#I love me some flashbacks

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Five: Confessions of a Wanted Man Previous Chapters: IV III II I Summary: Arthur meets up with Hosea on a job, but guns and a quick tongue aren't the only things that accompany him. Warnings/Key Items: Mature Themes, Foreplay, Language Word Count: ~7,000 words

“Now that we’re done with this nonsense,” Arthur grunts as he rolls his shoulders. “I have somethin’ I need to tell you.”

Hosea waves off Seamus as the blacksmith disappears into his barn. They had just finished delivering a stolen stagecoach to him, in hopes of gaining an alliance…and a way to make money. 

Arthur and Hosea have always worked well together, Hosea with his quick mouth and cunning, and Arthur with his strength and resilience. Brains and Brawn, working side by side to get the job done. 

It would have worked another time, had they had the chance in Blackwater. Before everything went to hell. 

He would have had the opportunity, the greatest opportunity he could have ever had…

“What’s that, Arthur?” Hosea walks up to Silver Dollar, his Turkoman, and gives him a good pat on the neck.

“Kit is alive.”

Hosea freezes, his palm resting on Silver Dollar’s neck. He turns to look back at Arthur over his shoulder. “Arthur, I know you want to believe that–”

“She’s at camp. I found her.”

Hosea's expression shifts from disbelief to a profound amazement, shadowed by caution. "At camp? How? When?" His voice lowers as he glances around Emerald Tanch, ensuring no other ears are nearby.

Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes intense but worn. "I saw her with some feller in Valentine—”

“Yes, Bill and Javier came back calling you crazy…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “I was beginning to doubt you myself.”

Arthur continues. “Well, I followed them when they left, trailed them a mile or two behind. I heard gunshots, and came riding up to find that they had been attacked by bandits.”

Hosea leaves his mount and steps toward him. “Was she hurt?”

Arthur shakes his head, almost smiling. “She fought her way through, like always.”

Hosea can’t believe it, as disbelief is etched across his face. “Arthur…” His voice softens as he lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "This is remarkable news, but we need to tread carefully. With everything that happened before the ferry robbery…”

Arthur's expression tightens, the fleeting smile disappearing as quickly as it came. "I know, but I also need to tell you…” He steps closer to Hosea, speaking in a hushed voice. “She doesn’t remember.”

Hosea blinks. “At all?”

“At all. She didn’t know who I was…” Arthur looks out into the Heartlands, his heart aching in places he thought were closed off. “She don’t know that…”

“She doesn’t know,” Hosea repeats, understanding what he means. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s better this way,” Arthur clears his throat after it trembles at the beginning of his sentence. “Dutch seems to be watchin’, he’s on edge with everythin’ and everyone. It’s best that we lie low, like you said, and hope for the best.”

Hosea lowers his head, exhaling slowly. “We’ve been through worse, don’t get me wrong, but, I think that it is only a matter of time before…” He lets his voice trail off.

“I know,” Arthur says with finality.

Hosea meets his gaze. “Are you sure she doesn’t remember anything?”

Arthur nods. “Yes. If she did remember, she wouldn’t be behavin’ as she is.”

Hosea tilts his head, his brow pinched in confusion. “What do you mean, son?”

“She’s…she’s…” He doesn’t know how to explain it, not without telling Hosea everything. Everything he has been keeping from everyone.

Hosea must see it in his face. “What is it, son?”

And like a crashing wave, it overwhelms him.

***

“I’m scared…” you say as he holds your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I’m scared that this will destroy us all.”

Arthur looks into your eyes, those hazel eyes with pools of green, and how the tears flow out of them. He hates it, he hates to see you cry, for you rarely ever do, only for deepest reasons that you are too proud to acknowledge. That’s just your way. It’s who you are.

And he loves you for all of it.

“I know, Kitten,” he says softly, feeling free to speak your pet name. You both have snuck away once more outside of camp, to a secret spot beyond the river. Blackwater is a dry land full of cheek grass, rocks, and valleys. It’s the Great Plains, touching on the borders of New Austin.

It’s open, more open than the woods that you and the gang have been sequestered in. And in doing so, other things have come out in the open.

It has been developing over the last couple of years. The glances, small gestures of kindness, the flirtatious banter, and witnessing how you’ve been with Jack. All these things have drawn Arthur to you, and he has begun to think that maybe, just maybe, that he could have the chance at a new life that has eluded him twice before. With Mary, and with Eliza and Isaac.

You were there after the fallout with Mary, though you never met Eliza. Actually, you didn’t know why he had come back after a few days drunk and bitter and depressed, not until years later, under a canopy of stars, when he told you that he had loved a woman, fathered a child, and found their two crosses. You were sensitive to him, then, not expecting anything, and only giving comfort in return. For the longest time, Arthur had closed his heart off to love, hopeless and sour-faced as a result. 

But now…you’ve grown to love each other and it has given Arthur hope.

And now Micah, with his forked tongue, has been spinning ideas in Dutch’s ear. This ferry, promising money beyond their wildest dreams, is the way to paradise. And Dutch is buying it.

And what’s worse, is that they are recruiting you to help them.

“If I do this, it can go two ways…” you continue, your voice wavering as you gaze up at the endless stretch of sky above, "Either we get enough to leave here for good... or things go wrong, Arthur. Badly wrong." There's a tightness in your chest as you speak, the weight of the impending danger pressing down like an iron shroud. “I normally don’t worry about things like this, but something is telling me otherwise…” 

Arthur's eyes, usually so full of determination and quiet strength, now reflect your fears. He wraps his arms around you tighter, as if to shield you from the uncertain future looming ahead. "We'll make it through this, Kit," he murmurs into your hair, the rough timbre of his voice both comforting and resolute. “Hosea and I have been workin’ on somethin’. Maybe we can get to it before all of this.”

He feels you shake your head, stirring the fragrance of patchouli and bergamot oils that scent your hair. “I love you, Arthur, můj král.”

My King. After King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was one of the first books you had read in its entirety. He thought it was a little silly, at first, to be referred to as a king, but now, the title holds a different meaning for him. It is a vow, a silent promise between the two of you, wrapped in the words of your native tongue.

Arthur’s grip tightens, his lips pressing a gentle, firm kiss atop your head. “And I love you, Kitten. No matter what happens.” He whispers it, his breath warm against the cool evening air. The tension in his frame doesn't ease, though; if anything, it tightens.

You pull back slightly, looking up into Arthur's eyes, needing to see the truth in them. “Promise me, promise that no matter what happens, we won’t leave without each other. Tell me that we’ll find a way to be together, even when the world seems hell-bent on keeping us apart.” Your voice cracks slightly with the intensity of your emotions, each word a plea tethered to the core of your being.

Arthur’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners as he gives you a small, sad smile. "I promise, Kit. Ain't nothin' in this world or the next that could tear me away from you." His words, spoken with such certainty, make your heart swell even amid the fear and uncertainty.

You nod, feeling a momentary peace settle over you. “I want it to be eternal, Arthur.” His eyes lower to meet yours and he can see the sincerity in them.

He feels it. He’s thought about it, considered it, but was always too afraid, especially after everything that has happened prior to all of this.

He takes your hands in his, rubbing your knuckles as he considers his next words. “Then will you…?” He struggles, swallowing thickly as the moon casts its glow. “Will you…marry me, Kitka?”

Your expression says it all. Surprise, but relief. Joy that he would feel the same sentiment. “Yes, I will…” And you pull him into a kiss, your softness and hunger teasing at hidden desires that you have kept inside all of these years. You run your fingers through his hair, and he hears a soft moan in the back of your throat as he continues to kiss you hungrily.

He leaves your mouth, tracing your jawline and neck with soft kisses, inhaling the smell of your skin. You arch your neck back, opening yourself to him.

“Arth…Arthur…”

He’s become intoxicated by your smell, his hands beginning to softly wander. His heart thrums steadily, anticipation running through his veins. “Mmm…?”

You place a hand firmly on his chest, pushing him away. “We’ve waited this long…” you say, your voice trembling as you fight your own desires. “We need to find someone to marry us.”

Of course. He knows how much it means to you, and he senses the urgency of it, for many reasons.

He nods, understanding the significance of making it official, binding it beyond just words whispered in the shadow of night. “Alright, Kit. We’ll do it right.” Arthur’s voice is steady, reassuring as he pulls you back into an embrace.

***

The next morning dawns with a crispness that hints at the coming change. You and Arthur told Hosea that you were getting some last-minute supplies, and would be gone for a day or two. Arthur can trust Hosea to placate Dutch long enough for them to return, even though no one knows the reason why you both only took your horses, not a wagon cart to wheel in supplies back to camp.

Arthur watches you as you ride side by side. The dark wisps of your hair flying wildly in the wind. Odliv saddled in the embroidered leather that you painstakingly made, looks like a horse fit for carrying royalty. You look like a vision from a dream, your hazel eyes alight with determination and excitement. Arthur can't help but smile, his heart swelling with pride and love for the strong, incredible woman you've become.

As the church comes into view, a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbles up within him. He knows this is it. This is when you and him will be man and wife, and he can finally put to rest the fear of losing you forever. With every beat of his heart, he feels closer to a future he once thought impossible.

A minister, Arthur deduces by his attire, attends to a small garden on the side of the church, a small, weathered building that has seen better days, much like the two of you. It’s humble but fitting, mirroring the simplicity and authenticity of your love. As he dismounts, Arthur’s knees feel unsteady, not from the ride, but from the magnitude of the moment about to unfold.

He strides over to help you down from Odliv, his hands strong yet gentle. You take a deep breath, exhaling softly as your eyes meet his. You chuckle, the giddiness clearly evident. “Let’s go talk to him,” you say.

Taking your hand in his, he smiles down at you. “Okay…” You both walk together, calmly approaching the minister as his back is turned. Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Excuse me?”

The man shoots straight up, turning around and upon seeing you two, looks afraid while also trying to maintain an air of calm. “Can I help you?”

You, in your blunt way, speak plainly. “We are wanting to get married. Can you marry us?”

The man looks at you both with suspicion. “You aren’t…running away from something are you?”

You both look at each other. That is one of the nicer questions that he could be asking. And you smile as you shake your head. “No, just…running towards something better, together.” Your voice holds a hint of defiance, a sparkle of your past challenges woven through the calm of your present.

Arthur’s grip tightens around your hand, reassuring and solid. His eyes, a deep marine blue, don’t stray from yours, affirming every word silently as he nods to the man of the cloth. “Yes. We just wanted to do it right.”

The minister seems to appreciate this, as his eyes soften toward you both. “You’ll need two witnesses.”

You frown. “Oh.”

Then he grins. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the groundskeeper and his wife won’t mind. They are inside now.” He brushes the dirt off his hands. “Please, give me a moment to ask them.” And he turns around to head inside the church.

When he leaves, Arthur feels you pull on his arm. He looks down at you and sees the goofiest smile on your face. “What?” he chuckles.

“It’s happening, Arthur,” you whisper as you nearly hop up and down. You are such a little thing, a precious thing, and he finds you adorable. “We’re getting married.”

He’s glad that you are so happy. Even with the loom of what will soon happen in Blackwater, he’s glad to be sharing this small time with you, without the prying eyes of everyone at camp.

He smiles at you and brings your hand up to kiss it, leaving his lips planted there longer than necessary.

The door to the church opens and the minister waves them over. “Please! Come in, you shall have your wedding.”

You giggle cheerfully, nearly pulling Arthur along. He nearly fumbles, but quickly falls in step with you once you reach the steps.

As you both enter the church, Arthur lets his eyes wander. It is clean, and even though it is old, it looks well-maintained. The stained glass windows cast a colored light into the small space, and turning his head, he sees the light casting a rainbow of colors on your skin.

You’re a beautiful sight.

The minister begins to introduce you both to the gardener and his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Greene, this is…” and he turns to you two.

Arthur speaks for you both. “Arthur Morgan and Kitka Petrova.”

Mrs. Greene’s face lights up, looking at you. “Oh, you’re Russian?”

You shake your head, your brow pinching. “No, Czechoslovakian.”

The woman blinks. “Oh.” And after a moment, her eyes light up. “I will be right back.” And she steps quickly out the doors of the church.

You tap Arthur and he looks down at you. “I have something I want to change into…” And you turn to the minister. “Is there a place where I can freshen up really quick?”

He nods, pointing to a small door at the front of the church. “Right in there.”

You nod your thanks and let your hand graze Arthur’s arm before letting him go, taking your satchel with you. He can’t imagine what you want to wear, but it is your wedding day. Anything to make it more special, he is going to let you.

He wishes that he had something to wear.

The minister clears his throat. “So, Mr. Morgan, how did you meet your fiancée?”

Arthur knows the poor man is just trying to make conversation while they wait, but Arthur isn’t sure how to answer that. He thinks of the easiest answer. “We, erm…we grew up together. We met in California.”

“Oh? California is quite the distance from here.”

Arthur chortles. “Shoah is. Just didn’t think to ask her to marry me up until now.”

He hears the door open, and you step out slowly. Your skirt and blouse is the same, aside from the headdress and lace apron you wear. Arthur has seen you wear kroj before, the intricate floral embroidery all done by your hand, but as the years have gone by, you’ve worn the traditional garb of your home country less and less. To see you in the fěrtúšek and the Čepení , makes him feel something.

You pause by the door, pressing down the wrinkles of the fěrtúšek . “I don’t have a way to fix it.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re perfect, darlin’.”

Mrs. Greene smiles as she comes back in, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Yes, dear. Just lovely.” 

You try to hide the blush on your cheek behind some of the fabric in your headdress, but it is a futile effort. You approach him, your eyes not leaving him and he takes your hands gently.

The minister beams. “I guess we are all ready now?”

With one more glance at you, Arthur looks at him. “We’re ready now, sir.”

The minister nods, a gentle warmth in his eyes as he motions for you and Arthur to step forward. You both walk in between the few wood pews worn smooth from years of use. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, casting vibrant hues across the wooden floor. The air is filled with a reverence and a whimsy that Arthur hasn’t really felt before, or at least he can’t seem to recognize it.

The minister gestures for Mr. and Mrs. Greene to come up, given that they are witnesses and all. They step forward and Mrs. Greene hands you the bouquet. You smile at her and take a moment to bury your nose in the flowers to drink in their aroma.

Now, you’re ready.

The minister goes through the words, and, of course, Arthur easily drowns them out. He’s never been a religious man, given his chosen profession, but in this moment, under the soft glow of the church’s stained glass, he feels something sacred. Arthur’s eyes never leave yours as the minister speaks of love, commitment, and the bonds that hold two people together. Your hands are clasped tightly together, his rough and calloused against your softer, delicate ones.

Then the minister’s next words require a response as he asks Arthur the question, “Arthur Morgan, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Arthur’s throat tightens, and his voice is a gravelly whisper when he finally speaks. “I do,” he says, squeezing your hands as if to reinforce the promise. His blue eyes, usually so guarded and stern, now shimmer with unshed tears, a rare glimpse of the vulnerability he so seldom lets show.

The minister turns his benevolent gaze on you, your breath hitches, the weight of the moment settling around you like a summer breeze. “Kitka Petrova, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

And you do not hesitate, confidence emanating through the two most powerful words, “I do.”

Mrs. Greene emits a soft sigh, clearly enraptured by these two strangers. It almost bolsters Arthur’s resolve, a reassurance that they are doing the right thing.

Then, as though you had rehearsed it, you take out a ring, your father’s ring, and taking Arthur’s hand in yours, you slip it over his finger. You gasp softly. It fits.

And fulfilling his part, he takes the ring from his pocket, your mother’s ring, and it fits your finger perfectly.

And then the final words are spoken. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife…” And the minister looks at Arthur. “You may kiss the bride.”

Arthur leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, the world around both of you fading into a distant murmur. His hands cup your face gently, a stark contrast to the usual roughness his life demands. “I love you,” he whispers, and catches your reply in his mouth. The kiss is tender, a seal on the vows you’ve just exchanged, filled with promises of a future that both of you have so long dreamed for.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want a hotel room?” Arthur asks you while starting the fire. You both have wandered further into New Austin, finding a body of water in a secluded spot. The canyon stands as a guardian, shielding anyone from coming by and seeing them. “It just don’t seem right to not get you a comfy bed and feather pillows on your weddin’ night.”

You are in your bare feet standing ankle-deep in the water as it laps waves into your legs. “I prefer this. It’s beautiful out here, and I find myself more at home in places like this.” You turn to look over your shoulder at him. “And no one is around.”

Arthur’s cheeks burn pink and he looks down. Here you are getting him more bashful when it’s you who ought to be.

The night air is cool, carrying the scent of juniper and the distant howl of a coyote. Arthur finishes setting up the small camp, his movements efficient yet gentle, always mindful of the world around him. The fire catches with a soft crackle, its glow dancing across his features, casting long shadows behind him. He rises to his feet and still finds you standing in the water. He smiles to himself and walks up to you, stopping at the water so he doesn’t get his boots wet.

“Are you ever gonna get out of that water, woman?”

You don’t turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “That’s Mrs. Morgan, to you.”

Oh, does it ever feel good to hear those words. Never did he think those would ever be spoken near him. Bolstered by the thrill of it, he comes to you quickly, scooping you up in his arms. Water drips from your legs and you screech excitedly. “Mrs. Morgan, get out of that water,” he orders huskily. 

Your giggling simmers down quickly, and your eyes meet his as he carries you. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth, and you sigh deeply. He feels his heart pound in his chest and your arms wrap around his neck.

Tonight, the desert's vastness seems to embrace you both, the stars twinkling like countless eyes watching over your newfound happiness. With Arthur carrying you back to the camp, the sand feels warm under his boots, a stark contrast to the cool water you just left.

He sets you down on a laid-out bedroll beside the newly kindled fire, close for the light to be cast on you but far enough where its heat won’t be a hindrance.

He remains hovered over you and even if he were to move, your arms hold him there as they are still around you. He looks at you, how the light of the fire casts its glow, burning a desire in him so deep that he feels as if it might consume him entirely. "I reckon I've been waitin' a lifetime for somethin' like this," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. The firelight flickers in your eyes, reflecting the earnestness of his words.

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. Your touch is so tender, so soft, as though you are mapping out a path on a sacred map, each contour under your fingertips a treasure trove of shared secrets and quiet dreams. “And I,” you whisper back, feeling the heat of the fire mingled with the warmth of his body, “never thought it would happen.”

He snorts at that. “No, you?” His grip tightens around your waist. “I find that hard to believe.”

You nod. “It’s true. I saw how other men looked at me. Mesmerized one moment, and disgusted the next.” Your eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. “I thought that because of my background, no decent man would want me.” Then your eyes lift into his again, and your palm goes over his chest. “But…I don’t think that anymore.”

He knows you feel his heart pounding, beating against his ribcage.

Arthur softens, his face close to yours, his breath mingling with the chilly night air. "Kit," he says gently, the word a caress in itself, "you're more than decent. You're extraordinary." His words hover between you like the fine desert sand carried by a breeze. "And those fools who looked at you that way—”

You place a finger on his lips, stopping him. “Arthur…I want you to touch me.”

His eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and longing, search your face for any sign of hesitation. But there is none. There's only the clear, deep need reflected back at him—a need that mirrors his own. Your breath catches as his hands, those large, calloused hands, move slowly, almost reverently, down the curve of your back. Each touch whispers promises and secret confessions, lingering in places that make both of your hearts skip and your bodies tremble.

You convey your impatience by taking his arms, guiding them to leave you for a brief moment before placing his hands on the buttons of your blouse, leaning up and kissing him at the same time. The kiss deepens, drawing out a sigh from both of your lips as if the very air you shared was laced with destiny. His fingers fumble briefly at the buttons, a testament to his eagerness matched only by his reverence for the moment. The fabric parts, and the cool night air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps across its milky whiteness.

Arthur parts for just a moment, looking at you as you help remove your blouse and begin to work on your chemise as you untuck it from your skirt. He leans away to remove his shirt, undoing each button one by one. He hears your fragmented breaths as you hurry, and he looks up to see that your chemise and skirt are now gone, your bloomers only remaining.

He freezes what he is doing, letting out a broken chuff. He knew you were beautiful, but this…this is nearly heart-stopping.

You move to cover yourself, but hesitate. “Do I…? Does this disappoint you?”

His gaze lingers on you, raw admiration etched into the lines of his face, transforming him from the rugged outlaw to a man utterly captivated by the woman before him. "Kitka," he murmurs again, and this time your name sounds like a prayer from his lips. “Never.” The moonlight dances across your skin, and it’s all he can do from not rushing forward. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to calm the storm raging inside him. Every instinct in his body screams to close the distance, to claim every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth, his hands. But he holds back, allows himself this moment to truly see you, all barriers gone as you slip your thumbs underneath the waistband of your bloomers, leaning back and pushing them off.

Your movements are graceful, clearly putting your skills as a mesmerizing performer to work. Only, this type of disappearing act will ever be for his eyes only.

You seem to have more confidence, as you rise on your knees and move closer to him. You maneuver your legs to where he kneels in between them, and you take his hands as they remain on the half-unbuttoned shirt.

Your hands guide his to pull the shirt off completely, letting it fall away to join the pile of discarded clothing. The somber moon casts its silvery glow, highlighting the contours of his well-built frame and creating a tableau—a mix of shadow and light playing across his sinewed chest.

The cooler air causes him to shiver and you press your body into his as he remains kneeled in the dirt and you wrap your arms around him. He buries his head in between your breasts and you card your fingers through his hair, your long fingernails sending chills down his spine. You are so soft, so warm and welcoming.

“Make love to me, můj král,” you moan softly. “Make love to your wife.”

And suddenly awakening that deep desire, his arms wrap around your waist and he guides you down on your back. Coming up to kiss you, he presses his lips deeper into yours, as he works his boots and pants free. It is a noble task, and once his boots and pants are nothing but a pile on the dirt, you break from his kiss. You look at his naked body, his muscles glistening in the moonlight, carved as if by the harsh landscapes through which he'd roamed. His eyes, those deep pools of marine blue, are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a visible shiver throughout your body. It's not just lust that shines in his gaze but a fierce protectiveness and the tender vulnerability of a man who has lost much yet finds himself on the precipice of reclaiming a part of his soul. His hands, rough from years of labor and gunplay, trace the curves of your body with a reverence that speaks to his deep-seated need to cherish what he once thought irretrievably lost.

Your eyes on him, though full of love and kindness, make him feel nervous. It has been years since he has been with a woman, and the fact that you have never seen a man in this form before doesn’t change the way he feels.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

You look up at him, after looking his entire body over. “For what?”

He chortles and shakes his head. “Nothin’.” Arthur’s eyes soften as he looks down at you, his gaze again tracing the lines of your face illuminated by the moon. "Just... never thought I'd deserve this," he murmurs, his voice rough like the gravel paths you both once tread in a life that feels both distant and painfully close. “Deserve you.”

You reach up, your hand gently caressing his cheek, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jawline. "Everyone deserves a chance at happiness, Arthur," you whisper, your voice as soft as the breeze rustling through the nearby trees. "Even you."

He hesitates, the weight of his past and the shadows in his eyes flickering like the dimming embers of a campfire, but then he nods slowly, accepting your words. Arthur lowers himself, his body aligning with yours as the coarse fabric of the blanket beneath melds with the softness of the earth. His breath is warm against your cheek, mingling with the cool night air, creating a symphony of contrasting sensations that reflects the complexity of the emotions swirling between you.

He takes his hand and gently grazes your inner thigh. “You want me to…?” He wants to ask if you want him to guide you through what he’s about to do, but he isn’t sure how to say it without making it come out awkward.

But you take his hand, gently, but firm, instincts taking over inexperience. “Just…” you hiss softly. “Take me.”

And he takes you like a thief.

***

The silence that envelops the night is punctuated by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves, a natural symphony that seems to acknowledge the sanctity of this moment between outcasts. He can feel your heartbeat, strong and pure as his fingertips trace the contours of your spine, descending to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you.

Your body is misted in sweat and he tries to conceal his breathing as he tries to catch it. You intertwine your legs with his and leaning in close, you plant light kisses on his collarbone.

“Are you alright?” you ask innocently, reaching a hand to wipe his brow. “You’re trembling.”

He nods. “I’m fine, kitten,” he purrs, focusing on the feel of your flesh beneath his fingers as you lay beside him. 

“Did I do good?” you ask him, then chuckling at your words. “Never mind. I should not have said that.”

He kisses your forehead. To think that you are still concerned about pleasing him, when he should be the one ensuring your comfort, makes his heart swell with an affection so potent it nearly suffocates him. “Oh, kitten…” he murmurs into your hair, his lips tracing a line down to your ear where he whispers reassurances of his love. “You were perfect.”

The stars above seem to twinkle their approval of this union, and they match the bubbliness in your giggle as you hide your face in his chest. “Really?”

“Really.”

You go quiet for a moment, and he feels the soft heat of your breath on his skin as it slows. “I don’t want this to end, Arthur.” And your voice starts to tremble. “I can’t go back to camp pretending this didn’t happen.”

He couldn’t agree more. There has to be something that can be done. A way to make it last long after tonight, long when years have gone. Then something comes into his mind. An idea. He leans back to look at your glistening body, letting his forefinger trail down your neck, sternum, and to your belly. “It doesn’t have to.”

Your eyes look into his, as though searching for an explanation. “What do you mean?”

He decides to spare you any enigmatic airs, like Dutch or Hosea. It’s always paid to be straightforward with you. “We leave.”

The word "leave" hangs between you like a promise, tinted with both the thrill of the unknown and the weight of all it would mean to abandon the life you've known. His fingertips still hovering at your belly, his gaze holds yours, unblinking, as raw and open as you've ever seen him.

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

You rest a hand on his chest. “You’d do that?”

“It ain’t like I have never thought about it.” In fact, he tried it once, years ago, but it was too late then. You were there for that, but you never knew, he never told anyone. He pulls you tighter. “I don’t see how it could be a better time.” He begins to picture it. A house in the woods, a garden and maybe some horses. Maybe…even little feet running across the wooden floors, and you chasing after them.

But you, always pragmatic, ask the real question. “How?”

It would have to be when everyone is distracted. Busy. When they would least expect you to. “The ferry robbery.” The idea hangs heavily in the air, infused with fears and possibilities alike. "During the peak of the robbery," Arthur continues, his voice a low rumble against the backdrop of the night's serene silence. "We grab what we need beforehand, have it ready, and disappear before anyone notices. It’s going to be chaos — no one will see us go."

"But Dutch?" you interject, your voice a whisper tangled in concern. Dutch had been like a father to both of you, his towering presence weaving through the threads of your lives, binding you to the gang. The thought of betraying him prickles your conscience like thorns. “He needs me to act as a hostage, that’s right in the middle of it…”

Arthur's eyes soften, the lines around them deepening with understanding. “You can slip off the boat when no one’s lookin’. You’ll look like a passenger. You’ll be a woman goin’ to meet her husband. You’ve pulled off easier stories than that.”

You look at the ring on your finger and feel butterflies in your stomach. Then you realize something. “We will need money.”

Arthur nods. You’re right. If Dutch taught him anything, it is that everything comes with a price, and so will leaving the gang for good. He lets his fingers caress your body, its silky softness arousing passions deep within him again. “I have some saved. About thirty dollars.” His eyes, piercing and resolute, meet yours as he adds, "Plus whatever you can take from the ferry. It ain't a fortune but it’s a start. Enough to get us away from here, buy us some time to figure out more." He feels a swirl of excitement with the twinge of danger. And he sees how you look at him, study him.

“I need something until then.”

Need? Would that you would never want or need of anything again, as long as he’s alive and breathing.  “Anythin’, Kitten.”

Your voice is low and soft as you make your request. “I need you to call me your wife.”

He snorts. “I can’t in front of the gang, Kitten, they’ll know.”

“Manželka, ” you say. And it catches him off guard. He’s tried to remember all the things you say, and this one isn’t familiar to him.

“What?”

You repeat it again, only slowly this time. “Manželka. It means wife.”

He understands now, like a secret code, words that can be spoken out loud but no one will know otherwise. “How do you say, ‘I love my beautiful wife?’”

Your lips curve into a smile, finding amusement and warmth in teaching him. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu,” you whisper back, your voice a veil of softness in the firelight that is growing dim.

Arthur tries it out, the unfamiliar words rolling awkwardly off his tongue. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu.” He grins, his chest swelling like a child who has just begun to learn to read. “How was that?”

He sees your dilated pupils, and your hands begin to travel down his body. “I can get you to say other things if you want…”

His eyes widen at your brazenness, and he feels his cheeks burn. “Kit—” he coughs, clearly caught off guard as you touch him in the most intimate of places. 

“Why, Mr. Morgan,” you giggle, kissing his chin. “Did I make you blush?”

The flames of the fire dance in your eyes as you pull him close, his breath mingling with yours. He nods, the rough stubble of his beard brushing against your cheek. "You did, indeed," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that is suddenly caught in the pleasantness of your mouth, and soon he is a thief once again.

***

“My God,” Hosea breathes, as the weight of Arthur’s words sink in. “I suspected you two were sweet on one another, but...” He blinks. “You…”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, raising his palms. “I only told you ‘cause I…” His voice falls for a moment. “I just had to tell someone.” He did it. He shared the truth. That you and him are married. Sparing the intimate details, of course, but he feels a weight being lifted, relieved that he can find someone to trust and share in his plight.

Hosea nods. “I understand, son.” Hosea looks back at Silver Dollar, his eyes weary with sorrow. “I wish that you both made it out.”

Hosea's voice carries a hint of regret, one that twitches the corners of his aged eyes, making Arthur wonder if the older man ever regrets the path they've chosen, the life on the run. "But since you're still here," Hosea continues, patting Arthur gently on the shoulder, "you've got to try to find a new life for yourself. And for her, too." His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the usual sharpness that life demanded of them.

Arthur nods silently, his eyes heavy with unshed tears, reflecting the glaring light from the sun. He feels a strange mix of relief and desolation. Your absence was like he was missing a vital organ, and now that you’re back, he needs to approach things differently now. And it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“I can’t tell her, Hosea,” Arthur says. “She gets to be in a lot of pain when she tries to remember things. It hurts me to see her like that.” He tucks his chin, weighing out his next words. “It could kill her if she knew.”

“Maybe that’s what happened.”

Arthur’s eyes lift to look at Hosea to see a steely gaze. “What?”

“Dutch said she drowned.” Hosea pauses, his voice softening as he watches Arthur closely. "But we both know Dutch can spin a tale when it suits him." Hosea's eyes hold a spark of something unreadable—a mixture of suspicion and hope. "You found her alive, didn't you? That means there's more to this story, more than we've been told."

Arthur's breath catches in his throat, a mix of fear and determination setting into his features. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to believe that,” he admits, the words heavy as stones.

“Think about it, son,” Hosea argues. “I am the last person to want to think of Dutch in that way, but…” He pauses. “But if what I’ve heard about that ferry robbery is true…If Dutch really did kill that girl in cold blood…” He studies Arthur for a moment. “Did you ask Dutch about it?”

"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper, afraid that speaking it louder might make it real. "I confronted him. All he told me that he didn’t see her, like he's weighin’ whether I should be told the truth or spared from it." Arthur's hands clench tightly into fists, a deep-seated anger simmering beneath the calm exterior. “Like he’s protectin’ someone.” Or, he fears, himself.

Hosea sighs, his breath calm and steady. “Just be careful, Arthur.”

“You know I will.” Arthur’s reply is gruff, edged with the resolve that has carried him through more than a few tight spots. “Could you talk to him? See if maybe he will tell you what happened?”

Hosea nods. “I will.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you, Hosea.” And he turns to head toward Montana. “Kit is back at camp. She’d be happy to see you, I told her about you.” He mounts Montana and takes the reins. “I need to meet up with Charles and Javier. Trelawny is supposed to have information on Sean.”

“Oh? Where’s that?”

“Blackwater.”

Hosea tenses. “Be careful, son. Remember, you’re wanted dead or alive.”

Arthur offers a grim smile, the corners of his mouth twitching with a mix of determination and rueful acknowledgment. "Ain't my first dance with danger," he replies, tightening his grip on Montana's reins. The horse shifts beneath him, sensing the rising tension. "I'll keep my head low."

With a nod, the gunslinger turns Montana and rides southward, leaving Hosea to watch his retreat, a blend of concern and pride etched deep into his weathered face. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty road as Arthur disappears from view.

Thank you for reading! :D

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[onepiecethingsilike]

EVERYONE LOOK AT HIM

[hooned]

no wonder he got the entire school swooning over him

[pup-pee]

she red on my stoner until the red sun never sets IT NEVER SETS I AHVENT SLEPT

[thegloriousninjaturtle]

Savior this folks. This is the first and last spoiler Loz will ever treat us with 😭💕

I feel blessed

First Lines of 2024

My first writings of 2024. Thanks so much for tagging me @thegloriousninjaturtle you beautiful bastard, I've certainly been cooking, for a few fics in fact. Go read their wondrous fics full of nothing but bunny sluttery :p

I Don't Want Antibody But You (Chapter 12 in progress):

Backtrack, and it hits him:

“I know you.”

It wasn’t really the looks that did it, though they were pretty distinctive; that Kyle look. No, it was the voice; that Kyle voice. It shook him out of his stupor the first time, and the second was catching up. Kyle was looking at him like someone might look at a pet they dug up out of the ground. It was making Stan wanna vomit again.

No that’s right, it was Kyle who put him in the tub. He was standing there looking like he’d vomit himself. Well at least they could do it together.

Kyle said something, Stan couldn’t really hear it. It sounded passive-aggressive. So Kyle.

“Yeah – no, I remember you. That hair.”

“What about my name? Or has alcohol killed that part of your brain too?” Kyle asked, his voice strained.

Stan smiled, though it wasn’t funny. It was kind of sickening. In a kind of half-panicked haze, he realised this was the longest conversation they’ve had for years. The haze is thick, so it doesn’t show on his face.

“I bet you don’t ‘member mine,” Stan said, dulling the pain by tearing the thoughts to shreds. “You knew me too.”

Or at least tried to.

“I asked you first.”

So Kyle.

“You’re Kyle,” Stan smiled wobbily. Saying that felt good, like taking a secret little piece back with him to hoard. Kyle wasn’t his anymore, so he could at least have a momento.

“Why are you drunk?” Kyle asked.

“No no, it’s your turn remember,” Stan sang. That question stung, did he even have an answer? It was fun.

No it wasn’t.

It was his own little special therapy, since Randy thought real therapy was for gay pussies, and god forbid you be either.

“You’re Stan,” Kyle sighed, and let Stan see it all for one split second that he nearly missed. Kyle averted his eyes and looked around for someone in the empty bathroom, Stan lying collapsed in the tub and feeling a low thrumming headache approaching. He had wondered if Kyle remembered him. They were different people now. It's not like he hadn’t pushed for the split. It just hurt. Everything fucking hurt.

“That’s it,” Stan nodded. “Good job.”

...

Tagging @/anyone who wishes to show the first few words they've written for the year!! Love you all <3

[lucyshypemaster]

keefe was actually insane for this

[welcometogrouchland]

I miss them so bad (Dick and Damian)

[inpursuitofnunchi]

there are very few dramas that burrow their way so deep into my heart that they become a part of my soul, my conscience - don't get me wrong, i like/love A LOT of dramas (im a serial liker/lover you can say) - but with some dramas, it's like I have a perpetual hangover. Kinda like "the one - kdrama version" (assume the one to be a group with a small number of elements) (sorry my stem ass is showing) (also sorry for the endless brackets, my adhd is also showing)

Anyway, the point is i am pretty sure that Love Next Door is on the verge of joining this set already inhabited by Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha, Misaeng and My Mister.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Let's lock our neural patterns together, leading to extreme risk of permanent brain damage and death ♡

[fruitlicense]

before Arcane S2 I always wondered why Vi and Powder went with Vander so easily after their parents died and why Powder ran to Silco for comfort after the warehouse fire.

Vander and Silco knew Felicia and Connol. hell, Vander named Vi! in all likelihood, Vander and Silco were like uncles to Vi and Powder in their early childhood, because they were close friends with their parents and worked the same profession. it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the four adults staggered their shifts in the mines to make sure someone was there to watch the girls at any given time. also, I don’t think Vander and Silco had their falling-out until soon before or during the rebellion that killed Felicia and Connol. in fact, I would hazard a guess that the reason Vander is wandering around post-battle pummeling the remaining Enforcers and looking for the dead is because he missed a good chunk of the fight while he was down in the river trying to strangle Silco.

the key piece of information here is that Vander and Silco were still friends and probably still in Vi and Powder’s lives right up until it all went wrong. when Vander took Vi and Powder in, he wasn’t adopting two kids he’d found randomly out of some sense of guilt or pity - those were his best friends’ kids. they approached him as a safe person even after seeing him beat some random guy because they knew him. when Powder saw Silco after Vander’s death and launched herself at him for a hug, she didn’t do that because he was the closest nearby person. she remembered him, even after however many years spent with Vander instead of her parents. his hesitation before he hugged her back was likely due to the time that had passed and his tension with Vander, not a lack of recognition.

TLDR: Vi and Powder don’t approach Vander and Silco as father figures because they’re the closest people at the times they need support, but because Vander and Silco were their parents’ best friends and they knew them already from childhood.

[theswedishpajas]

Magma art dump of random gay Stanley things (Featuring me! Go figure!)

Anything that isn’t in some kind of blue or yellow is by one of my friends

[bharv]

God going back to Inquisition and Solas is SO much more Welsh man.

[frankiebirds]

the day i stop thinking about the ending of s02e11 sex, birth, death is the day i die.

like. reid coming extremely close to needing to be dragged away from nathan?

both garcia and reid's expressions here? reid, who cares for and identifies with nathan, garcia, who has (i believe) never seen a dead body* in person? (also, you can't see it here because it's a still image, but reid's breath is hitching here and he looks close to hyperventilating)

*i know nathan is not dead here, nor does he die at all—the point im making is that having never seen a dead body in person before would make you more unprepared for seeing the aftermath of an unsuccessful suicide attempt than someone who has

reid makes no movement to clean the blood off his hands until gideon is right in front of him. he just stands there and stares like hes dissociating until gideon comes up and, in my opinion, sort of startles him into acting.

and gideon putting an arm around reid and taking him away from the scene while morgan does the same to garcia. hhhh.

this is the most emotional we see reid get up to this point. he's yelling while he's trying to keep nathan arrive, enough to strain his voice. i dont think hes so much as raised his voice at all up to this point.

i wonder how long he washed his hands for before he deemed himself "clean".

[frnkiebby]

oh my god. he’s. i am very grateful bc he’s so pretty and i’ve never seen this one, BUT WHAT IS HIS HAIR HERE~🎃

[slavhew]

Hello!

If you're not too busy, would you mind listing some of the things you think count as death flags for Mr. Spender?

There's the obvious fact that he's the "old" mentor to group of young protagonists, but what else do you think would count?

OHH BOY ok so I'd think I'm a crackpot for this but since we're talking about Zack "Foreshadowing" Morrison. I have some thoughts

No harm in leading with the (chronologically) first thing that jumped out at me:

This one IMMEDIATELY made me antsy whenever I came back to it after my initial read, and considering Zack has referred to it on twitter in the past as one of their favorite jokes it's definitely not been forgotten about.

Second, the sheer amounts of near-misses, jokey or not, of Spender narrowly avoiding specifically lightning

Again, not much, but it's weird that it happened thrice, latter two of which had real gravitas rather than an one-off joke.

And third, Spender himself. He's repeatedly shown himself to be kind of a self sacrificing idiot, as well as prideful to a fault. Granted, it's both him and Mina trying to take on all the responsibility of saving Mayview and its inhabitants from their fate.. But Spender is exactly that right measure of doesn't-value-himself-enough (chest footprint aftercare or lack thereof), having an obscene amount of power (enables his loner act + pride) and poor judgement that has the capacity to put him at great risk. And it has!

Spender has not only shown low enough self-esteem to view himself as the de-facto scapegoat for the safety of the town, but also prideful enough to make very bad calls that end up in people, often himself, hurt (COUGH FORGE INCIDENT COUGH)

This is all conjecture, but it's definitely enough to make me worried about him :') Even if all this doesn't mean he'll necessarily die he's definitely getting (even more) seriously injured at some point. I love the guy but he's so far doing a horrible job of convincing me he wants to live bad enough to circumvent at least that

[mc-critical]

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