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margowritesthings · 2 years ago

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The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night.

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?”

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck.

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The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.”

Oh wait, there it is.

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

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margowritesthings · 2 years ago

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THE MEANING OF THE SCAR

a RDR2 x Black Badge crossover

pairing: N/A for this chapter, will eventually be Arthur Morgan x reader word count: 2650 words warnings: spoilers for RDR2 ending, violence, Micah Bell, explicit language, major character death and subsequent resurrection, brief mentions of domestic violence YOU DONT NEED TO HAVE READ THE BLACK BADGE TO UNDERSTAND THIS SERIES, EVERYTHING IS EXPLAINED DURING THE STORY authors note: What's that, you say? You want a RDR x Black Badge crossover?? No??? WELL IM DOIN IT ANYWAY

The series that no one asked for tbh. If you haven't heard of the Black Badge, it's a wonderful series of books by Rhett C Bruno and Jamie Castle, where the audiobooks are narrated by Roger Clarke. This series puts Arthur in the shoes of the protagonist, who is doomed to hunt the supernatural to pay off his karmic debts. The prologue explains it a little better, so sit back and enjoy! There will be romance, there will be monsters, what more could you ask for?

BLACK BADGE ORIGNAL SERIES

PROLOGUE

I have seen so many incredible things.

Living on the land for as long as I have, you tend to. I’ve camped under the most breathtaking sunrises, that big orange orb scattering unimaginable colours over our poor souls as it creeps over the horizon. I've seen nature at its finest: baby deer learning to walk, wolves running together in tight packs not unlike us outlaws, even saw a little chick hatching once. Beautiful women from all around batting their long lashes at me, not even all of them because I was a prospective customer. I’ve been a lucky man, to have experienced so many sights.

Never did I think that the last thing I saw living on this Earth would be Micah Bell’s goddamn ugly mug.

The barrel of his gun was shaking in his tight grip, and I used the absolute last of my strength to keep my head up and look right down it.

“You’re not better than me, Morgan.”

Never claimed to be, but if I had more time, I might have argued it, the rat. But that was the thing… I didn’t have more time. I could tell, the simple act of breathing was becoming just too much. I might have gotten a few more days, if Micah hadn’t just knocked the seven bells of shit out of me and the last few days had been a little calmer, but such is life. Such is death, I should say.

After a wheezed cough was pushed out of me, I still managed to get one last jab in, as laboured and choked out as it was,

“Whatever you say, you fool.”

Everything hurt, and I could hear the clock ticking my final seconds out as Micah’s finger trembled on the trigger. He was mad, I could see the fury spreading across his face as he registered what I was choosing to do with my final words.

Maybe it was supposed to be the time for prayers, the time to have my life flash before my eyes while I count my regrets and mourn the things that will never happen, but there’d been enough of that ever since that doc told me my days were numbered. I hadn’t lived a good life, I wasn’t a good man, but I got some peace knowing my final hours were spent getting Marston and his family out safe, making sure Milton didn’t, and insulting the gang’s little pet rodent. If I had any regrets in that moment, they would only be that I didn’t manage any more permanent damage to Micah’s ugly ass mug before he got me. Actually, I might’ve wanted to die at dawn, to see one last sunrise, but mostly the Micah thing.

“Damn you…” he spat, the glow of the moon casting the most horrendous shadows from his twisted expression.

“Damn us both!”

And that was it.

A shot,

and it was all over.

No sunrise, no grand redemption in the last few minutes of my damned life…

Just me, the moon, and goddamned Micah Bell.

═══════☆═══════

I never expected I’d get into Heaven, but I never thought it’d be so goddamn dark down here in Hell.

I stirred as if waking up from a fitful sleep filled with nightmares involving Micah shooting me in the face, and even though my eyelids flew open, there was no light to speak of. There was a crushing weight on my chest, and a burning behind my right eye. What felt like dirt fell into my face with each little movement, and suddenly it all fit together, forming a terrifying reality of my predicament.

It wasn’t a dream. Micah fuckin’ Bell had shot me. Tuberculosis ran ragged through my veins and filled my lungs, I’d been captured, hung in an O’Driscoll camp and tortured for information, hell, I’d been shipped off to goddamn Guarma with nothing but the shirt of my back… and in the end the sorry sight to end my story was a rat with a revolver.

The dirt fell in my eyes relentlessly, so much so I had to close them again. It wasn’t like they were being much use anyway, what with me being buried alive and all. Moving my limbs was hard, but not impossible, I found, giving me hope that I wasn’t too far down in the ground. I never thought I’d hope for a shallow grave, but then again I couldn’t have predicted waking up in one either. None of it made much sense, but I reckoned it’d probably be best if I got back out into open air before figuring out why I couldn’t feel my toes, why breathing felt so strange and unnecessary, or how I’d survived a gunshot to the head.

I started with small movements, flexing my numbed fingers in and out until there was enough room to ball them into fists. I would have shouted for help, if I could, but I knew all I’ll get from it is a mouthful of dirt. I’d have to do this alone, it would seem.

The movement spread from fists to arms, the dirt starting to mould around me until it didn’t feel so crushing anymore, and I was soon clawing upwards. I dared to squint one eye open, finding small holes of light poked through the blanket of nothingness like stars. I felt triumphant when I reached upwards into open air, but it was short lived when I failed to feel the wind or the breeze or the sun or anything to let me know this wasn’t all some death dream.

I pressed on, scraping at the skies until big patches of the Earth fell apart around my body and I could pull myself out of my grave. The sun beat so brightly that I couldn’t help but continue to squint, trying to make out my surroundings. It was dawn, ironically. I always assumed Hell’s skies would hold a lot more fire in them, but the blue hues and yellow rays were anything but hellish. They were beautiful, a sight I was sure I’d never see again.

After my eyes adjusted, I made out the tombstone standing above my grave, a handcrafted wooden cross with my name scratched into the centre. Folk aren’t usually lucky enough (or unlucky enough, I hadn’t yet decided) to see their own graves, and yet here I was. Why? Was this truly Hell, looking over the sunrise while I was damned to sit by my own grave and wait for no-one to mourn me?

‘Blessed Are Those Who Mourn, For They Will Be Comforted’

It was my epitaph, carved into the circle surrounding my name. I hoped it was true. I didn’t know how long I’d been buried, but I didn’t want anyone sitting around crying over me. I hoped I’d done enough, in those last few hours, and that the ones I loved, whoever was left of them, anyway, made it out okay.

I pushed myself up out of the grave, dusting off the mud that clung to me and standing straight despite the complaints of my aching back. I looked over the hill, over what looked an awful lot like Ambarino.

“Beautiful, ain’t it? I tell you, that friend of yours picked a good spot. Shame you’ll get no rest here.”

I froze, my spine straightening on instinct as the voice behind me confirmed that I was in fact in Hell. Even after looking Death in the face and calling him a fool, it still took me a moment to turn and face my father.

I expected anger to course through my veins, for my fists to ball and fury to burn over my skin the first time I saw him after all these years, but it didn’t. I looked my Daddy straight in his cold, dead eyes, and nodded to him. He did the same.

“Pa?”

“Fraid so.”

I was almost too dumbfounded to realise what he was sitting on. Who he was sitting on, I should say. Boadicea stood as tall and as beautiful as that last day we spent together in Blackwater. The sight could have taken my breath away, if I had any.

I wanted to step closer, to pat my girl on the neck and feel to make sure she was really there, but I wasn’t ready to move just yet.

“What… What the hells goin’ on?”

Daddy dearest chuckled, probably at my ironic choice of wording, and Boadicea stomped a foot on the ground. Despite everything, all I wanted to do was to get Lyle Morgan off my horse, but there’d be time for it.

“You’re dead, son. Nasty shot to the head, though you put up a good fight.” He said it like he was recounting the most mundane story ever told, not breaking the news that his only son had died. I considered his words, finding a strange peace with them all.

“...This Hell?” It had to be, right? There’s no other way he could be here, not with the way he treated me and Ma. I dreaded to think what Boadicea could have done to deserve an afterlife with him, but it made more sense than both of us fools being let into the pearly gates upstairs everyone always goes on about.

Pa chuckled again, clearly finding my demise much more casual news than I, “To some, but not in the way you’re thinkin’ of it. I’ve got some bad news, boy.”

“Worse than my death?” It was annoying me, how elusive and blasé he was being about everything, dragging this out for longer than he needed while holding the cards right up close to his chest. He knew what was going on, and yet there he was, sitting on Boadicea like he owned whatever goddamn realm we were in. Surely this was Hell, having this conversation with the man who beat me into who I am today. Who I was, before karma caught up with me and shot me in the face.

“Depends on how much you were lookin’ forward to it.”

My teeth ground together as the frustration at his evasiveness built. He must’ve sensed it, as he dismounted Boadicea and patted her on the neck. It threw me more than it should, watching the man I’d left long behind me interacting with my beloved Boa.

He stood just as tall as the day I watched him hang, the only difference being a nasty scar that wound around his neck and made me dread to think what I might look like. It was like looking at a ghost. Well, I guess I was looking at a ghost.

“You’re still here, Arthur. On Earth. Seems you did just enough good there in the end that they didn’t know what to do with you. Too bad to make it to the upstairs, too good to burn in Hell… for now.”

“Earth? But… I’m… we’re-“

“Dead? Yeah. But you’re stuck here, doin’ their bidding.”

He was running his fingers over Boadicea’s mane, and she shook her head in response. She seemed like she wanted his hands off her as much as I did, but I had to find out what was going on first.

“Bidding? Who’s bidding? Can you just be straight with me for one damn minute-“

“Patience, boy.” He snapped, bringing out one of Boadicea’s signature annoyed huffs, “The White Throne’s bidding. You’re theirs now. You do as they say, or you end up in a far worse position than you’re in now.”

I felt like I needed to sit down, but unless I was going to climb back in that grave, there was nowhere to rest.

“I… I don’t understand.”

Lyle sighed, turning fully towards me and hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

“The White Throne have chosen you to be a Black Badge, Arthur. You’re not alive, nor are you fully dead. You work for them until they decide they’re done with you, and then…”

“And then?”

“Well… I ain’t sure, truth be told, boy. I never got as far as you, I’m just here to pass the message on.”

None of it made any sense, and I had no idea who this White Throne was. Dad didn’t seem to have the answers, nor did he seem inclined to give them to me even if he did. It was then I noticed that my heart should be pounding out of my chest. Instead, it felt hollow, the anxiety of my situation bouncing around an empty can of nothing.

So this was really happening…

“They’ll call on you when they need you with this,” he turned, rummaging through Boadicea’s saddle bag and handing me a journal. It looked exactly like the one I gave to Marston just before I died, the one I collected my thoughts and sketches in, only when I flicked through the pages, they were all blank.

“Keep an eye on it, it’ll tell you what you need to do, who to look for, or where to go.”

“What am I, a goddamn undead bounty hunter?”

He laughed, a proper hearty laugh that would’ve made my skin crawl had I not been so occupied with the confusion of it all.

“You could say that. But you’re not just after anyone, they’ll send you off to the supernatural stuff. Vampires, werewolves, demons, that sort. You’ll get the hang of it.”

I was so stuck on the whole supernatural thing that I hardly noticed him step towards me, slapping a hand onto my shoulder. I froze, but not because my father had touched me for the first time in decades, but because I couldn’t feel a damn thing.

He must’ve seen the shock on my face, cause his brows pulled together in a pitiful look, “Ah, yeah… there’s some side effects to death, son. But I’m sure you’ll figure that one out.”

‘Side effects’ was a light way of putting it. I’d later find out that we unlucky few in the Black Badge have a fair few impediments. I can’t feel. Not the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the touch of another, not even the burn of a good whiskey. I don’t feel pain, which can be helpful at times I guess. I can’t taste anything, either. It’s a unique punishment, to be stuck walking the earth but not really living, having no access to those simple pleasures in life like a stiff drink or the touch of a pretty lady. If I’d have known what was waiting for me at the end of all this, well… maybe I’d have made some different choices.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

I glanced to my shoulder, finding Dad’s hand still there. He must’ve sensed my discomfort, removing his touch- or lack thereof- from me.

“You’ll get the hang of it, son.”

If I weren’t so preoccupied with my new lot in life (or death, I should say), now would have been the perfect time to confront the man who stood beside me. Ask him why he did what he did, get some answers for every question my teenage self tortured himself with while he wandered the streets for somewhere to stay for the night. But when I turned, he was gone, without a single trace to suggest he was ever there in the first place. Seems I’d gotten all the information out of him I was entitled to.

That left me and Boadicea, standing beside an empty grave I wasn’t sure anyone would have visited anyway.

I sighed, finally stepping towards her and patting her neck in that spot she always loved.

“Well girl, guess this is it for a while…”

I looked down to the journal in my hand, just in time to see inky black writing appear on the page as if bleeding through the realms.

‘Welcome to the Black Badge, Arthur Morgan.’

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