jakeyjellybean

[jakeyjellybean]

Sweet as Nuka Cola

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Reader

You're an upcoming actress who has a constant flirtation with Cooper Howard. But even if things seem to be off to a good start, a nuclear bomb, a cryogenic pod, and two hundred years of carnage ruins all of it. Is there something to be salvaged from your relationship with Mr. Howard?

Genre: Mutual pining, flirting, slow-burn, angst, friends to kind-of enemies to lovers (no cheating but maybe it's a little murky?)

Word Count: 11k

“Action!”

“Hello. Yes, it’s me.” You wave at the camera, adorned in a classic-red sweetheart neckline dress. “You might know me from ‘Girls Want It All’ or ‘Next Door Babe.’”

Here, you play up your recent bombshell status. As Ed, the director of this advert, keeps reminding you, you need to sell yourself to make customers listen.

You sway in your dress, squeezing your arms and throwing your waist back to plump and push out your chest. The implication of the sex appeal in your movies keeps people watching.

But you’re still a rather new actress, so America might not know you so well. You’re glad Nuka Cola has hired you– if you want to be a star, you need more exposure.

“Do you enjoy feeling refreshed?” You cock your head to the camera, pursing your red lips. “Well, golly, what a silly question. Who doesn't?”

“That's where Nuka Cola comes in.” You lift a bottle out of the cooler next to you, all gentle in demeanour, showing off the logo of the bottle to the camera, in your perfectly manicured hands. “With triple the amount of caffeine found in competitor's bottled cola, it's sure to keep you feeling up for a long, long time.”

“And it's good for you.” Ed whispers, a last minute adlib you did not agree to, but you're a professional, so you add it on with a little wink.

“And it sure as heck is good for you.” You smile, the infamous smile that's won you notoriety to Hollywood execs for being the newest bombshell on the block, and you throw your shoulders back as you really lean into your image. 

“Cut! That's a wrap, everyone!” Ed, wanting to finish early, quickly starts ushering everyone out so not a cent more gets spent. 

You immediately relax out of your practised, professional smile. “Any ADR needed?”

“Don't think so, but we'll let you know.” The director is already moving onto whatever his next project is. Advertisements make more money than anything else these days.

You head over to catering, where you're craving– not a Nuka Cola, considering how much sugar is in that thing it's hardly refreshing at all– but an iced tea. 

You stretch out your ankles in your kitten heels as you prepare it. If you told your Ma back in Mojave that the worst thing about fame would be the uncomfortable outfits, she'd smack you. So you keep it to yourself– you're grateful, you're humble, you'll never be an entitled asshole like those fucking execs.

“Watch out, I'm behind ya.” A man gently presses your shoulder as he walks next to you.

You know that voice. Famous movie cowboy, devilishly handsome, easy to admire. A career worth emulating.

“Mr. Howard?” You turn to look at him, and it is him. Wearing a tuxedo suit, smiling his classic, rugged grin at you.

“The one and the only.” He laughs in a self-deprecating way, as a man tired with his fame and used to mocking it. “Hey, wait, don't I know you?”

You immediately feel your face heat up. “Probably not– lots of people have mistaken me for Lucky Yates so far…”

“No, I do know you.” He points a finger at you, while pouring himself a mug of black coffee. “I told you mister, I'm not here for a long time. Just a good one, and if you can't provide it for me, I'll be inclined to look elsewhere.”

Cooper Howard does a perfect impression of your girly, haughty tone from “Girls Want It All”, and it surprises you that he even knows your dialogue that well. You're not used to this much attention, especially not from one of Hollywood's most notable movie stars.

He says your name.

“Yeah, that's me.” You say sheepishly– even though you know you have to fake that confidence, it's hard when you've been caught off guard. You're starstruck– you don't know how to operate, now realizing that even celebrities are noticing you. “Just shooting an ad for Nuka-Cola.”

“Ah, that’s smart of you.” He leans in– about to give you a bit of Hollywood advice, no doubt– and you feel yourself turning warm at the attention he’s giving you. “I wouldn’t expect any less from one of Hollywood’s upcoming stars– residuals aren’t enough to make the world go round.”

You know he’s admiring your street smarts, but you have to ask. “Upcoming, really?”

“Miss, I’m not sure many other actresses could’ve delivered that little monologue I just did without, er, pardon my language,” Cooper takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes peering down at you over the perimeter of the cup. “Fucking it up. Pantomiming too much wily, feminine shit  that execs love, without that little edge of real, subtle emotion. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

You giggle a little. “C’mon, really? I hardly got to act the way I wanted to.”

“That’s how it starts. Little moments, little subtleties where you’re letting your real character shine through– it’s noticeable to the industry. More opportunities come that way. But it’s smart to use, uh…” Cooper swallows, a tiny, imperceptible thing that reminds you of your bombshell image, that he must be thinking about it. “Smart to use such attractive imagery, if you get my drift. The public will eat you up.”

The way he drawls that latter part makes you feel excited, but you keep it down– it’s well known Cooper Howard is a married man, and you are not about to be ruined by an affair. Even if he does sound sort of flirty, this sort of complimenting is so common in Hollywood.

“What are you doing in the advertisement shooting lot?” You ask, changing the subject, and Cooper shrugs, a nonchalant ripple of a movement that tells you his general cool demeanour isn’t just acting.

“Promised my wife I’d shoot an advert for her. Vault-Tec, you know?” He admits, telling you he hasn’t forgotten about his wife, either. “Gotta head to the experimental Vault they’ve set up next door.”

“Yes, of course.” You, like anyone else, have seen the ads of Cooper in the Vault-Tec suit– it’s a rather controversial thing to be partaking in, but you think he knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Nuka-Cola.” He hands you an iced tea– one you didn’t even notice him making for you as you were talking to him. “I’ll see you around.”

/

The Ghoul walks around the wasteland, two hundred something years into the future.

He’s searching for a bounty– Leopold St. West– worth at least 1000 caps, and it’s terribly difficult to find him when every single person claims he’s in all these different locations, not a single one correlated to each other.

So he’s walking around a destroyed neighbourhood, where Leopold was last seen a day ago, if his fellow ghouls are to be trusted. If he had to guess, these are the remnants of China Town– the faux Asian-esque details, the cheesy red colouring, the false authenticity Hollywood loves to portray as “good as the real thing”. God, Coop does not miss some parts of the fame.

He suddenly stumbles over a piece of the broken sidewalk. Coop’s usually pretty agile, nonchalant on his feet– he knows this feeling. He’s going through withdrawal.

“Shit, I need a minute.” He mutters to himself, feeling a bit woozy.

He's only got a couple more vials of drugs, so he can't be using them all willy-nilly. No, he needs to recoup things and go through this carefully.

Shelter is necessary– the longer Coop is out in the sun, the harsher the effects of withdrawal feel. And, if he’s lucky, one of these buildings might have something for him to loot– more drugs if he’s extra, extra lucky.

Coop enters a nondescript building– where a radroach is waiting, and he immediately fires at it without even looking, killing it in one shot– and he sees the sign over the entry way, marking the lobby.

This is some Hollywood executive-owned club. It’s hard to tell– two hundredyears of wear-and-tear will do that for you– but Cooper Howard distinctly remembers this place, maybe in some conversation back then, maybe when he was networking. 

Every single thing has a distinct, thick layer of grime over it. Coop thinks of sweaty strippers dancing, actors cheating on their wives– they’re all probably dead now.

He reaches into his satchel and takes a hit of one of his vials– and hopes he can replace what he uses with something here.

There’s not a single bottle behind the bar, and he jostles through, not seeing a chem or a drug left behind by anyone on the floor or behind the counter, and he’s mildly disgruntled over how every place has nearly everything picked clean by raiders, wastelanders– just other people. Coop will always loathe these other assholes.

He climbs the broken stairs with a lanky, languid stretch, making it over a fairly large hole where a corpse waits on the floor below. A raider who didn’t watch where he was stepping. That tells him there should be loot up on this upper floor– at least a bit of it.

He walks to the one closed door in a less-than-discreet hallway, gold sconces and railings marking the way.

“Ah… private office.” Coop jiggles an ostentatious handle to a mahogany door, that is surely leading to an even more pretentiously ostentatious office, and he finds that it’s locked.

A good sign. Most likely no one’s ever been in there, because it’s probably a difficult lock to pick. 

It surprises him that no one’s ever just forced their way through.

Coop doesn’t waste time on this though– he just takes a teeny gun out of his bag, fires it, and admires the hole in the door where the handle used to be. The door creaks open on it’s own, and he saunters into a well furnished, dusty office room.

“Nope, nope, nope…” He pushes box after box in the shelves next to the wall, and they fall with loud clatter– loaded with panicky, nuclear-war-on-the-horizon type shit, like canned meats and beans and preserved jams and pickles. “Fuck no.”

He pushes off a toy figurine of Vault Boy down with extra gusto.

Coop looks behind the desk, where there’s a dusty placard reading Adrian Amos II. He grins– one of the worst producer bastards of all time is not someone he’d feel bad about stealing from, even if there was still some conscience left in him. No, sir, Adrian Amos the second did not deserve any sympathy, especially after the way he was known for bitching about salaries, abusing PAs, and having a predilection for going after less-than-consenting women.

Coop grits his teeth, remembering that asshole and how terrible and gaudy this club was back then. Not that it was better now– but he’s grateful for one man’s deserved death, at least.

He jostles open where the second drawer is filled with the glass clinking sound of many, many vials.

“Fucking jackpot, Jesus.” Coop stares down at how many there are– at least 40 or 50– a hell of a lot to just be left behind.

Well, based on the other supplies, Adrian Amos got fucked over and either didn’t make it to his vault in time, or forgot to run to his private club before heading in.

Coop doesn’t give a fuck, though. He starts piling the vials into his cases, and then back into his bag.

There’s a sudden whirring sound near him. “Huh?”

To his left, an imperceptible secret door has pushed itself outwards, decorated in the same dark brown wallpaper as the rest of the room.

Coop looks down and under– he’s accidentally pressed a secret button on the underside of the drawer. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what would be inside the secret room– assassins, raiders waiting on someone to dupe? Maybe even synths, just meant to protect Amos when he needed it.

Inside the room, it’s dark, and he can’t make out anything. Coop can only draw his gun rapidly when there’s a blue light suddenly emitting out from the inside.

He’s careful as he approaches– last thing Coop wants is an ambush– and as his vision improves, he sees it’s a cryonic pod, all frosted over so he can’t make out who’s inside.

Coop sighs, ready to leave it behind– he’s not interested in waking up Amos– and instead, the thing whirs, heating up it’s insides with extremely hot steam, and then opens up with a mechanical flourish.

Coop instinctively steps back, coughing “Holy shit!” as the air whooshes past him.

A body falls out, just looking slightly frosted– mostly thawed by whatever the cryo tank just did. 

/

You're on set again, sitting in a free lawn chair while others get ready for their take– it's not for a Nuka-Cola ad, it's just a guest appearance on everyone's favourite sitcom, The Grady Group, where you play an overly promiscuous babysitter who has no sense for watching over kids.

It's comedic, it's an easy way to get laughs– plus it actually boosts the shows’ ratings since you've been in movies and all. You’re done filming already, you’re just sitting here watching the rest of the shoot, dragging out your return to your car, and then back home. 

Something about the fictional family you wait on, Gill and Gina Grady, and their kids Gideon, Gessica, and Gwen, it makes you miss having a family of your own. In fact, you have half a mind to call your mother, despite all the bitching she’ll give you about the things you haven’t done yet.

It also doesn't help that Gill and Gina are a couple in real life– named Arthur and Bea Smith, they really, really are in love, and in between takes they're often canoodling with each other.

You're happy for them, if not a little– jealous, despite the fact that you're not interested in dating anyone right now. At least, you thought you weren't, but you find that lately, when you return back to your apartment all lonesome after a shoot, you feel like something is missing.

“Hey. Nuka-Cola.” Cooper Howard strolls over to where you're sitting, and you smile up at him, covering your eyes from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Mr. Howard. Shooting today?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not at all. Just lounging around, waiting for my kid.” He sits in the lawn chair next to you, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. “Janey is on a field trip at a museum next door– I thought I’d kill some time before picking her up.”

“Ah, cute.” You grin. Janey Howard is an absolutely precious kid– she shares her dad’s smile, but has a curious nature that you admire. “Is she well?”

“As well as kids can be at that age, running around all the time.” Cooper shrugs. “You know how it is.”

“Kind of. I actually did used to babysit kids, so I know– they can never sit still or mind their business.” You laugh as Cooper grins. 

“So you went method for your guest appearance, huh?” He asks, and you’re mildly baffled.

“How do you know about that?” You squint at him, just being jokingly suspicious.

“Oh, I saw a few clips of your footage. While I was walking over here.” He points over at Stu, the director, standing on the living room set, watching clips on his viewfinder. “Seemed pretty natural to me.”

It almost bothers you that he seems so interested in you and your work, that he always voices support– but he’s well-known for being happily married, for being content in general, unlike you.  

Still, better a friend than nothing at all, that’s what you always tell yourself.

“Thanks. But it’s not hard being around kids, is it?” You reminisce being a kid in Mojave, playing with your friends on your street– and then as a young adult, babysitting new kids that still wanted to play with you. “I still sometimes feel like I’m just a kid pretending to be an adult.”

“That never goes away, darlin’.” Cooper laughs, and you blink. “Being an actor, especially, you’re never losing that childhood sense of wonder, you get my drift?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod. “I just don’t feel complete, I guess. I’m still waiting for the moment I’ll know I’m an adult– like maybe if I get married or something like that.”

“Being married didn’t change that for me either. Neither did being a dad.” He winces, and scratches at his stubble. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that, but I think it’s all apart of being a human person.”

Your face turns a little more glum at that, and he wonders what he said that bummed you out. It’s not his intention– he wants to cheer you up.

“What’s with the sad, forlorn, ‘I’m-a-pretty-girl-come-comfort-me’ look?” Cooper utters as he leans in, and you laugh a little but silence yourself, recognizing his compliment.

It’s dangerous to flirt with this guy, this taken man who has nothing to gain but a bit of affection he may be missing, but you see that he knows his compliment had effect anyways– and he definitely likes that.

You just choose to assume it’s entirely friendly.

“I just… I like the thought of having a family.” You suck in air,at how foolish and girly this sounds, hardly the cutthroat businesswoman you need to be out here. “This is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it isn’t.” Cooper taps his arm rest, thinking. “You’re hurting, I can tell. You got that same pissed off look most ladies get when they ‘don’t wanna talk’ but they’re holding tons of shit inside.”

Damn this guy, you think, but you decide to be honest.

“I just didn’t think it’d be so lonely out here. In Hollywood.” You press your palms together. “Like, everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by classic Americana, the nuclear family– and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m jealous.”

“As a bachelorette, don’t you got plenty of options?” Cooper grins. “I mean, are men not lining up to court Nuka-Cola girl?”

“Ah…” You hum, thinking of dates you’ve had here, settling back in your seat. “I don’t know– it’s cheesy but I want more sincerity.”

“In that case, don’t be jealous, marriage ain’t all that.” Cooper tuts, knowing that you of all people should hear about how it doesn’t complete you. “It’s not perfect, it’s not a magical fairy-tale where everything gets solved, it’s a hell of a lot more work than people let on.”

“Oh.” You knew that, deep down– but hearing it from him really solidifies that for you. It’s a silly dream.

It sounds like he’s speaking from experience, so you quiet down. But you’re not trying to get your hopes up about that or anything.

“And you’re not an idiot, Nuka-Cola. Don’t get into something you’re not a hundred fucking percent sure about.” Cooper clicks his tongue. “If you really feel the urge to suddenly go and play wife with someone, just for me, make sure he’s absolutely worth it.”

“For you?” You raise your eyebrows at that.

“I figure you won’t do it for yourself. Love is blind and all that.” He points at himself. “But if I, as your buddy Cooper, hold you to that? I’ll bet that you’ll vet every single guy.”

“Oh, really.” You smirk at him, your nose scrunching a little. “Is that for my benefit, or yours?”

“Uh…” Cooper is truly caught off guard here. He knows he didn’t intend anything by what he said, but it does feel like… he won’t enjoy the fact that if the next few times he talks to you, continuing become close to you, he’ll have to get the approval of some man.

Some man who wouldn’t even know you as long he has known you. He always likes his chats with you, and there’s an urge inside him not to let you go.

He thinks again that you’re a little too spontaneous. Not easy to dupe, no– he can’t just flirt with you for fun because you’ll always pick up on it, even if he did it by mistake.

“No comment.” He finally answers with a raspy, low tone, one that you barely hear but are satisfied by.

/

A few months later, you check your face in your little compact mirror before stuffing it in your purse and heading inside Sebastian Leslie’s home. Exciting, yes, because this is the first time you’ve been invited not just to network, not just because a big name has seen you in the movies and wants to flaunt that they know you tangentially.

No, this is the first time you know someone, you’re actually in with a crowd– you’re friends with the host. You don’t feel nearly as awkward walking into Sebastian’s comfortable home and seeing familiar faces that you’re close with, decor that you already recognize.

“There she is.” Sebastian greets you with a tight hug– for a massive flirt he’s actually rather protective of you sometimes. “Love the dress, by the way– is that a vintage Chanel? Black is very flattering on you, my dear.”

You get the sense he didn’t want you to be involved in this industry sometimes, but other times– he likes that you put work in.

“I saw your newest advertisement on TV yesterday.” He comments, and you giggle.

“Was it good?” 

“Yeah, amazing as usual– but you gotta do more than that.” Sebastian holds your hand as he pulls you into the crowd of other low-level actors, people who could risk showing up, really, and you fix your dress, a black one with a low square neckline. “Look into Vault-Tec– I’ve been telling Cooper here about how our futures are totally going to be surrounded by their products, even though that fucker does not want to listen.”

Cooper’s lounging in a low sofa in the pit of this living room, holding a crystal glass full of amber liquid, black button up shirt half open– he looks dishevelled, hair slightly askew, jaw off-kilter as he presses his tongue into his cheek, thinking. Lost by something, but still put together as celebrities are. Geez, you really need to temper your attraction to him.

It doesn’t help how he looks at you, either– there’s something deep and reverent about his gaze, like he wants to believe whatever he sees when he’s looking at you– but you have no idea if it’s real, or if it’s just an act like with most of these celebrities.

You used to see him a lot more frequently too, over the last few months. Either at set, or at more fancy parties– most of which he’s been perfectly pleasant and kind to you.

“Of course you’d label me as some fucking chairman for them, Seabass.” Cooper slams back half a pint of whisky, and pours himself some more. “Hey, Nuka-Cola.”

“Hey, Mr. Howard.” You smile gently. You’ve heard about his divorce– everyone has, but you’re not 100% sure why it’s happened, why now when things seemed to be going so well for him.

Well is relative, though. You know loads of actors have decried him privately– no one wants to hang out with the man promoting the end of the world, apparently. It must be a tough thing to only be hired for your wife’s advertisements– and even then, you don’t exactly agree with what they’re marketing, either.

You don’t feel so strongly against Cooper, though. Maybe because you do like him– but also because you know what it’s like to have your image connected to something you don’t really promote. Nuka-Cola isn’t healthy, it’s got enough sugar to induce instant death when drank regularly. But you do it for the connections, the money– and you’re sure Cooper did too.

“Cooper is fine.” He grumbles, and you remember his last name is maybe a sore subject right now.

“Sorry.” You do your best to be delicate as you sit next to him, and Sebastian sits on the other side of you. “How’re you, Cooper?”

“Not bad. If you count being divorced as being alright.” He sighs, and you feel terrible that you even asked. “It’s like I never knew her, man– I thought Barb was different. Or they changed her, I don’t fucking know.”

“She had her eyes set on the prize. As did you, Coop.” Sebastian states, and Cooper turns, affronted.

“We’re all interested in money and glory, Seabass. Fuck you if you think otherwise.” Cooper tenses, and you feel a bit awkward listening in on this conversation.

“What did I say that negates that? I’m as money hungry as they come.” Sebastian shrugs. “I only meant that– despite it all, making money was what you had in common, evidently not the world-going-nuclear shit. Maybe you’ve got a heart of gold, a change of mind, I don’t know, Cooper. But throwing away an easy life just to pay alimony must be fucking awful, so I just don’t think you’re in it for the money anymore.”

“You’re fucking telling me.” Cooper sniggers. “I don’t think Barb cares. I’m here with no career, and she’s out there getting promoted in Vault-Tec. As for the heart of gold… any former marine would’ve been against that shit.”

You want to ask what shit, but you don’t want to overstep your boundaries. You get the general fear of nuclear war– but Cooper sounds more personally affected by it.

Cooper glances over at you. “What do you think? Better to be richer than you can spend in a lifetime, or to be out with a good conscience?” 

“I don’t know if I’m that interested in money.” You say honestly, and Cooper raises his eyebrows.   

“Really? Nuka-Cola’s a saint, huh.” He chuckles– he’s clearly a bit buzzed.

“No, I’m not. Of course I want to have a career.” You think about this carefully, so it doesn’t sound insincere. “Making money is nice– but I don’t think I have the right to say it should come at the cost of human lives. You know Nuka-Cola is terrible for you, right? ”

Cooper stares at you for a moment too long, and then looks away. “Yeah… addicting.”

He’s definitely not talking about Cola, but you continue on. “Yeah, so just in that way– I disagree with how much power marketing has. We’ve convinced America that they need this– just so some chairman can make an extra dollar.”

Cooper looks at you, renewed by whatever you just said. “Hell, woman after my own heart. That’s damn true.”

“Yes, yes, you two oblivious flirts– there’s no art in filmmaking anymore, just commercialism. Not like it hasn’t been the case for a century.” Sebastian chimes in, and you bite your lip, pretending not to notice how Cooper’s face is smirking bashfully. “But, babe. You’re going to want to make your money before the world fucking ends.”

“What’s that?” You startle, and Cooper laughs sardonically at your surprise, while Sebastian gets up.

“Let me get myself a drink– I hardly want to tell this story sober.” He leaves, and Cooper has half a heart to glare at him– he knows Sebastian is leaving the two of you alone so he can do the dirty work.

Not like his reputation can ever get better, especially by telling this story again with it’s lurid details, but at least it doesn't hurt that he's with you. 

“What does he mean by that, Mr. Howard?” You wince at your use of that. “Sorry– I meant Cooper.”

“Ah, call me what you’d like.” Cooper takes another sip of his drink, leaning back in the couch to the point where he is practically lying down and against you. “It sounds good coming out of your mouth no matter what you pick, Nuka-Cola.”

Now that’s a suggestive, loaded line, and you feel a little more comfortable flirting with him even if it’s a bit of a rebound for him. The end of the world is approaching, right?

“The end of the world?” You prod at him, and he sighs, leaning against your shoulder. 

“It’s fucking ridiculous, what it is… probably never going to happen anytime soon.” Cooper’s tone of voice is hazy as he examines his last sip of whisky in the glass. “No, no. Just something those fucking commies put in my head. I guess they’re not really commies, are they?”

“Unless you elaborate, I can’t say.” You utter back at him, and he pushes down a smile.

“Alright. Vault-Tec’s been selling this nuclear protective stuff, right?” He says, and you nod, your cheek brushing against the top of his hair. “All I can say is that a few… radicals, if you will, think that Vault-Tec might actually be more involved with it than they say. Like, they might be…”

“Not just protective, huh? More offensive? Everyone’s got that feeling, Mr. Howard. And that doesn't sound like a particularly commie-train-of-thought to me.” You hear the sorrow in his tone, even if he’s trying to make it sound like a rumour. “Did you hear this from your ex-wife?”

Cooper winces here. He still feels slightly guilty about spying on her. A part of him thinks they might’ve not divorced if he hadn’t found out– but he knows he was bound to find out eventually, and he would’ve just delayed the inevitable.

“Maybe, Cola. Maybe you’re just sharp.” He whispers, and you smile and he feels it– your skin is intoxicatingly close right now.

“So, odds are?” You ask, just curious, and he exhales.

“Bad. I have to agree with them.” He admits, and it feels exhilarating to admit this– that Vault-Tec is gonna nuke the world at some point, that the radicals are more like minded to him than he’s wanted to believe in the past. “Even if it didn’t cost my movies, I regret partaking in what they were selling.”

That’s a big thing for him to say– you know Cooper loves acting, he absolutely adores playing a hardened sheriff, the last vestige of goodness in the wild, wild west. All the times you’ve visited him on his set– probably during his last contractual movie, now that you think about it– and he was always so excited to show off the architecture and intricacies of the fictional western town they’d set up, share script details and little character quirks so you could have an insider’s viewpoint. He even donned his cowboy hat on you, saying you wore it like a natural.

He loved being the hero, really.

He lights a cigarette, and takes a puff.

“Most big-name connections refuse to talk to me because of this stuff– I’ve basically been dropped out of phonebooks all together. They think I’m still in on it, they think I’ve only stopped because of backlash–” He stops as you begin to scratch his scalp, still leaning against your shoulder, but getting progressively into your neck area.

Jesus, that feels good. He thinks. He hasn’t been intimate in a while– Barb became increasingly more cold to him over the last few months, as their marriage kept falling apart.

“Backlash, really?” You whisper. 

“Yeah.” He stutters for just a moment, because your eyes are peering into his, and for a moment he thinks you could really make it as just a bombshell if you wanted to– then he takes another puff. “When really, I was just backing out of what I thought was really a massive crime against humanity.”

“Are you only telling me this to validate your poor conscience? Remedy that reputation a little?” You ask, and he presses his lips together. 

“Well, I'll be honest, yeah. Of fucking course I'd tell the one woman who seems to be like me on this.” He sounds so certain of you, sounds so sure that you're on his side.

And you absolutely are.

“The world’s about to end, Mr. Howard. You're not a bad man for not wanting to support it. I'm inclined to agree.” You inhale deeply, and Cooper stares at you– something stirs inside him as he does. 

“Kiss me, then. Humour me– since none of this will matter soon.” Cooper murmurs, lying on top of your chest now, the smoke from his cigarette enveloping your face.

He’s so close you barely have to move to oblige to what he’s said– you're second guessing yourself for just a moment, because it feels like a dream that he'd ask you to do this, so out of the blue, such a picture perfect fantasy that you almost don't care about the impending doom, and you press your lips gently to his in an upside-down kiss, his hair brushing against your open cleavage, but Cooper is insistent and leans upward, kissing you with such intensity that your head is spinning afterwards.

God, now that's a movie star kiss. You think.

He kisses you again as Sebastian returns, drink in hand.

“Oi! You two. Jesus Christ, can't keep your hands off each other, can you?” Sebastian pretends to vomit. “C’mon, if I want to talk to you at my party, I should have that right.”

You attempt to pull away– but Cooper, being a little mischevious, perhaps wanting to show off in a way he hasn’t been able to, sits up right and kisses you again, this time normally, just very slowly and passionately though, slithering an arm around your waist in a way that has Sebastian rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, present.” He says, not pulling his arm off your waist. 

“Thanks.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I was thinking we should take the mood off with some party games…”

/

It's about 2 AM when you've finally left the party. Cooper didn't want to let you go– he's crashing at an apartment for the time being, but you really don't want to waste yourself on being his rebound, if he really likes you.

You tell him as much, and he likes that– you really are rather sharp about things. 

“Well. Gimme a call when you realize I'm not kidding around with you.” He says unabashedly, holding your hand, kissing it as you leave.

You’re absolutely sure he's drunk, and he's being a little too clingy– but you want to believe him anyways. 

You walk back to your car, alone. Thinking about if Cooper is worth the damage it could have on your potential career. But then again– the end of the world is coming, right?

So maybe it won’t matter. And you find that you like this, the secret potential of this option, just hanging out with Cooper in a place that used to be America, no more expectations on you both. There’s also the chance you just both die, though.

You shudder.

You don't notice that there's a man in the backseat of your car when you get in, brandishing a chloroform stained cloth.

/

The Ghoul prods at the body that's just fallen out of the cryo pod.

Oh fuck. 

It's starting to stir, whoever it is, and Coop knows he's ready, if this is really some synthetic android-clone thing, to make their life hell. Get some of his anger out on something that doesn’t matter.

Wait– he recognizes that cherry red fabric. That coiffed hair, frosty after being inside the pod. Oh, Jesus… even the makeup is the same as when he last saw you. 

“Ah… shit.” He chuckles to himself in exasperation, because this is beyond belief. “Nuka-Cola, is that you?”

You tilt yourself to the side, eyes bleary, unable to see clearly. Everything’s dark. But you know that voice, you just heard it a couple of days ago.

“Mr. Howard?” You croak out, and he hisses inwards– nobody has called him that in centuries. Nobody knows who he is… except for you, of course. 

“The one and the same, baby.” He licks the side of his gums, deciding to stick with his identity for now. “Well, maybe a little different. You wouldn't happen to know what a Ghoul is, huh?”

“What?” You don't know how long your vision is going to stay black for, but you don't like the sound of that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Eyes haven't been opened for… two hundred years. I'll give you some time, Cola.” He sighs; cracks his neck, while you sink back into the floor. “Just imagine the ugliest horror-picture monster you can imagine. Zombie, no nose. That paint a picture for you?”

“...”

“What was that?” Coop can't hear you when your voice is muffled into the tiles of this secret room. He grasps your hair gently, from the root, pulling your head upwards so you'll speak– clearly you don't have the strength to lift up your body. 

“I said, how is that any different from before?” 

“Oh, she's still a jokester.” Coop scoffs– despite himself he snorts– and he lets go of your hair so you land back on the floor with a thump.

“–Ow!” You flinch, and then turn over so you’re on your back. “Still an asshole, huh?”

“Me?” He grins maliciously. Ooh, maybe he can use some misplaced anger on you. “You're the one who didn't call back for several weeks.”

“How could I? You can see I've been trapped in a cryo thing for… however long. Did you say two hundred years?” You flatly ask, and Coop still thinks you're lying.

“Yes, and bullshit. You probably had a couple weeks since I last saw you to call me.” He states, and he doesn’t actually hold a grudge, at least not that much of it in comparison to all the other horrid shit that’s happened to him– he just thinks it's funny to push your buttons after all of that, like looking into a mirror of the past– and you groan.

“No, I didn't. I got in my car after Sebastian's party, and some goon sprayed something in my face, I passed out, and he drove me here.” You start, and you begin frowning in such a way that Coop almost feels bad. 

“Why you, sweetheart?” He shakes his head. “You weren't exactly high up in popularity yet.”

“Exactly. No one would miss me.” You spit out bitterly, remember the end to that night, where you were so unaware of your surroundings, and terrified of being assaulted as you were pushed around into this room, blindfolded.

“Adrian fucking Amos, the fucking Second, thought it would be great if I just became his permanent doll during the apocalypse.” You swallow, and Coop sits down next to you, to listen more clearly. You shift towards his body heat– and to his surprise, he still likes that. “See, his daddy has shares in Vault-Tec, so he decided before nuclear fallout happened, he wanted a guaranteed sex slave from his favourite advertisements.”

“Nuka-Cola.” Coop utters with the slowest drawl, concluding your statement– and you like that.

“Yeah, Nuka fucking Cola.” You grimace. “Then he undressed me, put me in this little number, and threw me in the pod. I barely remember this shit because I was so out of it.”

“Shame. I always wondered why you never called me back.” Coop circles back to his little grudge– but he also feels bad, feels some level of guilt that neither he nor Sebastian had the sense to look out for you back then, and you were practically assaulted (maybe actually so if you didn't remember). 

“Yeah, because I wanted to miss out on that piece of ass. Sure.” You joke feebly, and Coop laughs despite himself. 

“Honey, you're gonna run away screaming when you finally see me. Don't worry about it.” He shakes his head. “The real world's a lot more fucking difficult than would'ves and could'ves.”

“Okay, explain. If you're willing to owe me that much.” You start, and Coop gets reminded of that fateful night a couple hundred years ago, where he was the one to clue you into the impending nuclear war.

Not even three months later, it was all over, and you were nowhere in sight– if his mind ever did drift to you, the what-ifs and who-knows that still persisted– he would always assume you were dead.

Now he thinks you're just unfinished business. 

“Fine.” He taps your shoulder, and you lean a little closer towards him– you touch his hand, and instead of flinching as many people have in the past– you trace the tough, callused skin there.

He thinks there’s something wrong with you. Why do you seem drawn to him anyways? You’re completely fucking up his tough guy, lone-wolf persona by being here, and he wants you gone. He pulls away his hand, ignoring how your face falls for a moment.

Coop inhales, and then starts. “In October 2077, they nuked America, bombed it all to hell. By they, I think we both know what I’m implying.”

“It wasn’t the Chinese.” You interrupt, and he shushes you.

“Yeah, Cola.” He starts playing with his fingers, feeling like you don’t deserve to be here right now. That you should’ve just stayed dead. “Vault-Tec destroyed it all.”

It’s no good. He’s an old man, and you’re still as soft and young as ever. He’s always haunted by his past, like with Barb and Janey, and then Sebastian’s voice in every single Mr. Handy robot he comes by, and then finally, his last couple memories with you.

“The last two hundred something years have been filled with carnage, death, unspeakable horrors that your pretty little mind could never comprehend.” He grits out, pushing past the past and remembering that this is who he is now– a killer– and you stare at him vacantly, because his tone is so much more serious suddenly. “Nothing is the same. Everyone has blood on their hands, water is a fucking commodity, if you’re not watching out for humans to betray you, hideous creatures like me roam the ground, and that ground? Sands, deserts, barely a hint of green. It’s nothing worth coming back to.”

“So you’re saying I’m in hell.” You suddenly inhale harshly, and Coop ignores the urge to check on you.

The last thing he needs is an extra person to take care of– especially someone who doesn’t know the Wasteland. So it’s better now that he just weans you off and leaves you here.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And I'm the devil.” Coop sucks on his teeth again. “If you had any sense, you’d go back into that fucking freezer until some utopia is born four hundred years from–”

You flinch, and he stops. 

“Oh, God, my eyes–”

The sight comes back slowly then all at once. Light everywhere, overwhelming your senses. 

You blink, tears rolling down your face. 

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you stayed blind, Cola.” He stares at you as you rub your eyes, taking in the state of the room. 

It’s a warning, but you look up at him again anyways. And Coop waits for the utter horror, for the sign that he really has transformed into a monster, so he can hurry up and leave– this entire conversation with you is just him finishing Cooper Howard’s past with a bow. A shiny, Nuka-Cola-red bow.

“...” You swallow, and then bite your lip, tilting your head up at him. “Couldn’t let go of the cowboy identity, huh?”

Coop furrows his non-existent eyebrows, disliking how hard you’re making this, how clever you still seem to be– you also seem way too relaxed with him. He has half a mind to fire a warning shot at you. “Yeah, okay, darlin’. You’re just avoiding facing that horrific, bile-inducing sensation in your throat, aren’t you?”

You shake your head, disagreeing immediately. “You might look– a little less like how I remember you, I guess… but you’re still you. I see it, and apparently so do you.”

How dare you? Coop thinks, how dare you intertwine his two images together so easily when he could never be the same man again, when just seeing an old VHS tape of one of his movies pains him?

“Yeah, no thanks. If this is your way to get me to valet you around, I’m not that man anymore, Nuka-Cola.” He resents the way you think he could still be good– just because his western image brings him a little comfort nowadays. “Not a sheriff anymore.”

Your face drops, but you seem to take that information readily. “Yeah, I figured that based on your outfit, the little blood splatters on your pants… if that’s how the world is, then so be it.”

You’re saying things that on paper should be right– but Coop is getting more and more disgruntled with you, and you feel like you need to separate yourself from him. Yes, tough, because to you it’s been all of forty-eight hours since you kissed him– but you can see, no matter how deep the original Cooper Howard is inside this new Ghoul, you’re not going to be able to bring him out.

You stand up, on shaky, bare feet, and motion for Coop to move out of the way. Independent woman to the end, you are, and you want to get your bearings without him.

Coop internally sighs. He doesn’t believe for one second you’ll survive out there– and he really doesn’t need to spend the time seeing you die, so he turns around, and leaves you here.

/

He never did find Leopold St. West, much to his chagrin– you really, really messed up his day. 

It happens. Sometimes he’ll see Janey in another person’s eyes and freak out, and have to boil it down by murdering random raiders. 

But now Coop is just spiteful. He’s always figured that a lot of what happened to the world was just a bunch of rich people picking and choosing a destiny for themselves to the detriment of everyone else, and now he’s aware that included you, too. To casually be grabbed away by some man, just because he was rich… Coop isn’t unsympathetic to how you ended up, even if he treated you quite poorly. It’s sickening.

Two hundred years of quiet, always-dwelling agony, the first few years out of fear for being alone, and the next few years spent conspiring about what could’ve happened to his family– and then here you are as confirmation of his worst theories.

No wonder he enjoys his casket time.

/

Coop sighs.

Vaultie is hard to keep track of. She got away with murder this time at the organ harvesting clinic– so Coop finds it easier to stop working with her, to move when he wants to.

The Govermint (really just Booker’s shitty gang) was rather easy to dismantle. The two sheriffs that he killed required no expertise on his part.

He’s thinking about the fact that since Moldaver is still alive, and apparently that fucker Hank MacLean, then that means there’s a good chance Barb and Janey are too– perhaps he could go and find them.

It’s an odd urge, though. Everytime he thinks about it, he wonders how he’s actually supposed to connect with them again– they’ve been fractured for so long, and he’s changed, and there’s a good chance neither of them would accept him like this.

But you did, didn’t you? You were on the verge of saying yes, you’d accept him– as if nothing had changed.

Coop grumbles. The big, significant difference is that you were infatuated with him, but Barb divorced him, and Janey was too young to make that choice. He considers that it could be a pipe dream, but he still has hope– for Janey, at least.

He thinks you’re probably dead anyways. He hasn’t seen you in several months, since that day where he unceremoniously woke you up– and he hopes it stays that way.

He's chilling in another small, scrappy area of the wasteland. Nobody bothers the Ghoul, not when he's casually fiddling with his gun and and chewing on a toothpick.

A man runs past him, holding a significantly valuable piece of Brotherhood equipment. Maybe worth thousands of caps if he knows his shit, and he does. That’s a fusion core, and they’re not exactly mass producing those anymore during the apocalypse.

Coop points his gun at him, finger on the trigger, seconds away from creating a bloody mess–

A blade thwacks into the guy’s neck, blood spurting as he falls and chokes. A person– a woman– jumps on his back, her face obscured by a deep green bandana . She yanks out the knife, stabs a few more times for good measure– and Coop knows the game, he’s not surprised he’s not the only one to go after this guy.

He’s pretty good at killing casually, and he barely even moves from where he’s standing, aiming the gun at her.

No way is he letting easy money pass by him.

He’s about to pull the trigger extra-quick when she yanks the bandana down, taking a deep breath as she sweats, and Coop actually misses.

It’s you. You stare up at him from where you’re squatting over the body, and your gaze hardens, furrowed brows, dark lashes, intensely dark pupils. You purse your lips, press them together, jaw set in a stern fashion, recognizing him but refusing to hear him out– and Coop doesn’t know why he’s not firing, but he’s almost… enamoured with how you are now, almost taken aback by your new nature.

Not so taken aback that he doesn’t immediately start firing when you take the fusion core and start running.

And Coop doesn’t want to actually kill you, he just wants to incite some damage. See how far you can take it.

You interweave through random gaps in the metal scraps of this little abode, seeking shelter as you do so, and Coop’s gunfire only ricochets off them with cartoony sounding “pings!”

He manages to graze your left thigh through a small window, and you inhale sharply, stopping as you grit through the pain.

Coop grins to himself. This little cat and mouse chase is what he expected, what was predictable from you– you’re smart enough to stay on the defense, but you would probably never attack him, avoiding him because of your sad feelings of the old times, never resort to carnage unless you needed to–

You shove past the walls where you’ve been roaming, and manage one kick against his stomach and he manages to grab you and restrain you, your back against his front.

You grab his own jacket for purchase, and instead of pulling forward– you push back, landing on top of him with a thud that surely hurts him. Coop clenches his teeth, back against the ground now, but you scramble, straddling him. Hands around his throat, knife pressed against one of his tendons. Not outright strangling him, but just enough pressure that he knows you’re seriously threatening him.

Holy fuck, have you changed. Just like Vaultie, maybe you’re showing your honest self– and Coop supposes it may have been his mistake to underestimate you.

“Got a whole new outfit… I like it.” He admires your new leather jacket, cargo pants around your thighs pushing his arms down, a blouse fashioned out of your old Nuka-Cola dress. Tough combat boots dig into his thighs as you push against him. “Don’t fucking start–” You squeeze a little harder and he groans, the tip of the knife pushing in. “With your on and off, hot and cold bullshit.” 

Ooh, it sounds like you have a little bit of a grudge over how you were treated.

“Get over it, Cola. It was centuries ago, whatever we had.” He spits out, and you have a glint of sadness in your eyes.

He knew you were a little too gushy for your own good– not even he adapted that quickly to the wilderness of the Wasteland. He waits for you to make the mistake, apologize, break down– and then he can take the core and get out of here.

But you’re still firm in your grasp of him, your weight pushing him down, blade against him.

You’re not angry about back then. You’ve come to terms with that.

You’re angry at the state of the world. 

“You know what I fucking hate, Ghoul?” You spit in his face, and he blinks, spittle now on his chin. “You are all so selfish. I got left behind, likely for dead, right, and nobody gives a shit, whatever. But instead of me hoping that the leftover crumbs of society would at least try to be, I don’t fucking know, more hopeful and kind, or at the very least, not be so fucking greedy and transparently trying to be the new party in charge.”

“You’re living in a dream world.” Coop interrupts, and he’s rewarded with you carving a small, little cut on his cheek, a rapid movement you hardly think about, and it causes him to inhale sharply, a drop of blood smearing across his face.

“Oh, no. I’m not asking for everyone to hold hands and play family.” You laugh suddenly, and then somehow lean in closer, and Coop finds that in some fucked up way he enjoys the pressure against him. “It’s bullshit, that kind of image making– you and I both know that. But for all this supposed talk against the rich billionaires who ruined our lives, how are we not just emulating them?”

Coop is actually drawn to silence.

“Maybe you actually got fooled by self-image, Cola.” He murmurs. “Or maybe that’s just people’s true nature.”

You don’t like that answer. You don’t actually want to believe that, but the more you think about it, the more it’s probably true. People lie all the time, but the amount of outrage you’ve heard from people the last few months, bemoaning Vault-Tec and all those rich fuckers, you were inclined to believe they wouldn’t act the exact same way.

Just at a different level. Power corrupts all, you guess.

You loosen your grasp a little. “Thank you.”

It’s honest, and Coop doesn’t like how much he does like your nature of trusting him– how even as this new, terrible version of yourself, you still trust him, and you still ask for his advice.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, but he thinks maybe he can get some use out of you yet.

Coop wrangles his arm from out under your thigh, where you’ve accidentally let a gap through, and shoves you over.

You fall with a gasp, hitting the ground, and he stands up and kicks you for good measure, while you screech in pain. 

Coop picks you up by your throat, and you instantly move to fighting– your blade against his stomach, teeth gritted in resolute urge to kill– but he’s got his pistol at your neck, and the way he brushes it against you is almost like a lover’s embrace.

“One thing I hate is a fucking liar, Cola.” He grumbles, and you glare at him. “You’re not some innocent– why else do you got a fusion core in your pocket?”

“I never claimed I was a good woman.” You shake your head. “I just wonder why the Brotherhood, the Enclave, hell, even some of the Raiders… everyone wants the ultimate piece of the pie.”

“Besides, you’re the one who kept saying to survive out here I’d have to be a killer.” You remind him, and he looks down at you, thinking. “The world’s grieving– I don’t blame it for that, I feel the same way.”

You’ve still got a way with words, he thinks, and he was right. He can use you for his benefit.

“Say, Nuka-Cola. Why don’t we take some of those fuckers down?” He stills. “Not randoms. The power-hungry pie-eaters, like how you so eloquently put it.”

You don’t fully trust him again, but you’re into the prospect. You don’t want power, and you know he doesn’t either, but it’s not just looting. No, no, this is something akin to revenge.

“Alright.” You whisper.

“Alright. Okay, I won’t shoot if you don’t cut me.” He speaks softly, slowly, trying to cajole you out of attacking– and you move as he does. 

The threatening air of before is gone now, and the Ghoul has only a odd stare for you, something that makes you feel watched, almost reminding you of two centuries ago. It could be that he doesn’t trust you either– and so you walk onward with a gap between you two, heading to wherever a faction that needs fucking up could be.

/

Coop strolls inside the makeshift bar as you make conversation, staying within the shadows. It’s not on official Enclave grounds, it’s simply a nearby bar where members have been known to hang out. 

He doesn’t exactly mind being the one to pick up the slack of killing people– he can tell you’re good at charming people what with your former bombshell acting techniques, your silly, soft blinks, the way how your skin still looks smooth and untouched.

Was it all a lie with him? Aw, shit, why does he care? He really doesn’t have time to wonder if he’s been manipulated by you– he won’t be manipulated by you now, when he gets rid of many the people who represents obstacles in his way to finding still-existing Vault-Tec members.

Yes, that’s all this is to him. Another step to finding Moldaver, Henry MacLean, then his family if he’s lucky. And you’ll get some rage out of it, so he doesn’t even consider this to be that bad of an evasion of his. 

You laugh at something the guy next to you says. Coop catches a bit of it, of him asking how you look under that big jacket– and you mentioning you’d like to see him without that government get-up, too.

He grits his teeth. He’s not fucking in love with you, or anything stupidly juvenile like that– but he definitely felt something before when the two of you were fighting, or when you had conversations during the long, arduous talk here– you bit into a piece of his jerky when he offered it, and he laughed in surprise that you didn’t spit it out after he revealed it was feral ghoul ass jerky.

He also found that his gaze kept being drawn to you, too. You kept up with him, you were capable of hunting and searching on your own, you took lives when the need arose, and you had his back, even if he didn’t ask for it.

You made him subconsciously draw from the past, reminiscing about a time with you and a future he never thought he’d revisit. And now he can’t ignore that, so he needs to let off some steam.

There’s a splatter of blood across your face as the guy in front of you splutters, a bullet hole shot through his forehead. Little pieces of flesh hit the bar counter as he falls, and you gasp.

Coop is kind of quick with it now– he fires off, and because these “politicians” are unprepared, he’s able to kill off more than half.

You get over your shock quickly and fire your own tiny pistol at random, managing a few kills, but the Ghoul takes the last one and looks back at you, with an intrepid glance that you can’t figure out.

“What the hell was that?” You call out, and he doesn’t respond, instead beginning to pilfer the bodies, looking for shit to take. “Hey, Ghoul…”

“We came here to kill off those guys.” He answers you, but it’s not really an answer.

“Yeah, but I thought we agreed on discussing this shit as we were doing it. What happened to signalling?” You approach him, and as you get close enough, he turns around and stares unnervingly into your eyes.

“I did signal, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, lying through his teeth. 

“Bullshit.”

“No, I did.” He points at you. “It’s not my fault that you were too busy schmoozing and flirting to notice.”

“Wow.” You laugh exasperatedly at his antics, while he tilts his head. “You’re really obtuse, you know?”

“Nah. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna say you’re not jealous–” At that word, the Ghoul snarls, ready to tell you exactly how little he cares for you, and you motion for him to zip it. “But at the very instance of seeing me flirt, mind you, in the most fake way possible, you lost it. You can’t even tell the difference between my genuine flirting and the fakest, schlockiest shit?”

“...” Coop frowns, because you’re right– he did kind of let his mind go wild over nothing in particular. 

Even worse, it means he’s made it apparent to you that he still harbours some feelings for your long-ago relationship. And that’s definitely a potential weakness– he does not want you to believe you can just work him around.

“Fuck you.” He spits, and instead of your face flinching in hurt, you stay neutral.

“I know you think you can come close and then shove me off every once in a while, because you’re fucking terrified of what it means that you’re not as hard as you pretended to be, that you still have a bit of human emotion inside you.” You tiptoe up to his face so he can’t avoid you. “I don’t care. That’s your problem.”

You turn to leave, to continue looting the bodies– and Coop’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

He hates what you’ve said, because it’s absolutely provoking the worst issue he has– he can never just let go. Two hundred years of this has made him a different creature altogether, spiteful; evil, but Coop knows as well as anyone that his transformation doesn’t negate his original nature, buried deep down.

It was a lie on his part– people are not as evil as he made them out to be, it’s the cycle of this situation that perpetuates that shit. Violence begets violence and all that. He can’t seem to say this to you, though, because he can tell you already probably knew that.

What is this fuckery, that you’re able to generate such a sense of guilt in him?

“Show it to me again. Genuine flirting.” he says instead, and he knows it’s stupid as hell to say something like this. “It’s been hundreds of years, you can’t expect me to fuckin’ remem…”

You grasp his arm back, making him quiet.

He’s half expecting you to punch him, but you see something you like– something that finally satisfies you, and you kiss his cheek, where you cut him much earlier in the day. It’s a soft bruise, mostly healed over in the way ghouls heal– but it’s overwhelmingly, embarrassingly hot there now as you pull away.

“I won’t forget the difference next time, Nuka-Cola.” He tips his hat at you in a mockery of his acting as a dashing cowboy once upon a time.

“Won’t be a next time.” You shrug. “I would hate to have to flirt with someone again just to get you to notice me.”

This severely bothers him, like you haven’t been an annoyance in his mind this whole time. And then he wonders if you’re an idiot, like you have no idea the effect you had on him back then, and even now. Hell, even that overly-chaste kiss has him remembering how he felt at Sebastian’s party when you humoured him the first time.

Do you think the only thing he’s burying is some empathy for the human race?

He can’t just let you be this wrong about this, no fucking way. And it’s with this in mind that the Ghoul feels his reserve melt as he tightly grabs your face and kisses you. Not a soft, movie-star kiss of the past, but one more hungry, his lips swallowing yours, pressed sternly, firmly, like he’s not gonna let you go. He parts his mouth ever so slightly, trying to catch a reaction from you.

You’re caught off guard, and he’s glad. He likes that you don’t know what to do with yourself, that for once you’re floundering rather than him, and you barely remember to kiss back until a couple seconds later when your hands grasp the base of his skull. You’re tracing grooves, calluses, skin that’s been eroded by his ghoulishness. You feel like he tastes ever so acidic– perhaps from the radiation emitting from his body– but some weird part of you loves it, and you part your lips as you kiss him harder, wanting to feel his tongue.

Your lips are just as soft as he remembers– but there’s more excitement now, more of an urgency as you kiss him, so he takes your invitation and swirls his tongue around on yours, disgustingly vulgar and perversely fast, yet lingering to enjoy the sensation, and he kinda loves being a corrupting force, being the ghoul who eats up this sweet human girl, and he tightens his grip– it almost hurts you, how tightly his hands weave around your waist suddenly– and then before you know it, he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth, never taking his eyes off of you.

“So. Did I taste like Nuka-Cola?” You joke, and he laughs in your face.

“Nope. Darlin, you haven’t been the Nuka-Cola girl for hundreds of years. They replaced you not long after you vanished.” He smiles widely at how your face drops. “I can show you some of the new girl’s billboards, if you’d like.”

“That would explain the lack of revenue.” You raise your eyebrows. “Then why do you still call me Nuka-Cola, Cola, etcetera?”

“That’s how I remember you.” It sounds too sweet, too nice that he keeps your nickname on tabs, so he twists his lips in a sneer. “Plus I don’t remember your name.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, finding his insult more funny than anything else, and turn around to take items from the bodies around you. “Okay, Mr. Howard.”

It was the optimal moment for you to joke back, calling him the Ghoul, but in classic you-fashion, you decided to extend an olive branch to him– reminding him that he’ll never just be the Ghoul to you. And even if Coop knows he’ll always remember you by Nuka-Cola, he has a fondness for you that he doesn’t neglect anymore– and he murmurs your name so softly, but just enough that you turn back and look at him, and smile with pleased recognition. 

[jakeyjellybean]

Linger - Charles Smith (rdr2) x fem reader

This is a pining Charles POV based on the song Linger, by the cranberries and has anyone ever asked for this ? No. But I wanted it, it’s fan service for me and me only and I enjoyed every second of writing it so if you want a part two please let me know.

Charles and the reader have been in love for years and they are so oblivious to it that it’s criminal!

Warnings; none really, angsty Charles, smutty themes if you squint

If you, if you could return

Don't let it burn

Don’t let it fade…

Charles had seen a lot in his twenty seven years on this earth - but nothing ever made his heart beat quite as much as that first glimps of you after a long raid or robbery. He had always been happy to bring back his share of loot from jobs; he had became a provider for the gang, known for his loyalty and hard work - he liked it.

He belonged, possibly for the first time in his whole life.

But when you joined the gang, his commitment to coming “home” (wherever that may be and for however temporarily) strengthened tenfold.

your smile, your eyes, your voice - the job was intense, everytime he left he knew there was a high chance he wouldn’t be coming back.

He had sat with this fact, weighed up his options - he could live with that.

Until you - he had been completely okay with the fact that he might not see his next sunrise.

But now he was greedy, Charles wanted more.

No longer living just to be alive, he wanted a future.

A future with you.

But the gated paddock with grazing horses and a baby in his arms that had his hair but your eyes, that just wasn’t an viable option, as much as he might want it.

And he did, he so desperately wants it.

You had once read him one of your fantasy romance books, a juvenile piece of literature that the girls had passed around and poured over.

And as you dramatically delivered the lines, punctuating sentences with your glorious laugh, he wondered - fleetingly and if just for a moment, if love like that could really exist.

But he knew it was futile. He was not your prince in shining armour - not the man you would imagine when reading those words.

Charles was cold, quiet, lacking in social skills.

And you were you, passionate and stronge, someone who the whole gang loved and doted on as much as you doted upon them.

You chatted to all of them, you had time for everyone, you were everything he could not be; warm, engaging, someone people came to for comfort.

He concluded that fairytales are just that, fiction.

I'm sure I'm not being rude

But it's just your attitude

It's tearing me apart

It's ruining every day…

It got to him, it really did.

Because as much as he wanted you, Charles just didn’t see a reality where he would ever be enough.

In some twisted way, he had to accept both what he wanted and what you deserved.

You had shared with him, one night after far too many beers at a camp celebration, that you dreamed of leaving this life behind one day, settling down, owning a ranch and having a family.

He had lay there the following morning, in his stiff cot and itchy sheets, solem with the realisation that his own past stuck to him like dry straw on honey.

He lost his mother at such a young age, and his dad too, emotionally at least, as a result.

He left any semblance of family behind that day that he fled, a thirteen year old boy with nothing to his name but grief and rejection.

How could he be a father when he had barely had one himself ?

Was he fated to repeat his own sires mistakes ?

Or could he be a good father, a dad even.

Could he raise his sons to be loyal, fierce but soft, teach them to fish and shoot their bow but also how to treat those around them with respect?

Could he raise his daughters to be independent and strong, yet caring and optimistic?

And then he found it all quite laughable; because who would want children with a man like him.

Accepting that he was too wound up to rest, he got out of his cot, made a coffee and started up the fire, waiting until the others woke up.

I swore, I swore I would be true

And honey so did you

So why were you holding her hand?

Charles was so secretive about the feelings he had developed about you that he genuinely believed nobody would ever catch a wiff.

But as Arthur watched his close friends troubled face, and followed his stormy gaze to find it locked on you - laughing with Sean over something he assumed was stupid and down right juvenile - he felt true empathy for his good friend.

Arthur knew Charles well enough to know that under that big bear of an exterior was a heart of gold.

Although a relatively new addition to the gang, in comparison to himself or John, Arthur trusted Charles, a luxury he offered very few.

Because of this, the two often went on excursions together - Arthur managing to learn little bits of trivia Charles would sometimes offer, leaving him to piece together an overall view of his lift before the gang and his character like a jigsaw puzzle.

Charles was by no means big on chat, but Arthur liked to think he had a pretty good perception of him by now.

Additionally, Arthur was not a stranger to the concept of unrequited love.

So he sat there on his bar stool, his friend looking off longingly into the abyss, and weighted up his options.

It surely wasn’t smart to poke Charles, the metaphorical bear, he should most certainly leave his observations for another day.

But it’s nearly midnight, he’s a good few whisky’s deep, and when has Arthur ever chosen the correct decision.

“You’re real sweet on her, huh”

Charles wakes out of his trance and multiple emotions drench over his face; the first of which being outright confusion.

The second coming later - but stronger than the first - Anger.

Maybe at his bold accusation, maybe at being caught out, Arthur neither knows or cares.

And then, as he opens his mouth to protest - causing Arthur to hold up his hand in defiance, the final emotion: defeat.

Charles looks into his glass as if searching for the key to Pandora’s box.

“Just go speak to ‘er” Arthur offers, jesturing to you, causing Charles to smack his hand down as if you would suddenly squire the gift of telepathy and know Charles deep dirty secret.

“I can’t Arthur” the words come out in such a crestfallen way Arthur almost wants to bring his friend in for a embrace.

Everything about tone, his choice of words, tells Arthur that this a conversation Charles has already had with himself frequently and his heart hurts for the man.

Arthur knows this thought process all to well, after all, he’s lived it himself. He knows there’s nothing he can say now, no words of comfort, that can fix Charles sorrow.

So he doesn’t say anything, he listens.

He listens as Charles tells him that he’s not good enough for you.

He listens as Charles tells him to how you want a future he can’t provide.

And he hears how much it’s pulling the man apart.

He orders himself and Charles another drink, and then listens some more.

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you?

The night Sean returned he danced with you.

The stars shone overhead and the fire cracks and whistled, competing with the sound of the gangs laughter and chatting.

Charles looked down to see that you were looking at him, really looking - and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

He could see there was so much behind your eyes, so many thoughts in that miraculous brain of yours, and the fact that he couldn’t decipher a single one of them made his insides churn.

Where you looking at his scar, wondering why you were dancing with such an ugly brute of a man?

Or where you simply imagining someone else in his space? Maybe Sean or John or even javier.

But when you speak, your words send him even further down a spiral.

“You’re so handsome, mr Smith”

The words, the look in your eyes as you say them, the naughty smirk on your lips - charles wasn’t sure if he believed in heaven anymore, and he knew with all certainty that after his actions he would not be allowed entry, but that nice it felt like he transcended up to the pearly gates and shook hands with everyone wholly up there.

But then he realises he’s said nothing, and it’s too late, your face has changed, gone the look of awe, replaced with something resembling embarrassment and possibly even a little rejection.

“Sorry, I’m really drunk” you laugh off, and maybe if you hadn’t looked away from him you would have seen the blush on his cheeks and his mouth open to tell you just how much he loved you, just how much your words meant to him.

Maybe if you hadn’t dropped his hands and gone back to the others, he would have kissed you right there by the camp fire, in front of everyone he cared about.

But that wouldn’t happen, not that night.

Charles would think your words were the result of your alcohol consumption, nothing else.

And you would think that Charles just didn’t feel the same way.

You’d both wake up the next morning with the memory of that encounter, but you’d both pretend you didn’t. It was a game you both played, denying your feelings for eachother while knowing that when you turned in for the night and got into your seperate cots you would both be thinking only of the other.

But I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

You got me wrapped around your finger

“Can I braid your hair?”

A pointless question, Charles thought to himself. You could ask the man if he would load his own gun, turn it on himself and shoot and he’d do it without a please, thanking you for the command.

Anything for you.

Charles had injured himself in a raid, a silly mistake leading to him breaking a few fingers, nothing serious in the grand scheme of it all but still causing short term annoyance.

Due to this, his usual braid had admittadly become lose and somewhat of a disaster.

It wasn’t the first thing on his mind, but when you offered to help him, and the idea of you scraping your nails against his scalp was birthed into his brain, the chance to fulfil a fantasy was too hard to deny.

Scared of how his voice may come out if he used his words, he grumbled a response and sold it with a nod.

You took to work on his lengths, starting at the bottom and working your way up, a little too gentle for Charles liking if he was honest.

The idea of you pulling his hair had came across his thoughts, often late at night, but it was never accompanied by you both being fully clothed and his fingers being broken.

However when you reached his head and racked your fingers through his hair like a brush, he had to use everything in himself to fight the moans of satisfaction he wanted to release.

You chatted away to him the whole time and he tried to listen, he really did, but the combination of you being so close that he could smell you around him and your touch on his hair was ultimately distracting to say the least.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He wasn’t, he didn’t hear this, causing you to playfully tug, a little harder than expected by either of you, at his locks.

Charles made a sound he hoped he could pass off as a yelp, but that was really the result of his nightly fantasies of you peaking into reality in the strangest way possible.

“Sorry” you say, and it’s as if his groan did as much for you as your hair tugging did for him, but he couldn’t think about that without opening a box he had long decided to close, lock and bury deep.

So he went back to enjoying your touch, knowing that this might be the closest he ever got to you, and being okay with that.

If this was all Charles could have of you, at least he’d had something.

And surely something was better than nothing at all.

Do you have to let it linger?

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger

[jakeyjellybean]

𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚐, 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚘, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚞𝚜, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛, 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚞𝚜𝚑, 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗��𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚡 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚙, 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎.

(gif cred: @itspapillonnoir)

[jakeyjellybean]

Take Me Home

PART ONE: TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Gunslinger!Reader

18+, mdni

Summary: From the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day. Never spoke to folks around him, didn’t have too much to say. No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip, for the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip. (Reader is based on Texas Red, from the song Big Iron)

Warnings: reader is female but is disguised as a young male (use of masc pronouns towards reader for this chapter), guns, violence, duelist behavior. Reader is described to have a masculine outer appearance (for show) and is mentioned to have reddish hair (for the sake of the storyline). A fake name is used but otherwise can be read completely as a reader insert.

Word Count: 6.5k

Howdy y’all ! I’m really excited about this story (arthur is my main comfort man) and this is just a story that I’ve been cooking up since I finished the game. This part (and a lot of the story’s future plot) is HEAVILY influenced by the song Big Iron by Marty Robbins and reader even goes by ‘Texas Red.’

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.” Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself.  “You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did

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

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

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

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

“That's him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not one.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I gotta be.” 

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

“And you think you'll hit me?” 

“I've never missed.” 

And then that chuckle finally does escape you. 

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

“I like my odds.” 

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” 

“Robert Sims.” 

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

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-” 

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

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

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

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

“Are you ready to step outside?” 

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

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” your confusion forced through. 

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

“He told ya? Or were you outside?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.” 

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

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

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

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

Nothing to lose.

-

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you mumbled. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

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

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher. 

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

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

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

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

“Abigail seems to like him.”

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

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

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

“He can shoot faster than me?” 

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name, kid?” 

Kid, as if you were actually one… 

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

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only nodded, and kept walking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m in deep shit…”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

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

“Faster.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Never?” 

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

“Never.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d say so.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“G’night, Red…”

-

tags are open

[jakeyjellybean]

Salt and Pepper | Arthur Morgan / Reader

Word count : 1.4k Summary : Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray. I saw a post on here about Arthur with salt and pepper hair and I couldn’t stop myself hehe. Warnings/Tags : talk about death, getting old, Arthur loves his wife, no tb, Arthur and reader own a house, mention of past gang members, cursing, lots of fluff, self deprecation on Arthur’s side, bullets, mention of weight gain (in a positive way)

“Godamn ugly bastard.” Arthur huffed, his gaze piercing as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t meant to have himself a pity party this morning. In fact he was feeling quite fine this morning before looking in the small bathroom mirror. Waking up next to you always puts a spring in his step. Especially when he’s waking up in a real bed, underneath a soft quilt that you happened to sew in some free time. Mismatched patches and all, it was his favorite thing in the small home you two shared. Hell, you were becoming quite domestic ever since the house was completed.

But he wasn’t exactly expecting to find gray hair sprouting from his hairline. He wasn’t that old, was he?

“Jesus.” He sighed, inspecting further he realized it wasn’t one or two gray hairs, it was almost twenty. Hidden under his longer than normal locks after forgoing a haircut for the last couple weeks. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed them, especially with how much you loved to run your fingers through his hair. Although, he loved it just as much, maybe even more.

God, he needed to get rid of these before you saw them. He was sure you had some tweezers around here somewhere. He opened up your drawer, rifling around for your tweezers. Bingo. His hands gripped the small piece of metal, a triumphant smile on his face.

It was only once he looked back up into the mirror, determined to fix this issue before you woke up, that he noticed you padding into the bathroom. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Mornin’.” You hummed, laying your cheek against his bicep, smiling sweetly at him through the mirror.

“Mornin’.” He said, clearing his throat.

“What do you need those for?” You asked, eyeing the tweezers in his hand. Caught red handed, he tried coming up with some excuse.

“Nothin’ sweetheart.” He said, giving you his signature smile, kissing your forehead. He slipped the tweezers into his pocket for safe keeping, at least until he had a free moment without you around. After all those years on the run and he could come up with nothing, Hosea would have been so disappointed in his lack of an answer. He swore he could hear the old man chastising him now.

“For a former outlaw you sure are an awful liar.” You tutted, shaking your head, slipping your fingers into his pocket and pulling out the tweezers.

“Well it ain’t my fault,” He huffed playfully, “Could never get nothin’ past you anyway.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. You removed your hands from around his waist, leaning back on the sink as you looked up at him.

“Spill.” You said raising an eyebrow, your arms crossed over your chest.

Knowing he’d been caught, Arthur hung his head, a low sigh leaving his lips.

“It’s just-“ He cursed, turning to look away from you, “Well I’m goin’ gray.” He admitted, not meeting your eyes.

“And?” You asked in such a nonchalant manner.

“And?” He asked looking up at you, his brows furrowed.

“So you have some gray hairs.” You said with a shrug, “You’re acting like the damn world is ending.” You chuckled softly, a smile tugging on your lips.

“Well-“ Arthur sighed, pursing his lips, he didn’t want to be vain but damn it, it did feel like the world was ending.

“Honey.” You said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Ain’t nothing wrong with some gray hairs.” You said, shaking your head, looking so goddamn patient as always. What he did in a past life to deserve you he would never know, he definitely didn’t deserve you in this one. You smiled, running your thumb over his couple day old stubble. He couldn’t help but sigh softly, leaning into your touch.

“Just makes me feel old ‘s all.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Arthur.” You said softly, he opened his eyes. His bright azure pools looking into yours. “Getting old means we’re still alive.” You said pointedly, not missing the way your fingers trailed lightly down his chest.

He sighed softly, anyone who said he was the most like Hosea had obviously never had a one on one conversation with you. You had shared the same dry wit along with being just as wise as the old man. Sometimes he wondered if the two of you were more closely related than just being adopted by him as a kid.

As your hand settled over his heart, he couldn’t help but remember a time when you didn’t have this place. When his next breath had been an undeserved blessing. When you and Charles had pulled his broken body off that godforsaken mountain. You were right, he should be grateful for these gray hairs and new lines on his face. Should be grateful that he made it this far out west with you, where the air was dryer and slowly his lungs didn’t hurt as bad with each breath.

If anything he should be grateful that you’re here, here in this house. The house that he built specifically for you. That you’re not buried six feet under like most of the fellow gang members. That you didn’t catch a bullet like Lenny or Sean, how he wished they could have had the chance to grown old. Even as mouthy as Sean was, the poor bastard didn’t deserve that. Lenny was just a boy, foolish enough to be sucked in by Dutch’s silver tongue. He shook his head trying to clear any thoughts of the past.

God, along with the fact that somehow both of you still happen to be standing, the fact that you chose to stand by him after everything you went through makes his head swim. You could have left him at any point, hell he had begged you to leave after his death sentence. And yet, here you were.

“Guess you’re right.” He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Course I am.” You teased, a smile spreading across your face. You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. He accepted your silent invitation, pressing his lips against yours. So soft and warm and inviting. He could feel you smile against his lips. That small smile warmed him from the inside out, nearly making his toes curl.

Jesus, he was lucky. More than lucky, he still couldn’t figure out how he had tricked you into marrying him. He wanted to be the best version of himself for you, he had made a promise to try every day to be a better man for you. You shouldn’t be tied down to a miserable old fool like himself.

As if you could read his mind, which he often suspected you could, your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Besides,” You began as you pulled away, “I like the salt and pepper look.” Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.

“Really?” He asked, raising a brow.

“Really.” You nodded, running your hand through his hair. “Think you get more handsome every day.” If anyone was getting prettier every day it was you. Your hair was longer, cascading down your shoulders in waves. No longer tied up in a tight braid or bun. You looked relaxed, at peace. You became softer once you both settled into your new lifestyle. Not just emotionally, although you still had that fire which had first drawn him towards you, like a moth to a flame. You were physically softer, your harsh edges smoothing out as you started to eat and sleep better. Your curves became more prominent, and he certainly didn’t mind having more to hold onto late at night.

Maybe you truly did feel the same about him. He had never known you to lie. A blush settled on his cheeks at the thought. He shook his head, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“Yeah, alright darlin’.” He says taking your face in his hands, kissing you again before you had the chance to embarrass him further.

Maybe getting old wasn’t so bad if you had someone to grow old with.

[jakeyjellybean]

Arthur Morgan, The Man You Are

[jakeyjellybean]

FOR YOU, FOREVER AGO

🎧 take a piece of my heart and make it all your own.

pairing: arthur morgan x gn!reader

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: arthur, and the notes he leaves in the books he gifts you. who could have figured love can transcend time?

content: established relationship, reading, reading and some more reading (together), soft and playful love, fluff with some angst at the end (arthur's death mentioned). reader is briefly said to be wearing a chemise.

a/n: i said i wouldn't write him again and here i am. writing him again. because this game has taken up so much of my writing headspace...

There’s an old saying that Arthur has heard retold in various different ways, and it went along the lines of “an idle mind is the devil’s playground.”

It derived from Proverbs 16:27: “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” something he later found out upon overhearing the phrase from the Reverend’s mouth during one of his rare sermons. Arthur doesn’t believe much in any sort of sacred text, but he could, to an extent, believe in that phrase. 

It’s a belief Dutch and Miss Grimshaw hold in especially high regard, and their incessant nagging to do away with him loitering about in the camp proved that. And while he agrees that it is necessary for everybody to do their part, Arthur spends much of his time out involving himself in all kinds of tough and weary business, and like anyone else, sometimes the enforcer needed a break. 

Though it seemed so to quite many people, Arthur’s mind was not solely fixated on his life of crime. Like many other people he was a man of love, who enjoyed reveling in Mother Nature’s beauty, and memorializing its likeness in his journal in gorgeous detail, too. He enjoyed lingering in on conversations that took place around him; mundane things like about rumors and town happenings, though they weren’t always pleasant. And above all else, he enjoyed being around you. 

Scare was the time to enjoy such leisure with your responsibilities, however. Often, he would return to camp well into the dead of night or during wind down time you had permitted for yourself (because Lord knows Grimshaw wouldn’t) to entertain your mind. Borrowing from the collections of books around camp was one of few forms of amusement you relied upon for some sort of satisfying stimulation.

Arthur couldn’t help but sometimes be jealous of this. To enjoy the leather cover of a book against his fingertips and the patches of sweetgrass and lavender enclosed around him like a makeshift bed was a luxury he could rarely afford. Yet still, he found ways to incorporate his own amusement to look forward to when he did have the off time to enjoy it.

The habit, at first, was a means of compensating for his long absences. It was almost his way of giving you a piece of his heart to hold to your chest, fill your mind, make your own with your wild imagination while he was away for sometimes frightening days at a time. 

Arthur provided you with literature of all sorts, from dime novels to hardcover books, when he encountered them on his travels. Mythology retellings, exaggerated tales of the fictionalized Wild West, dramatic historical fiction with royalty, castles, and dragons, and the sort of philosophy books Dutch enjoys reading passages aloud from that critique civilization. Each one, though unique in content, held a message with consistent love that made your heart swell and your lips stretch into a pleasant smile at the intent behind them. 

Couldn’t resist. 

Thought you’d like this one. 

All my love. 

Thought of you. 

For you to enjoy when I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time. 

It's late when Arthur finds time to enjoy the stories with you, propped up on his side in the while his other arm is draped loosely around your waist as you lay in the same position, holding the book the two of you were enamored with in one hand. The firelight illuminates the pages for him to read from over your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your stomach and arms absentmindedly as he immerses himself in the world along with you. 

“This gentleman sure is a character.” 

“Ain’t he?” you snicker, taking the comment as an indicator to turn to the next page. “Almost reminds me of someone.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he raises a brow at you, observing your expression with a tilt of his head.

“Nothin’ at all.” you hum innocently, pretending to fix your attention back onto the pages. He catches your bluff when he teasingly curls his arm around your waist and presses you closer against his chest, invoking a squeal of laughter from you as he ruffles your chemise. 

“Just turn the page.” he chuckles with a slight shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, but when you meet his playful gaze with one of your own, any further teasing dies on his tongue as his breath becomes lodged at the sight of your glow in the firelight. 

“Okay.” you tut with a raise of your brows, resituating yourself and leaning further into his grasp, to which he responds by hugging you closer. 

When your time wasn't spent under the stars, it was in your tent. Accompanied in your shared bedroll was a book from a marketplace stand you had picked out together when scouting around town. One of Arthur’s hands holds it on his stomach with his fingers at the bottom, while his other holds your shoulder soothingly. You lay your head over his heart, listening to its steady pulsing, and following the small text with tired eyes to lull you to sleep. 

Sometimes he read to you, when your eyes grew too heavy to look up at him, and your brain was too exhausted to form coherent enough thoughts, let alone conversation. He'd read with his free hand, voice gradually becoming husky with thick exhaustion of his own the more he read on. 

“Why’d you stop?” you murmured to him as you lulled you head up to look at him, briefly slipping into fuller consciousness when taking note of the absence of his voice amidst the evening chill.

“Thought you’d fallen asleep,” he replied, rubbing a hand up and down the side of your arm before planting a kiss on your forehead. You only shook your head.

“A little more?”

Arthur peered outside through a crevice in his tent to the pitch black, redirecting his attention back to you with a sigh. “Alright. But only a little.”

Sometimes you read to him, when he returns to the campsite with his brain scrambled from the hat and madness of his travels, and longs, almost on autopilot, for your presence and an extended period of rest. With his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, legs tangled on your sides and head snug against your stomach, you propped up one of the books you had borrowed from Mary-Beth, a romance that you could always rely on to knock Arthur out, with one hand, while the other carefully threads through his locks of brown hair.

“That sounds like a nice place to live, don’t it? In a house with a white picket fence and a beautiful garden.” You had asked him quietly one of those nights, looking down at his still figure, who merely hummed in response against your stomach. “Maybe outta the country.”

“And go where?” he replied drowsily, peering up at you through small eyes.

“I don’t know…surprise me.” you teased, and Arthur chuckled.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.” he placed a kiss on the fabric of your night wear, letting out a sigh as he adjusted himself against you again. “Maybe someday we’ll go somewhere real nice.”

Amidst ever changing lives—periods of transition and transformation and hard feelings and new hopes and dreams—you made sure to often revisit his little notes kept in between the first few pages of a book picked out with you in mind and written with all the care you had to offer to one another. Nights apart we’re spent tracing the loving words with your eyes, running a nail through the loopy font. It reminds you that you lay under the same stars, the both of you wishing to reunite sooner than later upon one of the billions that twinkled in the sky. 

When Arthur had passed under the dying night sky, the menial, but important, declarations of love became lost to you. 

Focusing on anything outside of survival seemed impossible afterward, and the grief was all too fresh and thought consuming. Most of the time was spent rebuilding your life to the best of your ability, something not quite what you had envisioned in hopeful late night conversations with Arthur, but more bare minimum. No beautiful porch with a nice garden, no homey furnishings. Only a simple bungalow with a creaky bed and a bag of few possessions you managed to snag in your abrupt departure.

At the bottom of the bag one day, you find something, no, many things, you had not laid your eyes upon since before the hope of a new dawn was extinguished within you. 

It had been the first time you had felt an urge to be productive. For most of your days were spent in melancholy and anxious paralyzing thought that kept asking, what’s next?

You held them in your hands carefully, turning them over before opening them curiously, only to have your breath hitched when your eyes landed on the front.

Couldn’t resist.

You scrambled for another.

Thought you’d like this one.

Another, and then another. All of them until the reminders brought you to tears.

All my love.

Thought of you.

For you to enjoy while I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time.

The rest of the night became dedicated to remembering all that you once had, and that you were once determined to have. Reading stories that always seemed as fantastical as your dreams of a sweeter life, perhaps where they even derived from. The inspiration and hope they fuelled gradually returned with each memory you recounted of your shared dream with Arthur.

He had given it to you in the end. Taken you some place nice, even if he wasn’t there himself to enjoy it with you. He’d given you a piece of his heart all those years ago, and you made it your own. Given you the resources—just enough money and a whole lot of love—to help you realize a life you always wanted. He was there; in the blooming flowers, in the magnificent dawn and dusk, in the pages of books you held carefully between your fingers. And you’d remind yourself of it every night with a trace of your fingers over his scrawled messages of adoration.

return to masterlist.

[jakeyjellybean]

LARKSPUR - Chapter Two:  wayfaring strangers and all kinds of danger

“Colm, then?” asked Hosea, arms crossed across his chest. Arthur shook his head and took another pull from the bottle. “Girl’s got her own demons chasin' her, by the looks of it,” “She ain’t an outlaw too, is she?” Another shake of his head, “Naw. This seems personal. Something about that ring of hers. Someone’s going through an awful lot of trouble to get it from her. They chased us out of Emerald Ranch,” Arthur explained, “She managed to divert him away from the camp while I rode on ahead with Karen, but by the time I doubled back...Well, let's just say she roughed him up good before puttin' the bastard down." “Tough girl,” Hosea mused. Arthur hummed in agreement. - When amateur outlaw and bounty hunter Ramona Kostka ends up on the wrong side of a robbery, she's swept into the world of the Van der Linde gang. A surprise reunion with an old friend deepens her involvement, forcing her to navigate alliances to clear the bounty on her head. As danger mounts, Ramona must outwit both friends and foes in a desperate bid to protect her freedom and her life.

Read on Ao3 - Chapter One

[jakeyjellybean]

New Life Shall Prosper, ch. 1

Pairing: Halsin x Reader (as gender neutral as possible, given the context)

Rating: T? (not really smut but there's some heavily implied further down)

Warnings: There's not full blown smut but it borders on the edge, mentions of illness and pregnancy, mostly just fluff

Summary: Months after the fall of the Absolute, you and Halsin have carved a happy life for yourselves within Thaniel's Realm, making a safe haven for all. A life full of hope and prosperity, only enhanced once you discover the very real possibility that you are with child.

Word Count: 9.2K

an: I've had "Halsin becomes a dad" brain rot going on for a week now and had to make something productive of it. Chapter 1 of a 2-3 part series, depending on how long I make the other chapters because this one ended up being much longer than I originally planned (oops). Follow up to this post.

Read on AO3 here if you prefer!

Find chapter 2 here! Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Masterlist

Soft, gentle rays from the sunlight filtering through your bedchamber window stirred you from your sleep, making you squint as you faced the rising sun. With a deep inhale and a long stretch, you basked in the warmth momentarily before rolling over, expecting to see your lover already awake. Much to your surprise, however, Halsin was sleep in a deep sleep, the occasional snore passing through his lips. It was rare for you to wake before Halsin, who was typically up before sunrise, so you happily indulged in the sight that was the peacefully sleeping druid before you. He had one arm under his head for support, still preferring to rough it as much as possible, and the other lazily thrown over his chest. Very carefully, you slid one leg over his as you partially hoisted yourself onto his chest, resting your head on his sternum to listen to the strong, steady thump of his heart as your fingers traced light patterns across his bare chest.

After the fall of the Netherbrain a few months prior, you left with Halsin to help those displaced by the battle by setting up a new settlement in what was once the shadow cursed lands. He was admittedly reluctant to bring you along when he first broke the news he would be leaving the morning after the brain had fallen, worried he was pulling you from the life you deserved after saving the entirety of Baldur’s Gate as well as the Sword Coast, but there was nothing you could have wanted more. After the excitement and fear that the mind flayer invasion had caused, you craved something more peaceful and idillic, especially by the side of the druid you had fallen in love with. It took some convincing to ease his worry, but the two of you happily left for Thaniel’s realm after saying goodbye to your fellow companions. 

The community the two of you had begun to build was thriving. Children and families that had been scattered and broken were reunited or found new families in an area you and Halsin worked every day to build and protect. Despite a century long shadow curse, the land of the area was surprisingly fertile, which allowed for nature to reclaim its hold on the land, much to Halsin’s joy. Gardens were being built, old rotting buildings were being cleared and rebuilt, and most importantly, the people there were happy. There were no harsh politics like the Emerald Grove had when you’d first met Halsin. And, despite being in charge of so many people and children, Halsin didn’t feel the looming weight of leadership like he had when he was Archdruid. Instead, he was much more relaxed and in his element. Leadership wasn’t the easiest thing in the world for him, but something about this settlement was different. And with you by his side through everything, his burdens were much lighter and he was much happier.

Typically, Halsin spent his mornings roaming the community in wild shape, checking for security purposes, but also just enjoying the earliest touches of sunlight as a bear. This morning, however, you woke well before he did, a sudden and violent wave of nausea hitting you before the sun had even crested the horizon. You’d been awake ever since, dozing in a light sleep on occasion, but the lasting twinges of nausea keeping you from fully resting. Those feelings had subsided now and you’d assumed it was just something not settling well in your stomach or perhaps a small stomach bug. As much of an annoyance as it was, you were thankful to be able to glance a peek at your sleeping druid. A decent night’s sleep was not something he got frequently when he was traveling with you, the threat of danger always present, but it always soothed your heart to see him so happy and relaxed around you.

“Halsin,” you whispered as you softly trailed a finger along his chin, “Halsin.” As much as you would have preferred to stay in bed all morning and watch your lover sleep, you knew it was in everyones best interest to wake him for the day. As always, there was much to do in your newly blossoming home and he wanted to be there for every part of it.

“The sun has risen, my love.” You continued your ministrations, tracing your fingers across his features in an attempt to gently rouse him from his slumber. The snoring had stopped, but he had not yet fully woken. Your forefinger gently traced a slow trail along his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, across his lips and back to his chin. You then traced along his eyebrows, over the scars above his eye, and down towards his cheek bones. When he still had not stirred, you placed your finger to the pointed tip of his ear, slowly dragging down along the outer shell and down his neck until you felt his skin prickle with excitement and a low rumble stir in his chest. With his eyes still closed, he brought the arm he was resting on out from under his head and ran his own fingers down your naked back until his hand slipped firmly around your waist.

“You’ll awaken the beast if you’re not careful, my heart.” He said through a smile as he pressed you more firmly to him, relishing in the softness of your skin against his. The two of you never bothered to sleep with clothing; Halsin always preferring to rest without the confines of fabric and you found it much easier to simply sleep naked than to have the druid rip your clothing from you when the mood struck late at night. 

“Is that a promise?” You asked softly while running your finger along his ear again, giggling as you felt another shiver run through his body. Knowing the high sensitivity of elven ears, you didn’t toy with his ears too often, but always enjoyed the reaction you would get from him if you managed to catch him off guard. With a low growl, he captured your lips with his, swiftly rolling until you were securely pinned underneath his large frame. 

“I could never tire of this.” He said between kisses, slowly moving his lips down from yours and onto your neck, giving the occasional nibble in the process. Your hands traveled along Halsin’s shoulders and up onto his neck before settling into his hair as he continued his way down your neck. Your eyes closed tightly and you inhaled sharply as another wave of nausea suddenly settled in your stomach, threatening to come up and into your throat. You tried your best to fight the feelings creeping up, not wanting to disturb your partners fun, but nothing was stopping the final wave from coming.

You frantically tapped Halsin’s arms to signal him to move, but had to settle for gently pushing him up and away so you could adjust your position. The druid, who had made his way to your collar bones by this point, pulled up from you, confusion crossing his face as he initially believed he had done something wrong. You managed to roll out from under his grasp in just enough time to roll your upper body off the side of the large bed you shared before emptying the remaining contents of your stomach into the pail you’d placed by the bed from your earlier bought of vomiting, just in case. You continued to heave long after anything had stopped coming to the surface, struggling to breathe as you tried to stops the spasms. Halsin’s large hand ran along your lower back as he adjusted his position to come sit beside you as you finished your heaving.

“I’m sorry,” you said after you flopped back into your space in the bed, wiping your mouth with the cloth you’d brought with you earlier, “I didn’t mean to rile you up and then ruin it.”

“Don’t apologize, my love,” he said as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, checking for a fever, “Are you alright? How long have you been ill?” His hand shifted to your cheeks, still checking for a fever, but satisfied when he found you to not be unusually warm.

“Earlier this morning,” you said as you closed your eyes as the final waves began to subside, “it must have been something from supper last night that didn’t sit well with me. I’m fine, truly.”

“I wish you had woken me then,” he said as he momentarily left the bed, “I would have been able to help sooner.” You heard clinking in the next room as he dug through his collection of various vials and jars of medicines and herbs he kept on hand. 

The home the two of you shared was small and cozy, with both of you preferring to spend time outdoors a vast majority of the time. Although Halsin would prefer to rough it outdoors and sleep under the stars, he was willing to compromise and bed down for the night in a small home with a large enough bed to accommodate for two. However, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to see him napping midday outside of the settlement under a shaded tree or patch of sunny grass. While Halsin would always prefer the outdoors, there was something special he treasured about sharing a large, warm bed with you at night in the privacy of a shared living space that was absolute harmony. 

“You were too peaceful, my love,” you said with a smile as you remembered the serene look on his face as he slept, “I felt bad enough waking you when I did.” Your eyes opened once again when you felt the bed beside you shift, meeting Halsin’s gaze as he opened the lid of the jar he’d brought with him. Inside the jar were small lightly colored discs of what looked like candy.

“Ginger,” he said simply as he pulled a piece from the jar and popped one in your mouth, “it should help with any lingering nausea. Although, if it persists, please tell me and I’ll see what I can brew for you.” He did you the favor of bringing candied ginger, knowing your tendencies to enjoy the sweeter things natured offered, which significantly cut down on the bite of the root without nullifying any benefits it may bring. Fairy quickly after eating the piece you’d been offered, you could feel your stomach begin to settle and return to some sense of normalcy. Your hand gently caressed his cheek as thanks and he kissed at your palm. It always surprised you that someone as large and fierce in battle that Halsin could be, he could be exceedingly gentle and soft, particularly with you. 

After offering your hand one final kiss, Halsin left the jar of sweets with you as he stood again, lazily rolling his shoulders and neck of the last remnants of sleep before preparing for the day. You admired the way his muscles flexed with his movements, the flutter in your heart briefly reminding you on the treat you’d been robbed of earlier when you promptly vomited into a bed pail. Although you were fairly certain it would be made up for two-fold that evening. Keeping your hands off each other was always a challenge, even after the first night you’d spent together all those months ago, but now that you both had settled into a new home that didn’t have danger looming on the horizon every morning, it was even harder to keep to yourselves. You both tested the limits of what your sturdy bed frame could withstand almost nightly, not including the times you’d sneak off into the woods after a long day.

“So tell me,” you said as you sat up, “what’s on your plate for today?”

“I promised the children I would show them more of the realm,” he responded as he poured himself a makeshift bath into the basin seated in the corner of the room, “there’s still much they haven’t been able to explore and now that more of the debris has been cleared, it’s high time they had the chance to see what all they have to look forward to.” Although he much preferred to bathe in a river under the caress of the sun, he was content with a sink bath given that he’d slept in later than normal. 

“Will you rest for the day, my heart? I can bring you something to eat around midday if you’d like.” Halsin asked as he began to bath himself down, glancing over his shoulder to await your answer. You smiled as the kindness behind his words settled in your mind. Your lover always made it a point to make sure you were taken care of, even if his schedule for the day was filled to the brim. His gestures and kindness directed towards you were always done selflessly and without the expectation of anything in return, although you always tried to return the favor in some way.

“You’re sweet,” you cooed as you placed another piece of ginger on your tongue to keep another bout of vomiting at bay, “but it’s not necessary. I may get a late start, but I’d like to stop by the market today. The last I checked, the stock of produce was running lower than I’d like to see for how many people we have.” You hopped from the bed and made your way to where Halsin stood, taking the wash cloth from his grasp to gently run across his face to clean any places he had missed.

“Thank you though.” You cupped his cheek when you were done, your thumb ghosting his lips. You wanted to kiss his lips as reassurance, but give you’d just lost the contents of your stomach a few minutes prior you decided against it.

“Are you certain?” He asked, clearly not thrilled with your answer. 

You hadn’t been sick in front of Halsin often, the only other notable time being after a bad run-in with a patch of bibberbangs in the Underdark, but even with the most simple of illnesses he found himself concerned for your wellbeing. You knew his concern only came from a place of genuine concern and care. He had often told you how much you meant to him and seeing you in any state of duress, whether it be from illness or threat of physical violence, set him on edge. 

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” You slid your hand down from his cheek and settled it on the center of his chest, resigning yourself to a quick kiss between his pectorals instead of his lips.

“Very well,” Halsin softly grabbed the tip of your chin with his forefinger and thumb, tilting your gaze upwards until it met his,“I won’t stop you. But please, my love, come find me if you need me. Send someone if you must.”

“You have my word. I’ll see you at supper.” He rested his forehead against your for a moment as a parting gesture before reluctantly pulling away to fulfill his duties for the day. His fingertips lingered on yours as he stepped away, as if he was afraid to let you go, until he finally let them part so he could dress for the day. You smiled to yourself, already missing the warm embrace of the druid and eagerly awaiting your reunion later that night.

Once the elf had left for the day, you groaned as you flopped back onto the bed, your eyes closing together tightly as you tried to ignore the churning of your stomach once more. Whatever had your stomaching twisting and turning on itself had certainly overstayed its welcome and you were more than ready to return to normal. Although a bit of vomiting wouldn’t stop you from performing your duties around the community, but it made it much less enjoyable. You allowed yourself one more deep breath before promptly rolling onto your side and hanging over the bed, once again heaving into the pail on the floor.

************************************************************************

The air outside was pleasantly warm with a gentle breeze, a stark contrast to the gloom and chill the air presented not all that long ago. As you walked from your small home towards the communal market located in the center of the community, you couldn’t help but feel pride in knowing that the land that had been plagued with shadow for so long was not only bathed in light again, but was absolutely thriving. Although you were not one that required the praises of everyone thanking you for doing your part in curing the shadow, it did feel nice knowing you helped lift the curse. So now, instead of shadow and a place void of life, the area was blooming with nature. Flowers and various amounts of fruits and vegetables had been planted to supplement the wild varieties found closer to the forest. This in turn allowed for a sizable market to be set up for people come and go as they please.

You’d taken it upon yourself to make sure the market stayed stocked, frequently checking in to make sure there was plenty of food for the plethora of hungry mouths that had been displaced after the battle of the gate. Not only was it important to make sure there was plenty of food for everyone throughout the day, but the market was also the gathering point for the nightly supper. You’d found it much easier to feed nine wagons worth of children with one large communal dinner every night than it was to cook individual meals. You took your time strolling the market, enjoying the fresh air and the flowers littering the ground.

However, you stopped in your tracks about halfway through as a rather unpleasant aroma suddenly assaulted your senses and brought back another wave of the nausea you’d finally rid yourself of. You placed a few fingers over your nose and mouth, wanting to block as much of the smell as possible without looking like an absolute fool in front of any onlookers. The smell wasn’t exactly anything putrid or rancid, but it was foul smelling to you and threatening to make you start heaving the town square. Glancing around, you didn’t see anyone else with the same affliction as you; everyone you made eye contact with and gave a strained smile to seemed to be just fine. Not ready to let a foul smell deter you, considering you had ventured in the Baldur’s Gate sewers plenty by this point, you pressed on.

You pulled another piece of the ginger Halsin had provided to you earlier in the day from your pocket and promptly tossed it into your mouth, hoping it would be enough to hold the vomiting at arms length until you had done your duties for the day. It helped a bit, but the urge to heave was strong and pushing your will. You quickly trotted along the stalls of the market, taking a mental note of what was well stocked and what needed to be replenished. For the most part everything seemed to be fine, but you’d feel better if there were a few more vegetables in the bins. With it being midday, preparations for the nightly supper had already begun and it was within those preparations that you finally found the source of the foul smell assaulting your nose. 

Large racks of rothé ribs were searing over an open flame, sizzling deliciously as any drippings slipped from the meat and onto the hot coals. Normally your mouth would water over the smells of searing meat, something that had become a treat while you were on your travels, but this time was vastly different. The smell that radiated from the meat unsettled your stomach, making it churn and bile to rise in your throat. Again, it didn’t smell rancid or spoiled and everyone around seemed to be fine, but you were quickly losing your resolve. 

With one final glance around the market, you quickly left the area, barely rounding the corner of a nearby wall before you lost everything in the middle of a bush. You prayed to the gods that no one would come to you as you were vomiting, not wanting to answer questions about your illness or, even worse, alert Halsin to your condition. You wiped your mouth on your sleeve once you had finished and resigned yourself to returning home for the day. You were doing no one any favors if you were actively sick and you didn’t want to spread your sickness to anyone else. Surely the community would survive without your supervision for one day.

************************************************************************

The small fireplace in your bedroom crackled softly and illuminated the room just enough for you to read. You’d found an unread tome leftover from your adventures and, having a lack of other reading material to choose from, you were reluctantly reading a rather boring history of some old, forgotten wizard from years past. Not your typical choice of reading material, but it would suffice until your lover returned to you. The sun had long set below the horizon, signaling to you that soon the children would soon be put to bed and the rest of the community would settle for the evening. 

By the time you’d begrudgingly read your way through the long winded life story of your wizard, you picked up on the unmistakable stride of Halsin walking through your shared home. From your small living room seated at the front of the home, you heard him call your name as if it were a question. From this, you could tell he’d been looking for you for quite some time. You called back to him, telling him you were in bed and he was welcome to come in. 

A few moments later, Halsin appeared in the threshold to your bedroom, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the wooden beam at the top of the doorframe. He leaned his shoulder against the side of the doorway, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he finally set eyes on you. It was no secret that Halsin loved to admire you and you often found him drinking in your form throughout the day; always looking at you with a fond gaze and a loving smile. He stood there for a moment, eyes locked onto you as a pleasant warmth spread through his chest; a mixture of relief as well as love.

“There you are,” he said with a relieved sigh he tried to hide, “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to. I didn’t see you at supper.” Halsin knew you were fully capable of being by yourself, you did defeat a Netherbrain, after all. But, taking your sudden illness into consideration, the healer in him couldn’t help but be concerned. Not that you didn’t appreciate it, of course.

“I didn’t attend,” you said as you looked up from your book, “I wasn’t very hungry this evening so I came home.” While this wasn’t an outright lie, it wasn’t exactly the full truth. The lingering smells of meat from your earlier trip to the market was enough to dissuade you from coming to the communal dinner with the rest of the settlement. Between not wanting to make others sick in the event you were infections and also not wanting to have to endure the suddenly grotesque smell of sizzling rothé over a fire, you decided the best course of action was to simply retire early for the evening. 

You noticed Halsin’s expression change ever so slightly as his brows knitted together and the unmistakable beginning signs of concern began to wash over him. By this point, Halsin knew you well. He knew your enjoyment of joining the communal dinners with the displaced citizens of Baldur’s Gate that you now called your friends and neighbors. You were always the first to attend, making sure to speak to everyone there, and always the last to leave to help clean up any mess; a left over habit from your time at camp with your other companions. So having missed the nightly dinner simply because you weren’t hungry? He knew something was off and it was beginning to worry him. That combined with your sudden morning illness was just an added cause for concern.

“And how did our small army of children enjoy the scenery, my dear?” You asked before Halsin could continue to dwell on  you. You simply either had a bought of food poisoning or a small bug, nothing major and nothing that was worth causing your lover to fret over.

You extended one arm to him, encouraging him to join you, before shifting your legs down from their bent position and pat the top of your scarcely covered thighs with the opposite hand. Halsin indulged you with a chuckle and he joined you in bed, offering you a loving kiss to your forehead before reclining back to lay his head in your lap and stretch his legs along the width of the bed which, thankfully, was large enough to accommodate his height even from the side. 

“Oh, they barely saw any of it.” Halsin said as his head settled into your lap, “An hour into the trek everything turned into one large game of hide and seek. It took me most of the day just to find everyone, not including the walk back home. Then of course it was making sure everyone had a plate of food in their bellies and they wouldn’t let me leave without a story. Silvanus’s grace is the only thing that gave me the stamina to keep up with them all.” He offered a low grunt as the rest of his body settled into the bed. As much as he preferred to sleep outdoors, he couldn’t deny the wonderful feeling a plushly filled bed could offer tired bones at the end of a day.

“Trust me, my love, one thing you don’t lack is stamina.” You offered him a cheeky smile as you mindlessly stroked your fingers through his hair. He offered you a deep laugh, never failing to adore your praises for him.

“I already warned you once about being careful when it came to waking the beast,” he said with a wide smile as his fingers gently pinched at your sides, “I can’t be held responsible if you unleash it, my heart.”

“Fine, fine,” you giggled as you squirmed under his tickling fingers, “I suppose I can let you rest for the evening. You’ve had a long day, after all.”

“I’ve had much longer.” He said as he looked up to you before reaching up and pressing his fingers to your cheeks and forehead once again, “How are you fairing, my heart? Still ill?” Once again, he found no signs of a fever or anything abnormal and returned his hand to his chest.

“I seem to be fine for now. I haven’t really felt anything since the market this morning.” You cursed yourself as the words left your lips. You would have rather kept that little bit to yourself to avoid adding a burden to Halsin’s broad shoulders. You knew he had enough to worry about already and you didn’t want to add to that load. You remember the run down, morally defeated man you’d first met all those months ago and you didn’t want to see Halsin return to that state because you personally added to his burdens.

“What happened with the market?” Halsin sat up on his elbows, his corners of his lips downturned with concern as he locked eyes with yours. 

“Just another wave of nausea, love, nothing to worry about,” you stroked his cheek with your hand, running your fingers over his frown lines in hopes they would disappear, “I’m not sure what, exactly, but just the smell of what was being cooked had my stomach flopping around like a fish plucked from the river.” 

“Had anything spoiled? Gone bad, perhaps?” His worry had not fully gone, but was beginning to ease under your gentle touch. Instead, his worried look had shifted to one of curiosity; as if he was trying to find the answers to a riddle you had offered.

“I don’t think so.” You said with a shake of your head, “It wasn’t really a bad smell, it just…made me sick? It’s hard to explain. Nothing was wrong with it, I don’t think, but just didn’t sit well with me. Admittedly I don’t think I’ve ever had a reaction like that before, but I left fairly quickly so I can’t say for certain it wasn’t something rotten. Although I could kick myself for leaving so quickly; I wanted to pick up a basket of plums to bring home.”

“A whole basket of plums?” Halsin asked with a raised eyebrow as he settled his head back in your lap. Your eyes returned to the pages of your book despite not picking up on a single word that was laid before you.

“An entire basket,” you said with excitement, “I’ve been aching to sink my teeth into a beautifully ripe plum for a while now, almost insatiably. If I’m feeling better tomorrow I may go out and see what I can find. If my memory serves me correctly, there’s a plum tree not far from here.” You could feel your mouth watering simply from the thought of a purple plum. 

“Insatiable, you say?” He said with another chuckle. With his head still seated in your lap, he turned his head to gaze upon you, once again drinking in your features as his body finally relaxed for the evening. He took your hand that was not occupied by the book and placed it on his chest, sighing contently at the feel of your skin so close to his heart as he covered it with his own hand. 

“Oh come now,” you said peeking over the edge of the book you’d stop reading ages ago, “don’t tell me you’ve never craved something so badly it almost drove you mad.”

“You,” he almost growled as he leaned up to plant soft kisses on the underside of your jaw, “I had an ever burning desire for you when we first met that only grew stronger the more I learned about you. Not just the warmth of your skin or the taste of your lips, but you, your companionship, and your love. And, truth be told, it’s something I’ll always crave. I can never get enough of you, my heart.”

As he returned his head to your thighs, you leaned forward yourself, planting a series of lingering kisses to his lips. Your heart swelled at his words, your heart still fluttering like it did the first time Halsin offered you a compliment back in the goblin camp. Despite the lengthly time you’d spent with the druid, his praises, words of affection, and heartfelt confessions of love never ceased to have you ablaze with rapidly fluttering butterflies. Your cheeks were left with a slight blush as you finally pulled away, almost wishing you could kiss his lips for eternity.

“And how long has this insatiable craving for plums been going on, my love?” Halsin asked as he closed his eyes, sleep suddenly feeling heavy on his lids as he relaxed.

“Hmm…a few days?” You tossed your book to the side as you thought, having long lost interest, “Maybe a week if you squint.”

His eyes opened quickly, slowly looking around as he entered a deep thought. You could almost see the wheels of his mind churning as you assumed he tried to deduce the cause of your sudden illness. His eyes seemed to lighten as his answer finally clicked in his mind. A long strand of what sounded like absolute giddy giggles erupted from his lips, which were spread wide in a smile that would have threatened to crack his face. You shifted in your seat, eager to find out just what he had deduced.

“My heart,” he said after his giggling finally subsided enough for him to speak, “have you considered that, perhaps, well…no. Never mind. Forget I said anything.” His eyes closed once again and he seemed to have calm down other than the smile that was still plastered across his face.

“What?” You asked impatiently, “You can tell me.” You found yourself smiling along with him; the sight of unbridled joy on his face causing your own lips to curl into an awaiting smile.

“Oh nothing, my heart,” he once again placed your hand on his chest and cover his fingers with yours, “just the ramblings of an old man.” You huffed at his statement. You detested when he would refer to himself as old.

“You are not old,” you said firmly, “we’ve had this discussion before. Older, perhaps, but not old.”

“And I still fail to see the difference.” Halsin said as his eyes opened yet again and his gaze met yours. 

“Older implies that while you may not be the youngest elf of the bunch, but you still have plenty to look forward to. Old, on the other hand, implies that you are a hair’s breadth away from dying. And, selfish as this may be,” your voice softened as you began to lightly run your fingers through his hair again, “I’m simply not ready to see you go just yet.”

His gaze softened with your words and another gentle smile crept upon his lips. Gods, how you loved to see your lover smile when he looked upon you. He sat up fully, leaning to the side as he captured your lips in a gentle kiss. One of his large hands came up to caress your cheek, this thumb softly stroking the curve of your cheekbone in the process. You exhaled slowly as your body melted into his kiss, your eyes closing as your hand softly latched onto the collar of his shirt.

“I do not deserve you, my heart.” He said quietly after breaking the kiss. His forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes looking to yours.

“You deserve whatever you desire, my love.” You said softly as he gave you another quick kiss. His large arm snaked around your lower back and pulled you until you were pressed against him. There was no sense of urgency or lust behind his movements, just the soft and loving caress between lovers. Your face nestled in the crook of his neck as you felt his body begin to relax for a final time and enter the first realm of sleep. You sighed contently as you felt the gentle heat radiating from his body and the secure feeling of his arm wrapped around you. You found yourself drifting off to sleep as well, lulled there by the sound of Halsin’s strong heartbeat and soft snores.

************************************************************************

A week had passed and you were still plagued with your mystery illness. Every morning was the same, peacefully sleeping until a wave of nausea so strong woke you from your sleep and caused you to lose everything in the pail you just permanently kept at your bedside. By this point you had considered that maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with the food you’d been eating; surely food poisoning wouldn’t have lasted this long. You’d considered that maybe there was something wrong with the local water source. After all, the lands had been cursed for so long that you would be surprised to find out if there wasn’t some sense of lasting pollution from the curse. However, you also knew very well that no one else had gotten sick and you were the lone soul that had been afflicted with bouts of nausea and vomiting. You had also toyed with the idea that this was some late settling side effect of having a mind flayer tadpole swimming in your brain for some time. The tadpoles were unique so it wouldn’t be too far fetched to find out you had a lifelong affliction because of them.

However, tonight you were awake for a different reason. Instead of debilitating nausea keeping you from a decent nights rest, it was the same gnawing craving for plums that’d been on your mind for weeks. After the incident at the market, you hadn’t returned for fear of the smells wafting around the area making you sick to your stomach again and you hadn’t had the chance to go collect any yourself. You knew that if you asked Halsin to bring you some that he would do it happily and without question, but you were aware with how busy he was and you’d decided that asking him to go fruit picking for you simply wasn’t as important. 

But the night was young and you couldn’t sleep. The sun had only set a few hours prior, leaving you ample time left in the night to scamper out to the plum tree you knew of with a basket in hand and fill it to your hearts content. You could snack on a few on your journey back home and slip back into bed without waking your slumbering lover. You rubbed the small bit of sleep from your eyes and gently lifted Halsin’s heavy arm from atop your midsection, quietly placing it on the mattress below as you crept out of bed. You threw on the first discarded shirt and pair of trousers you could find, not caring if they were wrinkled or even matched. You weren’t expecting to see anyone on this little trip of yours and wouldn’t be gone long enough to justify a well thought out outfit. 

You slipped out of your home silently, being sure to close the door with a soft click before setting off on your impromptu adventure. Although your settlement was secured and safe with no real threat of danger, you carried a small knife in your belt line, just as a precaution. You had no intent on using it, but it was a small token of safety that was left over from your tadpole days. It could also come in handy in the event a particular plum was too stubborn to be plucked from the tree. You were determined to have your fill of the ripest plums you could find and you would not be set off course because of a vine.

The walk to the plum tree was quiet and peaceful. You could hear the soft chirp of crickets in the distance and the low song of frogs floating in the air. Torches scattered around the realm illuminated your path out of the town square and into the forest, which you followed in no great hurry. You couldn’t help but observe everything you and Halsin had built together as you walked, feeling a sense of pride and tremendous joy when gazing upon your shared efforts. These lands which had once been filled with a century long curse of darkness, shadow, and decay were slowly coming to the light. You could understand why Halsin called the fall of the shadow curse the happiest and greatest moment of his life. Seeing new life sprouting from what was once dead was truly a miracle. And the chance to see Halsin so free and unburdened was certainly one of the high points of your own life.

The cool dew settling on the grass licked at your toes through your sandals as you first stepped into the forest, a set of chill bumps grazed your skin like a wave that quickly disappeared. You lazily strolled through the trees, taking your time but also trying to find the correct tree through the darkness of night. Thankfully, the moon was full and exceptionally bright, making it easier to see your surroundings. Eventually, you stumbled across a tree with low hanging branches and much to your delight, was filled with the richly colored fruit you’d been so long craving. 

You bit your lip in excitement as you approached the tree, setting your basket down at the base as you set to work. Plenty of branches were well within your reach and you could simply pluck the fruit without having to go to the effort of climbing up the tree, although if you did it wouldn’t have deterred you. This craving was something that had been gnawing away at you for weeks now and you wouldn’t be stopped for anything. The first plum snapped off easily, much to your delight. You paused momentarily to press the fruit to your nose and inhale deeply, the rush of satisfaction running through your brain causing you to smile at the deliciously ripe scent of your prize. 

Instead of eating it on the spot, you decided to toss it in your basked and continue plucking until you’d put as many as you could into your stash. You decided that you would take some of them home and then drop off the rest to the market for the rest of the community to enough, but you would be a little self indulgent and eat your fill first. You worked on picking more plums silently, enjoying the peaceful sounds of the night as you plucked, making sure to leave a few fruits scattered across the lower limbs for other creatures to nibble on. In a relatively short amount of time, you’d amassed a large basket full of deep purple plums and you were more than ready to sink your teeth into one.

You spent another moment picking the most perfect one you could find. One that was perfectly soft and plump under your fingertips. Once you’d selected your fruit of your choice, you leaned your back against the tree and slid down until you sat fully on the ground. You moaned ever so slightly as you finally bit into the fruit, juices leaking from the sides of your mouth and onto your chin as you chewed. From the droop in your eyes and the lazy smile that had crossed your face, you knew you looked like the epitome of bliss and you couldn’t agree more. The taste of the plum scratched at that itch deep in your brain and you would keep eating until it had been fully satisfied. 

“Gods above,” you said softly before taking another bite, “I needed this.” In this moment you think you finally understood what Halsin always said about the gifts of nature. The single plum you’d just inhaled was the greatest gift anyone could have given you in that moment. Or perhaps his druidic nature was just finally rubbing off on you. Either way, you were grateful for your treat. You made short work of the plum and wasted no time in biting into a second one, which tasted just as sweet and ripe as the first. Your gaze shifted across the land you’d made your way to and eventually settled on the sky, tracing the constellations as you continued eating. 

Your eyes settled on the full moon sitting high in the sky, illuminating the area with a soft glow as your brows settled into a deep frown. As beautiful as it was, you found yourself surprised to see it return to full seemingly so soon after the last. You tended to keep track of your monthly bleed cycles, wanting to make sure they came when they were supposed to in order to keep an overall idea on your general health. But, given how busy everything had been under Thaniel’s watch, it had slipped your mind. Your cycles tended to fall in line with each new moon and upon seeing the bright and shining full moon now above you, you realized that you miraculously didn’t have one this past lunar cycle.

“By the gods.” You whispered to yourself as the reality of everything happening finally made sense to you; the seemingly missing bleed cycle, morning sickness, aversion to certain smells, and the craving for plums so strong that you ventured into the woods in the middle of the night just to eat one. How you could have been so daft to not pick up on it soon was beyond you. Halsin had figured it out the first day of your sickness. You smiled and giggled to yourself at the very real possibility that you were with child.

The silence of your thoughts were quickly cut short as you heard the unmistakable grunt of a bear not too far off from where you were seated. Your survival instincts were set ablaze quickly, rising to your feet but remaining low until you could find the source of the noise. Bears weren’t all that uncommon in the area, although you’d never seen one so close to the realm with the only exception being your wild shaping lover who was usually sporting three or four children on his back. The sound was emanating from the path you had taken to the plum tree, the sounds of the animal becoming steadily closer as your heart pounded with anticipation.

Much to your relief, when the bear did present itself to you not too far from where you were, you noticed it was unmistakably Halsin in wild shape. Why he decided to wake from a deep sleep just to roam around as a bear was beyond you, but you couldn’t exactly blame him for doing so when you had left the warmth of your bed to find a plum tree. You sat back on the ground and watched your lover roam. His transformations into a bear always fascinated you and you frequently enjoyed just watching him function as a large hulking creature. It was also fascinating to you to see just how much the tendencies and habits of his bear form seeped into his normal form and vice versa. He was as much bear as he was elven and you loved both halves equally.

The bears head was pointed towards the sky and you could hear the grunts and sniffs from where you were. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the night air, having seemly picked up on a strong scent somewhere nearby. You watched as his head then bowed towards the ground, nose still twitching wildly as he picked up on the scent once again. It didn’t take long for his gaze to finally fall on you resting against the tree. You made the quick decision to move your basket of hard won plums out of the way as the bear made it a priority to gallop towards you, quickly closing the space between the two of you. By the time your plums had been securely placed to the side, you felt Halsin’s nose press firmly against your neck, inhaling in quick bursts as he made his way across your body.

His quickly working nose pressed firmly against your skin, making you shiver at the abrupt force and chill behind it. With several grunts and small growls, you felt his nose travel anywhere he could reach. Into your hair, behind your ears, along your neck, eventually ghosting over your collar bones and under your arms. You laughed at the feeling of the quick bursts of air and the fur tickling your skin, eventually having to work your hands down to grab hold of his rapidly moving snout.

“Love,” you said as you pulled his snout towards your face to keep him from traveling lower, “if you wish to communicate you’ll have to change back. I can understand you, my dear bear.” The ability to speak to animals was never something you’d found necessary, although you’ve deeply regretted that decision since choosing a partner that spent half his time as a bear.

With a brief whine of annoyance, your beloved bear backed up slightly before erupting in a ball of light, making you squint and turn your head to avoid lasting damage to your eyes. By the time they reopened, Halsin was practically on top of you. His lips crashed against yours before you had a chance to say anything, the force behind it bumping your head against the bark of the tree. You felt one of his hands caress your jaw, the other being used to hold himself up to avoid completely crushing you. His thumb quickly made its way to your lower lip, tugging downward gently so your lips could part more for him. You happily complied, moaning softly as he deepened the kiss. It wasn’t long until the hand on your jaw gently tilted your chin to the side, allowing him to descend upon your neck at a fevered pace. 

“What has gotten you so worked up?” You asked with a laugh. Your hands roamed across Halsin’s broad shoulders as he pressed against you, his lips and teeth grazing along your neck with each sloppy kiss. His hips found their way nestled between your thighs as he moved closer. The had that was supporting his frame had moved to your hip, squeezing and frantically searching for any bit of flesh he could find.

“Your scent,” he rasped, “I think I know why, but it’s changed as of late. It’s stronger. More potent. It’s…it’s intoxicating.” He switched to the other side of your neck, inhaling deeply behind your ear before painting the column of your throat with more kisses and bites. He panted through his words as shutters of excitement and arousal coursed through his veins. It was only now that you realized that the druid wasn’t wearing the first stitch of clothing. You enjoyed the thought that your lingering scent in your bed had motivated him enough to leave without even bothering to put on a pair of trousers. 

“Fertility, perhaps?” You asked as you tugged what was left of the hair tie from his hair, your fingers quickly snaking their way though.

“Or the result of that.” His eyes were half-lidded and on the verge of glowing as he took your lips in his for another kiss, “I was wondering when you’d catch on.” Your desire to reply was cut short as your own arousal began to kick in, shoving any thoughts of rational conversation to the far corners of your mind. 

“Damn clothing,” you muttered as you struggled to hoist your shirt over your head, “is always in the way.” You felt the druid laugh against the skin of your neck at your plight. Halsin had managed to tug your trousers from your hips by the time you’d finally tossed your shirt from your body, his lips still latching onto any exposed skin he could find. Your sighed in relief as he moved you to the side and your back finally left the rough bark of the tree and was happily placed on the cool grass beneath you.

************************************************************************

You hummed contently as you bit into the plump flesh of another plum, snuggling against Halsin’s chest in the process. His arm was wrapped tightly against you as you both lay in grass under the plum tree, thoroughly exhausted after the events of the evening. His arm was underneath your shoulder, his hand extending towards your hip where his fingers drew lazy circles along the bone. Despite his frantic and more aggressive movements from just moments prior, his touch was soft and loving as if he was trying to undo any potential injury he inflicted in his animalistic lust. 

“Satisfied?” He asked as he bit into his own fruit, looking down at you as you gave a light hearted chuckle. You couldn’t decide if he was referring to the plums you’d finally gotten your hands on or the impromptu rutting you’d engaged in, but either way you had no complaints. 

“Very,” you said as you finished the last of your fruit and tossed the pit to the side, “although I do have a bone to pick with you.” You feigned a pout, letting him know you weren’t actually angry, especially after a well enjoyed time together. He raised his brow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Do tell, my heart.” He finished his plum with a second bite, discarding the pit as you did before using his free arm as a makeshift pillow against the trunk of the tree.

“Why didn’t you tell me you thought I was with child? Hells, you had it figured out in no time and I only just put the pieces together this evening.” Although you weren’t actually mad, it was a genuine question that had been biting at your brain for a few days. Despite having wagons full of displaced children already under your care, you knew Halsin would love one of his own. He loved the children that found their way into your care deeply, but there was something about bringing in a new life that you knew excited him. So why not tell you the second he put everything together? 

“I wanted to be certain, my love. I didn’t want to put that idea in your head only to be wrong. I wasn’t sure of your feelings on the matter. Truth be told, I was afraid you would be opposed to the idea.” His voice was soft as he spoke, “And, quite frankly, I was afraid that if I spoke it into existence too soon it wouldn’t be true. A bit selfish, I suppose.” You cupped his cheek with your hand, pulling his face to look at you as you offered him a warm smile.

“Put those fears to rest, my love.” You said softly, leaning forward slightly to place a gentle kiss to his opposing cheek.

“You’re certain? This is something you want? With me?” There was uncertainty in his voice. Although it was rare for him to show such vulnerability, you knew that deep down Halsin had his own fears and uncertainties about himself, given how long his emotions and previously failed actions weighed on his shoulders. But you were there to lift his burdens and bring him towards a life where he could cast those doubts to the side. He had nothing to fear with you, nothing to be ashamed of. You loved him more than you could express and living a lifetime with him would bring you more joy than you had ever hope to achieve previously. Bringing a child into the world together was something that was even more thrilling and something you both had secretly wanted for some time.

“More than you can ever imagine,” you pulled his head towards you until your foreheads rested together, “and we’ll both pray to Silvanus that we’re correct in our assumptions.” You felt Halsin release a heavy, but elated, sigh as he once again pressed his lips to yours. It was a firm kiss, but any lingering lust from earlier had long gone. Instead, this was a kiss filled with love and, above all else, radiant hopefulness. 

“Shall we head back, my heart?” Halsin asked with one final kiss to your forehead.

“No,” you said softly, “let’s stay here tonight. We haven’t had a night under the stars in quite sometime.” You both lay there happily, limbs tangled together and bare skin pressed together firmly. It didn’t take long for sleep to wash over you, your cravings sated for the time being and your body thoroughly spent. You slept peacefully while in the embrace of your lover and with the thought you could be bringing a child into the world together.

Tag List: @incrediblethirst, @reignydeys @thoughts-of-bear

[jakeyjellybean]

Some of my favorite, understated moments with heartbreaking implications for Halsin

1. Halsin threatening to turn into a mouse in the epilogue if the player brags about his achievements- he's so shy and humble that just being acknowledged for LITERALLY BUILDING A COMMUNE HIMSELF makes him want to hide. A mouse is a very symbolic choice here: not only easy to hide, but also easily overlooked and forgotten. The idea of his accomplishments being acknowledged is so terrifying for him that he wants to turn into an animal no one will notice, instead of his usual strong, large, noticeable bear.

2. "Sometimes, I think people look at me and imagine my feelings can't be hurt." This isn't the kind of thing that happens after one or two people act like jerks. This is years and years of cruel treatment, of his emotions being demeaned and mocked because of his size. Of people judging him before even meeting him- and forming an entirely wrong view of him. Halsin is a bighearted, tender, sentimental man, yet because he's big... Well, big people don't have feelings, surely. /s

3. "You and I may struggle to go unnoticed in such environs, Karlach[...] Folk of our stature can be a lure for drunkards seeking a brawl, I have found," combined with, "There is a particular discomfort to besting one you know to be weaker than yourself - even when needs must," from a different scene. People have sought him out and fought him because of his size (which had to have been terrifying, especially the first time), and he feels guilty when he takes out someone he knows is weaker, even if they STARTED it. How many times has the poor guy been traveling and then had to defend himself against someone 1/2 his size, making HIM look like the asshole to onlookers, and reinforcing that whole "people think I can't be hurt" thing?

4. "It was always destined to be so, if we prevailed. But the foreknowledge makes it no less bittersweet..." (About the players' paths diverging post brain battle), combined with "I see... After all my years of living, I know all too well that nothing lasts forever. Yet a parting can sting, nonetheless," if the player breaks up with him in the ending. This poor guy was having the time of his life adventuring with the group (and possibly falling in love there) yet never believed it would truly last (because of his abandonment issues). And then to have it confirmed.... he must have felt so awful in that moment, even if he was being dignified about it.

5. "You came for me... thank you. I feared Orin's accursed smile would be the very last sight I beheld," when Halsin is freed from Orin, combined with, "Orin's blades. I hoped my friends would save me..." If he is killed by Orin instead and Speak With the Dead is used on his corpse. The tone of his voice in the first line, especially added to that bit in the second... he never thought the player was coming to save him. He HOPED they would. Not "believed". Hoped. He thought he was going to die there- just like how he was in the Underdark for THREE YEARS and no one came to save him. And if it's confirmed... Yeah. That. (Sidenote: if you ask his corpse if he has any regrets, he says not telling Thaniel and Oliver goodbye, and not getting to see their land flourish. :( My heart. :( )

6. "I... have not had true confidantes for some time. The Shadow Curse robbed me of almost all my peers, and replaced them with the weight of responsibility. Perhaps that caused me to gild undeserving memories of my youth." Halsin was so miserable and stressed being Archdruid that he romanticized his past as a sex slave, viewing it as a safer, even happier alternative. There were actually times when Halsin thought he might rather be a sex slave than continue to be Archdruid. In a sense, for the 100 years the Shadow Curse was around, Halsin was just as much a prisoner as Thaniel was in the Shadowfell, but Halsin's prison had invisible bars. The Shadow Curse took away his entire support system, and being Archdruid forced him to be the strong one, always, never allowed to be weak or scared, forced him to take control of situations when he hated it, forced him to spend his time sorting out people instead of being in nature. And he was MISERABLE. For 100 years.

7. "You understand me almost perfectly. Only my late mother may have bested you." (Said if you get one question wrong at the love dryad test). He misses his mama. :( Especially when you consider that if you steal Balthazar's "Mother Dearest" and taunt him about it, Halsin disapproves (and is the only one to do so), while returning her gets you approval (which only Halsin approves of). And then the line when you look into a mirror while controlling him, "more like my father, with each passing day..." He really misses them. :(

8. "I am loathe to see anyone behind bars. It reminds me of my time as a guest of the goblins." He is, secretly, still quite traumatized from his time in the goblin pens, but he brushes it off. Just like every OTHER time he is hurt.

9. "I am aware [of having a habit of getting captured]. Perhaps I put too much faith in my skills of negotiation, or want to see good where there is none. It would be easy to resort to nature's fury whenever something stood in my way, yet I cannot help but feel I would be sullying the Oak Father's gifts. Naive perhaps... but I still draw breath." Halsin is aware he gets hurt often because of his desire to see good in people until he has no other choice, but refuses to give up anyway (which is backed up by that letter Gut had on her where she reveals Halsin TRIED to help the goblins, saying he could cure them of their tadpoles, only to be thrown in the cage, with Gut threatening to have his stomach cut open and maggots placed inside it.) Further, even though he is an Archdruid, and one of the most devoted, and explicitly has Silvanus's favor (Halsin says that gaining his favor was the only way he was able to open the portal to the Shadowfell), he still constantly worries about using Silvanus's powers, to the point of wondering if an actual threat to his safety actually merits using his powers. Which... combined with some other stuff, reads like one hell of a problem with self-worth.

10. "At least you were not present. Grim as [the ruined battlefield] is now, it was worse on the day of the battle. A vivid wound upon my memory[...] I was lucky - I lived, when so many did not. It would take me a day and a night to recite the names of all the friends I lost" combined with, "I was [present when the Shadow Curse was unleashed]. Part of my spirit was shorn away from me here, and never left," and, if Last Light falls, "All gone... devoured by the shadows. Oak Father preserve us, it's just like a hundred years ago[...] We are [still standing]. Yet there is a burden to being the survivor... the witness to others' tragedies. It only grows heavier with time." He has so much PTSD and survivor guilt from the Shadow Curse. :( No wonder it's all he can think about- to the point that some of the other companions even get annoyed at him for his obsession.

11. "I never quite realised how burdened I was, until I met you. The threat of the shadow curse, the politics of the grove... I was forgetting who I was, but you lifted the fog. Thank you." Not only does this tie in with the above, with his PTSD from the curse and his utter misery at being Archdruid, but this HEAVILY implies Halsin had depression. Like... that "fog" line hits HARD if you have or have had depression, because that's exactly what it feels like. And the "forgetting who I was" bit too. Not just losing his sense of self to the depression, but to the neverending responsibilities of being Archdruid. I keep repeating myself, but damn, this guy has really and truly spent an entire century being absolutely MISERABLE. :(

12. "Forgive me. I... lost the run of myself. Sometimes, if blood runs hot enough, it's difficult to tame the beast." With that little disgusted groan/sigh, the fury and disgust at himself visible on his face, and the way he rushes to get out the rest of it- he thinks he fucked up so badly that you're about to leave him, maybe forever. And then if you reject him after this? "Ah... I see. Well, of course. Back to camp then." He has the most heartbroken look on his face here, and the way he says "of course" like he just... knew this was coming the instant he accidentally wildshaped. He felt that the first time he let ANY of his imperfections show, the player would leave him. :(

13. "Death is nature's final slumber - it awaits us all. Do not punish yourself over those lost, or give in to despair - not while there are still folk in need of your help." (Said to a Dark Urge if they tell him they're not much of a hero and most people needing them end up dead) Not only is Halsin speaking from experience here, but it's very clear he is STILL doing exactly what he tells Durge not to do, to himself- punishing himself over those who were lost, struggling with devastating survivor guilt.

14. "The grove has cut itself off from the world, to jealously guard its own little pocket of nature. No one shall ever enter or leave again. And I have been evicted from the very place I was charged to safeguard. A telling summary of my time as Archdruid, perhaps..." If the Grove is sealed and you ask him about it later, this is what he says. Interesting that he views being evicted from the place he was in charge of protecting to be a "telling summary." He was forced to take the leadership role there, and yet it was clear he wasn't wanted or respected by a great number of the Druids (exempting Nettie, Rath, and Apikusis). He got a truly thankless job that took damn near EVERYTHING from him emotionally/mentally, causing him to develop depression and causing him to backslide in his previous healing from his trauma from his time as a sex slave, he still gave EVERYTHING to the Grove, and in return...... almost none of his Druids appreciated or even liked him. (I could seriously write at least five metas about how obviously miserable Halsin was at the Grove, despite caring for it deeply).

15. "You could have done anything, gone with anyone... yet you chose me." Said at the epilogue to a solo romanced player who went to the commune with him. There's so many layers of heartbreak here. He is still surprised, six months later, that the player chose him. He even thinks the player will regret it, and will decide they want an adventurer's life after all after seeing everyone else. He doesn't think he is good enough- doesn't think he deserves the player, and yet at the same time he loves them so much that he is heartbroken over the possibility they might agree with him. He thinks that given a chance, there is little chance they would actually choose him again. (He is put at ease quickly when the player promises they picked him for a reason, but even the explanation he gives for why he was so worrie is heartbreaking- that he's so used to a tumultuous life that he thinks something must go wrong. He has been so traumatized so many times over the years that he just has almost no ability to think that true happiness is possible [or deserved] for him.) Something about that is just heartbreaking, even though his ending is one of the happiest of any of the companions.

Someone give this sweet bear man a hug, please :(

[jakeyjellybean]

family luke, you promised by frostbite studios

[jakeyjellybean]

Incredible power move to make one of the most beloved crpgs ever made using a modified dnd 5e system, make a ton of money and shit on most AAA game studios in the process, then say “cool. Anyway fuck dnd 5e and wizzards of the coast. We’re doing our own thing now.”

[jakeyjellybean]

on my hands and knees begging ppl to recognize platonic content. sometimes 2 guys r just friends . i dont mean this in the 'stop making everything romantic way' i mean this in the 'stop calling 2 friends who bicker siblings and stop treating any remotely caring remotely older character like a parental figure' ohhhh my god . they are not siblings they r buddies . u are all underestimating the power of having a buddy

[jakeyjellybean]

As Gortash's head hits the stone floor of his office he knows he is not getting up again. His head rings from the impact, but even with the noise filling up his head he can still hear his opponents voices.

A foot comes down on his chest. He doesn't see it clearly with how his vision is swimming, but he knows it. It has been there before, both similarly to how it is now and welcome.

"Kill him!" he hears. Karlach. The anger in her voice fills the room.

"Not yet," that all-to-familliar voice speaks. "I need to ask him one thing first."

Gortash blinks, his blurred vision focusing on the one over him. The one he had missed. His favourite assassin.

"Tell me, Gortash," they say, and it feels like all those years ago long before all of this started with how they spit rather than purr his name. "When I dissappeared, did you search for me? Or was I another thing you could cast aside, like Karlach was?"

He looks at them, up their leg, up their form, to their eyes burning into him. A memory of being in the same position, but then they smiled at him with both confidence and lust.

"No," he says, and he hates how his voice comes out. Weak. Powerless. "Karlach I gave, but you?"

He lifts his hand, slowly, as he had done all those years before. His fingers reach their leg, his fingers gently grazing the back of it before cupping the muscle of their calve.

Last time he had kissed them. He wonders if they will remember that in his last moments.

"You, I lost."

An eternity. A moment. His vision still dances, and the boot leaves his chest.

He watches as they walk away, the last thing he sees before Karlach's weapon comes down.

[jakeyjellybean]

I am once again screaming inside because at his core Halsin is a deeply PLAYFUL person!

His playful, sarcastic "I AM?!" when you say he's big for an elf! He has banters where he teasingly roasts Shadowheart AND Gale at different times! He teases that you might be a lunatic for freeing a bear without knowing if it would attack you, he indulges the Drow twins by changing into a bear and letting the player ride him around, he loves bear puns (or really animal jokes in general), the way he flexes his muscles if the player mentions him moving things three grown men couldn't...

He wants to PLAY!!! The reason he's so serious for most of the story isn't because he's just the "sage wise archdruid" but because all the trauma he's faced FORCED him to be. Given the slightest bit of a chance to be himself (like traveling with a camp full of weirdos), he instantly shows his playful side, and it only comes out more in his epilogue.

He just wants to play!!

[jakeyjellybean]

[jakeyjellybean]

Art by Tristan Reyne