#not having a good time fellers

[arthursfuckinghat]

Bluewater Marsh - Lemoyne

[sethdomain]

he is like... Scar but nicer and not actually evil

[jimjamfandom]

At the stage of Copium where I pretend nothing is wrong and they're all okay

(My partner helped draw! @loverboylen-art )

[todayisafridaynight]

Anon must’ve listened to his fighterz voice and the kai dub. That’s the only explanation because why have Daemon Clarke voice Mine when Paul Saint Peter, Steve Blum, or Christoper Corey Smith are right there

honestly between these options PSP and CCS do seem like preeeeeettty sound candidates for an eng mine

[ckret2]

Chapter 65 of human Bill Cipher still being stuck in the Mystery Shack but currently fearing back pain more than execution: it's Day 1 of Bill being off death row, let's see what everyone other than Soos is doing with their day.

When Fiddleford answered the door to Ford and Stan—Stan with the Quantum Destabilizer's case slung over his shoulder—the first thing Fiddleford said was, "That demon's still alive, isn't he?"

"Demon's still alive," Stan confirmed.

Ford let out a long sigh. "I was afraid we'd have to break the news."

"I figured when the power here flickered during your shot." He planted his hands on his hips. "You didn't use the NowUSeeitNowUDontium, did you?"

Ford shook his head.

"Well?" Fiddleford fixed Ford with an angry squint, lips pursed. (Maybe it wasn't an angry squint, Ford told himself hopefully. Maybe it was just because Fiddleford didn't have new glasses yet.) "Why didn'cha shoot him?"

"I couldn't. He escaped," Ford said. As panic began to bloom on Fiddleford's face, Ford quickly added, "But he's back! That's why I used the wrong fuel. Somehow he overheard that we'd made enough Dontium for one shot, and he—tried to persuade me to cover his escape. Firing a blank made him think I'd used the Dontium up and he was safe—"

"—So's he'd come back and you could get a proper shot at him! Ha!" Fiddleford jumped up, kicking his heels in the air, hollering, "Stanford Pines, you clever sonovagun!" His hooting and hollering died down as he realized, "So... why're you here with the destabilizer instead of shooting him?"

Ford and Stan exchanged a glance. Stan said, "Well—He—He's pretty harmless right now, really—And he's great with the kids—"

"Not with Dipper," Ford muttered.

"He's great with one of the kids."

Ford said, "And he's..." It would be a lie to say improving, wouldn't it? "He's... got the potential to improve. And we— We thought— If there's a chance he could do better..."

Sternly, Fiddleford said, "You let him get into your head again, didn't you."

Ford sighed. "I let him get into my head."

Stan held out the Quantum Destabilizer's case. "Which is why we're here. He's not in your head. You won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

"I getcha." Fiddleford accepted the case grimly. "You need me to finish the job."

Ford hastily added, "If—if it becomes necessary."

Fiddleford gave him a hard look.

Ford swallowed as he realized—as always, a moment too late—just what an enormous thing he was asking of Fiddleford and his fragile nerves. "But if you don't think— I mean, if you'd rather it stay in our hands—"

Fiddleford held the Quantum Destabilizer away from Ford. "No, no—you're right. It's safer here," he said. "You oughta shoot him. I'm never not gonna think you oughta shoot him. Especially now we know he knows how to escape. But, if you won't—better that this is in my hands than with the fellers what let that devil sucker 'em into thinking he deserves to live."

Ford wanted to say I'm sorry. If he was so sorry, why had he chosen to let Bill live? It seemed like his problems always became Fiddleford's problems—yet the only times Fiddleford's problems became Ford's was when Ford caused them. "Well—the good news is, even if he does escape, he can't get far. He's trapped inside Gravity Falls' weirdness barrier."

"Well, that's somethin'," Fiddleford muttered. Then he frowned and gave Ford a sharp look. "Wait," he said slowly. "Are you sure he can't get out?"

"I—" Ford tried to remember when they'd learned that. "Sure, we—found out that first night, didn't we?" It had been a very long night.

"Yeah!" Stan laughed. "Almost accidentally killed the guy by driving him into it."

Fiddleford nodded, his expression faraway and thoughtful. "I need to run some calculations," he said. "I'll let you know what I find."

He turned away, muttering to himself. Just before he shut the door, Ford saw Tate at the far end of the great hall, arms crossed, watching the proceedings sourly.

And then the door was shut without so much as a goodbye.

"Huh," Stan said. "Ominous!" He clapped Ford on the shoulder. "Welp, let's get home!"

####

Tate leaned into Fiddleford's lab. "Dad?"

Fiddleford was sitting at a space he'd cleared at a worktable, hunched forward and squinting to see his work as he ran through a towering stack of calculations, using a calculator to double-check his math and a second calculator to double-check the first one. As he often did, he'd put on an old record to help block out distractions; and an old country song was blasting at top volume as Fiddleford sang/yodeled along: "I haaate Bill Cipher more'n I looove my son! How I looong to shoot that sonuuuvaguuun. I'll seeee my boy when that triaaangle's done—cuz I haaate Bill Cipher more'n I looove my son—"

"Dad," Tate said louder.

"Tater!" Fiddleford sat up, automatically reached to adjust a pair of glasses he wasn't wearing, and just bumped the bridge of his nose. "What is it, son?"

"Couldja turn the volume down?"

"Turn th—?" Fiddleford looked at his record player, started when he realized what was playing, and quickly took the needle off the record. "Sorry, Tater, I—"

"It's fine," Tate said glumly.

"Didn't even realize which song'd come on. They're just words to sing along to. You know I don't really feel..."

"Just don't like Pluckin' Jim's yodeling style, that's all."

Fiddleford dropped his gaze. "All right, that's fine. I'll keep it down."

Tate stuck his hands in his pockets. "Might oughta be careful with that album, anyway. If any guests overhear it talking about the triangle and call the police..."

"Oh, I know, I know. You're right, I'll be careful. It's just..." He reached under his hat to scratch at his head like he was trying to massage his brain into working. "When it feels like the whole darn world's gone crazy, it's comforting hearin' somebody sing something sensible," he said. "I—I don't mean Jim's attitude toward his family. Just the rest of it."

"Mm." Tate nodded.

Fiddleford sighed and shook his head sadly. "I don't know—maybe I'm the one who's going crazy."

"Naw," Tate said immediately. "You're not. You're the sanest I've seen you since I was a kid, dad."

"Well—thank you, Tater. That means a lot."

"You're just stressed, that's all." Tate nodded toward Fiddleford's stack of calculations. "Don't overwork yourself, all right?"

"I won't, I promise."

"If you need help with all that math..."

"No, no, that's all right." Fiddleford waved off the offer. "It's got to do with Stanford's weirdness thingamajig." For the past few months, Fiddleford and Stanford had been working on a paper about the Law of Weirdness Magnetism—although that had seemingly ground to a stop at the start of summer.

Tate paused. "Okay, but I'm dragging you out of there for meals."

"Heh! I won't fight you."

As Tate left, Fiddleford set the needle back on the record, starting the next song: "The Three B's Poisoning Your Children (Booze, Bebop, and Bill)." Tate shut the door and let out a long sigh.

####

"I'll get it!" Dipper doubted anyone else could even hear the phone; Abuelita was asleep in the living room, Soos was upstairs hammering on something, and Bill and Mabel were at the far end of the house playing the piano and singing.

Dipper jogged into the office. "Hello?"

"Dipper!" Wendy said. "Dude! Just the man I wanted to reach."

"Wendy, hey! What's up?"

"Are you still looking for the Nightwigglers?"

"Yes! Why, did something happen?"

A couple weeks earlier, Wendy had shown him where her brother had seen the Fremont Nightwigglers; but by the time she showed him the path, they'd already come and gone a couple nights earlier. They'd found footprints and followed them to what looked like a campsite—there were odd empty burrows in the ground and traces of ashes—but when Dipper had tried to figure out where they'd gone after leaving the campsite, he'd lost their trail in the underbrush.

"Gus says he saw them on the same trail again last night," Wendy said. "Which means, if they were going back to that place we found with the burrows, and it was a campsite—"

"—then that's where they're camping today. So they'll still be there tonight!" Dipper laughed. "That's perfect! I can stake them out and watch when they wake up! Hey, do you wanna come along for a stakeout?"

Wendy groaned. "I wish. Gus freaked my dad out talking about the Nightwigglers. He says we have to stay home after dark and he's actually been checking our rooms."

"Aw, man. That stinks."

"But hey, tell me all about it at work, okay?"

"You got it! Oh—I could make a Guide to the Unexplained episode! I'll show you the whole thing."

"Oh, awesome. I can't wait to see these things," Wendy said. "Head's up, you probably wanna be quiet to avoid spooking them. Gus said they looked super skittish last night. They're probably wigging out because of gravity disappearing for a couple of days, lots of other wild animals are. I don't blame them, I'm still wondering what was up with that."

"Giant invisible flying axolotl from another dimension."

Wendy laughed in surprise. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah! I'll tell you about it at work too." Probably leaving out Bill's involvement. Speaking of Bill, where had he left Dipper's backpack? "I've gotta pack for the stakeout. Thanks for the tip!"

####

Gideon knocked on the shack's back door and waited anxiously, tugging at his sleeves and shifting from foot to foot.

The door opened to the sound of distant piano music. Dipper stood there holding a heavy backpack and a box of granola bars. "Gideon?" He didn't sound thrilled.

"Well, hey there, Dipper!" Gideon tried to sound more chipper than he felt. "I don't suppose Mabel's ar—"

"Nope," Dipper said. "What do you want?"

Gideon took a deep breath. "It's about Bill—"

"Shhh!" Dipper cast a nervous glance back toward Soos's grandma asleep in the living room. "Keep it down. Only Mabel and I know you know about Bill and no one else can find out."

"Why not?"

"Because... Mabel and I will get in trouble for not telling them sooner?"

Fair enough. Adults didn't need to know everything, Gideon thought. Voice lower, he said, "I didn't notice him with the others at Rainbow Club this week, and I saw that big laser thingamabob at the shack,"—and the next day received a panicked call from a cultist who couldn't reach Bill—"and... well—I need to know if Bill's dead, or—"

Over the piano playing, an off-key voice sang at top volume: "AND IIIIIIIIII will never HATE yooOoOOou—!" In the living room, Abuelita started from her nap, blinked sleepily, turned up the volume on the TV, and fell back asleep.

Gideon's shoulders sank in disappointment.

"Still alive," Dipper said. "He has a really bad backache, though."

"Well, dang it!" Gideon kicked at a twig on the porch. It didn't move.

"Yeah, I know," Dipper said. "But... I kinda think Bill has to stay alive? I heard this prophecy that I think is about Bill saving everyone? Probably not voluntarily—he actually really didn't want me to hear about the prophecy—so... yeah, we might just be stuck with him. At least for a while."

"Well," Gideon said sourly. "Isn't that just wonderful."

####

As he trudged home, Gideon tried to think of a way out of this. For one day, he'd thought he was blessedly free of Bill; finding out he was wrong felt like getting hauled back to prison.

If the adults didn't know he knew about Bill, maybe he could tell the Stans that Bill had been using him—surely they'd forgive Gideon for using a little dream magic to brainwash the town, right? Stan understood the lengths a businessman had to go to to advertise his business, and Ford was apparently the one who'd recorded the spell in the first place—and maybe the two of them could prevent Bill from spilling his blackmail to the rest of the town; or maybe Gideon could arrange for the Stans to "accidentally" find out Gideon had been working for Bill, and then Bill couldn't blame Gideon for spilling the beans...

Or maybe he could just stop helping Bill. Simple as that. He knew he'd been helping Bill arrange escape plans. Bill had promised he'd keep quiet about Gideon's crimes as long as Gideon didn't pick up dream magic again; but he'd never required Gideon to help him. The only issue was what his contact in Bill's cult might do and whether she might out him as one of Bill's allies; maybe he could just tell her that his parents were getting suspicious and he couldn't be a go-between anymore...

When he got home, as soon as he opened the front door he could hear his father excitedly talking in the kitchen: "It's the darnedest thing! I don't know where they came from—must be tourists, I suppose..."

Gideon followed his voice into the kitchen. "Daddy? What's all this fuss?"

Bud was grinning from ear to ear; even Joy was faintly smiling, a half-washed dish forgotten in her yellow-gloved hands. "There you are," Bud said. "Son, I've got the most terrific news! I just sold the three most expensive cars on the lot, all on the same day! Can you believe that?!"

"Well, hot dog!" Gideon grinned as well, relief washing over him. "That oughta keep us going for a while, shouldn't it?"

"It sure will! I guess you were right—we never needed any magic hocus-pocus, just good salesmanship!" Bud beamed. "But it's just the darnedest thing," he said again, "they all said they'd been referred to the dealership by a Mr. Locke."

Gideon's smile froze and his stomach flipped.

"I don't remember any Mr. Locke passing through town."

"Oh," Joy said, "there was one a—a week or two ago. Some sort of talent agent, I think? He came to see Gideon."

"Did he," Bud said, clearly a bit deflated that it wasn't his prowess as a salesman that had lured these customers to town; but he quickly recovered, "Why, that's wonderful! Maybe looking to line up another television appearance?"

"No no no," Gideon said quickly, "no, it was—it was purely a social visit. I-I knew him last summer. I'm not doing that sort of... television thing anymore."

"Ah, well. Still! Having connections pays off," Bud said. "If all he wants to do is send customers our way, I'll be mighty happy! If he comes by again, invite him to stay for dinner, it's the least we can offer him as thanks."

"I think that's a—a wonderful idea," Joy said, voice even softer than usual. "He was very friendly."

"Son?" Bud called. "Where you headed?"

"Just upstairs, I remembered I need to make a call," Gideon said. He had to ensure Sue knew Bill was alive.

Seemed like he'd be working with her and Bill for a while yet. His family couldn't afford for him not to.

####

Dipper pounced the Stans the moment they entered the shack. "Hey! Great Uncle Ford!" 

"Dipper? What—"

"Grunkle Ford, remember you promised that as soon as we weren't dealing with any Bill bull, we could go on an investigation—?"

"Hey," Stan said sternly, "any Bill what?"

"Bull... soup?" Dipper tried.

Stan nodded, satisfied. "That's right. And if your parents ask, that's exactly what you think it means." At Ford's look of amazement, Stan said, "What! Last year the kids' parents said if they came home swearing, I couldn't take 'em over the summer again."

Dipper resumed his attack: "Well, we're not dealing with any Bill bullsoup today! Come help me track the Nightwigglers!" He held up his journal, proudly showing off his unfinished spread. "Wendy told me where they're camping today! If we're there before they wake up, we can finally see them in person!"

"Really? Tonight?" Ford asked. "We just had a late night yesterday."

"Can't we have two late nights and sleep in tomorrow?" Dipper pled. "They might not be there tomorrow night! What's more important: sleep, or seeing the Nightwigglers?"

"Yes, I see your point. You're absolutely right," Ford said. "I could take a nap now and we can leave after dinner."

"Yes!"

Stan groaned, "Great—the insomniacs are enabling each other." He shook his head and started upstairs, muttering, "I'm gonna see what Soos is hammering on."

Dipper said, "I've already packed my camping supplies! Do you need help packing? I can help you pack! Come on—I can show you where we're going, too!" He impatiently led the way to the elevator.

####

This weekend, Bill had escaped the shack, faked his death, and proven that the whole Pines family actually wanted him alive; and yet, for all that, Mabel thought he seemed pretty down in the dumps today. He'd been kind of off since the eclipse.

Actually, now that she thought about it, he'd been off since before the eclipse, ever since the day he'd been grumpy to her about the glass pyramid "Mysteries." She was pretty sure he wasn't mad at her about that anymore; so she didn't know what was wrong.

But even though Mabel could see him wince when he leaned certain ways or moved his arms too quickly, he was trying to hide that he was in pain and he was trying to hide his gloomy mood. He grinned when he played the piano, and he alternated between popular songs that she knew and could sing along with and a bunch of old boring things like jazz and opera. (Bill tried to sing along to everything, even when he shouldn't. Mabel was pretty sure he was the worst opera soprano in the world.)

She didn't know how to fix whatever was actually bothering him. She could hang out with him and sing and talk—that seemed to make him happier. But Bill needed more than that.

He needed more friends.

Bill attempted a run, one hand crossing over the other and back as he rolled up the keyboard; his hands tripped over each other and stumbled across several keys at once.

Mabel laughed. "That sounded like a musical fart!"

Bill blew a raspberry. "I'll show you a musical fart." He attempted the run again, and messed up again.

Mabel laughed again. "I don't think you've got that part."

"Hey! I'm usually great at that part. It's this body—I'm used to playing it with flat fingers, I haven't practiced it with an extra dimension before," said Bill, who was lying, and had never been good at that part, and truthfully was pleased he now had an excuse that let him pretend he was actually better than he was. "Playing piano in a human body really holds me back. It takes nine hands to play my favorite song." That wasn't a lie.

He started the song over and elbowed Mabel. "Hey. Something's eating at you. What's up, kid?"

She hadn't realized she wasn't hiding her gloomy thoughts well enough. "Uuugh, I want you to meet my friends, but this morning Grunkle Ford said I still can't invite them over even though you're off death row. I guess he and Grunkle Stan are still worried you'll brainwash them or something?"

"Pff. We're still—renegotiating the terms of my imprisonment."

"Oh yeah? What have you renegotiated so far?"

The corners of Bill's mouth turned down. Mabel suspected that might have something to do with his foul mood. "Hey, I've got an idea to get your friends over here."

"Yeah?"

"Tell your uncles that the girls' parents are starting to wonder why you haven't been inviting them over like you did last summer. Say they're beginning to think that something is going on over here, and they're worried you're not in a safe environment—buuut if their kids can come over and see everyone's just been adjusting to a new guest, maaaybe their parents will calm down, right?"

Mabel shot Bill a dirty look. "Bill! That's a complete lie."

"But it's the kind of lie that could easily be true, and might even be true in the future, so is it really a lie?"

"Yeah it is."

"No it's not! Besides, it'll get your friends over here and it won't hurt anything, won't it?"

Mabel grimaced. "Okay, I can try—but if I try it and it works and I bring my friends over, you've got to make friends with them."

"Hmm!" Bill's face twisted up. "I like Candy's taste in art. And her bloodthirst."

Mabel elbowed him. "What do you have against Grenda?"

####

Eight-year-old Grenda sat at her desk kicking her feet and staring at her $1 bill, waiting for the bell to ring for lunch. It was Chocolate Chip Cookie Monday, they were fresh and gooey, and she was ready.

For the first time, she noticed the design on the dollar had a weird little one-eyed triangle with a hat. She pulled out a marker and drew a little smile under his eye.

And then she added buck teeth to the smile.

And then she gave him a second eye, stupid glasses, and a spiky beard that poked out in every direction.

And then drew wavy stink lines over him and added a word bubble that said "I'M SMELLY!"

"Heh. Stupid looking guy," she mumbled.

####

With an air of haughty disdain, Bill said, "She knows what she did."

"Okay, but you'll be nice to her, right? Pleeease?"

"All right, fine," Bill said. "For you, I'll be nice."

####

"Grunkle Stannn can my friends please come over? Even their parents think it's weird that they haven't been here all summer! If Grenda and Candy come over they'll know nothing weird's going on!"

"Uhhh..." Stan grimaced. "The last thing we need is parents asking questions... Yeah, sure, you should probably do that sometime soon. Maybe after we figure out what we're doing with Bill for the rest of the summer—"

"Thanks!" Mabel hugged him, ran off, and decided she'd heard Stan say "yeah, sure, you should."

She pulled out her phone. "Candy! Grenda!" She kept her voice at a loud whisper. "Great news! Dipper's gonna be out with Grunkle Ford tonight and I kinda-sorta got permission for a sleepover! Get ready for a party. I have a plan."

####

(This is a bit of a transition chapter for a couple more plots, but I hope y'all enjoyed! Let me know what you think!)

[todaysbird]

do you have any cool rare corvids

i've tried so hard to answer this question and it just gets deleted every time, Tumblr please let the birds post

NOTE: rarity is subjective. I'm American, so a lot of these birds I've never seen, but that doesn't mean their populations are low or they're hard to find. I took rare to mean infrequently discussed/looked over in this case.

There's 100+ species of beautiful corvids, but hopefully this handful serves as a good sampler :)

Albino ravens of Vancouver, B.C.; there's a high population density of albino birds here, and birds carrying the genes keep having more albino babies!

Pied raven, a now-extinct color morph of the Common Raven

Magpie-jays!!! There's two species, white throated and black throated (this one is black throated), and these guys are total jesters. Masters of silliness. They also live in matriarchal flocks!

Javan green magpie! there's lots of colorful magpies (greens and blues!!), but I mentioned this fella specifically because they're sadly Critically Endangered at this time.

PIAPIAC!!! This African species of corvid resembles a lot of crows, but with a smooth, shiny beak & vibrant eyes that can be purple to bright pink!

Black-collared Jay - a handsome fella, not to be confused with his close relative, the White-collared Jay

the Unicolored Jay - pretty common in their range in Mexico, but a handsome feller nonetheless

TUFTED JAY!!! very silly head

[thebestofoneshots]

SERIES MASTERLIST

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Summary: You meet Sirius and Regulus at a family vacation in the Caribbean, but things don't go as planned and you end up losing contact once the trip is over. Years later your family moves to England and you get accepted at Hogwarts where you finally meet Sirius once again, along with all of his friends. One of them with a mysterious secret, that you'll uncover as you embark on your own Hogwarts adventure. Mostly canon-compliant. This IS a wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it.

Read Gilded Constellations on AO3

Read the French Translation by @nagareboshi-chiyo

Paring: Sirius Black x Reader / Remus Lupin x reader / Wolfstar x reader

Chapter average: 5k - 6.5 k

Content: Smut in later chapters, Poly!Marauders, throuple, graphic descriptions of violence, MAJOR and minor character death (this is The Marauders Era guys, you know), jealousy, angst, pining, love triangle, LGBTQ+ themes, The Wizarding war 1.0, implied child abuse, possible proofreading errors, mental health struggles, hurt no comfort, hurt with comfort, period typical attitude, first war with Voldemort, canonical character's death, fluff, Requited Love, F/M/M, mostly canon-compliant.

Status: Ongoing (Weekly updates)

♡ Indicates SMUT

PLAYLIST

01 | Summer Breeze

02 | Escape

03 | Bitter Sweet Symphony

04 | Rainy Days and Mondays

05 | Good times

06 | Crazy Little Thing Called Love

07 | Peaceful Easy Feeling

08 I Fooled Around and Fell in Love

09 | The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke

10 | Black Dog

11 | Do Ya

12 | You really got me

13 | Rebel, Rebel

14 | Maybe I’m Amazed

15 | No One Like You

Interlude (Q&A Event)

16 | Boogie Wonderland

17 | Tonight’s What It Means To Be Young

18 | Friends will be Friends

19 | Silver Bird

20 | Bad Moon Rising

21 | Fox on the Run

22 | Long Long Way From Home

23 | Hungry Eyes

24 | Peace of Mind

25 | I’ll get Even With You

26 | Hooked on a Feeling

27 | Can��t Take My Eyes Off You

28 | If You Want BIood, (You’ve Got It)

29 | With a Little Help From My Friends

30 | Bridge Over Troubled Water

31 | Strange Magic

32 | Come a Little Bit Closer

33 | More Than a Feeling

34 | You Belong to Me

35 | Chill of Desire

36 | Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

37 | Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

38 | Let the Good Times Roll

39 | Running With the Pack

40 | Hot Stuff

41 | Urban Adventure

42 | Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

43 | Sympathy for the Devil

44 | No One But You

45 | Hold The Line

46 | Comfortably Numb

47 | Let Me Take You Home Tonight

48 | Dust in the Wind

49 | High Hopes

50 | Love the One You're With ♡

51 | Some Guys Have All The Luck ♡

52 | Twentieth Century Fox

53 | Too Much Love Will KiII You

54 | Sail Away Sweet Sister

55 | Noone Together

56 | Who Wants To Live Forever

57 | Play the Game

58 | Staying Power

59 | Break on Through

60 | Stone in Love

61 | Mr. Blue Sky

62 |

63 |

64 |

65 |

66 |

67 |

68 |

69 |

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BONUS TRACKS:

Your Theories, The Note, The Costumes, Sirius and the Chimney, Sirius and Vix after the bad moon, Evans and Vixen, Remus and Vixen at the infirmary, Remus holding Sirius at DADA, Remus and Sirius’ height difference, the FOXSTAR picture, Art by @nineloseteeth, We're going French,

Leave a comment telling me if you want to join the tag list

A/N: Most Poly!Marauders fics are oneshots, where the relationship between characters is already established, and they're all happy and pleased with it. No issues, no drama, but I WANTED the drama. Couldn't find it, so I set myself up to write the story behind the stablished relationship. I wanted to know how they started dating each other, the jealousy, the will they won't they, because getting into a poly relationship can't be an easy task, and I wanted to explore that story. If you're interested: Welcome to Gilded Constellations!

[twola]

I’m back! After a road trip and some time off, here’s another little smut piece for you. I am also still working on requests, if you have one in!

Cleanliness and Godliness

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

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

One can’t write Arthur smut without using the overdone bathtub trope.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur.” You look at him with a pained expression - and he sheepishly stands in front of you in the alley - covered in mud, blood, and god knows what else.

The sweet smells and sights of Valentine after market day, of course. The sun had begun to set over the peaks of West Elizabeth in the distance.

“Ain’t me who started it.” The outlaw grumbles, taking his worn leather hat from his head and shaking flakes of drying mud off of it before slapping it back onto his head.

You cringe in disgust, seeing that he did not do a thorough job of cleaning the hat.

“C’mon. Let's get you a bath over at Saints.” You sigh, hitching up your skirts as you walk past him into the muddy street, stepping toward the one hotel in this cowtown the gang has stumbled into.

“Woman-”

“No. Don’t you woman me, Mister Morgan.” You turn around, dropping one side of your skirt and pointing at him with your finger, “You’re covered in horse shit. Take a damn bath. I don’t want you anywhere near me til you do.”

The man frowns, and you cross your arms over your chest with a loud humph. There’s even mud in his beard - his hair, everywhere.

“You go take a bath and I’ll get us a room tonight. How’s that for a proposition?” You say, tapping on the ground impatiently with your foot.

A smile starts to appear on his dirty face.

“A room, y’say?” He steps closer to you, at which you very quickly pedal backward before he can grab you.

“After,” you raise and lower your finger at his frame, “You go and clean yourself up. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You smile as you turn and gather your skirts from the muddy street and make your way to the hotel.

-

Arthur was a man of the outdoors. Riding and sleeping under the stars. Civilization be damned.

But he was not going to complain about how good this bath felt, water steaming hot, his muscles relaxing after a fight, his weary bones finally at rest.

He ran his bruised knuckles through the hot water, wincing slightly as the water burns a small spot of broken skin. Arthur was able to steal a glimpse of his face before stepping into the tub - his three-day-old beard was unable to hide the darkening bruise along his jaw.

The bastard got lucky with a swing, that was all.

The latch of the door slowly unlocks, and Arthur sits up in the bath, torn from his thoughts.

“Y’need some help in there?” A soft voice calls through the crack in the door.

He smiles, reclining again.

“Hmm, maybe.”

The door opens and a female figure slides in. You stand there with a playful smile on your face as Arthur greets you with one of his own.

“I don’t remember payin’ no wash girl.” Arthur drawls, turning his head toward you, a lazy, relaxed smile on his face as he leans back in the tub.

You close the door behind you quietly.

“On the house, Mister.” You smile at him as you start to unbutton your blouse, “Want me to give you the whole experience?”

Arthur raises his eyebrow, nodding dumbly as he sits up in the tub. You smile back at him, heart warmed, as you step closer to the tub.

Buttons thread through eyelets in the steamy room as your skin is bared to him, stripping your blouse and dropping it to the floor. Your chemise leaves little of your chest to the imagination, gauzy in the candlelight. The drapes on the windows are partially drawn, leaving the room in a dim hush.

“You sure are handsome, mister.” You laugh as you sit on the rim of the large iron tub, one of your hands landing on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. Your thumb works in a circle over his shoulder blade and he hums in appreciation.

“Then you must get some ugly fellers comin’ in here.”

You frown lightly before reaching down into the water and checking its temperature.

“Lemme get you cleaned up.”

You gather suds in your hand and stand up, leaning over the tub and him to reach his arm on the opposite side of you. Rubbing gently at his skin, you snicker to yourself as you notice where his gaze has settled: directly in front of him, where your chemise top hangs low and your breasts sway gently with your movements.

Arthur’s hand raises from the water, his fingers grasping at the lace trim of your chemise and slowly pulling it down as you lean over him, your breath stuttering slightly as the fabric brushes over your nipples before he frees one breast to the open air, only inches from his face.

You’ve stopped bathing him, your hand bracing yourself on the side of the tub as you lean over it, gooseflesh breaking out over your skin, even with the warmth of the steaming water beneath you.

Arthur looks up at you, for one moment, his fingers still on your chemise, wetness spreading out over the cotton and lace.

You’re throbbing between your thighs, wanting to lean further and press your sensitive nipple to his mouth - your breathing getting faster as he pulls at the neckline again, your other breast freed from the fabric.

He leans forward and blessedly takes one of your hardening, pebbled nipples into his mouth and sucks it with a gentle pull from his lips. His hand moves to the other breast, kneading it slowly alongside his slow suckles.

You cannot help but to whine aloud as you feel his tongue lave around your peaked skin, his rough and calloused fingers enclosing on the opposite one, gently squeezing to replicate the pressure of his mouth on your skin.

The water in the tub sloshes as he sits up further, pressing his face into your breasts even more as his other hand begins to work himself under the surface. You moan aloud as you steal a look over your shoulder, the soap-covered surface of the water breaking and you can see his hand stroking up and down his hardening length.

Your bloomers are damp as the fabric clings to your skin, the hand closest to you moving to press your fingers against yourself through layers of fabric, moaning needily aloud as Arthur sucks hard on your breast.

He’s panting underneath you, pulling away from your breast as his eyes trace your arm down to where you press against yourself fervently.

“Christ - get in here before I pull you in -” he rumbles out as he yanks your chemise up from your skirt, untucking it as you pull away and stand next to the tub. You quickly shuck it from your frame, pulling it over your head and tossing it to the floor as Arthur gazed upon your chest, your nipple damp and shiny with his saliva as you begin to untie your skirts.

You look up from untying your skirts to see Arthur laying back in the tub, languidly stroking his cock in the water, eyes trained on you, gaze unblinking. His mouth hangs open as he pants, and god, if he isn’t the most beautiful sight you’ve seen.

Finally, the knots are untied and you let the skirts pool at your feet, slipping your shoes off as your fingers dip into the waistband of your bloomers. You push them downwards, revealing to his hungry eyes the curve of your ilium, the starting of the dark thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs, until finally, those too pool at your feet.

He smiles up at you, the wonderful man, bruised cheek and all, and takes his hand from his cock to reach toward you, the warm bath water tracing down your skin as his thumb gently glides along your hip.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You lean back over the tub to take his lips with yours, smiling into the kiss, before drawing back and lifting one of your legs to climb into the tub. His hands immediately clamp to your waist to pull you in, and with little further movement from you, you’re straddling him in the tub, lowering yourself into the warm water and settling astride his hips.

Both of your hands float southward, grasping his cock and he hisses in pleasure, his hips jutting upward in the tub against yours.

You raise up on your knees again, holding the base of his cock with one hand, while the other moves up his chest to his bruised cheek.

“You’re so handsome, even with half your face black and blue.” You whisper playfully into his lips before kissing him deeply.

He grunts back against you, “May wanna get your eyesight checked.”

You pout again for a moment, biting your tongue as the thought flees your mind. Arthur is slowly, gently pulling your hips down onto him. You take the hint and press your hips downward.

“Oh, oh-”, you whine as you lower yourself onto him, his cock carving out that space in you that you always long to have filled, “God, Arthur, you're so good.”

Your hands fly to the lip of the tub behind his head as he pulls you down all the way, the stretch of him always painfully sweet.

“You’re the o-only one I want.” You gasp as you bottom out, your rear landing on his thigh.

“Terrible judgment you’ve got there.” Arthur laves his tongue across your earlobe with his hands spread over your hips as you move yours to his shoulders.

“I love you.” You whine against his temple as you roll your hips once, and the groan of pleasure that escapes his lips is the only reply he can give for several moments.

The sound of water sloshing fills the room alongside heavy panting and barely concealed moans.

“Christ, woman-” Arthur juts his hips upward, turning his head inward to catch your earlobe again, “I love you so damn much.” He groans into your ear and you mewl, leaning backward to take more of him.

His lips return to your breast, sucking at your nipple as you roll your hips over his in the tub, both of his hands sure on your waist, aiding in your movement. You whine as you feel him start to buck his hips up in time, meeting you with thrusts that force him deeper, deeper into your tight cunt.

“Arthur-” You cry out, head falling back as you come, muscles seizing and cunt clenching hard around him. He grunts in response and continues thrusting up into you, his mouth hanging open as the water sloshes up the side of the tub.

You’re coming down from your high when you return to him, gasping like a fish out of water as he fucks up into you, your forehead pressing against his as your fingers curl around the lip of the tub again.

His teeth grit, trying to suppress a moan as his powerful arms move you, pulling your hips up and off of him as he closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, and looking at the reddening of his chest and the noises he’s trying to stifle, you know he’s coming in the warm water.

He comes down from his high panting, cheeks and chest flushed from both exertion and the bath water. You press your forehead against his and smile, breathing heavily yourself.

Your hands move from the lip of the tub to cup his cheeks, and you lean down once again to press your lips to his, which he heartily accepts. Your tongues press against each other sweetly, his arms tight around your waist. Nothing could ruin this moment.

Unless…

“You need some help in there, mister?”

Normally, the girls have the sense to wait for a response, but for god knows what reason, this one simply unlatches the door and begins to step in.

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widen as you move to cover your breasts, crying out as Arthur sits up and draws you into his embrace, one hand around your back and the other tucking you into his shoulder.

“No- no, ‘m fine.” Arthur grits out, trying to move to cover you decently.

After a moment of recovery, the bath girl groans and rolls her eyes, pulling the door shut as she grumbles under her breath.

“Ain’t they supposed to wait until you tell them to come in?” You grit into his shoulder, arms still wrapped around your chest, as you sit up, warily eyeing the door.

Arthur shrugs, one finger moving under your chin and pulling you back toward him.

“Well, we know she ain’t coming back anytime soon.”

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine Shanks teaching you how to use a sword part 2

FYI, in case it wasn't obvious, IDK anything about fencing, or swords fighting other than the point bit goes in the other feller.

Shanks: Can I offer you a piece of advice?

You: Sure.

Shanks: I think you'd benefit from widening your stance, it'd enable you to move around easier, especially since you like to use your weight to throw your opponent off balance.

You: Like this? *Shifts your feet apart*

Shanks: No, like this *grabs your hip, and kicks your legs further apart* Now try a few moves.

You: *tries to focus on your sword, but can't because he's kneading your skin*

Shanks: No, no, you're far too stiff * Pulls you against his chest, leaning over you slightly to guide your hands in a fluid motion* See, you keep locking up your elbows at the wrong time.

You: Okay, so like this? *Steps away from him and goes through the motions*

Shanks: Perfect, *Ruffles your hair* wanna try it against me?

You: *Has to deliver a message to Whitebeard* Alright, that's the message, I'll skedaddle now.

Whitebeard: Is that what you think? That I'll let you go, just like that?

You: *nods with confidence* Yep, just like that.

Whitebeard: Gurararara! No, but I'm glad to see Shanks sent me such an interesting crewmate. *Reaches for you*

You: *pulls your sword* Don't touch me!

Whitebeard: Oh, you think you can take me, little one?

You: Seeing as I just started learning two weeks ago, and I've never seen real combat? No.

Whitebeard: Gurararara!, then you're not a threat at all.

You: No. *lowers your sword* But I really don't like being touched by people I don't know.

Whitebeard: That's fair and fine... Who's been teaching you then?

You: Shanks.

Whitebeard: Shanks really? He's never taken a student before.

You: He says I've got natural talent, but I believe he was just trying to be nice.... or get into my pants, I can't tell.

Marco: It's always a bit hard to tell with him.

You: tell me about it, one minute he's grabbing my hips and the next he's ruffling my hair and treating me like a kid. It's very confusing.

Marco: He's the King of mixed signals.

You: Tell me about it.

Whitebeard: Listen, I'm bored and itching for a good fight, so I'm going to hold you here to draw Shanks here. But while you are here how about my boys and I give you a few lessons and help you with your training.

You: Do I have a choice?

Whitebeard: uh-uh

You: fine then, but I want a room to myself.

Whitebeard: I'll have a guest room prepared for you, but let's figure out your skill level in the meantime?

You: uh, sure I guess.

Whitebeard: Ace, get em

Ace: *Jumps at you with his swords from one of the sail yards*

You: *shrieks like a lunatic as you evade his rapid attacks*

Whitebeard: Good good, you're really light on your feet for a rookie.... st-... Stop running away and fight!

List of Up-and-coming works

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[unoriginal-and-dumb]

I am doing things I AM DOING THINGS I AM!

Explanations for designs and some head canons below here :3

Infected - Asian-American Autistic ADHD aroace (😈) trans. Yknow Wybie from Coraline? Yea like that but like incredibly annoying. His voice sounds like it’s coming from a shitty mic all the time

Lampert (design by @lucid-daydreaming-art )- Autistic 🇸🇪 ja aroace (😈) funny lamp guy Robots-esque probably kinda talks like baymax honestly, I mean a bit different but yknow, the general idea

(I talk about these 2 enough it’s the others turns)

Poob - I think they are a dumb little critter. They run around and their arms flail in the wind like paper. When they try to clap is makes dog toy squeaking sounds. I don’t think they abide by the rules of physics which is why they are stupid looking ❤️ they have hammer space but it is only for weed related items. The curator of the forever weed brownie, if you will. I think they sound like X from bfb. Aroace (😈)

Pest - literally hates poob because they are small and annoying. Uhhh funky legs because I think he would have funky legs. I stole his eyes because well no real reason, but I think if he was like extra pissed you would see his eyes. Since he is like thief maxxing I do not think he would be wearing anything beyond a hoodie and sweatpants, something trying to be non-assuming I guess. He has hair I think but it is very short no way would he want to deal with that. I don’t have a voice hc for him yet. Aroace (😈)

Bive - she a freakkkkk ehhh. I think she is like freakishly tall, has funny bird legs, raggedy ass scrawny tail, and is constantly covered in hair. Her teeth are kinda just floating on her hair head, so if you punched her hard enough they would just go flying out and she would have to put them back into her head silly girl. I think she is also trans hahaahhahahahaha!!! I think she kinda sounds like ENA from dream bbq, the uhh angry side I believe. Ace (😈)

Split - I gave her dog ears because I think they are cute :) she’s probably like normal ish height Bive is just weirdly tall. She looks very nice and friendly but could probably throw a boulder at you and you will die sowyyyy. Gods most chillaxxed soldier. She gives me kind older lady feelings, even if she weren’t older. I dunno she would be like one of those people who have a comically large purse full of hard candy except it would all be banana flavored. I think she has a slower voice, HAVENT gotten an exact idea for her voice yet but she seems very calm. Ace (😈)

Pilby - I didn’t really add or change their design because I already liked it a lot. I think they are very sweet and kind looking, would make a great plush too but I guess we are not ready to talk about that (YES I am still bitter about it) I think being around them is akin to looking outside a window at an apple orchard while it’s raining a bit. I think they sound a bit like raggedy Anne, based on the creators response too. Aroace (😈)

Spud! - I honestly did not have much come to me for his design, they are just a bit of a funky feller and im not sure how I would add to it honestly. Oh but I do think that they run like an ostrich and it is very scary. Also while drawing I was debating why he had a bow and decided that Gnarpy was like CONGRATZ IN ZURVIVING THE TEZTZ and now Spud! Just has a stupid little yuor did it ribbon. Honestly no clue for voice hc… aroace (😈)

Gnarpy - had a lot of fun with xis design honestly. The redesign reminded me a lot of Stitch so I kinda just shoved that into xim. I think they act a lot like Zim. Like a lot. Probably equally as stupid. I think xis second arms are retractable, like stitch, and xe uses that as a very very shitty disguise that everyone can see right through but just don’t mention because xe seems to be having a good time. I think xe sounds like Four from BFB (the earlier episodes mostly) aroace (😈)

DRRETRO - I think that her head that we see in the game is like a projection of herself, Wagstaff Don’t Starve style. Her body would be like excruciatingly normal besides her head, too. Like go to the hospital and see a nurse, that’s just what she looks like. Very normal, it’s a bit unnerving since her head is that. She’s like those overly friendly posters in a very uncomfortable place type of feeling. She doesn’t have fur either, she’s just a weird cat doctor thing. She acts exactly like Doctor Barber from Flapjack. No voice hc, but she speaks in meows so probably just meowing. Aroace (😈)

Mark - I started thinking about tf2 and Anton blast. Anyway, he is completely made from wood other than the clothes. Beard is carved in, not sure if I got that across in the drawing though. Uh yea I don’t have much I just really like engineer. He wears flannel and a construction vest just like any good law avoiding construction worker. Definitely does not so legal things on his construction sites but does not give two shits about that and also probably would try to employ Lampert when he was younger for free workers (no im not projecting what are you talking about). How on the nose would it be to say he sounds like engineer because I just drew wooden engineer with a beard. Ace (😈)

Wallter - sorry wallter fans I had no ideas while drawing him. I dunno he’s big and he’s cement, so I kept him blocky. Urrrrr he has a can of grey stuff jingle jingle. He is the cement embodiment of that one tweet that’s like “nothing better than a glass of wine, except for maybe #men. #yep #imgay! He kinda seems like one of those lowkey scary bald gay guys who are nice but are also scary and still bald. He’s bald. No idea on voice maybe concrete sliding on asphalt for 10 hours. Ace (😈)

[cowboydisaster]

I have a prompt idea if you're still looking for some! How about the reader finding and taking an itty bitty kitten that was orphaned and Arthur's real grumpy about it at first but then she finds him asleep on the couch with the kitten curled up on his chest and he's got a hand over it protectively or something. I know that's not really Christmas-y, but I thought it would be cute! Looking forward to all your writings as always 🥰

* ˚ ✦ Moonlight * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f! reader

word count: 1k

a/n: Sorry this was late, it's been a madhouse around here. Anyways, i love this prompt and it makes me want a house cat SO bad. i also love grumpy arthur and if you couldn't tell already, domesticity is my roman empire rn.

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: THREE days 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

“No.” Arthur growls, voice stern, resolve set. Your eyes are as big as dinner plates as you continue pleading and begging. Your lip juts out, even, testing his patience, shaking his resolve.  Arthur is notoriously bad at telling you no. When you’d asked for a second baby, he’d willingly agreed. When you’d asked for the house, and the farm, he’d made it happen for you. But this?

“Please, Arthur… Where else is he supposed to go?” You whisper so as not to wake the baby, sleeping soundly in her bassinet. 

“I don’t give a damn. Not here.” Arthur grumbles, placing his tools from work on the table. You follow him around the kitchen like a shadow as he opens and closes cupboards and drawers, putting away all his items from the day. 

Arthur is pointedly trying not to look at the little black ball of fur nestled in your arms. He’s afraid that if he catches a glimpse of those big, sad eyes, he’ll agree with you, and he’ll have an extra mouth to feed.

“Where’d you find it, anyways?” Arthur says, turning, sighing as you push the teeny kitten up towards his face, holding it under its little armpits. 

“I found him stranded on the road back from the market. Look at him, Arthur. He’s not well. We’ll have to feed him.” You plead. Arthur’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he stops and turns around. You nearly run into his back, stopping just in time. 

Arthur gets a good glimpse at the little feller then. He’s just a little cat, probably only a few months old. He’s far too skinny, and his jet black coat is ruffled and dirty from the elements. You hold the cat out to show Arthur, and then he sees the little, white, crescent-shaped mark that adorns his forehead, right between his blue eyes. Arthur releases the bridge of his nose, sighing grumpily. When his eyes crack open, and he sees your pleading face, perfectly matching the cat’s expression, he gives up. 

“Goddammit, fine. Jus’ throw him in the spare room, n’ I’ll find him some fish or somethin’.” Arthur says, rather dramatically, in your opinion. You hold the kitten close to your chest, your spare arm wrapping around the man’s neck. 

“Oh, thank you, Arthur!!” You smile, kissing him quickly before popping down from your tiptoes. 

“Yeah, well don’t get all cheery just yet. We’re tossin’ him back out in the snow as soon as he’s good and healthy.”

— — — 

The rocking chair swings back and forth quietly. Your hand gently taps your daughter’s back, and you hum quietly. She’d woken you and Arthur up in a fit, hungry, raising her little fists into the air and giving you both hell. But now, her little belly is full, and a peaceful silence has fallen over the house once more. The moonlight streaking through the windows tells you that it’s early morning, and you sigh at another night’s lack of sleep. 

“Easy, baby.” You whisper, quietly and slowly standing from the rocking chair, swaying her in your arms until you reach her bassinet. 

“Good night, my sweet girl.” You whisper sweetly, pressing a kiss to her little forehead, brushing some peach fuzz out of her face. 

You push the nursery door open quietly, eager to find your place next to Arthur in bed again.  But a few steps down the hall,  you stop in your tracks, a familiar voice coming from the living room. 

“Yeah, well you’re a right bastard, y’know that?” Arthur whispers, and you suppress a laugh, peeking around the corner. 

Arthur is sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Laying on his chest, nuzzled against his thick arm, is the little kitten. He purrs loudly, eyes closed, awfully content in your husband’s arms. Your heart melts in its cavern at the sight, and you watch the scene play out with bright eyes. 

“The lady is puttin’ the lil’ one back to bed, I figure I might as well do somethin’. So, make no mistakes, partner. We ain’t friends.” He whispers to the kitten, but contrary to his harsh words, Arthur’s finger scratches gently behind the kitten’s ear, pulling deep rumbles and purrs from the little animal. A few moments go by with Arthur’s hand resting protectively on the little cat. 

“Y’know, you are kinda cute… But don’t tell the missus I said that. I don’t want her thinkin’ I’ve gone soft.”  

You suppress a chuckle. 

“I reckon we should call you Moon… cause you got a little one right between them big eyes.” Arthur hums, eyelids growing heavy the longer he rests on the couch. You clear your throat gently, making him aware of your presence before stepping into the living room. 

“Didn’t see you there.” Arthur says, sitting straight on the couch, cheeks tinted pink. 

“She’s asleep.” You smile, “I see you’re making friends.”

Arthur exhales sharply, a huff of a laugh, “Me and the cat? Nah, he uh– he wouldn’t stop hollerin’ so I tried holdin’ him.” Arthur excuses, hand still wrapped protectively around the sleeping animal. 

“Right.” You raise an eyebrow, “You comin’ back to bed, then?” 

Arthur hesitates, looking up at you, then down to Moon. 

“I’ll be in shortly, sweetheart. Just gonna stay out here a little longer with him so he doesn’t go wakin’ you or the kids up.”

You smirk, “Alright then, Arthur.” 

 A kiss is planted to his lips before you head to the bedroom, and he sinks back down on the couch with Moon tucked into his arm. 

Five minutes turn to ten, and ten to thirty. And when you wake up to start breakfast, your husband is still cuddled up on the couch. Snores fall from his lips, matching the time of little content purrs coming from Moon, sleeping in a little ball right on Arthur’s chest.  So much for not giving a damn. You chuckle to yourself.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola @calcarius445 [to be added or removed, shoot me an ask! :)]

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 22: To Pick a Lock

Summary: The gang discovers a one of your "talents" and puts it to good use.

*This amazing images comes from one of my faves, @papaue00

*Thank you to @readingcoco for beta reading for me! You are amazing!

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

“Explain to me how this happens.” 

You stand in front of Arthur, arms extended out as far from your body as possible as you shake out a mud-crusted shirt of his, cautiously squinting as bits of dirt fly through the air in front of your wrinkled-up nose. “Do you literally lay down and roll in mud to get your clothes this dirty?”

“Sometimes,” the man in question shrugs. “Other times we draw straws to see who stands in the middle while the other fellers throw dirt at him.” He snickers as he makes a whipping motion with his arm.

All you can do is give him an exasperated look as your arms drop down in defeat in front of you.

“See, when you say dumb things like that, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” 

Arthur playfully shakes his eyebrows at you as his arm shoots out, snaking around your waist to quickly pin you to his chest, causing you to giggle and squirm as he plants a few teasing kisses along the side of your neck. Standing a few feet away, Abigail can only shake her head at your flirtatious nonsense. 

It’s a brisk fall afternoon, and the sun hangs in the sky like a dollop of golden yellow paint dropped on a canvas of grays and purples. Arthur is helping you with laundry. He’s bored and hovering over you as a means of distracting himself, wanting nothing more than to take you back to your shared tent for something more stimulating. But Ms. Grimshaw is keeping a keen eye on you to make sure you get your chores done. 

With the year well into the fall now, daylight is limited as is the time available to get things done along with it. So rather than dragging you off, Arthur figures it would be best to help out in order to get your work done faster. And by “help”, he means carrying the baskets for you and keeping you company while you wash and hang alongside Abigail. You don’t mind, really. Arthur doesn’t get to spend as much time with you as he’d like and rarely does he ever have “nothing to do”. So you will accept his company in any manner you can get it.

The sound of thunderous hoofbeats echoes into the new camp, causing your small group to lift their collective heads towards the path. A few of the men had gone out earlier this morning and it appears the commotion is a sign of their imminent arrival. Excitable voices carry through the air, wound up and hollering about something. It doesn’t take long before you eventually hear a loud metallic banging sound, coupled with shouts of frustration.

“What in god's name is all the noise?” huffs Abigail, craning her neck in the direction of the racket to try and see through the maze of tents and wagons.

“Who knows.” You toss the newly folded shirt in your hands into the basket at Arthur’s feet with a sigh. “But we should probably look into it before someone ends up losing an eye or a finger,” you snort back with a lofty eye-roll. 

Arthur can only chuckle as he follows after you like a puppy as you head over to investigate. It warms his heart how you’ve taken to looking after everyone in the several months that you’ve been with the gang, becoming more and more like Grimshaw everyday—in a good way, of course. 

You, Abigail, and Arthur amble into the common area, and see Bill, Javier and Micah standing over a table, their attention acutely focused on something set upon its surface, as the rest of the gang jostle to make room for Dutch. 

As you get closer and peer around Bill’s massive trunk of a torso, you realize that the boys have come back to camp with an ornate travel chest. A pounding noise ricochets within your skull, grating against your nerves as Bill beats the lock with a rock in a hopeless attempt to get it open. 

“What’d you all find out there?” questions Arthur, striking a match across the tabletop and lighting the cigarette that precariously hangs from his plump lips. You and Arthur exchange a cynical glance before he curiously eyes the chest then looks to Javier for more details. 

“Found ourselves a fancy box!” quips Javier, his nimble fingers coming up to rub his chin as he watches Bill intently. “And where there’s a fancy box-”

“-There’s even fancier things inside,” finishes Micah with a smirk, his hands twitching by his gun belt as he too anxiously awaits the trunk’s unveiling. 

You try not to chortle as you watch Arthur roll his eyes with trademark skepticism, thumbs coming to rest in his gunbelt as he shifts his weight from hip to hip.

“So why ya beatin’ the damn thing?” Arthur’s head cocks to the side, amused as he watches Bill get more and more frustrated by the second, his face turning red and flustered with each striking blow. You defensively step back from Bill, holding your hands up in front of you to make sure you don't get caught in the swing of his burly arm.

“Tryin’ to get this damn thing open, Morgan!” grunts Bill. “We were in town and saw this rich-looking coach unattended. Seemed like their own fault, so we started digging around inside and found it. Didn’t have time to crack the thing open so we just grabbed it and took off before anyone noticed.”

“Stop banging away at it!” you scold, grabbing Bill’s beefy forearm before he can make another strike. “See that gold leafing along the surface? This is an expensive piece.” You loosen your grip to run your fingertips along the gilding, tracing the fine craftwork with a feather-light touch. “You can sell this trunk alone for $30 to the fence.” 

Bill halts immediately, a bit shocked when he feels your soft hand on him. But he’s also now stumped at how to proceed in opening the chest and looking to you for the answer. Poor Bill, always in a battle between brains and brawn, and unfortunately for him there is only ever going to be one winner. 

A motherly sigh escapes your lips as you shake your head sweetly at Bill. “As usual, all this needs is a little ‘woman’s finesse’,” you purr sweetly. You reach over to Abigail and pluck a hairpin out from her bun, setting yourself down at the table with the box laid out in front of you. The crowd watches silently as your hands rest upon the chest, and you start to wiggle the pin around inside the lock. Within a minute, the lock pops open with a simple and gracefully little clicking sound. 

“There, now. All yours.” You turn the box towards the group of waiting men, with a satisfied smile on your face. They all look at you, stunned as to what just happened, but then quickly begin to dig into the mysterious case. And they are not disappointed. Inside they find cash, jewelry, bonds and other precious mementos belonging to the previous owner. You lean forward with your chin resting in your hand, watching as they excitedly pull items out to admire.

Bill plucks something out of the box and hands it to you. “Here you go, Y/N. There’s your cut.” 

Accepting the glittering item from his meaty bear-paw, you roll it in your hand, instantly realizing it’s a broach. He gives you an earnest smile, proud of himself for landing such a score. Bill is always such a beast of a man, not graceful in the slightest. But he does always try to be gentle around you, at least.

“Why, thank you, Sir,” you grin in return, admiring the beautiful jade-green stone that nests in a filigree of polished silver.

“Where did you learn how to do that, Y/N?” asks Abigail as she, too, begins to curiously finger through the jewelry inside.

“I have friends who taught me when I was in Rosewood.”

“How do you have friends that know how to pick locks?” asks Javier incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, before meeting us, that is.” He gives you his suave smile and a wink.

A demure little grin pops across your face, relishing the idea that you can still surprise these people, even after all these months. Your chin coquettishly dips to your shoulder. 

“Never you mind, Javier. A woman needs a little mystery.” 

“Wait a minute, you never said you knew how to pick a lock!” Arthur turns his attention from the stack of cash in front of him to face you now, fully realizing what you’ve just said.

“You never asked,” you reply plainly with a simple shrug. 

Micah lets out a patronizing little huff. “Maybe you should be doing a little more talking at night in your tent, cowpoke,” teases Micah. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t concern yourself with what’s happening in my tent at night,” Arthur shoots back with a glare. 

“Hold on,” Dutch interjects with annoyance, his hands raised in the air to silence everyone as he acutely directs his attention towards you. “Are you saying you can do this with any lock?” 

You shrug again. “I don’t know if I’d say any lock,” your voice somewhat uncertain under Dutch’s intense gaze, ”but probably.” 

“Why the hell am I just hearing this now?!” Dutch huffs, planting his hands onto his hips. But before you can answer him, you see an idea forming in that deceptive mind of his, coiling like fog creeping through the valley in the morning. “Ho, ho, have I got an idea, gentleman,” he smirks, tapping his ringed finger against his mustached lips. 

“There’s a bank over in Red Rock that I’ve been eyein’. But I’m told it's next to the law office— strategically placed there to ward off robberies. Any attempt on it would have to be quiet. No shooting, no explosions of any kind.” Dutch shakes his finger at you. “If we can get her in there, into that vault-”

“Now, hold on a minute, Dutch. Y/N ain’t ready for anything like that,” Arthur cuts in, his hand waving firmly against the very idea of it. You watch his handsome face immediately turning into a deep, disapproving scowl.

“Well, she’s gonna have to be ready sometime,” argues Dutch. “I ain’t about to let a resource like her go to waste.” He counters as he waves his hand in your direction. “Besides, you’ll be there, too Arthur, and we all know you ain’t gonna let anything happen to her”. 

Dutch is right about that. Arthur would sooner take a bullet himself than put you in harm’s way. But still, the very idea of you being in danger sets his stomach turning. It’s the thing that he’s dreaded the most ever since you met, let alone started your relationship. He can’t fathom intentionally endangering you, yet he doesn’t want to disobey Dutch, either. The conflict is apparent on Arthur’s chiseled face as his eyes skip to the treeline, trying to find a suitable excuse to get you out of it. But all Dutch needs to do is shoot Arthur that glare to put him back in his place. 

When satisfied that Arthur’s silence means that he has succumbed to his will yet again, Dutch turns back to you. “You continue to amaze me, Miss Y/L/N.” His voice floats with that smooth, silky tone he uses when he needs to seduce people into doing his bidding, even against their better judgment. Like a snake that lures its prey, the man can be almost hypnotic when he needs to be. But you’ve never felt directly threatened by Dutch…until now. 

A slight chill dances up your spine as you stare at him with your large doe-eyes, an animal trapped by a hunter. And all you can do is sit there mutely as they all begin to discuss how to best use your newly-discovered “talent”. 

—-------------------------------------------------------

The crisp autumn breeze caresses your face, lifting the rogue strands of hair from your cold cheeks as you find yourself standing on the edge of the street. Across the way is the large green building that will be your target. It is adorned with black window-shutters and trim and looms ominously over you. A large sign hangs above the entry doors:  Red Rock Savings and Loan. The letters leer at you in an almost mocking and intimidating way. You try in vain to swallow, your mouth dry as the desert. Fingers betray a slight shake as you fidget with your hair and nervously smooth out the skirt of your emerald green dress for the third time in the last five minutes. 

You are going to be on your own for the first part of Dutch’s plan. You take a deep breath, slowly letting it out through trembling lips in an attempt to quell the butterflies in your stomach, going over the scheme one last time in your head. Your palms are sweaty, even in the chill air, and you continually wipe them along your hips, before absentmindedly playing with your hair yet again.

And then it dawns on you:  you are not sure if you can do this. What if Arthur is right and you really aren’t ready? You’ve never done anything like this before in your life. You’ve listened to the wild escapades of your fellow gang members but have never actively participated yourself. The most you’ve ever done is act as a decoy, never actually getting your own hands dirty. This will be your first act at truly committing a crime. 

What if something goes wrong? Will you have the where-with-all to know what to do? Could you ever defend yourself if something needed to be done? Arthur and the others will be there to protect you, but what if you are a liability to them? What if they need you to help them? You know how to shoot a gun, as you’ve hunted with Arthur and Charles plenty of times. But to point a gun at a person, to look them in the eye as you pull the trigger, that is something else entirely. If the nightmares and restless nights that Arthur has, ones that he pretends don’t happen, are any indication, the weight of taking someone else’s life leaves a heavy burden on one’s soul. Are you ready for that?

But as you stand there in the street, you eventually force yourself to steel your nerves with a slow deep breath. Closing your eyes, focusing on how your heart beats in your chest, the monotonous thumping echoes in your ears. You are part of the notorious Van Der Linde gang, you tell yourself. You are Arthur Morgan’s woman. And it is about damn time that you act like it. 

Your life before joining the gang, before meeting Arthur, had always been at the mercy of others, being subservient to the demands of men and your class. You have always done what was right and proper, falling in line with other people’s expectations and look where it got you: family name in tatters, your father gone, assaulted by the men who killed him, and left destitute by the high society that had pretended to care. 

But you are past that now. No need to hide in the shadows, no need to take anyone’s bullshit anymore. If joining Dutch Van Der Linde’s gang has taught you anything, it’s that. Running with a gang allows you to be free to do as you please and you do not have to answer to anyone. 

You need to pull from the strength of your new family, as they are counting on you. Arthur is counting on you. No turning back now. And with a grin of determination on your lips, you lift your chin, shaking off the last bit of nervous energy, and get into character to boldly stride over to the bank. 

You pull open the heavy wooden door, gliding confidently through the opening. Remembering all of Hosea’s training, your sparkling eyes take-in the scene as you stand at the threshold: Large room, main exit behind you, hallway towards the back that must lead to the vault and safes. You can’t tell if there is a second exit or not. (Arthur says ‘Always gotta know how you can get in and get out.’) Three tellers to your right, a ring of desks with other bank personnel to your left. All in all, with customers, you have twelve people to account for. 

The bank lobby is fairly large to accommodate a town of this size. You look up to see the clock about to strike 4:00 in the afternoon, a time strategically picked so that there is money in the vault from a full day’s transactions, and close enough to the encroaching nightfall to cover the escape that will eventually come. 

You stride over to the first available teller who comfortably sits behind the counter, your heels confidently clicking on the floorboards as you move.The squat, bespectacled man looks up from his newspaper as you approach his counter. 

“How may I help you today, Miss?” He is a mousey little man, very bookish and unassuming in his worn tan suit. His hazel eyes are made to appear larger by the bottle lenses of his glasses as he blinks expectantly at you. 

“I would like to talk to someone about opening an account here,” you inform him in your most authoritative tone. “My husband and I recently arrived in this area and are in need of getting our affairs in order.”

He looks past you into the lobby. “And where is your husband? Will we be waiting for him to assist you?” he asks.  

A slow, deliberate inhale gets pulled through your nose in aggravation. You bite your tongue and give a forced smile. “Sir, I will have you know that I do not need my husband with me to handle our finances. I know quite well how to manage our money, as we have quite a bit of it thanks to me.”

The teller shrinks back a bit at your angry, snapping comments which are now causing a bit of a scene amongst the small crowd within the lobby. 

“My husband is occupied elsewhere, making arrangements to have our cattle moved to our new ranch and does not have time for such things,” you continue. “He handles the labor, I handle the business. But, if you do not want to help me, simply because I am a woman, then I can certainly take my business and my money elsewhere.” Your eyes burn into the teller, making his insides cringe.

“Excuse me.” You hear a nervous throat clearing as a man in a tailored black suit interrupts the conversation and steps up beside you at the counter. “I couldn’t help but overhear the commotion. By all means, we will be more than happy to assist you with your money, Madame.” He sweeps his arm out towards one of the desks on the other side of the room and encourages you to follow him to sit. “Mr. Ferris,” he hisses back at the teller. “Stop badgering the customers! If the lady wants to open an account to secure her money here, then by all means, let’s assist her.”

The poor teller’s eyes shoot open. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss, I…I didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammers, adjusting his thick glasses on his nose. “I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just-”

“It’s just that you don’t see many women with such influence, I assume. Well, Mr. Ferris, you’d be surprised at what a woman can do.” And with an indignant flourish of your skirt, you spin on your heels to follow the other banker as he pulls out a chair for you to sit at his desk. Once he is sure you are comfortably seated, the banker fixes his tie and smooths his hand over his hair before taking a seat across from you. 

“I apologize, Mrs…” he leans towards you, eyebrows raised expectantly for the proper introduction. 

“Callahan. Mrs. Callahan,” you reply with yet another forced smile. 

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Callahan,” the banker confirms the name to himself, trying to work out if he recognizes it from affluent society circles. “So,” he clears his throat, “you need to set up an account with our bank, is that what I am understanding?”

“Yes, that’s right.” And you proceed to spin your web of lies about how you and your cattleman husband have traveled across the state to find a new ranch for your burgeoning cattle business that has grown two-fold in the past year. With new property in the process of being purchased, your husband is securing the land and overseeing the move of the herd, while you are here in town to get your affairs in order:  banking setup, food and provisions acquired, things of that nature.

You smugly watch the banker’s face grow more and more interested at the prospect of such a prosperous new client, as he eagerly takes notes as you speak. You lay it on thick, too, casually bragging about your fictitious husband’s endeavors, with a nonchalant wave of your dainty hand, but not so much as to be too unbelievable, just as the socialites and high-born used to do back east. 

It is amusing to you how easily you are able to slip back into the social lifestyle that you were so readily willing to leave behind. It’s always a matter of presentation and flourish, a constant upkeep of appearances. It’s that ‘cat and mouse’ game that you never cared for. You never thought you were that good at it, but it seems to be rather advantageous for you now. It is amazing to watch how eager and greedy people are, wanting to get a part of something that they themselves do not possess. Basically, you feed Mr. Bagby the life of one of the families you had known. You change the topic from “real estate” to “cattle” but it’s the same setup, the same panache. And just as enticing to the banker.

“Well, that sounds just fine. All well and good!” he replies excitedly. “We can certainly take care of you, Mrs. Callahan. My name is Mr. Bagby. Raymond Bagby. And if there is anything you or your husband need, well you just be sure and let me know.” His eyes light up at the idea of such a wealthy new prospect coming into town that he can latch his greedy fingers onto.

“Thank you, Mr. Bagby.” You give him a smug, self-satisfied little grin. “I do appreciate th-“

Suddenly, the doors to the bank are flung open and a handful of men with bandannas around their faces storm in. The small crowd of people gasp at the sight, with one of the older women stifling a scream. You jump in your chair at the loud commotion, your hand shooting to your chest. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery,” one of the men announces, his low gravelly voice commanding over the crowd of cowering townsfolk. He is broad and tall, with a leather trench coat that hangs off his frame perfectly. He brandishes a large pistol in each black gloved hand while a shotgun hangs conveniently across his wide back. “I highly suggest you keep quiet and cooperate and this will be over shortly.” He carries himself with a bravado and swagger, one that instantly lets everyone know that he is not to be questioned. His stony gaze passes over the collective group, alert to any minute movement.

Your eyes shift to the employees and patrons as they cower in fear. The look of horror skips across their faces as the realization that they could die right here and now settles into their scattered minds. 

“Everyone, down on their knees. Now!” another burly man shouts, his shotgun prominently displayed across his body. A few shrieks of panic echo through the room, but everyone quickly complies. 

“Everything will be alright, miss,” Mr. Bagby whispers to you, patting your hand in a feeble attempt to comfort you. “Just do as they say and you’ll be fine.”

You nod your head in understanding, averting your fearful eyes to the ground as you crouch down to the floor with the others.

The man who is apparently the ringleader of this event walks into the back where the vault is, his movement seems to glide in a way that belies a man of his stature, his calmness about such a thing almost unsettling. He points his gun at the row of tellers he passes before disappearing down the short hallway towards the safe. Meanwhile, the rest of his group stands at attention in his absence. One man wearing a dark gray hat and jacket stands guard at the door with his revolver at the ready, watching for any incomers. Two others survey the room, making sure no one tries anything stupid.

Until finally, the other large man with the shotgun lets his eyes land on you, sitting hunched up uneasily on the floor. 

“Well well, ain’t you pretty!” He strides over and leans down to get a better look at you. “Maybe you should keep my friend in the back company, hmm? He’s been awfully lonely lately,” he chuckles with a sickeningly sweet voice.

“I’d rather die!” you spit out stubbornly, pitching a heated glare at the man.

“Oh, that can be arranged, ma’am. I guarantee.” He reaches down and roughly grabs your arm, abruptly yanking you to your feet. You try to push against his burly chest, but the man is simply no match for you as he towers over your height. 

“Leave her be, you animal!” shouts Mr. Bagby. 

The robber seems more amused than anything at the empty threat, saying nothing but simply turns and points his shotgun at Mr. Bagby, the barrel inches from his face. A gasp of alarm escapes your lips, your heart leaping into your throat, as you are terrified that this is the moment when shots will start to be fired.  

“Please, don’t!” you shout in a panic, eyes blazing with a newfound fear in them as they dart back and forth between the two men.

All color drains from the banker’s thin face as his beady eyes slowly move from the end of the barrel up to you, and then back to the robber before he settles down into submission. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” chuckles the robber in smug satisfaction. He then proceeds to drag you across the room behind him as you desperately try to pry his thick fingers from your bicep. 

“I got a little something for you, my friend!” he announces as you make your way towards the vault room. The man kicks the door open with his heavy muddy boot and heaves you through the doorway before slamming the door closed behind you. 

You stumble into the room, recovering from the violent shove, and straighten up to come face to face with the other robber who watches you with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. A smile begins to form on your lips. 

“Is Bill always that handsy with women?” you ask.

Arthur pulls down his bandanna, exposing his face as he chuckles. “No. Actually, I think he’s afraid of ‘em, to be honest”.  

You’d be lying if you said that Arthur’s raw masculinity doesn’t excite you right now. The adrenaline that is pumping through your body is exhilarating, causing your whole body to tingle with electricity. And seeing Arthur calm and collected as if this were just another chore back at camp is an amazing thing to witness. 

It is hard not to stare at his thick muscled arms as he works over the surface of the grand safe. His face carries such intensity, making the green and amber flecks that ring his blue irises even more pronounced as if he were possessed by something otherworldly. Were it not for the group of innocent bystanders in the other room, the desire to reach out and touch him would consume you. 

But no time for that now. A quick shake to your head to refocus and you quickly walk to the back wall where the row of heavy safes are. Arthur works on the dial combination of the larger vault, while you pull a few pins out of your wristlet and begin picking the locks of the smaller, personal safes. Your heart beats loudly in your ears as your fingers work over the cool metal, knowing that the law could be upon you at any moment. 

Not a word is spoken between you and Arthur as you focus on your work, the only sounds in the room besides your nervous breathing are the gentle tinkling of the metal locks being forced open and the soft creaking of their door hinges. You manage to get four of the coffers open quickly with little issue. They are filled with cash and coins, jewelry, bonds and deeds, all of which get dumped into a large leather saddle bag. 

Arthur keeps track of the time as you work, periodically checking his pocket watch. He is always mindful not to get too greedy on these jobs. Best to stick to the timeline and get what you can, rather than push your luck and risk getting caught. The plan is to be in and out in fifteen minutes before the bank is due to close. ‘Live to fight another day’, as they say. And keeping a mental note in his head, Arthur determines that you’ve been here long enough. 

Deciding that the two of you have collected more than enough, Arthur adjusts the contents of the overstuffed saddle bag before he ties it shut. Smirking at you, Arthur pulls his bandanna back up over his face. 

“Ya done good, girl,” he praises as he hoists the saddle bags over his broad shoulders. “You ready to finish this?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Your voice is a quaking whisper, filled with nervous energy as the realization suddenly hits you that you still have to make it out of the bank, yet. Robbing the bank is one thing. Getting away with it is something else, entirely.

“Alright, then. Remember, just act natural, we’ll do the rest,” he nods to you, placing a comforting hand on your arm as you give Arthur a tentative smile in return. The look of nervous fear on your face is not much of an act, but of true feelings, to be honest. Your eyes rim with the slightest bit of moisture as your lashes begin to flutter with anxiety. Arthur quickly notices how your chest begins to rapidly float up and down and your fingers fidget against your palms.

“Hey,” he pulls his mask down again, stepping up closer to you until you can feel his body heat radiating off of him. His eyes are like the ocean, endless and all encompassing as he stands over you. “Remember our deal? You look out for me and I’ll look out for you. Got it?” His voice is low and calm, centering you before you get too lost in your thoughts of doubt or hesitation, for it is hesitation that will derail any best-laid plan.

The cool feeling of Arthur’s leather gloves against your tender skin as his heavy hand cups your face settles your nerves. And the worry begins to ebb away, knowing that you will be as safe as you can be with him. Arthur won’t ever let anything happen to you. And it is within this commanding, yet calming aura that the outlaw carries within himself that you can find a sense of peace. 

A quick, sharp breath gets pushed past your pink lips as your head gives a short nod in confirmation. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good girl.” He winks as he pulls the bandanna up again. 

This is it, the grand finale. If you and Arthur can get the gang out of the bank in one piece, you’re gold.

Arthur abruptly opens the door again and roughly shoves you through it back towards the lobby for the last bit of the show. 

“Sit down!” he yells, tossing you to the floor in a heap into the middle of the room. “Goddamn useless woman!” You say nothing in return, hiding your face in what appears to be fear.

Arthur then turns his attention back to the room of nervous onlookers and fellow thieves. “Thank you kindly, people, for your cooperation. Sit still and quiet and no one will get hurt,” he announces with an all too casual tone. As his dusty boots carry him across the room, he strikes one of the cowering men in the face with the butt of his gun to make his point. 

“If anyone even thinks about leaving to go get the law, we’ve got a shooter on that rooftop over there.” Arthur points his gloved finger through the window. “He’ll drop you dead the minute you open that door.”

And just as quickly as it had begun, the group of bank robbers swiftly ducks out of the building without so much as a creaking floorboard in their wake. 

The group of you sit there on the floor of the bank, stunned and quiet, each looking at the door in case the thieves should decide to come back. After about five minutes, you are the one to break the stifling and tenuous silence.

“Are you all going to just sit there and let them rob us?!” you demand, scanning the faces of the patrons. You are quite the actress. If only Hosea could see you right now, how proud he would be. 

No one moves out of sheer fear, staring at you with the eyes of terrified lambs as if you are crazy-talking. ‘Good Lord, these people are ripe for the picking’ you think to yourself.

“Who’s ‘us’? You don’t have any money here, yet. Remember?” one of the women in attendance hisses at you. “Keep your mouth shut, or else you’ll get people shot!”

But you disregard her warning. “Go get the sheriff!” you screech at the man laying next to you, who just stares back at you with a dumbfounded expression plastered across his face. “Go!” you reiterate, waving your hand towards the door. With no one else stepping forward, you seize the opportunity to take control of the situation, hoping to draw the lawmen towards the bank and not out looking for the gang, buying them more time.

The poor man startles at the sound of your shrill voice and sprints to his feet as if he’s not sure if he is more afraid of the robbers or you. He trips over himself as he quickly makes his way across the room. He cautiously ducks his head as he opens the door, mindful of the shooter you were all warned about. Everyone else waits with paralyzing apprehension. When no shots are fired, the man proceeds to stumble out the door. 

Now that the tension is broken, the people are abuzz with activity. Loud, nervous chatter fills the lobby as one of the women rushes to the man Arthur had struck in the face earlier. Within a few moments, the local sheriff and a handful of lawmen come barreling in through the bank doors. 

“Alright everyone, calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” the sheriff declares, trying to assess the situation. “Carl, take a few men and post them on either end of the town. If those sons-a-bitches are still here, they won’t get too far.” 

The sheriff proceeds to get statements from everyone in attendance and eventually makes his way to you. 

“This one, Sheriff,” Mr. Bagby points at you as his agitated body ambles to stand next to you. “This lady was tossed in with that heathen.” 

“Is that so?” The sheriff eyes you up and down. 

“This is Mrs. Callahan, Sheriff,” Mr. Bagby nervously prattles on. “This here is Sheriff Langston, our top lawman, Ma’am.” You extend your arm to shake hands at the introduction. The sheriff is an average height, medium build, but nothing too impressive. He is clean-cut and neat, obviously taking his position of authority very seriously. 

“Are you alright, ma’am? Did they hurt you in any way?”

“No, no I’m fine,” you huff in an exasperated tone. “They just shoved me around, is all.”

“Any idea who they are? Where they may be headed? Did they say anything to you?” the lawman presses.

“How would I know?! I wasn’t exactly paying that close attention,” you snap in annoyance at the barrage of questions. “They were filthy, I can tell you that much. The big one had red mud caked all over his boots.”

“Red mud?” Langston ponders, turning to look at one of the deputies.

“Yes, red mud. Why?” Your eyebrows furrow in exaggerated agitation. 

The sheriff’s face twists up, lips pursed in thought for a moment as if piecing something together in his mind. “We have caves outside the western side of town. They’re covered in red clay. Would make a perfect hideout for a group of outlaws.”

“Not far from the rail line, too,” agrees the deputy. “That could be their way out, Frank.”

The sheriff nods in agreement. “Head on over there, see what you come up with.” The sheriff turns back to you with a self-satisfied smile. “Thank you, ma’am. You may have just led us right to those bastards.” (More like led them in the exact opposite direction of those bastards. And your heart settles a bit knowing that the law has taken your bait.)

“Good! Serves them right, attacking innocent people like that,” you snap with disdain dripping from your words like rainwater. A silent prayer of thanks rolls in your mind that not only does the sheriff not suspect you as an accomplice, but you have led them away from your friends, and more importantly Arthur.

Sheriff Langston looks you over, contemplating what to do with you next. “It’s getting dark soon. It won’t be safe for you to be walking around unchaperoned, especially since you’re a witness to a crime. These thieves may be looking for you.” His lips get pulled in slightly as he tentatively bites down in thought. “I don’t know what your plans are, ma’am, but you should stay here in town where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, I doubt that’s necessary,” you brush him off with a nonchalant wave, standing as if to take your leave. 

“‘Fraid I’m going to have to insist, ma’am.” The lawman moves to block you from the door, his hands held up and halting you where you stand. “We’ll escort you to the hotel for safe keeping. The owner there is a friend of mine. In fact, I’ll keep an eye on you myself, at least until your husband arrives, that is. It’s the least I could do after everything you’ve been through.” 

You can’t help but notice how his dark eyes cast over your form with a slight hint of a smile on his lips as he speaks. It’s slight, almost imperceptible, but you've seen that look in a man’s eyes before and a boulder drops on your stomach, making you slightly nauseous.

Shit. This was not part of the plan. And you have to be careful with how you handle this, as you are all on your own to do it. You expected to be questioned by the law, making sure that they have no information or lead to the gang, and then released. You are supposed to meet Arthur by the garden wall alongside the mill by nightfall. If you don’t show up, he’ll worry. And then God knows what he’ll do. 

“Alright, then. If you think that’s what’s best, Sheriff,” you reply with your best fake smile, hoping that the sheriff will take your uneasiness as a reaction to the robbery and not your reluctance to stay. You can’t seem too eager to leave. If the sheriff gets even an inkling that you were in on the job, he’d hang you for sure. A cold sweat begins to mist across your chest under the silk layers of your dress as your fingertips start to tingle and go numb. 

And so you concede to go along with whatever he suggests, playing the “innocent victim” as best as you can.

—----------------------------------

By the time everything is said and done at the bank, night has begun to drape its shadowy blanket upon the town. The moon casts its milky all-knowing eye over you and Sheriff Langston as you head down the steps of the bank together. Using a lantern to guide you, the sheriff's hand catches your elbow and leads you down the street and over to the hotel. You go along amicably, as to not rouse suspicion, and all the while, the sheriff babbles on and on with small talk in a feeble attempt at light flirtation. 

Arriving at the modest hotel, the lawman checks you in, the hotel owner assigning you a room with a nod. You graciously accept the key and quickly bid the sheriff goodnight. 

“Oh no, I’m going to have to stay with you while you’re here,” Langston asserts smoothly, leaving no room for argument.

“I’m sorry, you’re what?” you sputter, eyes shooting open to your hairline in shock at his brazenness. 

“What if someone tries to break in on you? No, I’ll feel much better if I have eyes on you at all times.”

“I’m sure you would,” you mumble. Desperately trying to mask your frustration, you turn and head up the stairs with the man in tow behind you. You only make it up to the third step before you feel his hand on your lower back. Your skin shudders at the touch of the sheriff’s fingertips, and you try not to bristle too much because of it. If Arthur were to see this, he’d surely plant his fist into the man’s face. And in the depths of your ever-tightening chest, you are not sure if that would be a bad thing or not. 

The hotel room is simple, but pleasant. But you have no designs on staying long. Your eyes skip about to take inventory of your surroundings, trying to devise a plan on getting the hell out of here before the sheriff gets too comfortable. You stand in the middle of the room, hands continuously turning over each other with a white-knuckled grip. 

Sheriff Langston must sense your apprehension, though. He studies you out of the corners of his eyes as he sets about the room to light the oil lamps, their amber glow quickly illuminating the space. “Can I get you anything while we’re here, miss?” he asks you in an attempt to put you at ease while in his presence. 

“Missus,” you pointedly remind him. “Mrs. Callahan.” You shoot him a stern look, giving him that unspoken warning that you are not ignorant and know exactly what it is that he’s hoping for. 

Langston smiles with faux innocence. “Right. Mrs. Callahan.”

“I’d love some hot coffee, please. If you don’t mind, Sheriff.”

“Sure. I’ll have the kitchen send some up.” He opens the door and steps out into the hall but your hopes plummet when instead of going down to get it himself, Sheriff Langston yells down the stairs to have coffee brought up for you. Damn. You were hoping to get him out of the room, giving you time to go out the window or something. The icy reality settles over you that this man will not be letting you out of his sight. 

After about ten minutes, one of the hotel maids arrives at the door with a tray with a steaming pot and two cups prettily displayed upon an embroidered linen. The sheriff takes the tray from the woman with a nod of thanks and places it down on the table in the middle of the room to allow you to fix yourself a cup. 

“There we are. This should do the trick,” he grins at you.

You offer a small smile in appreciation and float towards the table, careful to place yourself on the opposite side of him. Sheriff Langston circles around, striding over to the window located on the wall behind you. The fact that his dark gaze cascades over your backside as he passes is not lost on you, either. The sheriff casually pulls back the curtain with his two fingers, looking out into the street for any activity. 

“Do you like cream or sugar in your coffee, Sheriff?” you ask sweetly. 

“Just a bit of sugar, ma’am. I like sweet things.” The words purr from his lips with a slow and unsettling drawl.

“Of course, you do,” you reply with just the hint of sarcasm. Turning your back as you set out the two cups, your fingers pull a small vial of nightshade out of your cleavage. You thank the heavens that you thought to bring it and discreetly pour its contents into his cup. Adding the steaming dark liquid from the coffee pot overtop, you plunk a sugar cube in and sir until the contents are finely mixed. A gratified grin dusts your lips as you tap the silver spoon along the cup's porcelain edge. 

You turn around and stride across the floor, skirts swishing around your feet and hand the sheriff his cup with a demure little smile before sipping from your own. “How long do we have to wait here?”

“Until sunup,” Langston quips. “By then, I’ll check in with the boys and see if they tracked down that gang.” His eyes rake over you again as he sips from his cup, that same cold and uneasy feeling washing over you as your mind jolts to the knife Javier gave you that is tucked into your high-lace shoe. 

“Don’t you worry, ma’am, I’ll catch ‘em. I don’t abide by that sort of thing in my town. They think they can walk in here and rob me right under my nose and get away with it?” he scoffs.

“They robbed the bank, not you,” you remind him.

“Same difference.” Sheriff Langston offers a dismissive wave at your seemingly irrelevant point. “Either way, they ain’t getting away with it, mark my words. I'll shoot first and ask questions later if it comes to it.” He cocks his head just slightly, reaching up to remove his hat and tossing it on the bed behind you. “Not in my town.”

You nod in understanding and wander over to the balcony doors for some fresh air and to put some much-needed distance between the two of you. You step out onto the landing that overlooks the street below, trying to get away from the sheriff's incessant staring. You are desperately hoping the nightshade kicks in before this sheriff gets bolder with his obvious interest in you. The sheriff is not a large man, such as Arthur or Bill, but he is still larger than you and your mind begins to search for ways to defend yourself if necessary. With your hands resting on the railing, you look out over the side and anxiously sigh. 

While lost in your thoughts, your gaze falls to the shadows of the mercantile building across the street. Smoldering in the dark there, you notice the red pin-point glow of a cigarette end. Squinting to get a better look, you see a figure cloaked in the darkness, and softly smile as you instantly recognize the silhouette of the broad shoulders that you know so well. The silvery moonlight highlights the edges of that familiar worn gambler’s hat and your anxiety instantly melts. A wave of relief washes over you and you suddenly feel more emboldened, knowing that your beloved is mere feet from you should you need him. You are not alone. You never were.

Knowing the sheriff is behind you, you carefully lift your hands slightly off the rail and flatly cross them in front of you, a signal to Arthur not to come for you as it’s not safe for him. But he’s seen you and knows that you’re okay, at least for now. So he’ll wait, watching vigilantly over you until he can get you out of town safely.

—-------------------------------

A few hours go by, and you quietly collect yourself to head out of the room. The sheriff sits slumped over in a chair, the white coffee cup laying precariously on the floor next to him, deposited there by the hand that dangles limply above it. He’ll be knocked-out for a bit, with a nasty headache when he wakes, but you’ll be long gone by then.

The sun is nowhere close to being up yet. The whole hotel is dark with the inhabitants slumbering quietly in their rooms, the occasional snoring to be heard behind closed doors. Creeping down the stairs, you move slowly and carefully as your feet pad soundlessly upon the wooden steps. You glide imperceptibly past the front desk where the clerk is sleeping with his feet propped up on the wood, passed out in a deep slumber. Just a few more feet and you are able to slink out the front door with no one the wiser.

You cautiously step out into the street, looking both directions for any signs of life. Everything is dark and empty, not even a stray dog out at this time of night. The faint sounds of the night owls in the trees is the only thing to indicate that time has not stopped altogether. With a sigh of relief, you begin to head down the road towards the edge of town. Since no one is awake and out yet, you should be able to walk right out without even being noticed. The only witnesses to your escape are the shimmering stars above as they hang in the ink-black sky.

And it doesn’t take too long before you hear the melodic beat of a horse’s hooves behind you and that familiar voice that you are waiting to hear. 

“You lost, pretty lady?” 

The gravelly voice floats in the air like a tether to anchor yourself to. You close your eyes and release a slow exhale of gratitude, knowing that you are indeed safe now. Your flower-petal lips turn up into a soft and comforted smile at the very thought of your protective cowboy being a mere breath’s distance from you.

“Nope.” A contented sigh escapes your chest. “I know exactly where I need to be.” 

You slowly turn around and look up at the handsome rider as he leans out on the saddlehorn. Even in the dark, you can see Arthur’s beautiful eyes as the moonlight shines down and casts his body in a silvery backlight, the edge catching upon his face. 

“I could use a ride, though.” Your whole face radiantly lights up at your statement as the two of you stand quiet for a moment, taking each other in. 

A sense of deep pride fills you as one thought rings prominently in your mind above all others:  ‘I did it.’

**ok I know this isn’t my best work. Writer’s block is a cruel bitch. But, this is meant to be a turning point in my reader’s/oc’s development. Things will get harder from here, as we will get into the game story now, with the events of Blackwater coming up.

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4​ @bimbo-dollz​ @pine4pple-b0i​ @redwritr​ @kuri-chans-blog​ @queer-sadie-adler​ @joelmillerswifey​ @gimmethosedaddymilkers​ @pcotarelo​ @delilah-grimes​ @maemortem​ @wistfulwisteriawitch​ @lilacxxdreams​ @mentallyillfrogs​ @absolutegeek​ @spurz​ @sophiaj650​ @uniqueclodzinevoid​ @lookingformaurice​ @pawoui​ @randomidk-123​ @yyiikes​ @eddiemetalheadmunson​ @twola​ @kmartkiddieisle​ @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic​  @rhehr241​  @earwen-x​ @akariver75​ @djennty​ @nervousmumbling​ @xliliths​ @unbotheredbeeeee​ @onnetonprinsessa​ @kittiowolf210​ @ezrynn​ @suhiss @arthurmargon​​ @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler​​ @alice-vanderlinde​​ @sweetandstoned21​​ @j4llyf7sh @spooky631​​ @m0r4rx @ilovrxats​​ @i-69-urmom​​ @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo @lea-khena @brccklynbaby1 @foundynnel @readingcoco @carmelamontezlikr @ultraporcelainpig @sofiaa-xcx @namesaretomainstream @miphy @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @loveheartabby @daisybvck

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 16 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Caught by the law, you and Arthur have to find separate ways to escape their grasp.

Author’s Notes: Chapter sixteen of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Sixteen: Luck and the Lack Thereof

Word count: 5002

The drop was short enough that you landed softly, something you were immensely grateful for when you straightened and saw a deputy manned at the bottom of the stairs. He was too distracted by the nearby commotion a painted lady was stirring to notice your thudding boots on the stairwell, but that still didn’t help the situation, as the only means of getting away was past him. Going back up the stairs would lead you into the hotel, and you wouldn’t risk running into Arthur and that deputy. Christ, you weren’t clever enough for this. The deputy on the stairs was likely stationed there for this very scenario—to catch an outlaw in the middle of escape. But you were no outlaw, couldn’t think like one. And while you stood there stock still, glad for the low evening light if nothing else, you knew there was no way around it—you would be caught. So much for Arthur’s attempt at saving you.

“…know you had another feller with you…” you heard from the window, the speaker’s voice less muffled now. The deputy was in the room with Arthur. Your heart seized knowing they had pinned you too, but that word he used got you thinking. Did they not know you were a woman?

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur replied flatly. “And you, you make a habit of selling out your patrons to the law?”

“I answer to the marshal, not to you,” came another voice that explained how the deputy had found your room—the hotel owner.

“Don’t know about any partner of yours, huh? Then why’s that window open?” the deputy asked.

Time to go.

You heard Arthur make a sorry excuse that he had wanted some air before you were taking your hat off and fluffing your hair, making your way down the stairs. If they didn’t know you were a woman, it was the only leverage you had.

The deputy at the bottom of the stairs whipped his head around when he heard your approach. “Hold it right-” He looked you over. “There…”

You did as he said, feigning innocence as best you could. “Is something wrong?” You pushed femininity through your voice.

“Come down here,” he ordered, still suspicious. You did so, praying the deputy above you wouldn’t stick his head out the window and find you armed. Woman or no, it wasn’t a good look. Lucky for you, the deputy you approached seemed all too distracted by your opposing sex to care about your gun belt. “What are you doing taking these stairs?” he demanded, his eyes slipping down your body.

Fine. You could do this, or at least try. It wasn’t even close to being in your wheelhouse, but what other option did you have?

“I saw you down here,” you said lowly. “Can’t deny I was curious.” You stepped close, invading his space in a way that had that suspicion of his melting in favor of something else.

“That so? Why you armed then, little lady?”

“I like to stay that way,” you said, spinning a yarn for yourself. “Most men aren’t to be trusted. But you, being a deputy…”

Your instincts screamed at you to cut this meeting short, but you had to sell it or else get hauled in for shoddy acting if nothing else.

You reached in for the man’s badge, touching your finger to it, letting your hand linger on his chest a moment longer. He let you. And just like that, you knew you had him.

He spoke. “Well, I…there is a certain honor that comes with the job.”

“Something a girl can admire,” you replied softly.

He eyed you a moment before looking up at the window. Shit—it was still open. And if he had any wits about him, he would put two and two together.

He looked back down at you, but not an ounce of recognition lit his gaze. Instead, he smiled. “I’m on duty, but how’s about we find each other later when I’m not?”

You let your most saccharine smile curve your face. “Name the place, Deputy…”

“Gillard.”

“Deputy Gillard.”

“How about the Spokehouse?”

You had no idea what that was, but you kept your smile painted on and nodded. “I’ll be waiting for you there.” To keep up the ruse, you brought your hand to his badge again and ran your thumb over it, lingering a moment as you met his gaze. Lucky you, there was nothing going on behind those eyes. So you left him standing there staring after you, doing your best not to panic and rush away.

The farther away you got from the threat of danger, the more that nagging panic set in. Even though he had suggested it, leaving Arthur behind wasn’t an option. He had done so much for you, and leaving him now, especially after what you had just shared…it was out of the question. Now all that remained was thinking of a way to get him out of his predicament without finding yourself caught in it in the process. You considered all your options and knew, first and foremost, that you needed your mounts for any sort of escape. Plus, if you could stash away his gun belt in a saddle bag, you would look much less conspicuous. Men already tended to be curious about you with the way you dressed, so the less attention you drew, the better. You considered stealing a dress off some clothesline but thought better of it. It would result in the same feeling you had when wearing Arthur’s clothes—unfamiliarity. And if, God forbid, you needed to resort to any shooting, you needed every advantage of the familiar you could get. So you made way for the nearby stables under the cover of night, hoping Harriet would provide that familiar calm for you enough for this to all play to your advantage.

Upon arriving at the small barn, you found that your luck held. Luck, because there was no other explanation—certainly not any skill or cunning on your part. You snuck into the stables right past the snoring stablehand slumped in a nearby chair and found your mounts. They were stabled beside each other, but their saddles were thrown over their stall fronts. Sneaking them out as is would likely be easy enough, but tacking them would cause too much noise. You couldn’t risk waking the stablehand. Really, you could wake him and pay him with whatever money Arthur had in his satchel, but Arthur had ridden into town on Boadicea, so your taking her would make you as guilty as he was if someone recognized the mare. Best no one saw at all.

Taking a deep breath, you reached for the nearest stall door—Boadicea’s—and slowly pulled it open. It didn’t creak at least, but she nuzzled you when you shut yourself in with her and gave a low nicker of recognition. Your eyes snapped to the stablehand, but he remained deep in slumber, far from any consciousness to speak of. So you got to work, bridling first in case you needed to leave the saddles behind and make a run for it. That, and the bit tended to be the loudest part of the tack, so you carefully settled it into Boadicea’s mouth while keeping a close eye on the hand. You were lucky the mare had such an easy temperament, as she let you be without so much as tossing her head. Once you slipped the reins over her neck, you looked to the saddle. You would just have to risk its creaking leather.

Easy as you could, you blanketed the mare then lifted the saddle, using all your arm strength to keep it steady. You were keeping quiet enough until you had to swing the saddle over her back—she was taller than you realized. You tried lifting it up and over, but the far stirrup got trapped between the saddle and her back and made an impossibly loud creak of leather on leather. You froze, just knowing you’d awoken the stablehand. But no rebuke came. You slowly turned and looked over your shoulder at him. He had shifted in his chair, but he remained asleep, mouth open wide in a snore. Luck indeed.

You rounded Boadicea and fixed the stirrup carefully, then finished cinching her. Arthur’s saddle was cared for but older and worn, no doubt having many miles traveled in it, so the latigo slid through the cinch ring like butter. Your used up, lesser made saddle likely wouldn’t be so easy. But if all else failed, you didn’t need your saddle anyway.

Satisfied with Boadicea, you quietly left her stall and made for Harriet’s. The mule nuzzled you fondly upon entering, and you gave her a good scratch in return. She somehow always managed to calm your ever-racing heart. It was a wonder, you thought with a smile, just how often you found your heart trying to beat out of its cage since acquiring her. You blamed that on Arthur and his outlaw ways but found that a sliver of pride had worked its way into you for all that you were doing for him, something so brave in return. He likely thought you the least capable person on earth, but here you were, still going. So you once again set aside your nerves and got to work.

Bridling Harriet proved a bit more difficult, as she didn’t take the bit quite as easily as Boadicea did, but you eventually got her fully tacked without waking the stablehand. You dug through Arthur’s satchel, finding a surprising amount of items at your fingertips before landing on the bills you were searching for. You drug them out and counted out enough to be deemed acceptable, then stuck them in the handle of the stall door. Even with the sneaking around, you weren’t a complete reprobate.

With one last prayer that this would be quiet enough, you opened the stall door wide and led Harriet out. You stopped at Boadicea’s stall and did the same. She was the calmer of the two, so you put her on your left—the side closer to the stablehand—as you made to pass him. Only, when you finally worked up the courage to make your great escape, Harriet tossed her head when you tugged on her reins and made her bridle let out an awful clang of metal.

“Quiet down y’ old nag,” the stablehand mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. You froze solid with fear, but he didn’t even look up. Didn’t even open his eyes. He just shifted and slumped in the opposite direction, going back to snoring. You could hardly believe it but weren’t about to stick around and savor your success. You held on tight to both mounts’ reins and carefully led them past him and straight out, thankful for all the mud and horseshit packed down on the floor so that the sound of hooves hardly thudded. Like this had been made to happen all along. Once out, you grinned at your luck, mounted Harriet, and made for the outskirts of town with both of them in the remaining cover of darkness.

~

Arthur was in deep shit. He’d been in deep shit before, narrowly avoiding a hanging here or a bullet through the head there, but this was worse. His only defenses had ever been strength in numbers and his skill with a gun. He had neither. He was alone and weaponless, bound in sturdy handcuffs like some true outlaw these men had no business knowing he was. Worse still, he was innocent. At least, in terms of the past few days by this town’s standards, he was. The only mark against him had been breaking some sorry bastard’s nose, but from the looks of that saloon, that was a regular enough occurrence. So why was he being dragged in with all the pomp of a man gone rogue on a killing spree? He and the deputy had been joined by two more, the three men parading him down the street with some sorry explanation of bringing him in for questioning. When he’d asked what about, he was met with three matching glares and a shove to keep walking. Fair enough, only that it weren’t. And how ironic that was, being the sole instance he could genuinely plead innocence. Just went to show, innocence was exactly what Dutch always said it was—an opinion men had and nothing more. In terms of true innocence, well, that was better left up to a higher power. It was certainly the kind Arthur relied on now.

The deputies led Arthur to the jailhouse, escorting him inside and shoving him in a cell without removing the handcuffs. Even he suspected he weren’t that big of a threat.

“Thank you, boys. You’re sure it’s him?”

Arthur rounded at the sound of that voice, an unfamiliar and commanding one.

“We’re sure, boss. Old Mr. Parks swears by it.”

It wasn’t difficult to guess the first speaker’s identity. He was smaller and less threatening than Arthur imagined he would be, his subtle resemblance to his brother proof of that.

“Marshal James Lawrence,” he said, rounding his desk to approach the cell. “You must be Mr. Callahan.”

Relief trickled through Arthur. So long as his last name stayed out of it, this would be a predicament he could wriggle out of.

Arthur didn’t respond, fully intending to feel the marshal out if he was being accused of a crime serious enough to warrant all this.

Lawrence smiled, like he had already figured how this would go. “Deputy Foreman, would you kindly free our new guest from his restraints?”

Said deputy bumbled about, no doubt surprised at the request given that the marshal had taken such measures in bringing Arthur here.

“You sure? He came peaceable, but he ain’t exactly…”

Arthur glared, daring the man to finish that sentence. But he didn’t, Lawrence interrupting him. “I’m sure. Through the bars should suffice.”

The way he spoke…Arthur wondered where these two brothers had come from. They were educated, that was certain. But where one was condescending about it, this one commanded respect. It was obvious in the way his deputies regarded him.

Arthur turned and backed up to the bars, letting Deputy Foreman unlock his handcuffs. The things were heavy and too tight for him anyhow. They soon dropped to the floor with a loud clank and the rattle of a chain spiraling downward like a snake, the deputy retrieving them through the bars lest Arthur have any ideas about using them for some sort of escape.

“There,” Lawrence said. “More comfortable, I hope.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed at the kindness as he turned to face the man.

“Ah, of course. Where are my manners? You haven’t a clue why you’re here, is that right?”

The insinuation that Arthur would soon be pleading innocence didn’t sit well with him. He could see how the marshal could come off as becoming, but he wasn’t buying it. The man was a little too greasy-haired and mousy-faced, just like his good-for-nothing brother.

Lawrence smiled again. “Allow me to do the talking, then.” The deputies settled on the nearby wall with matching grins, like they had seen this show before and would thoroughly enjoy seeing it another time.

The marshal went on. “You have been brought in for questioning concerning the untimely death of George Lawrence.”

Surprise hit Arthur. Not just over the death either but because of the nonresponse the marshal had for his own brother’s very recent demise.

“Your brother?”

If Lawrence spited this, he didn’t show it. “Yes. He was found dead behind the saloon on Diggen Street, gunshot wound to the head.”

Arthur knew enough to know he was being gauged for any subtle reaction. Likewise, he kept his face neutral. Nothing good ever came of pleading innocence too soon.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

This, at least, took the marshal by surprise. His eyebrows raised with it. But he pushed on. “Where were you last night at the hours of ten to midnight?”

“Asleep. In that hotel. That no-good hotel owner can attest to that, he saw me come in.”

“Interesting. He told me quite the opposite. Said he saw you earlier in the day but never again.”

“‘Course he did,” Arthur mumbled. “He sold me out then. That’s where I was. You sure he didn’t kill the man, lying like that?”

The marshal shook his head. “I have my reasons for trusting the man. The question is, what reason have you to lie?”

“I don’t. I told you, I was in the hotel hours before that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s the truth. If you don’t want to accept it, so be it. Ain’t my job to make you see sense.”

Lawrence’s face soured. Like he wasn’t used to someone he couldn’t get a rise out of. “I see.” He looked to the floor deep in thought, going back to his desk. He propped himself against it before speaking again. “So, you claim you were nowhere near that saloon last night?”

“I ain’t sure of the street, but I was at some saloon yesterday behind the hotel these idiots dragged me out of.” Said idiots glared at Arthur, and he couldn’t stop himself from letting out an unimpressed laugh.

“That’s the one,” the marshal continued. “Yet you just said you weren’t there. Which is it?”

“I was there early afternoon. Left no later than four.”

“Ah. Just in time for you to meet my brother.”

Shit. “Heard about that, did you?”

The marshal was smiling again. “Word gets around quickly in this town, Mr. Callahan. Especially when a stranger manhandles one of its citizens.”

“I wouldn’t say manhandle,” Arthur mumbled, knowing no matter how innocent he was, this was starting to look bad.

“I would. From the state of my brother’s wellbeing after his run-in with you, I would say it was worse. A vendetta of sorts, ushered in by a nasty temper and brought to its unforgivable end by a second run-in with him later that night. Tell me, Mr. Callahan, what did he say to provoke you to such violence?”

Arthur didn’t like this one bit. The bastard was good at spinning stories and pointing blame, that was certain. But Arthur hadn’t done it. The only way of proving it, it seemed, would be to prove who had. And in a jail cell, that would be damn near impossible. So Arthur stalled. It was all he had left to do while he thought of a better plan.

“You ever met that brother of yours? Should come as no surprise I wanted to punch him. He insulted me three different ways before I could get a word in.”

The marshal’s face twitched with something Arthur didn’t recognize. He would say fury over the man’s late brother, but that weren’t it. Arthur knew fury well, and he would already be thrashing it around if someone had killed one of his brothers in arms.

“I know he was…difficult to take at times. He never did seem to know when to keep his mouth shut. But that is no means to kill a man.”

“And I didn’t,” Arthur said flatly. “Gave him a good crack on the nose, which was fully deserved, but nothing more. No more than any other man in that saloon wanted to give him just as well.”

Lawrence crossed his arms. “And what’s this I hear about you having someone else with you at the saloon? Where is he?”

Relief flooded Arthur a second time—no one seemed to know you were a woman. Well, he was pretty sure George Lawrence knew, but he wouldn’t be giving that information up anytime soon. And as for the bartender, Arthur just hoped he knew to leave well enough alone in that rough crowd he tended. That left the hotel owner who definitely knew and who had been there when the deputy stormed the room—why hadn’t he said anything about it then? Arthur was starting to suspect him more and more.

“He left town. Said he was headed out early this morning.”

“To where, exactly? And why not with you?”

“I was…preoccupied this morning,” Arthur said, his mind flashing with the sight of you on the bed. “Told him I’d catch up. He has family in the next town over we’re going to see about working for.”

“Preoccupied how?” the marshal asked, no doubt thinking it had to do with covering up a murder.

Arthur’s face remained deadly calm as he said with caution, “With a woman.” It was an easy enough explanation and also ironically truthful, but he didn’t want to bring you into this anymore than he had to.

Lawrence eyed one of his deputies. “See about that, would you, Deputy Gillard? You know the woman folk around here well enough. We’ll have to confirm your story as truth, of course.” This to Arthur.

“Of course,” he grimaced.

“What was her name?”

Arthur panicked all of a second before a smile curved his mouth. “Said she didn’t have a name. Nameless, she got me to call her.” Arthur had to keep the heat off his face when he thought of your real name, of what had come with the knowledge.

“Sounds like Dot Owens if you ask me,” the deputy said. “She’s always playing games like that.”

Lawrence eyed his deputy in disapproval before waving him away. “Go question her then. And Gillard? No funny business. You have a job to do.”

The deputy’s face turned red as a beet. “‘Course, sir.”

He was soon out the door, leaving Arthur with that much better a chance at escape.

The marshal rounded his desk and sat in his chair, letting out a long breath. “I just find it awfully convenient, as I’m sure my deputies here can attest, that you have such ironclad explanations for all of this. Explanations which, pardon my suggestion, seem fabricated to fit the bill.”

Yep. Definitely brothers with that silver-tongued idiot. Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth, Mr. Callahan. It would go a long way.”

Arthur scoffed a laugh. “I’m sure it would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

It was Arthur’s turn to sigh. “It means I am telling the truth, not that that’ll get me anywhere. It means you’ve done a fine job of pinning me with this without having any real reason to believe it was me besides me being the one person stupid enough to put that idiot brother of yours in his place.”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed on Arthur, though the man went unnaturally still. “Careful.”

Arthur pushed on, not caring if the man was riled or not. “It just seems convenient,” he said, quoting Lawrence, “that you paraded me around town getting me here, that you want this blame pinned on me so easily, not giving it any thought that it could be someone else. Almost like you want me framed, for all this to go away.”

Lawrence just stared. He stared so long Arthur wondered how violent the marshal could be with that supposed quick draw of his. But when he spoke again, it wasn’t to Arthur. “Foreman, Vaughn, go find someplace to be.”

Great. At least Arthur had his hands in the very likely case this turned ugly.

The deputies gawked at Lawrence. “But sir, you don’t mean to-”

“Go,” he demanded. “I’ll come calling when I need you.”

The reluctantly did as he said, stumbling out of the door one after the other. Only then did the marshal rise to his feet. “That’s a mighty claim to make.”

“Give me a better explanation, and I’ll go singing you praises. Until then, this feels pretty forced, Mr. Marshal.”

“Forced? You beat my brother’s face in. That makes you suspect number one.”

“And you seem a smart man, Marshal. Even you must know you have to consider all your options.”

Lawrence waved his hand through the air in dismissal. “Enough of this. I won’t indulge myself in the ravings of a guilty man.”

Arthur found a humorless smile crossing his face. “I ain’t guilty. You just don’t want to believe it. Why is that?”

Lifeless, coal-black eyes met his own, and Arthur knew the answer before the man could say it.

“It’s because it’s your brother, ain’t it? You want someone to swing for this. You have no way of knowing who it was, what with the man being one of the least-liked in town. You just want someone to pin it on, some way of someone paying for this.”

Surprisingly, the marshal’s temper didn’t flare, or it didn’t show if it did. “I want the man responsible for this brought to justice. This town is full of cowards, Mr. Callahan. I can tell by your words, you’re not one of them.”

“And you think that means I killed him?” Again, just words. More stalling.

“I do.”

“Well, I didn’t. And I ain’t the only non-coward in this town, Marshal. Tell me, why exactly did you send your deputies away?”

“Just what the hell are you implying?”

“You thought you’d what, rough me up a little in retaliation? Or worse, did you not want your deputies hearing what I had to say?”

The marshal’s jaw twitched. Now he’d struck a nerve.

“That’s it, ain’t it? Your precious reputation is all you have in this town. Would be a shame for your own men to suspect you of such negligence.”

Lawrence smiled, an evil-looking thing. “I’ll be happy to watch you swing, Mr. Callahan.”

Something finally clicked into place for Arthur. “I’m sure you will. Can’t talk if I’m dead, right? Just like dear old George.”

The marshal slammed a fist down on his desk. “That’s enough! I won’t be accused of such nonsense!”

“Accused? Why, I didn’t accuse you of nothing, Mr. Marshal. Unless you mean to say that I think you did it?”

That lethal calm settled over the man again, and he spoke dangerously low in response. “I would be extremely careful with what you say next.”

Arthur smirked. “That don’t sound like a denial.”

The marshal rounded his desk and stormed Arthur’s cell, pointing a finger at him as he yelled, “I won’t be made a fool of by the likes of a low-down criminal like you! Tell all the lies you want about me, but come morning, you’ll hang!”

The man barely came up to Arthur’s chin, and the effect of him looking up and waving that finger was about as non-threatening as a child throwing a tantrum.

Arthur grinned. “Interesting.”

“What?” Lawrence shouted.

“That’s what got you angry? Not all that talk about your brother?” Lawrence’s face fell, and Arthur took that to mean he was right. “You just seem awful calm around someone you claim killed your brother. That is, until I said you did it.”

The marshal looked stunned. His hand fell, and he backed away a slow step. Then his face soured like it had earlier, and he repeated, “I’ll be happy to watch you swing.”

“Because I’m the perfect cover-up? Because you killed your brother?”

He rounded, his anger coming back full force. “So what if I did? It doesn’t matter anyhow! My no-good brother isn’t here to plague this town or say otherwise anymore, and you’ll be put to death for it no matter the circumstance!”

Arthur couldn’t believe his luck. And how useless that luck was. The man before him was guilty as sin despite his high and mighty manner, but he was right about one thing—it wouldn’t matter a bit come morning. Arthur would hang for this man’s crime, and there was no amount of spewing the truth that would get this town to walk him down from the gallows. They would gladly watch, happy to have not one low-down reprobate gone, but two. And they would hail their marshal even higher than they had before.

Marshal Lawrence had sat in his chair once more, fuming at Arthur and throwing insult at him left and right. But Arthur had no words left, nothing more to bait the man with now that his guilt was exposed. So he stood there crestfallen, thinking, of all things, of you. Not of how death had finally come to call. Not of his gang. Of you, and of how much this would crush you. He hoped you had gotten out of town like he said, but he knew that stubborn streak in you that ran a mile wide and knew you were likely waiting to see what came of him. He couldn’t bear to think about the moment you heard his neck crack. You would turn into that shell of yourself again, and there would be no one there to save you this time.

Funny how life worked. Arthur was at death’s door, and the one person he cared about saving wasn’t himself. It was the person who had made him see why living mattered so much in the first place.

~

After lots of searching and your best attempts at remaining discreet, you had found the jailhouse. And you sat underneath one of its windows, listening in on every word the marshal said. Like how he had bribed the hotel owner into silence, and how he had shot his own brother in the head to keep him from tarnishing the family name any further. How Arthur was the perfect target. How, come ten in the morning, Arthur would hang for a crime he didn’t commit. You could hardly stand the sea of dread that resulted in you, threatening to drown you from within. But you would stand it. You owed him this. So you vowed to be ready at ten in the morning, rifle in hand.

You would save Arthur’s life even if it cost you your own.

_________

Chapter seventeen is here.

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445 @meet-me-backstage

[flippinpancakes64]

The Cullens at the Club

My requests are open if you have a silly scenario you want to see these fellers in!

Edward:

^ his face the whole time

jk jk

He only agreed to tag along so that he could keep you out of harm's way

Doesn't need to drink and doesn't want to

I feel like he would be silently judgemental if you have more than three drinks

He would hold your drinks while you go to the bathroom tho

His favorite part would be dancing with you

Of course he would prefer to do it somewhere that isn't so crowded...

But he makes do

Told himself beforehand that he wouldn't get into a fight with anyone

But if anyone were to touch you without you knowing...

He had to have a talk with Carlisle afterward about controlling anger around humans

8/10 club partner he would prefer to be home

Alice:

The BEST

She has some rave outfits she never gets to wear...

And one of them might happen to randomly be your size...

She's a little crazy I feel like she would love to let loose

They have to act human around humans all the time

But at the club?

No one there's gonna notice if you're ice cold, not blinking, not breathing, or if you look odd

They are there to party

And so is Alice

She thinks it's funny if you get drunk

She will take very good care of you but she will also take videos and pictures

I feel like she'd have a couple drinks just for the hell of it

Not like she would feel anything but she likes the color of the pretty drink <3

Another dance floor maniac

Literally tearing it up, cutting a rug, if you will

She has a blast

11/10 she's the life of the party

Jasper:

Hoe repellent

Mr freak over here is literally scaring the hoes

If anyone makes the mistake of bumping into him they are guaranteed to stay on the far side of the club for the rest of the night

Good thing you aren't here looking for someone because he is the opposite of a wingman

Poor guy is trying his damnedest not to freak out and kill someone

He only came with you because you begged that you really wanted him there

When he felt your fear at being in a club with men you don't know he agreed

He's lowkey (highkey) regretting it tho

The lights are too much, the music is too loud, there's too many people, the smell of blood is SO strong

If he was a human he would have passed out by now

Jumps at any opportunity to leave

You were dancing and stumbled a little?

Ok time to go home

A guy made eye contact with you for half a second?

That's enough, home time

Will need like 5-7 business days to recover

1/10 sorry

Rosalie:

She's not really into the club scene

She has always been more family-oriented after all

But she'll go just to hang out with you

Seeing all of the young couple is kind of bittersweet to her tho

It reminds her of what she can't have

She's a little mopey

But take her to the dance floor and she'll loosen up

I think her hidden talent is knowing literally every dance ever

She can break dance

Not that she would

But she could if she wanted to

She keeps it lowkey tho

She likes seeing you have fun

Is the perfect support when you're drunk and throwing up

Will hold your hair and get you water

She's a saint the day after if you got really drunk

7/10 sort of in the middle but extra points cause I think she's pretty <3

Emmett:

Oh lord

He was probably the one to suggest to go tbh

He gives me MAJOR frat boy energy

This man has taken his shirt off and jumped on a table to crowdsurf before you were even there for 10 minutes

Monster at beer pong tho

He's not that interested in the dance floor tho he's the one starting bar fights

He thinks it's funny when drunk guys try to fight

One time he started a 20 person fight and he just stood there watching

He got kicked out of course

And banned

And the police would have come if he hadn't left so quick and if the camera footage was better quality

When he's having a chill night tho he loves to parade you around

Again, will fistfight anyone who looks at you weird

"This guy bothering you?" *cue WWE elbow drive*

Overall he's similar to Alice in that he loves to let loose

They don't get to do it too often and he LOVES it

9/10 minus one point because he got you guys kicked out of your favorite bar

Carlisle:

I think he'd hate a normal club

He would love like a high-end bar tho

Like the ones where guys sit in big chairs and smoke cigars and play pool

He's old money what can I say

But if you insist on going he would go with you

Again just to ensure your safety

Mostly he's watching from the sidelines

He doesn't want to go into the crowd of people

Wouldn't really want to dance but he would do it anyway

Mostly he just sort of nags

"I think you might want to hold off on another drink for now"

"Maybe we should go get some fresh air to give your eardrums a break from this loud music"

"You've had a lot to drink maybe you should go to the bathroom"

Brings down the mood a little bit

8/10 extra points because he, again, is a saint the morning after

Esme:

She might be the only one who downright refuses

Don't get me wrong, she cares for you

But not enough to go to the club

She's just not a fan

It's not her scene

She knows who she is, what she likes, and where her priorities are

She would suggest going with someone else

She knows Emmett and Alice love it and would suggest you going with them

She would be there for you as soon as you get home tho

Nice, warm bath

Your favorite food

Comfy clothes

And the next morning your favorite food again along with some painkillers if that's what you need

I feel like I can't give her a rating since she doesn't go tho

So we'll say 0/0

Vampire! Bella:

She's unexpected

At first she'll insist that she doesn't want to go, that it will be too loud, etc.

But she caves eventually

And once she gets there she is a different person

Screaming with the music, dancing up a storm, literally insane

It's a good thing she can't get drunk cause you can't even begin to think what she'd be like then

Of course, she is still aware tho

If she sees you getting uncomfortable, a guy is being creepy, you've drank too much, she is instantly there

Won't fight a guy but she will yell at them

She's more likely to be sneaky tho

One time a guy was hitting on you so she told him off and then sneakily cut a hole in his jeans so the next time he bent over his pants ripped in half

Very memorable night

Solid 10/10 she's fun but also caring

[vaultie-and-theghoul]

Thank You for Holding Me

Lucy numbly followed the Ghoul, the last month playing on repeat. None of what happened had sunk in and she felt like a mind floating inside her body. Lucy knew from her Vault-Tec education that this was what they called dissociation. A classic symptom of PTSD. Well, maybe the ghoul was right. She just might one day turn into someone like him. Lucy's already aching stomach seemed to cramp in on itself, empty and angry.

"Watch your step sweetheart," the Ghoul said, voice kinder than she had ever heard, "I know you're all up in that head of yours, but if you fall and break yourself... Let's just say it wouldn't be good for either of us."

Lucy didn't have the energy to respond but nodded and refocused on her feet. Somehow her mind was still able to recount each brutal and devastating moment. A few times, Lucy swore she could hear the sounds that accompany her thoughts. Much to her stomach's dismay, Lucy had to stop and wretch a couple of times before they reached camp.

As they went through the motions of setting up camp, she noticed the Ghoul eyeing her when he thought she wasn't looking. Lucy had many questions for the man she was traveling with, but they could wait until morning. The Ghoul excused himself to check the perimeters and the second she was alone, silent tears streamed down Lucy's cheeks. It seemed like every thought was a scream and they blended one after another until all she could do was scream with it.

Lucy didn't realize she was screaming until the Ghoul returned, pistol drawn and eyes focused. She watched as he expertly assessed the situation, noting the lack of a threat as well as the tears streaming down her face. The Ghoul's face changed from focused to pity and Lucy wanted to be angry, but to her surprise, she instead felt seen.

Her screams had died the moment the Ghoul took a step towards her. Lucy knew she should be apprehensive, scared even, but she felt safe. Her heart pounded as the Ghoul lowered himself to his knees. He hesitated a moment, uncertainty clear in his eyes, before pulling her into his chest.

"Atta girl," the Ghoul shushed as he rubbed circles on her back, "You gotta let it all out before it eats you alive."

Lucy sobbed silently, tears and snot staining the Ghoul's shirt. Every time she tried to pull back and apologize, the Ghoul would shush her before pulling her back into his embrace. Eventually, Lucy slumped heavily against him, tears finally running dry. She took her time steadying her breath, in through her nose and out her mouth. Every deep inhale also contained the Ghoul's scent. She would have assumed he smelled rotten or musty, but the cowboy who held her smelled of gunpowder and leather. There was a hint of something else that lit her senses on fire. Without realizing it, Lucy leaned into the crook of his neck and inhaled again.

"You got a thing for smelling people sweetheart," the Ghoul asked with a chuckle.

Lucy pulled away, embarrassed by her thoughtless actions, "No, I'm sorry. I just couldn't place what I was smelling. It was mostly gunpowder and leather, but something else too."

The ghoul raised his brow, lips pressing together. She had stumbled upon a sore spot for the Ghoul.

"Anyway," Lucy said, changing the subject, "Thank you for holding me. You didn't have to."

"Course I did Vaultie," he said, eyes deathly serious, "You ain't my enemy anymore Miss MacLean. Out here in the wasteland, it's each feller for himself, unless you find someone worth teaming up with." Lucy was at a loss for words, chest going tight with emotions. "Now, stop thanking me and get some shut-eye. We will be heading out at dawn."

The Ghoul stayed with her until Lucy was tucked in her sleeping bag. She had interrupted his usual security routine, so he once again excused himself. This time, the quiet seemed less lonely. Even dogmeat padded over to her and laid heavily against her back. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Lucy felt safe with Dogmeat and the Ghoul. She watched the campfire flicker until her eyelids became heavy and she fell into a dreamless slumber.

Cooper returned to camp no longer than half an hour later. He treads quietly in case the Vaultie hasn't fallen asleep yet. Dogmeat lifted his head from his place lounging behind the girl, saw it was Coop, and laid back down with a sigh.

The Ghoul watched his little Vaultie sleep, face finally at peace. He hadn't liked seeing Lucy in such distress. When Coop heard her screams his whole body flooded with adrenalin like Jet on steroids. Prepared for a gunfight, there was a moment of relief when he realized there was no threat. That relief had just as quickly turned to pain when Cooper saw Lucy's face. Tears and snot poured down her face as she screamed bloody murder.

Cooper knew that feeling all too well. The cowboy shook his head, reaching down to tuck a lock of hair behind Lucy's ear, "Goodnight darlin'."

He gave Dogmeat a quick pat on the head before retiring to his sleeping bag. Cooper wouldn't sleep that night, but he would rest his weary eyes and daydream about the Vaultie snoring softly on the other side of the campfire.

AO3

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 15

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

“Hey F, could I get some of that dip? Someone threw all of my cans of Snus away when he confiscated my stuff.”

“Sure thang, handsome. Oh- you sure you need that much Stan? You’ve cold-turkey’d nicotine for weeks now.”

“I’ll be fine, stretch. It’s not like I haven’t done worse for less.”

(...)

“Fiddleford, is there a particular reason Stanley is under the table in the recovery position?”

“He tried too much chew all at once, he’s got the nic-sick.”

“Stanley, I told you that you needed to quit that nasty habit! This is precisely why I threw your tobacco products away when you came here.”

“Y’know this headache was bad enough without you yelling at me.”

“I cannot believe you enabled him.”

“Stanford, he's a grown man, he’s allowed to use nicotine if he wants to.”

“He can still hear you. And you know what? I don’t think you ever need to bitch at me about it ever again, Doc. I’m not touching the stuff again for a long time…”

“It’s for your own good.”

“PhD, next time you think about saying that I want you to remember I’m not above hitting a guy with glasses.”

(...)

“Stan, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven going on twenty-eight.”

“Do you remember when your birthday is?”

“Not the date, no. I know it’s late spring or early summer.”

“And I know your memories are hazy, but did you ever… celebrate it?”

“I think the last time I did was before I was on the streets. After that? There wasn’t a point, I was alone. Why do ya need to know, F?”

“I’m just checking is all.”

(...)

“Stanford, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“When is your birthday?”

“June 15th.”

“And if I remember correctly from BMU, you never celebrate it?”

“Last time I did I was seventeen.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I told you back then Fiddleford, I did not see a point, I was-...”

“Used to sharing it?”

“Why?”

“I’m just checking is all.”

(...)

“So each of these is supposed to be your, what, doctors cert?”

“Doctoral degree, and yes.”

“So you have a dozen of them?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Twelve whole PhDs? That’s pretty cool.”

“...You really think so?”

“Yeah, most people don’t even got one -  but you got one for each finger huh?”

“That’s not why I-. Well, yes, I suppose I do.”

“Stanford! Stan! I’m back, come over to the kitchen!”

“Do ya know what he left for?”

“He did not say.”

“Why’d he turn out the ligh-.”

“Surprise!”

*Stan and Ford stop at the entryway to the kitchen. Fiddleford is standing next to the table, which has a sheet cake and twenty-eight lit candles*

“...”

“Fiddleford, what is this?”

“I know you said you don’t see a point to your birthday, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh, it’s your birthday?”

“...Stanley. It’s not just my birthday.”

“Are you okay Stan? You’re looking spooked. I apologize if I put you on the spot-”

“N-No. I’m fine. It’s uhh- I don’t even know when my birthday is.”

“It’s today. We’re twins.”

“...”

“You still don’t believe-.”

“Wouldn’t, you know, the other guy, be upset?”

“There is no ‘other guy’, it’s literally you.”

“I’m- I don’t… I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Stanley, I understand you’ve stubbornly held onto the belief that I’m insane and trying to replace something I’ve lost-”

“The cake’s getting covered in wax here, fellers.”

“But I haven’t celebrated my birthday in a long time, because I’m used to sharing it. I am not trying to force you to, but I’m requesting you let me share it with you; I want to share it with you.”

“...Fuck it, I said I’d play along with your delusions until you got over it. Okay, PhD, I accept your offer. But I’m taking all of the corner pieces of the cake.”

“I can accept those terms.”

“Okay you two, I don’t think we got enough time to sing the happy birthday song before the candles melt themselves outta their wicks. So just blow ‘em out and make your wishes.”

(...)

“Hello, Dr. Stanford Pines speaking.”

“Stanford?”

“Hey Ma.”

“Happy birthday hon.”

“Thanks Ma.”

“Please tell me you celebrated your birthday this year. I know your last one couldn’t have been easy after-”

“I was busy with research last year. This year, yes I celebrated, I have… Company, this time.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Listen hon, I know it hasn’t been easy without Stanley since… the accident.”

“I’ve had more than enough time to think about it. I am not going to lie to you and say I’m not upset at all, but it’s been long enough that I have other things to concern myself with.”

“I just want you to know if things get too hard, don’t be afraid to talk to your old Ma again.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I love you, Stanford.”

“I love you too, Ma.”

To be continued…