#scribble request

oh this is my JAM, of course anon! hopefully this gets somewhere close to what you were after <3 also im so sorry i see the word ‘snippet’ and my dumbfuck brain writes 1500 words instead

|| REQUESTS OPEN ||

arthur & male reader / all the stolen voices

Perched at the bar, you can feel a few pairs of eyes on you from across the dingy room. Nothing unusual, you’re used to the staring - it’s gotten less, sure, but a subtle shift of posture means curious eyes catch the glint of a revolver at your hip. Most turn away after that. Those that don’t, well, they either meet the business end of your fists or a bullet if they dare to tread in your footsteps on the way out. 

Tonight, though, nobody’s stare lingers and you’re grateful for it. It’s been a miserable day of hunting, the piss-poor weather making a poor show of what little tracking you can manage, and you’re left with barely a few coins to rub together for a drink to warm you up. The whiskey is unpleasant, lukewarm, tasteless by the time it hits your throat with its signature burn. It keeps you warm, though, and especially through the sodden layers of clothing you’re not about to remove anytime soon. It’s uncomfortable, but being without them is worse. The solid weight of a dark, worn leather duster on your shoulders keeps you sane most days, so the brief spells of discomfort in-between are a small price to pay. 

You keep your hat pulled low and ears to the ground, listening for any sign of trouble. It’s routine. Safe and comfortable for the most part, and that’s become a valuable thing for you. Taking another sip of the forgettable whiskey, you pick up a pair of footsteps approaching. They’re slow and ambling, but not those of a drunken fool or a old man either. Someone solid - they’re not light footsteps exactly, but whoever it is seems to be actively making an effort not to stomp their way across the dirty floorboards. Cautiously, you turn your head - and your ear - closer to the sound. 

“Just a beer.” A rough, low voice filters through the uproar of the evening, settling in at the bar next to you. On instinct, you tense up and pull your drink closer, dipping your head to avoid being seen. 

You apparently aren’t as subtle as you hoped. “Oh, I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” 

That makes you glance up, slow and uncertain. A rough and ready looking bastard has propped himself up on the bar next to you - granted, the place is filled to the rafters and you can hardly blame him for finding a spot next to you, given as you’re probably one of the smaller folk taking up space. Managing a jerky nod in response, you make sure to get a better look at him as you settle back down at the bar, arms folded around your whiskey glass. He’s tall. He could easily loom over you and send you running, you figure, but he makes no effort to do so. Like you, he keeps his arms folded, even as the barkeep sets his drink in front of him and stomps away back to the braying fools at the other end of the bar. Everything about him is quiet and curled in, even the way his hat sits low over his eyes and the scruff at his jaw and chin hide the shape of his words. 

“What?” He’s noticed your scrutiny. Shit. Heat bubbles up in your chest and spreads across your cheeks, and you bite the inside of them to keep from scowling in distaste. You always hated how easily you blushed. Gets you read like a sissy from a mile off, even if that ain’t the truth. Huffing, you shake your head and shift in your seat, pushing your voice deep into your chest before you try and speak.

“Nothin’, mister. Just keeping myself awares, is all.” You manage a half decent reply, and the man seems satisfied with that. You feel a new pair of eyes on you then, and it makes sense - your voice doesn’t match your look, or at least, you don’t think it does. He’s wondering why. 

“Well like I said, no trouble.” The man relaxes a little, unfolding his arms to pull his drink closer to him. You feel yourself doing the same although you push your now-empty glass away instead. “What’s your name, kid?” 

You stammer something out in a knee-jerk reaction. He doesn’t question it at all, and only gives you a nod - which you assume is meant to be an acknowledgement, maybe, but you’re really not sure. He’s hard to pin down, and you’re used to being able to read people far easier than this. It throws you off.

“Arthur.” He introduces himself bluntly, and you feel a little better for knowing his name. Arthur. It sits nicely with your hastily conjured image of him. He does look a little worse for wear, but otherwise clean and well dressed - not like the usual stock of brigands who frequent this place. Though he could be a killer for all you know, and you tell yourself that before you start letting your guard down too quickly.

“You look like you’ve been through it.” Arthur says drily after a moment of two of silence, and you glance down at yourself. Mud splatters line your trousers and your coat, there’s a dribble of blood on your boot that you hope is from some buggered hunting job, and you can feel the prickly sensation of dried dirt on your chin. Yeah. He’s not wrong.

“You could say that.” You reply tersely, pushing your voice deeper still. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“What are you? Some kind of hunter? Don’t look like a city type, don’t look much like a cold-blooded killer neither.” Arthur seems to be dropping his thoughts like pennies, and you get the impression he’s blowing through some bullshit of his own in the rambling, senseless way that lost folk seem to do. You know the feeling well. Something about that settles you, and you find yourself turning towards him a little if only to see him better.

“Sure. Why not? I ain’t much of anythin’ else, a hunter describes what I do prettily enough.” You admit, truthfully. You really are just scraping by, trying to find some way to survive without compromising yourself in the process. So far, this is the only thing that comes close.

“Huh, by yourself?” Arthur continues his aimless questioning. You’re happy enough to comply for now, so you nod, Arthur pays your way for another drink or several, and you find yourself in the company of a pleasant acquaintance instead of a stranger barely an hour later. 

By the time you get up to leave, though, you’ve somehow missed the group of shady looking bastards holed up by the door with their ugly little eyes flickering back and forth to you. The steady stream of whiskey hasn’t quite dulled your senses to the point of non-functionality - that stuff is almost definitely being watered down - and your instinct kicks in as you step off your barstool, Arthur’s laugh trailing off abruptly behind you. One of the men stops talking, looking directly at you with a sneer. 

“You ain’t right.” Is all he says, but it’s enough for you to snap to the draw, fingers finding the familiar revolver at your hip. That kicks up a commotion and a half, the men clustered by the door now leaping into the fray with slew of insults, all jostling to back up their slimy excuse of a leading man. You’re just about to draw when a heavy hand settles on your shoulder and begins to push you out of the commotion. Arthur’s shouts are far louder than the pathetic snivelling of the men inside, and you’re glad that you can’t hear them as you hit the cool night air, shrugging Arthur off your shoulder and making a beeline for your horse.

“Hey!” Arthur calls after you, leaving the barkeep to settle matters inside. You glance over your shoulder, still walking, trying your hardest not to let the shame bubble up into a nasty remark to a man who’s been nothing but friendly to you all evening. 

“Sorry, Arthur. I think it’s time I got the hell out of here.” You say, a little unsteadily. His strides are much longer than yours though, and he catches up easily.

“They ain’t worth your time, but I guess you figured that out a long while ago.” Arthur tells you. You’ve heard the sentiment before, but hearing it from Arthur - a no-good outlaw who seems to be on the run from God knows what - makes you listen a little more. You slow up, reaching out to pat your horse, seeking familiar comfort before your emotions started getting the better of you.

“You’re right. I did.” You’ve been through this shit plenty of times before now without anybody at your back, but the sentiment is appreciated this time. “But... thank you. It was real good talking to you, Arthur.” 

He seems confused for a moment, as if he isn’t expecting a thank-you, or even a kind sentiment in return. Blinking, he manages an awkward nod in your direction, and a hesitant clap on your shoulder in lieu of further rambling. You give him a warm grin before turning to swing yourself up into the saddle, wanting some peace and quiet and rest - things that you knew how to find in the wild, at least.

“Don’t go lookin’ for trouble now, you hear?” Arthur says as you pick up the reins. You manage a weak laugh, the minor rush of adrenaline from the almost-altercation beginning to make you shake.

(emori made by @/shrimperini)

Request 3: Beach day in a white dress