of his boot while shrugging off the protest. These things weren't cheap, but...

"Don't want to hurt your lungs, is all." He finally pivoted to face his partner, chest to chest like a true man would. The other looked flattered.

"I ain't fragile, Dutch. You worry too much." 

Dutch flared his nostrils and managed a grin as he returned the knuckle. A cursory look around to ensure that nobody was within earshot, he leaned a bit closer. Hosea's breath hitched.

"I want to believe that I do, old girl."

The Princess-Boy - rednightmare - Chapter 3

He doesn’t want to ask Uncle Arthur for a candy. Not because he thinks Uncle Arthur would say no, but because it sits terrible in his stomach that Daddy isn’t here to buy him sweets and clothes instead. Little Jack gets the feeling Uncle Arthur isn’t supposed to be giving Mama money for new shoes or cough syrup or chocolate or anything. He has a funny hunch that nobody would like it very much if they knew.

But he can’t tell Uncle Arthur so. It might hurt his feelings.

“Uncle Arthur,” Little Jack asks instead. With his head still resting in Uncle Arthur's lap, he turns his face up to be polite, squinting when one of Uncle Arthur’s cracked fingers accidentally slips onto his eyelid and nearly gives him a poke. “Are we poor?”

Uncle Arthur seems a mite thrown. He lifts his palm from Little Jack’s brow and uncrosses his ankles and sits up straighter. “Shore,” he admits. “Sometimes.”

“A lot of times?"

“Just some of ’em. Everybody’s poor sometimes—except rich bastards who ought to have their heads bashed in.”

“Like Leviticus Cornwall?”

This, too, surprises Uncle Arthur. “Now who in the hell told you that?” he demands, frowning down at him. It’s not very scary (not when he can see up Uncle Arthur’s nose), so Little Jack sits up.

“Nobody. Pawpaw and Grandpop are always fighting about him. Did they do something bad?” he guesses. There are woolly black bees buzzing about the floppy vine flowers, and it makes Little Jack squirm in his seat, but he knows Uncle Arthur won’t let him get stung. He tries to focus on remembering things instead. “Grandpop said, ‘Leviticus Cornwall is the kind of trouble you and I can’t afford.’ Is that why we’re poor? Did we buy Leviticus Cornwall’s trouble?”

“Honey, you don’t need to know jack shit about Leviticus Goddamned Cornwall. Just forget it. Don’t say that name to nobody else. Okay?”

“Okay, Uncle Arthur.”

“I mean it, now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Uncle Arthur looks irritable. He breathes out hard through his nose, like he wants to give somebody a piece of his mind, but there’s nobody except Little Jack to give it to.

ao3 link to the rest is in the replies! (I can't get ao3 to generate an automatic tumblr share for the life of me today...)

Belt Buckles, Wedding Rings, and Love Bites

Chapter 63 of Campfire Stories

Summary:

Hosea and reader have been together for some time now, but it's very hard to find time for each other without being interrupted

Reader is invited to The Mayors party alongside Hosea and the others. But she is not impressed by Bronte's opinions of love.

Notes:

CW: vaginal sex, semi-public sex, period-typical sexism.

WORD COUNT: 19,975

I've been sitting on this idea for a while and just couldn't get it out of my head recently. I hope y'all enjoy. This should be a fairly light read, emotionally. Nothing too heavy or dramatic. Bronte's a bastard though. What else is new.

As always below is a snip. Read the full thing on AO3

~~~~~~~

"What I wouldn't give to stay here forever," Hosea sighed as he propped himself up on his elbows, sucking some much needed air into his lungs after a long, deep kiss.

You and Hosea had slipped out of camp that morning for some one-on-one time away from the others. The two of you lay in the soft grasses that surround Bolger Glade, tucked between some rubble and trees.

Hosea lay on top of you, hips slotted between your legs, your skits bunched up just enough that he could nestle against you, his body fitting against yours like he was made to exist there. You lay there gasping, unable to resist nuzzling your nose against his neck and pressing tiny kisses to his skin while you caught your breath.

"There is no place better than in your arms, your thighs squeezing my hips," he murmured before ducking his head down to kiss along your neck once more. You held his head, tilting it just enough that you had access to his neck and jaw, giving him the same treatment he was giving you.

His wild rag lay... Somewhere nearby. Well you'd just had to remove it so you could unbutton the first few notches on his shirt. And you'd just had to have those first few undone so you could better kiss his Adams Apple and run your fingers through his chest hair as you kissed. So the wild rag had to go.

"I love you," you sighed against him. You'd never thought you could love someone so strongly, so deeply, with every fiber of your being.

"I love you, too," Hosea mumbled against your neck. The scratch of teeth pinched your skin as his kisses became more aggressive, attacking your neck like a starving man. You couldn't resist the sighs and moans coming from your lips, keening under his affections.

"Would you two cut it out," John's raspy voice called across the meadow, interrupting the moment. Hosea grumbled and lifted his head, looking over his shoulder. You propped yourself up on your elbows to see as well. John slowed his horse as he approached the two of you, squinting suspiciously, trying to determine if you were decent enough for him to come closer. "Why do you two do that?" He huffed.

"You see, John. When a man and a woman love each other..." You teased. John balked and waved you off hurriedly.

"Oh he knows that part, dear," Hosea huffed, pushing himself up off of you and helping you arrange your skirts before sitting next to you in the grass with a disappointed huff. "Else we'd not have young Jack. It's the," he leaned over and stole another quick kiss, "Romance that he struggles with,"

John rolled his eyes, grumpy as always as he pulled Old Boy to a stop in front of you. "Haha. Very funny. Dutch needs both of you back at camp. Something about a party."

"A party?" You asked, furrowing your brow.

"Oh. Dutch did mention that," Hosea said, remembering. "Bronte invited Dutch. He wants you and I to come, as well as Arthur. We can get some information about the area, make some new 'friends,' that sort of thing,"

"Yeah that," John said. You could see he didn't enjoy talking about Bronte. Jack hadn't shut up about the man since he'd been found, and you had an inkling that John was maybe a little jealous. "Just... Get yourselves sorted and come back to camp. Guess y'all gotta go into town and get fitted. It's tomorrow night,"

"Alright. We'll be back soon," Hosea said, waving John off. You both sat there a moment, watching John turn Old Boy around and trot away. Once he was back on the road headed towards Shady Belle, you flopped back in the grass with a frustrated sigh. Hosea flopped next to you on his side, pulling you close.

"So much for some time alone away from camp," you sighed, giggling as Hosea nuzzled his nose against your cheek.

"I'll make sure we get some alone time soon," he vowed, leaning over you and stealing a quick kiss. "I promise,"

His lips found yours again. And again. And again. And...

"We'd better head back before Dutch comes after us himself," you giggled, pushing Hosea off of you, onto his back on the grass. He sighed dramatically, though you caught the way the corners of his eyes pulled upward in mirth.

You pushed yourself up and began the task of making yourself look presentable. You combed blades of grass from your hair and smoothed down your blouse.

Hosea's red wild rag lay at your feet. You picked it up and shifted onto your knees. Hosea knelt next to you, adjusting his gunbelt as well as his 'third gun' beneath his trousers, which was straining against the fabric. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and did up those top buttons before wrapping his wild rag around his neck and tying it into place.

Once the two of you were presentable, Hosea stood up, stretching his arms and shoulders for a moment before reaching out to help pull you to your feet.

You hissed as you stood, just now feeling a slight pinching in your inner thigh. You lifted your skirt to reveal your bare leg - you'd opted out of drawers this morning, in case you and Hosea decided to go a bit further on your outing, though Johns arrival had put an end to that- and revealed a small imprint of a horse on your leg, right where Hosea's belt buckle had been pressing against you.

"Cute," you chuckled, looking between the imprint on your thigh and the design on his belt buckle, comparing the two.

It was then you noticed the straining in Hosea's trousers had returned. You glanced up to see his eyes locked on your thigh. You moved to drop your skirt back into place but he stopped you, crouching down in front of you.

You couldn't suppress the little sigh you let out as his fingers gently traced out the design that was imprinted on your skin.

"You say cute," he murmured, looking up at you, "But I think that's possibly one of the most arousing things I've ever seen,"

You licked your lips, which suddenly felt very dry. Your face began to heat up. God he was right. Knowing that just moments ago his hips had been pressed against your body so firmly that his belt buckle had left an impression on the inside of your thighs... God you wanted him to just toss you back into the grass and throw your skirt up over your ears.

"Stop that," you gasped, shooing him away from where he was still tracing the pattern on your skin. You dropped your skirt back down so it covered you modestly once more. "We need to get back,"

"We do," Hosea sighed, standing up and pulling you in for a quick kiss. "But mark my words, I'm gonna get us out of camp soon, and not tell a soul where we're going. That way no one can interrupt us, and I can love on you properly,"

You sucked in a breath, just barely suppressing the moan that tried to escape your lips. You had to behave. The last thing you wanted was for Dutch to send someone else after you, only to find you both in a more compromising position than John had.

"Let's go," Hosea sighed, taking your hand and draping it in the crook of his arm. The two of you walked back to camp in silence, listening to the peaceful sounds of nature around you and trying desperately to get your longing under control before you reached the front gate of Shady Belle.

Okay so we all know Arthur is kinda unsure about PDA which is all find and dandy, But I feel like when he’s drunk he’s probably a little more lenient about it. Do you think you could write a short fic about Arthur and a Male reader sitting around the campfire with a few other of the gang members. Having just a fun old time drinking and singing dumb little tunes. 

Like, for once everything just feels at peace. The reader can sit in Arthur’s lap and just laugh and pepper his face with kisses without anyone being bothered. Maybe a soft nsfw end? Nothing too graphic but just imagine Arthur tenderly looking into your eyes as he makes love to you. 🥺 Sorry if this is too much!

First request!! This is a really good prompt and I hope I did ok for my first RDR2 fic! 

Arthur is drunk, and we all know what he's like when he has a little bit too much to drink :)

Word Count: 923 Warnings: Alcohol, Period typical homophobia (only a small paragraph near the end) Reader: Male For the first time in a long time, spirits in camp were high. Sean had just been rescued from Blackwater and everyone was celebrating his safe return. You were sat around one of the tables at Horseshoe Overlook with Karen and Grimshaw, watching their game of rummy and listening to Javier strum his guitar at the nearby campfire amongst the chatter and sing-song from others around camp.

You smile and pick up your drink, going to take a sip, however, finding it empty you shake the bottle and grumble. Getting up and tossing the bottle over your shoulder you hear the bottle make contact with something solid, followed by a quiet grunt. Looking over your shoulder to make a quick apology you see Arthur stood behind you, flushed face and eyes hazy, rubbing his shoulder where the bottle made contact.

“Arthur! Fuck! 'm so sorry!” You slur out, stumbling over to him and laying your hand over where the bottle hit him. “'m okay darlin'” he chuckles, pulling you closer to him by your belt loops as you try to fuss over him. You look up at him with a guiltily and move to cup his face in your hands, bringing him down to place a light peck on his lips.

He smiles against you and pulls back a little, shifting slightly so he could lean closer to your ear, whispering “If you want to make it up to me, may I have a dance?” the slight playful lilt in his voice betrayed how much he'd had to drink, as did his actions. He'd never really do this around gang members without a lot of liquid courage.

You snort out a laugh and nod, waving a goodbye to the two women sat at the table and pulling Arthur by the hand to make your way to the front of Dutch's tent, the two of you stumbling slightly every now and then. Emerging from around the side the two of you spot Molly and Dutch holding each other close and dancing, gazing into each others eyes with soft smiles and chuckling to themselves whenever he dipped her. The sight made you smile and lean into Arthur, they had been so tense recently – they needed this.

Arthur wraps his arms around you as you move to be chest to chest with him, copying the moves of Molly and Dutch the two of you sway together slowly, your head on his chest and his head resting on top of yours. You were like that for a while, both of you just existing in the other's arms – feeling at peace. Untouchable. Nothing and nobody could ruin this moment, Not Micah, not Colm, not even the Pinkertons.

The phonograph eventually stops, both of you pulling apart and bowing at each other with small grins. You kiss Arthur on the cheek as a thank you, murmuring about going to get another drink and he nods, kissing you on the forehead and wandering off to go find something to do.

Heading over to the drinks on the table in front of Dutch's tent you grab a bottle and your hazy mind travels to how touchy Arthur is when he drinks. 'He deserves to let himself go every now and then' you think, grabbing another bottle for Arthur, watching Karen and Sean sneak off to John's tent with a chuckle as you do so.

After uncapping both bottles and taking a swig from yours, you eventually drift to where most people still celebrating were gathered around the campfire, singing along to Javier playing Jack o' Diamonds. You take another mouthful of whiskey and spot Arthur sat next to Uncle on a set of crates singing along, looking more carefree than he has in weeks.

You make your way over to him and all but throw yourself in his lap, finishing your drink and passing him his, his free arm settling around your waist to stop you from slipping off and colliding with Uncle. You give him a cheeky grin and he squints at you slightly, trying to guess what you want from him before he falls into a chesty laugh as you pepper his face with feather-light kisses, the rest of the gang sat around the fire joining him, watching your antics make Arthur turn a darker shade of pink.

Eventually you stop, shifting in his lap to face the fire and lean against Arthur's chest, listening to him joining in some of the songs with his beautifully rough voice right next to your ear, leaning his head on your shoulder.

A brief thought crosses your drunken daze, thinking about how lucky you both are to have the gang. In most areas, two men seen in a relationship together could be hung, but here, in this den of thieves, outlaws and murderers no one -apart from maybe Micah- really paid it any mind. It made you happy. Being here made you happy.

You relaxed back into Arthur further, lazing like a content cat, barely registering the movement out of the corner of your eye. Slightly turning your head to see what it was you spot Karen and Sean sneaking back out of John's tent, hair messed up, flushed and smiling like idiots, Sean more so than Karen. Arthur follows your line of vision to them when you squeeze his arm, pressing a kiss into your shoulder and tightening his arm around your waist, finishing his drink. A silent invitation, one which you accept with another squeeze of his arm.

Lenny X Sean; Teaching Sean to read headcanons

Can this writing even be classified as headcanons? I got a little carried away. My apologies. Also - slight spoilers ahead.

Lenny found out Sean couldn’t read when he overheard the latter criticizing Mary-Beth’s love of books one night while drunk in Horseshoe Overlook.

“I jus’ don’ get it, Mary-Beth. What’s so in’eresting in those there pages that’s better than the world around ya? I never learned ta read and I’m all the more worldly for it. You should get your nose outta those books before you run into a fence and realize ten years have passed.”

Since then, Lenny has been pestering and pestering Sean about teaching him to read, not letting up no matter how many times Sean tries to rebuff him.

“Everyone should know how to read. Hosea and Abigail have been teaching Jack. Maybe they could help you too.”

“No way in Hell, boyo. I’ve been doing fine wit’out reading up till now and I don’ need ta start now, so just leave me alone.”

Lenny refuses to give up and he makes it known to Sean that he’s not letting it go anytime soon. Sean slowly begins to cave into Lenny’s incessant pestering about teaching him to read.

“Why won’t ya give up on me already? I ain’t worth it, Lenny. Just leave me alone. I’m sure dere is someone else here who you can teach instead.”

“You are worth it Sean, and I won’t ever give up on you.”

Sean doesn’t know what to say to those words, just drinks his beer instead of answering.

Sean finally agrees to try one lesson with Lenny and the two sit down at one of the camp tables away from the others.

“Look, see? S E A N. Sean.” Lenny spells out Sean’s name and sounds it out for the Irishman to hear as he used his pencil to point at .each letter.

“S E A N.” Sean struggled to replicate Lenny’s perfect handwriting, his own writing of his name much too big and lopsided with too much spacing between letters.

“Not bad for a first try, Sean.” Lenny smiled at the other in encouragement, but it only irritated Sean more.

“It’s not for me, I tried. Now I’m done.” Lenny’s smile dropped when Sean stood and marched away to the lean-to tent he shared with the Reverend.

After that first lesson, Sean begins to avoid Lenny for a good week despite the camp having virtually no privacy. Lenny tries to have a conversation with Sean with little effect. He ends up cornering the redhead on the edge of their camp, only to catch him while he’s taking a drunken piss.

“Sean, just try.”

“I did-*hic*-try. Now leave meh alone. I’m pissin’ here.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“So what if I have?”

“Why?”

Sean grumbles and tucks himself away, turning away from the tree and crossing his arms.

“I like your face, and your kindness, and your hope. I like ya and it pisses me off, so fuck you and fuck your books and paper.”

“You...like...me?” It was a good thing it was dark or Lenny might have died from the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

“Are ya deaf?” Neither says anything any more and Sean stumbles away, picking up another drink as he went.

Lenny needed to think.

They do end up continuing the reading lessons, but not for another few weeks and, by that time, the camp had been moved to Clemens Point. The horror show in Valentine and the move distracting everyone. Sean is surprisingly the one to bring it up again, asking Lenny in an embarrassment.

“You’re doing better. I knew you’d be a fast learner.” Lenny wouldn’t tell Sean how proud he was, it might just scare the man away from their lessons.

“Shuddup, you don’ know nothing but what you know.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means shut the fuck up teach me how to spell Karen’s name.”

Lenny laughs a little at that and they keep practicing.

Eventually, Lenny brings a book of poems to one of their lessons and it would soon be the first literary piece Sean would practice reading.

“My life had stood...a looo-load-”

“Loaded.”

“Loaded.” Sean repeats and continues. “Gun. In cor-corn-corners, till a day. The owner pass-ssed, id...iden..."

“Identified, Sean. You’re doing great, read the next few lines and we can stop for the day.”

“And carry-carried me away.” Sean would squint a glare as he growled out words, trying to sound them out and say them without asking for help. Stubborn baby boy.

“Keep going, you got it.”

“And now...we roam in sov-rei-gn woods, and now we hu-hunt the doe, and every time I speak for Hiiim, the moun-tains s-str-straight reply.”

“That was great Sean, we’ll finish the poem next time.”

“Can I go now?”

From there, Lenny just about manages to make Sean sit through a half-hour lesson almost every-day. They both never brought up the drunken confession (if it could be called that) since it happened until they finished one of their lessons and Sean (in Sean fashion), blurted out -

“Back...back at Horseshoe, I mean’ what I said. I liked, still do like, your face and how nice ya are and how giving ya are. You, Dutch and Hosea are de only people who’ve never given up on me. Just, t’ank you Lenny.”

“Sean-”

“I know, I know. I’m going-”

Lenny grabbed him and shut the redhead up with a quick and chaste kiss. “Your turn to shut up.”

“Will...will do.”

They keep their relationship a secret, of course, and continue the reading lessons. Lenny once took a spare tent and grabbed some pillows and blankets from their tents to set up a little make-shift hideaway in the woods surrounding Clemens Point. Not too far away from camp, but far enough to give them privacy. Lenny nabbed Sean right after dinner and showed him.

“Wh-What’s dis now, boyo? Got some’ting interesting in mind?”

“Not in that way, you pervert. Get in, we’re going to read together.”

“We’re...what?”

“Or I could read, and you could listen?”

They ended up laying in the tent with Sean’s head on Lenny’s chest as the younger man read a book aloud to him in the quiet night.

Lenny starts reading to Sean more often after that night, usually after dark and away from the others.

“You like it.”

“Shudup, ye old sop.”

Sean secretly loves listening to Lenny’s voice, but won’t ever admit it.

Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith knew about their whole relationship before they even knew.

Sean really does learn fast, and finished reading his first (albeit short) book not long before he has to leave the camp with Bill and Micah to meet Arthur in Rhodes. He kisses Lenny goodbye, the horses hiding them from view.

“I’ll see ya soon, boyo. Now don’t feel too lonely wit’out your MacGuire around to keep you company.”

“Be careful, at least. You can be such a hothead.”

“Ay, but I’m your hothead. I promise to be careful.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“I love you too, and when I’m back, ye can help me read a new book or, maybe, read that new one ye got to me?”

Sean’s body was brought back instead, thrown over the back of Bill’s horse like a ragdoll. The camp was heartbroken, but none more so than Lenny Summers. The book he had grabbed when hearing someone announce their arrival fell from his hands. It was the new one he planned on reading with Sean.

“Sean...you promised….”

For the remainder of his short life, Lenny never did read that book, nor did he read to anyone else. He only read when he couldn’t avoid it. What was the point without Sean? When he felt that bullet tear through him in Saint Denis, he almost smiled at the thought of seeing Sean again.

“Just one more time,” was his final thought as he took his last breath on that rooftop.

"Really?" Jack squinted his eyes at him in disbelief. "You're asking how I'm doing?"

"Yeah, I mean...," Arthur hesitated and glanced at the small red mark on Jack's cheek. A bruise had started to form around it and it looked a bit swollen. Looks painful, he thought as he swallowed hard, forcing down that familiar tingling in his throat. "They did hit you pretty bad. I'm really sorry, you didn't have to-"

"Ah, don't worry about it." Jack cut him off and shook his head, leaving two little locks to fall down over his eyes. He ignores them. "What about you? How is your nose?"

"B... Better, yeah." Arthur touched it a little as if to check if that's even true. It was still a bit sore but not too bad. No worse than he has had it before. "I uh...I want to thank you again. Well-... more properly...for stopping them."

"You really don't need to." Jack stiffly shoved his hands into his pockets but something changed in his eyes. "I'm just sick of people like them. Rich assholes, thinking they can just get away with anything-" He stopped himself. His frown relaxed a little and he ran his tounge over his lips. "Forget it. I'm sure anyone would have done the same."

Now that was just a bad lie. Arthur wasn't very good at reading people but that one was obvious even for him. "They wouldn't." He mumbled and also shoved his hands into his pockets where his fingers found his lighter and cigarettes. He started to fiddle with them as he tried to collect his thoughts. "Anyways...are-...are you free on Friday evening?"

Jack raised an eyebrow at him but nodded.

"I will be doing one of my first shows then." Arthur smiled shyly but Jack just stared at him in confusion. "...I mean, I do stand-up comedy!" He then quickly added and Jack's expression softened again and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah? That sounds cool." The big scar on the left side of his cheek curved slightly as he smiled. It didn't really look bad, it suited him somehow. In a way, it was even beautiful, Arthur realised and his ears suddenly felt hot.

"Yes... you’re welcome to see it! I'd treat you a beer! Or we could...eat something after? If you'd like of course, I understand if you don’t-“

"All that sounds great!” Jack interrupted him again and chuckled. "You just let me know when and where?"

"Yeah!" Arthur cracked a big, excited smile. "I’ll see you around.”

A Ghost Walked Through the Door

Summary: Anna Gray has been looking for her brother for a very long time.

Word count: 2637

Warnings: Mention of foster care and children taken from parents, swearing, implies abuse from Church (nothing explicit) and implies homelessness/ rough childhood.

Author’s Note: In the show, Anna’s age is all over the place so I’ve decided that she is a year older than Michael (born in 1902) because I really like the older sister dynamic. Hope you enjoy xx

Anna stood outside the wooden gate, staring into the typical country garden: green grass (that surely would've been vivid in any other season but the grey winter) that stretched as far as she could see, and slap bang in the middle of it all was the little brick cottage. The fire was lit. Perhaps he was there, the person she had been searching for as long as she escaped the boat. Perhaps this was it- the day she found herself. Her shaking hands did not reach to open up the gate. Not yet. The rusted old car of Jack Low's had clunked its way down the dirt road many minutes ago, leaving behind a trail of smoke and her. She was lucky she had found someone to drive all the way to the front gate, and Jack was quite kinder than she'd expected when she saw the white-haired bloke. It was because of the fur lining her throat and wrists, the newly gained winter's coat showing off a majesty of wealth she did not have. If Jack had noticed the thick chunk of mud clinging to the bottom of her leather boots, or had he clued on to her makeup less face behind her slick bob and fringe, or even saw the dimness of the plastic beads as she rolled them between her calloused fingers, he hadn't asked. Thankfully. Maybe Michael would- he'd probably be impressed with her finery, especially if the farm life was all he knew, and then he'd probably be a bit disappointed with how she acquired each luxurious item.  Finally, her hand (pale and shaking with more than nerves- why hadn't she taken Alberta's gloves that she'd had her eye on?) pried open the gate with a creak, as she walked into the garden. The sound of her quickening breath thrummed in her ears as she kept on going, heels clacking and tangling in the field. She made it to the door. Laughter boomed inside- could it be Michael's? Eagerness overcame her as she rapped on the door, politeness replaced with loud booming knocks that scraped her already bruised knuckles. The voices quieted, a quick "I'll get it!" from a woman. Michael's foster mother, perhaps, would she let Anna see him? The weight of a knife in her pocket proved that hypothetical pointless. Heels tapped closer. And closer. And- the door swung open, Anna's heart nearly burst. She was a portly woman, a warm smile on her face as she observed the girl with evident surprise. "Hello there, can I help you?" She asked kindly, hand still on the door frame. "Yes, please." Her eyes flickered behind her, where photos lined the walls, but she couldn't make out the one face she needed. "Are you Mrs James?" She nodded, yes she was. Another breath fell from her, a smile curling on her lips. The nun hadn't lied, then. "I'm looking for Mich- Henry, I mean. Henry Johnson. Your son, I believe." The other name still seemed so wrong on her tongue. Mrs Johnson's face fell, sadness and suspicion souring the woman's once kind expression. "It's Michael Gray now," she spat out. "Those Shelby bastards took him back to Birmingham with them." Anna breathed in deeply- her entire family was reconciled, all but her. Surely, if they found Michael, that meant they knew about the documents. Fuck. "When was this?" Her voice was meek. Maybe she could stop any real damage before it was done, stop Michael and her mother from mourning a girl still alive. "Two years ago," she said in a solemn voice, her eyes growing glassy. "Why?" "I'm Anna Gray," she stuck out her hand. Mrs Johnson hesitantly accepted it, eyes wide again in shock. "I'm looking for my brother." "Don't." She shook her head. "Those Shelbys are the devils, dragging my boy," she paused, "my Henry, into their Peaky Blinders nonsense. Your Michael...he isn't that boy any more." "He's my brother," she said, trying not to feel too offended at the disgust directed at her cousins. "He's all I have." "Very well," Mrs Johnson conceded, although obviously still disapproving from the look in her eyes. Motherly, Anna would call it, if she even remembered what having a mother was like. "They live in Watery Lane, Small Heath. Everyone there knows them, so just ask for directions." "Thank you!" Without entirely thinking it through, Anna pulled the older woman into a quick hug, pulling away when she felt her tense. "And thank you for looking after my brother all these years. It's good to know he had a good woman taking care of him." She couldn't call Mrs Johnson a mother, although she knew from the grief in her tone and photographs still hung up, that she was exactly that. But her mother was still alive- her loyalty was to Elizabeth Gray, first and foremost, even if she felt pity for this woman here. Just as Mrs Johnson had said, directions to the Shelby's betting shop (now Shelby Company Limited, she was impressed to hear) were easy to come by. Although she was getting odd looks from the men in uniform caps and coats, who were obviously comparing her clothes with that of most Small Heath citizens. Her years of searching were finally over and yet she couldn't find herself to knock on the bloody door. Or even walk down the bloody street. She loitered around the Church, not daring to go in, but not straying from its sight. The rosary in her pocket was wrapped loosely around her battered fist, as she uttered a silent prayer. The nuns and priests from the orphanage had jaded her to all things Christian, but this was a gift from Peggy. The good Catholic girl that took one look at the girl on the streets and decided to befriend her. Well, friend wasn't exactly the right word. She felt a burst of courage at the feeling of the wooden beads now, the crucifix hanging on the end of it no longer bringing vomit up her throat. "Oi, you there!" She jumped at the accent. It wasn't Brummie, sounding closer to Isabela's voice: another girl that friend wasn't the right word for. She looked at the boy, who was lighter skinned that Isabela, and wore the same cap and coat of many men in Small Heath. However, he himself couldn't have been older than Anna. "You coming in, or am I allowed to lock up?" "I'm just leaving," she said. Her voice wasn't from Burmingham either, immediately making the other boys eyebrow to shoot up in suspicion. She didn't really have an accent, just a blend of all the places she'd been and all the people she'd ran from. Despite her statement, her shoes stayed firmly on the path. Michael and mum were just a walk away, and she was stuck outside the Church as the boy faffed with the keys.  "So," he came up behind her, tilting his head. "Just leaving anytime soon, or...?" He had a smirk on his face and a teasing glint in his eyes, that immediately took in her appearance with curiosity, stopping at the rosary. "Just getting courage," she held up the beads before putting them back in her pocket, tapping over it to make sure it was safely in. "Whatdya need courage for?" He asked as he lit up a cigarette, standing stationary besides her. "Need to get to the Shelby betting shop," she shrugged her shoulders, hoping that'd get Church boy to stop asking. She hadn't missed the almost fearful nature her family was spoken in. But not Michael, of course- her Michael wasn't a Shelby. "Oh, really?" The boy put the smoking cigarette in the corner of his smirk. "Cause I'm just going there." She groaned internally, knowing this meant she actually had to go. "Alright," she snapped. "Could you show me the way?" "Course," he held out his elbow like he was a gentleman. Anna didn't stop her self from rolling her eyes as she took it, with only a little smile. "I'm Isaiah Jesus, by the way." "I'm Sally." Only the nuns ever called her that, in an attempt to pacify the girl screaming for her mother. Everyone else called her Anna, and Sallyanna if she was in trouble. "No last name?" "You'll find that out soon enough." For someone who seemed so talkative, Isaiah sure knew when to shut up. "Alright, Ms No Last Name," Isaiah teased as he held open the door, gesturing for her to go inside. "Here we are: Shelby Company Limited's very own betting shop." She was slow as she walked in, head turning to the pale pink wallpaper and the floral sofa. A cross hung up on the wall, alongside a number of Biblical quotes. There was a double set of doors, painted green, that were thrown open. Inside, a crowd of men and woman sat as numbers were called out, typewriters clicking and Peaky Blinders smoking. Isaiah walked past the frozen Anna, welcoming into the shop with cheers of greetings. "Hey there Isaiah!" One boy yelled. He was round faced and freckled, taller than everyone else and skinny as Anna was behind her thick coat. "Who's that you got with you?" "Sally here wanted to come to the betting shop." Isaiah gave a shrug, revealing that was all he knew, as he sat on his desk. Three men looked up from the table: one looked a lot like the skinny boy that had noticed her, but older. Not Michael. The other was broad shouldered and intimidating, with a moustache. Not Michael. The third man had hair as dark as Anna's, with the bluest eyes. But Michael had brown hair, and hazel eyes.  "And why do you want to be here?" The blue eyes man questioned, voice cold. She recognised the three vaguely, mind scanning for facts she once knew as well as the sky was blue. "Tommy?" She asked, eyes squinting, then she pointed to the other two. "And you must be Arthur and John, then." She didn't heed the curious glances as she stepped further in, head turning around to the people staring at her. "Finn, I'm gonna guess, although I never really knew you." The freckled boy had a shocked look on his face, as he turned to Isaiah in a "who the fuck is this" kind of look. "So, where's Michael?" Her voice was stern as she looked around again for the brown hair she only barely remembered.  "And why the fuck do ya wanna know that?" John, Anna thinks, stood up, arms folded as he watched her scan the room. "I've been looking for him for fourteen bloody years," she cocked her head, seeing a light flicker in the blue eyes of her cousin. "Now tell me where the fuck Michael is." Suddenly, a door opened, two sets of shoes walking through as they muttered to one another.  "Mum, there's abso-fucking-loutely no way I'm gonna do that," a voice said as he walked into the betting shop. The round face she remembered had sharpened out, his skin tanned (probably from the farm) in ways she knew her pale skin would've had she gotten onto that boat. His mousy brown hair was tidily gelled up, a smart suit on his broad build. He didn't walk in it like he stole it, she noticed proudly. His hazel eyes widened as he looked at her. The woman at his side was frozen too, watching the betting shop's sudden pause. "Who is this?" The woman snapped, dark eyes falling on Anna. She had the same dark hair, although hers was longer and in curls, and their eyes were just the same. No one could answer for her, and she seemed too absorbed in the two figures in front of her to bother with formalities.  "Anna," Michael's voice was barely a whisper, but is shattered everyone. Next to him, Polly trembled, pale skin suddenly whitening as she started to draw the same comparisons to the baby she had held what felt like a life time ago. "Hiya Mikey," Anna said in the same soft voice she'd use when they were little. She opened up her arms. "You too old to hug your big sister or what?" In a second, her brother fell into her, arms wrapped so tightly around her torso that she thought she was going to suffocate. If the fur on her coat was itching his face, he didn't seem to mind as he pressed his face against her neck, tears spilling from both of them. "I missed you so fucking much," she croaked into his ear, not daring to look up to her mother's broken face, or her cousin's undoubtedly confused faces. "I thought you were dead." Michael sobbed a little, pulling her closer as if to check she was real and not just the ghost Polly used to have nightmares about. "They said you were dead, gone to fucking Australia so I couldn't even see you." "I didn't even get on the boat, Mike. Couldn't leave. Not with you in England." They finally broke away, as Anna allowed her rough hands to wipe away the tears on her little brother's face (not so little anymore) and giving the biggest smile she'd ever worn for the longest time. "Been looking for you for years, been from orphanage to orphanage trying to find Michael Gray. Turns out that wasn't even your fucking name." "You were looking for me?" Michael's voice was an echo, sadder and on the verge of more tears spilling. "Course. Wanted to find you so we could come back home together." She took a dramatic turn of her head, grinning. "Although you didn't seem to share that sentiment, huh?" He tried to chuckle a little, shyly wiping off tears and snot with the sleeve of his probably expensive suit. "Went all the way to the fucking countryside only to be told that I had to go all the way back to Small Heath. Honestly, couldn't have waited a few years for me?" Her teasing tone was second nature, a whisper of the what was. "Bus fare wasn't cheap, you know?" Not that she used the bus. Or paid, with her own money at least. Still, it got another smile on his face as he hugged her again, letting her breathe this time. "Anna?"  The broken voice was enough to get Michael to back away, falling by his sister's side to allow Polly a proper view of the much longed for daughter. "No, it can't be, I thought- they said...but...you were alive this whole time?" She barely whispered, shaking the dark locks of curls with her head. She took a few strides forward, lifting her hand. Despite the great comfort she felt in the woman's presence, she flinched at the sight of the manicured nails being bared. Ever so gently, Polly placed her hand (too cold for comfort, but Anna had felt colder) against Anna's cheek. Bringing another hand slowly up to pull back the dark fringe that covered her forehead. Like this, she could see her wide eyes that had once looked so big on her bald head, the little pout that would tremble when John took her toys, the curves of her face that were so like Michael's, and her dark eyes that could only be Polly's. "My girl, my Sallyanna." "Mum," Anna smiled as she fell into her embrace, letting the woman hold her like she should've done for the last fifteen years. There was no tears this time, just soft smiles and tight arms clinging to each other like she had done when the coppers came knocking. Only she was grown now, and she wouldn't let them take her from her family ever again.

per sempre tuo (M) | IkeVamp Leonardo

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: Leonardo da Vinci/Fem!Reader 

Rating: Explicit/18+/NSFW

Word Count: 4400

Summary: Your lover has many different sides, and you adore every single one of them.

per sempre tuo: forever yours

a/n: Finally. This is just some unnecessarily long fluffy smut to cope with finishing his route. Yes, I did listen to Italian music for this and yes, I did cry at some of the lyrics. I recommend the first 2 (A Te and Magnolia) if you wanna give it a listen~ AND, for Thirst Purposes, I’ve installed a reading nook in Leonardo’s room.

I had a tough time with the title, trying to pick which was more appropriate, per sempre tuo or tuo per sempre, but I went with the former...

(warnings/tags under the cut)

Warnings/Tags: explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, no plot, extreme cheesiness, some minor spoilers for Leo’s route

You’re not sure what wakes you–the gentle thrum of the rain outside the windows, or the familiar, sweet scent wafting over to you.

Slipping out from underneath the comforting mantle of slumber, you shiver and curl up sleepily.  

Or maybe it was the cold, the hint of autumn chill brushing warm skin as you turn over with a groan to find your usual bedmate missing. With a quick search of the disorderly room, you blink at the way your head throbs and squint at Leonardo. He’s curled up in his little reading nook, with the window cracked open, and you watch as he–cigarillo held between sanguine smudged fingers–sucks in a mouthful of smoke. It spills from his lips in slow, curling wisps after a few seconds. 

Further inspection reveals a notebook resting on his lap, an unbuttoned shirt, and chestnut strands pulled back into a short, messy ponytail that does unfair things to your libido. You don’t sit up just yet, content to let your eyes run over him as you try to recall the events of last night. 

Dinner had, as always, been a warm, chaotic affair. You remember being unable–and unwilling because it had been a while since you had indulged–to turn down Comte’s offer of wine. You remember the slow buzz creeping through your veins as you laughed at Arthur and Theo’s bickering, the droopy look on Sebastian’s face as it snuck up on him too, and the endearing flush on Isaac’s cheeks, unsure if it was wine-induced or if it was the result of Dazai’s teasing. 

A flush fills your own cheeks as you remember Leonardo’s warm gaze and soft lips, telling you to have fun as he left to have a quick chat with his old friend.

You remember accepting another glassful of the beverage, and you remember Sebas walking you to your room–which doesn’t explain why you’re in Leonardo’s bed instead of your own. It’s a bit like staring into murky water, trying to identify what lurks beneath the surface, and it slipping away just when you’re on the verge of discovery.

You refocus on his still figure.

Leonardo is, at his core, a man of action. With an eager mind, hands that itch to reach for something or the other–a book, drawing tools, things to repair, and ever since you came into his life, you. 

Jack of all trades, master of nearly all. 

Watching him at any time is fascinating; it’s hard to take your eyes off of him, you’re always eager to watch him in motion. And then there are the times where he’s quiet.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but it’s clearer right now as you observe him silently. He’s more subdued when it rains. It had been different when the two of you had been caught out in that sudden shower, but even now, the restlessness seems to have withdrawn, leaving placidity in its wake. 

He loves his naps, but the way he’s curled up next to the window, listless, eyes unfocused–he looks almost lonely. 

“Buongiorno.” Your startled gaze meets his, the cool gold of his eyes heating as they catch you staring. He turns his head to face you, his upturned mouth and the little crinkles in the corner of his eyes sending warmth fluttering through you even from across the room. “Slept well?” 

“Mm, I think so.” A yawn catches you off guard, quickly covered up by the back of your hand. You stretch languidly, feeling your muscles release, before you sit up, reaching for the top of your head to pat down flyaways. Your dress from the previous day is draped over the back of a chair, prompting a quick startled glance down at your body. You’re in one of Leonardo’s shirts; with a grateful sigh, you reach for the glass of water he somehow managed to make space for on his crowded bedside table. “I feel like I did.”

With the way he perks up, you wonder if he’s been waiting for you to wake up and play with him. The thought amuses you for a moment; sometimes, he really does act like a cat. You meet his eyes again, and he looks curious, putting out his cigarillo in a little ashtray on the windowsill. He’s always curious about what’s going through your head. 

“I hope you do. You were out cold,” Leonardo replies after a moment’s pause, before something sly crawls into his tone, the mischief glittering in his eyes putting you on guard. “I’d say you slept like the dead, but your snoring could’ve actually woken them up instead.” 

You barely avoid choking on the cool drink, gulping down a mouthful of it as you glare at him as dangerously as you can. It only serves to widen his smile. 

“Lies.”

“Nope. It was cute, though. I like it when you snore.” 

“When I-how often do I do it?” Your voice is shriller than you would like, and he, being the infuriating man that he is, starts laughing. 

“No need to get so worked up, cara mia,” he soothes, closing his notebook and placing it on a shelf behind him. He reaches for a damp cloth, wiping his hands clean, and closes the window.  “Come here, you look cold over there.” He looks colder. 

“I am cold,” you mumble, embarrassment still hot on your skin, but you can’t resist his beckoning fingers and climb out of bed quickly, the hem of his shirt falling to the middle of your bare thighs. Picking your way across the room as deftly as you can, a low hiss escapes you as you end up stepping on what looks like a puzzle piece. 

He reaches for you with a sheepish smile, gathering you up in his arms before settling back against the wall, reaching down to rub the sole of your foot tenderly. 

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, his calm voice warm, raspy gravel, reaching down to the very depths of you; wrapped up in his embrace, his heat seeping through the layers of cloth between your skin, you can’t help but melt into him with a soft hum. With your head cradled against his chest, you peer out the window. The skies are a solemn grey, but the flowers are there to make up for it, looking brighter in the light shower as they reach toward the heavy clouds.

You mull over his words for a moment, worry filling your heart, pressing your lips to the side of his neck before tilting your head back to look at him. “Is that why you were awake? You couldn’t sleep because of me?” 

At your words, he looks close to laughter, the corners of his lips quirked, but he fails miserably and presses it to your scrunched up brow. “I’ve slept through a lot worse, so no.” 

You study his expression for a moment longer, gauging the sincerity in his eyes, before you nod. Wondering what kind of stories are behind those soft words. “Oh. Also, did I pass out at the dining table? Because I don’t remember getting back to your room…”

“No, you didn’t. Last I saw you there, you were wide awake, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh that loudly. But by the time I got back, you’d already gone up to your room. ” Confusion creeps in, and Leonardo chases it away with a swift peck to your scrunched nose. “We should get you drunk more often.”  

You think back to dinner, and while it’s all a bit blurry you do remember having fun.

“So, I didn’t do anything embarrassing?” His fingers skim down your arm to tangle with your fingers, bringing them up so he can press his lips to the back of your hand. 

“Hmm. I think we have different opinions on what makes something ‘embarrassing’.” You stare at him until he grins again, sudden and wicked. “Don’t you remember singing for us?”

You resist the urge to jump out the window. “Oh no.”

“It was lovely,” he insists, chuckling when you swat him. 

“I can barely sing when I’m sober, and my drunken version has been likened to the screeching of a cat.”

“I don’t agree at all. I enjoyed it quite a bit.” 

“Of course you enjoyed it.” Feeling quite faint from the force of your despair, you attempt to escape his hold only for him to tighten it, pressing you back into him. You pull, he pushes. He pulls, you push. Your brief tussle ends with you sitting back against his chest, curled up between his legs, and a shiver running up your spine when you feel his lips on your neck.

“I did. Let’s see–I loved how free you looked, the way your hair escaped your neat little braid, the way you throw your head back when your laughter seizes you. The way you smiled at me, with your flushed cheeks and smiling eyes, reaching for me as if you never wish to be parted from me again. I loved it all.” His breath falls hotly on your skin and you’re frozen in his embrace, your heart holding onto every word that rolls off his silver tongue. “There was just one little problem.”

Your first attempt to speak dies in your throat. You wet your lips and try again, eyes sliding shut as he presses a burning, open-mouthed kiss beneath your jaw. “What was it?” 

Leonardo hums, lips forging a path up to your ear. “I wasn’t the only one to see all of that.” 

Fingers trace the jut of your collarbone, slow and inquisitive, as you work through the implications of his words. “I doubt anyone would see it the way you do.” 

“In this, cuore mio, you’re completely wrong. Not only do they see what I do, they covet. They envy. I don’t blame them for it, you’re a blessing one can only dream to have, but it still…” 

“But still?” 

He nips at the shell of your ear, hand smoothing across your abdomen, and your breath grows heavy. 

“It makes a part of me want to hide you away, away from their longing eyes. I would never do that, but a man still feels the need to stake his claim, yeah?” His hand dips under your shirt, tracing incomprehensible patterns on your skin, the calloused pads of his fingers skimming the skin beneath your breasts. “The entire time I was speaking with ‘Comte’ I was thinking of what beautiful side of you would be revealed next.” 

Your next words are carried on a breathless whisper.

“What did you do?” And you feel the way his lips, pressed to your temple, curl up. “What happened after that?” 

“Heh. Nothing.” He bites at the plump flesh of your cheek, light and playful even as his hand drifts up to cup one breast. Something is lodged in your throat and it feels like it might be your heart. “You did all the work for me.” 

It must’ve been something embarrassing, because you know the way he tugs at a nipple, rolling it between nimble fingers, is more of a distraction. The knowledge doesn’t stop your stomach from clenching with anticipation. “What did I do?”

“Nothing as bad as you’re imagining. I went looking for you, you see,” Leonardo licks up the length of your neck, kissing his way across your skin. Your fingers dig into the firm flesh of his thigh, holding onto the cloth as he sucks red, blooming marks. “But you weren’t in your room. Gave me quite a fright. I found you soon enough, though; stumbling through the halls, trying to find your way to your darling Leo’s room.” 

“I don’t remember that at all…”

His other hand cups your sex, heel pressing in with purpose as your head tips back, lips parting. “Don’t think anybody’s ever been that happy to see me. It was quite a kiss. Did I mention I had a few of the others looking for you too?” 

Leonardo’s palm slips further down, caressing the soft skin of your inner thigh, his cheek brushing yours when you try to look at him. He helps you turn around, leaving you kneeling between his legs, his fingers brushing your cheeks before he cups them and pulls you into a sweet kiss. The taste of his thin cigar spills rich on your tongue, the proof of his arousal brushing against your knee, but he seems content to just kiss you, tongue curling around yours, making a satisfied little sound low in his throat.

Desire burns low in your belly and you pull away with a gasp, forehead dipping to press against his.

With eyes dancing with fervour, he doesn’t look so lonely anymore. You worry, sometimes, that you won’t be able to reach him, that your worlds are too different. He’s a living legend who seems so out of everyone’s league it’s almost funny. 

But he’s also Leo: easygoing and warm, when all he wants is to curl up in your arms, to kiss you, and run his hands all over you, a dragon curling and rubbing itself all over its greatest treasure. When he just soaks up every bit of affection you offer him like a starving sponge.

The flat of his palm meets the soft flesh of your rear with a low smack, pulling you out of your musing. 

“I think that’s really e-embarrassing.” 

Such a demanding old cat, you think. Always wanting to hoard your attention. You should save that one; he gets, quite subtly, but adorably huffy when you say that. You’ve seen his quiet, simmering anger over the big things, but it brings you an odd sort of joy when he gets playfully mad at you over the little things. When instead of shrugging it off, he pouts until you’ve peppered enough kisses all over his face. 

He pinches your stinging flesh.

“Don’t agree. Story’s not over, though. So, then I brought you back here, but you decided to be a bad girl and torture your helpless compagno.” His hands slip up your shirt to cup your breasts, your back arching when his thumbs brush over tightening nipples.

“I’m not sure h-helpless is a word I would ever use to de-describe you.” Desire begins to pool between your legs, your head dropping back when he rolls the peaks between his forefingers and thumbs. You slip the shirt over your head, much to his approval and he doesn’t hesitate before leaning in for a taste, his next words spoken into your skin.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? But when the love of your life kisses you so sweetly, tasting like rich wine, with her hand on your cock–” He sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, working his mouth roughly as you moan and weave trembling fingers through his hair. “And you have to tuck her into bed because she’s drunk, and spend the rest of the night trying to think of the most disgusting things you’ve seen in your life? One can only wonder what circle of hell invented this.” 

“I-“ your skin burns at the thought of you trying to drunkenly seduce him, and you sit back on your heels with ears burning hotly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Me too. You put up a real tough fight, nearly convinced me…the places my mind went…” Leonardo sighs and slips a leg between your thighs, laughing when you squirm at the firm muscle of his thigh pressing into your sex. “Yeah? You wanna know?” 

“Did I really do that?” It comes to you in one single sentence, and the memory of Leonardo’s body pinned beneath you. 

“I just want to feel you. Please?”

Strong hands grip your hips and pull you forward, the friction robbing you of all coherence for a second. “I very nearly prayed.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that, planting soft kisses on both his cheeks, reaching for the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. “I’m really sorry.”

“Mm.” The pleased possessiveness in his eyes always takes your breath away, and the way he sighs and relaxes at your touch makes your heart thump in delight. It always ends up this way; a quiet moment spent with hands running over warm skin, the muscles of his chest firm under your fingers, your spine stretching as his palm slides along the length of it. “I’ll allow you to make up for it.”

“Yeah?” Your lips brush over his, and you breathe in the sweet scent lingering in his breath. Your hand slides down his solid abdomen, coming to rest on the waistband of his pants. “What do you need me to do?” 

With a small hum, his darkened eyes fixated on yours, clever fingers brush your breasts, your sex, and in a move that makes your breath hitch in your throat, they wander over to your rear, between plump flesh–and you immediately consider if what you’ll need is available or if you’ll have to run down to the kitchen. 

Leonardo kisses his way across your cheek, soft and sweet, lips warming your ear. “Smile for me.”

You blink as he pulls back to grin boyishly at you, feeling your brow twitch as your head drops to his shoulder. “You make me feel like a horny pervert.”

“Aren’t you?”

The sound you make is childish, near whiny in tone as you attempt to jump off his lap and flee to the safety of his bed. An admirable attempt, but one that is foiled right away by his arms wrapping around you. “Hey, don’t run from me.” 

“Leave me to my shame, Leo.” He pulls you close, chest pressing to chest, and your lips quiver at the feeling of your breasts against his muscle, and the way he tries to look stern but his affection just softens it until you want to eat him up. 

“You’re so pretty, Leo. Sometimes I wanna just eat you up.”

Dear Lord. Drunk you is shameless. 

“No shame in wanting your lover, cara mia,” Leonardo coos, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I want you just as badly, in every single way, all the time. Il mio cuore è tutto per te,” he murmurs, pulling your hips down to meet his, your mouth watering at the hard ridge of his erection. 

“I don’t see you making a fool of yourself,” you breathe, rolling your hips into his, thrill unfurling within you when he growls throatily. 

“If you saw what goes on in my head, you would run.” His voice is a power unto itself, growing deeper, going straight to your pussy. You reach for the fly of his pants, unbuttoning it swiftly and tugging at them until he lifts his hips with a thick chuckle. 

“Never. I’m far braver than that, and much too in love,” you declare, yanking the fabric down his thighs, taking a moment to admire the thick muscle defining them. 

“And you say I’m the smooth talker.” You crawl up the length of his long legs, his keen eyes raking over you, swaying breasts calling his hands to them like fleshy magnets. “Come to me, cara mia. I’ve been waiting too long to get my hands on you.” 

The head of his hard cock pokes at your thigh when you settle over his lap, his legs spread out. It begins to leak with a few pumps from you, and your eyes flit between the beads of his precome and the way his lashes flutter with each movement of your hand. 

“I don’t think I can wait too long,” he groans. “I was hard most of the night. Wanted you so bad.” 

“Sorry, baby.” You press your lips to his chastely, again and again until his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you there. Rough fingers reach your entrance, collecting drops of your arousal before pushing in. A wicked grin stretches across your mouth, matching his own. 

“Ah, I don’t think you’re up for waiting either.” Shuffling on your knees, you guide the head of his cock to your entrance, slack-jawed as you sink onto it. 

“...Fuck, Leo.” 

Leonardo draws you into another kiss, teeth sinking into your lip when you clench him tightly. His hands squeeze your thighs and, in a display of strength that honest to god has your pussy fluttering, he lifts onto his knees with ease, your legs coming to wrap around his hips. With his tongue still licking into your mouth, he pulls you half off his cock before jerking you back down and slamming his hips into yours. He swallows every moan, every cry, every wrecked sound that climbs up your throat. 

“You feel so good, cara mia. So perfect. And you’re all mine,” he growls into your skin, his thrusts relentless, intent on taking you apart. He presses you back into the bookshelf, and your heart pounds in your chest when he adjusts his grip on your thighs, pushing them back and hooking your calves over his broad shoulders.

The next, merciless slide of his length into you has your eyes rolling back. It’s only in this, when it comes to sex and your pleasure that Leonardo can push you in different, filthy ways until you’re left shaking. Your voice climbs in pitch with every rough thrust, your hands scrambling for purchase on a shelf behind you. 

“There, oh, there, please, k-keep doing that,” you sob, blinking back tears as you look up at him pleadingly, burning hotter at the sharp, consuming desire you see. He presses what feels like impossibly closer, the burning in your thighs strong but the drag of his skin against your bundle of nerves overwhelming. 

“Come for me, ___,” he groans, a wicked smile ghosting across his lips, allowing you a glimpse of fanged teeth and you see stars. Your back arches, head thumping against wood; your walls clamp down, and a hiss leaves his lips as you break in his arms. He slows his pace, fucking you through it, lips chasing away the tears spilling over. 

Forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, mind and body more jelly than flesh–his cock is still heavy in you, and an involuntary whimper sounds deep in your throat when you look up at him. He kisses you gently.

And with all his gentle affection, he pulls you off of his length and sets you down in front of the window, back arched and ass out, the glass cool against your sweaty cheek. You hiss softly when he slides in again, your breath fogging up the glass, his front curled over your back. Brushing away damp strands, he plants open-mouthed kisses on the nape of your neck, your shoulders. Twining your hair around his fist, other hand steady on your hip–he angles his hips and thrusts deep. 

You had been sure you didn’t have it in you to make even the slightest noise, but your body disagrees in the form of a low keen, your aching cunt swallowing him greedily. 

“That’s my good girl,” Leonardo exhales, his pace turning swifter and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin providing an erotic contrast to the soothing rain. “Sorry for being so greedy but…” His fingers find your swollen clit and heat coils in your belly. “...I want one more.”

Denying him, your own pleasure at that, is not something within your capacity.

He muffles a guttural groan in your skin, nearly rutting into you as you wail, loud and wanton, unravelling once more. His pace stutters and liquid heat fills you in thick spurts. You turn your head, weak but wanting, to welcome his lips on yours.

Cracking the window open once more, you curl up against his body, his heat more than enough to shield you from the cold. You brush his hair away from his face, his having slipped free in the frenzy of desire. He rubs your lower back gently, covering you with his still-warm shirt, reclining against the bookshelf; you think you almost hear him purr his contentment. 

“Wait, where’s Lumière?” You’ve seen no sign of him, and the thought relieves you a little.

“Following Sebas around, last I saw him,” he mumbles, nosing at the skin behind your ear. You’re both so sweaty, but you wonder if you can make it to Le Thermae without running into any curious residents. “Also, cara mia, there was something I wanted to ask you.” 

“Mm?”

“I talked to Comte about it, and he’s agreed so you don’t need to worry about that. If you’re okay with it, I wanted to take a little trip.” You look at him and he pokes your cheek, but there’s no missing the hopeful look in those eyes. 

“Just us?”

“Just us. I want you all to myself,” he tells you, smug smirk and cockiness, before it softens into a tiny smile. “I had some work, back in Italy. Thought I could take you, show you around since we’d have the chance. Only if you’d like to, of course.”

“I’d love to.” Your immediate response is, quite embarrassingly, teary eyes and an enthusiastic kiss. Pulling back, you raise a brow. “Only if I’d like to? You mean you wouldn’t have wrapped me up in my sleep and taken me along anyway?”

“As you cute as you look when you’re grumpy,” he laughs at the narrowing of your glittering eyes, “the journey would be far more pleasant if you’re happy, no?”

“But I’m always happy when I’m with you,” you point out, foxy smile in place. The fuzzy feeling in your heart feels close to spilling over when he hugs you closer, but you still catch the way the tips of his ears flush. He holds you close as if wanting to imprint the feeling of your body against his, to sear your love onto his heart, to inhale the scent of you and trap it in his lungs–before the day comes when he will no longer have the chance to.

You turn away from the sadness and bury your face in his chest.

“Y-yeah, well. It’s time you got to eat some of the best food in the world.”

Now is the time for love, and you plan to give him so much, to paint him in the colours of your adoration, devotion and passion–that loneliness will not dare touch him for a long, long time.

Thank you for reading~ 

Translation:

il mio cuore è tutto per te: my heart is all for you

cuore mio: my heart 

per sempre tuo: forever yours (tuo is masculine singular possessive, tua is feminine singular possessive)  

Whumptober 2021 Day 12: torture | made to watch | begging

Arthur can’t remember when things stopped going the way Dutch said they’d go. Maybe they never had. But still, he does what he’s told. Even when there’s no other purpose to a job than murder.

He’s more or less in agreement that the man deserves it, at least. Angelo Bronte. A man who bargained with Jack’s life. Who insulted them all to their faces. Who led them to the trolley station and right into the arms of the Saint Denis law. And Arthur can’t say he wouldn’t be satisfied to see the man suffer a little.

So they follow Dutch on a night of revenge—through the bayou, over the wall of the mansion’s sprawling gardens, shooting their way through a few dozen of Bronte’s men and kicking open the front doors.

Dutch sends him in with John while the others skirt round to the back and they clear the place, room by room, shot by shot, searching for the slimy bastard. They’ve done this before, and not even that long ago—looking for Jack at the Braithwaite manor, full of righteous vengeance—only at least then it had a purpose. This methodical kind of killing just makes him feel like a foot soldier for Dutch’s bruised pride.

Still, they’ve come this far, they might as well finish it. And maybe once it's done, Dutch'll calm down a little.

Arthur and John head upstairs, through plush bedrooms, ornate bathrooms, a book-filled study. A whole entire room for Bronte’s wardrobe. Arthur stops for a moment, staggered by the wealth of it, trying to calculate how much the man’s suits alone must be worth, while John heads into the next room. There’s a gunshot, a scuffle, and then silence, and a creeping feeling crawls across Arthur’s shoulder blades.

“John? You found him?”

There’s no answer. Arthur curses under his breath and leads with his shotgun, shouldering the door open and readying for trouble.

But instead, trouble finds him, as it always seems to.

He barely has time to register the sight of John in a heap on the floor when the butt of a rifle smashes into his temple and he’s going down hard, the world tipping sideways, his vision flashing white before darkness swallows him up.

* * *

There’s a dull ache running all the way down the side of his jaw, through his neck and into his back. He tries to move but something’s wrong. His arms are numb. He’s face down on something soft and hard at the same time. For a second he thinks he’s in his bunk but it smells wrong. Some kind of perfumed soap. Cigars and the hint of gunsmoke. The hanging tinge of blood in the air.

When he squints an eye open, a knifing pain flares across his forehead. And as his blurred vision collates on a swirling red carpet it all comes back in a rush.

Bronte.

He struggles to roll onto his side, gritting his teeth against the ache in his head. His arms are tied behind him, lashed tight at the wrists, shoulders straining. There’s blood in his eyes—he can feel it cracking across his eyebrows—and even the lamplight feels too bright, doubling his vision and casting everything in a wavering glow, but gradually his surroundings come into focus.

John's tied to a chair in the middle of the room, head lolling onto his chest, breathing harsh and shallow. There's the signs of a beating on his face, bloodstains on his shirt, and one of eyes is swollen shut.

Arthur calls his name and is rewarded with a savage kick in the ribs. He hadn’t even seen the other figures, hidden in the periphery of his concussion. Bronte, in his silk smoking jacket, and two of his lackeys, their knuckles smudged with John’s blood. One of them kicks Arthur a second time and he curls in on himself, unable to take a breath in for several long, gasping seconds.

John’s good eye flickers open and he immediately begins to pull against his bonds, mumbling curses through a fat, split lip.

Bronte walks a slow half-circle around the back of the chair and leans against it, smiling coldly. “Finally, we are all in attendance. We’ve been getting bored waiting for you, Mr Morgan. I hope you don’t mind us amusing ourselves with your little brother here.”

The Italian prods at John’s bruised cheekbone and he flinches away.

“I’m afraid he hasn’t been particularly helpful with our enquiries,” Bronte continues, sneering down at Arthur. “I was hoping you might be a bit more cooperative. What do you say?”

Arthur glares back at him. “You double-crossed us,” he growls. “Dutch’s gonna have your head.”

He’s expecting the next kick and tenses for it, but this time it comes from behind and the lackey’s boot gets him right in the kidney. His back arches reflexively, pulling at his bruised ribs, at his stretched shoulders. He breathes through it, fighting for control. He feels helpless, down here on the floor, but he’s in a better state than John and needs to keep the attention on himself for a while.

Dante lets out a clipped little laugh. “Ah, yes, Dutch Van der Linde. Precisely the topic of our conversation. You see, I have been approached by some people who are very interested in your illustrious leader…”

Arthur meets John’s eye and a silent question and answer passes between them. Pinkertons.

Bronte sees the exchange. Smiles wider. “And here I am, with two of his favourite protégés. And... I have to say I’m not terribly impressed. But, by the looks of it, Dutch is content with scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to the company he keeps.”

“What do you want, Bronte?” Arthur sighs. “Ain’t got all day.” He’s sick of speeches. From Dutch. From this prick. So many grand words with no one really saying anything.

Bronte’s smile freezes on his face and slips into a grimace. “I want,” he says, slowly, dangerously, “Dutch Van der Linde. Tell me where he is.”

Arthur lets out a dark chuckle. “Just sit tight. He’s comin’ for you.”

“Oho. No, I don’t think so,” Bronte smirks, almost apologetically. “He turned tail and ran, along with the rest of your ‘friends’. Back to whatever hovel you people crawled out of.”

Arthur falters. The pounding of his head is still making it hard to remember clearly but he's pretty sure Dutch and the others had been right behind them. Maybe there were too many of Bronte’s men. Maybe they had to retreat, regroup. But surely Dutch wouldn’t just leave them here…

Bronte seems to read his train of thought, leaning down and resting his hands on his knees as if he were talking to Jack. “No one is coming for you, Mr Morgan. But now you’re both awake perhaps this whole… process can be somewhat more entertaining.”

Quick as a whip, he reaches out and grabs a fistful of John’s hair, yanking his head sideways. “You know, I thought this one would be the weaker of you two, but he’s been remarkably resistant so far.”

John spits out a gravelly ‘fuck you’ and Bronte lets go, shoving him away so hard the whole chair almost tips over.

“Looks like it’s your turn, Mr Morgan.”

He gets his lackeys to do it. Wouldn’t want to dirty his own hands, of course. Leans back against one of his fancy side cabinets and watches as they lay into Arthur with fists and boots and rifle butts.

Arthur’s taken more than a few beatings in his time, except usually he’s on his feet, giving as good as he gets. Here, tied up on the floor, unable to defend himself, it's all he can do to try not to choke on his own stuttered breathing as the blows rain down on him.

A boot catches him across the face and he feels something crack. A tooth, maybe. Or his cheekbone. Blood floods his mouth. His skull feels like it’s splitting open. The whole room is spinning, even though he knows he’s lying still.

He can hear John yelling from far away. Swearing, threatening, then begging them to stop. To leave Arthur alone.

There’s the familiar sound of a fist hitting flesh, a grunt, and John goes quiet.

The lackeys turn back to Arthur but he’s doing poorly enough on his own without any need for their 'assistance'. His ribs are on fire, every breath like broken glass, and he can’t stop coughing. Can’t inhale more than a gasp before it hacks out of him again.

Bronte pauses the assault with a wave of his hand and appraises the man at his feet distastefully.

“Tiring so quickly? I thought you’d be more of a challenge. And now I am going to have to replace this whole carpet…”

“Didn’t… like the… colour… anyway.” Arthur forces the words out, spitting blood across the patterned rug, managing a crooked smile at the way it riles the other man.

Bronte sets one shiny shoe against Arthur’s neck and presses down, forcing his face into the floor.

“Look at it,” Bronte snarls. “Look around you. The kind of finery you will never know. You… peasants. Living out of tents, wagons in the mud. You farmers and your filthy, fucking…”

He searches wildly for the right English word, stamping down harder on Arthur’s jaw, “…turnips!”

“You mean... mangos,” Arthur corrects, his voice scraping out of him. And then he’s laughing, even though it’s like a stabbing in his ribs, tears of mirth and pain streaming down his cheeks, and though he can’t see anything other than the stupid, swirling carpet in front of him he can hear John laughing too, and it's worth it.

Bronte lifts his foot away, rolling Arthur onto his back with the momentum, and suddenly there’s a blade in the man’s hand—a wicked little thing, more like a folding razor than a knife—but the sight of it, along with the cold glare of Bronte’s eyes, makes the laughter die in Arthur’s throat.

“Enough,” Bronte snaps. “Enough of this timewasting. You are going to tell me where to find Dutch Van der Linde, and you are going to tell me now.”

He waves the knife between them, weighing up his options for a moment, before crouching beside Arthur and grabbing a fistful of his shirt.

“What should I take first?” he asks John. “An ear?”

The blade flicks beneath Arthur’s earlobe and he feels a trickle of blood run down his neck.

“Or maybe a finger…”

The knife hooks behind his pinky finger next, and he swallows hard. Imagines it slicing down to the bone.

“Or how about an eye?”

He flinches as the Bronte holds the tip of the knife a hair’s breadth above his left eye, fighting the urge to cough, though it tugs at his chest, not daring to move an inch. Not even blink.

John is deadly still too; has been watching the performance with a face like stone. “Stop it,” he says quietly.  

“Your choice, Mr Marston,” Bronte smirks. “Or would you like to watch me carve pieces off your ‘brother’ all night?”

John takes a ragged breath and shakes his head. “Dutch’s long gone. He’ll have cleared out, moved on. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“See, I don’t think he’s that smart,” Bronte says thoughtfully. “I think I have made a fool of him and he will stick around a while, to see if he can get his petty revenge. Or perhaps to negotiate for your sorry lives. The way he did with your boy. Playing at gentlemen, running errands like a good dog.”

John’s fists tighten around the chair’s armrests at the mention of Jack. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“You wanted to march right in here and blow my head off, didn’t you?” Bronte drawls, enjoying the effect his words are having, “Like a real man, protecting his child. But Dutch, he just wants to talk, talk, talk…”

Arthur can see John’s breathing quicken, his eyes locked onto Bronte as though he’s imagining exactly what he’s describing—the man’s brains splattering all over the wall.

But Bronte is on a roll, latching onto John’s weak spot and pushing. “You would have done anything to save your son, and that is admirable, but why protect Dutch? He is not your blood. He is not your family.”

“We’re all family,” Arthur cuts in, as firmly as he can. Before Bronte’s words can seep too deep into John’s mind.

Bronte looks surprised, almost as if he’d forgotten about the man he was threatening with a knife. And then he gives a cruel, taunting smile. “Is that right? One big happy family? I must say, I did think Jack has more your complexion than Mr Marston here. Is that something else you farmers do? Share your wives?”

Arthur feels the room turn a notch colder. He seeks out John’s eye and holds it steady. Be smart. Don’t rise to it.

John doesn’t react. Stares back at Arthur with an emptiness that hurts. Shifts his gaze back to Bronte.

Bronte tuts impatiently, shoving the blade up against Arthur’s throat. “What is this one to you, anyway? Always fighting for Dutch’s approval. For your woman. Why don’t I just… get rid of him for you?”

The knife presses harder. Arthur feels it scrape on his stubble. Draw a stinging line of blood. Bronte leans closer, his eyes boring into John's.

“And then we have a nice little talk about Dutch. And we get you a fine reward. A piece of land. A farm for your family. With mangos.”

The spell breaks. John’s eyes narrow. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Bronte rolls his eyes, letting go of Arthur with an exasperated sigh, and with a sudden lunge, he sinks the knife into John’s thigh, right up to the hilt.

A scream tears out of John’s throat, his chest heaving as he pants through the pain. And it’s Arthur’s turn to struggle, somehow dragging himself up to his knees as if he can do a damn thing with his hands still tied behind him. But he tries to throw himself at the man nonetheless, until one of the lackeys steps forward and wraps an arm around his neck, holding him still, and Bronte turns on him with a vicious edge to his voice.

“Alright, your turn to talk.”

He yanks the knife out again, ripping another grunt from John, and blood starts flowing from the wound, soaking his pants and the chair beneath it. Bronte ignores his cursing and his thrashing and holds the blade above his other thigh.

“Where next?” he asks Arthur. “Here?” The same sick game, reversed. He moves the knife to John’s stomach. “Here?” Then his heart. “Or here?”

Blood drips down the chair legs, seeping into the carpet. John's face is fixed in a grimace, leaning forward as far as his bonds will allow, every muscle straining.

“Let him go,” Arthur barks. “Forget Dutch. Take me in. There’s five thousand on my head alone.”

“Five thousand?" Bronte snorts, "That is nothing to me.”

Arthur sags in the lackey’s grip, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. “Please. Take me, instead. Please, just let him go.”

And Bronte pauses, suddenly alert, like a cat pricking up its ears. Outside, the sound of gunfire splits the air.

Dutch.

A flicker of uncertainty passes across Bronte’s face and he waves the knife at his lackeys. “Go and see what’s going on.”

They spring for the door, the one holding Arthur dropping him aburptly, but he just about manages to stay on his knees. The shots are getting closer. Shouts and footsteps on the stairs. He feels a grim smile spread across his bruised face.

“Told you he was comin’,” he says.

Bronte swears in Italian, fumbles a fancy-looking gun out of his dresser and thrusts it against Arthur’s head, just as the door slams open and Dutch kicks his way in, shotgun raised.

Dutch’s eyes take in the sight, darting from Arthur to John and back again, his gaze resting on the gun at Arthur’s temple. His grip on the shotgun tightens.

“Put it down,” Bronte says flatly, cocking the hammer, jamming the barrel into his blood-matted hair.

Dutch attempts a winning smile, lifting one hand off from the shotgun and holding it up like a prayer. “Now let's be reasonable about this, Bronte. Discuss this like gentlemen …”

"No more talking," comes a gruff voice from behind Bronte and then John is barrelling into him, chair and all, and the three of them go down with a crash and a ringing gunshot.

* * *

Arthur finds himself face down on the floor again, his head reeling, an unbearably high-pitched sound filling his left ear with pressure, a burning line running right the way across his cheek. Gun must’ve gone off right next to his goddamn face. He feels himself groan but can’t hear a thing.

Someone cuts his bonds and his arms fall limp at his sides, numb and full of needle-pricks. He’s pulled up to his feet by firm hands, patting him down for injuries, slapping him gently around the face until he opens his eyes.

Dutch's face fills his view, looking horrified and relieved and more than a little scared.

Lenny’s there too, hauling John up off the floor, bloody and grumbling. And Bill, tossing a senseless Bronte over his shoulder.

“Y’came back,” Arthur mumbles, and his own voice sounds like it’s underwater.

Dutch frowns back at him, his brow pinching in the middle. “Course I did.”

Arthur chokes on a laugh and immediately regrets it, can barely stand up straight with his battered ribs, but Dutch holds him up, wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads the way. The way he always has. The way they'll always follow.

“Come on boys," he grins darkly, "Let's go have a little talk with Mr Bronte here...”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An alternative to how ‘Revenge Is A Dish Best Eaten’ could’ve gone...

Also on AO3! Requests more than welcome (prompt list is here)

Hi. So based on the recent post of RSEA x bishonen tanteidan crossover, could u do a scene where Audrey is introduced to the f7 in a similar way Manibu introduced the Pretty Boy Detective Club to Mayumi? Oh and definitely that scene where Mayumi asks Michi to brew her tea like in the pic w Jack and Audrey. Hope it’s not too much 👉👈. Thx.

Sure! This was pretty fun to write!

“Are you okay?” the male asked grinning, holding her in his arms as he moved his face closer to hers.

Audrey widened her eyes. Where did he come from? What’s with those eyes? It’s too alluring...captivating. The man had brown hair swept to the side, his eyes the same color. He donned a navy blue outerwear and had the appearance of a sorcerer.

“Thank you…” she muttered as she finally tore her gaze away from his face.

The man smiled and hummed as he stepped back and looked at her. Audrey didn’t know what he was staring at, so she refused to look back at him as she tucked her hands behind her back.

“So, you like the ocean?” he asked as if implying something.

Audrey finally looks at him a little surprised, “What makes you think that?”

“Why, that’s a quite simple, elementary deduction.” he simply responded with a snap of his finger, “After all I can’t think of any other reason to be on the beach alone at this time of season.”

Indeed, it was winter. Not exactly the most favorable season for people to visit the location. But regardless, this man was right.

“I love the sea too,” he continued, “The beautiful sound that you hear when the long awaited waves crash onto the warm sand, the way it reflects everything in its path. It’s  too beautiful!” he spread his arms as he faced the water.

He paused and took a deep breath of the salt watered air, turning back to Audrey, “Looking for something?”

“What makes you think that?” she asked once more. How does he keep guessing what exactly her motives are?

“Why, another elementary deduction,” he puts his hands on his hips and confidently walks towards her, “The most elementary of elementary speculation. Only someone completely absorbed in searching for something,” he leans towards her smirking, “would fail to notice my spectacular self standing nearby.”

‘He said that, he totally said that. ‘My spectacular self’...’ she thought as she frowned, slightly moving back and away from him.

Suddenly, the male then brought out a magnifying glass. He blinked a couple of times before making a sound in realization.

“What now…” she muttered.

It took awhile for her to notice, but he was not looking at her, rather, he leaned down and looked at the edge of the shore behind her. The water should’ve gone back to the ocean like any wave does after it crashes onto the sand, but the area surrounding Audrey doesn’t. It circulated around her shoes.

“I of all people was a bit careless here. I just noticed it, you have a connection to the water.”

Audrey gasped and quickly hid her hands in her pockets. As soon as she did, the water surrounding her shoes went back to the ocean.

He tilted his head in confusion as he put his hand on hips, “Hm? Why’d you stop? A shame to hide such magnificence. No need to worry, talent is not something to compare.” his gaze went to the little talismans he had in his pocket, “Even if you stand next to me your powers will not be dulled!”

Having enough of this conversation, Audrey bit her lip as she took a deep breath and huffed. She turned to him, her foot stomping on the sand as she presented her best forced smile with her fists clenched.

“You’re right. I am searching for something. Would you be so kind as to assist me?” she said through gritted teeth and a grin.

“But of course!” he beamed with self confidence, completely unaffected by her obvious expression, “After all self service is what me and my boys do!”

He then took her hand and started running across the sand, “Come with me!”

“W-where are we going?!” she quickly asked.

“That should be obvious!” he smirked as he looked back at her, “To the Fearless Seven headquarters, of course!”

---

Audrey had heard of the Fearless Seven, or the F7 in short. They were the greatest heroes nationwide, but also the most mysterious. They have never shown their face to the public, and when their clients were interviewed they were forced to keep their mouths shut as per the contact that the F7 gives to them. The members whole identity is kept a mystery.

“Creepy…” Audrey pouted as she thought about this, was it really a good idea to ask for their help?

…

“Eh..?”

After arriving at their destination, Audrey was somewhat surprised that the nations greatest heroes lived in...how would she put it, a ‘down-to-earth’ home.

“This is...Risky Rock?” she spoke to herself as she looked around what seemed to be the living room.

“Hmm?”

Another voice came from the end of the room, sounding displeased at her arrival.

“What’s this? This time you brought over a girl who doesn’t even look like royalty. For all we know she’s a commoner.”

The irritated man had his back turned to her. He wore a blue vest and his blond hair was swept up. He had his hands on his hips as he held a small hand mirror towards his face.

“I bet she doesn’t even know the first thing about how to greet princes. She probably stumbles over her words and can’t even curtsy properly.”

“Princes…?” she questioned in a whisper before realizing what he said and raised her voice, “Excuse me! But I’m-”

Though it was at a distance, the man held his mirror up to look at her in his reflection. That was when the slow realization hit her and she gasped.

‘Prince Jack. The man who climbed the beanstalk and came down wealthy. The rags to riches prince, the wealthiest man in all of Fairy Tale Island. He was obviously well known around the island but has been noted to be hard to approach due to his motto:

“Time is money.”“’

In other words, every second speaking to him would probably cost Audrey her entire month's budget on meals.

“Come now, Jack.” A second, more gentler voice came from the other end of the room, “You should not say something so endlessly rude to a woman you just met.”

The man had a large sword in his lap, and Audrey heard the sounds of what seemed to be him sharpening it, “We haven’t been getting a lot of requests lately, try not to scare off our money this time.” he chuckled as he threw the slab to the side.

“...Prince Arthur!” she widened her eyes.

‘He was the most revered of the knights in Fairy Tale Island. Heir to the throne of Camelot, he was known for defeating many monsters, witches, and beasts with just his brute strength.’ she marveled in her thoughts, ‘Who knows what he could do if he put that sword of his to proper use…and to say the least you won't find a girl who’s never heard of him.’

“The richest prince, Jack, and the strongest prince, Arthur,  who basically makeup part of the well known princes in the Island, are in the same room together.” she mumbled to herself, “I couldn’t possibly hide my surprise.”

Jack scoffed as he turned to Arthur, “Don’t complain while you’re drinking the tea I brewed for you. That stuff is from my personal collection.”

But Arthur merely chuckled, “Come now. The tea that you give us is excellent, Arthur.”

“Yup! That’s right, Jack!”

Another voice, this time coming from where the couches were arranged, interrupted.

“You nabbed a girl as cute as her, and you’re saying she’s a filthy commoner?”

‘Eh...a second voice? But they sound just the same…’

“Right? I thought you’d propose at first sight like ‘Let’s live together!’”

‘No, there are three voices!’

Simultaneously, the voices stood up to reveal themselves to her with a grin, and for the third time, Audrey had to gasp.

‘Princes Pino, Noki, and Kio!’ she thought as she swallowed her throat, ‘They’re known for being the best and smartest inventors, not just among the princes but on the whole island as well! Not to mention, rumoured to be extremely handsome under those hats.They were revered scholars that surpassed even their father, the great inventor Geppetto...how on earth are they all here?!’

“You’re the traveler who controls water right? Audrey!” Pino snapped his fingers.

Audrey pouted, “How did you…”

“All in a day's work, nice to meet ya.’’ said Noki.

Kio (she hoped she was telling them apart right), stood up and went to what seemed to be the kitchen of the estate. “Hans, cook up some pasta for us will you? Something tells me we’ll need a feast for this meeting.”

Audrey’s gaze went to the gingered haired chef who stood in front of the stove, ‘Prince Hans. One of the twins from the kingdom of sweets, and the master of all cooking. He’s won many competitions and restaurants have been clawing at him for him to even just to make an appearance or try their food so that he would leave a review.’

“I see…” she stepped back and looked at the six men, “This really is the ‘Fearless Seven’, so many talented and famous people...no not just people, princes. If people knew who they were, they would come flocking with requests.”

Audrey frowned and put her hand on her chin, “But that’s what makes it all the more bewildering. Why would these six participate in such a group?”

Then, a confident and boisterous laugh was heard behind her. Audrey quickly turned around to see the man that guided her here. Now that she had the proper lighting, she could finally see who he really was. It all made sense.

“Once again, I must say I am pleased to meet you, Traveler Audrey.” he took her hand and looked her in the eye, “I am none other than the leader of the Fearless Seven, Prince Merlin.”

‘So the proclaimed leader who had the wealthiest, strongest, smartest, and talented in tow…’

‘...Wait.’

“Who are you…again?” Audrey squinted at him.

Merlin’s smile remained before morphing into a shocked and betrayed expression, “W-What do you mean who I am?!” his filter completely fell as he put his hand to his chest and leaned towards her.

Kio could help but burst out in laughter, “Oi, is she serious? She really doesn’t know who he is? This must be a low blow for you, Merlin!” He held his stomach.

“Truly a humbling moment, you’re not as well known as you think you are.” Hans smiled as he glanced at their leader.

“Shut it you two!” Merlin balled his fists then turned to Audrey, desperate to have his name known, “I’m Prince Merlin of Camelot! Greatest wizard of all time? Greatest sorcerer? The most well known in all of Camelot?!’ he yelled the last bit.

He had moved towards her with each sentence, causing her to step back and fall back into one of the luxurious chairs in the room. She leaned back on it as a worried expression started to form on her face.

“...I thought Prince Arthur was the most well known in Camelot...and that the greatest wizard and sorcerer was a mouse called Mick-”

“I brought that mouse his intelligence! That was me! The papers just don’t acknowledge it!”

‘Exasperated’, ‘Out of breath’, and ‘Flustered’ were the right words to describe Merlin right now.

“Let it go, muchacho.” Arthur sat with a sly grin etched on his face, “Not anyone can best me in terms of popularity.”

“How true,” Jack, now having a smirk on his face, walked up to Merlin who still frowned at him, “Poor little wizard is not as well known as we are.”

But when it came to Jack, Merlin’s complexion changed and took...no that’s not the right word, gripped his hand and pulled him close, “Better shut that pretty face of yours up and pay special attention to our guest. It’s your job after all.” Merlin forced through a smile, though it was blatantly obvious to everyone.

Jack’s smirk faded and rolled his eyes, walking towards Audrey.

‘Huh…?’ she thought, ‘He just obeyed him like that, even though he’s a prince. This Merlin really is the leader...is he really a prince like he claims?’

“Well?”

Audrey snapped out of her thoughts and yelped as Jack suddenly appeared before her, leaning down with a disapproving look on his face. “Don’t look at me with that stupid look on your face. What do you want?” he said, getting impatient.

“Geez, they must’ve been real attentive to the boss back home.” Audrey frowned at him, not bothering to hide her thoughts.

“Watch your tongue, commoner.” Jack kicked her chair with a good amount of force before kneeling down to her level to look her in the eye.

“Now, now, Jack.” Hans said from the kitchen as he prepared the plates for everyone, “Might as well get her something to drink. She’s here regardless.”

Jack looked annoyed at the chef before looking back at Audrey who thought about this a little too seriously. Feeling relieved that Hans was on her side a little she outstretched her arm towards him and closed her eyes.

“I’ll have tea.” she attempted to sound confident, but the expression on her face betrayed her.

“You’ve gotten rather shameless.” Jack noted as he knelt down.

The Last Honest Men, Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my Archive. Part 1 of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis: "Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself.

On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question if his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch Van der Linde/Molly O'Shea, Dutch Van der Linde/Susan Grimshaw, Dutch Van der Linde/Hosea Matthews

-------------

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.