#but I have this butcher x arthur drawing idea

[potato-lord-but-not]

my friend has threatened to report me to the school counselor because i screamed and threw my phone against the grass after i saw the butcher ask being answered a few days ago (im just saying it now)

that’s…. yeah that tracks

[twola]

I always hate like “requesting” something because it feels like a forceful “write this for me now!” kind of thing, but a I’ve always had this smutty idea in my head where Arthur is getting a little weaker from the TB, but is also pinning after some cute girl in camp. Some wooing occurs and things start getting steamy~ but it’s her first time or she’s not super experienced. I feel like HH!Arthur would try to be the gentleman to show her a sweet, gentle time, but wouldn’t have the stamina for missionary, so his partner would pick up where he leaves off by riding him like the work horse he is. I just thin the scenario would be perfect for like sexy words of encouragement (def NOT thinking of his mare voice lines *wink wink wink*) plus Arthur getting taken care of too instead of just doing the caring. I have like 0 writing skills tho lol so if you ever found yourself in need of smutty I soo I would feel HONORED for you to bring my nasty Arthur thoughts to life

Ooh, TB whumpy smut… I’m sensing a pattern here. My poor boah, how I love to torture him…

This was a good one! Still working on a few more. I love and thrive on feedback so drop me a line if you liked it.

Regret Me Not

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Regrets seem to take up much of his headspace these days... But for one regret of his, Arthur takes action with a little bit of urging on your part.

Arthur wheezes, covering his mouth with the back of his palm, the wet, hacking noise that scrapes out of his throat as he sits on the boulder south of Beaver Hollow, out of earshot of the camp. 

Not that he needed people’s stares. He looks terrible enough that he gets looks of pity from the women, avoided by the men - and Dutch? Well, he is living in another reality.

Another cough rips through him, as he feels as if he were drowning within his own body. A small hand lands on his back. He looks up, rubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

You stand over his shoulder, rubbing gently, concern alight in your eyes. You look down and dig into the pockets of your skirts.

“Here.” You say with a small smile, handing him a bottle of tonic.

He coughs again, butchering his thanks, as he takes the bottle from your hands, uncorking it quickly and downing the foul-tasting liquid quickly.

“How are you feeling?” You ask quietly, hand still resting on his shoulder, slowly, gently rubbing circles into his upper back.

Arthur wants to lean wholly into your touch. He wants to wrap himself into you and let you card your fingers through his hair. He wants to rest. He wants to sleep.

He wants, he wants - but alas. None of that was possible.

“Like hell.” He grits out hoarsely, tossing the empty bottle to the dirt at his feet.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” You say softly. Your other hand moves to his back as well, rubbing at his other shoulder.

“ ‘S alright.” He murmurs, not wanting to let on how good your hands feel on him.

A silence settles in, and you rub at his shoulders for a few moments more before drawing your hands away from him.

“Well… I just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doin’. I’ll see you later, Arthur.” You say, and he can hear the crunch of gravel under your boot as you turn on your heel. You begin to walk up the path back toward camp, as he turns and follows you with his gaze over his shoulder.

Arthur wants. In the embracing of his mortality, the facade of propriety and the painstakingly built walls around his heart crumble in the face of his own death.

He has watched you for months. Yearned for months, wanted and needed your attention, always too self-conscious to reach out and touch.

Sister Calderon’s words echo in his ears with each step you take away from him.

“Take a chance that love exists.”

“D-do you wanna get outta here?”

His voice is hoarse, almost weak sounding. Nothing of the man that he used to be.

You stop, turning around, a small smile creeping across your face. “God, get outta this hell hole? Absolutely. Anywhere is better than these hills.”

His heart hopes.

“I gotta go grab some mail from Van Horn. Ain't much better though…”

“It ain’t here, Mister Morgan. Let’s go.”

—

Van Horn is just as decrepit as the last time he was here. Falling apart and full of the dregs of society, left behind by the churning wheel of progress. He mirthfully counts himself as one of them, he supposes.

He tucks the letters he retrieved into his satchel, moseying slowly toward the back of the dock, where you stand with your elbows on the railing, gazing at the river’s lazy waters. Northward, toward the mountains and the river’s origins.

“Y’ready there, ma’am?”

You look back at him but don’t move. “Already? Ugh. Camp’s just so…”

Arthur sidles up next to you, placing his own elbows on the railing, grunting in agreement. You didn’t need to go any further, he knew where you were going with your comment.

The camp was… well, a gloom has settled upon it. Dutch acting irrational, angry. The loss of Hosea and Lenny. Running from Pinkertons.

And his own impending demise, of course.

“What’re you gonna do after?” Arthur asks quietly and notices the stuttering breath you take as your shoulders drop a little.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t have much else than this.”

Arthur hangs his head, taking in a deep breath. A breath that seems to barely fill his ailing lungs, and he coughs slightly under the rim of his hat.

“Y’got a good head on you. You’ll do fine.” He grits out, voice hoarse.

You remain silent, your eyes set on the water of the slow-flowing river. A boat chugs southbound, heading toward Saint Denis.

“I don’t know how I’ll fare being alone.” You softly murmur.

He sighs. “I’m sure you can stay with Abigail or Missus Adler. Or Charles. You got people to watch out for you.”

“But not you.”

A pang, a sharp pain shoots through his chest, above and beyond the near-constant constriction of his lungs.

“No. Not me.”

You look up at him, a sheen of wetness over your eyes. It pains him as he looks back.

A tear rolls down your face and it’s everything he is not to lean over and cup your face in his hands and wipe your tears away.

“Sweetheart, you deserve-”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me what I deserve, Arthur Morgan.” You spit out, tears openly running down your cheeks.

Arthur sighs, looking back down at the water. It is murky, muddy, dirty right under the dock. Just like this damn town.

You push yourself into his surprised embrace, clutching at his shirt, and it takes him a moment to realize that this wasn’t a dream, and he winds his arms around you, pulling you against him.

“I wish you would stop hiding from me.” You whisper as he holds you to his chest, your cheek pressed against his breastbone, probably hearing the crackling failure of his lungs with each breath he takes.

He doesn’t know how to answer that. For years now, it’s been easier for him to keep that urn with the remains of his heart buried from all.

“I’m here… I’m here now.” He murmurs, resting his chin atop your head.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you, Arthur. Waitin’ and wishing for you to ask me to be yours.” You bury yourself in his embrace.

Fuck.

Arthur’s resolve cracks like a piece of porcelain.

“I’m just a fool. A fool for making you wait.”

You shudder against him, digging your fingers into his shirt, and your breath stutters as you try to stifle a sob. Pulling away, you look up at him, his bloodshot, sunken eyes, still the blue-green pools you would drown in.

You lean up on your toes, arms winding around his neck, but he turns his face away as you draw closer. 

“No. I ain’t gettin’ you sick too.”

You frown, glassy-eyed, about to draw your arms from him before he leans down and presses his lips to your cheek, again and again, moving up toward your ear.

“But…. I’ll give you whatever else it is you want.” He rumbles, arms wound tight around you, his body arcing over yours.

You shiver in his embrace, pulling your head back ever so slightly to look him in the eye.

“I want whatever you’re willing to give me.” You whisper, hands moving up and clutching at his collar.

He leans his forehead against yours. “If you want a dying, washed-up gunsling-”

You interrupt, pressing up on your toes and kissing his cheek, “I want you, Arthur Morgan. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

So long.

So long.

Goddamnit. He’s been looking at you, yearning for you, for months. Before Blackwater and ferries and being chased by Pinkertons. Before Dutch became erratic, before all of these complications. When he was chasing tumbleweeds across the wild and open west.

He gives a shuddering sigh, and draws you closer, pulling you to him and placing his lips on the long line of your neck. You whimper as he pulls a bit of your pale skin between his teeth, suckling on it, hoping to leave a mark.

You throw your arms completely around his shoulders and begin to pant in his ear. Whimpers turn to whines as one of his large hands moves down from your waist to clench roughly at your rear, drawing you against his pelvis and his rapidly hardening cock.

“A-Arthur - please -” You moan, rubbing yourself against him, and he regretfully draws his mouth away from your skin, pink-tinged and wet from his attentions.

As much as he’d love to turn you around, throw up your skirts, and press himself into you for the sake of time, he knows you deserve more than that.

“Lemme get a room.” He pants, letting go of you, moving to adjust himself in his trousers. “Go on upstairs.”

You pull at the collar of your blouse to hide the evidence of your indiscretion and quietly nod, moving past him and slowly climbing the rickety stairs to the second story of the decrepit building. 

He quickly pays for a room, and grabs the key from the clerk with a dismissive grunt, hurrying his way up the stairs to find you leaning against the second-story railing, waiting for him. 

Arthur jams the key into the door’s lock, pushing it open, and lumbering into the room, where he immediately sheds the repeater strapped to his back and places it on the worn table next to the door. His gunbelt follows as you step inside, closing and locking the door behind you. 

He places his hat atop the pile of guns on the table, looking back at you.

“Still want to do-”

You cut him off by closing the distance between you and throwing your arms around his waist.

He pulls you toward the bed, and places his hands on your waist, holding you still, as he sits on the bed, the worn frame creaking under his weight. He doesn’t spare it a second thought, eyes trained on you, and he gently pulls you to sit in his lap.

You cup his cheek gently, thumb tracing along his beard that he’s kept longer to hide the gauntness of his cheeks. His large hand lands on your thigh, squeezing it as he presses his face into the hollow of your neck.

You gasp as you feel his tongue on your skin, clutching at his shirt as you tilt your head back.

You shiver again as his hand creeps up under your skirt, finger gently rubbing against the seam of your bloomers, which dampens quickly under his ministrations.

“It's been a while,” He grunts out, unable to stop his hips from bucking up against your legs with you seated in his lap, the long line of him chasing your warmth.

“M-me too. Ain’t since-” you mewl into his ear as his fingers push your bloomers to the side and brush against the damp skin of your core, “some stable boy when I was sixteen- ahh - we - we didn’t know what we was doin’.” You gasp out as his pointer finger, thick and strong, dips inside your entrance, sheathing to the knuckle within your cunt.

He slides another finger inside you, groaning against your hair when he realizes how tight you are, clutching desperately at his digits, imagining how good you would feel surrounding his cock.

“I’ll be good to you,” He grits out, crooking his fingers within you.

“Oh-” You gasp, “I know, I know you will, Arthur.”

Arthur pulls you from his lap and lays you on the bed next to him, and immediately starts to shed his clothing, tossing it into piles on the floor as you join him, skirts and shirts thrown from the bed, a union suit and chemise - your bloomers land on the floor and he quickly climbs atop you, spreading your legs and fitting his hips in the cradle of yours.

In this old, dirty bed in this old, dirty room, he swears he has never seen something so beautiful as you sprawled out beneath him, the rise and fall of your breathing, the blush crawling down your cheeks to your neck, spreading out across your chest, to your pink nipples, pebbling as they are exposed to the cool air.

He leans down, balancing himself on his forearms, finding that spot on your neck again and nibbling at it, while one of his hands works its way to the space between you, grasping his hard cock and stroking it as he presses the swollen head against your core.

You mewl as he presses in, the head of his cock entering you, his hand moving from its base to frame your head again.

“God, you’re perfect.” He groans as he starts to press himself inside, inch by inch disappearing into your wet warmth, your panting high and fast in his ear as he suckles on your neck once again.

He thrusts, gently, and his hips press against yours as he’s buried himself to the hilt in your cunt. You mewl out a high whine, nails digging into his shoulder.

Arthur presses himself up slightly, looking down upon you. His fingers begin playing with the curling hairs at your temple, waiting for you to open your eyes, a sign that you’re used to his length and girth within you.

And when you do, he’s stricken. Your eyes flutter open and you inhale a breath with a sweet sigh. God, for once in his damn life, he’s doing something right.

Your arms wind around his neck as you press your lips to his cheek, he knows that you want to taste him, to mold your lips together and moan into each other’s mouths - he wants that too, but it’s a step too far. He’s already half afraid of spreading his sickness to you.

Arthur thrusts, gently still, but faster and harder than he had been, you squeal in delight, which spurs him into finding a rhythm, his body moving over yours.

He grunts, panting as he moves his hips, fucking into you and pressing you down into this old, uncomfortable mattress. He swears he’ll bring you to some nice hotel in Saint Denis and make love to you on a plush expensive mattress-

A constriction in his chest stops him mid-thrust.

He pants, wheezing, his hips slowing as he struggles to catch his breath. Christ, what a sorry excuse for a man he is - can’t even please a woman in the state he’s in.

You gently push on his shoulder, and he has the stamina, at least, to raise himself up and look upon you, cheeks blazing in shame.

“Here, maybe I should get on top?” You ask, your hand cupping his cheek while the other gently lays upon his chest.

He groans at the thought, his traitorous cock twitching as he’s buried in your cunt, causing you to gasp out. 

“Alrigh’,” Arthur grunts, and steadies his knees while he pulls his hands to you: one beneath your lower back, one below your shoulder blades. In a jumble of limbs and skin, he rolls over, somehow keeping himself sheathed in you until you’re splayed atop him, your small hips spread out over his.

He has to admit, this was a good idea you had, even before you think to move, what a sight he’s given. His cock fully enveloped in your hips, the dark thatch of hair between your thighs mixing with the curls at his base. Up, up the curves of your waist, he trails his hands, gently skimming your sweat-slicked skin. Your breasts, small yet perky, he’s enraptured by the way your nipples pebble as he rubs his thumbs over them, the sweet sigh that leaves your lips as your head falls back.

God almighty, you’re the sweetest thing alive.

Your hands find purchase on his chest, fingers pulsing, as you roll your hips once over him. His breath stutters, eyes widening as inches of him leave you, only to gently return moments later.

“G-good?” You ask, a self-conscious fear in your eyes.

His hands clamp on your waist and help to guide your movement.

“So good, you’re so good.” He rasps, the end of his lips curling up into a smile.

You smile back, rolling your hips again, taking him and out, following the pathway to your own pleasure and dragging him along for the ride. 

Your murmuring devolves into gasping moans as you continue to gyrate above him, squeezing your eyes shut, your fingers spread wide over his pectorals.

“That’s it. You’re alright, girl.” He urges, one hand moving from your hip to where you’re joined, his thumb parting your folds just above where he’s speared into you.

You moan aloud, giving no qualm to volume as he circles and presses against that little nub of pleasure.

“C’mon, sweetheart, you’re almost there.” He whispers as his hips jut upward into yours, he can see the far-off look in your eyes, the way your lips hang open, the shortness of your breath, and the slightly painful way your fingers are clenching into his chest. He can tell, your pulsing, squeezing, sweet little cunt is so close.

You ride him fast, like a horse at a gallop, and that blooming lava in his gut churns in a way that he knows he’s not far behind.

“A-Ar…” You stutter as your eyes close tightly.

“That’s it, that’s it, Darlin’.” He urges, his other hand tight on your hips, aiding your movement.

“Agh, oh god - Arthur.” You moan out, bottoming out completely as you throw your head back. He groans aloud as he feels your muscles constrict around his shaft, the sweet clutch of your cunt.

He thrusts his hips upward again and is rewarded with the sweetest mewl from your mouth, he cannot help but to whimper as he feels warm, wet slick start to seep from where you’re joined, his swollen and heavy balls covered in them.

You recover, gasping as your hands move to his chest, your hips grinding down on him slowly.

“I wanna-” you pant, catching your breath, “I wanna make you come.”

Arthur groans in response, hips bucking upward as his hands fly to your hips again, clenching them hard.

“Ain’t gonna- augh- ain’t gonna be hard to give you that.” He stutters out, knowing that the pull in his gut is getting stronger with each sweet movement you make.

“You’re so good -” You mewl, rolling your hips over him as he grunts, hands sure on your waist, fingers pulsing as his eyes flutter closed, his mouth hanging open as he approaches that precipice.

“You feel just like I’ve always dreamed.” You sigh, and all he can respond with is a thrust upward of his hips, to give you more, to give you himself, all that’s left of him.

He’s there, he’s there. His eyes shoot wide and he grunts, hands hard over your hips. “Get- you gotta, move.”

But you lean forward, not stopping the gentle roll of your body over his, and kiss his forehead.

“Come inside me.” You breathe, hands steady over his beating heart, “Give me all of you.”

Of all the stupid, childish things… but the resolve of a dying man, it is far less strong than before - weakening much like his ailing lungs.

“Please.” 

He does, he does.

He grunts needily as he pumps his release into you. Staying sheathed in your warmth, not jerking himself into cold air.

Arthur sits up immediately, burying his head into the side of your neck, and suckles gently at the skin there as your fingers start to play with the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

He regrets, it’s all he has left, that again, he wasted his time, glancing shyly at you across the fire for all those months. All he can do is offer you a few fleeting moments of pleasure. He regrets, it’s all he has left, that he cannot taste your lips and the sweetness he knows lies beyond them.

“Darlin’-” he trails off into your skin, trying to compose himself.

I’m sorry- I’m sorry this is all that’s left of me - sorry I can’t give you nothin’ but -

You place your lips on his forehead gently before pulling back. You cup his cheeks in your hands and nod your head.

“Let’s not waste any more time.”

[bats4sophie]

Hey guys,,, I know Arkayne Faith (Oscar x Kayne) Isn't a super popular ship in the malevolent Fandom, but for those few Arkayne Faith enjoyers, here's a quick fanfic I made of them. It might be slightly out of character, I'm sorry, I haven't relistened to any episodes with Oscar in them recently.

TW: Mentions of blood, injuries, a little bit of angst (I can't help myself)

Arkayne Faith 💕

Oscar stumbles to get his footing. He looked around this new, strange place that he had suddenly been placed into with no explanation as to why, all he knows is that he was in the hospital, resting off his arm injury after Arthur had severed it, and now, he was in a cold, dark expanse, feeling the breeze blow about his exposing hospital gown, and the cold stone floor leaving his bare feet feeling numb. But he was far to confused, and far too angry to focus on that yet. All he could think about, and had been thinking about was how Arthur had just...left him. Of course, he knew there must have been some reason for Arthur leaving, but he still felt completely unbridle rage towards his former friend. And now, he was alone, confused, and afraid, with no idea where he is, or why he's there.

He slowly lowers himself down onto the stone cold floor, and draws his knees up, hugging them against his chest, hiding his face in his knees as warm tears of fear and anger well up in his eyes. As he was letting all his emotions come through, however, he hadn't noticed a new presence in front of him, until the thing spoke up, at first in an overly cheery sounding voice, which quickly changed up.

"Sorry about that, I just had to check on how Arty was doing on my special mission, and i forgot all about bringing you here! I swear, sometimes my mem-"

Kayne pauses as his wild eyes search over Oscars scrunched up form, how he didn't even look up at him as he spoke, and instantly knew something was wrong. Kayne had not only been watching Arthur in his journey in New York to evade the Butcher, but he also kept a close eye on Arthur's new acquaintances, mainly Oscar, and he knew that this behaviour was definitely out of character. His grin did not dissapear, but fell slightly as he crouched down next to Oscar, cocking his head like a confused puppy, and slowly lifted Oscars head up.

"Hey, hey, lefty... whats wrong? Why the long face, huh? It's not about the whole "Arthur cutting off your arm and leaving you for dead" thing, is it?"

Kayne did not even give him time to answer, springing back to his feet with a cackle.

"Ah, well, who needs Arthur anyway, huh? Not us, thats for sure! Tell you what, I can be your new purpose, instead of Arthur, how 'bout that? Like my own little... sacrifical lamb. Suits you, too. You remind me of a little new born lamb, with that fluffy hair! Just precious."

Oscar slightly lifts his head, looking up at the thing in front if him, slightly confused. How did It know so much about him, and Arthur? He sniffled a little, and wiped his eyes, now frowning as he stands up, studying Kayne. He takes a step closer, and asks in his thick, Scottish accent,

"Who....are you?...And where are we?..."

Kayne cracks another grin, also stepping closer, mirroring Oscars movements and almost closing the gap between them, when he starts circling Oscar, looking him up and down like a particularly interesting bug.

"Well, I go by many, many names, lefty, mainly the crawling chaos, the God of a Thousand Forms, Nyarlathotep, blah blah blah.... But... you can call me Kayne. How does that sound, huh?"

He cackles once more, starting almost as abruptly as it finishes.

"And as for where we are...hm.."

He rubs his chin, feigning thought.

"Well, just a nice little place i fixed up for the two of us, Oscar. You and me, since Arty is out of the picture for a bit."

He stops right behind Oscar as he finishes speaking, the slapping of his bare, bloodied feet coming to a halt as he does. He leans in close, speaking lowly right next to Oscars ear, as his other hand comes up to gently hold Oscars other shoulder.

"I think you'll quite enjoy it here, with me. I won't leave you, no, not like Arthur did. You can devote yourself to a real, true god, Oscar. How does that sound to you?... Fabulous, isnt it?"

His hand creeps up the side of Oscars neck, leaving traces of dark brownish blood against his skin and clothes, till its resting in his hair, carding through the dark curls, staining them with reds and browns, but he doesnt care, chuckling to himself as he kneads through them. Oscar swallows thickly. Despite being utterly terrified, he can't recall the last time someone was quite so gentle with him, and he found himself almost...enjoying the company of this new character, however unsettling he seems.

YIPPIE YIPPIE YIPPIE I might write more for this but it is almost one o'clock in the morning rn 🏃 So uuuuuh yep. If you've read up to this point and enjoyed it please, please, please reblog. I can't stress enough, it helps other people see my stuff, and gives me a whole lot more motivation to see people enjoying my stuff so yeah. Laters 💛💛

[writings-of-a-daphodil]

Fire Keeper: Chapter 19.5

Douxie x fem reader

Masterlist in Bio!

Series Summary: You are Jim’s older sister who is taking a break from college and has moved back home to Arcadia. You end up joining Jim and his friends on their adventures.

Chapter 19.5 summary: Archie and Lake are back and they are ready to find whoever Morgana sent to kill Arthur.

A/n: It’s finally here and it’s a lot longer than normal half chapters, so yeah, enjoy!!

“Good morning beautiful!” Douxie greeted. You looked up from your book and smiled at him. He was balancing a breakfast tray in one hand and opening the door with the other. A cup was awful close to falling off, so you sent a little magic it’s way to keep it in place.

“Hey.” He set the tray down in front of you. “Thanks for the food.”

“Of course, I know Merlin kinda put you on home arrest while he sees if Arthur remembers you committing treason.”

You laughed. “If somebody had told me a year ago that I would have been stuck in twelfth century Camelot with my wizard boyfriend, and that I had committed treason to save my half-troll brother then I would have thought they were crazy.” You looked to Douxie to see how he would react to you calling him your boyfriend and you saw a smile light up his face.

“It’s been a wild year.”

“Indeed it has.”

It had technically only been a few hours since Douxie kissed you and you were very happy with how everything had turned out.

You ate together, chatting like you hadn’t a care in the world. It was so nice to relax. Ever since you had fallen through the portal it had been pretty much nonstop action.

Unfortunately Douxie had to leave, but he had promised you a date later. You didn’t know what Camelot had to offer in way of dates, but you were sure you’d enjoy anything you and Douxie did together.

Eventually you got bored of just reading in the room and you decided to go see if Merlin needed your help.

“I swear, Morgana's not dead!” You heard Claire yell from inside Merlin’s tower. You wondered what all of that was about.

“Rubbish,” Merlin responded as you walked into the room.

“It's true, Master. She saw her in the Shadow Realm, which is great for saving history,” Douxie pointed out.

“But she's coming to attack the kingdom any second!” Claire reminded.

Douxie sighed. “Which is less great.”

“We are all in grave danger,” Archie said, trying to reason with Merlin. You walked up to Douxie and took his hand.

“And what were you doing in the Shadow Realm, hmm? Its dark mirrors trick you, sozzle your mind. Morgana is dead, and no magic can change that. I haven't time to chase ghosts. We have more immediate threats.”

Claire scowled. “Morgana is a threat!”

“Listen well, girl. Even if she had cheated death, we don't stand a chance if Gunmar attacks before I finish the amulet,” Merlin explained.

You jumped a bit as Past Douxie came in. “I've got everything, Master. Amulet designs, alloys for the heart, and my lute for some background music.”

Douxie looked at the supplies. “You're working on getting us back home?”

Merlin gave a small smile. “Of course. The heart is the only way to get the lot of you out of my hair.”

“Not that he has much left,” Archie muttered and you laughed.

Merlin frowned at the both of you. “I heard that.”

“Master, Claire's onto something,” Douxie said.

Claire scowled. “I know you think we're a bunch of dumb teens, but we have to defend Camelot from disaster.”

Merlin raised his arm, waving it. “Silence!” He ordered and green gags appeared on Douxie and Claire's mouths. You kept your own shut to avoid a similar fate.

Archie chuckled. “Wizard got your tongues?”

Merlin sighed. “If you truly believe the kingdom's in danger, then go protect it...outside. I've an amulet to finish.”

You sighed, and led the way out of the room towards the training grounds. In the distance Arthur got up and addressed the crowd. “Good people of Camelot, we've suffered many hardships. Our enemies claim that I am broken. But I have overcome. Behold the light of Excalibur reborn!”

Douxie grunted, trying his best to get the gag off, but failing, you laughed at his attempt and he frowned at you.

Claire coughed as her gag glowed blue and faded off. “No sign of Morgana anywhere.”

Douxie coughed, his own gag disappearing. “Nothing but unwashed plebeians stuffing their faces, eh, Steve?”

You looked around for Steve and saw him trying to buy food.

“The monsters at our door will fall. To ready our hearts for the battle ahead, I host a private tournament. The winner shall stand at my side...and have the honor of striking down the monster, Bular the Butcher.”

You turned your attention back to Douxie. “We know Arthur is the main target. I'll draw stasis traps around the perimeter, put up defensive wards-“ Douxie stopped mid explanation to shove a muffin in his mouth. “Mm! I forgot how good these tasted. The ones in the future aren't the same.”

You reached for one, but quickly withdrew your hand as Steve spit out some weird white thing that had been in his. You gaged a bit.

Claire sighed. “Guys, this is Morgana we're talking about. We can't just wait for her to slice our throats.”

“Why not?” Steve asked and you gave him a look. What kind of question was that?

“She'll find a way in,” Claire said.

“Well then, it’s time to do some detective work. Archie and Lake is back in business!” You exclaimed, pumping your fist.

“Archie and Lake?” Archie questioned.

“You’ll understand in about nine hundred years, but for now, we have an assassin to find.”

You were cut off from saying anything as Douxie and Steve jumped, the former latching onto your hand as a child spoke. “Yeah! I, noble King Arthur, will strike down the terrible trolls!” The boy swung his play sword around ‘threateningly’ at Bular.

“I will protect you, troll! I am Morgana, the evil witch! Shadow bolt! Shadow bolt!” A girl dressed as Morgana responded.

“You betray me, the noble king? Die, sister! Die!” The fake Arthur cried.

You watched as the real King Arthur stood and cleared his throat. “That's enough!”

There was a moment of silence as Bular roared at the children who ran off. Arthur sighed and sat down. “I crave a true battle. Let the tournament continue.”

Archie flew and did a lap around the arena. “No sign of any sorceresses. Then again, all you humans do look alike.”

Claire glowered. “She is crafty. She'll try to infiltrate the tournament. We have to go on the offensive, root the witch out!”

Douxie nodded. “You do that, and we'll secure the castle.”

“Douxie, wait! What about Steve?” Archie asked, but Douxie didn’t hear him.

You gave one last slightly concerned look before you and Archie went off in search of the assassin. The familier was incredibly helpful in this, seeing as he knew Camelot well and could identify any discrepancies.

However, there didn’t seem to be any discrepancies, there were no odd auras or anything anywhere. You made your way from the heart of Camelot outwards, but if there was someone helping Morgana, the two of you must have missed them.

You were walking the last stretch of the castle wall losing hope as you chatted with Archie.

“You’ll have to help me in the future with Mao,” you were saying.

Archie hummed. “I look forward to it.”

You walked over to the edge of the wall, stumbling a bit. You caught yourself on the rail, but when you leaned over the edge you noticed some odd bags that had been dumped over the edges. You had walked past the town dump earlier so these weren’t trash bags and for a twelfth century kingdom Camelot wasn’t that dirty.

“Hey Arch?”

“Yes?”

“Do these bags look suspicious to you?” Archie came over and flew past you. He landed beside one of the bags and after a second he looked up to you.

“Y/n you need to see this.”

You leapt off the wall and floated down towards Archie. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s war-Y/n! Don't!” Archie warned, but by then you had already stuck your hand in the bag. You yelped, yanking your hand out of the bag hissing and jumping in pain. Your hand was burned. It felt like you had put it in a bag of fire.

“Owwww!” You cried, yelping out as you tried to heal yourself?

“The bag is warded,” Archie explained, a slightly guilty look on his face.

“Ah, well then. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” you said, gritting your teeth against the slowly fading pain.

Archie sighed. “You and Douxie really are perfect for each other. A few weeks before you arrived Merlin brought in a warded bag and Douxie did exactly what you did.”

“So, is this one of Merlin’s?” You asked, smiling at the imagery of Douxie doing exactly what you did.

“No, Merlin only had the one and he took the ward off.”

“Oh, we better go tell Douxie about this then, maybe he’ll have an idea,” you suggested.

~~~~

“And there! The king's chambers and Merlin's tower, completely warded. No evil sorceress is getting in now, eh, Arch? Y/n?” Douxie asked as you walked over to him. The walls and floors near him were covered in glowing blue wards.

“Oh, you've done it, all right. Overdone it,” Archie said as one of the squires got trapped. Douxie helped him out while you got the squire’s bag.  

“Well, at least the castle's safe,” Douxie stated optimistically. You went to see what was in the squire's awfully heavy bag, but before you could he snatched it away from you and took off.

You frowned. “About that-“

“Oy, the king summons you! Come with me at once! Galahad yelled.

“What-?” Douxie trailed off, yelping as Galahad pulled him.

“I think I have a theory, meet me back here when you’re done?” You suggested and Archie nodded, flying off after Douxie.

Now you had to test that theory. You ran back towards the bags that you and Archie had found. You examined it and you knew it was the same as the bag that the squire had been so protective of it. His suspicions behavior encouraged you to investigate what was inside the bags, against your better judgement.

This time you wrapped your thin tulle sweater around your hand and reached into the bag, opening it. You hissed as you still felt the burning even threw the fabric. You whimpered, biting down through the pain.

You eventually managed to get the bag open and saw that there were dwarkstones nestled inside, a.k.a troll bombs. Blinky had an odd affinity for them and you knew the damage one could cause. Who knew how much damage this many would do.

You stood up and raced back to the place you said you would meet Archie in. As you made your way through the town, you tore your sweater off your hand. The results were not pretty, your hand was burned badly by the wards.

You would take care of those later, right now you had an assassin to stop. “Arch!” You called, slightly breathless.

He flew towards you. “Y/n! What’s wrong?”

“I know who did it, it’s that squire who Douxie accidentally trapped earlier.”

“Then we need to find him.” Archie shape shifted into a dragon and leapt into the air. You followed him through the town where he eventually led you to the arena.

“The witch is disqualified!” You heard Galahad yell as you ran towards Arthur. You watched in horror as the squire snuck up from behind and got ready to stab Arthur.

The king didn’t notice, focusing on Claire. “You both fight with no honor! Begone!”

“Hail Morgana!” The changeling yelled. He raised his knife and just in time you got there, tackling the would-be assassin off of Arthur’s balcony. It wasn’t going to be that big of a fall, but as the changeling adjusted his knife to stab you, you knew you wouldn’t make it to the ground.

“No!” Claire cried.

“Claire! Portal!” You yelped, but Claire was already ahead of you. You felt yourself enter the shadow realm and a second later you were out. The changeling crashed onto a piece of wood while you were safely delivered to your friends sides.

“A changeling? Protect the king!” Douxie ordered, running to check on you.

“Are you alright, love?” Douxie asked, helping you up.

“I’ve been better,” you said, watching as Bular was set free. Of course him being free was good for history, but it wasn’t good for Arthur.

Douxie rushed to shield the king from Bular’s attack. You couldn’t help but feel proud to call him your boyfriend. He cried out as Bular punched the shield and you got off the ground to help him.

Orange and blue swirled together as Bular punched the shield again, sending you, Arthur, and Douxie rolling out of the arena. You crashed into a fountain, and you didn’t have a second to rest before Bular came at you again. You and Douxie got ready to shield Arthur, but Bular swatted you and Douxie to the side. You felt Douxie’s arm wrap around you, protecting you from the impact.

Bular and Arthur fought and as knights ran up to defend the king, you summoned your own sword. “You’ll die in Camelot, Bucher!” Arthur threatened and Bular roared.

The ground rattled and you yelped as explosions rang out. A wave of guilt washed over you, you wished you had been unable to stop the dwarkstones from destroying Camelot.

With yours and the knights’ distraction, Bular took his opportunity to escape. You didn't bother going after him, knowing that it was better for history if he was free.

You heard the swishing of blades and snapped around to see one of Douxie’s blue shields keeping Arthur safe from the changeling’s sneak attack.

“Stay back!” Douxie yelled.

Morgana's changeling laughed, triggering more explosions. “Fools! I've already won.”

You expected to see more flames, fueled by the gentle breeze, but instead of dozens of devastating explosions, shields of Douxie’s blue magic contained them, blooming up all over Camelot.

“Merlin's tower!” Douxie said, realizing that his wards had in fact helped.

“Good call with those defenses, Doux!” Claire congratulated and you smiled at him.

“Yeah, but they won't last long,” Douxie pointed out.

Archie gasped. “Oh, no! Douxie!”

Douxie turned to him. “What?”

Archie sighed. “The other Douxie! With the man bun, in the tower?”

“Oh, fuzz buckets!” You, Claire, Douxie, and Archie ran off to the tower, trusting the knights to defend Arthur. You couldn’t let Douxie die. That would seriously mess up history.

You raced to the tower, watching as Douxie’s wards were barely able to contain the dwarkstone explosions. You didn't hesitate to run into the towers though. You had to save Past Douxie and Merlin.

“We have to go!” Your Douxie called, bursting into the tower.

“But I'm in the middle of creating-“ Merlin was cut off by his windows bursting. He stumbled towards the middle of the room. “Dworkstone? We need a way out.”

“Already ahead of you,” Claire said, creating a portal. You jumped in and immediately fell out right by Arthur. You winced as Past Douxie didn’t get as lucky a landing as you.

“Camelot is closed, Morgana,” Claire said as Douxie trapped the changeling in chains. Steve ran at him with his axe, bashing him backwards. You scowled as the changeling broke free.

Claire was on it though, using a portal to send him right back to you. He crashed to the ground and Douxie raised his hands. You mimicked him, using your magic to contain the changeling. Beams of green, blue, and orange swirled together to create a trap. The changeling fought, but suddenly fire swirled up, obliterating him.

You smiled at Douxie as Merlin silently congratulated him. You rushed over to hug him immediately after.

“You did great,” you cheered.

“We both did,” Douxie said, kissing you. You broke away and watched as Steve was declared an official knight. He may not have been the best fighter, but he was brave when it counted and smart even. You knew he deserved it.

However, the celebration was over in mere seconds when Merlin spoke, “Camelot's defenses are destroyed... her best knights injured or dead.”

You looked around and saw the area where you were was almost completely blown apart and there were fires all around Camelot. You were only shook out of your trance by Past Douxie.

“Oh, my everything hurts!” He groaned, collapsing. “I think I'm gonna stay in here a bit longer.”

You winced, going over to heal him. It was honestly really entertaining to actually meet Douxie’s younger self and to see how dorky and goofy Douxie had been, not that much had changed. You recalled when you had first gone to the book shop and Douxie had panicked when you noticed Archie was wearing glasses, putting them on and claiming they were his. You smiled at the memory.

Merlin coughed, drawing your attention back to him and the devastation. “We need allies in the war to come.”

Arthur sighed, looking defeated. “Our enemies are many, but how will we face them alone? I am a king with half an army.”

Claire looked at you and Douxie. “Jim,” she suggested.

Douxie grinned and you nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Then we go to the good trolls,” Douxie announced.

****

Voila! I really hope y’all liked it and are excited for more. I can't believe we only have two more chapters! I'll continue the series once the movie comes out, but once chapter 21 comes out it'll be on pause. Anyways, thank you all so much for all the kind comments and I hope you have a fantastically safe and wonderful day!!

P.S. if you want to be on the taglist feel free to ask. I hope it works and please message me if it doesn’t.

[whirlybirbs]

WE’RE GHOSTS.  ----  A.M. ;

summary: you, on a flight of fate, buy a journal belonging to an A. MORGAN. turns out it’s haunted. based on this plot idea i threw out into the world this morning. word count: who knows, this is v. freeform, i did not count pairing: ghost!arthur x reader, w/ a twist a/n: me? a ghost fan? yea. so far, this is a stand-alone fic. the end is loose, so if folks want another part, leave a lil comment, send my dumb ass an ask, i love ghost fics.

The journal comes with more questions than anything.

The withered pages are rich with personal history. quick, sketched-out drawings of places visited are accompanied by the smudge of fingerprints along the dog eared pages. The words, in practiced script, are incredibly human -- loss, heartbreak, happiness...

And then it just ends.

There’s pages left to be filled at the end, at-least twenty or so, and you find yourself wondering what in the world happened to A. MORGAN.

Things start moving.

It’s... little things.

Like, the can of beans from your cabinet is suddenly on the counter one morning. Your knife drawer, you find, slides open randomly. You blame it all on forgetfulness and loose hinges.

An old photo falls off the wall one night, scaring you half to death -- you pull yourself from the sheets, bleary eyed from sleep and confusion, to find the frame in the middle of the hall.

The snow around the family of deer glints in the light of the moon.

You blink, swearing you saw a reflection in the glass.

You ignore it. You put the picture back on the wall and move on.

It’s nearly winter.

The house creaks more, lonely and quiet, but full to the brim with something you can’t quite put your finger on. It feels heavier and you stoke the fireplace wondering if some time away from your family’s cabin would put you at ease.

The house was passed down to you when your parents moved south, chasing retirement and heat. You didn’t have the heart to let them put it on the market. Too many good memories.

But, now? Those are being snuffed out by nameless anxieties.

The noises haven’t stopped -- in fact, they’ve only gotten worse.

Things have started to move in the attic. You don’t have the heart to go up there. Instead, you lay in bed, as still as you can, while old furniture shifts above you.

The tinker of spurs on the floors up there is like bells in the wind.

The kitchen.

The sounds are coming from the kitchen.

It’s the shattering of glass that separates this from all the other incidents. This time, the baseball bat in your hands is gripped with a ferocious need for protection -- and you pad into the kitchen quiet as a mouse, fight or flight driving your hands to shake and eyes to dart.

When you pass the threshold of the kitchen, your jaw drops.

A bottle of Jack Daniels is spinning on its side on the quartz island, whiskey pouring from the bottle. Three shot glasses lined up and full, one shattered on the kitchen floor. Every drawer is open, as if someone had been searching for something...

And the journal sits, open, on the kitchen table. It’s on an early entry. One about the town of Valentine and a rowdy night in the local saloon.

“How the fuck --” you utter, reaching to touch the journal.

And as your fingers skim the page, all the lights in the kitchen strobe in one big flourish, bulbs shattering like gunshots in glittered little filaments as you screech, jumping six feet in the air.

Then the drawers, ramming back and forth and you realize it’s the knife drawer again -- and suddenly, a butcher knife sails across the room and embeds itself in the wall beside your head.

Right through a canvas painting of a white tailed buck in the snow.

The guy at Home Depot didn’t say a word when you bought four whole packs of new light bulbs, plaster, and chains at check out. The look on his face was sympathetic.

You get an extra shot in your coffee order on your way back to the Antique Store, journal in hand.

Well, not in hand. It’s rubber-banded shut in the backseat, weighed down by an old bible you found in a drawer in the guest room.

“All sales are final,” says the owner, shaking his head, “I finally got rid a’ that thing --”

“Yeah,” you bite, “And I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep since.”

“Here,” he says, cashing open the register and handing you a ten dollar bill, “Have your money. But, I ain’t taking that thing back... Why don’t you go burn it?”

Your eye twitches.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just burn it.”

You gawk at your friend, eyes pulled wide as you stab your steak.

“I can’t... I can’t do that --”

“It’s haunted, dude.”

“Yeah, but it’s... history.”

“Haunted history,” she muses over her wine, “It’s ruining your home --”

She gestures to the fresh plaster over your shoulder. The knife had left a good hole. Across from you, the pantry is chained closed and so is the drawer belonging to the aforementioned knife.

“ -- So, dowse it in holy water and burn it.”

“You’re kidding.”

She wasn’t. And the owner of the Antique Store wasn’t either.

The internet agrees with them.

You’ve been doing a lot of research.

Your knee bounces, lip pulled between your teeth as you eye the journal sitting before you on the kitchen counter. You’re worrying, torn between a deep regret of burning lost history -- I mean, the guilt of destroying A. Morgan’s life... the last living document of it...

The pantry door creaks open behind you.

“Will you stop?” you snap finally, words hiking in irritation, “Stop it.”

A moment’s pause.

And then it shuts.

You gawk, eyes darting to the journal as you round the counter. Your eyes narrow, finger darting out. 

“Listen up, Morgan --” you mutter, “I dunno who you think you are --”

The faucet behind you turns on.

“I pay the bills,” you say slowly, “I live here, and you’re more than welcome to stay but you need to stop scaring me.”

The faucet cuts abruptly in a cough. You spin, eyeing it in bewilderment.

“I’m going crazy,” you breathe, “I’m talking to a book.”

Suddenly there’s a hand on your hip. Like someone trying to pass by. 

You let him.

You step out of the shower one morning and there’s a hand-print in the steam of the mirror.

“If you’re tryin’ to peep on me in the shower,” you say quietly. “I’ll kill you.”

You swear you hear a laugh over your shoulder.

Humming. 

It’s like the fading of a song, in and out, and you can’t tell where it’s coming from. It pulls you from your sleep and as soon as you open your eyes you feel the weight of the bed shift.

Silence.

Things quiet down.

No more shattered glasses, no more flying knives, no more exploding bulbs. The pantry stays closed, but the beans keep appearing here and there -- which you don’t really mind.

A. Morgan’s journal has it’s own spot on your kitchen table now.

The touching happens more often. Most recently, you’d felt a hand on your shoulder while you’d sat and watched television in the living room. 

You look over the back of the couch.

“... Hello?”

Silence.

Things in the attic, however, are louder than ever.

You still don’t have the courage to go up there.

You settle on bundling up, after all it’s winter. And you need the coats that are up there. But, there’s something holding you back. You worry that going up there will shift the dynamic you’ve seemed to have settled into with the other guest in your home.

“You know,” you say politely in the direction of the journal as you’re cooking dinner, “I wish you’d keep it down up there --”

The attic floorboards creak and a bang! resounds through the house.

Your hand flies to your heart.

A low rumble of laughter carves through the dining room.

It’s a frigid Sunday morning when you decide to brave it. You pull the hatch down in the hallway, attic ladder folding out as you heave a sigh and try to keep your wits about you.

“I just need my jackets --” you say gently as you ascend the steps slowly, flashlight clicking on in your hands, “I’ll get them and get outta your hair, Morgan -- I...”

Your jaw drops.

The attic is...

“Oh my god.”

A mess.

“What the hell have you been up to...?” you breathe, stepping over mounds of clothes spilling from box overturned on the floor.

The furniture is old -- passed down to your mom’s mom by her mom. Inside are old dresses, old shirts, furs and scarves and hats and... the doors to the wardrobe are open, exposing the now bare mahogany of the back. It’s been emptied, and you breathe a soft exclamation of shock as you near it, stepping over the pastel fabrics pooled on the floor.

In the back of the dresser, there are scratches.

WHERE AM I?

As you read it, your breath curls around you.

You feel like you’ve been shoved into an icebox. Behind your eyes, a shallow grave in the middle of winter flashes like a bad dream. 

There’s a sound over your shoulder then, like a cough, and you spin -- eyes dilating in the dark as your flashlight follows. The whole attic has been torn through.

It smells like tobacco.

The doors to the wardrobe slam shut then with a desperate rattle and you jump, eyes peeled wide as the mirrors fixed to the outer doors glimmer back at you.

The man in the reflection looks scared.

And then he’s gone.

You ask your coworker to help you move the wardrobe one afternoon.

“Nice piece a’ furniture,” he’d remarked as he helped you maneuver it down the ladder, “Where’s it going?”

“My room --” you say, straining to lift the heavy piece, “I felt guilt having this up there in the dark.”

“Nice place.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

You’re working at your desk when you hear it, head snapping to the sound -- it’s gone in a beat, fading into the back of your mind and you’re left wondering if it even happened.

And... then you smell the tobacco.

Smoke curls in the rays of the winter afternoon sun pouring through the windows.

The reflection -- it’s not you. It’s him. You freeze, eyes trying their best to memorize the figure of the reclined outlaw. He’s on your bed, like a man out of time, hat tipped low to hide everything but the cut of his jaw. He’s looking at you, you realize, and when you turn to look at the spot on the bed, you see there’s an imprint. 

“Thanks,” you says slowly, “You’ve certainly settled in.”

A laugh. In one ear, rattling around and out the other.

Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection.

There’s blood on his collar.

And then he’s gone.

“Who’re you?”

You pull your eyes up from his journal. 

In the wardrobe mirror, his reflection paints him long and broad and rugged. His hat is in hands, calloused and bruised, and he looks pale; his cheeks are gaunt and eyes a bit hollow, but you can see the handsome cut of his profile more clearly now without his hat obscuring the view. He’s hunched over the side of the bed. 

A. Morgan is scared.

“I, uh... I should be asking you that, I think.”

“Arthur.”

Silence. The smell of tobacco is all that lingers behind.

You buy a book -- GUNSLINGERS & THE WEST, a collection of biographies by Theodore Levin. It’s the only thing you can find that mentions Arthur Morgan, aside from a few old newspaper clippings that briefly mention a man of the same name from a town called Blackwater. 

The history is a bit muddied, the newspaper articles only giving you pieces of the picture.

The book helps.

He was a member of the Van der Linde’s... some gang from back in the day. Son of Lyle and Beatrice Morgan. Surname is Welsh. Born in 1863. It doesn’t tell you much more than that., only that Arthur helped Levin composite some of the images and stories in his book.

How nice of him.

“Y’ still didn’t say who y’ are.”

You jump fifty feet in the air.

The bathroom mirror is dark, but you can see him there over your shoulder as the faucet runs -- the glow of a lit cigarette hangs from his lips. There’s the smell again. His spurs jingle as he settles against the sill.

You rub at the sleep in your eyes. 

It’s 3am. 

“Am I dead?”

You don’t know how to answer him. 

He disappears in an exhale of smoke.

On the table in the kitchen, pages of his journal begin to turn.

Without prompting, you tell him your name.

You’re chopping carrots for stew as you speak.

The pages stop.

“I think you’re dead,” you say softly, “I think -- I don’t know. I think you’ve been dead for a long time... I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Your house is quiet for a few days. 

Eerily so.

You’d become used to the weight of someone else’s energy in the house for so long that... well, you’re a little worried that your words in the kitchen the other dat had maybe been cause enough for him to move on.

And that’s when the dreams start.

Laughter. The burn of whiskey bubbles in your throat. There’s a smile on your lips and a hand dragging you to the fire and sweet words being chirped into your ear. 

Suddenly, you realize, this isn’t your life.

“Wha’s wrong, sweetpea, huh?”

Blue eyes glimmer with worry, lacking hollow divide.

The faces around the fire have no discernible features. When you think you’ve nailed them down, they melt into a changing river of expressions. Blurred. Running like rain. Panic rises in your throat.

Arthur’s face is the last thing you see before you wake up.

You’re not supposed to be there.

“I know you.”

You think maybe he’s right.

His hands are on your skin, searing and hot and dangerously tempting. They hike up your thighs, mouth pressed hotly to your own -- the moments twists like a knife in your gut and you’re pushing it away, hands shoving in a flurry of confusion.

This isn’t right, this isn’t your life.

Arthur’s face is flooded with concern. 

A beat passes. Heavy breaths linger between you both. Finally, from above him in his lap, you speak.

“You do know me.”

“Who is she?”

Arthur clears his throat. He’s coughing, heavy and wet, into his arm. Blood runs down his chin. It hurts, the mere sound of it, and his breath runs ragged.

“I was gonna marry her.”

“Is that how you know me?”

He doesn’t need to say a word. You know the answer already.

Fate’s a funny thing.

[yeet-or-be-hawed]

“Lost and Found” Arthur Morgan x Reader

Fluff

This was another request for @shewalksinanotherworld! Thank you guys for being so patient with me, I’ve had major writer’s block the last few days but now I’m back full swing! 

After getting separated from the gang, the reader has to learn to fend for themselves and survive on their own. Arthur thought you had died in a shootout, so boy was he in for a surprise when he sees a familiar horse in Rhodes!

You cursed the sun as you rode into Rhodes, the air was dry and hot and the dust caked your lungs. You were used to living it rough, but you were used to living it rough with others. Since you got separated from your gang, it’s been nothing but hardships one after the other. You tried so hard not to blame the others. You tried not to let it harden your heart. You tried to tell yourself there was a good reason they didn’t come back for you, or even attempt to send you a letter. Unfortunately you could only try for so long and being left alone with your own thoughts only made it easier for you to abandon hope and replace with with anger. How dare they just leave you behind like that? How dare they never even try to let you know their location? Something always nagged at you in the back of your head, told you you weren’t special and no one cared. It’s why your mama and daddy left you in the streets to starve. It’s why the orphanage was more than willing to throw you out on the streets when they became too overpopulated. And it’s why the people you came to call family picked up and left you without a trace. It didn’t bother you though, you told yourself. You came to terms with the fact you would be alone forever long ago. 

You dismounted your horse in front of the butcher. 

“Ah, hello young lady. You must be new to these parts, I ain’t seen you before!”

You had to fight the urge to roll your eyes. “I been sellin’ to you the last three months, Eddie.”

the man became flustered and cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about it.” You said flatly as you u loaded your hunt onto the butcher’s table.

An awkward silence fell between you as he handed you your cash. After you collected, you headed over to the saloon. It didn’t take you long to spend the money you had just received on whiskey and fried catfish.

“...suspicious lookin’ group down by the lake.”

“Saw one of em ridin’ through town yesterday, looked like a mean son of a bitch. Best leave em be till they move on.” 

The conversation faded out as the two men left the saloon. You made a mental note to keep your eyes peeled, just in case they were bounty hunters. There seemed to be more and more damned flesh hunters every year. You waved to the bartender, “One more down here good sir.”

“Comin’ right up!”

He placed the shot in front of you and you knocked it back easily. “You reckon that group them men was talkin’ bout were bounty hunters?”

The bartender raised an eyebrow at you suspiciously. “Nah, I don’t reckon so. The men and some of the women like to come into town every now and again. One of ‘em actually asked me about bounty hunters the first time he came in though. Seem like a nice crowd, said the factory they all worked for up North shut down. ”

You nodded. “Thanks.” You placed a tip on the table and turned out the door. As you headed towards the sheriff’s office, you lowered your hat over your face and pulled your hair out of its normal braid. “Afternoon.” You said plainly to the man sitting in behind the desk. 

“Mornin’.” The man slurred. You rolled your eyes, this sheriff was no more a threat than the hound dog sniffing around the saloon.

Your eyes studied the board of bounty posters. Your own was there and you grabbed it quickly. You’d have to remember to burn it later. When you removed it, something grabbed your eye. There were layers of bounty posters on the cork board, and sticking out two layers behind you could see AR for the first name and M for the last name. 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” You whispered as you pulled out the wanted poster. There he was, a ghost from your past. “WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE. ARTHUR MORGAN, LAST SEEN IN VALENTINE. ASSOCIATES ALSO WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: DUTCH VAN DER LINDE, HOSEA MATTHEWS, JOHN MARSTON, MICAH BELL. ANY ACCOMPANYING PERSONS WILL BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR AIDING AND ABETTING.”

He looked handsome as ever, even in some shitty drawing. Your first thought was, Arthur could’ve drawn himself so much better. Your second thought was, burn in hell, Morgan. You crumpled up the wanted poster in your hand and stuffed it in your bag. You had half a mind to leave it up, fuck all of them, they could rot for all you cared. They left you, he left you. 

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Arthur’s betrayal (or what you considered betrayal) cut you deeper than any of the rest. He was your closest friend in the Van Der Linde Gang, and even though you would never say it, you were hoping to make things more intimate between you two, and sometimes you felt like Arthur wanted the same. But that was a long time ago, before they up and left you in Blackwater. No food, no shelter, they even took your tent. All you had was the clothes on your body and the supplies you had on your horse. Arthur never once sent you a letter; you went to the post office every day, sometimes multiple times a day, hoping for a letter from Tacitus Killgore but it never came. You kept your old alias at the post just in case. That was what burned you the deepest. There were so many opportunities to reach out, and none of them did, not even Arthur. 

You decided you would burn his bounty poster along with yours. If any of the others had bounty posters, they could deal with it on their own. Maybe one day Arthur will know your pain of having hisfamily uprooted and left on his own without a trace. You decided that would be a worse fate than being found by bountymen.

You felt tired as you mounted your horse, as if your body was being dragged down by weights. You sighed heavily and gave him a pat. “Come on boy, lets get back home.” With a dig of spurs, the horse sped down the trail. 

Arthur cackled as Sadie read off Pearon’s letter in her best impersonation of him as they pulled off the slim trail from Clemen’s Point onto the main road leading into Rhodes. As he pulled out, a horse flew by them like a bullet. Long hair trailed behind the rider’s head and time stood still. He was almost certain that was who he thought it was, but that was impossible. Dutch said she died in the shootout at Blackwater. His eyes followed horse until it disappeared. All in all no more than ten seconds had passed but to Arthur it seemed like he watched that horse for hours. 

“Well, come on then let’s go!” Sadie said impatiently. 

Arthur sighed and gave the reins a pull. He was in a daze of his own thoughts the rest of the day and for the first time in months, your ghost returned to him in his dreams that night.

Arthur brought the brim of his hat farther over his eyes as he walked down the steps of the gun shop. He could tolerate most anything, but this dry dusty air was getting real old real quick. He gave his horse a good pat and a carrot, she deserved it. The horses around camp deserved more praise than what they got, or atleast Arthur seemed to think so. It must be just as hard on them all this moving as it is for everyone else. “Yer a good ol girl.” He cooed softly. He mounted effortlessly and took a slow pace down the main street of Rhodes. He wanted to whip the reins and tear through the middle of the street like a hell on a horse, but as a badged deputy, he had to maintain a low profile. Hosea and Dutch thought it was silly how serious he took it, he figured he was just doing his best to keep cover.

The horse caught his attention, an Appaloosa with a Leopard coat. It was so dirty, he could hardly distinguish the spots from the mud. Your hair was the next thing he saw. Big and poofy, no doubt from the humidity. When you turned, his heart stopped. “It’s you.” He said breathlessly.

You didn’t even hear anyone approach. When you turned to mount your horse, there he was. He was standing so the afternoon sun sent sunbeams dancing around him making him look like a blessing, but it felt like a curse. He looked too well, a new olive colored vest with golden accents hugged his chest and a crisp white shirt, so new it hadn’t developed sweat stains. His sleeves were rolled up as usual, you remembered him mentioning he hated how restricting full sleeves felt. You remembered secretly admiring the muscular arms he would leave exposed. He seemed a little beefier than you remembered and his beard was longer. You hated him for looking so good.

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” He said softly before pulling himself off his horse. He approached with a big grin, that bastard. He was met with a swift slap to the face.

The shock from your slap rippled throughout his entire body. Of all the reactions, this was the last one he expected. He rubbed the spot where you hit him. “What the hell was that for?” He hissed.

“That was for leaving me!” You half yelled. A couple people were already staring but you didn’t care. “I go hunting for a day and I come back to nothing. No letter, no explanation, no tent! You took my tent for Christ’s sake! I gave my all to you, to everyone and that’s how I’m repaid. Left for dead with nothing but the clothes on my back.” Arthur blinked. You were seething with anger, but your eyes were welling with tears. “You left me behind.” Your voice was suddenly soft and you looked at the ground. Arthur saw the tears fall into the dust. “You left me to die and didn’t even care.”

Arthur stammered, he had no idea what to say. “Dutch said-“

“What did Dutch say? I’m sure it sounded very heroic and made the decision very easy.”

“Dutch said you were dead!” Arthur finally snapped. “He told me you died in that shootout. I grieved over you, I cried for you.” His voice shook with emotion. He grabbed your wrist tight and when you looked him in the eyes, the raw intensity behind them scared you. “Had I thought there would’ve been the slimmest chance you were still alive, I would’ve fought to my last breath to find you.”

Arthur said more than he meant to say in a rush of overwhelming emotions and it took him aback when you looked at him with confusion. “What shootout?”

“Scuse me?”

“What shootout? Why did Dutch say I died?” You looked him dead in the eye and a pit formed in his stomach.

“I...I don’t know.” His grip around your wrists loosened as his eyes darted to and from your face. “Me and Hosea was plannin’ a job, but Micah and Dutch swore by this ferry job they was stakin’ out. I wasn’t with them, but somethin’ went south and the law showed up quick. We had to move out so fast we left everything expect the caravans and the horses. All that money, all my things, and I ain’t sure we can ever get back.”

You sighed. “I understand, that’s a lot to go through, but you didn’t think to try to reach out to me, even once? I been at the post office damn near every day waiting for something, anything from you!”

Arthur gave you a thin glare, “well I don’t remember gettin’ a letter from you, what’s yer excuse?”

You sputtered, it honestly hadn’t occurred to you. “I...well I was- you always tell us to be so careful! How was I supposed to know if Tacitus Killgore was still safe?”

He crossed his arms, he knew you well enough to know when you had been had. “And how was I supposed to know Marisol Fletcher was still safe?”

You huffed in frustration and refused to look him in the eye. “Yeah well, fair enough. That still don’t change the question: why did Dutch say I died in a gun fight I wasn’t even involved in?”

Arthur went quiet. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding. Dutch would never leave a gang member behind if he could help it. And what was the point in lying? To keep Arthur from returning to Blackwater for you? There had to be some reason for lying.

You took Arthur’s silence as an answer. It was apparent to you that even though you were alive, Dutch made it clear you weren’t apart of the gang any more. You cleared your throat and grabbed your horse’s reins. “It’s gettin’ late, I need to get back to camp.”

Arthur straightened up and whistled for his horse, she had a bad habit of wandering away. “C’mon, you can follow me. We ain’t too far from here.”

You shook your head as you mounted. “I mean my camp. I ain’t goin’ back, Arthur. I am very... happy to know you’re alive and okay, but Dutch has made up his mind. I’m dead to the gang now, I’m on my own.”

“That’s not-“

“But it is.” You looked over the horizon. “Come with me.”

“What?”

You were certain he heard you. You sighed, “never mind. That was a silly request, you’re as loyal as they come Arthur Morgan. Write me when you can, and I’ll always respond. Until then, Mr. Morgan.” With a snap of the reins, heavy hooves sent up a cloud of dust.

Arthur couldn’t decide if he was relieved or frightened by the sight of you today. His thoughts were in a whirlwind as he rode back to camp. Nothing about this made sense, nothing at all.

“Who’s there?” Bill called.

“Arthur, dumbass.” He rolled his eyes, who the hell else would it be? He didn’t even hitch his Arabian before jumping off and making a beeline for Dutch’s tent.

Dutch was sat on a crate just outside his tent puffing a cigar. He lifted a brow in Arthur’s direction as he approached. Dutch let out a thick puff of smoke and smiled, “Good afternoon, Arthur.”

Arthur tipped his hat, “Dutch.” He took a seat beside the older man and cleared his throat. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Ditched eyed Arthur uneasily, “sure son, what’s on your mind.”

“You remember the shootout in Blackwater?”

“Course I do.”

“Who all died? In the shootout I mean.”

“Ahhh...let’s see.” Dutch sat back and tilted his head up, Arthur thought he looked a bit theatrical. “Ol Davey was shot, but he died up in the mountains. Jenny got caught in the fire, the Calander boys, and Y/N was there too.”

“I thought she went out huntin’ that day.”

Dutch cleared his throat. “She did, she did. Returned in the middle of the chaos, her and that pretty horse a hers got shot I believe.”

There was a false note in his voice it was very faint, so faint had Arthur not been face to face with you just a coupla hours ago, he may not have caught it. His eyes slowly came up and met Dutch’s. “That’s strange.” He said slowly. “Because I just ran into her in Rhodes.”

Dutch’s cigar nearly fell out of his mouth as he stuttered and stumbled on his words. “That- I-.... are ya sure it was her?” His voice was steady, but Arthur could see the quick flare of panic in Dutch’s eye.

He crossed his arms and nodded. “Sure as the sun is high. Stopped and talked to her. She seemed quite upset we left her behind.” He laughed nervously and rubbed his cheek. “My cheek still stings from where she slapped me.” He paused and his tone was serious. “Did you see her and her horse get shot?”

Arthur could see the cogs moving in Dutch’s head. “No, I... I didn’t.”

“Then why? Why leave her there? Damn it Dutch we took everything she had with us! She coulda died!”

“What’s important is she’s alive now!” Dutch said hastily. “Did she have the money from Blackwater?”

“No. She said all she had was the clothes on her back and the supplies on her horse.”

Dutch’s eyes went dark as he stared off in space. “We don’t know that.” He said slowly then rose to his feet. “She coulda snuck back and stole everything we had waiting for us. Does she know where we are now?”

The look in Dutch’s eye was fierce, Arthur averted his gaze. “No, I offered to bring her back but she wouldn’t come.”

“Good.” Dutch nodded and paced. “We don’t need her comin’ back here and stealin’ the rest of what we got.”

“Come on Dutch, she ain’t like that. We both known her for years before we got separated, surely you got a little more faith in us than that.”

Dutch shook his head in frustration. “Now why else would she follow us here? Arthur my boy don’t you see? She’s greedy, she wants to take everything from us.” He turned toward Arthur and his eyes focused. “No contact with her, you hear me? Not even through the mail, you can’t trust the mail service any more.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Dutch, I think yer gettin’ paranoid in your old age. Why don’t we just meet up and-“

“No!” Dutch bellowed. “I said no contact. No letters, and certainly no meeting up and that is final.” He sighed and softened his voice as he put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know I’m being harsh, but I just want what’s best for us, for everybody. I know you miss her, but we can’t trust her anymore. Take comfort in knowing she’s alive. It’s more than what most of us have gotten from this life.”

Arthur watched Dutch’s back as he walked away. Was Dutch descending into a new madness or was Arthur following so blindly that he hadn’t noticed until now? He did not know.

-

Arthur groaned in frustration as he ripped the page from his journal and balled it up. Identical wads of paper littered the booth he sat in at the saloon. Writing was always something that came easily to him, until now.

Y/N,

I spoke to Dutch and

Rip! Crinkle crinkle. Let’s not start with that.

Dearest Y/N,

Rip! Dearest? Arthur flushed. Maybe too much. Crinkle crinkle.

Y/N,

He paused and sighed, he knew what he had to say but putting it into words was proving easier said than done. This is the last shot, after spending an hour writing unfinished letters, this is the last one just say what you have to say. He laid the pencil back to paper and stopped thinking.

I’ve missed your company terribly, so I am quite happy to be writing you this letter. Mary-Beth told me to tell you hello and send you her warmest regards. She cried when I told her you were alive, by the way. Don’t you know it’s rude to make women cry? I guess I can’t say too much, I’m not much of a gentleman myself. We didn’t get a chance to catch up when we spoke, I am curious as to where you have traveled and how you’ve kept yourself. I hope you faired better than us. After the whole Blackwater mess, we retreated up North and stayed in an abandoned mining town called Colter. We about starved to death waiting on the thaw, Davey did die, but from a bullet wound. Ol’ John Marston got attacked by wolves, he’s okay unfortunately just a bit uglier. A lotta bit uglier. Once the thaw came, we hit a train owned by Leviticus Cornwall. We didn’t know who the hell he was at the time, and what a mistake it was. Apparently he’s some big oil tycoon, he’s hired the Pinkerton Protection Agency just for us, ain’t we special? So between Pinkerton’s, bounty hunters, lawmen, and O’Driscolls, we’ve managed to find ourselves farther east than I’m comfortable with. In my opinion, we’re too close to civilization and people. Hosea agrees, he thinks if we keep up in this direction we’re gonna end up right in the jaws of their trap and I couldn’t agree more. Dutch is... well, Dutch is Dutch. He swears he’s got a plan to get us outta here, but instead of the West, he wants to go to the Philippines. Or was it Tahiti? Or maybe the Philippines are in Tahiti? To be honest, Dutch isn’t making a lot of sense these days. The day I saw you in town I confronted him about Blackwater. Dutch is a lot of things and a liar isn’t one of them, but I swear I could see his brain ticking like he was searching for answers he didn’t know. Things are changing, Y/N and things aren’t as simple as they used to be. Remember out in Nevada, it seems like we were just kids then. The group was so small, we were all so young. We were the best team for scams, weren’t we? Even managed to impress Hosea. It isn’t like that no more, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I know you said you aren’t coming back to the gang and I understand, but I hope you would be willing to spend some time with an old friend. If you’re still around Rhodes, you should meet me at the saloon sometime for a drink. I look forward to your letter and hope to see you again soon, I miss your company more than I’d like to admit.

Yours, Arthur

Arthur cringed at the last line, it didn’t sound as foolish in his head as it read on paper. He debated crinkling it in a ball and restarting but that was a page and a half worth of writing! He sighed heavily and carefully ripped the pages from his journal and folded them neatly. He would need a new alias, one no one else in camp would know. After a moment of thought, he signed the envelope as Morgan Callahan.

-

The morning fog rolled over the lake and refracted the morning sunlight over the waves of the shore. The morning air was thick and soupy, you could already feel your hair sticking to the back of your neck. You wiped your brow as you put on your boots and began the day. This wouldn’t be such a terrible place to stay if it wasn’t so damn humid all the time. Iron Flat Lake was teeming with life, both underwater and around its shores. The woods surrounding the lake were flourishing with wildlife. In the three months you had been staying here, you were able to gain a few pounds and keep a low profile. You kept your head low after Blackwater, being part of a gang was the biggest advantage to evading the law and without it you were left vulnerable; you adapted in response. You were an outlaw turned outdoorsman, you traded in your repeater for a bow and replaced blood lust with the thrill of the hunt.

After pulling on your day clothes and your boots, you began your daily routine. First, you check your nets that you had set the night before. You frowned down at the single bass flopping in the tangle of nets. Usually the yield was higher, but one fish is enough for breakfast so it was all you needed. After breakfast, it’s time to kill the fire and take down the tent. Your spot was safe, but paranoia isn’t always a bad thing when you’re on the run, never such thing as too safe. The next step of the day is one that you almost cut out completely- checking the mail. The mid morning sun was warming the thick air as you came into Rhodes.

“Got anything for Marisol Fletcher?”

“Yes actually,” you looked up in surprise, you hadn’t had anything in weeks. You had to close your slack jaw when the postman turned back to you and handed you an envelope. “Here you are.”

You gave him a bright smile and a nod. “Thank you very much!”

You sat at the bench in the shade as you inspected the parcel. You didn’t recognize the name, Morgan Callahan? But you recognized the handwriting immediately. You couldn’t stop the smile that spread over your face as you read over Arthur’s beautiful handwriting. You forgot how eloquently he wrote, you could almost hear his voice reading you the words. The pages had a slight leather scent, they must’ve came from his journal. A memory of him sitting against his caravan lost in his drawings came into your mind. As you finished the letter, you reread the last sentence over and over. I miss your company more than I’d like to admit.

How just like Arthur, it brought back so many confusing memories. Late night conversations where you could swear you saw his eyes linger on your lips, small moments in saloons after he’s had too many drinks and he’d get a little handsy but never in a disrespectful manor. But with all these little things came awkward next mornings where he wouldn’t look at you, claim to drink too much to remember what had happened the night before, and don’t even get started with the whole Mary situation. This man confuses you to no end with his wishy washy behavior. You sighed, was he wishy washy or were you just desperate to read into things? Maybe you just imagined his eyes lingering on your lips, maybe you took his touches too seriously. Maybe you wanted more from your relationship with him than he wanted. There was no maybe on that one, but you shook your head to yourself. You saw how Arthur loves a woman first hand, you were there every step of the way from the time he first met Mary until she rejected his proposal. That was the one night you had seen Arthur cry, and it was the most heartbreaking thing you’d ever seen in your life. So yes, you knew how Arthur loved and no, it was not intended for you.

You pushed yourself off the bench and into the crowded saloon. Your eyes searched for Arthur, but he wasn’t there. You were a little relieved, after so long you had forgotten how to hide how flustered he made you. You pulled the stolen stationary paper from your satchel and began to write.

Dear Arthur,

I have missed you also, as well as everyone else in the gang. Tell Mary-Beth I was elated to hear from her and hope all is well for her. Honestly Arthur, who hasn’t heard of Leviticus Cornwall these days? That surely was a mistake. I stayed in Blackwater for a couple of weeks in case you all came back but not only did you have wanted posters everywhere, the place was also crawling with bounty hunters. I heard some of them got Sean, I tried tracking him down but the trail went cold after a few days. After that, I was everywhere and nowhere. I survived off the land, really survived. I thought what we was doing as a gang was surviving but boy was I wrong. Having a group that size is a privilege you don’t know you have until it’s gone. With more and more bounty hunters popping up, I had to lay low. You’d be proud, Arthur I haven’t committed a crime worse than pickpocketing since we were separated. I’ve mostly just made money by hunting and fishing, I’ll pick up odd jobs where I can. For the most part it’s just been me and Ol’ Cow. He’s still fit as a fiddle, still wouldn’t trade him in for the world. Tell Marston I’m sorry to hear about his unfortunate face, maybe it will humble him up a bit. As far as Dutch goes, well maybe I shouldn’t go there as to keep conversation friendly. Don’t trust him Arthur, that man is a snake. I know he and Hosea raised you, raised us, but people change and not always for the best. Keep that in mind in your travels, and get the hell out of there the moment you notice anything fishy. You’re right, the world has changed and it isn’t so simple anymore. Civilization isn’t the cause of corruption, it’s the spawn of it. At the end of the day, there’s only one cause of corruption and that’s people. As for me, I’m currently camping out on Iron Bed Lake so I’m not far from Rhodes at all. I usually stop in the saloon in the evenings for a drink and some supper, that would be the easiest time to catch me. Maybe I’ll show you where camp is, your company is welcome anytime. I look forward to your company as always.

Yours, Y/N

You frowned at the ‘yours’. You always just signed, but it felt natural to mirror Arthur’s closing. As you folded the letter, you wondered when you would get to see him again. You pushed down the blossoming hope that it would be soon.

-

Arthur read the parcel just outside the post office, he told himself he didn’t want to risk getting caught but that didn’t explain the excitement he felt as he tore open the envelope. His heart felt heavy as he read your letter, you had lived so hard on your own and he had no idea you were even out there. It was hard for him to remember what it was like to be on his own before he met Dutch and Hosea. It had been so long, he honestly couldn’t recall. But, to live roughly you looked good, he thought. He smiled at the pages, he had forgotten the silly name you gave to your horse. It brought back the memory of the day you bought him from the stables. He spent two days trying to give you better names, what kind of name is Cow for a horse? He would ask. You would shrug as you patted his pink nose and say that it was a good name for a good horse and that was that. If anyone was more stubborn than him, it was you. He looked up at the sky as he finished the letter, the sun was already behind the trees. Perfect timing, he thought to himself as he whistled for his horse. The saloon wasn’t far at all, but Arthur wasn’t a patient man.

When he entered the saloon, his eyes darted across every face until they landed on a familiar black hat at the bar. He straightened himself and tugged at his vest self consciously, he wished he would’ve taken a bath first. He cleared his throat. “Ma’am.”

When you turned, Arthur was able to get a good look at you. Even through the humidity, your hair was still shiny and vibrant, the color hadn’t dulled a day since Blackwater. You had had a bath recently, your skin was clean and he could clearly see the freckles that dotted your cheeks. The sun had spotted new freckles since he had last seen you, now sitting around your lips and chin. Your sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms that were much more muscular than they were before. Even through the thin material of your shirt he could see the muscles in your back and shoulders. He tried to recall a more beautiful sight and was lost for words. When your lips curled into a smile, he felt a familiar heat in his cheeks. “Hello Arthur, have a seat.”

He nodded and obliged. Why was he so damn nervous all of a sudden? He started to speak and his mouth was terribly dry. He cleared his throat and waved over the bar tender. “So,” he stared at the ground as he spoke. “What kinda work you been doin’ in a run down town like this?”

You took a sip of your beer. “Mostly just handy work. Helped a feller patch his roof this mornin’.”

He smiled and his eyes flickered back to your muscular shoulders. “Well, ain’t you just a gentleman.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hey, gotta do whatcha can to survive.” You smiled and let out a breathy laugh. “Plus, I kinda like helpin’ people now.”

Arthur raised a brow towards you, “so you went from robbin’ and killin’ folks go helpin’ em around the house, huh?” He laughed. “Good on ya, ya got out.”

“Huh?”

He looked at you. “Ya got out, out of the outlaw game. Look at you now, a regular citizen.”

You frowned into your mug. “It weren’t my choice.”

“I’m sorry that wasn’t-“ he stuttered.

You sighed and gave him a smile. To him it looked terribly sad. “It’s okay, really. I know it ain’t your fault. I do miss it, more often than I don’t.”

“Why?”

“I guess I just miss havin’ a family. And people who care.”

“You can have a family outside the gang, ya know.” The bartender sat a beer in front of Arthur and he took a swig. “Hosea tried it for a few years.”

You barked a short laugh. “And who would have me? Look at me, I’m a beat up, rough nobody. Ain’t no man gonna want me.”

Arthur’s heart lurched, he fought the urge to put his hand on yours. Is this what he sounded like when he put himself down? It all sounded so ridiculous to him. “You don’t know that.” He said softly.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and he looked at you. Your eyes were far away and a small smile was on your face. “I do, but thank you anyways.”

As evening shifted into night, one beer turned to two, which turned to five. The saloon was in full swing, every booth full of patrons and the saloon girls were fliting around like fireflies in July. A jolly tune was coming from the piano and the chaotic noise of drunk men but all you could hear was Arthur’s bubbling laughter. His cheeks were a bright red from the booze and he wore a lazy smile. He said something, but it was so slurred together in an incoherent mumble.

“What’d you say?”

He leaned in close to your ear and you felt his beard hair prickle against your skin. “I said, let’s get outta here.” His Breath was hot and you were glad he didn’t feel you tremble. You nodded and he took your hand and led you out into the street. The saloon was the only building with lights still on and the chaotic noise was muffled in the night. The crickets chirped as the two of you stumbled down Main Street.

Arthur still had your hand in his big palm, half dragging you along as you sang obnoxiously into the night. Arthur was carefully paying attention to the ground under him, but you were not. You stumbled over a rock and began to fall forward, but you were caught by two heavy hands on your waist. “Careful.” He laughed.

You giggled drunkenly and when you lifted your head to look at him, his face was inches from yours. Even with your vision spinning, you could Arthur’s eyes on your lips, when he met your eyes, there was something behind them you had never seen. After a moment, he cleared his throat and helped you to your feet. His hand lingered on your waist and you leaned into his shoulder as you smiled up to him, “thanks Artie.”

Arthur spurted and laughed heartily. “Artie?” He wipes a tear from his eye and laughed again. “Is that what yer callin’ me now?”

You laughed with him, the movement caused the two of you to sway. “Naw, I just thought it was cute.” Your finger came up and bopped him on the nose.

“You’re cute.” Arthur blurted. As soon as it left his lips he could’ve smacked himself. What a fool he was.

You wrapped your arms around his waist tightly, “not as cute as you.”

Arthur’s vision was blurry but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He swallowed hard, this was too much. He cleared his throat. “Where’s your camp?” He looked around and almost lost his balance. “Wheres the horses?” He slurred.

You laughed and slumped against a near by bench. “Who knows?” You fell into a fit of drunken giddy giggles.

Arthur plopped down beside you and slunk an arm around your shoulders. He smiled to himself as you curled up against his chest. “I’ve missed you.” You mumbled.

Arthur couldn’t tell if the heat in his cheeks was from the booze anymore. “I...I missed you too.”

When you looked up at him with those big doe eyes, he swore he could see whole worlds reflecting back at him. “Wanna know a secret?” You whispered.

He gulped. “Sure.”

With the most straight face you could manage you said, “I’m going to throw up.”

And with the most grace and poise Arthur has ever seen in a drunk person, you stood up, turned away from him, and vomited. He rolled his eyes and stood shakily. He put a hand on your back-for your support and his- and pulled your hair back with the other. “S’okay,” he whispered. “I gotcha.”

You cleared your throat and wiped your mouth as you turned to Arthur. “I think” you slurred. “It’s time for night night.”

Arthur laughed and whistled for his horse. She must not have been far, she came around the corner immediately. Arthur used her as support as he helped you up and then pulled himself up clumsily. He almost pulled you down as he mounted and the two of you fell into another laughing fit after you helped him up. “Okay okay,” He said as he tried to contain his laughter. “Where you stayin’ at?”

You leaned back against him and pointed lazily. “Jus’ go that way for a minute, I’ll tell ya where to go.”

With your best attempts of directions, the two of you finally made it back to camp and there your loyal steed was, waiting at camp without you. “Son of a bitch.” You muttered. “I’m too drunk to set up a tent.”

Arthur pulled his bedroll from his horse. “Sky’s clear, it shouldn’t rain tonight. We should be fine sleepin’ under the stars.”

You hadn’t even unpacked your bedroll before tumbling to the ground and resting against an old log.

Arthur laughed, “you sure you don’t want somethin’ more comfortable than the ground?”

You didn’t hear him, you were out.

-

When you woke up the next morning, your head felt like it had been smashed against a rock. You groaned as you sat up and rubbed your eyes.

“Mornin’.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin and let out a small scream as you opened your eyes. When they focused on Arthur you groaned. “Jesus Arthur, you about gave me a heart attack. Ain’t used to havin’ other people around.”

He handed you a cup of coffee as you stretched. “Sorry bout that, didn’t want to wake ya.”

You scratched your head and closed your eyes as you sipped from your coffee. “Ugh, I feel like hell.”

Arthur chuckled. “Drink up, that should help. You should probably eat something too.”

You nodded and groaned in agreement as you stood up. “Christ,” You said as you walked over to check the nets. “How much did we drink last night? I lost count.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t count.”

As you pulled the net in, your arms ached in disagreement. Arthur stood up quickly, “need some help?”

You let go with one hand to do a shooing motion and went back to pulling it in. “I got it.”

The net was much more successful this morning, yielding three smallmouth bass and two largemouth bass. You smiled triumphantly. “Did someone say breakfast?”

You ate together in silence, Arthur contemplated bringing you back to camp, how mad could Dutch really get? You had something different on your mind. Through your hungover haze, little flashes were coming back. Arthur holding your hand, the way his lips brushed your ear, the way his beard felt against your skin, his arm around your waist. His presence was unearthing so many buried emotions it was starting to get overwhelming. He was the first to speak. “Do you plan on doin’ this forever?”

“Doin’ what?” You turned to look at him and he was staring at the ground.

He turned to you. “Doin’ this, livin’ on your own. Are you not lonely?”

You frowned. “Course I get lonely, but where else am I gonna go?”

“Come with me.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stood. “Come back to camp, come back to the gang! We all miss you like crazy, and Dutch, well Dutch can deal with it.” He took your hands in his and pulled you up from the ground so quickly you almost lost your balance. His gaze was so intense on you you had to look away.

“Arthur, Dutch ain’t gonna just let me waltz back in. And like I said, I don’t trust that man. I can’t trust him farther than I can throw him and as much as I-“ you caught yourself as sighed. “As much as I...care about you-about all of you, I can’t trust that man with my safety and well-being.”

“Trust me then.” You looked up at him and he caught your cheek in his hand. “Trust me with your safety and your well-being. Let me take care of you.”

Your chest seized and it was hard to breathe. “Arthur I...”

He suddenly looked sad and pulled away. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“

You cut him off as he began to turn away by grabbing his face and pulling it down to yours. Your lips were on his and before he could react, they were gone. You couldn’t look up at his face, you couldn’t handle the rejection. “Arthur, I care about you entirely too much for my own good. I need to go.”

Arthur was frozen in shock, he could still feel the ghost of your lips on his. As you turned to your horse, he felt the panic slip in, he lost you once and he didn’t want to lose you again. He caught your wrist and when you turned to look at him he looked desperate, afraid, and devistatingly handsome. “Don’t go. Don’t make me go without you again, I ain’t strong enough. You don’t gotta come back with me, just stay with me.”

“I...oh Arthur, you know I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He wrapped his big arms around your waist and it sent butterflies to your stomach. You wrapped your arms around him and sighed. “What are ya gonna tell Dutch?”

He buried his face into your neck and you felt him inhale. “I ain’t gotta tell him a thing.”

You rolled your eyes and relaxed in his embrace. “You silly, silly man.”