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zepskies · 11 months

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Never Say Goodbye - Bonus Track #2

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (18+)

AN: Did I say two parts? I meant three lol. (It got too long, I’m sorry.)

Word Count: 4,300 Tags/Warnings: Angst, supernatural shenanigans, death…

Bonus Track #2: One Last Hunt

“Okay, try not to panic,” Sam said. Dean had him on the phone while he sped through town in the Impala.

“I’m coming now, but I won’t get there for a few hours,” Sam said. “My flight leaves in 20 minutes.”

“Thanks, man, but I can’t afford to wait,” Dean said. “She fucking disappeared. I don’t see her anywhere…I’m gonna have to start at her job. That’s where she first took off from.”

“How did she seem this morning?”

“Fine, I guess. I left before she woke up,” Dean said. He still felt guilty about the fact that he didn’t bother waking you up to say goodbye.

“Okay, yeah, start at the museum,” Sam said. “Let me know what you find, and I’d loop in Bobby. Probably Jack too.”

“Bobby’s meeting me there…but we don’t need to bring in Jack yet.”

“Dean, he’s her dad—”

“This isn’t his thing. It’s ours,” Dean said firmly. “If it’s a demon, I’m gonna find her and exorcize that son of a bitch.”

Sure enough, Bobby met Dean at the museum where you worked. The old man was worried, Dean could tell, even if he wouldn’t say it. But he knew the drill: now they had a job to do.

“I’ll go in first, flash my badge,” Dean said. “Meet me in the library.”

“Roger that,” Bobby agreed.

Dean had a decent rapport with your boss, Jerry. When he explained that you were actually missing, Jerry was concerned for your wellbeing instead of irate that you’d taken a very valuable book from the museum.

It gave Dean a theory to lie about on the fly: that you’d been mugged and taken hostage, presumably by someone who might’ve wanted to steal the ancient text.

“How ancient are we talking exactly?” Dean asked.

Jerry gave him a look. “Ancient Egypt.”

He showed you the inventory log on the new shipment you were supposed to compile into the system. The title missing from the rest was called The Eye of Ra.

“All right. Thanks, Jerry,” Dean said. “Anything else you can tell me about this book?”

“It’s a recording of the great deeds of the Ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses,” Jerry explained. “It was said to be touched by Ra himself.”

Touched by Ra, Dean mused. Ain’t that just fucking swell.

Whatever happened to you, Dean knew it was because you touched that book.

For the next few hours, Dean and Bobby worked together on deeper research in the library. Now that they had a starting point, Bobby was able to find some intel.

“The Eye of Ra was actually a nickname,” he said, earning Dean’s attention. “For Sekhmet, their goddess of war.”

Dean’s brows furrowed at that. “Why’s it never the goddess of peace and fucking tranquility?”

“Among other things, she was the daughter of Ra,” Bobby said, raising a wry brow. “And she was known as the bringer of plagues and death…and sometimes healing. Go figure.”

Fucking hell, Dean thought sourly. This was getting worse by the minute.

“Okay, what does this have to do with the book?” he asked. Though he had some idea.

“Well, she ain’t been alive in a millennium. But she had a husband. The god Ptah, a craftsman,” Bobby said. “According to this, when he was eventually killed, she sealed her soul away until she could find a way to rescue him from the underworld…I’ve gotta think she sealed it in that book.”

Dean sighed, rubbing the now aching spot between his brows. An ancient Egyptian goddess was most likely possessing his fiancé.

And it was much worse than it sounded on paper.

“Okay, which means she’ll be looking for a way to bring back her husband,” he said. “So how do we find her?”

Just then, the police radio buckled to Dean’s belt sounded off. When he listened closely, his eyes grew wide. It was a report of five murders committed at a nearby gas station.

Dean pulled up to the local 7-Eleven. Bobby was on the way, but he’d been caught up in traffic while Dean was allowed to use his police siren to his advantage.

He then used his badge clearance to get behind the yellow tape and over to Jack, who was still on duty.

Dean stepped inside the gas station and surveyed the brutal scene: the nice old man who owned the place, plus four patrons were lying dead.

Their skin was covered with boils.

Jack wore a disconcerted frown along with his crossed arms in his police jacket.

“It’s almost…biblical,” he remarked.

Dean knew just how right he was. Jack seemed to know that too when he glanced over.

“Is this your kind of thing?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “I might know what’s going on here. Let’s check the security footage…but no one else can see it but you and me.”

Jack nodded, leading Dean to the back of the store. Jack was shocked by what he found in the footage. Dean watched grimly, but not surprised as you came into the frame. You tilted your head at the owner, who seemed to ask you something.

You raised a hand, and with a flare of magic, everyone in the station was cowering and screaming as a plague of boils covered their bodies, and eventually ended their lives.

“Christ,” Jack gasped. “What the hell—”

“It’s not her,” Dean told him. “She’s being possessed. I’ll handle this, Jack. Just make sure this footage gets buried, along with whatever prints she might’ve left behind.”

Jack barely had time to agree. As if that kind of thing was so easy. He called after Dean as he took off out of the station.

Dean didn’t see Bobby yet when he got outside, but he didn’t have time to wait.

However, he did spot someone familiar hanging out in front of the department store across the street. Dean jogged across and raised a hand to flag down Jessie Deluca.

The kid was gnawing on what looked like a melting Butterfinger. He groaned in annoyance when he saw Dean coming.

“Not you again,” he muttered.

“Yeah, me again,” Dean said. “You been standing out here long?”

“Look, grandpa. I’m just chillin’ here,” the kid sassed. It sparked Dean’s irritation, as well as his impatience.

“I don’t give two shits if you’re contemplating the great Butterfinger Heist of 2008, all right?” Dean pointed back to the gas station. “You see that?”

Jessie’s expression faded from some of its assholeness, becoming more solemn. “Yeah, I heard someone died or something.”

“That’s right,” Dean nodded. “Did you see anyone walk out of the station?”

“No,” Jessie said. But Dean could tell it was a reflex, not the truth.

“Listen, Jessie. I need your help,” he said, more earnestly. “I’m trying to find someone. So if you know anything, I need you to tell me right now. Please.”

Dean stared down in the kid’s brown eyes. Eventually, Jessie relented.

“When I came out of the store here, I saw some business lady walk out. I think, after it had all just gone down,” Jessie confessed. “She looked fine.”

Dean sighed and nodded. “Okay. What’d she look like?”

“Uh…black skirt. Great legs,” Jessie said, his lips curving a little. Dean raised a brow.

“Anything else?” he asked wryly.

“White blouse, heels…actually, she kinda looked familiar,” Jessie added as he thought harder about it.

“Good. Now tell me what direction she went in,” Dean said. Jessie nodded and pointed him down the street.

“I think she went down there. I saw her turn the corner.”

“Where? What street?”

“Dude, I don’t know!”

“Then show me,” Dean insisted. He grabbed Jessie by the shoulder and guided him forward. The kid looked annoyed, but he begrudgingly agreed to lead him down the street. The two of them walked brusquely, with Jessie trying to match Dean’s longer strides.

Dean glanced over at his companion, who was still working on his Butterfinger.

“When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t covered in chocolate?” he asked. Jessie didn’t look at him when he shrugged. His winter jacket hung off his skinny shoulders, making him look ten rather than thirteen. Dean’s heart twinged.

“Listen, next time you’re itching to knock over a department store for KitKats, come by the station,” Dean said. “Find me or my partner Jody Mills. Or even my boss, Jack. We’ll get you a burger or something.”

Jessie briefly looked up at him, but all too soon, his gaze returned to the ground.

“What do you care?” he said.

“Maybe I know something about having to fend for yourself,” said Dean. “Sometimes going hungry, not knowing when somebody’s gonna come back for you.”

Jessie’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer, but Dean hoped he’d gotten through to him.

Jessie led him around the corner at the street he thought he saw you turn down. He and Dean didn’t have to walk too much farther before he found you through the window of a bakery, of all things.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered.

He pulled Jessie to the wall by the window for safety, but both of them snuck a peek inside.

You were once again wielding magic to spread a plague of boils across an entire room of screaming, agonized patrons just trying to get their donuts and cream pies.

Jessie started to utter a cry of alarm, but Dean quickly covered the kid’s mouth with his hand and pulled him back to his side. Dean waited, stock still, until the screaming inside the bakery subsided.

He looked down at Jessie and raised a finger to his lips. Though he was scared, Jessie nodded. Dean led him around the corner into an alley beside the bakery.

“What…the fuck was that?” Jessie hissed.

“Keep your voice down,” Dean warned.

Then suddenly, it donned on the kid as he looked up at Dean. “Oh, shit. That’s your freakin’ girlfriend.”

Dean let out a sharp sigh. “It’s not her…exactly.”

He knew Jessie didn’t understand. Dean sighed again and grasped Jessie’s shoulders.

“Look, you’re right to be scared. There’s something evil in there…that’s why I’ve gotta save her,” he said. “Now you, you’re gonna run. And don’t look back until you’re home, got it?”

After a moment, Jessie nodded shakily. Dean nodded back, patting him firmly on his shoulders.

“Good man,” he said. “Okay, scram.”

Jessie seemed reluctant, like he felt some type of way about leaving Dean behind. But at Dean’s encouraging look, Jessie took off running. Dean hoped he headed straight home.

Then, rolling his shoulders, Dean braced himself. He drew his gun, which was filled with silver bullets. He didn’t think it would work on an Egyptian goddess, nor did he want to pull a gun on you. But for the threat of it alone, he would have to draw it with the safety on.

He entered the bakery, where you were perusing the selections with a dispassionate look. All around you was death.

But you perked up when Dean entered, eyeing him curiously in recognition.

“Feelin’ a snack?” he asked.

“I have been asleep for a very long time,” you replied, holding up a pastry. “What is this confection?”

“Cherry Danish,” Dean supplied. “You’re Sekhmet, right?”

Your lips twitched. “You know of me?”

“I do now,” he said, carefully stepping further into the bakery with his gun pointed down, avoiding stepping on the bodies. He noticed the book you left closed on the counter. The goddess saw him noticing. Her gaze cut to him in amusement.

“Why’d you kill these people?” Dean asked. “Didn’t bow down at the right angle?”

“Among all of my brothers and sisters, I alone was favored by my father,” she said, “because my job was to balance the world, between life and the afterlife.”

Sekhmet brushed her fingers against a glass case, and with a small spark of magic, the glass cracked into thousands of fractals, but didn’t shatter.

“And I did exceedingly well at this,” she said. “Though I see that my work has been undone. This world is rife with imbalance.”

“Mass genocide. Nice,” Dean quipped. “But that’s not all you want, is it?”

Sekhmet’s head tilted at him with reluctant interest.

“I heard you’re looking for your husband, who went an offed himself,” he added.

The goddess’s lips pursed and she slapped a hand on the glass counter, making it shatter. Dean turned and shielded his eyes with his arm. By the time he recovered, Sekhmet was coming around the counter. He took a few cautious steps in the opposite direction.

“My husband was unjustly slain by the very people who once worshipped us in droves,” she said, her tone exacting and harsh. Her eyes, however, were heavy with fury and pain.

“He was an artist. A creator in purest form…his talents were wasted on this abomination of a world,” she said, with disgust at her surroundings. But as soon as her anger came, it diffused into exasperation.

She picked up a glazed donut and took a bite, crossing her arms. She hummed in delight, making Dean’s brows raise.

“Well, I can help you find him,” Dean said. It was a bluff, to be sure, but it still earned Sekhmet’s attention.

“Can you?” she asked in amusement. She didn’t believe him. Yet. But she drew closer to Dean, tilting her head just so. All the while, Dean inched towards the far end of the counter where The Eye of Ra had fallen to the ground.

“And after, you let my girl go,” he said.

“You know of a way to reach the Underworld?” Sekhmet’s gaze roamed over him in disdain. “Unlikely.”

“Well, I’d call it a gate to Hell. But same difference, right?” Dean quipped.

The second he tried to reach down for the book, however, Sekhmet pinned him in place with a vibrant amber coil of magic. Dean grunted as she forced him to the ground, onto his knees between the bodies of a young man and woman, likely a couple.

The goddess stopped in front of him, looking down at his face with interest.

“Dean Winchester, as you are called. I understand why you continue to display such reckless judgment, all but throwing your very life at my feet,” she said. Her lips curved knowingly. “I hold your lover, correct?”

She harshly grabbed his cheek in her hand, and Dean glared in response. She seemed to ponder something as she considered him.

“Soon to be your wife,” she realized.

And Dean had a feeling she was in your head, sorting through your thoughts and memories like any demon would. He didn’t know what was worse: the thought of you being awake in there, unable to fight this bitch’s hold, or if Sekhmet had completely taken over your body and shut you away.

“Just let her go,” Dean said, almost pleading. “You can have me. I won’t even fight you.”

“Such self-sacrifice,” she said. “The only noble act humans are capable of.”

Before she could decide whether to kill him, or keep him for further amusement, the front door of the bakery swung open.

Bobby came in first, followed closely by Sam and Eileen.

Bobby was holding a damn crossbow, which he aimed and shot off at Sekhmet. It was a warning shot, just grazing her shoulder. But it burned her with a sting of flesh that made her hiss in pain. She glared up at Bobby, and after grabbing the book before Sam could, she disappeared in a whirlwind of magic.

The coil holding Dean in place shattered, allowing Dean to catch his break and get to his feet, with Sam’s help. Dean had to admit, it was good to see his brother.

“You okay?” Sam asked. Dean reached over and pat the other man’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” he said, though with a sigh that belied his weariness. “Hey, Eileen. Thanks for making it to the party.”

The pretty brunette offered him a sympathetic smile, rubbing his arm. “We came as soon as we could.”

Dean nodded and turned to Bobby, who still held his crossbow. He wasn’t happy about the old man shooting at you, but he recognized that it had saved his life.

“Why’d that thing hurt her?” he asked.

“The arrow’s dipped in a potent mix of salt from the Dead Sea…and Egyptian wine, among other things,” Bobby replied.

Dean frowned in confusion. “Why the fuck?”

“According to the lore, Sekhmet could be subdued with alcohol,” Sam explained.

“Great, we’ll just get her drunk and all our problems will be solved,” Dean quipped dryly. He grabbed the radio from his belt. His gaze returned to the dead bodies on the floor with dismay.

“I’ve gotta call this in. Bobby, get the security tapes.”

After Dean finished calling in the deaths to his precinct, he shared a disheartened look with Sam, who grasped his shoulder in support.

“We’re gonna find her, all right?”

They regrouped at Bobby’s house once Jack took over at the bakery. Now the three men and Eileen were congregated in the living room, trying to decide on their next move.

“You told her about the Hell gate?!” Sam said incredulously.

“Damn it, Dean!” Bobby slapped the coffee table in exasperation.

“All right, lay off! I was improvising under fucking duress,” Dean snapped. “At least we know where she’ll probably go next, assuming she finds out where the gate is.”

“She’s a goddess, Dean. One of the oldest and most powerful in ancient history. I’m sure she can figure it out,” Sam said, rubbing at his tired eyes.

And, as Dean remembered, Sekhmet was rooting around in your head. She’d find the gate for sure.

Eileen looked between the brothers, clearly worried. Sam had told her about what you, him, and Dean had gone through to close that damn gate to Hell last year.

“So how do we stop her?” Dean asked. Without hurting you, was implicit. Bobby heaved a sigh.

“We gotta burn that damn book,” Bobby said. “But we’ll need to be smart about it.”

So that was how the four of them ended up driving to southern Wyoming. They stopped along the crossroads by the train tracks, and ventured in on foot into the very clearing where their final battle against Yellow Eyes took place.

Dean thought he’d be able to put his past behind him, but the universe clearly liked to kick him in the balls.

Evidence of this came when he saw you standing at Samuel Colt’s gravestone. Or rather, the goddess Sekhmet.

She was expending large forces of magic to try and open up the gate to Hell. The book that bound her soul lied on top of a nearby headstone.

Dean gestured for Sam, Eileen, and Bobby to hang back and fan out, while he stalked forward. He’d changed out of his police uniform in favor of his familiar jeans, shirt, and a red plaid shirt, hoping that at least would help you focus on him, wherever you were deep inside your mind.

But he called out to Sekhmet from a (relatively) safe distance away.

“Are you stupid or something?” he mocked.

Sekhmet paused in her magic wielding. She craned her head over her shoulder at him in annoyance, with amber rings illuminating her eyes.

“There’s only one thing that can open up that gate, and I’ve got it right here,” said Dean.

He pulled out the Colt from behind his back.

Sekhmet’s gaze narrowed on the gun, then at Dean with a slow smirk.

“Why, by the gods, should I trust your foolishness?” she asked.

“Because we’re about to make a trade,” Dean said. “The gun for my girl. You let her go, or you’ll never see your husband again. In this world, or the next.”

Dean pointed the gun at her and cocked the safety back. She didn’t have to know the barrel was empty.

“You cannot harm me, even if there was ammunition in that weapon,” Sekhmet replied knowingly.

She turned to him and reached out with a magic-fueled hand, but before she could grab Dean, Sam shot his own gun.

It deployed a net of rope that twined around her frame and held her in place. It was soaked with the same concoction Bobby shot her with in the bakery, and it made her fume with outrage.

It didn’t completely weaken her though. Her hands were still free to fling Sam and Bobby away from her with magic.

She then turned to grip Eileen, who was nearly able to steal the book. And the goddess sent Eileen across the clearing, breaking a headstone as she fell.

Sam had been trying to pick himself up from the ground, but he gripped at his chest, feeling his soulmate’s pain. He scrambled over to her prone form on the ground and checked the cut along her hairline.

“Eileen,” Sam called, pressing his hand to her cheek. He had one eye on her, and another on his brother.

Because meanwhile, Sekhmet had broken free of the ropes holding her captive with a cry of fury.

Just in time to grab Dean by the throat when he tried to surprise her from behind. She forced him down to his knees and smirked in satisfaction as Dean struggled against her hold.

He called your name, trying to reach you through the goddess’s hold on your mind.

“She is gone from this world,” Sekhmet taunted. “This is but a vessel for my eternal soul.”

“I don’t fucking believe that,” Dean choked. “If she was gone, I’d know it. Deep in my bones I’d know it.”

Her mouth twitched, but she seemed to enjoy the idea of slowly choking him to death. Or maybe, something was holding her back. Dean could only hope it was you, trying to break through.

He looked into your eyes and tried to find you through the cold disdain of a goddess.

“Whatever happens, I’m not letting go,” he gritted out. He held tight to your wrist, on the hand wrapped around his throat.

“I love you, you know that?” he said. “From the start…you closed the door in my face when I tried to kiss you. Teased me. Never took my shit. But you never left me either. No matter how hard it fucking got, you kept my feet on the ground. You never called it quits…‘cause we never say goodbye. Right, baby?”

Slowly, slowly, Sekhmet’s hard exterior faded. The amber rings of magic receded from your eyes, and the woman he loved was there again, softening your face into shock and horror.

You released your grip on Dean. He stumbled to the ground as he coughed and gasped for precious oxygen.

He straightened enough to grab your hand. You reached out for him instinctively.

“Dean,” you said with shaking effort.

“I’ve gotcha, sweetheart,” he said. He turned back to see his brother helping Eileen to her feet. “Sam, the damn book!”

Sam snapped to attention and quickly looked for The Eye of Ra. It had been knocked over from the headstone onto the ground. He grabbed it and fished out a lighter from his pocket.

Dean’s attention turned back to you when you squeezed his hands.

“I can’t hold her for long,” you said tremulously. Your whole body was shaking. “She’s so damn strong…”

“It’s okay, we’re gonna fix this,” Dean said, brushing your hair back from your face.

You closed your eyes and gasped. But when you opened them once again, they were hard, and glowing with magic.

Sekhmet tossed Sam away from the headstone.

Dean tried to hold her back, but she backhanded him hard. Sekhmet followed where he fell. She reached out and gripped him by the neck again, this time choking him with a vengeance.

But then she gasped, as if in pain. She turned her head and found Sam with the book in one hand, and a lit match in the other. As the book started to burn, Sekhmet weakened.

Dean caught her before your body could hit the ground.

Sekhmet released a shaking breath; she gazed into the dimming sky, painted in its golden, amber hues, and knew that her soul was dying. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

Dean almost felt sorry for her. Or maybe it was the sight of your pained, weeping face that tugged at his heartstrings.

“You’ll just have to join your husband this time,” he said.

Sekhmet’s lips trembled, but she nodded. “This world was never made for us…but we shall soon be together for all eternity.”

She looked up at him with a rueful smile.

“You understand,” she said. “A soul bond can never be destroyed.”

And with that, the haze of magic drained from your eyes as your body went limp.

Dean’s brows furrowed with worry as he called your name. Behind him, Sam helped Eileen draw near with a limping Bobby. All three watched with worry at Dean’s side…until your eyes opened, revealing their natural hue.

You took in a tremulous breath. “Dean.”

His eyes burned with emotion, but he closed them as he held you tight. All he could do was press his lips against your forehead in relief.

You clung to him right back, for as long as you needed to.

AN: Fun fact — According to Egyptian mythology, the only thing that could stop the goddess Sekhmet from ending humanity with bloodshed was by getting her drunk on beer, which had been dyed red to simulate blood (which she also liked to drink, apparently).

Egyptians (the survivors) would drink beer mixed with pomegranate juice and get drunk to celebrate not being killed dead. (Woo!)

Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed Part 2! All the fluff is coming in the finale of Part 3, very soon…

Next Time:

Dean brings you home. The two of you figure out how to move on from here...

Keep Reading: Bonus Track #3

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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moodymisty · 5 months

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Alright I gotta represent for us in the Rogal Dorn Simp Nation, Misty! This idea fell directly on my head from my old history nerd childhood, we’ve got stories of queens holding down the fort and being badass while the king is away so why not let the lady of the House of Dorn and the Imperial Fists kick some ass??? Dorn’s off doing y’know crusade shit etc etc and gets a frantic vox hail from Inwit (or whatever fortress world she was on) that they’re under attack. Luckily he’s done with whatever his assignment was or has somebody he can trust and leave it to so he can flip Phalanx in reverse and hop back to make sure nothing goes wrong. Only to find his beloved commanding the standing force of guardsmen and marines, not just holding it down but WINNING. On the outside he’s his usual stoic self like “psh yes of course I wasn’t worried, I never worry, this is something I expect her to be able to handle. I am proud tho” but internally he’s like “oh no this is hot” XD. Indomitable warrior queen decked out in armor he probably commissioned for her (always gotta be prepared) making battle plans and laying the verbal smack down on any captains or commissars who are questioning the competency of somebody ROGAL GODDAMN DORN chose to be with. Yeah I think that’d do a whole lot for him 😂

Having soft moments of reflection on his humanity matched against his beloved’s is delicious of course but so is meeting him where HE’S at, seeing how loving him and learning about him would change somebody. And getting to commit some grand old grimdark 40k VIOLENCE is always fun lol

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: We are on the front lines for Wall Husband I will go down with this ship. Boring this bland that fuck everyone else we're right I'm stacking bricks around them

Summary: Stuck in a violent snowstorm on an Imperial Fist controlled planet being sieged, you take command for the first time while waiting for Dorn.

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dorn is your future husband and Alexis Polux is your battle husband it's like a work husband but much more violent, Mentions of battle and death, Typical 40kness, I think I blacked out while writing this I'm sorry

Word Count: 2566

You had known from the very beginning of your courtship that Dorn had wished for you to be a link in his chain of command.

What you hadn't expected, was for your first time in leadership to be completely alone, surrounded by no less than fifty Astartes waiting for orders, and five hundred or more Guardsmen half frozen due to the horrid weather; With a multitude of tech priests working on the various machinery and equipment.

This sun up makes it a week since the siege had began, the distant sounds of bolter fire constant. Sometimes the ground shakes from explosions, pulling dust off the cracks in the brick walls.

Walking down the east hall, you step into the large room that has been made into a sort of 'central command' to coordinate the current forces, stuffed tight with a massive holotable and various tech priests scattered around it. Some are working on fixing any malfunctioning machinery, such as the vox equipment that has had trouble maintaining a signal even on-planet through the storm.

You look around to see if anything drastic has changed in your absence. In the moment, you notice a familiar face; A commissar from the beginning of this week. He has the most command over the Guardsmen under you, having been their only superior before the invasion. Any captains or other commissars had been made to report to him, up until now. His closest in rank subordinate had been killed in an explosion on the first day, and in a morose thought, you wonder if they had been any more palatable than he is.

"Any progress hailing the Phalanx?"

He gives you a curt shake of his head, looking over the shoulder of the tech priest operating the vox equipment. Another harsh whip of wind batters against the walls, howling and shaking the glass windows. It rattles them almost just as bad as the distant explosions do.

"Nothing more than a few seconds at a time. But it should be enough of a message for them to understand the planet is under siege." The Commissar speaks short and stiff, face frozen in a neutral, stoic gaze underneath his uniform and few day old facial scruff. You cross your arms.

He's on his best behavior now, considering his disrespect shortly after you'd taken command had nearly gotten his head rent from his shoulders. He hadn't realized he was speaking to the Lady of the Imperial Fists, but the Astartes that had been in your company to deliver the news of your ascension in duty hadn't given him the leeway he might've thought he deserved. He acquiesced command of his guardsmen to you quite quickly, after that. There has been nary a squeal from him since, nor any of his fellow commissars or guard captains.

"Good. Then we will hopefully have aid soon. For now we need to push them back from the storage buildings before my men run out of bolter ammo."

Not that they can't work with just their chainswords, but long range options remain vital considering the hostile terrain you're all working with.

You hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

Alexis Polux, a veritable giant of a man, is nearly unable to get through even a doorway meant for fellow Astartes; Though not of his size. His armor is packed with snow at the seams, pauldrons slick with snow melted into a sheet of ice. His thin, blonde hair is quickly becoming wet at the tips, from where snowflakes are melting in the slight heat of the room. Anywhere he walks, he leaves chunks of melting sleet right behind. It has to be almost packed a meter high at this point out there, judging where the worst of it ends on his leg armor.

"Welcome back, Captain Polux." You smile in spite of the situation. It's something that Dorn had said he found- in his own words- 'curious' about you.

He holds his helm in his hands, walking closer to you. He brushes past the Commissar with not even the slightest tilt of acknowledgement. Unsurprising. He'd been there when the man had questioned your acting in Dorn's proxy. Polux is a man of a surprisingly amount of humility and softspokenness, but he is rarely forgiving.

"The storm is getting worse."

You hear another bout of wind howl through the brick and stone, as it continues to dump more snow onto the ground. While the Astartes can traverse it without much issue, it's becoming one for the Guardsmen. They've slowed their advance significantly as the snow reaches their knees.

"Even if we do get aid, they're going to be hard pressed to get anything more than small gunship planet-side; Though it goes both ways. We're all stuck out here in this mess." You open your mouth to continue, but Polux cuts you off.

"They are not built for the cold like we are."

You look up to the massive marine who's been serving as your second in command. Perhaps it wasn't an officially given title, but he's taken it well, and you could think of no better man for it. Especially given that the other Astartes respect him- which makes your orders have less of a weight to them, given they still have a degree of unfamiliarity with you. Your hands rest on the rim of the holotable.

"Finished my sentence for me." He hums as an odd sort of apology, the humor of your response going right over his head. When you let out a soft chuff of a laugh a few guardsmen curiously look at you for a moment.

"It was a compliment, Polux." He stares, eyes flicking across your face as he loudly thinks.

He really is a Son of Dorn.

You resist the urge to smile again, and look down at the holotable. It's been quite the week, but what was once another language has now become nothing but second nature. Putting theory to practice has proved quicker and less frightening that you'd thought, a week ago.

Though you still hope Dorn returns to you soon, turning away from the holotable to receive an update from a guardsmen holding a dataslate.

If anyone had ever asked, Rogal Dorn has remained no different than the stalwart nature he's always had. Though his captains and commanders can hear tenseness in his voice. No matter how phenomally well the Primarch can mask it.

It's been there since they'd first gotten the first of multiple emergency vox hails, only a few seconds long with a barely stable connection. But the few words that had gotten through had made it obvious that the planet was being sieged.

One of their bases was being sieged, a spit in the face of the Imperial Fists.

Even worse, Dorn has no idea as to your welfare.

He'd thought you safe there, the safest you could be other than with him or on Inwit, and now you stand on a world being laid waste with no way to contact anyone off world. He wonders deep in a part of his mind if it was an error on his part.

They're less than a day out now, watching the warp tear by. Dorn stands at the ship's bridge- unmovable. He'll see the planet any moment now when they leave Warp travel, and then can he prepare for what all is ahead of him.

He has the utmost faith in his men and you. However that doesn't mean that a small, human part of him doesn't worry at the idea of you being stuck mid-siege in an unknown location.

He taught you well. He taught you well. A mantra in his head no one else can hear. It is up to yourself to survive without him.

The siege isn't visible from orbit when they arrive, given the massive storm blocking large swaths of the land in a white blanket. It will making landing difficult, but the storm is clearing- at least according to the tech priest currently in charge. Not long after orders are given to begin battering the enemy's battleships as they strike back, shields taking a sizable hit. Nothing the Eternal Crusader and it's crew cannot handle.

But it doesn't feel as if the ice storm is clearing with the way the gunships struggle to remain stable, even with the most competent of pilot. Though they still manage to land on solid footing in one piece, the wind whipping their armor like a flog. Sheets of snow blow across snow already heavily packed onto the ground, covering up the large footprints of Astartes that had been here moments before them. The stone of the steps is barely visible through it all.

Dorn strides forward, the snow sticking to his boots as he trudges through it. He can hear bolter fire in the distance, as well as what seems like the highpowered cannon of multiple Baneblades. A small team of five Astartes follow behind him, two on each side and one directly behind. They have their bolters raised, ever vigilant even well in the safely of their own area of control. Wind rips through his cropped hair and howls in his ears, and for a split second, he perhaps regrets not wearing his helm. Even for a man of Inwit, this cold stings; He can hear the ice and snow crunching in the seams of his armor.

Stepping inside the cathedral, the first thing he notes is the myriad of supplies stacked inside in the aisles, safe from the elements. Guardsmen are looking after them, divvying them out amongst themselves, or delivering them to the Astartes in need of them. Of which there are a few- Imperial Fist guards from before the siege began. Most seem in decent condition; Dorn notes a lack of injuries amongst the Guardsmen and Astartes alike, and how there seems to be an established system amongst them.

He keeps walking through the nave, passing Guardsmen and Astartes who all give him a drop of the head when he passes.

"Primarch Dorn!"

An Imperial Fist Lieutenant calls to him, helmet in his hand. He has blood on his lips from where his skin has split, the cold having whipped his skin dry. Going down the few steps of the ambulatory, he gives a curt nod.

"Lady Dorn and Captain Polux are in the east hall. Central command has been established there."

He affirms to the warrior and turns, walking through the transept and down the hall. The one who'd spoken to him seems to have other duties, and stays behind on the ambulatory.

He can hear chatter in the large, arched hall- it increases until he reaches the door it's bleeding from, and he opens it and ducks to come through. It's just too short for him, but the ceiling inside can thankfully handle someone of his height. It's a thought that is always in the back of his mind.

When Dorn enters the room, the first thing his eyes focus on is you; Leaning over a massive holotable with Captain Alexis Polux standing firmly at your side. He stands like an unmoving guardian, a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. He's the closest to you out of anyone in the room- either out of his own will, or the gargantuan Astartes has incidentally created a personal area of clearance around you both with his presence alone.

"Dorn!"

You say, an audible pep in your voice. The Primarch walks closer and examines the scene in front of him. You appear uninjured, apart from your skin being slightly pallid from the cold.

The Primarch notices how everyone operates around you with a level of assiduity and efficiency, having been giving clear cut duties. There is no arguing, no fighting, everyone both in this room and all around the cathedral operate smoothly. You have a perimeter established, and you’ve been careful to push the advance but not stretch yourself too thin.

You've done well. That much is clear. A part of him wonders if you'd be able to clean this all up on your own, had he decided to simply give you the reinforcements and leave.

Dorn watches as you momentarily turn away from him to speak to an approaching commissar, and he finds himself listening to your confident and assured tone of voice. A thought crosses his mind.

You look beautiful.

All of your inquiries, curious questions and shaking confidence in your ability to lead have all mixed together, and while you might have made different choices than him, he cannot deny your effectiveness.

Dorn decides to speak before he distracts himself within his own mind further. A hold of your hand or to take a kiss of yours are things reserved for private, not here. As much as he might wish to.

"You appear to have done well for yourselves."

You look up at him and give a wry smile, while he glances at the holotable in-between you both.

"It could be worse. I have a squad of Astartes stuck behind enemy lines, but we've pushed the enemy back from the supply warehouses."

This planet has large city buildings that the wind rips around through, unlike the shorter ones of Inwit. The Astartes are fine in their sealed suits and higher body temperature, but the Guardsmen are all struggling. You more than likely are as well, despite holding strong. He can see the chill on your skin, the cracked skin of your lips.

Dorn's reinforcements will provide valuable support to yours, and with their might together, this planet with be rid of the siege.

You turn to order that the men currently in the battlefield get notice that Primarch Dorn has arrived, and that reinforcements are coming. Besides the soon coming tactical advantage, it will provide a well needed boost to moral. With the intense weather, it has surely been lowering. Though your smile and optimistic look in your eyes prove to be a valuable motivator.

No matter how good the orders, often times the way they're said and the person giving them are what matter most.

The Primarch looks to Captain Polux, and gives him a curt nod. The Astartes politely returns a dip of his head in thanks to the silent compliment of his duty. Dorn then looks back to you.

"You and any men injured will return to the Eternal Crusader." You let out a laugh and shake your head. He can hear the rattle of the bolter on your hip.

"Well now that I've started this, I'm kind of keen on seeing it finished before I leave."

Dorn's eyebrows raise ever so slightly, amused by you. He taught you well, he repeats again. Your command over a such a less than optimal situation has proven as such.

The Lady of the Imperial Fists has proven herself not only to be smart, beautiful, and full of humility, but to be stalwart and confident as well.

"Very well."

He'll stay at your side, and judging by his solid stance, Polux will as well.

Dorn very rarely has doubts, but your confidence and ability to adapt have solidified his thoughts that he had made the right choice in you. His 'sons' taking well to your command makes it far easier.

They will have to when you officially become his wife, after all. You have already accepted the title of Lady Dorn, he has no reason to not seal your bond. There hasn't been much else in his life he has been more sure of.

Ignoring any of his more personal desires in the back of his mind, Primarch Rogal Dorn abides by your request, eyes focused more on your lips as you smile at him.

#gee i wonder if my favorite astartes are obvious if you read my stuff #just wait until i write for Konrad and 90% of the fic is actually just Sevatar because I love him uwu #rogal dorn x reader #Rogal Dorn/Reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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bronx-bomber87 · 4 months

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Happy Monday Lovely fandom. Not a ton in these episodes for them. Gonna combine these two. Thank you for idea D ❤️ These are my least fav of the season. Not gonna lie whenever I reach the Simone eps in a rewatch I skip around her stuff LOL Never resonated with me. So it’s funny the first ep is called Simone and I won’t really be covering her much at all. Probably be a shorter one with some crumbs. Let’s get going though shall we?

4x19 Simone/4x20 Enervo

We start off with an actual bang. John and Lucy respond to a suspicious activity call. It's near a power station in Griffith Park. They find a bomb and get out just in time but not before they’re thrown to the ground by the blast. They get thrown pretty damn far and are fairly banged up. It's insane how much damage they took even clearing the building.

Tim shows up to the scene and does a worried husband look I love. Checking in on her by doing a once over once he makes it to them. Does a silent check in as he reports it’ll take 12 hours to fix the damaged power station. The silent check in is everything. Once again it’s the little things I cherish especially in low content episodes. It's subtle but noticeable once you know it's there. Trying to contain his concern with her all banged up. It’s ok love your wifey is fine hehe

I love these two shots for quite a few reasons. One you know I love the tall/smol shots. I wish I could put into words why I love it so very much. It’s just aesthetically pleasing is one of the reasons I suppose. All I know is I’m a sucker for it. Second how in-sync they are in their movements and how they mirror one another in the second one.

Third the lack of personal space. Especially in that first gif. Theme of this season I adore so much. Always that gravitational pull of theirs. Lastly look at them. They’re gorgeous just standing next to one another. Also it is unfair Lucy is covered in dirt and soot and looks amazing still. Not fair haha

Oh right there’s a SL too LOL Not me just gawking at them haha The feds show up because this is a terrorist attack. They ask Nolan and Lucy about what they remember about the bomb. Nolan of course is no help. Smh Lucy is able to describe little better for them. FBI says they’re taking over from here. Grey fights it since John and Lucy were almost killed discovering the bomb. Garza concedes and they’re able to work together on this one.

We rejoin our ship headed towards National Guard Armory. They’ve deduced this guys real target was this. Reason he shut down the power was to gain access inside there. They’re en-route to catch him. They find out he’s already on the move and they’ve gotta catch him. Which leads us to this car chase. First off let’s note Lucy getting to drive in this intense moment. It is more common these days for them. I just love seeing Tim trust her so implicitly nowadays. That this is new normal for them. *heart clutch*

Control freak in him has eased up quite a bit with her at least. Maybe not with anyone else LOL Once again it's the little things to love. The spurts of growth. They make me happy. Anyways dude stole a friggin Humvee so taking him down will not be easy. Nolan says they need to stop this guy. No shit John...What do you think the purpose of this chase is? To have fun at a high speeds in a shop for kicks?

Sometimes the words out of his mouth floor me..and not in a good way. Tim is using his military experience in this moment. (Yum) Explains why that’s not going to be easy. He’s basically encased himself in a mini tank. Their usual pit maneuver isn’t going to work on this guy. Nolan offering up another solution. I adore the silent communication and the look. That automatic instinct to check in with each other. I'll never be over it. I love watching them in the field so very much. Just a well oiled machine. Tim is considering Nolan’s suggestion then checking in with wifey before executing it. Love it.

Tim explains their plan to Nolan while Lucy listens in. Tim advices they both hit the doors. Tells them it has to be at the same time though. To avoid the wheels at all costs. Lucy needing to know the why of course. Asks why they can’t hit the tires? Tim explains they’ll die and be a cautionary tale for future rookies LOL Gotta love Lucy questioning why they can't in the middle of a high speed chase. I'm sure she wasn't expecting that to be his answer ha.

Her comment about her mom cracks me up. Anything to prove to her mother she’s wrong and she is right about being a cop. Her first thought not being she’ll die. No it’ll be about her mother being right about her career choice. Lmao Oh Lucy Chen I love you. Also I relate to this train of thought all too well sadly. I do love her saying they’ll be disgraced together. Be more married please.

Tim doesn’t even fight her on this thought. Lucy basically saying if I’m going down you’re coming with. Tim isn’t fighting her at all. His silence is saying lead the way. They’re in this together and I love that so very much. Being a literal ride or die right now in this moment.

I love me some crumbs in a low content ep. Also only they could banter during a high pressure situation and still get the job done. I love them so much. They are successful but find out the driver isn’t their guy but a decoy. Wah Wah.

They regroup at the station after their chase. Nolan asking Lucy if she got any sleep? She then calls out Tim for getting some. Not only does she call him out but nicknames him 'Sleeping beauty.' Looking directly at him the entire time. Making sure he know she is talking about him and only him. All aboard the flirt train Nolan is an unwilling participant in the matter haha

Such blatant flirty flirts. Tim fires back a sassy reply to her jab. Just openly flirting and doing heart eyes out in the open. Ain’t no thang this season lol Shoots back not to be jealous he was allowed to sleep and she hasn’t. Lucy’s reaction is the best. That fond exasperation they’ve had all season long. So used to her husband antics at this point but has to let him know she’s annoyed at him. Damnit I love them sfm.

They end up finding his base of operations. Lucy of course breaking the case. Cause she’s brilliant finds a word he’s written down by doing an etching off a wall he used. ‘Enervo’ Garza telling them it means 'To deprive of power.' John asks Tim what the military’s first target is? I love watching Tim flex his military background again. It’s sexy af. Seriously gets me hot and bothered *fans self* Tim and Lucy cracking this case right open. You’re welcome everyone haha That’s it for this one. Low content one since it was meant to launch rookie feds. Next one has even less so this is why we’re combining them.

~~~

Side notes-Non Chenford

I do love when Nyla and Angela work together. Two bad ass woman just doing their jobs like confident BAMFS.

4x20 Enervo.

We find out he’s rented U-Haul’s and it’s going to take out the biggest roads with them. Crippling the city and killing thousands. They can't get a warrant right away to track them so everyone is in on the hunt. As always I love watching them in action in the field. That second gif their cop eyes have been activated. You can see them combing the street together. They’re so in-sync as they search the streets for one of the five U-Haul’s. I could go on and on about how much I love their work dynamic I really could. But I'll stop there ha

The trucks are divided up into states. Cause well that’s U-haul haha if you’ve ever driven one you’d know. Always got graphics or other states on them. One has already exploded unfortunately so they're down to 4 trucks that need to be found. Lucy and Tim spot ‘Florida’ and are in pursuit of it. I love how calm they look. They’re chasing down a bomb and look determined af. Like I said before well oiled machine. The gifs above represent that. They are poetry in motion in the field. What made 5x22 battle scene so epic. Was that on steroids ha

That’s kinda it for them in this one. I can add this last lovely gif of them in the field. Seeing how they move in motion together. It is impressive to see how in-sync they always are. Shared brain thing I love so much. I’m sorry there isn’t more. I mean it’s not my fault but I’m still sorry LOL

We shouldn’t hit this again. Even the light one in S5 is really good and would fill a review well so this will be the last scant ep for them. Probably won’t combine them again ha

~~~

Side notes-non chenford

Smitty reporting in he got ‘Utah’ Grey being ecstatic and saying he took back every negative thing ever said about him. Poor Smitty is all sad ‘You’ve said negative things about me?’ LMAO

Thank you as always for those who like, comment and reblog these reviews. You’re all amazing and I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. Shall see you all in 4x21 :)

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captain-mj · 8 months

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Vampires Part 8

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Soap sat at the table right after sunset. His vampires, Price, and now Chuy, because apparently he decided to invite himself in, were sitting with him. Chuy was wearing his outfit again, deer skull included. It made him look very unnerving.

“So your fiance will be here soon?”

Price nodded excitedly. “Yep. She’s wonderful.”

“She?” Ghost laughed before realizing he was serious. “Ah. Damn. Seriously?”

Price frowned. “I’m bisexual.”

“I know, I just thought better of women. Even witch women.” Ghost replied, shrugging.

Price stared at him, slightly opened mouthed. “Damn. Cold, Simon.”

“Ghost.”

“Simon. Anyway, she’ll be here shortly. Her name is Clara.” He looked so happy that Soap couldn’t help but feel happy for him. Even if he was pretty sure Price was being used.

Alejandro hummed. “Right. Anyway.”

Rodolfo raised his hand. “I don’t really care about your fiance, I’m more worried about the hunter walking around talking about bigfoot. Can we focus on that?”

“No. you guys gotta meet my fiance.”

“Fuck that.” Alejandro spoke up. “I agree with my lovely husband.” He kissed Rudy’s hand, looking at him with giant heart eyes.

Ghost groaned. “Do you guys have to be so in love?”

“Loser.”

“Lonely ass bitch.”

Ghost frowned. “Goddamn…”

Price hissed loudly and they all turned towards him. He looked a little flustered, as if they weren’t actually supposed to hear him. He took a deep breath. “As the eldest vampire, I am requesting you guys please meet her.” It was said with a touch of… sincerity that had been absent from Price in a wild.

Interviewer: I’ve been meaning to ask. Ghost puts up with Price because he’s his sire. Rodolfo seems to like him. However, you don’t seem to like him.

Alejandro: Don’t know. Guess I miss how he was. Sometimes it feels like I got the last few years of lucidity. He probably told he was four hundred years older than Ghost right?

Interviewer: I thought he said two hundred.

Alejandro: He told Rodolfo a hundred. I thought for the longest time it was just something he did, but I think he just doesn’t remember.

Interviewer: Ah. And the comment about lucidity.

Alejandro: I think he’s half insane. It happens. Mentally, being alive a long time… it makes things tiring.

Interviewer: I noticed the way you looked away when Rodolfo asked if you regretted being turned. Do you?

Alejandro: No. Course not. I love my husband.

Interviewer: I can see your love and devotion to him. But I’m asking, do you wish you died human?

Alejandro: Sometimes, I do. I wish Rodolfo killed me that night. However, I’d never want to make him go through the centuries alone, so I’m glad I am here with him.

Interviewer: Thank you, Alejandro.

“Alright, sir.” Ghost mumbled. “I’ll meet Clara.” He smiled, eyes crinkling.

Price smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you, Simon. Rodolfo, Alejandro, Gaz, I hope you all like her.”

Simon and Chuy looked at each other and shook their heads.

Gaz hummed. “Will it be super awkward?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Gaz nodded. “That sounds nice. Like chicken soup after a hard day. I’m in.”

Interviewer: So do you regret turning into a vampire?

Gaz: How do you know I wasn’t born an energy vampire?

Interviewer: Oh, were you? That’s fascinating.

Gaz: No, I mean I was turned. Just why did you assume?

Interviewer: I mean. I just thought all vampires were turned. Who was your sire?

Gaz: My mom when she birthed me. I lied, I was born.

Interviewer canceled the rest of the interviewer due to “broken pencils”.

Price smiled fondly at Gaz before quickly going to get the door, answering before Clara even had the chance to knock. She giggled as he picked her up and twirled her before leading her to the kitchen.

“Oh this is nauseating.”

Rodolfo hit Ghost. “They’re cute.”

They kissed passionately.

“Nevermind.” Rodolfo hissed under his breath. “Clara?”

Clara quickly pushed Price back a little and properly introduced herself. She was how described. Dark hair and nice.

Too nice.

Soap liked her. She shook his head and smiled at him before moving on to them.

“Oh!” Clara said softly while staring at Ghost. “You must be Simon.”

Price flinched and looked guilty. And a tiny bit betrayed, as if he had warned her prior.

“Don’t call me that.” Ghost got up. “Okay, this is horrible. I need to leave.”

Price grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. “A little effort.”

“Don’t call me something stupid.”

Price sighed and plastered a smile on his face. “Ghost.” He introduced everyone there to Clara and Clara waved just a little. She didn’t look at Price much, but when she did, she did look like she liked him. Maybe not love in any of their opinions, but that’s okay. Maybe it would blossom?

If they stayed together long enough.

Maybe.

The two of them stared at each other for just a second and Chuy got uncomfortable.

“Alright. I’m gonna head out.”

Clara frowned a little before perking up. “I’ve heard about a hunter in this area. Hope you’re doing okay and he hasn’t given you too many problems.”

Chuy faltered and shrank down when Reyes got brought up. Ghost wondered why he didn’t just have them get rid of the guy. It would be easier.

“Well… yeah. He’s uh… Yeah…”

Clara noticed his hesitance and decided to drop it.

They had a delightful conversation honestly.

Price informed them all that the wedding would be that Friday. “Because of the goddess Freyja. May she bless our marriage.” He smiled, showing fangs.

Rodolfo looked at the interviewer, clearly cringing.

“That sounds wonderful.”

“May Clara stay here until then? We’re having the ceremony in the graveyard nearby.” Price took his hat off and held it to his chest in a pleading manner.

Collective groans occurred before they agreed. She could stay.

Interviewer: The vampires think you’re after Price for his… uh…

Clara: His money? No. I’m rich enough actually.

Interviewer: No his… um… Dick?

Clara: It’s great, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not that artificial. I just want his heart.

Interviewer: That’s sweet.

Gaz put his hands on the table. “Before I ask this, I promise not to feed on anyone.”

Price nodded. “Okay.”

“Can I bring Alex?”

“That dog?” Price groaned.

Alejandro started to look at face masks and Febreze.

“Yes. He’s my boyfriend. You can’t tell me he’s not attractive.”

Soap nodded. “And really cool too.”

“See! And he doesn’t smell bad. He smells like cologne because he drowns himself in it before he comes here.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

Gaz sighed. “If he can’t come, I’m not coming.”

Price rubbed his temples. “Alright. He can come. Have him invite Laswell too.”

“At that point, why not invite the rest of the pack?” Alejandro pointed out, frowning. More out of confusion than anything else now.

“Fair. Let’s just invite all of them. And Chuy. And Koenig if the lad can ever make it here. I heard he was coming to our area a while ago.” Price pointed out.

Ghost hummed. “I’ll reach out to him through the ether later.”

“Fantastic idea!” Price clapped, looking very excited. “I’m getting married again!”

Interviewer: So, why do you want to kill bigfoot so bad?

Reyes: Bigfoot took someone very dear to me.

Interviewer: You want revenge?

Reyes: Yes. Bigfoot took… well. I shouldn’t say boyfriend. We were neighbors. Jesus. He was beautiful. He was kind. Rather generous but could set harsh boundaries if needed. I fell in love with him more every time we interacted. I watched that thing disappear from his home the same night he disappeared.

Interviewer: And why a crossbow?

Reyes: Well, the majority of hunters use them. They’re quieter, easier to certain materials, and you can reuse arrows. Plus, a lot of creatures aren’t hurt by bullets and needed something sharp that will pierce them.

Interviewer: Fascinating. Thank you so much. What else do you hunt?

Reyes: Well, normally I hunt and kill werewolves but since the night happened, bigfoot is all I have my eyes on.

Interviewer: Understood. And where are your plans now?

Reyes: To break into the Scottish man’s home because I know he’s harboring monsters.

Interviewer: How can you tell?

Reyes: Only someone who knows of monsters listens to advice from someone who’s a monster hunter. He didn’t take me seriously, so he wasn’t paranoid.

Interviewer: That’s smart.

Reyes stayed true to his word. He caught them by surprise because the interviewer wasn’t going to interfere there. With his crossbow in hand, he aimed right at Chuy. Deer skull shining in the cryptic light of the room.

“You bastard. I am finally getting my revenge against you.”

Chuy perked up when he came into the room. Not flinched or shrank or looked to leave. He leaned into Reyes’s aim. Soap thought he was an odd fellow.

“Why?” Rodolfo interrupted his clearly well thought out speech. He was currently sewing and seemed a bit put off about being interrupted. Everyone else was around doing similar hobbies now that Price had stopped talking to them. Even Soap was just casually drawing.

Reyes stumbled over it, caught off guard. “As I was about to explain.”

Clara snapped her fingers. There was no blast or light. Just a simple sound.

Reyes swallowed thickly and shook his head. “Ah…. I was saying…” He paused again and this time frowned. His nose twitched and all the bravado left him.

The man shook and shuddered, not fully reacting yet but clearly something… internal was happening.

Chuy stood and rushed to grab Reyes who tried to get away from him. Soap prepared himself to watch Chuy rip the man to shreds but before Chuy could even lift his mask to uncover his mouth, Reyes shrank and contorted. His body twisted and curled, enough to drag ragged, pained groans before they transitioned into squeaks. The shirt in Chuy’s hands stayed solid but the rest dissolved and bubbled into the rest of him. And in his place stood.

A rat.

Well groomed and with fur as dark as Reyes’s hair. It looked soft. Almost cute.

Chuy scooped him up immediately. “Enzo?”

The rats frantic movements to escape halted as it went still, looking at Chuy with wide rat eyes.

Chuy slid the mask off, revealing his face to the rat who continued to stare.

“Mi corazón. I am so sorry. I was so bored with my old life, I never anticipated anyone noticing me being gone. Yes, I lived as your neighbor your years, but I never realized how you looked at me.”

Alejandro stopped playing the piano. The room was silent.

“I noticed you but you were human. I couldn’t… drag you into this world when it’s so unsafe.”

If Ghost put his hand on Soap, it wasn’t noticeable.

“I live so long. I wanted to start new. Do something completely different. You were… new. So fun. Interesting. As you chased me, I will admit, I grew affectionate for you. Maybe that was my mistake, putting you in such danger.” Chuy gently pet the rat, watching it relax. “Mi corazón, can you understand me?”

No response.

“That is okay. It’s best you still don’t know my affections. You should go home. Be human like you’re supposed to be.”

Chuy gently held the rat. “My sweet Enzo.” He took a deep breath and held him out to Clara. “I appreciate what you did. But I’d like you to turn him back and erase his memories of me.”

Clara frowned. “No.”

Chuy frowned. “What. No. You don’t get to say no, change him back.”

“I can’t. I’m not able to erase memories. Not the right kind of witch for that. If I make him human, he’ll probably kill us.”

“No, listen, I can talk to him then. Convince him to leave, he has a soft spot for me, It’ll be fine.”

Clara frowned and waved her hand, but nothing happened. “Sorry, out of juice. He’s stuck.”

Chuy stared at Enzo, the rat in his hands.

“Look, luckily with his age, you have another few months!” She clapped happily. “Plus, well, he was only human. What’s the saying? Don’t worry about breaking them, they’ll die soon anyway? Or is it don’t worry about breaking them, they’re replaceable? You said it yourself, this world is dangerous for him. At least now, you can keep him safe in your pocket. Now, I’m going to go finish planning my wedding.”

Chuy stared at Reyes in his hands, clearly seething. He growled and Soap noticed how many teeth he had.

“Do any of you know any other fucking witches?”

#captain john price #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #call of duty #johnny soap mactavish #soapghost #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare ii #Vampire Au #rodolfo parra

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placeinthisworld · 4 days

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ttpdta review part one 🤠

let me preface this by stating that i am a swiftie first and person second in this situation. i have grown up with taylor and feel as if shes my big sister- yes i can make fun of her but if i see anyone else do it i will get fiercely protective. i do understand her music is not only art but also her form of therapy. that being said, throughout these nonsense notes i am constantly mentioning that taylor should go to therapy. i am aware of what she has said about therapy (and why she doesn’t go) but i would beg to differ with her…especially after this album release lol.

taylor is an extraordinary storyteller and song writer. i believe this album is full of evidence of that, but it also has some faults that prevent from being as good as i felt like it could have been. overall the album feels rushed.

i also feel like it’s important to recognize the elephant in the room. i know we probably all expected this to be a joe breakup album, so the fact that it turned out to be a “fuck you matty healy” album shook us all a little bit. i know matty had a controversial history, im not gonna sit here and defend him. i don’t know much about him other than what is forced against my will. i do however know that he struggles with mental health issues/ substance abuse/ addiction. i’m not gonna comment much about his personal issues, i don’t feel like that’s right and taylor’s constant references to drugs throughout ttpd definitely rubs me the wrong way. i should also mention i grew up with an active addict and do view things from that perspective, so i feel slightly triggered by the topic and my feelings about that may just be personal but i do mention that in my notes when it’s relevant.

lastly, i am not a music production girlie idk shit lol. i only know i am a aaron dessner stan so any song with his name im already biased towards and i am aware, if u don’t like that idk what to tell u lol. i just know what i feel like is “good” or “bad” but music is subjective🫶🏻

1. Fortnight:

Hate the functional alcoholic part. Like the beat, the chorus is catchy. One thing i love about a taylor swift song is that theres always a story and its always visual. I like the metaphor of the “good neighbors” of like having this teasing/ longing feeling for someone that you could have had a life with. “Your wife waters flowers/ i want to kill her + my husbands cheating/ i want to kill him” feeling like you were robbed of her life, feeling “all my mornings are mondays stuck in an endless february” reminiscing about the short period of time where you were together and convinced it would last forever (only for it to end before it even started). I do not listen to much post malone but i enjoyed his verse!! So many florida references we get it everything bad happens in florida.

i have not seen the video yet oooopsies

2. Ttpd:

i thought this was the opening of Hey Stephen (the remix) or something at first. gotta say i absolutely love the way she sings “you left your typewriter at my apartment/ straight from the tortured poets department” i enjoyed the vibe of this song, and lyrics up until the “you smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate (OKAY SOOOOOOO ME CODED NGL I LAUGHED at this point i could let this lyric slide- bit then she had to mention the charlie puth and golden retriever thing and ngl it almost ruins the song entirely for me. Tbh when i first listened to the leak i thought this was a fake AI song and that i was sending around a fake leak bc these lyrics started to get a little weird to me. ‘Sometimes i wonder if youre gonna screw this up with me/ but you told lucy you’d kill yourself if i ever leave” …………girl i am begging you to see a therapist (side note did anyone else have a friend in hs whos bf would say that shit a lot?? I remember straight up fighting with a friend who refused to break up w her bf bc he would threaten to end his own life is she did and he was like 16? If an adult is saying that same shit i would be Very concerned not gossiping about it???) “i chose this cyclone with you” my first reaction was: ride the cyclone the musical? Overall i liked the first half but you lost me at charlie puth (hes the one with eyebrow right? I think i get him and miles teller mixed up) (i dont know who either of these men are)

3. My boy only breaks his favorite things:

Okay tbh i thought this was gonna be one of my least favorites, but the total opposite happened. I think this is one of my top 5 favorites on this album. I do think that there is a difference between a poem and a song and that they are not always interchangeable. I feel like if this was edited into a poem it would be KILLER. The visuals, the the story, the vocabulary, the sadness in it. “Im queen of sandcastles he destroys/ There was danger in the heat of my touch/ once i fix me/ hes gonna miss me/ i felt more when we played pretend then with all the kens / cause he took me out of my box” i feel like ever since folklore, taylors been trying to push these big fancy words and sometimes it feels awkward and forced, but this is one of the rare songs that doesn't suffer from that.

4. Down bad:

meh. Chorus is catchy. I dont love the narrative “fuck it if i cant have him/ i might just it would make no difference” but i also have never once experienced that over a person before lmao……….taylor go to therapy. Nothing really stands out about this to me otherwise. No offense, but it sounds like a generic jack antonoff song lol. Like maybe if another artist released this, i would enjoy it more but idk i wouldnt expect it from taylor i guess. Just kinda feels boring to me sorry if u enjoy it <3

5. So long, london:

oh man were done with british men now for real for real. “ two graves one gun. I'll find someone” its over for joe and matty (but thats fine if all she has to say about joe is what i think she said on this album i am happy i think We Get It…) Aaron dessner i love u (remember when he reposted me on his ig ahh).”i kept calm and carried the weight of the rift/ pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away” + “I stopped trying to make him laugh/ stopped trying to drill the safe/ i didnt opt in to be our odd man out/ im pissed off you let me give you all of that youth for free” oof i FELT that one a LITTLE too hard. I think this is both a song about matty and joe- i think she had a life and an attachment to london just in general through both relationships, “im just mad as hell because i loved this place” and so reflecting back on how both are over and how all those plans with either are done. “You sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days” OKAY kinda hate this phrase bc it feels like shes placing blame on whomever’s mental health/ depression, like as if they made the conscious decision to sacrifice the relationship solely. This very much feels like “how much sadness did you think i could take before i got bored???” overall top favorite songs bc it doesnt have too many cringey or odd lyrics and the production is 10/10 thank u aaron dessner ilysm king

6. But daddy i love him:

tbh when i got the leak this was the first song i listened to bc i thought it was gonna be the worst one and i wanted to get it over with (i was RIGHT until she dropped that second half……..) and i DIDNT have the lyrics obviously so i couldnt for the life of me figure out if she really said “im having his baby…..NO IM NOT!” until the VERY end of the song and bro…….the cringe. The cringe. The cringe. This is also when i started to question if this was real or if i was passing out a fake leak, lol. I dont understand how she could be saying this shit about matty. And like we all know it lol. “Sometimes growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all” …….but like does it??? I feel like thats kinda an oxymoron or something like i understand what shes trying to say and MOST of the time her metaphors and comparisons make sense to me but like this one doesnt. Growing up precocious means to grow up more advanced in maturity, how would that also mean not growing up at all? Is it just me getting stoned and overthinking things? “Ill tell you something about my good name/ its mine alone to disgrace” true that bestie ur doin a great job by being so politically quiet over the past couple of yeats after making a whole asss documentary about wanting to be on the right side of history. But I digress i am just one of those bitches performing soliloquies you'll never see. Overall this song is very weird and cringey imo and i wish it stayed in whatever vault it was sitting in lol.

7.Fresh out of the slammer: “In the shade of how he was feeling” -_- dont like this narrative already. I could honestly go on a rant about why i dont like this song but im going to spare for the sake of my sanity in this review of thirty one fucking songs but its along these lines “to the one who says im the girl of his american dreams” oh brother. otherwise i dont care for many of the lyrics, the chorus/ melody/vibe is mid i guess. It sounds like another jack song (i was right)

8. Florida!!!: “all my friends smell like weed or little babies” okay i know what she was trying to say but im SORRY you cant tell me she couldnt think of ANY other way to say her friends are either parents partiers lmao. Deserves jail for that but luckily the vibe and the chorus of the song are really catchy and florence’s voice is beautiful in it. “Well me and my ghost we had a hell of a time/ yes im haunted but im feeling just fine” CHILLS i loved it. I didnt think i would like this song but (maybe as much as i like no body, no crime which is meh) but no i lowkey love this song and think its really fun. Once again the drug references start to get heavy here in the album and like i mentioned i do get slightly triggered by drug mentions.

9. Guilty as sin?:

okay taylor we get it you masterbate. Another strong jack song and it’s pretty similar to others on the album so nothing besides the sexual lyrics stand out.

10. Whos afraid of little old me?:

“if you wanted me dead you should have just said/ nothing makes me feel more alive” ooooooooooh i love that. I feel like a live or an acoustic version of this song would give me CHILLS. “Is it a wonder i broke / lets hear one more joke/ then we can all laugh until i cry” honestly so relatable, “i was tame, i was gentle til the circus life made me mean” oh :( that hurt bc it just reminds me of the vibe shift during midnights era/ eras tour where it *feels* like she started to pull back from being taylor swift and started to become Taylor Swift (™) and the way her fans/ media has treated her made her mean or cold or something and that just makes me feel sad. “Whos afraid of little old me? You caged me and then you called me crazy! I am what i am cause you trained me! SO. WHOS. AFRAID. OF ME? Again the narcotics line kinda makes me feel icky but thats bc i have that thing about drugs and just dont LOVE all the references to them. Like i know its not that serious but theres a reason why i dont seek out artists that typically talk or write about that stuff ya know so its weird. Overall i think the production is one of the most unique ones on this part of the album.

11. I can fix him (no really i can):

i hate it all around i think. I hate the narrative of “i can fix him!! I can handle a dangerous man!!! No really i can!!!” there is a reason why this song is barely 3 mins long lol it should have been cut but i think taylor wanted to Be Edgy. i dont care for the productions or the lyrics, its very forgetful imo.

12. Loml:

okay i really thought this was gonna be a joe song (rip) so i was thinking it was gonna be really deep and sad and like it IS but with the context of it being the pt 2 fling with matty it doesnt seem like it now. Anyone who thinks this is not about matty please look at the lyrics and be so serious “whos gonna stop us from waltzing back into reklndled flames/ if we know the steps anyway” I think matty just said too much shit to taylor during their fling and taylor WAS truly convinced this her invisible string and he promised her a lot that he couldnt upkeep and ghosted her and she took it SUPER hard, i mean two breakups in one year is a lot (me, whos never been through a single breakup once). I just dont understand how she feels like matty is the greatest loss of her life. One of my favorite tracks on the album, “our field of dreams engulfed in fire/ your arsons match your somber eyes” a LOT of these lyrics are actually really good imo. I think im the only one that didnt find the “mr. steal your girl and make her cry” line idk i thought it was actually kinda neat, the phrasing of it, kinda contradicts the title “love of my life” because he was never that serious or respectful of her and only use her from the beginning. This is another song that i think would make KILLER poem over song. Overall i think the piano is haunting and a live version of this will make me die, thank u again aaron dessner 10/10

13. I can do it with a broken heart:

ngl i thought this was the opening to mastermind for a hot second- also gave me a scare on whether or not this was a fake leak lol. Catchy ass chorus but very YOYOK. “Breaking down i hit the floor/ All the pieces of me shattered/ as the crowd was shouting “more!” ooffffffff seeeeee that is exactly WHAT i was afraid she was feeling durning the eras tour after the joe breakup/ matty situation and all these stupid twitter and tik tok swiffers were out here overanalyzing EVERYTHING and demanding rep tv like every other day. “Im so depressed i act like its my birthday” …….okay taylor. Like a lot of people have said, i think she interchanges “depressed” for “sad” a lot and the two are not the same. I think taylor wrote this song (but specifically the “i cry a lot time but i am so productive” and was like “yup this part is gonna go viral on tik tok,” initially i wrote “feels like taylor saw that depression barbie commercial in barbie 2023 and wrote a song based on that” lol which i still agree with. Overall the production of this screams midnights reject lol, very jack antonoff. Over time this song has grown on me a lot. Originally i didnt care for it but now its kind of a bop but i think its bc its so similar to YOYOK. “Try and come for my job” @taylorswift deadass you couldn’t think of anything else to say instead. cmon. I was mostly on board until that very last part, just seemed very cheesy lol like its not a big deal but i thought it delivered well without it.

14. The smallest man who ever lived:

(aaron thank u for saving me and this entire album) “they just ghosted you/ now you know what it feels like” OUCH. “i dont even want you back i just want you to know/ if rusting my sparkling was the goal/ and i dont miss what we had but can someone give/ a message to the smallest man who ever lived” oh this was somber af. I am obsessed with the phrasing of the chorus. I also LOVE taylors deeper voice its def giving me the same feelings MTR gave me from folklore, that made me CRY and this was very similar. This is another classic taylor song that i could EASILY write like a ten page essay about if someone put a gun to my head. I know that its about a *romantic* relationship, but it feels general enough to be able to relate to anyone who is close to someone with an addiction or struggles with substances. A lot of addicts dont understand the impact of their addiction or their behaviors that they display while struggling. To meeeeee, this feels very much like “you were self centered and betrayed my trust, was any of this true? Real? Am i paranoid or is this that deep?” “it wasnt sexy once it wasnt forbidden” has me thinking lots of things. I think that describes taylors “type”if that makes sense? Like i said i would need to literally break this song down line by line like its ridiculous i have too many thoughts about this song i have listened to it on repeat six times by the time im typing this. “In public showed me off/ then sank in stoned oblivion” FUCK. “you treat her like an also-ran” honestly i have never heard of that phrase/word thank u dr. swift. “Were you sent by someone who wanted me DEAD/ did you sleep with a GUN underneath OUR BED/ were you writing a BOOK?/ were you a sleeper cell SPY? IN 5O YEARS WILL THIS BE ALL DECLASSIFIED?/ AND YOU’LL CONFESS WHY YOU DID IT!/ AND ILL SAY GOOD RIDDANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” tears were formed besties. Also love the gracie abrams reference. “And you deserve prison but you wont get time” i feel like is very metaphorical like you DESERVE to be punished for what you did to me but you won’t admit to the guilt, you wont admit your wrongdoings, you wont admit that i would have done anything for you and you have no problem replacing me. “You said normal girls were boring/ but you were gone by the morning” first of all red flag girlie, nonetheless heartbreaking. “And in plain sight you hid/ but you are what you did” i say this with all the love in my heart, someone take taylor swift to a really good really private therapist. I could say more but i think i need to move on because i am now on my eighth cyle of listening to this song.

15. The alchemy:

already kinda hate it. “What if i told you im back/ the hospital was a drag/ worst sleep i ever had” do you think taylor swift has ever been admitted to a real hospital in this context. Feels very out of place and like i said earlier i dont love the psych ward visuals/ references she keeps inserting in this album. “He jokes its heroin but this time with an e” thanks! I fucking hate that line so much. Feels very icky, not funny. I get what shes going for but it falls so flat for me. The football references (yall know my opinion on meathead!!!!!!!! I will not engage!!!) are fucking dumb. Production is kinda lame and uninterested. Will only listen to this song if by force and will not repeat it ive head enough lets move on.

i have Lots Of Thoughts. i don’t think anyone cares about what i have to say though so i don’t think i’ll bother posting the rest lol but i did do a lot of work so ill post just a bit to make myself feel better.

#personal #ts ttpd #ttpd #the tortured poets department

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apomaro-mellow · 1 year

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Part One of Steve Disappearing

Eddie still remembers the last kiss he gave his husband. It was a soft thing. A promise.

“I’ll be back for more later”, Steve had said, grinning. Cheeky. Eddie had appreciated it at the time. Steve was more experienced with this sort of stuff. If he was being this easy-going, then surely the job had to be an easy one, right? Just a quick in and out.

Eddie wishes he had gone too. Maybe if he did...

Sometimes he wished Steve didn’t go. There were plenty of resourceful and strong folks on their team. Sometimes Eddie would peek into Lucy’s room. He’d imagine what her life would’ve been like if neither father had returned.

What if Eddie alone was the one that disappeared? Steve was like a professional dad. Even now, Eddie felt like he wasn’t doing enough. Like he wasn’t enough. Like Lucy would’ve been better off with someone else.

But those days she beamed at him when he made her favorite chocolate chip pancakes, or came home from school with a test she did well on, or pulled him excitedly to sit down for movie night....It was in those moments that he heard Steve’s voice, telling him he was more than enough.

Eddie had never ever EVER thought he’d have to tell his little girl about the real monsters of the world. But Steve had been gone for three years. And if they were going to hold a funeral, she deserved to know the real reason. She was about the same age as Dustin when he first found out about all of this. And his kid was way more badass than Dustin.

Lucy was about to rush out the door when he caught her.

“Hey, can we talk?”

“Can it be later dad? I really need to go see Noah.”

Eddie let out a sigh but he figured this could wait for a couple more hours. “Go on then. You know the drill.”

“Back before dark, call if I’m gonna be late, don’t talk to suits!”, she called out as she left the house.

Eddie smiled to himself. All the typical things a parent would tell their child. But he knew what lurked in the dark. He knew what a missed call could be and he knew even the nicest looking suits would shoot a kid if it meant covering up a failed telekinesis project. Well, failed in they never fully militarized El. She was very clearly a success in every other way.

Lucy went to Noah’s house, picture in her bookbag, and showed it to him.

“These are your dads?”

“Yeah, I think they were in a gang. Anyway, I think that’s what happened to my dad. Someone from a rival gang killed him.”

“They could just be in costume”, Noah said, pushing up his glasses. They sat in his living room, tv put on to something to make it look like they were watching while his mom did work in the kitchen.

Lucy looked uncertain now. “You think?”

“Why would they have gang photos? Wouldn’t you destroy the evidence?”

It didn’t make entire sense that they would have it. Or that they’d be looking at it where Lucy could find it on their own.

“Well, they were drinking. And you know what alcohol does. Anyway, this is officially a mystery. And we’ve gotta solve it.”

“Your....your dad’s murder?”

She stiffened when he said it like that, even though it had been exactly what she was envisioning. “Let’s call it his disappearance. I haven’t proven anything yet.”

“Did you ask your other dad?”

“He’s not gonna tell me anything.”

“Anyone else in your family?”

Lucy thought about her family. It wasn’t entirely traditional. Most people had a mom, dad, and then all the extras related by blood. Lucy didn’t know either of her grandparents. All of her aunts and uncles were family friends. And seeing as none of them talked about it, she knew she couldn’t get any answers from them.

There was one though. One who was removed enough that he might not tell her everything but he wouldn’t hide away either.

“I gotta call my Uncle Wayne.”

Eddie’s in the middle of deciding if they should get takeout or if he should cook, perusing delivery menus when the phone rings.

“Yup?”

“Eddie, it’s Wayne.”

“And to what do I owe the honor?”, Eddie asked, trying to think of any special events coming up that he might’ve forgotten. They had just talked last week about the possibility of a fishing trip, maybe he was trying to finalize that?

“Just got off the phone with Lucy, wanted to get to you before she got home.”

“What’d she call for?”

“She was askin’ about Steve.”

Eddie felt his stomach drop. Just hearing that name still did things to him but for the wrong reasons now. In the time since Vecna, Eddie had given his uncle an abridged story. His bat bites were all the proof he needed but he also had the alibis of everyone else. So when Steve disappeared, Wayne got the rundown so it didn’t seem like Eddie was deluding himself.

“Sounds like she’s getting curious. I’m telling her today Wayne.”

“You sure she can handle it?”

Eddie thought about the time Lucy took a hard fall of her tricycle, got a gravel-filled gash on her arm and immediately got back onto her trike; the time she got into a fight with not one but two girls for picking on her; the time she decided at 5 that she was too old for stuffed animals and gave one each to her fathers so that they could sleep at night.

“That girl can handle anything.”

#stranger things #steddie #apo writes #fanfiction

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ghostmemesource · 1 year

Text

👻୧‿︵‿︵ ash vs. evil dead sentence starters

these are quotes taken from the starz series ash vs. evil dead. send in one of the prompts below for my muse’s response. please change pronouns/names where you see fit.

First thing I got to do is see a guy about a book. Must be some spell I can say to undo all this.

The other first thing I got to do is some cardio, ’cause my heart is jackhammering like a quarterback on prom night.

One false move, and I will Second Amendment your brains all over this truck.

We’re not leaving a trail of blood and guts behind us, we’re keeping Michigan moist.

There’s one thing I learned from [name]. Shoot first, ask questions never.

Last time I was here with a girl, I was hopin’ to get laid.

If I’ve learned anything from you, [name], it’s that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Hey, I’m looking for a friend. He’s, uh, tall, dumb, smells like… bread.

You fought this thing before. Maybe you just got to finish what you started.

Yes, I’m upset. Yes, I’m behind the wheel. Yes, I’m drunk. And maybe my license isn’t the fancy kind from the DMV. But at least I’m drunk!

Without good, there is no evil.

With all due respect, your tiny brain is a lot safer without my problems inside it.

Trust me, once you get jacked in the face, it’ll all click. I can’t even get my nut up to rumble unless I’ve had a good shot to the chin.

Once again I saved the world. Now it's time to get the girl.

Most people go through life thinkin’ they’re totally safe. People like us, we know the truth. Life is hard and dangerous, and sometimes you just gotta chop off somebody’s head to survive.

I kill demons, not people. Unless those people are demons, who look like people. And then I kill people, but they’re not really people, they’re demons. You understand?

Never get between a papa bear and his cub.

What’s out there knows that you’re alive, and it wants you to be… un-alive.

Well, good news I found a piece of pie with no blood on it. Anybody want a bite?

To save those two, I would submit to a prostate exam.

This town is only big enough for one asshole, and that asshole is me.

Sometimes what you think you saw, it’s exactly what you saw.

Someone needs to wash your mouth out, kid. And that someone is me.

Now I’m gonna kill you, just like I killed your father! I didn’t really kill your father, that just kinda sounded cool.

I gotta warn you, you’re gonna want to leave your husband for me, and I can’t let that happen. Family values.

I’m not drunk enough to know if this is good-weird or bad-weird. But I’ll get there though.

I’m going to be like a ninja losing his virginity, quick and discreet.

I told you. A good shot to the face always gets the juices flowin’.

Thanks for the opinion, appreciate it. Now you can take it, turn it sideways, shove it right up the old poop chute.

When you get back to Hell, work on your aim.

Do you know what evil is, [name]? It’s power without fear, without guilt, and without pain.

Hey, good looking. You here to break me out or break me in?

I'm gonna get you pregnant later.

I'd know that caboose from anywhere.

Even if this goes perfectly, there's a good chance you'll die.

Well, [name], it's been fun catching up. Sorry I got to kill you.

Don't you get it? Everybody dies here. It's just a rule.

If once you start down that path, forever, it will dominate your destiny.

Did you just Yoda quote me?

Alright, look, we get this done quick enough, we might have time to stop for churros.

Yeah, well, your cooking was shit.

Yeah, I remember when I was like you. Young, dumb, full of… conflicting emotions.

Sweet musical Jesus, that's your friend? Oh, she's filthy and fine!

She haunts my dreams. Just kidding. She does, though.

Do me a favor will ya, thank your mother for me? She passed her genes down to you in all the right places.

Damn, [name]. Badass.

Why are you covered in blood?

So look, uh, I'm not a grief counselor, but if it's any consolation, I have had to kill and bury loved ones before. A bunch of times, actually.

Oh sure. I'll just sit here with the police officer we tied up and rethink my recent life choices.

Get ahold of yourself, woman!

I'm gonna say a lot of dumb things.

#rp meme #rp memes #sentence starters rp meme

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mollierdr2 · 5 months

Text

Cherry Waves

hey guys here is my fic

Summary: Long play off of Harvest Moon (and another bit I should probably write at some point) that takes place during Chapter Six. F!reader wants Arthur to leave the gang, but he feels a sense of obligation to his family, so he wants to stay.

Warnings: Majorly canon-compliant, could have been shorter, cussing????

Word Count: 13k

'He thinks we’re a lost cause, you thought. He thinks we’re not gonna get out in time. Deciding not to press it, for fear of getting a response you didn’t want to hear, you nestled your head into Arthur’s chest. “Goodnight.”

Arthur kissed your head, saying, “Mmm, goodnight.”

He knew you knew.'

In the swamp, you found that a shift had occurred in yours and Arthur’s relationship. He was more distant, spending more time away from camp. He’d come back exhausted and bloodied, often crawling straight into bed without a word. When you asked why, he’d give you the same answer: ”well, somebody’s gotta do the work”. You’d noticed a new weakness in his muscles, a hollowing of his face. He’d acquired a cough, too, and sometimes you’d wake up to him hacking in his sleep. He blamed it on the weather, saying that he was just getting used to being back in America.

It was no surprise when, after a day out with Sadie, he came and told you that he was sick. “What is it?” you asked, looking up at him from your shared cot. He stood, hands on his hips, in the corner of your rickety room.

“Tuberculosis,” he said, wiping his face with his hand. “I ain’t got much longer.”

“Okay,” you said after a while, staring at his worn boots and swallowing hard. “What are you gonna do?”

“I dunno,” he admitted, looking past you. “I can’t just die though.”

“No,” you agreed. “We could head West and get you some good air, maybe? Colorado?”

“They know us there; we won’t be able to hide out.”

“Not if we stay in the mountains. Hell, you could stay in a sanatorium and I could-”

“I ain’t goin’ to a sanatorium.” Arthur put his hat on the small table next to your cot and took a seat. He shook his head. “That won’t work.”

“So what will? We can’t stay in the swamp.”

“Dutch wants me and Charles to go find us a new camp anyway–somewhere North of here–so it’ll be better.” Arthur took a deep breath, wheezing.

“I suppose,” you said, taking his hand. “It’ll be okay.”

“Sure,” he said, grim.

*****

The new camp was bleak. Everyone was on edge with each other, and poor Molly had been killed–bless her soul–for none other than loving Dutch. She’d never taken to the rest of the group, becoming a bit of scapegoat, but you had tried a couple of times to know her. You figured her death was more of a reason to get away from the gang you had loved so much; you weren’t sure how much longer you guys would have together. In your almost 6 years with everyone, you’d never seen someone from the gang killed in camp until now. You felt bad.

The whole deal felt bad. Seeing Micah and his new “friends” filled you with an anger you couldn’t describe. Seeing Dutch pull away from the rest of you, abandoning the gang that he had created was infuriating. Watching your husband the workhorse go and do everyone’s bidding while he was dying made you feel the worst, though. His plan, you had learned, was to change nothing. He’d just keep chugging along, doing the same as before, despite the obvious restrictions his body was trying to put on him. He’d thinned considerably, attempting to hide this with vests and jackets, but you noticed how his shirts hung from his shoulders. You noticed the circles around his gray eyes, which used to glow green and blue and gold.

You nagged at him constantly–about eating, getting away from the gang, resting when he needed to–but he never listened to you, always dismissing it with yes, dears and we’ll sees. You hated it. You hated that the two of you were stuck in this mess. Arthur needed to get away from this! He was dying. You guys had a limited time together, now more so than before, and you didn’t want to give any of it up, but he was just throwing it all away. To keep your mind off of this, you spent your time split between Abigail’s tent and your own, either talking to her or reading (you found reading to be the perfect escape). In doing this, in keeping to yourself and avoiding the war that tore down the only home you’d ever known, you found yourself resenting it all. You resented your husband for staying here and getting himself sick. You resented Dutch for leading all of you into this mess. You resented Miss Grimshaw for continuing to put you girls to work, despite her obvious knowledge that it was all going to shit. Most of all, though, you resented yourself for letting this happen to you. Yes, Arthur had dragged you to camp all those years ago, but you had chosen to stay. You chose to marry him, to love him in sickness and/or in health, and now you were face-to-face with the reality of that statement. To run away on him–to get the hell away from this disaster and go somewhere proper–would be a betrayal, and that was something you weren’t willing to do.

Arthur was away with Sadie–shooting some O’Driscolls, or so you’d heard–and you occupied your mind with a poetry book. Back against a big tree, you lazily gazed upon the words on the papers, hardly comprehending any of them. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d even come back. If he’d get himself killed this time. You could picture it perfectly: Sadie would come riding back into camp, calling for you or Dutch or John or maybe all three of you. She’d tell you guys that something’s wrong–something with Arthur–and that he fell and couldn’t get back up and she wasn’t strong enough to get him herself. Dutch would send out battalions to fetch him (or at least the Old Dutch would, but that seemed to be an entirely different man, as of recent) and you’d sit and wait like you always did, just hoping to God that Arthur would come back home to you and cup your face and kiss your forehead like he always had. And he wouldn’t. John would tell you that Arthur was dead and you wouldn’t even cry. That was the worst part of these visions–you wouldn’t cry in any of them. You couldn’t bring yourself to shed a single tear, not even in your imagination. No tears for a man who did it to himself.

The truth is that you felt, in the deepest part of your psyche, that things would be easier if Arthur would just die. If he died, you could breathe again, even if only for a little while. You knew your husband; you knew he’d never leave. And you would never leave him because he’d been there for you for everything. He was there when your mother wrote, asking for help. He was there when you pretended to hate him and instead of being angry at you for it, he told you he loved you–the first person to say that–and danced with you all night long. He was there when you learned you were pregnant and he was there when the baby was born blue. He was there for everything, so you had to be there for him.

When Arthur did come back, you hadn’t even flipped the page. You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice him striding toward you, quietly coughing into his fist. “Y/N,” he said, catching your attention. “Hey.”

“Hey, Arthur,” you said back, not looking at him. You felt bad for what you’d been thinking about–thinking about how it would be if he was dead–but you couldn’t help but ponder these things. It was a very real possibility that he would leave and never come back. You used to go with him on these things, that way you never had to sit and worry–besides, you knew your way around a weapon–but since you learned you were going to be a mother, you hadn’t picked up your rifle. It didn’t matter that your son hadn’t lived; you were trying to be a new woman. Less angry, less impulsive. Less like Arthur, you supposed. You weren’t the one flirting with death. You were caught up in their torrid love affair, waiting on your darling lover to come back home and realize he wanted you. The waiting killed you. The realization that it would be easier if you didn’t have to wait any longer on him–if it would just end then–killed you a little less.

“Whatchu readin’?” he asked, sinking down next to you. “Something far beyond my level, no doubt.”

“No, it’s just Dickinson,” you replied softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Read to me.”

Taking a shaky breath, you sat up and recited the poem on the page, saying, “‘There is a pain—so utter— / It swallows substance up— / Then covers the abyss with Trance— / So Memory can step / Around—across—upon it— / As one within a Swoon— / Goes safely—where an open eye— / Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.’”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Arthur said, chuckling a little. “But it sounds pretty, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. You put your head back on Arthur’s shoulder, inhaling sharply. “I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“Did you think I would?”

“Maybe. You know I’d prefer that you… minimize your excursions.” You folded the book shut and held it in your lap. “I don’t want whoever you’re out with to bring me back a damn corpse for a husband.”

“I ain’t gonna get killed-”

“You’re killing yourself right now, Arthur. Don’t be a fool,” you interrupted, sitting up. “This is killing you, and you know it as well as I.”

“Don’t talk about that here,” Arthur said, hushed. “We can discuss it later, okay?”

“Okay,” you said after a while. “Okay.”

“Let’s just sit here for a while, though,” Arthur said, grabbing your hand. “It’s rest, like you’ve been askin’ for.”

Electing not to argue, you leaned back into Arthur’s side. You had fought and fought for the past month, and it was nice to pretend for a soft, sweet moment that everything would be alright. That he wasn’t going to die. That you probably wouldn’t go with him, whether you wanted to or not. The dread had weighed on your chest since you’d heard his diagnosis–like a heavy man was sitting atop your ribcage–but you could ignore it when it was just the two of you like this. And then Arthur would cough or wheeze and the weight would be back.

*****

Days later, Arthur was supposed to blow up a bridge with John. Sitting in your tent with the canvas drawn, you said, “What’s the point of this anyway, Arthur? What’s this gonna do?”

“I dunno,” he admitted, standing next to his wardrobe, grabbing a black shirt. “But Dutch is convinced that the ‘noise’ that will come with it is gonna help us; I can’t see how.”

“You’re a fool if you do what he says for much longer. He’s not worth it anymore.” You grabbed your book–a new one, called Her Ladyship’s Elephant–and lay back on the cot. Arthur tucked his shirt into his pants, wheezing a little. Your stomach flipped.

“I know he ain’t, but…”

“But you’re too loyal to do anything about it; I know.” You opened the book to the page you were on, adding, “I’d just like to get to spend more time with you, you know. Away from all of this-”

“Y/N…”

“But you won’t leave; I know.”

Arthur put his hands on his hips, breathing shallowly and looking at his feet. “Now, I-”

“Don’t try pretendin’ otherwise. You know it. I just want to spend my last days with you someplace nice; not in this shithole.” You stood, walking over to your husband and linked your arms through his, wrapping yourself around his weakened torso. “I love you too much for that, okay?”

Arthur returned your embrace, saying, “Okay, darlin’... okay.”

You dug your chin into his chest, taking him in with all you could muster. He was dancing a dangerous line, teetering closer and closer to death every day. You wanted to remember every detail, every single sensation you felt as he held you in his arms which, even in their weakened state, were strong around your body. “For me?”

“For you,” Arthur agreed, pulling back and holding you at an elbow’s length. You pretended not to notice his hesitation in answering. “I’ll try my best to get us outta here.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He cupped your face, kissed your forehead, and said, “I gotta go now, okay? I’ll be back in an hour or so; no longer. Just gotta blow up this damn bridge and I’ll be back to you and we can work on findin’ a way out.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, darlin’.”

“I love you too. More than anything,” you answered, smiling softly. “I’ll see you soon, cowboy.” Arthur jokingly tipped his hat and exited the tent, leaving you with your book. You climbed back onto the cot, opened the book, and started reading, enveloping yourself in a world you could never escape to.

When Arthur got back, the two of you laid on the cot together. You read him passages from the book that you found interesting, and he listened, despite having no interest in a woman who had randomly acquired an elephant. At this stage, the two of you spent every possible moment together, clinging to the other’s company like it was the only thing preserving your sanity. Maybe it was. You never could tell when Arthur would meet his maker, so you felt every inclination to stay as close as you could to him; to hold on and never let go. When it got dark, you put up the book and turned to Arthur, asking, “Did you talk to John?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Arthur; about leaving?”

Arthur glanced down at you, brow furrowed. “I told him that he needs to get the hell out of here before it’s too late, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what about us?”

“I’m not leaving until John is safe, Y/N. He’s got… more, if that makes sense. It’s not just him and Abigail; they got Jack, and the boy deserves a better life than this.”

You nodded, your stomach flipping again. He thinks we’re a lost cause, you thought. He thinks we’re not gonna get out in time. Deciding not to press it, for fear of getting a response you didn’t want to hear, you nestled your head into Arthur’s chest. “Goodnight.”

Arthur kissed your head, saying, “Mmm, goodnight.”

He knew you knew.

*****

The day had started like any other–Arthur would wake from his restless slumber and scramble out of bed, pulling his pants and boots on, kissing your forehead, and leaving without waking you–but you were unable to shake the uneasiness that hung over Camp like a wall cloud before a tornado. Dutch had disappeared into the cave and you could hear fragments of his conversation, though you couldn’t tell who he was speaking with. Perhaps it was himself, or it was another one of his “visions”, where he claimed that he could see Hosea. It wasn’t worth trying to figure out, at this point. Dutch was more than a loose cannon; he was a lit fuse. Everyone in Camp waited, air thick with anticipation, for Dutch’s inevitable explosion. You couldn’t blame Arthur for leaving so early.

“Hey, Y/N, would you mind talkin’ to Dutch for me?” Abigail said, startling you. You looked up from your journal, which you hadn’t written in for weeks, and snapped it shut. “I think I’m onto something, but I need you to, uh…”

“Get him out?”

“Yes, if you would.” Abigail smiled sheepishly. “You don’t have to–I don’t blame you if you don’t want to–but I think I found somethin’ good.” Leaning in, Abigail whispered, “I think he’s hidin’ our money in there.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I can try, Abigail, but you know he’s not doin’ well. He knows as good as you how I feel about this place…”

“I won’t be long; promise.”

“I guess you have yourself a deal, then,” You said, standing.

“Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll kick you out of Camp. That’d force Arthur to listen to you,” Abigail said, stepping off toward the cave.

“Or I’d end up like Molly…” You responded, too quiet to hear.

You glanced around Camp as you made your way to the cave, taking note of Javier and Bill’s strange alliance. It had always been your impression that they hated each other–it seemed that Bill hated Javier for being Mexican and Javier hated Bill for hating Mexicans–but now the two of them found middle ground in their fiercely blind loyalty to Dutch. Arthur was loyal like a dog, but even a dog learns to stay away from the owner that abuses them for so long. It puzzled you, their loyalty. You wondered how bad things had to have been for them to think that this–the constant badgering about faith and money and scores while running faster and further than you’ve ever had to run before–was better than what they would have faced. Did they really still believe that this was freedom? If you could still bring yourself to write, you figured, you’d write about that.

As you approached the cave’s entrance, Abigail split off to the right, waiting in the corner behind Dutch’s tent, safely tucked out of sight. “Dutch?” you asked, voice echoing on the cave’s moist walls. “Are you in here?”

“Mrs. Morgan!” Dutch boomed, appearing from one of the many tunnels. “How are you?”

“Well, I’m… I’m not well, Dutch. Do you have a moment to talk about Arthur?” You asked, craning your neck and frowning slightly. “He’s in a bad way.”

“Of course!” Dutch put his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to his tent. “We can always talk about Arthur and his issues with Old Dutch.”

“Oh, he doesn’t have issues with you,” you lied, “but I’m sure you’ve noticed that he’s not doin’ too well.” The two of you stepped into the tent, with Dutch motioning for you to take a seat in the wooden chair across from his cot. He settled into a chair of his own. Abigail scurried into the cave without catching anyone’s attention but your own.

“This is about that? My dear, Arthur is fine. Hosea was sick for years and that wasn’t what took him out. It’ll pass–all things do. This, this will pass. I know things are hard for you right now, it’s hard for everyone, but I promise you that I will get us out. We’ve got a train job planned and that will be it, Mrs. Morgan. Just one more score and you don’t have anything to worry about. We will hop on a riverboat and head to Chicago or New York and then head off for the tropics. I have a plan. You just need to have some faith.”

“Dutch, he has tuberculosis.” You said bluntly. “He doesn’t have much time left. I’m not asking for a grandiose speech to inspire me, I’m just asking that you help him out a little. He’s sick. I know that you love him–I love him–and I’m afraid that you’re working him to death.”

“I’m doing no such thing!” Dutch said, raising his voice slightly. “It’s all apart of the plan.”

“And what is that plan?”

“I told you: Tahiti. One last score, and we can get there.”

“You’ve been saying that for as long as I’ve known you; how do I know that this is the real one?”

“Have some goddamn faith in me.” Dutch fired back, a scowl painting itself on his face.

“Why should I?” You challenged, leaning forward. “Where did faith get Sean and Lenny? Hosea?”

“Don’t talk about Hosea-”

“Hosea would be so disappointed in you.”

“Don’t talk about Hosea!” Dutch repeated, glowering.

“Why? You don’t want to think about what he’d say? I’ll tell you what he’d say; he’d-”

Before you could finish, Dutch was in your face screaming, “I have a plan! You do not get to tell me anything. I am sick of your incessant complaining! You know nothing of Hosea, and you know nothing of this situation!”

You raised an eyebrow, holding your mouth agape. The tension between the two of you was palpable; the hatred radiating off of his body was overwhelming, but you held his stare. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Arguing had always come easy enough for you–sometimes your timing was a little off or you didn’t emphasize the right words–but you rarely found yourself at a loss of words. When you did find the right words, though, you knew they’d hit. “I see straight through you, Dutch van der Linde. It’s a shame that no one else does.” Carefully, reeling from the encounter, you stood and excused yourself back to your tent, hoping that Abigail had made her exit from the cave in enough time.

Upon exiting Dutch’s tent, you found that everyone was watching you, aside from Karen, who was passed out by a tree, and Jack, who was playing quietly in the dirt. Javier gave you a nasty look and muttered something to Bill, who smiled. “Gentlemen,” you quietly uttered, scurrying past them.

“You know, Arthur can’t protect you forever,” Javier called after you. You kept your head down, closing the flaps of your tent. You hadn’t intended to cause a scene, but you were having an increased difficulty in holding your tongue in times like these. Maybe you were just tired of always doing what you were told. You couldn’t tell.

It was no secret that you were unhappy. You had your moments, sure, but you hadn’t been content since you lost your baby. Samuel, your son, was supposed to make things better. He would’ve given you a life away from all this. Sometimes you’d lay awake at night and see his tiny, wrinkled face. His face that never crunched up and cried. And just like every image you’d conjured of Arthur’s death, you could not cry at the death of your son. You could not cry at anything. You could only observe, watching and silently simmering at the injustice that had been committed against you. Your life, you felt, was an injustice. You could’ve been good, somehow, and you never were. It was easy to blame the circumstances–it was easy to say that this was Dutch’s or Arthur’s or Samuel’s or society’s fault–but you knew it was no one’s but your own. You were bitter and devoid of anything positive. You’d fought against living your whole life and now here you were, a shell of a person with nothing to come from an empty existence. When you died, there would be no one left to remember you by.

You climbed onto your cot and grabbed the journal from your nightstand, opening to an empty page. You had nothing to write. You wanted to write something, you wanted this desperately, but you couldn’t find the words to adequately express your emotions. You were stuck. You began scribbling the word stuck over and over and over again, handwriting growing larger as you went on. You were stuck. You could not leave but you could not stay. You could not go to sleep but you could not stay awake. You could not fully love Arthur but you could not hate him. Stuck.

You were interrupted by the front curtain flap opening. Quickly, you slammed your journal shut as Arthur strode into your tent. “I been thinkin’”, he said.

“Does it pay well?” you responded, too quiet, in a daze.

“Funny,” Arthur fired back. “Anyway, I was thinkin’ and you know how we need to get John and Abigail and Jack outta here, right? All of the girls, too?”

“Yeah…”

“I got a plan for it; I have to run it by John, but we’ll… what’s wrong?” Your husband took a seat at the edge of the cot, looking at you with a furrowed brow.

“I talked with Dutch.”

“Why’d you do that?” Arthur leaned back, taking your hand. “It wasn’t good, no?”

You chuckled slightly. “Of course it wasn’t. I was tryin’ to help out Abigail but instead made it all about myself; she must think I’m terribly selfish.”

“You live with criminals of the highest offense and you’re worried about bein’ selfish?” Arthur teased. “She seemed fine; don’t worry about it.”

“Wait, you saw her?” you leaned forward, turning toward Arthur.

“Well, yeah. She was gettin’ onto Jack about runnin’ away or somethin’. It was pretty loud; I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.” He said it like it was obvious. You sighed.

“That’s good.” You leaned into Arthur’s side, resting your head on his chest. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you too, darlin’,” he said back, but you were sure that he didn’t miss you the way you’d missed him. He put his arm over your torso, holding you comfortably.

“You’re so warm.” A soft smile crept across your face and you wiggled closer to your husband. “What’d you do today?”

“Well, I went fishin’ with a Civil War veteran named Hamish and taught a young widow how to shoot. Then I went into Annesburg for a drink and ran into Archie Downes–Mr. Downes’s son–and learned that him and his Mama never left like I told them to, so I went an’ fetched his mother and gave ‘em more money. It’s the least I can do.”

You nodded. “I got screamed at by Dutch and maybe threatened by Javier.”

Arthur chuckled. “A day in the life.”

Smiling, you responded, “No doubt.”

*****

In the week that followed, you watched and waited as Arthur followed Dutch around, doing whatever he asked. You quietly simmered, doing your chores and reading without a word to anyone. How could Arthur go and obey Dutch’s every word, execute his every whim, and not try to get you guys out? Did he not value you? The relationship the two of you had carefully fostered for the past 5 years? Maintaining a relationship with Arthur was like trying to fight the government; you were always losing. You’d fought the government for the greater portion of two decades, and you never won. The same was true with Arthur–you never won. At the end of the day, you might be in his bed, but his mind was occupied by Dutch Van Der Linde and his fancy words. You knew when you fell in love 5 years ago that you’d never be the sole occupant of Arthur’s heart, but it was worse now, knowing that Dutch didn’t care for Arthur anymore, or at least not in the way he had. For him now, Arthur was a weapon, and it simultaneously broke your heart and filled it with rage.

Was Arthur this oblivious or had he just allowed it to happen?

You figured it was the latter. You were tired of it. When Arthur returned from the oil fields–Dutch’s latest escapade, with the intent of sticking it to the Army–it was late and you were looking for a fight. You’d quietly stepped aside all week, but you were done. You were sick of this, of giving Arthur everything and getting nothing in return.

“You’re late,” you said, standing with your hands on your hips.

“It was a goddamn mess; I need to sleep.” Arthur sat at the edge of the cot, yanking his boots off of his feet.

You scoffed, eyebrows raised. “That’s it?”

“Yes. I don’t want to talk about it right now, Y/N, please. It was awful.” He stood and removed his gun belt and pants, tucking them neatly into his wardrobe.

“It’s almost like I told you it would be bad–that all of this would be bad. How long have I been trying to get you to leave this life? A year? I thought that getting sick would give you some sort of clarity–that you’d decide that this is what matters–and you’d finally choose me, but you’ve done the opposite! You’re leaving more, and you come back looking worse and worse every time… When are you gonna come back in a casket, Arthur Morgan?” You spat, voice hushed. You were surprised that Arthur hadn’t interjected to defend himself.

“Not now.”

“Now,” you said, remaining firm. “I waited for you. Everyone got back here way before you did; why?”

“Because I got a goddamn boy killed, okay?!” Arthur fired back, looking up at you. “I… I don’t know exactly how it happened, but we was leaving the building and I slipped and he saved me, but… not before it was too late. He was shot in the belly for savin’ me.”

You were quiet at that. “Oh,” you said, softening.

“Dutch… he left me. He could’ve turned around and helped me, but he didn’t and got that poor boy–Eagle Flies–killed for it.” He paused before quietly adding, “Charles and I brought him back to his pa before he died; that’s what took me so long.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to meet his eyes.

“I know you are,” Arthur answered, staring straight ahead. Then, almost out of nowhere, he began coughing, his body quaking. He stooped over, hands on his knees, hacking up blood, desperately gasping for air in between each croup. You were at his side immediately, softly rubbing circles on his shoulder. The pit in your stomach seemed to reach your feet. You couldn’t help but feel selfish for all of this–for throwing a fit when a boy got killed–and now Arthur was hurting again and you couldn’t do anything to help him.

As he continued to choke on his own air, you guided his shoulders down, laying him flat on the cot. “Shh, it’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you watched your husband slip into unconsciousness. You couldn’t fall asleep for a while–not until the sun was beginning to rise–and when you did, it was filled with the same bad dream, playing over and over in your mind. You were stranded in a county jail when Arthur–young, healthy Arthur–came bursting in to bust you out. Guns brandished, he told them that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot first and think second, something he used to threaten people with often. Every time, the deputies elected to shoot him. You watched Arthur die again and again and again, shot down by some scrawny teenagers with guns who shot for the sake of shooting, and there was nothing you could do. He crumpled to the ground, crawling toward you, saying your name–a plea of sorts, begging you to help him. Just as he’d get to you, finally gripping the cuff of your worn-out jeans, you’d wake up. You’d wake up in his arms, letting the sound of his slow, steady breath ease you back into your fitful slumber.

You slipped out of bed before he’d begun to stir, grabbing some coffee for the both of you. When you came back, Arthur was sitting on the cot, legs hanging over the edge. “Just the two of us today,” he said, taking the cup from you. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You took a seat next to him. “You takin’ me somewhere?”

“I was thinkin’ we’d go to Valentine or Strawberry–get you a book or something and rent a Hotel room.” He took a sip of the coffee.

“Careful, it’s-”

“Damn, that’s hot!” he said, yanking the cup away from his mouth. The two of you shared a sideways glance and burst out laughing.

“I tried to warn you!” You said, setting your drink on the nightstand. “I just poured it!”

A smile spread its way across Arthur’s face, but it faded as his laughs were replaced with coughs. Right, you reminded yourself. We can’t laugh anymore. You took a sip of your coffee, cheeks flushed. It was embarrassing to watch him like this. You felt bad–the constant stomachache you had was a way of always remembering–but you felt embarrassed for seeing Arthur, a man used to being strong, in such a pitiful state. It felt like you were looking down on him somehow.

“I’m okay,” he mustered, still coughing. “It’s… it’s okay.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, staring at the ground before you. “I think we should camp out in Big Valley. It’s so beautiful over there.”

The coughing ceased and Arthur nodded, wiping blood from the corners of his mouth. “Sure.”

“We could go fishing and then stay the night in Strawberry–I think a bed will help you, you know–and maybe we could get a portrait done… Well, I don’t know, there’s no portrait places around, but I think it would be nice,” you rambled, turning back to your husband.

“Yeah, that would be-”

“Arthur!” Dutch called, side-stepping into your tent. He shot you a dirty look. He hadn’t been very welcoming since your encounter in his tent. “I thought I heard you. At least you ain’t run off like the rest of them.”

“Whatchu mean?” Arthur asked, leaning forward.

“Pearson, Old Uncle–the traitors–both gone at dawn. They said to young Tilly they were runnin’ to save themselves. I think Mary-Beth left as well.”

“So it goes,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. So it did. If it were up to you, you and Arthur would have been gone with them. Of course, it wasn’t, so here you sat, next to your husband and the man he loved more than anything. You slipped your arm around his, a subtle and unconscious showing of possession.

“They are goddamn cowards, Arthur. Cowards. Of all the time we spent, to run off…”

Standing, Arthur interrupted, saying, “Well I guess they don’t wanna die, Dutch.” Your arm fell to your side.

“Ain’t nobody gonna…” Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder and led him out of the tent, leaving you to yourself. You made it your business not to listen, out of respect for Arthur’s privacy, more than anything, and perhaps as a sort of guilt for the way you’d carried on the night before.

You could hear bits of the conversation. You heard Arthur loudly exclaim something about there always being a train, before coughing. You heard Dutch saying something about insisting–and from his tone he was not happy–before Arthur came barging back into the tent, saying, “Get ready. We gotta go rob this damn train and we need all the guns we can get.”

“Arthur, I ain’t been on a job since-”

“I know, Y/N, but I’d feel better if you were with me than if you were waitin’ back here. Miss Grimshaw, Tilly, and Abigail can handle the packing just fine without you; I need you with me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.” You quietly stood and made your way to the weapon cabinet, digging your engraved Bolt Action out from the bottom. Arthur stepped out, quietly talking with John about the train job. You then dressed yourself in a purple checkered shirt and navy jeans, topping off the outfit with a black hat. You clipped your gun belt into place, carefully tucking your volcanic pistol into its holster. Arthur had his own matching set, engraved with his initials. You hadn’t carried your weapons in almost a year in an attempt to get straight, but if Arthur said now was the time to dig them back out, you believed him. And, admittedly, you had missed the rush you felt behind a powerful weapon.

When you stepped out of the tent, Arthur smiled a little. “Hey,” he said.

“Let’s get this over with,” you responded, walking past him. Dutch stood at the center of the camp, rallying the troops in some way or another. “Let’s ride out, gentleman,” Dutch shouted, arms raised. Everyone muttered their agreements, climbing onto their mounts, as Dutch repeated himself, saying, “Let’s go!”

The group of you took off, heading South for what would either be your ticket out of hell or your ticket straight to it. You stayed close to Arthur’s side, for fear of harassment by Micah or his lackeys, and did your best to keep the growing uneasiness in your stomach at bay. Arthur had respected your wishes to stay out of the fight for almost a year–since Micah had joined the gang–and now he was asking you throw yourself back into it. You wondered if it meant Arthur was worried–if he thought that it was going to be so bad that he needed you to be there. You swallowed hard, paying attention to the road in front of you.

“Okay, let’s pick up the pace,” Dutch called, “The train is due in Saint Denis in an hour.”

“We’re robbin’ a train in the middle of a city?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Dutch clarified. “It’s going to stop there, take on mail and water, let off some boys headin’ home on leave, and then it heads out.”

“They know the bridge is gone, Black Lung,” Micah taunted, inching closer to the two of you. “There’ll be a patrol past Annesburg, waitin’ down by the river to collect the money.”

“Shut up, Micah,” you whispered.

Simultaneously, Dutch said, “We sneak on quietly and then we get a short time to stop the train–before it reaches the patrol.” The bunch of you continued forward before Dutch said, “John, you go get that dynamite. We’ll meet back up outside of Saint Denis.”

“Y/N and I will go with him,” Arthur added, motioning at you with his hand.

“As you wish,” Dutch said back.

The three of you broke off from the group, heading westward to wherever John had planted the leftover dynamite he and Arthur had used to blow up the bridge. “It’s this way,” John instructed, leading the pack. “It’s nice to see you back with the gang, Y/N,” he added.

“I asked her to come with,” said Arthur. “It might be a shitshow–trains always are–and I wanted some extra insurance.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how all this will play out.”

“This is one big goddamn group to be riding back into Saint Denis,” Arthur admitted, getting side-by-side with John.

“Yeah, and I heard the Pinkertons have pretty much taken over Van Horn,” John responded. You nodded, as if either of them could see you. “They moved a whole heap of men in there. Things are closin’ in fast.”

“Shit,” Arthur softly exclaimed.

John led you and Arthur the rest of the way to the wagon, and despite yours and John’s protests, Arthur insisted upon getting the dynamite himself. You rolled your eyes. He didn’t need to be carrying a 30-pound crate anymore.

“You know we can get that, Arthur,” you reminded him, leaning forward on Waldo, your horse. A red chestnut Arabian, Waldo had been your horse for nearly as long as you’d been with the gang–you and Arthur found him shortly after you’d fallen in with them.

“I’m fine,” he called back, a hint of aggression in his voice.

“As you like.” You patted Waldo and gave him a sugar cube. “You’re a good horse, boy.”

Arthur tucked the dynamite into his satchel and mounted back up. “So listen,” John said, “Abigail just told me… the money… it’s hidden in the caves at Beaver Hollow.”

“What the hell is it doin’ that close to camp?” You exclaimed, falling into step next to John and Arthur.

“I know! Dutch is gettin’ even sloppier than we thought!” John said back.

“Are Abigail and Jack ready to leave?” Arthur asked.

“I think so,” John responded, an uneasiness in his voice.

“Okay… Whatever happens with this job today…” Arthur began coughing, still saying, “wherever Dutch and them go next, we’re getting you the hell outta here. We’re gonna get you the money you need. Knowin’ the three of you got out, well… Maybe all this’ll still mean somethin’... Tilly and Susan too. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You hoped that included you.

He wouldn’t say it then, whatever plan he had for getting you guys out of there, and you knew that–it was a conversation for you two to have in private–and despite knowing the end was coming, you hadn’t anticipated its arrival to be this soon. But part of you wished that he would have mentioned you–his wife, the woman who had stood by his side for nigh on 6 years now–because it would have meant that he believed that you were something he was fighting for.

You’d talk about it later, if you could, and you’d apologize for making an ass of yourself the night before. These weren’t things to be discussing with John around; he didn’t need to be aware of your guys’s relationship issues, especially when he was having his own. “You’ve always had my back, Arthur,” John said.

“Well, perhaps not always,” Arthur corrected, and you smiled, remembering how angry he’d been when John left.

“Anyway, here we go… One last train, guys.” John pushed forward.

“One last train…” Arthur repeated. Your stomach flipped. One last train.

*****

The three of you caught up to the rest of the gang soon after, and you couldn’t help but remember the last time all of you had ridden into Saint Denis–when Hosea died. You slipped away with Abigail, but you still saw it all happen. You shook off the memory, trying your best to seem nonchalant. To the people of Saint Denis, you were just a woman with her husband and his friends. Sure, the whole lot of you were heavily armed, but many people in Saint Denis were. Besides, this was a city–people would have needed to worry about other people to care about what you were doing. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that you would be okay.

“You good?” Arthur asked, having noticed your anxiety.

You nodded. “Just nervous, is all. Haven’t been on a job in ages.”

“One last time, gentlemen,” Dutch started. “I got us a river boat. We’ll head up to New York or Chicago, and get a real boat from there to the tropics.”

“Chicago ain’t on the Coast,” you whispered, rolling your eyes. He didn’t have a damn plan, and you knew it. These other people, they might not have caught on, but you could see his bullshit from miles away.

“So long as it isn’t Guarma,” Javier said from behind you.

“Oh, it’ll be paradise, son!” Dutch reassured, as if he knew what paradise even was. You were certain that he’d do the same thing he always had–the whole ordeal reeked of his and Micah’s ferry job in Blackwater, and all that had come from that ‘one last score’ was more ‘one last scores’.

“It’s all coming together, Dutch, just like we planned,” Micah chimed in.

“That okay with you John? Arthur?” Dutch mocked, “Or do you ‘insist’ on something different?” You wanted to say something, but Arthur put his hand out, as if to say ‘do not’.

“Sounds about as good now as every time I heard it before,” John fired back, saying exactly what you were thinking.

“Oh, Abigail must be real excited, all packed up like she is,” Micah taunted. “I could just see her in a little grass skirt-”

“Don’t talk to me, you son-of-a-bitch,” John interrupted.

“Boys, boys, okay now, let’s keep it down,” Dutch said, attempting to slip back into the role of the level-headed peacemaker that he’d refused to play for so long. “We don’t wanna draw attention to ourselves goin’ through here. Nice and easy through town, fellers.”

Continuing to push, Micah said, “Ah, Saint Denis… good to be back. Happy memories, huh, John?”

“Will you shut up, Micah?” you fired. “He ain’t botherin’ you.”

“That’s enough!” Dutch declared. “Quiet, all of you.”

Dutch led the lot of you the rest of the way to the train station, occasionally nodding or saying hello to people on the sidewalks. When you arrived, all of you dismounted, Dutch giving everyone their instructions, saying, “Cleet, Sadie, and Y/N, you board halfway along. John, you and Arthur are gonna board at the back. Rest of you, follow Micah and I, and join once they stop the train.”

As if on cue, the train came barrelling into the station. Bill, in his infinite wisdom, said, “Here she comes,” as if it was not already abundantly clear that the train was on its way. What also happened to be obvious was the fact that the train was not slowing down.

Arthur glanced at Dutch as the train passed you by, saying, “Should I just… sneak on now?”

“Goddamnit,” Dutch said, looking back at Micah. It was odd how he’d gone from looking at Hosea to Micah, of all people. “Well,” he decided, “everyone mount up.”

“We’re still going through with this?” Arthur asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“Of course we are!” Dutch fired back, and the lot of you climbed back onto your mounts in hot pursuit of the runaway train. John yelled at Arthur–something about catching up–but you ignored it, focusing on your own task: getting onboard the train and getting to the money. You pushed Waldo forward, guiding him into a sprint. You jumped onboard in the back carriage, which was flat. Pistol drawn, you took out two of the guards that emerged from the car in front of you with a familiar ease. You followed Sadie and Cleet through the train, taking out guards whenever you could. The three of you made it through without much kickback, and it wasn’t until you heard yelling from behind you that you realized something had gone wrong: one of the train cars caught on fire, and John and Arthur were stuck on the other side of the fire.

“Let’s get over there and see what we can do to help,” you said, motioning for the other two. Without checking to see if they had followed, you made your way to the flat car in front of the one on fire. Just as you got there, Arthur and John jumped onto the car from The Count and Brown Jack.

“Uncouple that carriage, before it blows us all up!” Arthur shouted, pointing at the burning carriage.

“I’m on it!” John called, running to the back of the car.

In front of Arthur, there was a gatling gun, presumably left out open by whatever soldiers you’d shot down minutes before. He looked around, taking note of the lookout on the hill–meaning you guys hadn’t stopped the train in time–and glanced back down at the gun.

“Man the gun, Arthur!” John shouted.

“Sure,” Arthur said back, grabbing the head from its wooden crate and latching it onto the post. John uncoupled the carriage with ease, too, releasing the train from the fire that had threatened your pursuit. John called for all of the riders to get on the train, and, as Bill jumped onboard, John was clipped by a bullet in the shoulder, sending him flying backwards off of the train.

“John!” Arthur shouted, flinching from the shots. Quickly, he whipped back around, shooting the soldier who had knocked John down in the head. Dutch promised to get John, so long as the rest of you got the money.

You nodded at your husband to reassure him, saying, “Man the gun. We got you covered.”

“I’ll go stop the train,” Bill said, grabbing his rifle.

“Do not stop the train!” You responded, shooting a soldier trailing you guys. “You can secure up ahead, but do not stop this damn train or we’re dead, you hear me?”

“Got it!” Bill shouted back, heading to the front with Javier and Cleet.

“Shit, we got a lot of riders on our tail, Arthur,” Sadie said, guns drawn.

“I see ‘em.” Arthur was already shooting at the three or so men headed towards you. As the soldiers approached from all sides, Arthur began swinging the gun around, killing men and horses alike–it’s hard to aim with a gatling gun, after all–and you and Sadie tried your best to assist him.

“It’s nice to see you in action, Y/N,” Sadie shouted. “I heard you was good with a gun!”

“I’m better with poetry books, but sure, I can handle myself in a gunfight,” you said back, shooting the hat off of a soldier in pursuit. “There’s a horde of ‘em to the left, Arthur.” Arthur nodded and swung the gun to the left as you shot at the soldier again, this time shooting him out of the saddle. You and Sadie continued to shout your warnings at him. After passing through a bridge, there appeared to be no one else on your tail, so you said, “Get off the gun; we gotta get to the money.”

The three of you pushed forward, only going a couple of cars further than where you’d been. Arthur quickly dug the dynamite out of his satchel and placed it on the doors. “Alright, I guess I better blow this thing,” he muttered.

Stepping back, he shot the dynamite, and the doors came open. He ran inside, with you and Sadie posting on either side of the door. “We got something,” he said, looking around. “We got something!”

Throwing a money bag to you, he instructed you to catch. “There’s more!” he said, tossing a bag the size of your torso at you. And another. And another. You were so overwhelmed with the amount of money that you didn’t notice Bill barrelling toward you, jumping from the top of the carriage.

“Morgan!” he said, “The driver’s dead! This thing ain’t stoppin’, we gotta get off.”

“Okay then,” Sadie said, dumping a bag of money into Bill’s arms. “Let’s go!” The four of you grabbed your bags and dove off of the train, barely making it off before it went flying from the bridge Arthur and John had blown up.

You looked down at the wreckage, saying, “Jesus.”

“We’re alive,” Bill chimed in.

“Yeah, just about,” Arthur said back, looking at the rest of you and coughing.

“Let’s get the hell outta here; regroup with the others,” you said, stepping away from the cliff, which you preferred not to be particularly close to in the first place. The rest of them followed you back. You were met on the tracks by Dutch, Micah and Joe. “Where’s everyone else?” You asked, heaving your money sack onto the ground.

“Where’s John?” Arthur added, staring at Dutch expectantly. The rest of the men–Javier and Cleet–fell in.

“I tried,” Dutch said, looking down at all of you. You slipped your arm around Arthur’s–a reminder not to fly off the handle at whatever response he got. “I tried.”

“He didn’t make it,” Micah said, peering at you guys from behind Dutch. You felt sick. With John gone–dead, apparently–Arthur was left with a choice you knew he’d never make. He could stay with Dutch, link himself to the carnage, latching even tighter to Dutch’s dry, empty teat, or he could take you and leave, ending all of this once and for all. “That patrol killed him. We had to run.”

“Come on,” Dutch said abruptly, before any questions could be asked. “Let’s go. Before another patrol turns up.” The men took off, leaving you and Arthur on the tracks. You watched him, trying to catch his gaze for just a moment, but he wouldn’t look at you. He stared straight down, wheezing.

“Let’s go, Arthur. We don’t have time to fret, okay? We can worry about this later, but right now, Dutch is right; we gotta go.” You tugged at Arthur’s arm, dragging toward your horses. He moved without protest, still quietly pondering the events that had just unfolded. You had a feeling that whatever happened after this would not be good.

You and Arthur saddled up, taking off after the gang. The ride back to camp was… solemn, with no one saying much. As tense as things had gotten between everyone, John was a part of the family, and that took its toll. At least it did on most of you. Dutch and Micah seemed to be just fine about the ordeal, quietly chattering at the front of the pack. You were sure Arthur had noticed this too, but didn’t say anything about it–he wouldn’t be in the mood to talk much, not after what you’d learned.

Right before the turn to enter camp, everyone in front of you slowed up. You eased Waldo to a halt, looking around. “What’s goin’ on?” you asked Arthur, brow furrowed.

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it,” he whispered back.

And then you heard it. Young Tilly, scared out of her mind, saying that the Pinkertons took Abigail. Arthur sent you a sideways glance, an odd expression painted across his face, and you realized that he’d chosen to fight for John, even though he was out of the picture. The family he never had, or something like that. Maybe if your son had lived, he’d fight like this for you, you thought. Micah insisted to let Abigail go–to let her die–because John was already gone, and despite Arthur’s pleas, Dutch could not be swayed in the opposite direction.

Arthur threw himself out of the saddle, positioning himself beneath Dutch–in front of The Count–like he was begging him to go rescue Abigail. Tears swelled in your eyes at the sight of it–seeing your husband begging Dutch to save a woman he’d refused to let go hours earlier–and you knew that, despite your own protests to the whole affair, you’d go with him. You’d help, not because you thought it was the best way (you couldn’t help but side somewhere in the middle with this; you found yourself wishing for a third option where you waited a while before sneaking in and getting her out), but because you knew that it was the only way Arthur would go, and you were afraid he’d get himself killed while you weren’t with him.

They ignored him and rode past, leaving you and Sadie and Arthur and Tilly and Jack to yourselves. Arthur coughed, putting his hands on his knees and spitting blood. “Well, I guess that’s that, then.” He stood. “All them goddamn years.” Without pausing to think, he grabbed his horn to mount up. “I’m goin’ to get her.”

“Not without us, Arthur,” Sadie said, pushing forward. You nodded, adding, “We’ll cover you.”

Arthur frowned, saying, “No, Y/N, you need to stay. Me and Sadie’s all we need. Get everything together and we’re runnin’ after this. We’ll go down to Big Valley and get that portrait.”

You frowned. “I don’t want to leave-”

“I know, but it’ll be faster. Once Abigail is safe, we’re out of here, no questions asked. Stay with Tilly and Jack. We’ll meet up at Copperhead Landing and go from there, okay?”

“Okay,” you said breathlessly. Climbing out of your saddle and making your way to him, you said, “Oh, Arthur, I-” You leaned into his chest, holding back tears.

“I know.” He cupped your face, kissing you softly on the forehead. “I love you, darlin’.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out stacks of cash and other valuables. “Take this back and pack it up. And the money, too. It’ll get us out of here.”

“Okay. Stay alive for me.”

“I will, darlin’. I will.” He kissed you again, this time with more urgency. He mounted up, saying, “I’ll be back.”

“You’d better.” You climbed back onto Waldo and watched as Arthur and Sadie disappeared into the distance. Turning to Tilly, you said, “Take the money bags and Jack straight to Copperhead Landing and I’ll meet you there once I’ve got our stuff. We’ll regroup there and get you someplace safe.”

She nodded, squeezing Jack as if to tell him that things would be okay.

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to go back into Camp.” You added, and Tilly agreed, so you set off in opposite directions–Tilly towards safety and you towards a battlezone.

When you got there, everything had been stripped. Miss Grimshaw was ordering people around while Dutch and Micah conversed by Dutch’s tent, which hadn’t been touched. You quickly dismounted and made your way to yours and Arthur’s tent, trying your best to be discreet, but it still caught the attention of Javier, who’d been sitting by the fire next to Bill.

“Running from something?” Javier asked.

“I’m packing, just like the rest of you.” You bowed your head and continued forward, stepping into your tent.

“Where’s Arthur, then?” He followed after you.

“Doing what you folk were too cowardly to do,” you fired back, closing the curtain to your tent in his face.

As quickly as you could manage, you dug through everything, putting the essentials into a leather suitcase with your initials engraved on the handle. You packed shirts, skirts, pants, books, and all of your valuables. Arthur’s pictures, his mother’s flower, his shaving equipment. Your wedding rings. Newspaper clippings, your respective journals. Little knick knacks Arthur had gifted you after his many journeys. It scarcely fit in the suitcase, but you managed. You layered your clothes to take more. You couldn’t leave it all behind, not with the little money you two had. You gripped your suitcase and hurried out.

“Leaving so soon?” Micah called after you.

“They’re traitors,” Javier taunted.

“I oughta show them what we do to traitors,” Bill said in response.

You kept your head down and continued towards Waldo, strapping your suitcase onto his back. The men continued to hurl insults towards you, about how you were abandoning them and that they knew Arthur was crooked. You wanted to turn and scream at them, to call them fools for staying and bastards for refusing to help Arthur, but you kept your mouth shut, determined to let everything work out. You’d get out. You’d head somewhere new, somewhere he could breathe again, and it would be okay. You’d get your portrait done and live on a homestead like normal couples did. Maybe you’d try to have a kid again.

“Going somewhere?” A familiar voice said from behind you.

“I do not wish to speak to you, Dutch,” you said, trying to sound cordial.

“Ever since you came along, Arthur has been doubtin’ me, you know?” He stepped next to you, putting his hand on Waldo. “You’ve been whisperin’ in his ear for six years now.”

“Arthur’s not doing anything. This is on my own accord,” you lied. “I can’t stay here any longer–it’s too much for me.” You mounted up, looking down at Dutch. “I wish Arthur would agree with me, but he’ll be back, no doubt. He’s too damn loyal.”

Dutch laughed, watching as you pulled away, riding out of Camp for what would be the last time. You didn’t know if he believed you or not, but you hoped he wouldn’t follow you. Everything would be fine if he didn’t follow you out. You couldn’t imagine that what you did mattered, seeing as how you had hardly contributed to any of Dutch’s causes (except to say that they’re dangerous), but it was hard to tell with Dutch anymore.

You waited at Copperhead Landing with Tillly for hours. There was no trace of Dutch or Micah or any of the other guys from Camp, but there was also no trace of Arthur or Sadie. Eventually, you grew restless, and left your things with Tilly so you could sneak into Van Horn yourself. You hadn’t been on the radar of the law in years–they wouldn’t expect to see you barrelling into town, especially not dressed like a proper lady.

You managed to walk through the town completely unscathed, strolling right up to the front of the building the Pinkertons had posted up in before you were questioned. A fat man with a bald head asked you where you were going and you hastily held a knife against his throat, telling him you’d kill him if he didn’t lead you into the building. The best part was–being that it was almost dark–that no one could see you. He walked you straight in, hands up, telling them not to shoot you.

In the room, you found Sadie hogtied and gagged on the ground and Abigail strapped to a chair. Arthur was nowhere to be found. “Put your guns down or I’ll slice his throat,” you instructed the two guards. They did, raising their hands to the sky. You stepped forward and kicked their weapons away. “Untie them.” You motioned towards Abigail and Sadie with your free hand, grabbing your pistol right afterwards.

“No can do, Mrs. Morgan,” a voice said from a dark corner of the room.

“Who the hell are you?” you asked, looking towards the location of the voice.

“Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. We thought you were dead until we heard of another woman running with the Van Der Linde gang on that train stunt you pulled earlier. I never thought I’d see you in the flesh.” He stepped forward.

“I’ll slice this fucker’s throat-”

“I don’t doubt that you will. But we have your husband back here, and it’d be a shame if we did the same to him.” He grabbed a lantern from a table next to him, holding it towards the dark corner of the room. Sure enough, there was Arthur, bloodied, barely conscious, and tied to the wall. “Have you ever heard of lex talionis, Mrs. Morgan?” Milton asked.

“Of course I have,” you spat. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; what do you want in return?”

“Give me Dutch Van Der Linde or they’re dead.” Milton smiled.

“I can’t,” you responded. The man you were holding wrapped his arm around yours. “He’s packing up to leave right now; I don’t know where he’s going.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth,” Arthur said weakly, coughing, from behind Milton. “They’re leavin’ with the money.” Blood dripped out of his mouth. Milton turned towards him, setting down the lantern.

“Calm down, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “That’s quite a cough he’s got there.”

“Sure,” you responded. “Tuberculosis. He’ll be dead soon anyway… and you with him.” You tightened your grip on your pistol, getting ready to aim, when the man you were holding flipped you over his body, slamming you into the hardwood floor, winding you. In doing this, though, he’d managed to slit his own throat. Suddenly, Milton was staring down at you, gun drawn. The other men were trying to locate their own weapons.

“Don’t move an inch!” Milton shouted. You still had the knife in your left hand, soaked with the man’s blood, and your pistol in the right. “Let go of your weapons or we’ll shoot!”

You were effectively stuck. A gun aimed straight at your face and only a knife to defend yourself with. One of the men picked up his revolver. You weighed your options. You could try and get the knife to Arthur, but there was no guarantee that he’d be strong enough to do anything. Or the gun, but you weren’t sure he’d be able to see well enough to shoot. You could try to get it to Abigail, but she wasn’t untied. Still, her bonds looked loose. She started wiggling, nodding at you. You flung the weapons towards her.

“Arthur will be dead, sure, but I’ll be just fine. We offered him a deal, Mrs. Morgan. It’s a pity he refused to take it.” He sneered at you.

“He’s a fool. I’ve been tellin’ him that for 6 years.” The other two men appeared around you, pointing their revolvers at your head. Abigail was wiggling her arm loose out of the corner of your eye.

“Not all you folk have quite so many scruples. Old Micah Bell…” Milton stepped back, leaning against the table that he’d set the lantern on.

“Micah?” Arthur asked.

“You mean Molly?” You chimed in, sitting up a little. One of Milton’s men shoved his revolver in your face, forcing you back down.

“Molly O’Shea? We sweated her a couple of times, never talked a word, had to let her go. Micah Bell… we picked him up when you boys came back from the Caribbean and he’s been a good boy ever since.”

Abigail gave you a slight nod, free, and quickly got to untying Sadie.

“Micah?” You asked again, stalling. “But he’s been so-”

“He told us about everything; the job today, your involvement with the Indians and the Army.” Milton crossed his arms with a confident swagger.

“Then why’d you ask about Dutch?” You asked, frowning. “If you knew where we were the whole time, why would you ask?”

“Wanted to see if you’d tell the truth about the whole thing. We’ve heard that Mr. Morgan was undecided.” You glanced back to Abigail and Sadie, then back to Milton. Arthur coughed, his head limp, and blood dripped from his mouth to the floor. He looked pathetic. You wished you could rush to his side and help him somehow, but you were a little occupied.

You figured the best thing you could do from there was come up with a little sob story until Abigail had freed Sadie and gotten their weapons, so you said, “You know, I’ve waited on Arthur to get away from this for ages. All I ever wanted was for him to cut loose and run away from that Gang. I knew it would be our downfall.”

“That it was, Mrs. Morgan,” Milton said, but then a gun was fired and he crumpled to the ground. Two more shots rang and Milton’s men followed suit, falling onto the hardwood floor.

“Horrible men,” Abigail muttered, turning away.

“You okay, Y/N?” Sadie asked, offering you a hand. You took it and stood, nodding, and then made your way to Arthur.

His arms were in shackles that were chained to the wall. “Oh, Arthur,” you whispered. “Search their bodies for keys to these things.”

Sadie found them in Milton’s pocket, so you unlocked Arthur’s shackles and he came tumbling down onto you, unable to support himself. “What did they do to him?” you asked, looking at the girls.

“They nearly beat him to death,” Abigail said, frowning. “They caught him trying to untie me and attacked him.”

“Let’s get him up,” you said, motioning for Abigail and Sadie to get on either side of him. The three of you stood in unison, supporting Arthur’s weight. “They’ll have heard the commotion we made, so more of them will be coming, no doubt. We need to get out of here.”

The three of you led Arthur to your mounts, helped him on, and hurried out of Van Horn, magically escaping a gunfight. When you got to Copperhead Landing, Jack was asleep in Tilly’s arms. The only light in the area was from the moon and stars. You tapped Arthur’s thigh, saying, “I gotta get down.”

Arthur nodded glumly and slipped off the side of Ralph, his horse (Abigail was on Waldo), and held on to his back for stability. He couldn’t hold his head up all the way. You wanted to take him away somewhere, to bring him to a place where he’d be able to rest, but you guys had a long way to go.

“Where’s John?” Abigail asked, frowning at the sight of Jack and Tilly, but no John. “He didn’t run, did he?”

“He’s… he’s dead,” you managed. “He didn’t run on you guys–he wouldn’t do that again. I’m so sorry, Abigail, but he… he fell and Dutch-” Abigail burst into tears, pulling you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll go back for him,” Arthur mumbled, stepping away from Ralph and towards the two of you. “We’ll go find him and give him a proper burial like you wanted, but I gotta have a little chat first.”

“Arthur-” You tried to interrupt, but he continued. You broke from Abigail’s embrace.

“Abigail and Sadie, you go with Tilly and you find someplace nice to stay, please. You got any money?”

“No, not-”

“Here.” Arthur reached into your suitcase and pulled out the stack of money he’d handed you earlier. “Take it and get the hell away from here.” You watched frantically as Arthur gave away your last bit of hope that the two of you would make it.

“Oh, Arthur,” Abigail said, but Arthur put his hand up, telling her not to say anything and just go. The whole lot of them did, leaving you and your husband with your horses.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, brow furrowed. “You’re giving them our money?”

“They need it more.”

“I thought we were running away.” Your voice broke at this, tears filling your eyes. “How are we gonna run away if you gave them all of our money?”

Your husband grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. He looked defeated, in a way, as if he’d fought against himself about this and finally lost. “I’m sorry. I have to go back and warn them. Micah, he’s… he’s leading all of them to their deaths.”

“They want to kill you, Arthur! They think you’ve betrayed them!” You pleaded, trying to catch Arthur’s gaze, which he refused to meet. “Arthur, please.”

“It’s been 20 goddamn years; I can’t just let them die.”

“What about your wife?” You begged. “What about what you said earlier? What about Big Valley?”

“I can’t… it’s… they need to know, Y/N, I’m sorry. I need to tell them and then we can meet up again.” He pulled you close and kissed your head, but you pulled away from him.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” you spat. “I’ll never forgive you for picking them over me after they left you!”

“They didn’t-”

“They did! You told me last night, Arthur. They left you! There’s nothing for you there anymore. Abigail, Tilly, Sadie, and Jack are all gone. Charles is gone. John’s dead. What more could you possibly get there? I have all of our stuff!” Tears spilled from your eyes, and as much as you tried to blink them away, they stayed steady.

“I have to tell them about Micah. I can’t leave them like that, not after 20 years, not knowin’ it’s him. I don’t need you to forgive that, but I need to do it.” He climbed onto Ralph, his amber champagne coated Missouri Fox Trotter, and looked down at you. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe not. Go up to the Wapiti Indian Reservation and find Charles. He’ll know what to do, darlin’-”

“-Don’t call me that-”

“-okay?” Arthur offered a weak smile. “I will meet you there as soon as I’m done, I promise you.”

“And then what, Arthur? Then we help the gang get on a boat to New York because it’s been 20 years and you’re obligated to do that, too? When will it end?” You wanted to hit him, to curse him for lying to you, for almost dying, for leaving you alone. You hated this so much. He was going to his death. You knew it. You knew he would never come back to you, even if he said he would. There was no way they wouldn’t kill him for accusing Micah–they were too blindly loyal–and you’d sit and wait. The vision would come true. He wouldn’t let you anywhere near Camp and, frankly, you didn’t care to be. You didn’t want to fight in that battle because it wasn’t yours. But you wished he’d see it your way, because his way had an awful ending that you were both all too aware of.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice quiet. “I love you.”

“I love you too, but I hate you.” You wiped your tears. “You’re killin’ yourself.”

“I know.” He gave you a solemn nod.

“Why can’t we just go be happy, Arthur? Is that so hard?”

“This is all I’ve ever known.” He looked forward, grabbing his hat from his saddle bag and putting it on his head, which was bruised from the beatings he’d already taken. He was hardly able to sit upright on Ralph, much less able to fight.

“You’ve known me…” He started heading towards Camp, unable to hear you. “Arthur, you’ve known me!” you shrieked, sobbing. “Oh, God!” You fell to your knees, your entire body shaking with sobs. He’d left you. He didn’t wait to hear you out anymore–you knew he wouldn’t–and now you were on your own. Nothing to live for, no one to remember you by. He’d be dead before morning–you were certain of this. Eventually, you managed to climb into your saddle and start towards Wapiti, but it was only out of fear that the Pinkertons would find you and have you shot or hanged for your entanglement with Milton.

*****

In the weeks that followed, you fell into a terrible, hollowing depression. You wouldn’t eat or drink anything that wasn’t forced down your throat, you wouldn’t talk. Charles was there, of course, but he’d never be your husband and he’d never be able to bring him back. Eventually, he went and found Arthur’s body, which was apparently at the base of a tree on a ridge that faced the East. He let you choose a burial spot, which faced the West like Arthur had always wanted. You didn’t know what to do anymore. You’d always had some sort of hope for the future–you’d imagine what everything would be like when you guys finally managed to get away–but now that he was gone, there was nothing to imagine. You quit reading and you definitely didn’t write. You just sat. It was a shallow existence, sure, but you did not know how to live without Arthur anymore. He’d saved you all those years ago, and now he was just gone.

You wanted to hate him. The way he left you was shitty and you knew it, but you could not hate him for it because you’d always known that it would be like that. You knew it would end up like that before he was even sick. Still, you felt betrayed. You were supposed to stick together in everything–he was supposed to choose you–and he hadn’t. You were used to being the second choice, of course, but that decision cost him his life and you both knew it would. He chose death over what could’ve been happiness with you. You’d never forgive him for that, even with all of the love you had for him.

“Did you eat today?” Charles asked, appearing at your side.

“No.”

“Have some soup; it’ll hydrate you too.” He handed you a bowl.

“I’m not hungry,” you said, trying to pass it back to him.

“I’m not asking. Eat it.” He pushed it back towards you. “You have to eat something at least once a day. You’ll starve yourself.”

“Maybe I want to die,” you fired back.

“You don’t want to die of starvation. That’s a painful death.” Charles grabbed a soup bowl of his own and drank from it.

“Maybe I want a painful death.”

“Eat. It’s not a request.” He forced your bowl towards your lips, despite your protests.

“Fine! I’ll get it myself!” You slurped the soup loudly, just to annoy him. “Better?”

“Yes,” Charles said, then he stood and left. He was never one for conversation, but you knew that he was there for you more than anyone else. Probably more than Arthur had been, thanks to his loyalty to Dutch. He checked in on you every day, forced you to eat, forced you to get dressed, and told you how horrible every way you’d tried to die would be. Burns, for example, were far too painful to deal with. It’d hurt to breathe. You’d sit in the pain until your heart finally stopped because it was trying too hard to fight the burn. Gunshots would be slow and agonizing, but also messy. You’d bleed everywhere as the gunpowder spread around inside your body. Knives were the same–far too messy and unreliable for convenience. What would you do if you lived, after all?

You wanted to hate Charles for this, too, but you couldn’t because, like Arthur, he took care of you. He was one of the only people in your godforsaken life who had shown that you mattered, so even if you were mad that he forced you to live, you were thankful that he cared enough to want to make it happen. And he understood your pain. He missed Arthur too. They were best friends, the pair of them, so it was hard on him, too. He wouldn’t show it, but when you couldn’t sleep at night, you could hear him moving restlessly, too. You were in the same boat, in a way, except Charles had never been abandoned by him.

*****

Years and years later, on your own homestead in Canada, you and Charles lived out a quiet life together. He’d married a fine young woman from the Reservation and moved up North to get away from the carnage you’d both left behind. You lived in a house separate from theirs, one small enough for you and another–room for Arthur, if he was still alive–and you were mostly content. You’d go South a couple of times a year to visit Arthur’s grave–to keep it maintained and such–but you spent most of your time on the homestead. You learned to work honestly. You kept to yourself. You wrote.

One time, on a visit to Arthur, there was a man with dark hair facing the cross. He was wearing Arthur’s hat. You immediately burst into tears at the sight of his hat, which caught his attention, and facing you was none other than John Marston. “Y/N?” He asked, stepping towards you. “Oh, my God!”

He wrapped his arms around you as your knees buckled, keeping you solidly upright. “John,” you managed, hardly able to speak through sobs. “How did… how did you…”

“They left me, Y/N, Dutch and them. I got back to Camp when Arthur did and he… he helped me get out of there. He was beaten pretty badly, by then, but he didn’t tell me nothin’. How are you?”

“He helped you get out?”

John nodded. “Said somethin’ about how he knew it wasn’t over and that he had to finish the job.”

“Did he mention me at all? Was he going to come back for me?” You sat on a rock facing the grave and John took a seat next to you. You sniffled, wiping your face. John was alive. He was alive because of Arthur.

“He kept talking about Wapiti, but he was spent before we got to the top of that mountain. Gave me his hat, but I think you should have it.” He took off his hat and offered it to you. “It’s more yours than mine, anyway. You knew him better.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, taking the hat from him. “Did you see him die?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I always assumed he did. I learned from Charles a couple of years back. I think he’s up North now-”

“He is. We live on a homestead together.”

“Really?” John raised his eyebrows, smiling a little. “Good for you guys.”

“No, not like that. He has a wife. They just let me live there. It’s good, honest work.” You looked down at the hat in your hands, inhaling deeply. “No, Arthur is my only love, I fear.”

John sat for a second, staring at the ground. “He was a good man. The last thing he said to me was to check in on you, but I never did. I went to my family and we ran, but… I wish I had gone to find you. Maybe I could’ve brought you back to him or somethin’... I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “He loved you, though. I know that.”

You nodded. “Not enough to run away with me.”

“No, he was going to. We’d talked about it the whole time we stayed in Beaver Hollow. He mentioned it to Sadie, too. I bet Charles knew he’d planned to.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

You thought on that for a moment. “I guess not.” You smiled softly. “I get the feeling that Charles has kept a lot from me.”

“He’s not very sociable,” John responded with a slight smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Y/N.”

“You too, John. Last I knew of you, you were dead. Where are you staying now?”

“Little ranch called Beecher’s Hope down in West Elizabeth. You should come down sometime and visit. It’s nice.”

“I’m okay,” you said, staring at Arthur’s grave. “This is the furthest South I come anymore. I don’t want to see anything else–no more reminders of Arthur, you know?”

“I suppose.” John took your hand, shaking it, solemnly meeting your gaze. “I have to get back to my family.”

“I have a couple of people to check in on, so that’s okay. I keep tabs on some of the people who knew him.”

John smiled. “He’d like that.”

“I know. He’d love the homestead I’m living on. It’s so open and free…” You sighed. “I miss him. I see him everywhere.”

“Me too,” John said. “Me too.”

*****

Years and years after the death of John Marston and Charles Smith, you found yourself ill with pneumonia. You’d watched as the world grew up around you–becoming something you couldn’t recognize–and though you’d remained set in your ways, you felt that you lived in an entirely different place. Your homestead had stayed the same, though, and it was here that you were determined to die.

Janet, the great-granddaughter of Charles Smith, liked to listen to the stories you told. She sat at your side and listened as you recounted the time you and Arthur danced under the stars after he’d told you he loved you. You could see him then, sitting sweetly in the chair opposite Janet’s, and you could smell his musk. People smelled better in 1966 than they had in 1899. His hand was by your arm–you could practically feel the warmth coming from it. His breathing was no longer ragged and weary like it had been in his final month, instead rhythmic and soft. You smiled. “He’s here now,” you told Janet.

She smiled back, thinking you were crazy, and squeezed your hand as Arthur eased you into a quiet, peaceful death. You were together again, at last.

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