#“Arthur... i haven't said it but. arthur. i care for you arthur” directly followed by “arthur fucking kill yourself arthur”

[mikonez]

they're like the average bickering married couple in a friend group

[fangirl-ramblings]

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

Summary: A return trip from Annesburg is about to change your life forever

Word count: 1520

Notes: CW: vague descriptions of wounds | Unsure how to tag this right now, Amensia Plot | Unbetaed [Any feedback is appreciated]

Tags for: @husbandits.

I was so excited when I saw that I was assigned to be your Secret Santa this year (even if i do still have a request I need to fulfill for you 🙈) I loved each item on your wishlist, but this one really jumped out at me.

"okay, so there was a post going around like last year i think where arthur had gotten amnesia and the reader took him in, and honestly i haven't been able to get it out of my head these past few months for some reason"

I couldn't find the original post you referred to, but a rough idea started to form in my head...The only problem is, this idea is so much bigger than the stories I usually write and I was starting to run out of time to get it posted for in time for the @rdr-secret-santa event (as you well know, I'm a slow writer) so...please accept my humble offering of the first chapter while I try chip away at the remaining parts.

The Best Kept Memories

[working title]

Chapter 1: Late 1899 [Oct/Nov]

All this commotion was frustrating to say the least; you'd arrived in Annesburg late yesterday afternoon, ready to pick up the supplies you'd needed to stock your cabin up with before the weather turned back into the harsh winter the Grizzlies were famous for. Despite arriving in town a good 30 mins before the train carrying your supplies from Saint Dennis was due in at the station, an hour later you were still standing on the platform waiting for it to suddenly come rumbling down the tracks.

   "All the trains have been delayed you know" A local busybody informed you.

   "Yeah, I kinda gathered," you politely replied - not really wanting to be drawn into conversation...too bad the older lady didn’t get the message.

   "Talk is…" she leaned in close, as if she was sharing confidential intel that only you were to know about, "a bunch of degenerates living not too far from here, decided to rob one of the earlier trains coming up from city." 

You found yourself rolling your eyes internally upon hearing this; you were aware the Murfree Brood were a sadistic bunch of murdering bastards, but from what you previously heard about them, they could barely care for and ride their horses, let alone plan to board and rob a moving train.

"Terrible affair I heard, seems they managed to make it all the way up towards Bacchus Bridge before…" she stopped mid-conversation, not because she ran out of gossip to share with you but she had noticed that the tracks began to rumble and the sound of a train's whistle could be heard approaching the station.

   "Well, looks like the delay is finally over," you commented, pointing out the obvious.

  "Oh do excuse me will you." You sighed with relief as you watched the woman move a little down the way, heading towards the train's engine to see if the driver had any updates of the goings on in Saint Dennis to share with her.

By the time you'd finished loading your wagon up, you were exhausted and couldn't face the thought of driving home through Roanoke Ridge in the dark, especially if the Murfree Brood were still loitering about. Looking down the main street you saw the local hotel had some vacancies and made the impulsive decision to spend the night in one of the rooms there, ready to feel refreshed in time for your morning ride home.

While it seemed like a very good idea at the time, you soon realised you'd made a huge mistake. After waking up and having a quick wash before getting dressed, you made your way back outside to find the most peculiar sight. The mining town of Annesburg, usually full of workers with dirt covered faces, wandering about in their equally filthy overalls, was now overrun by well dressed men in suits. 

   "They say they're Pinkertons." You overheard the gossiping woman that you encountered the previous night, telling her newly captive audience. "One of them told me personally that there was a gunfight up near Beaver Hollow."

   "Well Eunice, I heard talk there was reports of those hooligans that they're after, fleeing into the night and the 'Pinkertons' had to chase them all over the Ridge well into the early hours of the morning," another lady informed her, looking super smug that she'd been able to provide some information that her friend wasn't already privy too.

   "Well either way, several roads around the area have been blocked off by the men in suits." Eunice huffed before walking off, looking for a less informed person to chat too.

Shaking your head, you dismissed their talk as nothing but idle gossip and jumped up on your wagon, ready to head back home along one of the roads leading South.

   "This road is closed," the well-suited man hissed as you approached the roadblock with your wagon. "I suggest you find another route."

   "It wasn’t closed yesterday when I rode into town, any chance you could let me go past just this once?" you protested, not really knowing why you were bothering. His stony face told you this was not a man who had much compassion for others, but wanting to get back home before the storm brewing on the East side of the Lannahechee river rolled in, you persisted, "I can be home within the hour if you let me past, whereas the other route will take me twice as long - not to mention those treacherous mountain roads I'd be forced to travel along."

   "I said, find...another...way" he growled at you, clenching his teeth as he emphasised each word.

   "Fine," you sighed as you reversed your wagon and drove along the road heading north.

Even though this route would take you the better part of the day to get home, you didn't mind so much as you could take the time to enjoy the beautiful scenery of this part of the country, especially the area around the huge mountain that rudely stood directly in front of you.

Taking a left hand turn to finally head southwards; you trundled along, lost in a world of your own as you admired the red wildflowers that grew in abundance here. Making a mental note to maybe pick some up on your next visit up here, so you could liven your cabin up, you were shocked when your horse suddenly reared up, whinnying a distressed shrill.

   "Hey now Ponos, what's to do with you?" you asked gently, hopping down off your wagon to assess the area around you. There was nothing obvious that you could see in the road, but out of the corner of your eye you noticed a flock of scavenger birds circling over something that must be hidden out of sight behind the giant rock to your right.

   "Trust you to be scared of a half-eaten animal" you chuckled as you patted Ponos' neck in an effort to calm him down. A beautiful Chestnut coloured Belgian Draft, you'd named him after the Greek God of hard labour & toil and while you couldn’t fault his excellent work ethic and seemingly unlimited stamina, you soon realised why the stable owner had offered you such a cheap price for him all those years ago; this giant of a horse was easily spooked by the smallest of things.

After reaching up to grab your gun from underneath your seat, you started walking over to the most likely spot to investigate. If it was a fresh kill you had enough space on your wagon to throw the carcass on and take it home to make a nice meal or two out of.

Approaching the overgrowth behind the rock, the birds squawked and scattered when they realised that you were about to steal the meal they had their eyes on. Getting closer, you noticed a heaped mound laying there. Your mouth started to water as you realised whatever this was, it was certainly likely to be bigger than a rabbit and therefore would provide several tasty meals over the next few days. Using the barrel of your rifle, you cautiously moved apart the long grass, almost dropping your gun as you finally saw what was previously hidden.

Looking like death personified this was certainly no animal, but a seriously injured man. His poor face, gaunt, bloody and bruised. Judging by the shallow, laboured breaths you could see him trying to take, he was still alive - but only just.

   "Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?" You asked, not really expecting a response but the almost corpse groaned and weakly nodded in response.

You glanced back at the grey clouds that had followed you on your journey from Annesburg, before looking back at this wretched soul. What was it your old pa used to tell you?

   'There's never any harm in being a good Samaritan to those that need your help.'

Realising that you could never let yourself walk away and leave a healthy man to be stranded in a storm, let alone an almost dead one to succumb from his wounds, you quickly set your gun aside and placed his arms around your neck. Summoning all the strength you had, you somehow managed to pick the sandy-haired man up and manoeuvre him onto the back of your wagon. 

   "I live a short ride away, you’re welcome to rest there until you get your strength back up.” Unravelling a few pelts you had stored with the rest of your cargo, you tossed them over the injured man to help try to keep him warm.

   "Sorry it's not very comfy but I guess it beats lying there in the cold waiting for the cruel embrace of death," you explained whilst taking out a carrot from your satchel to feed Ponos, in the hope he had gotten over his fear and was willing to continue your journey back home, “Tell me, do you have a name sir?”

Jumping back into the driver’s seat, you looked back over your shoulder, only to find your passenger had passed out.

[flourchildwrites]

How about some Romione for Fictober/Writetober??? I know you haven't written for that fandom in a while, but I would love to see something from you for that!

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (24/30)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @vino-and-doggos

Prompt:  “Family” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Harry Potter

Relationship/Pairing:  Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley

Genre:  Post-Canon, Cold Feet

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,150 words

Read on AO3

The Granger-Weasley wedding was marketed as an intimate affair. And honestly, in Ron’s humble opinion, the less like Bill and Fleur’s big to-do, the better. The way the youngest Weasley brother saw it, the nuptials could have done without his Great-Aunt Muriel, an abundance of woefully domestic wedding presents and perhaps the mid-reception announcement that the Ministry of Magic had fallen under Voldemort’s control.

Though to be fair, Ron had appreciated Fleur’s veela cousins more than he would admit to Hermione, and he regretted that these distant relations would not be in attendance on his own big day.

His own big day.

After everything he and Hermione had been through together, a wedding didn’t feel so make or break. Their vows had been written throughout a tumultuous friendship. Their bond was forged in the fire of moral peril otherwise known as being ride or die friends with the infamous Harry Potter.

And as a result of all the notoriety that had come before, the plan was straightforward. It suited Ron’s casual sensibilities as much as it catered to Hermione’s demanding work schedule. There would be a tidy civil ceremony at precisely 2 p.m. in the courtyard adjacent to the Ministry of Magic’s Vital Records Office. Reception to follow at a private room in the Leaky Cauldron. Rita Skeeter’s attendance, as well as the presence of any prying beetles, were absolutely, emphatically prohibited.

For the most part, the plan generated considerable excitement, many warm wishes and a pile of presents stacked in the spare bedroom of their modest apartment. And yet, the existence of a dissenting opinion was inevitable.

Too young to get married.

Those were the words on the nay-sayer’s lips -- people who barely knew the golden trio outside of newspaper articles and rumors whispered on the wind during the war.

So soon after the Battle of Hogwarts? Too quickly after -- you know -- Fred…

Those were the hushed words of those closer to the couple -- people who smiled and nodded to Ron’s face and gossiped when his back was turned. Or alternatively, people like his brother, George who had had the decency to voice his concerns to Ron directly. For the record, he tried not to put too much stock in George’s predictions. Even since the Battle of Hogwarts, the lonely twin had been troubled by the same shadow that settled across his twin’s face in the wake of Fred’s last laugh.

Ron told himself that George’s skepticism was to be expected, and he tried not to take it personally, let alone tell Hermione. A part of the youngest Weasley on was still in awe that she wanted him, that she would choose Ron’s affections over someone like their best friend, Harry Potter -- the boy who lived, the man who vanquished Voldemort.

The world was Hermione Granger’s oyster, and still, she chose Ron Weasley, a common billywig of a man. Ron laughed thoughtfully as he mused that, indeed, not unlike the common magical creature, he never failed to make her laugh.

As the blue-blackness of the night retreated in favor of dawn’s first rays, Ron squinted, teetering ever so slightly atop the Burrow’s rustic garden wall. He’d long lost count of how many times he’d brought the bottle of firewhisky to his mouth that early morning, but drinking seemed the thing to do as he waited for the Burrow to come to life.

Ron thought of all the people near and dear who had assembled, and he thought of the ones time and circumstance had left behind: Professor Lupin, Tonks, and -- yeah -- Fred. He missed Fred too.

Ron took another swig and winced, knowing he pay for it but not caring about the price.

“Eh, boy!”

The squat figure of Arthur Weasley appeared at the foot of the garden wall. His nightcap sat cockeyed upon a head of red hair fading to white. “You alright? Don’t you realize you’re getting married today? Come down from there before you hurt yourself.”

His petulant streak intact, Ron swung his long legs over the side of the wall and pushed off. He landed on the ground with a thud, sloshing whisky down the front of yesterday’s trousers.

“What are you doing out here at this time of the morning?”

“Drinking and thinking,” Ron admitted, shuffling his feet against the ground. It was a loaded answer if ever there was one, the kind Hermione picked apart for a living.

Arthur’s eyebrow quirked upwards. “About?”

“Hermione, obviously,” he admitted. “And family, Fred.”

His quizzical expression lowered into one of understanding as the elder Weasley nodded thoughtfully. No words of consequence passed between them, but he put a hand on his son’s shoulder and pulled the bottle from his grasp.

“Come inside, son. There’s something your mother and I would like to show you.”

...

Molly Weasley made her coffee extra strong that morning, and for once, if she had a critique of her son’s bad habits, she swallowed her opinions and kept them down. It was a rare thing to be alone with his parents, sitting around the kitchen table without a sibling in sight. In fact, the sixth Weasley son could count on one hand the precise number of times it had happened.

Was he in trouble? It felt like he was in trouble.

“Show him, Molly,” Mr. Weasley said, looking pointedly at the pocket of her apron.

Mrs. Weasley bristled.

“It’s for later, Arthur. When the family has gathered, and the Grangers arrive.”

“It’d do him good to see it now,” he contended. “Warm up those cold feet.”

The Weasley matriarch frowned as her fingers dipped in the apron pocket and produced a pointed clock hand bearing a name written in sophisticated metal filigree. As she placed the mall object of the table, it glinted in the cozy light of the kitchen, catching the rays of sun that crept steadily over the windowsill. It was a clock hand with his fiancee’s name one it.

Hermione.

“It’s for the family clock, of course,” Molly explained, “I had it made during the war, and there’s one for Harry too. I knew it was too soon. And I knew what people might think. I have more than enough children without claiming someone else’s, but your father and I felt that Harry and Hermione were also family. This marriage, it just makes something official that’s been real for quite a long time.”

Molly took in a shuddering breath as Arthur drew near and placed a hand on his wife’s sturdy shoulder. She clutched at a long gold chain around her neck and pulled it from her blouse. The name “Fred” glittered briefly before his mother pressed the metal to her lips and slipped it back in her shirt to hover over her heart.

“He’d be happy for you,” Arthur added. “After all, we’re family. Supporting each other in good times and bad, that’s what families do. Always.”

A/N:  Thank you for the prompt, @vino-and-doggos! I hope you like it as much as I like these sort of asks popping up in my tumblr inbox. It's been nine years since I last wrote anything set in the wonderful world of Harry Potter. So, I'm rusty, to say the least. Anyway, feel free to direct all hate mail to my tumblr, but more importantly, if you read something you like, don't hesitate to let me know in whatever way you want. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!