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howlett-n-morgan · 3 months ago

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Take Me Home

1. TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: if you're seeing this for the first time, welcome! If not, and you were following my other blog, welcome back! Either way, I hope you enjoy this dumpster fire brought to you by my imagination ✨️

Summary: In the town of Agua Fria lived a shooter called Texas Red. Many men had tried to take him, and that many men were dead. A duelist and potential outlaw, with a secret no one knows. The perfect recruit for Dutch Van Der Linde to sweet talk into joining up.

Warnings: game typical violence, gun violence, dueling, old fashioned ways of thinking (no racism depicted in this chapter, but misogyny is mentioned) mild language, Arthur is a grump but also a sweetheart.

WC: 6.5k

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair? “Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

The light from the outside window is what wakes you first, the brightness pooling over your closed eyelids before they even open. You’re still in Agua Fria, the place you've made a name for yourself. Charlie Brooks, but that's not the one that comes to mind.

Texas Red. The unkillable. Nothing more than a duelist to many, and even less so to those who don't care for that sort of thing. But to those who dare challenge the big iron on your hip, you are not anything short of a quick handed master. Only eighteen years old, or so they say - it’s what you’ve told them, but like your name, it isn’t true. Whichever way you spell it out, your reputation is the reason people know you; You have the fastest draw on this side of anywhere.

For someone who's known near and far as the kid who never lost a match, the nickname is a little less than favorable. Texas Red isn't for the blood on your hands, it's for the ginger of your hair. It's factual, not demeaning… but still unfavorable. You do not care much what they call you anymore, just as long as they know what comes with it. Too many men have underestimated your ability, one and nineteen more.

Here in Agua Fria there's folks that will come from far and wide, just to test your trigger finger. Today is no different. You've spent the night in a hotel above the saloon, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, you know there ought to be a man there, ready and willing to die.

“That's him.”

You hear from under the breath of the bartender. He served you only last night, one drink of silky whiskey before bed, nothing more. You told him your name, but not the one people know. Word gets around, you suppose. Your pistol has twenty notches on the handle, folks can tell enough from that alone. One of the outlaws that hangs around here does the same thing… except he takes pride in those marks, as opposed to you. You make those marks to remember the weight of your pistol, heavier every time a notch is made.

The man before you is tall and strong, likely a farmer that does heavy work. He has a sly look about him, but you don't feel bothered too much. You think his hands, worn by the sun and weathered by his work - whatever it may be - will not draw fast enough to even graze you. They are too stiff where they hang by his side, probably from pushing a plow, or milling a field.

He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's what you assume. He's here to challenge me, they always are. No one asks after you otherwise… except for maybe some working women, but that never ends well.

“You're the kid?” He looks you over, a furrowed brow and a smirk brush his features, but it doesn't last. Yes, you think. I'm the kid, and this is my gun.

“Yes sir,” your voice is a little lower, the early morning is stuck in the pitch of it.

His question was so vague, but having been asked about eight times out of twenty ‘are you the kid?’ makes you a pretty damn good guesser of what your answer ought to be.

He takes another once over after a step forward, and now you can see that he stands about a head taller than you. He's not quite intimidating, but you can admit, the anxiousness of a man initiating a duel is always a thing that prickles your skin, warms your very fingertips. Maybe that's why you shoot so fast.

“You don't look like a killer,” he looks down, but his nose is somehow still in the air. He wants to prove something, to someone or to himself you can't be sure, but only the most foolish of men dare your gun this way.

“I'm not one.”

And he laughs. You don't even think to look up at him, you keep my face forward. I don't have anything to prove, but of course you know you’ll have to.

“You shoot folks, got a name for it,” he settled his hands on his belt. It's a gun belt, sure, but the rounds don't even match the gun at his hip. They look bigger, as for a rifle. This farmer likely shoots ducks. Sitting or flying, that’s not the relevant point.

He has experience, and that's what clouds his mind. He thinks you’re a sitting duck.

“I do, but I ain't no killer,” you paused, rounding the man, stepping up to the bar and pointing for a glass of water. This early in the morning, any form of alcohol shouldn't be legal. You reckon it's the very thing that made this gentleman bold and eager enough to try what he's about to. At least you’re pretty darn sure that he's about to, otherwise he’s just an adoring spectator. “I shoot folks as need shootin’, but they always ask for it. I ain't malicious or nothin’.”

“Maybe you's the one that needs shootin’.”

Atta boy, getting to the point. You have to smile. He looks confused by it and he very well should be… people don’t normally crack a grin when being threatened.

“S’pose you wanna be the one that does it,” You take a drink of the water you’re handed, but it does little to wash away the tickle in your throat, trying to climb its way up in the form of the chuckle.

“If I gotta be.”

You’ve never seen this man around town. Being here in this area almost two months, you’ve seen more of the traveling recluses than any of the farmers. Seen more of the local outlaws, too. They never stay long, they cause a little trouble here and there… but never the farmers. They come into town maybe once, twice a month. They harbor most of their own supplies on their land. No need for the town.

“And you think you'll hit me?”

“I've never missed.”

And then that chuckle finally does escape you.

“I knew twenty men who hadn't, either,” but the other's words were a bit more out of ignorance. They wanted to show off, thought they had nothing to lose. You were just a skinny kid with red hair and a heavy gun that you could barely stand to carry.

“I like my odds.”

So you turn to the bartender. He watched this same charade last month. A different man, not quite as tall, but just as confident. He stops wiping down an empty glass, and looks to you with a look of annoyance. What did you do to deserve it? You haven't the slightest clue. When he looks at the challenger with sincerity and condolences, you know what he thinks behind those eyes.

This is a fine young man, he may have a wife and some children. He doesn't know what he's doing, he had a strong drink. He only heard one story, it isn't fair.

But of course, you can't back out. You’ve never backed out. Never having anything to lose, and like today, no one has ever tried to convince you otherwise. If you die now, you can go out a hero of sorts, the gunslinger of Agua Fria. If you live, then you'll someday die a legend. Texas Red, the unkillable.

You will have to step outside, and you will have to shoot this man, but for the first time, you feel you oughta know his name. You stepped to meet him and offered your hand. It's smaller compared to his.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Sims.”

He shakes your hand tightly, he wants to show how strong he is… as if that somehow makes him shoot faster.

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-”

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair?

“Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

He scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor. Maybe he doesn't wanna do this. He seems to be rolling it over in his head. If he wins he kills you, a scrawny kid with an ugly hat, and not a friend in the world. If he loses, well… he dies.

But as if foolishness ruled his mind, he settles on his thoughts, and you can see it clear as day when he decides.

“Are you ready to step outside?”

And you smile again. He could've been your friend. He seems like a kind enough man, a little arrogant, but a man of honor in himself. He even struck you with a slanted smile of his own, but for no reason other than your reputation alone, he wants to kill you. Always a shame.

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever.

Thirty paces apart on the dirt road outside, the poor man never even cleared leather, but a bullet rests between his collarbones, and he himself rests on the ground. He’s got a pouch on his hip you noticed earlier, so while everyone around is frozen in place, you carefully go up to his body, stripping the valuables from him before moving on your way. To the winner go the spoils.

You holster your weapon, turn around and face the folks that stopped their journeys to watch. Some had seen the last one, they expected the outcome. Others were a bit surprised. David beat Goliath. The bigger opponent fell.

You took a walk around the block to settle down, find a nail to notch your pistol yet again. You’ve never forgotten your earlier opponents, but something about this one makes you sadder than the rest. One and Twenty more, and whoever else is stupid enough to have the same idea.

Once you feel at rest you land back in the saloon, but it's not as empty as before, your single friend Robert Sims being the occupant. Now there are three men. There is a tall dark haired man with a mustache and a bowler hat, a darker skinned man beside him against the bar, and a young man that looked all too similar to yourself in complexion and hair color. It was nice to know that you weren’t the only one God would curse that way.

You don't plan on letting yourself be bothered, so you sit down one stool over, beckoning a whiskey you can shoot to chase the adrenaline. You thought you had calmed down, but sitting here it feels as though you’re in the middle of a footrace, with the speed accelerating instead of decreasing.

“Charlie Brooks?” The tall man with the mustache was the first to speak, and directly to you.

These men have guns on their hips, and you hope they are not thinking what the last man thought. You’ve barely calmed down enough from Robert Sims, and your head would hurt having to shoot twice in one day.

“Yes,” your confusion forced through.

“I'd like to talk with you. This man here tells me you're quite the gunslinger,” he gestures to the bartender and you give him a glance, seemingly just doing his job minding his business when he's not running his mouth about you.

“He told ya? Or were you outside?”

The man had a laugh that seemed comforting almost. It was hearty and full of actual joy. He pat you on the back and you had half a mind to turn away from it for a moment, unsure of why he was so friendly or if you appreciated it yet. It’s been a while since you felt the comforting or friendly touch of someone who didn’t later try and shoot you.

“I did in fact see your show of skill, but I wasn't sure if approaching you after a fiasco like that would end up poorly for me.”

And so you smile, because his sense of humor is alike yours, and he looks to be unphased by your violent acts of earlier. You technically didn’t break any laws. Didn’t do anything wrong, even by killing a man. He had threatened to shoot your first, if no one claims they saw the duel, you can write it off as self defense… but this man doesn’t seem too deterred. In fact, he looks all too happy having witnessed your properly provoked quick draw.

“I ain't jumpy, if that's what you're worried about.”

But he had a different point on his mind, so the subject was changed in an instant.

“Look, son. I'm gonna cut to the chase,” he pointed at your pistol, the newest twenty-one mark shining where it peaked out of your holster. “You have a gift for using that. I could use some talent like yours.”

And suddenly you’re confused again. Who is this guy? What does he want?

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.”

“I can very well see that. I'm not looking for a temporary gun, kid. I need someone long term.”

And suddenly your interest is piqued. The other men haven't said a word, and yet they seem to be a part of this offer, whatever it is. They are fully invested in your answer, on the edge of their seat - metaphorically, since they’ve been standing - while waiting. It’s strange, as if it’s all been plotted.

“Not sure I quite understand,” You slide the empty glass back after taking the second shot of whiskey, but hold your hand over the top, keeping the bartender from refilling a third.

“If you'd be so kind as to follow me and my friends, I would be happy to explain in further detail,” he steps away from the bar, his hand outstretched to the door. This situation reads danger in every which way, but you don't stray from it. You can’t believe you’re doing it, but you follow along, an open mind.

Nothing to lose.

Your horse was in the stables, an older stallion that was probably bred from war. His coat was full and black, like a starless night sky. Fury, you called him. These other men had put their horses up in the stables as well, but they were quite a bit stranger when it came to interacting with the horse hand. They paid him off so he’d forget any of you had been here.

These men must be outlaws. Dutch, Javier, and Sean… From the time of their introductions, you were watching them with vigilance. You had started to gather that much from the way people ran inside when they passed, but the other behaviors lead you to believe that they weren’t the typical type. They weren’t just bad men looking for trouble and fun. They had reasoning, and they had qualms about who they spoke to about what. They were careful, if that word can even describe an outlaw.

You followed them out of town, and down a road a bit. Agua Fria was a bit drier than other parts of Texas, but it had some nice trees here and there, with ponds and hills to break up the dusty roads. When you came to a clearing, a full on campsite set up, you immediately looked around, taking in who you thought would be the most imminent threats.

“Right over here,” Dutch said, dismounting his horse and leading it to a hitching post. You followed him and the others, and the redhead, Sean, took your horse off your hands.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“This is the camp, ain’t much to look at but we’re all very tight knit, here.”

You followed behind Dutch, he was the ringleader of all of this, as far as you could tell. He gave the orders, and the others followed. You couldn’t say you didn’t see why. He had all the capabilities of a natural born leader. His presence, his personable way with words, and even his ability to convince a random stranger to follow him.

“S’cozy,” you said, nodding to each person you passed. He didn’t bother introducing you to them yet, and you figure it’s because he wants to see how well you fit first. No point in getting anyone attached.

“It is indeed. I’ll have you wait here for just a moment, you can mingle, if you’d like. I’m gonna talk to a few friends of mine,” he told you before ducking into a tent, the flaps falling behind him.

You huffed a breath, turning to the first face you saw and tipping your hat.

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

The young woman looked up to you, a sweet smile on her face. She had lovely dark hair and beautiful blue eyes that reflected a clear sky.

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher.

“First Mack and Davey, now this… kid? You can’t keep picking up people like they’re stray dogs, Dutch…” Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand man was the one to speak first. He’d just heard quite a story - which to be fair, Dutch liked telling grand stories - that seemed to be impossible.

“I know, I know… but you wouldn’t believe it even if you saw it. Hell, even I don’t.”

“Let me get this straight,” another voice piped up from the corner, standing to make his presence more known. “This eighteen year old kid, who can barely hold up a gun… is the fastest draw you’ve ever seen?”

“I blinked and the man was dead,” Dutch furthered his point, hearing a low whistle from the youngest man in the tent. They began to peak through the open tent flaps, not letting anyone else see them.

“Abigail seems to like him.”

“Abigail likes everyone except John these days,” Hosea joked around, sitting himself back down when he’d taken his look at the kid. He was a spry little thing, but looked like a boy still in adolescence.

“Listen,” Dutch began, his hands raised to calm the air. “This kid could mean the difference between life or death in some of our upcoming jobs.”

The younger man looked to Dutch, then to Hosea, and then to the ground, shaking his head. Dutch was like his father, but these fantasies he conjured up sometimes to justify his antics could be wild.

“He can shoot faster than me?”

“My boy, I’d let you challenge him yourself if I wasn’t sure he’d drop you where you stand.” Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder before turning to Hosea.

“If he’s really as fast as you say, we should keep him. He can’t be of any harm otherwise.”

A moment lasted longer than you thought it would, but you’d garnered the attention of not one but two ladies whilst sitting in the shade of the trees.

Abigail, the heavily pregnant young woman you’d started conversation with, and Tilly, a young lady who seemed to be swooning with every word you said. You didn’t have the heart to say nothing to her, you weren’t even sure you’d be sticking around.

“And then what happened?” Tilly asked, scooting closer.

“Well, I guess I shot him. S’how most these stories end, sadly.”

You suddenly felt a bit sorrowful. You’d shot a man down only today and here you’d moved on so quickly. The time of self recovery was getting shorter and shorter. Maybe you ought to stop shooting folks, then you could make some ground on a normal life… but that’s never really been your way, not since you left home. If you stay with this gang, though… the shooting gets worse, and you know that for a fact.

“But you’re a good shot, probably why Dutch wants ya,” Abigail lifted a brow, nodding towards the tent. You were sure he’d liked you well enough, and you liked this whole tight knit unit well enough. If you shoot enough folk, you reckon you get to stay.

“Speak of the Devil,” Tilly smiled behind where you were standing, and you took it as a queue to turn around yourself.

“We sure as hell want him,” Dutch said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I have some people I want you to meet. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.”

And the man - Hosea - smiled and waved. He seemed nice, and gentlemanly. He had a kind face, like that of a dedicated father.

“And this,” Dutch stood aside, revealing another man stood behind him… “Is Arthur Morgan. My enforcer, and right hand man.”

You froze when he lifted his head, hat tipping upward enough to see his face. Your breath hitched in your throat as you scanned his features, falling to the stretch of his body and then roaming back up to the brim of his hat. You weren’t sure if it was from fear or from awe, but the tenseness in your body was thick and unwavering. He had all the toughness of a rugged outlaw, but his eyes were calm, serene. Like pools of oasis water against a dry and scorching desert. A beautiful man by anyone’s standard, but completely unaware of himself.

Standing before you now, he nodded in greeting, and you had to snap out of the haze that even now surrounded you, clouding your mind and blocking out anything that wasn’t him.

Sweet Lord above, help me look away… and finally you did, begrudgingly.

“He’s gonna show you around, give you the rundown of how things are here,”

“Sounds-” you coughed once, trying to play off your strange behavior as you cleared your throat. “Sounds just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dutch leaned in towards Arthur at the last second, nudging his arm as he did. “Don’t test ‘im before he’s had a chance to settle. I don’t feel like losing two fast guns on the same day.”

You heard the tail end of the conversation, but pretended it passed over your head. You were standing quietly, still halfway in awe of the man. Sandy strands of hair that fell over the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline stubbled in the same lovely color. He let his hat fall over his eyes again, but you were certain if you’d been able to see them again, you’d not be able to look away.

He fell into a slow walk beside you, beginning to lead through the campsite.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Kid, as if you were actually one…

“Charlie Brooks, sir,” You replied, holding a firm hand out. This was reflectant of a similar introduction you’d made earlier this morning. Didn’t matter what happened though, you wouldn’t be shooting the man before you. Not even if he begged.

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

You dropped your pleasant expression, huffing a fast breath to match the new look on your face.

“Texas Red… But I ain’t even from Texas, so,” and it was true. You’d only earned that nickname here.

“The red part still fits,” Arthur was teasing you. Perhaps this is what Dutch meant by ‘don’t test him.’

You sighed, realizing that you’d found the downside to this ruggedly handsome stranger… “My name is Charlie Brooks.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t get upset, boy… I’m only poking fun.”

You drop the tension in your shoulders… you didn’t like being teased, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad coming from this Arthur character.

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.”

Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself.

“You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did.

You only nodded, and kept walking.

He had shown you the laundry areas, where the girls nearly strip the boys down just so they have something to do in the daytime. He showed you to Mr. Pearson’s ‘kitchen,’ if you could even call it that. He showed you where the weapons are kept, but not where to refill them. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to yet. You take in every word he says, committing it to memory, not only so you can fit in around here, but also so you can recall the sound of his voice on a whim.

He shows you down to the sloped rim of the pond, where usually one at the time, members of the camp come to bathe in their spare hours. You wondered how far down the way you would have to bathe, just on the off chance someone might come and see.

“Bill takes care of the horses, mostly. I’m sure he’ll add yours to his rounds if you ask ‘im,” he mentioned, walking back past the horse rails and troughs. Your horse was standing happily in the sunshine, enjoying the blue skies and grass compared to the dusty and dark stables you always put him up in.

“I’ll remember that,” you say, as if you’ll forget anything else. So far you remember everyone’s name - everyone you passed by, at least - and every individual location of the camp.

“Miss Grimshaw and the others should have a tent for ya by sundown… if not, just bunk with me until tomorrow,” he offered, hands sat steadily on his gun belt. Your face flushed, but lucky for you, he was much taller and couldn’t see under the brim of your hat when you tilted your head.

“That’s kind of you,” you nodded in reply, saying nothing more.

He began to back away, needing to attend to something else, but he stopped short.

“You’re alright, kid,” he complimented, as best as he could give one, anyway. “See you ‘round.”

And you stood still, watching him walk away with your hands at your sides.

“I’m in deep shit…”

Early to bed, early to rise, yatta yatta yatta. You still hate mornings. The camp wakes at the crack of dawn, and you stir just as some folks are leaving, mounting their horses and setting off for the adventures ahead. You’re fairly certain it’s Dutch, Bill, and that other man Hosea, the one with the kind face.

You did end up taking Arthur up on his offer to bunk for the night. He was kind enough to set up one of the spare cots for you, unwilling to argue about sleeping on the ground and all that. He pegged you for the arguing type and wanted to leave well enough alone.

He was gone from the tent-like structure by the wagon, away somewhere probably having a cup of that coffee you smelled. They must have had a pot brewing somewhere, because it was the only thing willing you to leave the shaded area you were resting. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but you could already feel the effects of the heat swirling in around the camp.

It was strange, going about your morning routine with others present. Washing up your face in one of the water barrels, raking your hair back over your head with your wet fingers to let the hair sit flat before you crushed it down with your hat. You’d been nearly presentable, good enough for the morning, anyway.

It wasn’t long before you were sitting close to the congregated group, a cup of coffee in your own hands. It wasn’t the best you’ve had, but hey, it helped you keep your eyes open. You didn’t dare interject into the conversation, unknowing of it they would accept it. Not that it mattered, because you liked hearing them interact as is. They were a rowdy bunch, but they had some wit here and there.

After a while, you zoned out during talks of events you hadn’t been to, people you hadn’t met, things you didn’t get to see before coming here. You watched a bunny that leapt across the camp, running into the wilderness ahead only to disappear behind some rocks. You realized by then you were at the end of your coffee cup. You stood up to take it back to Mr. Pearson, but were interrupted by one of the others in the circle. You remember his name is John.

“How about you, Brooks?” He asked, catching you off guard, for you had absolutely no clue what the conversation was.

“How about me?” you replied, a furrowed brow as you stopped in your tracks and waited.

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

You scoffed, a slanted eyebrow to the man when he seemed in disbelief. You don’t blame him, he’s never seen you shoot.

“Faster.”

“Boy’s got some pride on ‘im. Shouldn’t be too hard to break it down,” the only other redhead in the gang reared his accented voice. “Ay, Arthur?”

You turned to the man, stoic and quiet, his hat covering most of his face so you couldn’t see what his features were saying.

“If Dutch says he’s faster than me, I won’t push my luck.”

Except for he wanted to. He really wanted to, and you were curious to see his skill as well. Maybe not against you, because hell… you ain’t never lost before but there’s a first time for everything, and you like it here too much to throw it away.

��I don’t buy it. That’s just Dutch telling tales like he does,” John stood up and clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Never in my life have I seen someone with Arthur’s shootin’ speed.”

“Never?”

You knew it was probably not in your best interest to boast your ability on the first day, but shit, it was the only thing you had going for you. You had to make way in this group somehow.

“Never.”

“Alright,” you nodded. “I propose a game. Two bullets, our names carved in. We set up a can to shoot and whoever’s bullet gets trapped inside s’the one that got there first.”

Arthur lifted his head, and for the first time this morning, you saw his eyes. Your face instantly got red, but no one seemed to notice, too caught up in the heat of the exchange.

He nodded once, a slow and decisive nod. He was thinking it over.

“Sure,” he said, his thick accent coating the word. “Guess I’ll play along.”

And the group dispersed, grabbing everything needed. Arthur took it upon himself to carve the bullets, and strangely, you trusted him not to tamper with yours. He didn’t seem like the type to play dirty. He didn’t look like he needed to be.

Sean set up the can on a log, a crudely drawn X out of charcoal on the rusty front of it. There were words being exchanged as you both stepped up, opening your guns to drop out all the bullets before Arthur handed yours over. His etching wasn’t too bad, but you dropped the smug look on your face when you saw what he actually put on it.

“I told you my name’s not Red,” you huffed, taking it anyway and dropping it into the cylinder, giving it a quick spin to line it up.

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it but you,” he teased, loading his own gun and standing beside you, about five yards away from the can.

“Need me to count?” you joked back, hopefully not in vain. You wouldn’t be pridefully wounded if you lost in all honesty. You’d been waiting for your talent to fail you for a long time now, and without any stakes on the table, you suppose today could be the day.

Both guns now strapped to your hips, you waited in silence, and so did everyone else. It wasn’t something that needed cheering on, but it was definitely something to be on the edge of your seat for.

You saw Arthur drop his hand out of the corner of your eye, so you cleared leather as fast as you could in hopes that your shot would land, and it did… or at least, you thought it did. The can went flying and both guns had been fired.

“Who won?” John yelled over in question to Sean, who went to kneel down by the log, picking up the can.

“Uh…” He held up the can, showing two bullet holes, before dumping out both bullets from the inside. “Both of em’.”

And for the first time in any shoot out you’d ever participated in, you were too stunned to speak. You never doubted this man’s abilities as a talented gunslinger, but given you’d never seen him shoot, and knowing your own track record… it was surprising to see.

“Well,” Arthur turned to you, as the others continued to chat amongst themselves, not sure how to split the bets they had made beforehand. “You beat me.”

He offered his hand to you to shake, but you shook you head, you didn’t understand.

“It’s a draw, both bullets hit,” you tried to reason, but he was set on his own explanation.

“You hit first. Mine went through the top as it was fallin’.”

You shook his hand anyway, but froze in place when he spoke. Could he really tell? Was he that detail oriented when shooting? You’d never known much of your craft, just that you could do it, just that you’d practiced a bunch and got pretty damn good… but you didn’t even think to make that observation.

“That don’t count,” you tried to absolve him, still feeling as though from what he said alone, he was the better gunslinger. “I’ve never said this before… but I would not duel you, Arthur Morgan. You’ve scared me somethin’ awful with that gun.”

He had a chuckle in his exhale as he let it fall from his lips, a nod and the drop of your handshake. “Guess we both met our match today.”

“I’d say so.”

The day was slow. When Dutch and Hosea and Bill returned in the evening, there was some wind of a job coming up, the first one you’d inevitably be invited to. It was discussed quickly and not in great detail, and the heads of the camp still had some ideas churning about it. Hopefully you’d be able to keep up in the heat of the moment, as you’d never done anything like this before. Never robbed folk - alive folk, at least - or taken something as a means to survive. You’ve lived off of bets and fools you shot dead. It was a lousy way to live but it had never gotten as low as stealing or cold blooded murder.

The thoughts turned over in your head and for some reason you couldn’t seem to lose them, but at the end of the night they were momentarily stalled when Arthur helped you carry the already assembled cot into your new tent. It was simple, just a double sided narrow-pitched tent, no room inside for anything but a cot and a single human. You could just kick your boots under the cot when you slept, that would be the extent of your storage space. At least it had the privacy of the two flaps at the front, current parted like curtains to allow entrance.

Once everything was set up, Arthur took a step back, but didn’t leave yet.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll owe you one,” you promised, trying to be as casual about his genuine help and concern over you the past day. No one had ever shown this much attentiveness to you, and though you know he’s only acting on orders from Dutch, it feels like he really cares. He’s kind and he’s gentle, despite his rugged appearance and reputation.

“S’no problem,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking from side to side to make sure everyone had either retired for the night or was too occupied to listen in. “I wanted to tell you something.”

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms.

He sighed and met your eyes again, debating his words in his head. Out with it already…

“I know you’re a lady,” he tried to speak evenly, but the tail end of his sentence got caught.

Your eyes widened before he even finished his sentence. You looked around as well before shoving him inside your tent, too small for one person let alone two.

“You don’t know anything,” you assured him, suddenly self conscious of how he perceived you. What was it? Your voice? The way you walked? Your body? Was anybody else going to notice?

“I wasn’t pryin’, I swear,” he said, reaching into his satchel, still on his hip after a long day. “Bill left early this morning, I took care of your horse. These fell out of your saddlebag…”

He held out to you the most damning piece of evidence there could possibly be. Long cotton wraps and a sanitary apron, the brand new woolen padding you’d gotten was pressed inside and ready.

Shit. You didn’t even think twice about hiding the contents of your saddle bag when arriving here. No one had ever been kind enough to care for your horse, so you didn’t worry.

You looked into his eyes, firm but not judgemental. When you looked at him just a second too long they turned to a silent fear. Like he was a child getting caught stealing sweets.

“Don’t tell Dutch,” you begged, and he huffed a sigh, unsure of what to do.

“I can’t lie to im’,” he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. You were new, this wasn’t just about loyalty, it was about hierarchy. You, the new soldier, could not dare ask the second in command to deprive his leader of the truth.

“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t tell him, yet. I’ll think of a way to let him know…”

You knew it was a stretch, but he was wonderful with the women of the camp, a man of high honor among the ladies. Surely he would help you, just until you were ready to share your secret.

“We’re different, y’know? If you’ve been hidin’ all this time out there, that’s one thing… but you ain’t gotta do that here.”

“I don’t want them to look at me differently…” you trailed, silently pleading with him.

He nodded, the look in your eyes nearly breaking his heart. There’s a story within you, but he’ll wait to hear it. For now, he just complies, hearing your voice at it’s softest point, the feminine silkiness flowing through. You only ever spoke to yourself like that anymore.

“Okay,” he placed a warm hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, before maneuvering out of your small tent. “Just until you tell ‘im yourself, ya hear?”

You nodded in understanding, a thankful and sweet smile dining your features. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Red…”

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Price of Fire (5)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The midday sun filters through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting warm light on the long table where the Targaryen family and their closest retainers are gathered for lunch. The lavish spread of food is as much for show as it is for sustenance—ornate platters piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and rich sauces. Yet, for all the finery, a tension lingers in the air, taut as a drawn bowstring. Servants move silently along the walls, their faces blank masks, well aware that the mood of the room could shift in an instant.

You sit beside Rhaegar, your brother’s familiar presence a comfort even as you notice the subtle strain in his posture. His face is drawn, the shadow of something dark clouding his normally serene expression. He wears the haunted look you’ve seen so often when his dragondreams have plagued him during the night, those cryptic, foreboding visions that offer more questions than answers. Rhaegar usually confides in you—his closest ally and confidante—but this morning, there was no opportunity. The king’s summons came early, and both of you were dragged into the presence of Aerys before even a word could be exchanged in private.

The gathering is a performance, a display orchestrated by Aerys more for his own twisted pleasure than any genuine familial warmth. The lords and ladies invited to dine with you cast furtive glances, each trying to discern the hidden meanings in every exchange, every gesture. It is a room full of people poised on the edge, waiting for the king’s mood to turn, for his unpredictable whims to manifest.

You reach for Rhaegar’s hand beneath the table, your fingers brushing against his in a gentle attempt to offer comfort. He turns his head slightly, meeting your gaze for a fleeting moment. The concern in your eyes prompts him to give a faint squeeze of your hand, but his mind seems distant, lost in the haze of his visions.

“I saw the tower again,” he murmurs, so quietly that only you can hear. “It’s clearer now… the blue roses, the shadowed faces.” His voice trails off, his expression tightening as if he’s trying to make sense of fragments that refuse to align. “There’s blood… and a choice.”

Before you can ask more, Aerys’ voice slices through the air, sharp and sudden. “A toast!” he declares, raising his goblet high. The movement is so abrupt that the lords and ladies present scramble to follow, lifting their own goblets with varying degrees of eagerness and dread.

You freeze, your hand still clasped with Rhaegar’s under the table as your father’s gaze lands squarely on you. There’s something unsettling in his eyes—a mix of pride, possessiveness, and something darker that makes your skin crawl. His smile is thin, more like a grimace, as he begins to speak, his voice dripping with a twisted affection that sends shivers down your spine.

“To my daughter,” Aerys proclaims, his tone almost giddy. “The flower of House Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria made flesh. Beauty unmatched, grace beyond compare! A jewel among common stones!” His words grow louder, more fervent, as he looks directly at you. “Who could resist such a vision of purity? Who could deny that she is worthy of the greatest honors the realm can bestow?”

The room is deathly silent. You can feel the eyes of every noble in the hall boring into you, some of the ladies blushing at the king’s proclamations while the lords exchange uncomfortable glances. Even the servants seem to shrink away, as if hoping to melt into the shadows. The intensity of Aerys’ gaze, the fevered light in his eyes as he speaks of you, sends a jolt of anxiety through your chest. You force yourself to hold his gaze, knowing that showing any sign of discomfort would only encourage him further.

But Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his knuckles white with tension. “Father,” he says, his voice steady but laced with an edge that carries barely restrained fury. “Your compliments are… generous. But such displays are best saved for more appropriate occasions.”

Aerys’ head snaps toward Rhaegar, his smile twisting into a sneer. “And what would you know of appropriate, boy? Do you think yourself fit to judge what I choose to honor?” His voice rises with every word, his mood shifting like a storm at sea. “You sit there like some sullen ghost, whispering secrets, while your sister shines as the star of this family. Perhaps if you spent less time brooding over dreams and more time appreciating what is before you, you’d understand the true value of what I offer!”

The tension thickens, the atmosphere in the hall turning suffocating. You can see Rhaegar struggling to keep his temper in check, his jaw clenched so tightly that it’s a wonder he doesn’t shatter his teeth. You know how much he hates this—the way Aerys parades you around as if you’re nothing more than a prized possession, a tool to be flaunted before the court. It’s a cruel mockery of the family you once were, a twisted shadow of the father who has long since been consumed by madness.

Desperate for some sense of stability, you let your gaze drift across the room, searching for something—someone—that can anchor you in this nightmare. And then you find him. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the reach of the table, his eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity that only you recognize. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only silent support, a steadying presence that cuts through the chaos.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the comfort in his eyes is enough to give you the strength to hold your composure. The bond you share is one built on trust, on the understanding that even in the darkest moments, you are not alone. You draw in a slow breath, calming the frantic beat of your heart as you give Arthur the faintest of nods, a silent acknowledgment that his presence is a lifeline in a sea of madness.

Aerys, still glaring at Rhaegar, finally returns his attention to you, his tone sickly sweet but laced with the same madness that has become his trademark. “Do not let your brother’s sullenness ruin this day for you, my dear,” he says with a mock tenderness that makes your stomach twist. “You are the light that guides this family, the flame that burns brightest in the darkness. Perhaps I should have you sit closer to me—after all, what is a king without his most precious jewel?”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with anger, but before he can respond, you tighten your grip on his hand under the table, silently pleading with him to let it go. The last thing you need is for this already volatile situation to explode further. Rhaegar catches the warning in your gaze and reluctantly falls silent, though the tension in him remains palpable.

The hall falls into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the clinking of goblets as the lords and ladies murmur among themselves, desperate to avoid drawing Aerys’ ire. The king takes a long, indulgent sip from his goblet, seemingly satisfied with the discomfort he’s sown.

You return your attention to Arthur, who remains as steadfast as ever, his eyes locked onto yours. The room may be filled with whispers and judgmental stares, but in that brief, shared glance, you find the strength to keep your head held high. No matter how twisted the court’s games become, no matter how suffocating the weight of Aerys’ obsession grows, you know that there is still someone who sees you for who you truly are—someone who would stand by your side through it all.

The meal continues, but the lightness of the festivities outside feels miles away. The tension remains, lingering like a dark cloud over the gathering. And yet, beneath the surface, there’s a current of determination that runs through you and Rhaegar, a shared resolve that no matter how much Aerys tries to twist and control, there is still strength in the bonds you’ve forged—with each other, with those you trust.

The uneasy atmosphere clings to the room like a damp fog, making every bite of food taste bland and every sip of wine feel heavy. The conversation at the table is stilted at best, strained with the weight of the tension that lingers after Aerys' unsettling outburst. The lords and ladies continue with their meals, but their gazes dart nervously between each other, clearly more concerned with staying out of the king’s attention than with enjoying the feast.

You keep your head down, focusing on the food in front of you, though every bite feels forced. The memory of Aerys' twisted toast, his unsettlingly affectionate words still lingering in the air, makes your stomach churn. Rhaegar’s silence is heavy beside you, and though you hold his hand under the table still, the weight of his dragondreams and the tension with your father drags him deeper into brooding thoughts. The rest of the table—filled with lords, ladies, and noble guests from across the realm—remains stiff and formal, the usual lively conversations replaced by murmurs of caution.

But as you lift your gaze across the table, your attention is drawn to a cluster of Northmen—Lord Rickard Stark and his sons, Brandon and Eddard. The Starks, so often distant from the southern courts and their intrigues, are rarely seen this far south unless duty demands it. Yet here they are, attending a festival that has little to do with their interests. And as you observe them, it becomes clear that they, too, are uneasy.

Lord Rickard sits with a stern expression, his gray eyes observing everything with the quiet intensity that only a man accustomed to harsh winters can carry. His sons sit beside him, Brandon with his strong, confident bearing, and Eddard with the quieter, more contemplative demeanor of a man who prefers action over words. The Northmen shift in their seats, uncomfortable not just with the courtly splendor but with the palpable sense of dread that hangs in the air.

Brandon leans slightly toward his father, his voice low but clear enough for you to catch snippets of their conversation. “This is not what we expected,” he murmurs, his tone edged with disapproval. “The stories of the Mad King were no exaggeration.”

Lord Rickard’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes narrow slightly in thought. “We knew the risks in coming here,” he replies quietly, his voice gravelly from years spent in the cold winds of the North. “But duty to the crown remains, no matter how twisted it has become. We cannot afford to show weakness, especially not in a den of vipers like this.”

Eddard, the youngest and most reserved of the Starks, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before quickly looking away, as though unsure of how to reconcile the images of the noble Targaryens with the madness of their father. “We should have stayed in Winterfell,” he mutters under his breath, his discomfort clear. “This is no place for honorable men.”

Rickard hears the words but does not rebuke them. Instead, his eyes flicker toward Aerys, who sits at the head of the table, muttering to himself while occasionally casting possessive glances in your direction. The unease is plain on the Stark lord’s face. There is no love lost between the North and the South, and the differences are only made more glaring by the grotesque spectacle they’ve been forced to endure.

You wonder what drew the Starks here in the first place. It is unusual for the cold and distant North to be represented at such a festival, especially one that celebrates the Mother—a figure more revered in the South than among the practical gods worshipped in Winterfell. The presence of the Starks suggests something more than just a visit; perhaps they have come out of obligation, or perhaps there are whispers of unrest even in the North that require the great houses to stay close to the center of power.

As you ponder this, Rhaegar’s voice quietly interrupts your thoughts. “The Northmen are uneasy,” he murmurs, his tone laced with the same weariness that haunts his every word. “They feel the madness as clearly as we do. They’re not blind to the truth hidden behind the courtesies.”

You nod subtly, agreeing with his assessment. “It’s a rare thing for them to come this far south without cause. Perhaps they suspect that something more is at play here.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flick toward Lord Stark and his sons, considering them for a long moment. “They’ve come to witness the unraveling firsthand,” he says quietly. “They know that the realm is on the brink, and they’re taking the measure of it before deciding where they’ll stand when the flames rise.”

The thought is unsettling, but you can’t deny that there’s truth in his words. The Starks are not known for idle travel; they’ve come for a reason, and whatever it is, it’s tied to the growing tension that seems to permeate every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

A sudden clattering of utensils draws your attention back to Aerys, who is now eyeing the Starks with a peculiar interest, his gaze calculating and more focused than it was just moments ago. “Ah, Lord Rickard!” he exclaims suddenly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s rare to see the wolves of Winterfell in such fine company. Tell me, how does the North find our southern hospitality? I would hate for our guests to feel unwelcome.”

The room falls silent again, all eyes turning to the Starks as Rickard slowly rises from his seat, bowing with the politeness expected in the presence of the king, though his expression remains inscrutable. “Your Grace honors us with this invitation,” Rickard says carefully, his words respectful yet guarded. “The North appreciates the warmth of the South’s hospitality, though it is quite different from what we are accustomed to.”

Aerys leans back in his seat, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “Different indeed. The North is known for its harsh winters and cold nights, but here in the South, we have ways of keeping warm, do we not?” His gaze flickers briefly back to you, his smile widening in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Perhaps our honored guests would like to join us in our more… intimate traditions?”

The suggestion is laced with insinuation, and you can see the faint tightening of Rickard’s jaw, though he remains composed. “The North has its own customs, Your Grace,” he replies coolly. “But we are always eager to learn from our southern kin.”

The tension ratchets up another notch, the unspoken meaning of Aerys’ words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Rhaegar’s hand tightens around yours beneath the table, a silent warning to remain calm, even as his own fury simmers just below the surface.

You glance again toward Arthur, who stands at the edge of the room, his eyes locked on you. There’s a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that you’ve come to recognize—he’s prepared for anything, knowing that in a single moment, Aerys’ mood could swing from sinister amusement to outright violence. The silent connection you share is your anchor, and you hold onto it as the tension in the room thickens, the meal dragging on with a sense of impending disaster.

As the uneasy silence stretches, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the soft murmurs of nervous guests, you can’t help but wonder how much longer the realm can bear this strain. The Starks, the Targaryens, the lords and ladies gathered here—everyone is waiting, watching for the moment when the first crack in the fragile peace becomes a gaping chasm.

The midday feast stretches into the afternoon as the court makes its way to the festival grounds for the continuation of the celebrations. The tension from the uncomfortable meal lingers like a bad taste, but the atmosphere gradually brightens as music and laughter fill the air. The royal pavilion has been set up near the jousting lists, draped in rich Targaryen colors, with banners fluttering in the warm breeze. Lords and ladies stroll through the grounds, exchanging pleasantries, and the smallfolk cheer as performers and musicians entertain the gathered crowd.

But even amidst the revelry, you notice a shift in the mood as the arrival of House Martell is announced. The vibrant orange and red sigil of the sun-and-spear flutters high, and there is a buzz of excitement and curiosity as the Dornish contingent makes its way toward the pavilion. It is no secret that Dorne has been a topic of discussion in Aerys’ small council, and many have speculated that an alliance with House Martell would be advantageous—both politically and strategically.

Prince Doran Martell leads the group, his gait measured and dignified. His younger siblings, Elia and Oberyn, walk beside him, each a striking contrast in personality and appearance. Elia, graceful and poised, exudes a quiet strength, her dark eyes keenly observing everything around her. Oberyn, with his sharp features and confident smirk, radiates a more dangerous energy, his eyes glittering with amusement as he scans the crowd with the air of a man who knows he’s being watched and relishes it.

It’s clear from the way the courtiers glance toward the Martells that there’s more at play than simple courtesy. The whispers grow louder, and you can almost feel the weight of the speculative stares as people connect the Martells’ presence with the recent discussions within the small council, much to Tywin’s distaste. Dorne, long known for its independence and reluctance to bend to the Iron Throne’s will, has always been a key piece in the game of thrones, and Aerys—ever paranoid, ever calculating—has been increasingly pressured by some members of his council to solidify an alliance with the southern kingdom.

As the Martells approach, Rhaegar’s grip tightens around the armrest of his seat, his expression unreadable. You don’t miss the flicker of discomfort that passes through his eyes as Elia Martell steps forward with a soft, demure smile. It’s no secret that certain factions within the court, including members of the king’s council, have been pushing for a marriage between Rhaegar and Elia—a union that would solidify ties with Dorne and strengthen House Targaryen’s position in the realm.

But you know your brother better than most. Despite his princely demeanor, Rhaegar is a man of deep convictions, one who loathes being manipulated by those who view him as little more than a political pawn. His dreams—his visions—constantly weigh on him, and the idea of a marriage arranged solely for political gain is not something he would accept lightly.

You catch Rhaegar’s eye, and he gives you a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message is clear—not now, not here. There’s too much at stake, too many eyes watching. But the tension between duty and desire gnaws at him, and you can feel the weight of that conflict in the air.

As the Dornish entourage reaches the pavilion, Prince Doran offers a graceful bow to King Aerys, his voice smooth and respectful. “Your Grace, it is an honor to be here and partake in the festivities. Dorne brings its warmest regards and hopes that the peace and prosperity of the realm continue under your wise rule.”

Aerys, for once, seems to rein in his usual erratic behavior. He nods slowly, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Prince Doran. It is a rare thing to see our Dornish cousins so far from the sands of Sunspear. But these are rare times, are they not?”

The exchange is laced with undercurrents of meaning, and you can almost hear the unspoken negotiations happening in the silences between their words. Oberyn’s gaze sweeps the gathering, his eyes sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, a smirk tugs at his lips, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s one of amusement or curiosity.

Elia’s presence, on the other hand, is far more subdued. She inclines her head toward you and Rhaegar with practiced elegance, but her eyes hold a quiet intensity. It’s clear that she is as aware as anyone of the implications of her being here. Her dark gaze lingers on Rhaegar, searching for something—perhaps a sign of his thoughts, his feelings toward the marriage that has been whispered about in hushed circles.

Rhaegar returns her gaze with polite distance, his smile courteous but strained. He offers her a formal nod, acknowledging her with the respect due to her station, but the lack of warmth in his eyes speaks volumes. The court notices it too, and the whispers begin anew—questions, speculations, murmurs of what this means for the much-rumored alliance.

King Aerys, ever the disruptor, suddenly raises his voice, cutting through the murmurs. “It is fitting that our Dornish cousins join us for the festival in Mother's name,” he says, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “After all, the beauty of Dorne is as famed as its resistance. Perhaps it is time to bring the two closer together, wouldn’t you say?”

The question hangs in the air, charged with meaning. Aerys’ eyes flick toward you briefly, but then return to Rhaegar, who remains silent, his expression carefully neutral. The court waits, breath held, to see how this game will unfold.

Prince Doran, ever the diplomat, smiles graciously. “Dorne is always open to discussions that benefit the realm, Your Grace. But such matters require delicate handling, don’t they?” His voice is smooth, his words carefully chosen—a reminder that while the Martells may be here, they will not be rushed into anything without careful consideration.

Aerys’ eyes narrow, the ghost of irritation flashing across his features before his grin returns, sharper this time. “Delicacy is often overrated, Prince Doran. Sometimes, the boldness of fire is what’s needed to forge true bonds.”

Rhaegar’s hand tightens again, and you feel the tension radiating from him. He’s trapped between duty and his own desires, the weight of expectations pressing down from every side. But before the conversation can spiral further, the musicians strike up a lively tune, and the attention of the court is momentarily drawn away from the tension toward the festivities.

The Dornish nobles blend into the crowd, their presence a reminder of the delicate balance at play. The day continues, but the undercurrent of unease remains, a shadow over the festivities. You know that Dorne’s arrival is just another piece moving on the board—a board that seems more treacherous with every passing day.

The festivities continue into the late afternoon, with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets filling the warm air. The sun casts a golden hue over the grounds as the nobles revel in the lively atmosphere. You stroll along the edges of the celebration, Ser Arthur faithfully at your side. Despite the tension woven into the day’s events, you manage to find comfort in the little moments—the brief exchanges of smiles and the shared glances between you and your knight, who remains ever vigilant but subtly more relaxed when he’s near you.

As you walk past a group of lords engaged in a spirited conversation, you notice Oberyn Martell approaching from across the courtyard, his stride confident and almost languid, as if he has all the time in the world. He’s dressed in the vibrant colors of House Martell, his tunic a striking shade of orange with rich gold embroidery. His presence draws attention wherever he goes, and it’s no surprise when he comes directly toward you, a playful smirk already curving his lips.

“Princess,” he greets you, his voice smooth like honeyed wine, with a hint of teasing that dances on the edge of propriety. He offers you a low bow that’s more exaggerated than necessary, clearly intended to amuse rather than impress. “I was hoping I might steal a moment of your time. The festivities are grand, yes, but they pale in comparison to the chance to speak with a true daughter of Valyria.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Oberyn’s reputation precedes him—bold, dangerous, with a silver tongue that could charm even the most guarded courtiers. “Prince Oberyn,” you reply, your tone light, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve made it your mission to charm your way through every lady present today.”

Oberyn grins, unabashed. “I would never be so crude as to deny it. But can you blame me, Princess? The beauty of the South may be celebrated, but it is the rare elegance of Targaryen blood that truly captivates.” His eyes gleam with mischief as he adds, “Besides, why limit oneself to just one conquest when there are so many delightful encounters to be had?”

Arthur, standing dutifully beside you, watches the exchange with a careful eye, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his otherwise stoic expression. Oberyn’s reputation as the Red Viper may be formidable, but it’s clear that this is all in good fun. Still, Arthur remains close, a silent reminder that you are not without protection.

You decide to play along, matching Oberyn’s banter with a smile that’s equal parts amusement and challenge. “It’s a wonder you have time for the festivities at all, Prince Oberyn. Surely, with all these conquests you speak of, you must be exhausted.”

Oberyn’s laugh is warm and rich, and he takes a step closer, though he remains just outside the edge of propriety. “Ah, but a little exhaustion is a small price to pay for such pleasures, don’t you think? Life is short, Princess, and the days we live in are fraught with uncertainty. Why not seize every moment of joy we can, while we still have the chance?”

You can’t help but find his unashamed charm refreshing, especially after the tension and dourness of the day’s earlier events. There’s something disarming about Oberyn’s approach—the way he speaks so boldly, without hiding behind the masks of courtly pretense that so many others wear.

Arthur clears his throat lightly, his voice measured but carrying a note of dry humor. “Careful, Prince Oberyn. The princess is well-guarded, and not just by her knights. Her wit is sharp enough to match even the famed Red Viper.”

Oberyn chuckles, inclining his head toward Arthur with an exaggerated expression of mock deference. “Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and a master of words as well. I suppose I should tread carefully, lest I find myself on the receiving end of both your sword and her tongue.”

You exchange a quick glance with Arthur, and for a moment, there’s an unspoken understanding—both of you are enjoying the banter, allowing a brief reprieve from the weight of the day. It’s a rare thing to find lightness in these times, and even Arthur, whose duty often keeps him vigilant and serious, seems slightly more at ease.

“Prince Oberyn,” you say, feigning a thoughtful expression, “you speak of seizing joy in the face of uncertainty. And yet, for all your charm, I wonder—how often does that charm get you into trouble?”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his smirk widening. “More often than not, I confess. But what’s life without a little trouble, Princess? Surely, even someone as regal as yourself has indulged in a moment or two of rebellion, hmm?”

Arthur’s posture stiffens ever so slightly, his protective instincts flaring at Oberyn’s insinuation, but there’s no real threat in the prince’s words—only playful curiosity. Before Arthur can interject, you decide to lean into the game, allowing yourself a moment of levity.

“Rebellion is an interesting word, Prince Oberyn,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I’ll leave it to your imagination. After all, a little mystery keeps things intriguing, does it not?”

Oberyn’s laugh is genuine, his eyes dancing with approval. “Indeed, Princess. You are as formidable in wit as you are in beauty. I find myself more captivated with each passing moment.”

Arthur can’t help but shake his head slightly, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Be careful, Prince. The court is a dangerous place to be captivated.”

“Danger and delight often walk hand in hand, Ser Arthur,” Oberyn counters smoothly. “But perhaps I should save my wits and leave the princess in peace—for now.”

With a graceful bow and one last roguish smile, Oberyn steps back, giving you a parting wink before he saunters away, undoubtedly seeking out his next amusement. As he disappears into the crowd, you can’t help but chuckle softly, finding yourself oddly refreshed by the encounter.

Arthur steps closer, offering you his arm once more. “I’ll admit, I was almost certain you’d skewer him with words by the end of that conversation,” he remarks, his tone laced with gentle humor.

You take his arm, allowing yourself to relax a bit more now that the exchange is over. “He’s harmless—mostly. Besides, it’s rare to have a conversation that isn’t laced with veiled threats and hidden motives. A bit of straightforward mischief can be… refreshing.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s good to see you smile, even if it’s Oberyn Martell’s antics that brought it out. There’s been too much weight on your shoulders lately.”

You glance up at him, finding comfort in the steadiness of his gaze. “Thank you, Arthur. For always being by my side.”

He offers you a reassuring smile. “Always, Y/N.”

The festival grounds are a swirl of color and sound, the jubilant atmosphere masking the tension that lies just beneath the surface. As Rhaegar moves through the crowd, his expression carefully composed, he does his best to avoid Cersei’s sharp green eyes that have been following him like a hawk all afternoon. Her persistent advances, thinly veiled behind her honeyed words and practiced smiles, have left him with a deep sense of unease. The more she presses, the more he feels the weight of the expectations crushing down on him—expectations he has little interest in fulfilling.

But as fate would have it, in his attempt to evade Cersei, he finds himself facing another challenge: Elia Martell. The delicate and poised princess of Dorne catches his eye as she approaches with a gentle smile, her dark eyes filled with quiet warmth. Elia is everything a future queen should be—gracious, kind, and intelligent. Yet, despite these virtues, Rhaegar feels a gnawing sense of distance, a barrier he cannot breach, no matter how much the court desires this union.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Elia greets him with a soft curtsy. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The festival has brought so much joy to everyone.” Her voice is soothing, almost melodic, but Rhaegar’s thoughts are elsewhere.

He smiles politely, offering her a courteous nod. “Indeed, it’s a rare sight to see so much happiness in the capital,” he replies, his voice calm but lacking in true engagement. He is too aware of the expectations draped upon them—how this conversation, so benign on the surface, is being watched by those who would love nothing more than to see them married and united. But Rhaegar’s mind isn’t on Elia or the games of courtly politics.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement—something familiar and comforting. Turning his head slightly, he sees you, his sister, slipping away from the crowd with Ser Arthur Dayne at your side. It’s a subtle retreat, almost unnoticed by those around you, but Rhaegar’s eyes catch the brief moment when your hand brushes against Arthur’s, a touch so brief it would seem accidental to anyone else. Yet he knows better. He sees the way your hand lingers just a moment longer, the way you gently nudge Arthur as you murmur something to him, coaxing him to follow your lead.

Rhaegar’s brow furrows ever so slightly. There is nothing overtly improper in the interaction—it could be dismissed as a simple gesture between a princess and her sworn knight. But Rhaegar knows both of you well enough to read the subtleties. He recognizes the unspoken connection between you and Arthur, a bond that runs deeper than mere duty. It’s in the way Arthur’s eyes soften when he looks at you, the way he stands just a little closer than necessary, always ready to protect. And it’s in your demeanor, the way you relax slightly when Arthur is near, a small comfort in a world filled with dangers and uncertainties.

As much as Rhaegar trusts Arthur, the sight of you together—alone and retreating from the crowd—sparks a flicker of concern in his chest. His protective instincts flare up, mingled with an unease that he can’t quite place. His mind drifts away from Elia’s gentle conversation, distracted by the need to find you, to make sure you’re safe, and perhaps, to understand the growing connection between you and the Sword of the Morning.

Elia continues to speak, her tone warm and gracious. “I’ve always admired the strength of House Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar. Your family’s legacy is woven into the very fabric of Westeros. To see you here, carrying that legacy forward, is truly inspiring.”

Rhaegar forces himself to stay present, nodding as she speaks, but his thoughts remain clouded with concern. “Thank you, Princess Elia,” he replies, his voice polite but distant. “The legacy we bear is a heavy one, but it is our duty to uphold it, no matter the cost.”

Elia’s gaze softens, sensing something beneath his words, but before she can press further, Rhaegar’s attention shifts once more toward the direction you’ve gone. His eyes dart over the crowd, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. He feels an inexplicable pull to follow you, to be near you, to understand the bond you’ve formed with your sworn protector.

Elia notices his distraction, her expression flickering with concern. “Is something troubling you, my prince?”

Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, offering a strained smile. “Nothing of consequence, Princess. My thoughts are simply elsewhere today.”

Elia’s understanding nod is tinged with quiet resignation. She is perceptive enough to know that Rhaegar’s heart and mind are not fully present, though she cannot fully grasp why. There’s a quiet grace in the way she steps back, allowing the conversation to end without pushing further, though it’s clear she knows this is more than mere distraction.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Elia says softly, her voice carrying a hint of sadness. “I hope the rest of your day is peaceful.”

Rhaegar inclines his head in thanks, offering her a final nod before excusing himself. As he moves away, he casts one last look in the direction you went, determined to find you, to make sure all is well. The knot in his chest tightens as he thinks about you—about the way Arthur’s presence seems to comfort you in a way few others can. There’s a part of him that feels guilty for leaving you to bear so much of the court’s scrutiny alone, especially when you’ve always stood by him through his darkest moments.

Rhaegar knows he should return to the heart of the festival, where his presence is expected, where lords and ladies await his favor. But his instincts push him in another direction, driving him to find you. You’ve always been his closest ally, his truest friend, and the one who understands the burdens he carries without needing to ask. And now, with the growing shadows in his dreams and the weight of the future pressing down on him, he feels that need to be close to you more than ever.

The festival continues to whirl around him—the laughter, the music, the colors blending into a blur—but Rhaegar’s mind is focused on one thing: finding his sister, finding you, and understanding why the sight of you and Ser Arthur together fills him with both comfort and concern.

In a secluded garden nestled within the labyrinthine paths of the Red Keep, far from the prying eyes of courtiers and nobles, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. It’s a rare oasis of peace in a castle that is often suffocating with intrigue and danger. You and Arthur stand close, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of longing, love, and a flicker of hesitation—hesitation that melts away the moment your lips meet.

The first kiss is soft, tender, as if testing the boundaries, but the spark that ignites between you quickly blazes into something more. The carefully maintained distance you’ve held for so long always collapses under the weight of your desire. Arthur’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him down to deepen the kiss. The world outside fades away as your passion consumes you both, a fire that has been burning quietly beneath the surface for far too long.

There’s a desperation in the way he kisses you, as if every moment could be the last. Your bodies press against each other, the cool metal of his armor a stark contrast to the heat between you. It’s reckless and dangerous, but you’ve never felt more alive than in his arms. Each stolen moment, each whispered promise, every touch that sends shivers down your spine—all of it leads to this. The tension that’s been building between you both, masked behind duty and decorum, finally breaks free.

You lean back against the rough bark of a tree, pulling Arthur with you as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. You gasp softly, your fingers tightening their grip on his cloak as he presses closer, his breath hot against your skin. It’s a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, fear—all wrapped up in the overwhelming need to be near him, to be with him, if only for this fleeting moment.

But even in your passion, there’s an edge of danger. The knowledge that this is forbidden, that if your father were to discover your relationship, it could lead to ruin for you both, lingers in the back of your mind. Yet that risk only heightens the thrill, driving you both further into the embrace. Arthur’s hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring himself to you, while his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent.

“Y/N,” he murmurs between breaths, his voice rough with emotion, “you have no idea how much I—” He breaks off, kissing you again before he can finish the thought, as if words are inadequate for what he feels.

But before he can say more, a sound—a sharp intake of breath—breaks through the haze of your passion. The both of you freeze, your lips still brushing, hearts pounding in your chests as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the secluded path.

You break apart, breathless and flushed, as the reality of where you are comes crashing down. Arthur steps back just enough to put distance between you, his expression a mix of frustration and regret, though his hand remains on your arm, grounding you.

Emerging from the shadows is Rhaegar, his face pale, his violet eyes wide with shock. The look of disbelief on his face is quickly replaced by fear—fear not for himself, but for you.

Rhaegar steps forward, his face a mixture of shock, fear, and something that looks almost like betrayal. His eyes dart between you and Arthur, taking in the flushed cheeks, the way your breaths still come in ragged gasps, and the undeniable closeness between you both. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind racing with the implications of what he’s just witnessed.

“Y/N… Arthur…” Rhaegar’s voice trembles slightly, and the gravity of what he’s stumbled upon sinks in fully. His instinct is not to scold or condemn, but the terror of what could happen if your father were to find out is palpable in every word. “Do you realize what you’re risking? If Father—if *Aerys*—ever discovers this, it will mean ruin. For both of you!”

You pull away from Arthur fully, your heart hammering in your chest as you take a step toward your brother. “Rhaegar, please, I know how dangerous this is, but—” Your words falter as you see the raw panic in his eyes. You’ve seen Rhaegar handle courtly intrigues and navigate the madness of your father with a cool head, but now, faced with the possibility of you being harmed, he looks utterly shaken.

Arthur’s face is drawn, his expression hardening with the knowledge that Rhaegar is right. “I would never willingly put her in harm’s way,” Arthur says quietly, his voice firm but tinged with guilt. “I know the risk I’m taking, but—” He stops, searching for the right words. “But I cannot regret what I feel for her.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “This isn’t about regret, Ser Arthur. This is about survival.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “You know what Father’s like. You’ve seen how possessive he is, especially with Y/N. If he finds out about this… he could do something unspeakable.” Rhaegar’s voice cracks slightly, and he reaches out, taking your hands in his, as if trying to shield you from the very thought. “You’re all I have left, Y/N. I can’t lose you to his madness.”

The fear in his eyes mirrors the worry that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind ever since this secret relationship began. You know your father’s paranoia and cruelty, how he views you as a prized possession, a symbol of his power. If Aerys even suspects that you’ve formed an attachment beyond his control, the consequences would be catastrophic. Yet, even as you acknowledge the danger, your feelings for Arthur remain undeniable—a connection deeper than anything you’ve experienced before.

“Rhaegar,” you say softly, squeezing his hands. “I understand the risk, truly, I do. But this isn’t something I can turn away from. Arthur… he’s more than just a knight to me. He’s been my constant, my strength, through all of this madness. I can’t let fear dictate everything we do.”

Arthur’s gaze remains steady on Rhaegar, even as guilt and determination war within him. “If you ask it, I’ll leave her side and never act on this again,” he says, the words heavy with the weight of sacrifice. “But I swear on my honor, I will always protect her, no matter the cost.”

Rhaegar’s expression softens at Arthur’s vow, recognizing the sincerity in his words. He’s torn between the love he holds for you and the duty he feels to keep you safe from the horrors that Aerys could unleash. For a long moment, the three of you stand in silence, the distant sounds of the festival faintly reaching your ears as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the secluded garden.

Finally, Rhaegar lets out a deep breath, a mixture of resignation and resolve settling in his eyes. “I won’t betray your secret,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a hint of sorrow. “But you have to be careful—far more careful than this. I can’t watch over you every moment, and if even the faintest rumor reaches Father’s ears… We all know what he’s capable of.”

You nod, feeling the gravity of his words settling heavily in your chest. “I’ll be more cautious, I promise.” You look between Rhaegar and Arthur, both of whom are bound by their loyalty to you, even if it tears them apart inside.

Rhaegar’s hand drops from yours, and he gives Arthur a hard look. “If you truly care for her, then your duty is to ensure that this never comes to light. You’re one of the few I trust, Ser Arthur, but if this secret endangers her life… you’ll have to let her go.”

Arthur nods solemnly, his jaw set. “I would sooner lay down my life than see her harmed, but I understand, Prince Rhaegar.”

With a final, lingering glance at you, Rhaegar turns and walks away, his footsteps heavy with the burden of what he’s just witnessed. He disappears back into the festival, leaving you and Arthur standing alone once more, the silence between you now tinged with a bittersweet edge.

Arthur steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “We’ll be careful,” he whispers, his voice laced with both determination and affection. “But I won’t let this be the end, Y/N.”

You lean into his touch, finding strength in his presence even as the weight of the world presses down on you. “Neither will I,” you whisper back, sealing the promise with a kiss—this one softer, but no less filled with the depth of your emotions.

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart as he steps away from the secluded garden. The shock of what he just witnessed lingers, gnawing at the back of his mind like a persistent ache. The sight of you and Arthur locked in such an intimate embrace, the raw passion between you—he cannot shake it. It isn’t the impropriety of it that haunts him, but the danger, the unbearable risk you’re both taking. If Aerys were to discover this…

Rhaegar’s thoughts spiral, a mixture of fear, anger, and desperation clouding his mind. He knows the lengths to which Aerys will go to control everything within his grasp. His father’s obsession with you is unhealthy, twisted—a possessiveness that borders on something darker. Rhaegar has long suspected that Aerys sees you not just as his daughter, but as a possession, a symbol of power that he clings to more tightly with each passing day. The thought makes his stomach turn, and his resolve hardens.

As he emerges from the shadows and rejoins the festival, Rhaegar’s gaze sweeps across the bustling courtyard, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. His eyes finally settle on you both as you step back into the throng of nobles and courtiers. The lighthearted laughter and music of the celebration are a stark contrast to the tension that still thrums through him, but you and Arthur carry yourselves with practiced ease, as though nothing has happened.

You’re smiling, speaking with some noble ladies who eagerly engage you in conversation. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, his expression calm but always alert. He remains close enough to be within reach if needed but maintains the careful distance expected of a knight. To anyone watching, it’s just another day at court—no one would suspect the secret that lies beneath the surface. But Rhaegar can’t unsee what he now knows; the bond between you and Arthur is undeniable, and it’s something neither of you can easily hide.

Rhaegar’s chest tightens with a mix of protectiveness and helplessness. You’ve always been his anchor, his guiding star in a world gone mad. Losing you to Aerys’ schemes or, worse, seeing you destroyed by the king’s madness, is a fate Rhaegar cannot allow. He’s watched you endure the court’s venomous whispers and Aerys’ possessive nature, always standing strong despite the dangers. But this—this relationship with Arthur—puts you in greater jeopardy than ever before.

His gaze shifts from you to Aerys, who is holding court in the center of the pavilion, surrounded by sycophantic lords and eager noblewomen. The king is in one of his rare moments of relative calm, his laughter loud and grating as he basks in the hollow praises showered upon him. Yet, even from a distance, Rhaegar can see the darkness lurking behind his father’s eyes—a madness that is always teetering on the edge of explosion.

Aerys’ gaze drifts lazily across the assembled crowd, but Rhaegar catches the moment when his father’s eyes land on you. The intensity in Aerys’ stare sharpens, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold. It’s that look again—the one that chills Rhaegar to his core. Aerys’ fixation on you is not the protective affection of a father; it’s something possessive, twisted, a hunger that defies all reason. Rhaegar knows that if Aerys ever suspected that your heart belonged to another, especially a knight like Arthur Dayne, there would be no limit to the cruelty he would unleash.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, anger and determination warring within him. He’s spent so much of his life navigating the complexities of court politics, trying to maintain a facade of control while keeping his own desires buried beneath duty and expectation. But this is different. This is about you, about protecting the one person he loves more than anything in this world. He cannot, will not, allow you to be another victim of Aerys’ madness.

Silently, Rhaegar makes a vow to himself. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means defying Aerys more openly, even if it means making decisions that will change the course of all their lives. He’s already burdened with the knowledge of prophecies, of visions that tug at his mind and point toward an uncertain future. But none of that matters more than protecting you. If it comes to it, he will take you far from King’s Landing, away from the shadows that cling to the Iron Throne, and keep you safe from the darkness that threatens to consume them all.

For now, though, Rhaegar knows he must be patient. He watches as you laugh with a lady from House Tyrell, your smile masking the tension beneath. Arthur’s eyes flick briefly toward Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They both know the stakes. They both know what must be done to ensure your safety.

Rhaegar straightens, his expression growing resolute. He steps back into the crowd, moving through the festival with the grace expected of a prince, but his mind is already working through plans, contingencies, and possibilities. He will keep a closer eye on you and Arthur, ensuring that any risks are minimized. And when the time comes, he will act—swiftly and decisively—to shield you from the storm that is brewing.

No matter what happens, Rhaegar Targaryen will not allow Aerys’ madness to touch you. Not while there is breath in his body.

#game of thrones #got #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #arthur dayne x y/n #arthur dayne x you #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne #house targaryen #rhaegar targaryen #aerys ii targaryen

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regulusrules · 10 months ago

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FIC RECS: Tore apart my sanity edition

Missed doing those, especially that the brilliance of this fandom is quite endless. You'd think you've read everything, then a fic comes and makes you stare two ceilings above. I think we all have PhDs in ceiling reading at this point.

1. through storm and hellfire by @prattery.

Look, I know I scream a lot about fics, but this time it's so rightfully, I swear. There is something about this one that just unravels you so fully, so reverently. It was a spiritual experience; reading this fic. Anything written by this author is a spiritual experience. If you're new to my blog, you will soon know that I fall apart for such beautiful prose so easily. And the way Arthur was written here.. holy lord in the sky. I haven't survived this fic as of yet (weeks later). It was not Merlin who got kidnapped here; it's our literal hearts.

2. you hold a knife at my throat (i tell you exactly where to cut) by @nextstopparis.

All I can say is that I found this one on the night of my final MA exam and risked failing because I stayed up till dawn reading it. And guess what? I'd do it a hundred times over. Because this fic killed me 🤩 With a knife knowing exactly where to cut 🤩

Whenever it's Protective!Arthur that is as much consumed by Merlin's safety as Merlin was with his, then know I am absolutely and utterly gone. And everything that comes with Arthur teaching Merlin how to wield weapons and its close proximity trope. Oh boy. I was literally killed, I'm telling you.

3. Of Course Falling in Love is Awful. Why Else Would They Call It a Crush? by watchriverdale.

Respectfully, how does this marvel of a fic have less than a thousand reads?? If I may, it's one of the best AU - Canon Divergence that I've read in so long! Merlin being an actual physician, Arthur making silly excuses to go visit Merlin and it ending up for him falling head over heels, BAMF elements of both, just everything! Absolutely AMAZING. And the full circle at the end; what an icon.

4. The Walls of Camelot by spqr. (@andthepeople)

I'm literally not joking when I say my brain function grew and developed more after reading this fic. It was so fully-fledged in a way you don't find in literal published books. The amount of creativity and research combined in this fic.. WOW! You just literally live the war with them, all emotions entangled, all thoughts experienced. I think I had the hardest time processing that the fic ended more than anything else because of how invested I was in the story. I didn't want it to end. It was a wonderful, wonderful ride.

5. I suppose that I look different (without the robes and crown) by WingedWolf121. (@lancelotofthelake)

You know when fic writers begin to narrate Arthur through Merlin's eyes and describe him as golden? That is what I would say as the overall feel of this fic. I felt it radiating gold and beauty. It was unmatched, truly. From the AU idea to its execution.. I was hooked all 18K. I'd give it 18K kudos of my own alone. And the way it was written !!! Please. Any Arthur who just loves Merlin a tad too much is unparalleled. And when the same energy is returned by Merlin >>>

Oh and lastly: “Ask me who you were there to me, Merlin.” I'll leave you at that.

+ 1: My heart is readily yours by yours truly.

Have I mentioned how much this one tore my own sanity apart while writing it? (yes. yes I already have like a thousand times, tell me to shut up about it already). But it's for good reason. I am a changed human being after this fic. For better or for worse, I'm still not sure about that.

#LJ recs #merlin #fic recs #bbc merlin #merthur #merlin fic #arthur pendragon #ao3 #merthur fic recommendations #if you know the authors' @ on tumblr let me know so that I tag them!#regulusrules recs

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liridi · 9 months ago

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Heyy, I'm starting to get interested in reading the Arthurian Legend/Story/Mith (?), and I was just wondering if you have any reccomendations on where to start with what books? I hope you have a nice day, Take care!

Oh thanks for the ask. I can only half answer this? I'm much better with my Greek myths. I've read a fair number of arthuriana texts but there are so many arthuriana blogs on here that faaar outmatch me with regards to the texts they've read.

I would personally start with Gawain and the Green Knight, I think it's a great entry point and one of the strongest texts in arthuriana. If you enjoy that one I think you're pretty much green lit to continue on.

Then it's a bit of a question what you want to do?

If you want an oversight of the "plot" of Arthuriana (ie. the rise and downfall of Camelot, from Arthur's conception to his death) you either want to start with the Vulgate Cycle (long but well written, the translation by Norris Lacy is recommended) or Le Morte D'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (based on the Vulgate Cycle, it's shorter but still long, and worse written, but definitely the basis for later/modern arthuriana). These are inaccesible bricks of reading material, I'm still slogging through Le Morte, two years later. But they're pretty much the bedrocks at the bottom of our modern arthuriana "canon" (no such thing but you know what I mean) so :///

If you want more readable later adaptations that cemented our modern arthuriana "canon", you either want Alfred Lord Tennyson's Idylls of the King or The Once and Future King by TH White.

If you want to keep reading short stories set in the Arthuriana world I recommend by personal favorite, the Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle. I've also been highly recommended The Knight of the Cart by Chretien de Troyes, the introduction of Lancelot and his affair with Guinevere. Courtly love!!!

But here I defer to @queer-ragnelle they can definitely give you a better answer.

Good luck!

#this doesnt even touch on modern classics like a connecticut yankee in king arthurs court #too many texts!!!#answered.liridi

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violettavonviolet · 3 months ago

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Merlin & Gravity falls fic recs

all fics are finished and fantastic! the word count goes up progressively, I've noted the ratings but do check the tags!

all fics marked with a star haven't left my brain since I read them.

Merlin

A Future Lined in Gold

predilection

Summary:

Gwaine's soulmate has magic. He knows this because his soulmark glows.

This wasn't as much of a problem until he started spending more time in Camelot where magic is banned, and where even someone catching sight of his soulmark could have him beheaded.

(A Merlin/Gwaine soulmate AU.)

6k gwaine/merlin teen

Secret Whistle

thenerdyindividual

Summary:

Merlin can't understand those stupid complicated hand signs Arthur uses on a hunt, but they figure out another way to communicate.

or: 5 times people were confused by Arthur and Merlin's secret language, and 1 time everyone understood.

6k merthur gen

Secrets

platonic_boner

Summary:

In which everyone gradually finds out that everyone else knew all along about the magic.

7k teen merthur

Co-Dependent

vintagemocha

Summary:

And then it hits Uther, like a fork of lightning: "Fine, then, no Merlin for a week."

"Oh, no," one of the knights, Sir Leon, gasps.

Arthur, whose jaw has been hanging open this entire time, finally regains his abilities of speech. "What?" he says. "No Merlin?"

+++

As punishment for Arthur's disobedience, Uther bans all contact with his manservant for a week.

It works out about as well as you could expect.

8k humor gen

The Authoritative Guide on Being the Bloke

writeonclara

Summary:

In the four years he and Merlin had been together, Merlin never so much hinted that he had a blog.

Well, at least not to Arthur. Everyone and their dog knew about it, except Arthur.

Arthur sighed and clicked Previous 10 Entries. It was a little like reading a biography about all of the things you would never, ever want to share with anyone.

ON SHAGGING THE BLOKE

Sort of like that.

OR: Merlin has a blog. Arthur finds out about it.

9k Merthur modern

Loyalty Before Royalty

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

"Where did you get that?" Arthur asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Gwen."

"...and the horse?"

"Gwen."

"What about the-"

"Gwen." Merlin interrupted. Arthur nodded. At this point, he wasn't sure why he even bothered to ask. He was pretty certain his wife was going to knight Merlin any day now. He looked Merlin up and down for a few moments before accepting it all with a sigh.

"As long as you get my armor to me tomorrow...I don't care." He finally said, turning away. Merlin cleared his throat.

"Gwen gave me tomorrow off."

"For the love of God."

I hate that Gwen and Merlin's friendship kind of withered away in the later seasons so here's a oneshot about her and Merlin abusing her new royal powers because that's what happens when your best friend becomes queen.

10k gwen& merlin gen

Good Fortune

platonic_boner

Summary:

Arthur makes Merlin a lord, and Merlin does an astonishingly good job of running a village.

11k merthur gen

Guarding the Guardian

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“Mordred, right?” Arthur asked, kneeling in front of him. The boy nodded, eyes wide as he looked at Arthur as if he might bolt at any moment. “What are you doing back in Camelot? My father won’t like seeing you again.”

“He’s hurt.” Mordred whispered and Arthur glanced over at where Merlin was unconscious. A sudden realization dawned on him.

“You healed him,” He said slowly “With magic.”

Mordred nodded. Arthur’s mind raced – thinking of all Merlin had survived in his encounters with bandits and sorcerers. Before he could ask if Mordred had been responsible for all of it, there was a groan as Merlin shifted, eyes flickering open.

“Arth – you!” He choked, sitting up quickly to grab Arthur’s arm as if he could yank the prince away. Mordred grinned.

“You’re awake!” He beamed and launched forward to hug him. Arthur watched as Merlin stiffened at the action – eyes widening before desperately trying to push him away.

“Arthur. Arthur, get him off of me-”

After sneaking Mordred out of Camelot, he occasionally returns to make sure Merlin is doing okay. Arthur isn’t sure why this child is so concerned about the wellbeing of his servant… Nor Merlin's vehement attempts to ignore it.

16k gen humor

Whispering Your Name *

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

The Dorocha. They are the voices of the dead, my child. And, like the dead, they are numberless.

A different take of the dorocha. Instead of them being faceless screams that attack you, they are actually figures of the dead. Merlin doesn't quite realize how much death affected him until him and the knights go to close the veil.

22k angst gen

Thick as Sorcerers

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

Arthur watched, unable to fully comprehend the events that had seemingly just crashed and burned in front of him rather than calmly unfold. He turned to look at the other knights who only shrugged as Mordred sank lower into his seat, lips pressed into a pout as he picked at his food.

“I…” He started and paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts “Why do you want Merlin to like you so badly?” He finally sighed. Mordred stopped playing with his food, glancing up before looking at the door the servant in question had exited through

“Because he’s Merlin.” He said as if that provided any sort of answer.

Arthur didn’t deserve this. He did his best to be a good person. Maybe this was some kind of divine intervention saying he needed to up his charity game. He needed to give the lower town a bigger tax break or something. Perhaps ride out and save three more damsels than usual.

"He has a point," Gwaine piped up as he inhaled another mead "He is Merlin."

Merlin hates Mordred and Mordred is determined to put an end to that. Arthur is convinced that this child is after his man.

23k merthur merlin & mordred

um, excuse me? i was dying *

great_stone_dragon

Summary:

Gideon is a fourteen year old boy who wants to know the real tea. Camelot has a lot of secrets to offer.

1. The prince's manservant has magic and everyone knows (except the prince)

2. The prince is in love with his manservant and everyone knows (except the manservant)

The Office if it was merthur in Camelot

30k humor gen

How to kill a king

Naelyn

Summary:

"That is how you deal with your problems! By politely stating your aim and waiting for your turn to come, instead of coming here with your weapons and no word of warning! D’you reckon it’s easy for me? Not only do I have to deal with the mess he,“ Merlin pointed at Arthur with his chin, “leaves behind him, but now I also have to deal with unplanned assassinations? This world has become a crazy place, isn’t that right, Gwaine?”

or:

Arthur's assassins seriously lack style, and Merlin tells them as much. The knights are stunned. So are the assassins. Also, Merlin's mad at Arthur, and so he is determined to ruin his day as much as possible. In the meanwhile, Gwaine's just living his best life (isn't he always?).

38k merthur crack

Next to You (It's the Rule)

LunaMyLove

Summary:

Arthur and Merlin have a special relationship. They always have, even when they were prince and servant. While many question it when first noticing, eventually it becomes an understanding in Camelot—and even among some other countries—that where there is Arthur, there is Merlin. And, where there is Merlin, there is Arthur.

Arthur and Merlin's relationship as witnessed and explained by others.

Also, or

Five times someone realizes that Merlin is the Queen, one time Merlin realizes it himself, and one time he owns it.

62k merthur crack gen

Canary in a Cage

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“Lady Morgana,” The lord said, his brows furrowing as he took a step back “Pardon me for the assumption, but I was told the king’s ward never left the East tower?” He asked and gestured vaguely around the gardens. Morgana smiled and Merlin smirked from his hiding place as he watched Arthur consider swooping in to save the man, but clearly thinking better of it.

“Ah, of course.” Morgana said “You must be confused. There are two wards of the king. I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet Merlin today.”

Uther took in Balinor’s child as a baby and claimed him as his ward. Merlin thinks he’s being held hostage, but whatever.

108k merthur

Gravity falls

to you, who bears my name

masterdipster

Summary:

In a world where most people have names printed on their wrist, Dipper Pines is born with a cipher.

22k Billdip teen and up

Five Minutes Older

thesnadger

Summary:

Mabel ends up trapped in 1979, without her brother and with a broken time machine that she can't fix herself. Luckily, her Grunkle Stan is there. Of course, he's a lot younger now...he has a mullet, he's living out of his car and he doesn't know he's her Grunkle. But he's not planning to let this weird, sparkly little girl end up alone on the streets.

27k time travel

Five Years Older

Nicnac

Summary:

When twenty-seven year old Mabel Pines stumbles across a banged-up time tape in the park, she tells herself that she's much too mature and responsible now to use it to go on a crazy adventure through time.

Hahaha, yeah right.

46k time travel

The Small Things

Nicnac

Summary:

Stan had definitely showed up empty-handed, but he somehow ended up leaving with two five year olds in tow.

Eh, he'd been to worse memorial services.

55k series

The Whole of Us (is greater than the sum of our broken pieces)

Nicnac

Summary:

Stanford Pines was going to make his legacy by becoming the man who changed the world. Children weren't really part of the plan.

At least, they weren't supposed to be.

144k teen and up

#vio's recs #fanfiction recommendation #bbc merlin #merlin x arthur #merthur #gravity falls #billdip

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morning-star-joy · 1 year ago

Text

when men like you come around chapter I

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC!Ethel

Summary: One of the most important lessons Ethel Taylor was taught in life was when you meet a bad man, pull the trigger and run. She's done it before, and she's ready to do it again when she crosses paths with outlaw Arthur Morgan. But something stays her hand, and when she ends up as the newest addition to the Van der Linde gang, they quickly become thorns in each other's sides, up until they're the only two that can pull off a big job posing as a doting, newlywed couple.

Fic Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of a past abusive relationship, mentions of murder. Rivals to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, eventual smut, lots of sass from both Arthur & Ethel. High Honor!Arthur with some Medium Honor vibes. Ethel POV written in second person, Arthur POV written in third person.

Wordcount: 3.2k

series masterlist || kofi || updates blog

You knew men like Arthur Morgan.

All your life, you’d been warned against them. Men who stole what they wanted and murdered whoever dared to get in their way in nothing but cold blood. Bad men, the likes of which your father only ever gave you one lesson for:

“Come across a no-good man, honey, and I need you to hold this gun steady,” he instructed you as you struggled under the weight of the rifle, too little to hold properly, too young to understand the consequences if you ever did aim and pull the trigger, even as your father taught you how to do just that. “You pull back—right here. Get your aim straight, squeeze down on the trigger, and shoot. You shoot ‘til he’s dead, until you’re safe, and you never look back. Alright?”

“Alright,” you had said then with a sure nod, soaking in the gravity of those words and taking them to heart, carrying them with you until the day you were face to face with a grizzled outlaw, one who no doubt deserved a bullet in the chest and not a single glance thereafter.

Because you knew men like him well.

Men who cheated, who lied, who punched and punched until their knuckles were bloody and broken and somebody wasn't breathing anymore beneath them, didn’t deserve an ounce of mercy.

You knew men like Arthur since before the moment you met him, yes.

But you didn’t know Arthur.

You wouldn’t know him, not really, until months later. Months of pushing each other with your words until you were both on your wits absolute end, months you spent settling into the Van der Linde gang with nowhere else to go after he had found you running from the law in a torn-up, blood-stained dress of the latest fashion straight from Saint Denis.

Honest to God, you had wanted to shoot him then. Hand clutched around your father’s rifle, you were ready to aim as soon as you turned around in the saddle to follow the noise of the gunshot that just rang out behind you.

And then you saw him.

Sitting comfortably, almost casually in his saddle as he came to a stop a distance away from you, Cattleman in hand. You had felt a surge of panic that hadn't completely abated for days, hand tightening around your rifle, ready to raise it until you realized that his smoking revolver was pointed up at the sky, not towards you.

“You alright, Miss?” he asked, his voice a rough drawl, and you glanced from him towards the lawman that had been hot on your trail and shooting at you a moment before, now dead weight dragged far away along the dirt by a limp foot still caught in a stirrup, Lord knowing who would find him and what mayhem would follow.

“You just killed a lawman,” you said, looking back towards the man currently not pointing a gun at you, and so for just the moment, you didn’t point yours at him.

His worn hat was perched on his head to protect from the blaring sun, black brim covering his eyes, but you swore then and even now that you saw a twitch of his lips before he shifted in his saddle.

Glancing behind him towards the other dead body you yourself had left in the dust—you had drawn without a moment of hesitation the moment their concern for you shifted towards apprehension and reaching for their sidearms—the man turned back to you and replied matter-of-factly, “So did you.”

He holstered his gun slowly, deliberate in making no sudden movements, even as you kept a steady grip on your own firearm resting across your lap, not lowering your guard for one second.

This man just murdered somebody innocent without so much as a second thought, the voice of a skittish animal of prey, trying to still keep you alive, echoed in your mind.

And then another voice—louder, prowling, unfeeling and unforgiving (though towards the man you had killed or to yourself, you didn’t know)—resonated in all corners of your thoughts with the same words he had just spoken: so did you.

Something stilled your hand then, but maybe not for too much longer if a woman hadn’t come riding up next to him. Seeing your blood-stained clothes, your rattled, wide-eyed look of a wild animal backed into the corner and lashing out at the nearest possible threat, she had approached cautiously and introduced herself.

When you relaxed and gave your own name with some difficulty, she offered you a safe place to wash up and get your affairs straight, much to the protests from the man, which she quickly shot most of it down with a dirty look.

This woman you would get to know, fairly quickly; her sandy blond hair tied in a braid that never once got out of place through all her riding and shooting. You’d come to appreciate Mrs. Sadie Adler, with all her sharp words fiercely protecting a warm heart, and the other girls in the gang.

Eventually, you'd care for and rely on them more than any of the women you had known your whole life, other than the unconditional love of your mother—even if that love had gotten you into this situation in the first place, in a way, but you tried not to think about it like that.

You also tried not to think too hard about what she’d think if she could see you now, running with a gang of outlaws after what you’d done.

Tried not to dwell on the fear that the kind-hearted, God-fearing woman may be the first to call the law down upon you if you ever dared to show your face around home again.

Home, though it hadn’t been home for quite some time.

Still, you longed for it, aching for a short-lived era of your life long past—maybe even a time far before then. Days of running for what felt like miles and miles across open fields, but in reality were just your little feet and large imagination carrying you across the sun-bleached grasses of your family’s modest farming property.

Until they found oil underneath it, and everything changed.

You hadn’t always been as prim and proper as you tried to pass off, no. Although you had almost been made for the socializing and charming of high society with your quick wit and sharp intellect that you learned to hide underneath a smile of perfectly acceptable, alluring innocence. But your just as quick temper and sharp tongue was a tell that life for you hadn’t always been getting pinched by corsets and drinking fine wines.

"I'm a high society lady,” you had snapped one day when that Arthur Morgan had laughed at your offense towards the mud a passing stagecoach had splattered on the hem of your dress, “thank you very much, Mister."

"Sure,” he had drawled in a tone so casual it was nearly downright condescending right back, over exaggerating a low bow that made your blood boil. Tipping the brim of his hat back with a coarse trigger finger that had sent more men to the grave than you thought any of you could count, he arched an obnoxiously knowing eyebrow at you and added, “One that can shoot a man right between the eyes at ten paces."

You had waved him off as you turned to stomp away, nearly resorting to a very unladylike gesture that would have only proved his point. Still, your haughty reaction was enough of an answer that he needed, more laughter echoing behind you, so bordering on taunting that your shoulders bunched up around your ears.

Arthur wanted a reaction. He always wanted a reaction from you, though you couldn’t figure out for the life of you why—a reason to give Dutch to kick you out of the camp, maybe. Proof that you didn’t have the gang’s best interests in mind, that for all your chores and schemes that Hosea eventually began to loop you in on, you just weren’t one of them.

And that thought only made you work harder. If Arthur wanted to prove you weren’t loyal, you would only show the exact opposite, just to show him.

Maybe you were just vindictive.

Maybe, if you were only trying to prove him wrong, you were actually proving him right.

But you did care about those girls, forming a deep bond, a fond kinship with them that you had never felt before with anyone else. You had high esteem for Hosea too, finding a likeness in his sage advice to your father, appreciating the way he gently formed your high society schmoozing into outright swindling the same kinds of folks.

Not to mention you were a wicked good shot. All your father’s shooting lessons had assured this, and the combination of those assets wrapped up with your pleasant, pretty smile on top made you a valuable asset to the group.

As long as you stayed far, far away from Lemoyne and the posters that surely plastered the walls of every town there, and Arthur didn’t give you a reason to make good on shooting him dead like you were raised to do, everything would be just fine.

“Miss Taylor.”

Or maybe not.

Because if that no good Arthur Morgan kept drawling your name like that and giving that tiny hint of a smirk, interrupting you while you were in the middle of enjoying a perfectly good cup of coffee on a pleasantly warm early morning, there was going to be a grave needing to be dug.

“Mr. Morgan,” you replied curtly, not raising your eyes from the words on the page in front of you, holding the book Mary-Beth had loaned you in one hand while taking another sip of coffee with the other. You were out of Miss Grimshaw's view right now, and planning to make good on sneaking in a few pages this morning before getting to work.

“Didn’t they teach you in all your high society fancy lessons to look at somebody when yer talkin’ to them?”

The words weren’t haughty or necessarily accusatory, but more teasing, trying to get under your skin by throwing your claims of being a civilized lady back in your face. Your jaw clenched, eyebrow twitching, and you knew from the quiet, husky chuckle hidden under a breath that you had stepped right into giving Arthur the reaction he wanted, yet again.

“When I’m speaking to an honorable man of high caliber, yes,” you replied smoothly, setting down your coffee for just a moment to turn a page. “Wasn’t aware you were one of those, Mr. Morgan.”

A snicker caught your attention then, and a smirk catches on the edge of your own lips, seeing a flash of red hair from the corner of your eye. You felt the energy shift from Arthur momentarily, and you didn’t need to look to know Sean surely scuttled away from eavesdropping on the two of you at Arthur’s silent intimidation before he settled again.

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t claimin’ to have any sort of honor,” he mumbled, and you gave a noncommittal hum that merely said that you knew this well, lifting your tin back to your lips for another slow sip of the bitter drink.

There was silence for a moment, and you dared to hope that Arthur would move on then, go hand out his warm good morning greetings reserved for almost every member of the gang other than you.

But then the words in front of you were a blur, the paper slipping from your fingers as you reached them out to try and snatch the book back, but Arthur had caught you off-guard, and was already stepping away with the novel in hand.

“Hey!” you snapped, coffee forgotten on the table to rise to your feet, holding the skirt of your dress out of the way to stomp after him. “Really? Don't you have somethin’ better to do?”

“Probably,” Arthur called back to you, sending a wider smirk back over his shoulder at you that made your blood boil. “But mayhaps I wanna see what’s gotten your attention so completely this mornin’, Miss High Society.”

He was still striding quickly away from you, making you start to jog a little to try and catch him, now leading you right across camp as you muttered apologies to anybody you almost ran into, all the while Arthur flipped carelessly through your book’s pages and dodged everybody effortlessly at the same time.

You were giving strong protests, fumbling over your words for once as he kept skimming the pages towards the back of the book, eyebrows raising as he cast a glance back towards you with a surprised laugh.

“Well, Miss Taylor,” he said slowly, his smirk growing into a grin that only spoke of trouble, and you lunged for the book, stumbling past him when he dodged you easily and flipped another page. “I always thought someone of yer education was so above these kinds of…vulgar stories.”

Face heating, you glared at the infuriatingly smug look on Arthur’s face as you snapped back, “It’s not vulgar. It’s romance.”

“Clearly, you haven’t gotten to the end,” Arthur drawled, clearing his throat loudly as he straightened up, and you only had a brief moment of fear for what he was about to do before he began to read out loud, “‘Her hands clutching his luscious, dark curls as he ripped open her bodice, revealing a voluptuous, heaving bosom—’”

You finally managed to snatch the book back then, snapping it shut and clutching it to your own heaving chest, breaths quickened with flustered anger at his satisfaction of having gotten on your nerves, again.

“Well, might as well read those words, outlaw,” you snapped again, returning his own nickname of your status with your nickname of his own, each one thinly veiled with an insult instead of anything remotely fond. “Those pages are the only place you're gonna see a heaving bosom.”

Arthur laughed, the sound loud and hearty, echoing around the camp and surely drawing attention to yet another altercation between the two of you, as it seemed like most days the gang wasn’t functioning as normal without you and Arthur bickering.

“They teach you ‘bout that kind of thing in those fancy lessons too?” he shot back through chuckles, still grinning in a way that was almost wicked, and you felt the heat in your face surge through your whole body as you smacked his shoulder with the book.

“Oh, shut up!” you exclaimed, glare withering as he only laughed louder before you repeated in a hiss. “Shut. Up.”

To his credit, his laughter did ease then, even as he gestured towards the book again and accused, “Now that is just about the worst thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of settin’ my eyes upon.”

You groaned with a roll of your eyes, annoyed that you couldn’t even deny his statement. The book was awful, but Mary-Beth had told you it was one of her favorites, and you had needed a little escape, a little happy fantasy to dream about for a while. "It may be awful, but so what?"

“So what?” Arthur repeated your words in disbelief, nose crinkling up in what was almost disgust as he glanced down towards the book still clutched to your chest. “Don’t tell me you actually like this kind of nonsense. What’s so appealing about getting married to some tall, dark and handsome man?”

You bristled at the word choice, shifting the book into your arms as you crossed them tightly against your chest before biting back, "For your information, Mr. Morgan, some women like these books. They're an...escape. No man is nearly as tall, dark and handsome in real society."

Arthur made an unconvinced noise at the case you made, hand digging through his satchel for a cigarette, leaning over to strike a match on the bottom of his boot at the same moment you felt a fire igniting inside of you at the flick of his fingers, anger burning bright at his apparent indifference towards the case you were making.

“Is it truly so terrible to long for a marriage of love?” you asked, and there must have been something bleeding into your tone that caused Arthur to look back at you, hand holding the lit match pausing halfway to the cigarette perched between his lips before finally lighting it, shaking out the flame even as the one in your soul burned even brighter, hotter. “So many women are trapped into unhappy marriages that they're allowed to dream.”

He watched you silently for a moment, inhaling the smoke from the cigarette before pulling it from his mouth, head turning to blow it out away from your face even as he finally responded, “Well, they sure are dreamin’, then. Ain’t no perfect storybook ending waitin’ out there.”

The bitter tone he spoke the words with were a shock to your system, eyes widening as he gestured towards you with the lit cigarette and added in a voice not quite as hard, but just as disbelieving, something borderline accusatory, “Unless, of course, you’re buying it, Miss High Society. But you running with us now. And if you believe in that, then you’re more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

Any inkling of playfulness you may have felt faded quickly as your insides turned as cold as the steely way he used that nickname for you, with more resentment than you had heard from him before, and although you had always idly wondered if Arthur didn’t like you, in that moment you were fully convinced he actually did hate you.

And in that accusation of your past life, that insinuation of naivete when he didn’t know a damn thing about what it was, you hated him just as much.

“Right,” was all you muttered, closing off from him entirely as you shifted to move past him without another word. You were wasting your breath on somebody like Arthur Morgan, not knowing why you even tried to explain in the first place.

But even then, you saw a flicker of some emotion on his face before you walked by him, those rough features pinching in a way you didn’t recognize, but you kept walking even as you heard his voice call out after you followed by quick footsteps, “Miss Taylor—”

“There you two are!”

You stopped in your tracks as Dutch came striding right towards you, a wide grin plastered on his strong features that was directed first towards you, then sent towards the man you had just been trying to be rid of as he came to a slow stop beside you.

Dutch inserted himself between you and Arthur, patting you gently on the shoulder as he smacked the other hand between Arthur’s shoulders, jostling the younger man and eliciting a glare from him before squeezing both your shoulder and his with the words, “Got the perfect job lined up just for the two of you.”

Your mouth opened to protest in the same moment Arthur’s did, but you were both abruptly cut off from any words to say or even think as Dutch turned his head from side to side, offering a cunning little smirk before addressing you each in turn, “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.”

taglist: @kmc1989 @5oh5 @vickie5446 @cupofjoel @joelsgreys

#arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morgan x f!oc #arthur morgan x original character #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fic

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