#arthur morgan/oc

[shootybangbang]

In which the part meets the whole [Part 5]

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Content Advisory]: this has omegaverse (alpha/beta/omega) dynamics, elements of psychological dissociation, and light dubcon (see note at end)

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]

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Something in this feels like fracturing. A ramifying split between the you who’d woken up this morning fevered and dizzy with the assumption that you were simply sick— and the you now, with her thighs wrapped around an alpha’s hips and his seed pooled impossibly deep. An irreparable divide, unnavigable.

But there’s nothing at all conflicted in Arthur’s expression. He looks more content now than you’ve ever seen him. Some essential bitterness carved out of him, at least for the time being. You hadn’t known that he could look so gentle, and it tightens a strange, sweet twinge in your chest to see him like this. Girlhood hopes, the ones you’d drowned inside of yourself the moment you’d realized the truth of your condition, come swimming to the surface now like starved fish. Rippling, flashing a mockingly bright fin here and there through the water.

You comb back the dark blond hair falling into his eyes with your fingers, then greet him with a quiet, hoarse, “Hey.”

He smiles. “Hey,” he answers— casually, as though he weren’t currently hilted inside of you.

“How, uh… how long do you usually…”

“‘Bout twenty minutes. Sometimes thirty.”

“Thirty minutes,” you echo. “Good.”

His weary chuckle carries in it a familiar hint of self-deprecation. “That’s good? Means you’re stuck with me like this for the next half hour.”

It’s as though a barrier has fallen away, nothing left to trap what you’d otherwise be too shy to put to words. Sincerity bleeding through that you know you’ll regret in the grey dawn of rationality. “Of course it’s good. Because I like this,” you flatten your palm over the stretch of skin beneath your navel. “Having you right here.”

Arthur breathes in sharply. “Gonna be forty minutes if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“So I should keep at it, then? I should tell you how much I like having your come inside me, h-how warm it is, and—”

“Omega,” he growls. and the word strikes a forlorn chord in you, those three syllables previously a curse, but they sound so fucking good when he says them now, as certain and right as your own name. And you vaguely register that you ought to be horrified by the power this gives him over you: that submission tied by blood, the ruling of your own body to his will. But with the dizzying sensation of being tied, the worry is shoved away in pursuit of pleasure.

Arthur presses his hand against the back of your neck and loosely cups it there like he’s going to scruff you. “You want me to take you again, omega?” He grinds himself against you as he speaks, and the sparking friction of it has you whimpering helplessly, shamelessly. “D’you want me to… ah…” he pauses and seems almost embarrassed to say it. But the same delirious lack of inhibition must have him in its grasp as well, because he continues, “D’you want me to fuck another load into you?”

The unprecedented crudeness of his speech shocks you into silence, and it’s all you can do to nod.

“Then you best stop rilin’ me up, because the longer I’m like this, the longer you’re gonna have to wait.”

You nod again, suddenly docile and obedient as a church mouse.

“You gonna be good for me then, omega?”

“Yes,” you whisper. God, that word. Makes you a captive through your own pleasure. Lashes you to him like leather cords passed through your bones.

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

His mouth grazing your own feels like a seal as absolute as red wax dripped on an envelope. Your own fate folded inside, its destination set. No way out. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

But as long as it’s Arthur— the fucking asshole who’d made you scream yesterday when he’d feigned falling off a bridge, the man who’d foraged for and forced you to drink a disgusting concoction of yarrow and meadowsweet when you’d run a temperature this morning— you can bear it, you think. The damnation of being owned. 

You ain’t just a thing for me to use, he’d said. A pretty thing to hear, and something you’d have agreed with once, back when you still had notions of egalitarianism. Before you’d seen firsthand the near universal hell others of your kind inevitably find themselves bound to, all the fire ground out of them, only the grey-ashed cinders of their past selves any indication of any life they might have lived outside captivity.

And yet he treats you like a person. Would have left you untouched if you hadn’t begged him to fuck you, you’ve no doubt about that. Even went so far as to decouple completely when you’d flinched beneath him, prioritizing your own useless comfort over the dictate of his rut. 

Arthur smooths his hand over your shoulder, following the curve all the way down to your forearm. He peers into your face like he’s searching for something lost beneath clouded water, and asks “You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just had a feeling.”

He’ll be angry if you tell him. Not with you, but with himself. The slow decay of regret will sink into all this and take away this peaceable surrender. “Thinking about what happens after,” you reply, and it’s not a lie, not really. Only an omission.

It’s an unwelcome intrusion of the reality beyond the quiet pocket of reprieve this isolated outcrop has become. His thumb finds the inside of your wrist and swipes gentle arcs against the tendon ridged there, and after a brief silence during which you can’t meet his eyes, he says, “Things’re comin’ to a head soon, I reckon. Dutch said after one last score, we’ll be able to—”

“Don’t talk about Dutch when you’ve got your cock in me,” you grumble.

He dashes an apologetic kiss against your forehead. “When,” he says. “And I mean when, not if… when we’re both clear of all this, where d’you want to go?”

“What, with you?”

“No, I meant just you by yourself— ‘course I mean with me, dumbass.”

With him. With Arthur. The dismal, eager leap of your heart at the very thought of it. “I dunno.” You have to fight to keep your voice level. “It’s a big country, and I haven’t seen hardly any of it yet.”

“Yeah? Where to first, then?”

You begin rattling off a litany of destinations previously relegated to daydreams and wishful thinking. The canyonlands, those redstone basins sliced and worn smooth by centuries of water and wind. Or maybe the desert with its white dunes glinting like hills of heaped snow. Or the Grizzlies, all its bleak crags that come alive with greenery in the spring, when meltwater runs bright through the pines…

“Christ, woman,” he groans. “You askin’ me to take you on a goddamn tour from West Elizabeth to California?”

“Well, you don’t have to take me to see all of them…”

“Should start with the Grizzlies. ‘Cause it’ll be slow goin’ for a while, else the altitude’s gonna make you real sick.” He says this quiet with the burden of thought, plotting out a future like twining the fraying filaments of your lives together. “Stop in near Denver for supplies, and from there we can go Southwest, towards Painted Desert.”

As he sketches out that tenuous path, you close your eyes and press your cheek against his chest, counting out the low thrum of his heart. You listen drowsily as he lists possible routes and puzzles over hunting locales and difficult terrain, and you interrupt him periodically with idle and ignorant observations that he gently derides you for. The weight of his palm at your back is like a centering stone, anchoring.

He’s in the middle of dissuading you from visiting the Great Salt Lake (“nothin but brine flies and buzzards out there”) when he pauses and braces your hip with his hand. “Hold on,” he says. “Think my knot’s gone down enough that I can…” 

Arthur grimaces as he slides his softening cock from between your thighs, and the ensuing ache of withdrawal is tempered somewhat by the warm drip of his release, the quiet reminder of what you’re for. An omega: just a thing to be fucked and used and bred. There’s no denying it now— not with the baptism you’ve just been given, this induction into an existence marked by your own inescapable submission. 

He’s hard again from just beholding it, and regards the beading precome at the tip of his cock like a ripening curse. Hastily, he says, “We don’t have to… I mean, you gotta be sore from…”

“Again,” you demand. 

The look on his face, the raw adoration— you’d wrap the leash around your neck yourself to have this every day. Let it choke you to an inch of your life. You can feel it closing in now, as he kisses you and slips his hand between your thighs to feel the flow of seed and slick coating his fingers. 

He’s less cautious this time, now that you’ve taken him once without breaking. When he pushes himself back inside, he fills you with a single, drawn out stroke, every second of that renewed penetration a sweet agony of anticipation. And when he fucks into you, he seems to be entranced by the view of his previous release still glistening at your slit, the new smoothness of his thrusts with his own come to ease the burn. 

That first time had all the careful tending of observation, his own pleasure set aside in worry of what the simple force of him might do to you. But if not gone wholly, it is diminished now. There is a self-indulgence in his movements now, a roughness that you had but caught glimpses of before.

It’s indescribable, the intensity of having him this second time. The drip of what he’d given you before spilling down the backs of your thighs, each thrust weighted with eager anticipation of what he’ll soon replace it with. He groans when you brace a hand against his shoulder and hold his torso at arm’s length, all the better to watch the pumping of his hips, the shine of mingled release on his shaft that disappears and renews with each thrust— and oh, the silver fire of his eyes as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. You grin to have caught him off guard, and he echoes it as he shifts your hips up and mounts you in such a willful, dominant way that all your smug satisfaction dissolves into weak, fervent whimpers. He presses the backs of your thighs against your chest and drives into you as if the fluid friction of fucking was the purpose of his creation.

“You take me so well,” he says, so sweetly that it makes you servile, and draws out a depth of devotion antithetical to your temperament. Like pulling up a line from an ocean lure, coaxing from that unexplored territory something strange and sharp-toothed and possessed of an unknown trepidation. God, right now you would expose to him even the bright red jewel of the heart beating in your chest, give him every bit of yourself until there were nothing left to use.

Arthur hooks both your knees over his shoulders and pauses a second to press a kiss to your calf. His stubble scrapes against the delicate skin there, and you feel the gentle curve of him smiling against you. 

What can you do but give in?

The position that he takes you with now is one you’ve never experienced before. He keeps you on your back, near immobile and trapped by both the weight of his body and the unmitigated affection in his expression. There is a domination in it that you would have refused anyone else, but that you offer willingly to him, knowing that he’d free you up if you should so much as frown at him. And it really is absurd, the kind of power he’s allowed you over him. Contrary to natural law, building up a tenuous new order in its place.

“Look at you,” he croons. “All soft and sweet for once. Didn’t think you’d ever let me see you like this.”

You turn a luminary shade of crimson heretofore seen only in the plumage of certain exotic birds. 

“And so fuckin’ cute.” Arthur slides your legs down from his shoulders, straddles your thighs round his hips as he leans forward. Skin to skin again, a growl rising up in his chest with a tenor like longing, as though the act of kneeling before you had been one of deprivation. A sacrifice that he’d been forced to make, choosing between the view of you desperate for him, or the twine of your arms around his neck. “That noise you make whenever I call you ‘omega’.”

It catches in your throat, the responsive little whimper that you let out like an animal yipping in eager response to her master.

“The way you tighten up when I say it. It makes me— christ, it makes me…”

“Arthur—”

He bucks into you hard and kisses you near violently, as if in substitute to some deep-seated urge. A kiss almost like a bite. “Makes me want you all to myself,” he says hoarsely.

You nearly present your throat to him right then and there, and only manage to stop yourself by the last grasping thread of your diminishing self control. But he senses that conflict in you somehow, raises his workworn palm to your neck and wordlessly shields it from the threat of himself. Gentle, even in the harshness of his thrusts now, the jumping pulse of his pleasure approaching fast, and the swell of his knot heavy against your slit. 

It takes him just three staggered thrusts to lock into you this time, and with each one he whispers reassurance amidst that brief sting of pain, his own teeth clenched from the sheer intensity of his high before he fits himself completely and gives you that beautiful, helpless moan of his— a sound that is new to you still, and that you would gladly learn by heart. Arthur ruts a few short and jerky strokes that do little more than shift the length of him to a tight and aching friction, and it takes less than a minute of that priming before he shivers and gasps, the muscles of his hips and thighs taut as he fills you with the sudden warmth of his spend. The thick pulse of his seed like the frantic beat of his own blood, the liquidsmooth heat of it trickling deep, the guttural gasp that he muffles against your skin as he presses his mouth to your shoulder, as if the sinful force of his pleasure was such that he could not stand to face the eyes of its source— christ, it’s enough to seize at the core of you, plunge you headlong over the edge of your own vertiginous fall.

After, when your ears have stopped ringing and the soft abatement rests quiet over you both, he turns red and awkward when you ask him coyly what exactly “all to himself” entails. Arthur clears his throat, changes the subject. “You, uh. You hungry at all?”

“Probably.”

“After this, we should both eat somethin’. Figure out what we should do ‘bout provisions.”

“Or we can go for round three.”

“Food first,” he says sternly. “Then fucking.”

The firm underpinning of authority in his voice winds a current of unease in you as tight and hard as a dead man’s knot. And it’s stupid; he often takes this tone with you when he thinks you’re being unreasonable, but you can’t help but blurt out, “So now that you know I’m an omega, you think you can boss me?”

“What? No.” Judging by his naked bewilderment at the accusation, it wasn’t a line of thought he’d come remotely close to. “That don’t matter none to me. You bein’ an omega, that is. In my eyes, you’re still the same little fool I rode out with this morning.”

Ah christ. He looks like he really means it. His eyes full silver, his cock still holstered full and tight inside you, the well of your body slick and warm with two loads of his seed— every conquering sign plain to see, and still he persists in maintaining this false veneer of equality. When he touches the tips of his fingers to your cheek and directs you to look him full in the face, you turn your head slightly to brush your lips against his palm.

“Which means I can boss you because you still got barely a clue how to set up camp, let alone get along by yourself out here.” He kisses your forehead; you go as weak as if it were a bullet he had planted there instead.

When he withdraws this time, he pointedly keeps his head turned away from you and pulls up his trousers with a businesslike yank of his waistband, all the while pretending that he isn’t struggling to button his fly over the stiff and eager jut of his cock. You’re too exhausted to do more than whine out a few wheedling complaints in an attempt to lure him back. It’s cold without him there, you pout, and he’s too goddamned honorable to do anything more than retrieve his leather jacket from his saddlebags and chuck it in your general direction.

There isn’t much to eat. He’d been planning on hitting town this evening to restock, he admits, splitting two loaves of sourdough and a few strips of dried venison between you both, and says he’ll lay the hoop net in the river before sundown.

“I’ll help you,” you tell him through a mouthful of crusty bread.

“Like hell you will. You’re stayin’ right here.”

“What, why not?”

“Because if you come with, that net’s gonna end up floating away downstream while we fuck on the bank.”

The fabric of his trousers is strained tight over his erection, and though he makes every effort to look away, every contour of his body seems to tug in your direction. He is a conduit of compulsion, the current of his blood surely as vocal as your own, whispering in inverse. So it’s not hard to sway him— a clumsy bit of flirtation, the wheedle of your voice soft and sad— the kind of performance that yesterday’s you would have turned her nose up at, but she fades now sure as sunlight in the face of your own setting fate.

You trudge behind him through bramble and pine as he clears a way through the underbrush, with his spare shirt wrapped around yourself like an oversized tunic and your inner thighs swiped to gleaming with every step, wet with the steady drip of his come. Each unsteady footfall is an admonishment, the slickness of seed at your center as insistent as a new wound, as arousal itself.

The river is not cold. Its shallows are sunwarmed, silt bottomed and soft. Shoals of silver-sided fry fragment and dart when you shuck off your boots and wade in calf deep, wisping through the water like swirls of bright dust. You bend to pick up rocks to weigh down the net with, and catch him staring at the pale streak of him that runs down your leg, swerving at the hollow behind your knee. 

He swallows hard, red-faced, standing there on the shore with his hands untangling the net. The bottom of his pant leg soaks dark as he takes a sudden step into the water, and his pupils are dilated so wide that the silver of his iris is an emaciated ring of hunger. And will he take you like this, with the mark of his release gleaming on your skin, and ought you let him, ought you present yourself like a doe with wolves’ teeth ringed gentle in her open throat, like a good omega, like a proper omega—

But he blinks. Busies himself with work, though his fingers are shaking and the muscles of his arms and back tight. When you splash over to help anchor the net with foraged sticks and stones, your submerged hand brushes his; he touches the cupped cradle of your palm, but lets his momentary touch trail away with the parting current, and says nothing. Only when the task is complete does he smile at you with the angle of his mouth still somewhat bashful, gesturing with his thumb towards the camp in which he’s fucked you twice in as many hours, and in the end you can’t even make it halfway back before pressing your heat sodden body against a high-branched oak and dragging him into you by the buckle of his belt.

Rough scrape of bark along your back, a strew of monarch butterflies startles and scatters through the air in a shiver of orange and black wings, and it’s transfiguration that is on your mind as he pulls you flush. A worm will spin her bed of silk, sleep through the liquefaction of her body and the slow crystallization of poisoned wings. When she wakes, does she mourn what she has shed? And when Arthur inevitably puts his teeth to your neck and clamps down, will you grieve the unbonded past?

Omega like any other. Little breeding bitch with your heart on a rope.

But it’ll be alright, so long as it’s him. It always is.

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Author's note: I've always thought that being an omega was a horrifying concept in many ways, given the potential loss of personhood involved. Here, the reader is having an EXTREMELY intense heat, and her thoughts are spiraling out of control in ways that are not at all obvious to Arthur right now. Not entirely sure where I'm going with this, very much testing the waters, but I'll state up front that though this may touch on darker territory, I'm very much intending this to stay consensual. It's a delicate topic though, and feedback/criticism is very much welcomed.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 31: "You told your parents?" ~ Arthur Morgan/OC [1,105 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Cora was having a downright glorious day. Although the days when she and Arthur broke off from the rest of the camp and roughed it alone for a week or two always were, but this was one of their best little solo trips yet. The weather was beautiful, they stopped off at the post office before they really delved into the wilderness so she had a letter from home, and they hadn’t run into even a shadow of trouble. Considering the way chaos had a habit of finding Arthur, that particular part was a true miracle.

At present, they’d made camp just a little ways away from a lake – close enough to easily take a dip, but not so close that they’d be exposed to any who drifted near the shore – and she sat with her back against a tree while the wild turkey, the one that had them affectionately bickering over who had been the one to actually shoot it, roasted on a spit over the fire. They were being treated to the sort of sunshine that promised a beautiful pink-red sunset, and it took all she had not to hum happily as she read her letter from her hometown.

“My ma says hi,” she called to him as she read.

Up ‘til that moment, he’d been firmly rooted in man-roasting-his-kill mode. Or her kill, as she kept insisting anyway. He always insisted on taking over the cooking for at least their first night out here – although it was usually more, unless she really fought him on the matter. She rarely did, though, because it was sweet. A man who was hell-bent on cooking her dinner personally. Who’d’ve ever thought one like that existed? It was a question she found herself asking a lot ever since she’d first fallen for Arthur Morgan.

Her words, however, jolted him out of that mode.

“Your mother?”

“Uh-huh.”

“…she said to tell me that?”

“No, Dutch. I was hoping you’d pass the word along,” she drawled.

He stilled, leaning back where he knelt on the ground, regarding her thoughtfully.

“You…told your folks about me?”

“The basics, sure.”

“The basics?”

“That I’m courting a man I’m crazy about – and that he’s kind, funny, good, and handsome to boot.”

“You lied to ‘em, then.”

“I fudged the details on the whole livin’ in sin aspect, but everything else I just said is true,” she frowned at him. “…Shouldn’t I have?”

After their first night together, they’d both agreed that this wasn’t a sneaking into each other’s bedroll for some stress relief kind of thing. That it was more than that. That they were making a real go of it, in their own way. But maybe he viewed their way as not being something that should be shared around. The camp was one thing, nothing stayed secret for long there, but she had a hell of a lot more control over whether or not her folks knew. She just…hadn’t thought it would bother him. Instead, he looked bothered.

Maybe she should’ve asked first.

“I’m not exactly the bring home to mom and dad sort, sweetheart,” he said finally.

Ouch.

“Well, they live so far away it’s a wonder their letters even arrive in one piece. You’ll never have to meet ‘em if you don’t want to.”

Cora tried to play it cool as she spoke, shrugging casually and lowering her head so that her long dark hair fell forward over her face, pretending to be fascinated by the letter in her hand. Of course he saw through it.

“Shit, Cora, that ain’t what I meant at all,” he stood, approached, and then knelt before her on the ground. “Just that…I’m not the sort that a respectable woman would want to bring home to mom and dad.”

Oh. This was around the time she knew he’d be breaking out words like ugly and haggard if she hadn’t entirely vetoed them some time ago. Folding the letter and setting it in the midst of her skirts, she regarded him softly.

“I’m not a very respectable woman, Arthur,” she snorted.

“I respect you,” he said simply.

“And that’s what matters. To me. To them, too – my folks aren’t the high and mighty sort. Do you think I’d be running with Dutch’s crew if they were? Ma’s just glad to have one less mouth to feed, and pa – god love him – is a drunk. If I brought home some, some heir to a fortune with a stick lodged up his ass, they’d think I lost my damn mind. They know whatever I’m up to out here isn’t squeaky clean, how could it be? But we all play dumb to avoid stressful conversations. I keep ‘em clued in on the good parts, and you’re the best part.”

He breathed a laugh, but when he met her gaze and found her dark eyes fixed on him almost sternly, so there could be no doubt as to whether she meant every word she said, the laughter disappeared and he leaned back to sit on his ass on the ground in front of her, leg bent so one arm could rest atop his knee.

“You don’t have to meet ‘em, ever, if you don’t want to,” she continued. “But you gotta know that if you did, I’d be much more concerned about what you were going to make of them, rather than what they’d think of you. Because that last part wouldn’t make a damn lick of difference to me. Ever.”

Shifting a little, she could see in his face that he was tempted not to believe her – whether he’d admit that fact or not.

“I mean it, Arthur. They’d love you if they met you, you’re just gonna have to take my word on that, but even if they didn’t, you’d still be stuck with me for as long as you’ll have me.”

He smiled slightly, scratching at the stubble at his jaw.

“That’ll be an awful long time, Cor.”

“Will it, now?”

“Forever, most like. If I have my way.”

As he said it, he looked almost tentative – because it was one thing to say they were making a serious go of this, and it was another to say that. Those words of his had implications. The type that involved gold rings and wedding bells.

Cora grinned, and those blue-green eyes of his that had been inspecting her face for any hint of a negative reaction lit up as she replied.

“That works just fine for me.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, hiding his own smile. “Good. Go ahead and tell ‘er I said hi back, then. Better make a good first impression, if she's to like me when I meet 'er.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[myfairgunslinger]

Title: Red Dead Revenge: Kiss of Death  [Part 8 ]

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC x John Marston

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Rape

Summary:  Maeve is feeling cramped up and Arthur decides to take her fishing, not without a couple of people that want to join however.

A/N: Finally! I have returned! And with a brand new chapter picking up where we left off! Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 8: Hook, Line and Sinner

Maeve was staring at the newspaper, puffing on a freshly lit premium cigarette, flipping through each page and scanning the articles to see if any news had been reported about them. Yes, them being her sick obsession. Her new reason for living.  The two men that ruined everything by going too damn far. Mike and Phil Bollard along with their gang of diabolical lackies.

She blew out the smoke that collected in her lungs all over page two's piece on Blackwater's Eleventh Annual Bird Shooting contest. The first three places were taken by contenders Maeve recognized from prior years of beating them.  The girl flipped the next page of the newspaper finding a story about a home robbery and kidnapping outside of Strawberry, but robbers were unknown.  It would be something to investigate.

"Miss!" Maeve's head looked up to see a tracker working from his stand, holding the cougar pelt Maeve had scored a few days ago. Since her fight with Abigail, she hasn't necessarily seen John.  More so avoiding him.  When he didn't come see her that night, Maeve took that as a bad sign and just wasn't ready to hear his reasoning.  She's been kept busy doing chores with Mrs. Grimshaw who has not spoken about what happened that night.  None of the girls around camp have for that matter.  Mostly due to Susan telling the girls, "I don't wanna hear any lip about that fight.  It ain't none of our business and I will not have any fuss over it. Understand!"

Maeve hasn't really seen Abigail either, which was cleverly orchestrated by Mrs. Grimshaw.  Having either Abigail focus on dishes or other close campus chores while sending Maeve to do laundry or chores that are more on the outside of camp with Tilly.  Maeve did find herself doing the errands that required riding into town.  Hosea often requested the mail be checked, always saying how Dutch was expecting a letter or how urgent it was that Hosea's letters get to the post.

"They think I'm not seein' these things, but I do!  I ain't that dumb!" Maeve would complain to Arthur, who has been one of the only people she spoken to these past few days.  After hugging Arthur, realizing how much she can trust him, Maeve started to spend time with him.

"They know you're not dumb. That's why they keep sending you off to do things for them," he would say in a humorous tone.  Arthur was enjoying their time together even though he knew it was to distract her from her more unpleasant thoughts.  Maeve would go into his tent to straighten it up to purge the tables of empty bottles and bowls or opened books and scattered papers.  His dirtied clothes would be on the ground after a long day of doing 'work for the gang' and Maeve would just toss it all in a basket.  For being the only person sleeping in his tent, Arthur somehow always managed to make a mess out of it.

When Maeve would go in there to clean up, her and Arthur always got into depth in their conversations about old stories they read to bits of Arthur growing up in the gang.  He went into details about their first bank job together, the small slip ups that occurred but the overall success of it.  It amused Maeve so much that she smiled at the end of it.  

Maeve approached the stand, digging out the money she needed while flicking away the cigarette, "All finished up, Ma'am.  With fine stitchin' you got yourself there one nice coat for the winter."  She handed over the money to him, "Thank you, now that's one thing off the list." She took the wrapped-up article of clothing and put it under her arm, no way was she wearing that thing in this heat.

She had walked over to the post office, tripping over the leg of a man that had sat in the middle of the entry way. After an irritated shake of her head, Maeve went to ask for the mail, "One moment while I go collect it."  The postman she had come to know as Frank usually gave her this specific look every time the girl came in.  Maeve wasn't sure what to make of it, was he sizing her up to see if Maeve caused any issues in the town of Armadillo or was that just how his face rested.

The girl decided to look over the strange article she saw earlier and managed to find a name of the surviving victim.  Her name was Alma Gouin, around the age of fifty-three.  She had to hear her daughter and son-in-law being tortured and shot before hearing her granddaughter screaming when these robbers tied her up to be taken away.  All the while old Alma had to listen to all this from the top attic where she sleeps.

Maeve had a gut feeling that these might be the men she's looking for.  She pulled out the journal Arthur got her and started to scribble away a letter, "Can I purchase an envelope and stamp from you?" she asked still writing.

She had handed over a letter to the post man with the address made out to Alma while in return she was given three letters.  One for Hosea, he always had one of these waiting for him.  The next letter was for Dutch, must be the one he's been waiting on.  The last one was unexpectedly for Arthur and the handwriting looked feminine.  Maeve flipped the back of the envelope to see the return address was to a Mary Linton.

       _______________________________________________________

When walking over to the saloon Maeve wondered who this Mary Linton was and what business did Arthur have with her?  He certainly never mentioned her or even said he was expecting to hear any news from this person.  Maeve then became curious as to if it was a past love of his.  Her eyes got a little big thinking of that idea.

"Why should I care anyway?" she said more to herself when looking down at the letter, debating to rip it open and find out what this lady wanted.  Then what? Hand Arthur an envelope with a broken seal telling him got a private letter.  That would look well.

Going through the doors, Maeve stuffed the letters in her saddle to find Arthur leaning against the bar with two shoots of whiskey in front of him, "Miss Milley," he smiled over at her and slid a glass over to her when she was close enough, "Get everything you needed to get done?"

"Yes," She glanced at the shot glass for a moment, "This a good idea?  Remember last time we were here?"

"You made me dance with you for a moment and thought I had a twin.  I remember quite well," he chuckled, "It's just one."

"Hmm," Maeve picked up the glass and threw her head back to drink it.  She hissed out from the burn, "Still not use to that," her voice wheezed. Arthur watched her, amused with her reaction before standing up straight, "We should get you back."

Maeve groaned out and he turned to her, "What? Sick of us already?"

"You?  No way in hell," Arthur made an awe noise acting touched, "Sick of being whispered about?  Sick of getting dirty looks from Abigail? And Little Jack for that matter? Sick of getting treated like I'm some fragile object?  Most definitely."

He couldn’t help sympathizing, "I'm sure Jack is just mimickin' his mother." She scoffed, "She was nowhere around!"

Arthur shrugged, "Guess he hates ya."

"Terrific," Maeve's voice was not excitable.  Arthur set down his shot glass, "You fish much?"

Maeve shook her head, "Too busy shootin' birds."

"We should go.  Catch fish.  Talk without wondering who's listening.  There's a river above Blackwater, right?" He suggested to her.

"Just you and me?" She rose an eyebrow at him.

"Oh sorry.  Did you wanna invite Abigail and Jack along?" He teased her.  Maeve couldn't help the laugh that escaped her throat.  "God no."

Back at camp Arthur went to find his spare fishing rod for this trip while Maeve went to pack a few things not knowing when they'd be back.  When opening her saddle bag, she saw the letters that she picked up in the mail today. She had no idea what to make of the one Arthur received but figured asking the one person that knows Arthur best.

Walking up to the two leading men of this gang, she held up the letters to Dutch and Hosea, "Mail for you two," keeping Arthur's in her other hand.

"Splendid!  I have been waiting almost three weeks for this," Dutch took the letter from her going to open it up.  

During these past few days, Hosea had been trying his best to get to know Maeve after their hunting trip.  He saw she was educated when she stopped to read one of the books around Arthur's tent along with writing down in her journal.  He was surprised in her knowledge of stars along with knowing old Greek myths relating to the constellations.

Maeve glanced at Hosea who took his letter but set it down on the table.  Maeve figured he'd read it now, "Aren't you gonna open it?"

Hosea shook his head, "It can wait.  Just some scam I'm pulling," Maeve nodded once before watching Dutch going over to sit down on his sofa, "What's Mister Van Der Linde been waitin' on?"

Hosea rolled his eyes, "A letter from some girl he's taken a fancy to.  Rich and Irish," Maeve chuckled, "Oh, I heard of pen pals, but I didn't know it could--"

"It doesn't," Hosea finished, "There's been a lot of talk of her trying to come here to 'travel' with us.  I think it's a waste of time."

"Guess we'll see--" a bark of laughter from Dutch cut her off and Hosea noticed what was in Maeve's hands, "What's that?" he nodded.

"Oh, I actually did want to talk to you about this. It's for Arthur.  It's from some woman," Maeve explained and Hosea held his hand up and worry in his eyes, "Give it here."

She held it further away from the man, as if protecting it, "But it's Arthur's."

"Yes, but I know what's best for Arthur.  Why else did you want to speak to me about this," he countered.  Maeve leaned in closer to whisper, "Is it a lover?"

"It's a damn nightmare.  Letter.  Now," Hosea demanded.  Maeve handed it over to him without hesitation.  He inspected it for a moment, seeing the seal of a 'M.L.' then cracked it open to pull out the letter.

"Hosea!" Maeve hissed, "How could you?"

"Oh, stow it!  You're just as curious as I am," he said bringing it in close so he could read it.  Maeve didn't even defend herself and instead moved to where she could also read the letter over the man's shoulder.

She must have been reading at a fast pace, skipping over words that looked like scribbles due to Mary's terrible handwriting as stated at the start of the letter, "Who taught her to write?" Maeve muttered under her breath.  Hosea gave her a questioning look but ultimately held in a chuckle.  As the letter continues Mary goes on to recall of the old days her and Arthur shared when they were so full of hope and promise.  Maeve groaned at this cringey paragraph, wanting to vomit.

"You okay Miss Milley? If the letter is too much for you to bare--" Hosea said in a mocking tone.  "Shush!  I'm still reading it," Maeve will never admit this to anyone, but she could feel that jealousy in her own gut boil at every "Oh Arthur!" that this woman wrote.  Eventually the letter was requesting if Arthur meet up in Strawberry for a chance to catch up.

Maeve was at a loss for words when finishing the letter. This Mary, this woman was someone that clearly had a history with Arthur, that much was known from the way she wrote to him.  The other thing she noticed was how much they must have loved each other, enough for Hosea to recall it all as a nightmare.  That past relationship must have ended in a lot of heart break.  The only question was who took the most damage, Mary or Arthur?  The last thing on her mind was why did Maeve have a strange feeling after reading this letter.  Was this guilt?  Maybe she shouldn't have looked at this private conversation.  Even she despised the fact her relationship to John was now know to everyone here.

John.  He was such a dilemma on his own for Maeve.  She's never met anyone that she can be so infuriated at yet still hold a place in her heart.  The real reason she's been avoiding John was she doesn't think she's ready to take his rejection about whatever it is they can be.  Part of Maeve did want that second chance, but then that other part kicks her in the ass.

"Probably gonna ask a favor of the man. Poor fool," Hosea said closing up the letter.  He glanced over to see Maeve stuck in her head.  He snapped his fingers to draw her attention, "You here?"

"We have to reseal it," Maeve said to Hosea with her hands on her hips.  Hosea looked back at her as she continued, "He has to read this for himself without knowing that we opened this up."

"Or we don't show him, and he doesn't get sucked up in whatever Mrs. Linton's problems are."

Maeve shook her head, "Hosea even you know that's not right. Besides what if he finds out?" Hosea let out an irritated sigh, "Miss Milley, you haven't seen Arthur when it comes to Mary.  It's as if nothing else matters and he'll go far out of his way to do whatever it is she demands.  Like a dog itching to have a bone. It's better if he doesn't know and you keep giving me any letters from her."

As much as Maeve didn't like the idea of Mary having this hold on Arthur, she went up to Hosea to take the letter back which he wasn't expecting, "Are you mad?"

"You have no idea!" Maeve held the letter far back from the man as he tried to reach for it, "But you're madder for keeping this from him.  What if someone did this to you?  Keepin' a letter from your loved one, someone you might want a second chance with."

Hosea stopped trying to grab the paper and instead looked at her, "You have no idea what box you're about to open up, Sweet Pandora."

Maeve rolled her eyes and then put the letter back in the envelope.  She glanced around the tent to see a candle that was lit and went over to it.  Hosea watched her for a moment before asking, "The hell are you doing?"

She picked up the candle to hold it to the seal seeing it melt the wax, "I don't want him knowing we read it.  How embarrassing would that be?"

"The way you’re holding it is gonna--" before the older man could finish his sentence the paper had caught fire, "Holy hell!" Maeve quickly let go of the letter as it caught flame.

She had hiked up her skirt so the girl could step on the fire to put it out.  Hosea on the other hand grabbed a blanket to toss over it, successfully putting it out, "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"I'm fine, but the letter!" she pulled the blanket up to meet with burnt pieces of paper, "God damn it!"

Hosea after a moment of silence chuckled at her, "Oh Miss Milley, it was probably for the best, bless your kind heart," he continued to laugh between his words.  Maeve was not finding any of this humorous.  She looked at Hosea, defeated at idea of her trying help only resulted in causing a fire. Hosea continued to chuckle at her clumsiness.  How it reminded him of when the Arthur and John were younger.

"Miss Milley?" Arthur had called from outside the tent.  Her eyes were large when she glared at Hosea.  He placed a finger over his lips signaling for her to say nothing of the letter, "She's in here."

The man came in and saw a guilty faced Maeve while his nostrils smelled smoke, "What is that?  Something cookin'?"

"Nope!"

"No idea," Hosea said at the same time with the girl.  Arthur stared at them oddly, "Right, Miss were you about ready?"

She nodded, "Yes, sir.  We should go," Maeve hurried out of the tent as Hosea tried not to laugh when he realized she was gonna keep the letter from him, or at least not speak of it now.

Arthur was still rather confused when watching Maeve scurry off and observing Hosea's face, "What is going on with you guys?"

The older man shot back, "What's going on with you guys?" Arthur shifted in his stance, "Just fishing."

Hosea's eyebrows rose up, "Just you two?  Can I join?"

"No!" Arthur's brow furrowed. Hosea scoffed, shaking his head, "I see how it is then."

Keeping his voice low, Arthur told him, "The kid just needs to get out of camp.  Hasn't been easy on her past few days."

"I get that," Hosea went to stand, approaching the man, "I think you two should have a talk."

"A talk?" Arthur glanced out the tent to see Maeve kicking a small rock to the side waiting on him.

Hosea leaned in a bit closer, "An honest talk where you both tell the other what you're keeping from them."

"Is she keeping something from me?"

"Aren't you keeping something from her?" Hosea said knowing that wasn't a question, "You should tell the girl, Arthur. She has a right to know."

Arthur stared at him, but he simply murmured, "I don't know if I have it in me," with that he left the tent.

Maeve let out a sigh that Arthur was taking so long, hoping Hosea said nothing about her burning Mary's letter.  She started to rub the back of her neck when hearing a, "You do that when you're nervous."

She turned around to see John walking up to her.  Maeve instantly stopped that gesture, "What's troubling you?" he asked her.  The girl was just near burning a hole in his head, "Why do you care?"

"I'm not allowed to?" He tilted his head, "Why you been avoiding me?"

Maeve crossed her arms, "Didn't realize I had," she lied.

"Oh?  Then the other day when you were carrying laundry, you turning quickly on your heel right after seeing me walk towards you, that wasn't you avoiding me," John wanted to clarify.

"I didn't even see you.  I forgot I left Uncle's union suit behind," she quickly answered, "Sure, but you see me now, right?" John stared at her and she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, "What's got you on edge?"

Maeve opened her mouth and saw just the man that was on her mind, "Arthur!"

"Miss Milley.  Sorry I kept you waiting," he eyed the leaner man, "John. Pleasure seeing you here." John glanced at them both, "Where you two going?"

"Fishing," Arthur said leading Maeve to the horses with John following behind, "Just you two?"

"Yes," Maeve answered as they got to the horses. John ran up in front of them, so they'd stop, "I wanna go."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "You hate water, you idiot."

"But I like fishing," he shrugged. Arthur shook his head, voice subtly growling, "No... you don't." Maeve's ears picked up on that.

"Yes," John stepped closer to Arthur, "I do." They shared a scowl that has been heated for a while.  Maeve, rather small when compared to the outlaws, went to stand between the two, "Excuse me, Gentlemen?  I believe I also get a say in this?"

They both turned to her as she then continued, "John, I'd rather you stay here, but since you'd probably follow us anyway you might as well come along," John hid the smirk he wanted to flash Arthur who was not happy about this. "Besides, we can always use you as bait," Maeve snarked at him while walking to Liability.

John tipped his hat to Arthur, "The lady has spoken," he then went to grab the bedroll from his tent.  Arthur clutched a fist longing to strike John, but then instead loosened his grip to hurry back over to one particular tent, popping his head in to say, "You can join us."

Hosea looked up from the piece of paper he was reading to meet Arthur's eyes.

       _______________________________________________________

The four rode the trail all the way up to Upper Montana River. The entire ride up was filled with silence apart from Hosea's whistling he'd do.  John had a lot he wanted to say to Maeve, while Arthur did as well. Maeve didn't know where to start with either of them, but that's not what was eating at her.  She just hoped not a word about Mary's letter was breathed by the old man.

When they got to the river, they dismounted at a decent enough spot to get started.  Maeve took one of the fishing rods and went over to where the water was streaming at a much calmer rate.

"You'll need bait!" Hosea called out to her and then nodded his head at Arthur, "Go help her."  He then saw John about to walk over when he stopped him, "John, help me get a fire started."  The youngest man sighed.

Arthur stuck a hand in his pocket, "Here, this should get you a bite," he handed her a small clump of cheese.  Maeve rose an eyebrow at him, "I thought a worm is what you use?"

He shook his head, "You can, but the scent of cheese attracts fish too.  Besides, I'm not carryin' around worms in my pocket, Miss Milley."

"Just smelly cheese," Maeve teased getting him to chuckle, "It works."

She hooked the piece of food to the lure then was about to cast it off until Arthur placed his hands on her shoulder, "Wait. Can I show you a trick on how to cast out?"  Maeve nodded and he went to go behind her, using his hands to position her posture a certain way.  He pushed her elbows up more than what they were, "Have them like that," Arthur said in a low voice.  Maeve did exactly as he instructed, "And the more you pull back to cast, the farther the line goes out.  Since this is a river, try not to have it go to shore on the other side of the river."

When John would look over all he saw was Arthur having his arms around a girl he used to call his.  A girl that was smiling when another man was talking to her.  A girl he should have stayed with instead of leaving. John felt his stomach tying in knots as Hosea snapped his fingers to get his attention, "The wood's not gonna collect itself." John gave him a glare as Hosea said, "Help an old man out."

"I'm starting to think the old man is helpin' out someone other than me," he started to pick up large sticks that were laying at the roots of a tree.

"That's a good thing. You're starting to think," He smiled at a not amused John, "She did say I could come along. Doesn't that mean she would like to enjoy my company also? Not just Arthur's."

Maeve had cast out the line to land in the middle of the river and Arthur patting her on the back for landing a good spot.  He also cast out his line once he got his fishing rod ready.

"John, if there's one thing you must know in life it's that sweet girls like Miss Milley don't wanna hurt anyone's feelings, especially people that are special to her."

John dropped the collection of wood he gathered in front of the man, "You find her to be sweet?"

"Don't you?"

John thought of all the times he's witnessed Maeve become angry, throwing a shot glass in his direction, stabbing a robber behind the Armadillo Train Station, her fight with Abigail, "She has her moments.  I'd be more worried about pissing her off. You do that right and it's good-bye sugar and candy." He then gazed over at her.

She stood on a flat rock, wondering when she would get a nibble, "How long until I get a bite?"

"The key to fishing is patience, the fish will come to you," Arthur said.  Maeve rolled her eyes, "Rather just shoot 'em."

"You start firing your gun off you'll scare away all animals in the area, meaning no dinner for anyone," Arthur flicked his line.

Before Maeve could say anything there was a tug pulling on the line, "Oh my, I think I have a bite!" Arthur pointed to her hook keeper, "Start reeling!" she did just that until a dark brown boot popped out of the water, swinging towards her.  Maeve made a small frown when seeing it, "What a load of horse shit!"

Arthur laughed when she went to take it off her hook, "Don't feel so bad, Miss Milley.  Happens more often than you know."

Eventually, Arthur had caught a couple fish while Maeve caught nothing.  They were welcomed back with a campfire with John and Hosea.

"Ah what did you catch for dinner?" the older man asked seeing Maeve go over to her satchel to take out a can, "Arthur had a nice catch. Caught a load of nothing," she said bluntly when opening up the can, the scent of strawberries seeping out.  John smirked at her knowing that red fruit was going to be all she ate, "Never been much of a fisher, have you?"

"Give yourself more credit, Miss Milley.  You did catch a boot," he chuckled with John. Maeve sulked when scooping out a berry, "Go on, make fun."

Hosea hushed them, "Like the two of you never caught your share of boots when you first started.  Hell, Arthur you would go buy fish from the market and say you spent all day at the lake."

Arthur groaned a bit from the memory with cheeks slightly reddened, "And John...the biggest fish you caught was Bill. Your hook caught on to him when you went to cast it out." John felt embarrassed and remembered how Bill chase after him for the mishap.

Maeve laughed at them, "I might have caught a boot, but it was honest work," she popped another berry in her mouth.

"You'll catch a fish one day, Miss," Hosea said getting up to help Arthur cook the food.  Maeve sat down by the fire keeping a bit of a distance away from John, who scooted closer to her anyway, "This is nice.  Just us out here."

Maeve, with a full strawberry in her mouth, stared at him for a moment before chewing.  John continued, "It's a beautiful spot.  It's not too far from Blackwater either," his eyes did become soft aft a moment, wanting to ask her a question that's been on his mind.

She swallowed her food, "What?" the girl knew he wanted to say something.  John saw the other two men were still busy, "Arthur says you don't ever plan on going back."

Maeve's eyes held her focus on John, "Nothing to go back to. I'm not sorry that this makes problems for you."

The corner of John's lip slightly lifted, "I don't want you to go," Maeve could feel herself becoming elevated as he continued to speak and he could see the subtle tells on her face, the way her pupils flooded like a full moon.  "It took me a while to realize that I don't want to see you leave, Mae. Not ever."

Their gaze on each other held for so long that Maeve had to turn her head away, a genuine smile on her face, "Oh John. Don't make me do this."

He had leaned a little closer to her, "Do what?  I'm not makin' you do anything."

Her head shift to where she was facing him, John's face closer than she thought.  The tension between them, thick as ever, "This," Maeve went to stand up on her feet.  With a single glare from the woman she made a soft frown, starting to walk away from him.

"It's ready," Hosea said over his shoulder as John watched Maeve walk towards the river, "John!" Hosea called again and the man grunted when standing up, "I'm going!"

Arthur had noticed Maeve walk off, seeming unhappy from her conversation with John.  He went to follow her.  When approaching her, he had stopped a distance away taking in the sight of her back towards him.  Maeve's arms were crossed as she scanned the view of the river, scattered trees and night sky with all the stars.

He had cleared his throat, "Nice night this evening," taking a few steps closer, "Almost wasteful to see you not enjoying' it."

Maeve's attention went to the man before her.  She gave him a smirk when saying, "Where did you get that idea, Mister Morgan?"

"I got a feelin'," he was standing next to her, looking down, "Was I right?"

Maeve had perched her lips not quite meeting his gaze, debating on her emotions, "Perhaps, but the night's still young." It was there her eyes shifted to his, "Come have a walk with me?" she asked him.

Arthur looked back to the campfire to see Hosea and John talking while having fish, "Sure."

When they were further away from the small camp, Maeve let out a chuckle after hearing one of Arthur's stories when he was younger, camping on his own for the first time away from the gang.

“With the way I set up the tent poles and the wind blowin’ in the direction it was, my tent was bound to catch on fire.  Had to sleep under the stars in the cold with no bedroll or dinner,” he said with an amused expression, enjoying that he had her smiling.

“Sounds like you had a rough time,” Maeve looked down at her boots to see the ground she was walking on.

“Yet here you are giggling at my hardships,” he said in a teasing tone, eyeing her smirk.  How he could get lost in just observing every physical gesture or movement that she does. Arthur could see why John stuck around Blackwater, only difference is he would not have left.  Then came that shameful feeling he always got when he thought of Maeve for too long.  The shame of almost being the one to rob her and her family.  

They were approaching a large rock that was sticking out of the earth.  The girl lifted her head to catch his gaze, the first-time witnessing Arthur actually staring with affectionate eyes that Maeve cleared her throat to break him out of it, “Well, what can I say?  I do like seeing you in turmoil.  You should have seen your face when you re-bandaged my wound,” she wanted to see how much Arthur could get flustered.  The answer was very much from the way his cheeks turned a light shade of red when remembering her bare skin.

“I knew you’d bring that up again one of these days,” Arthur slowly stopped in his steps as did Maeve with a mischievous smirk on her face from succeeding, “If you must know, Miss, it’s been a while since I’ve been in the company of a… exposed lady.  Especially one of the likes of you.”

An eyebrow rose, “And just what does that mean?” Maeve questioned crossing her arms, slowly taking steps towards Arthur, wanting to hear this.

“Well, for one you are not a delicate flower like I first thought.  You don’t have a problem standin’ up for yourself where most women would be meek,” Arthur had taken a step back as she got closer to him, “Really?  That all you like about me?”

Arthur’s back had touched the large rock that was there, and Maeve stopped, being arm’s length away. His mind was running many thoughts on what she was doing, why she was questioning him like this. Her head tilted to the side waiting for his answer.

“No, that ain’t even close to being it,” her eyes had that intensity that excited him, “Ever since the night we met, you’ve kept surprising me with being unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Maeve’s face softened at his words as he raised his hand up to gently cup the side of her face.  His thumb brushed the flesh of her cheek while their gaze held.  She then took the only chance Maeve knew she would get before having to tell him about the letter, remembering the woman that sent it.

Her lips pressed to Arthur’s moving against his. He didn’t even fight it at first, the soft lips of Maeve captivated the man, having longed for this kind of affection.  As they kissed, Arthur had not noticed that he had backed up against the rock.  They held their closeness until Maeve pulled away to move her lips to his neck where Arthur took a deep breath.

“Maeve,” his voice said lowly while she kept her mouth on his skin, giving him soft nips with her teeth.  Arthur let out a small groan, his eyes opened to look down at her. His heart swelled, wanting her to keep going; however Arthur placed his hands on her shoulders to gently pull her away.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyes went to meet his wondering what his thoughts were.

Arthur cupped her face, instead of seeing her all he could see were the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Milley that he had buried, “This. We shouldn’t be doing this.  Not after everything.”

Maeve shook her head along with the confusion she felt to take off his hat and card his hair with her fingers, “Why not?  I see how you look at me and I’ve been attracted to you since I first saw you,” she moved her hands down to the top button on his shirt to pop one open, “There’s nothing wrong,” another button popped, “Why fight this?”

His breath hitched as Maeve leaned into kiss Arthur on the lips, “Just give in…” she whispered while undoing more buttons.  He wrapped his arms around her body as their kiss deepened.  Her heart was pounding but his lips left hers, a somber expression on his face, “Maeve you ain’t thinking straight. You want me cause you’re vulnerable and I ain’t taking advantage like that.”

Maeve let out a soft whine, “But I want this.  I do! Please Arthur,” she reached down to his belt, touching the buckle.  Had he been a lower man, he would have just given in and distracted Miss Milley of her troubles by making her feel good.  Arthur went to grab her hands, “I can’t do this to you.  Not when we have to talk about something important.”

“It can’t wait?” Maeve groaned staring at his chest then his face.

He needed to do as Hosea said, have an honest talk with her about that night.  Arthur knew if he did not and she found out what happened by any one besides himself, he would lose her. “I’ve put it off long enough.”

That sparked dread in her stomach.  He knew.  He knew about the letter she burnt up.  Hosea must have let it slip while they were preparing the fish, while she was busy talking to John.  She might as well come clean and explain herself, “Hosea told you then.  Arthur, I swear it was an accident.”

His eyes winced, “Accident? What are you goin’ on about?”

Now Maeve was starting to doubt what he did know, “Your letter…from Mary.”  His eyes got larger at the mention of the name, “My letter from Mary?”

He didn’t know then, “I set it on fire,” Maeve confessed to the man that had pulled further away, “On fire? How the hell did you manage that?”

She had a more flushed expression to her face, “I tried resealing the letter…after opening it up to read…” Arthur stared at her, baffled she did all of this, “It was Hosea’s idea!”

He groaned out while covering his face from the humiliation, “He read it too!” Maeve crossed her arms, now that their moment was ruined, “What did she say?” Arthur asked.

Begrudgingly, Maeve told him, “Something about meeting up with you in Strawberry.  Excuse for not remembering more but it was hard to read her chicken scratch.”

Arthur caught that bitter tone, “Are you…jealous?” That was surprising to him. Maeve shook her head while pointing to herself, “Of what? I had a proper education in literacy.”

“You are!” Arthur chuckled out before having to regain his composure. Maeve rolled her eyes, “Ya clearly didn’t know any of this.  What the hell did you have to tell me that you had to stop whatever it is we were doin’?”

The man then had dread resurface within himself. This conversation he would rather avoid but can’t now.

“Maeve, the night we met, I wasn’t just passin’ through Blackwater,” he started, “I got tipped off about a house that had gold in it. Some stableman got lucky an found a bunch of gold bars in some abandoned train.”

Maeve stared at him in disbelief.  That was her father, Everett.  How that information got out was beyond her, but it was her mother letting it slip out to a prospector she was so kind to feed breakfast one morning.  His repayment was to tell Arthur about the gold once he was saved from wolves.

“Later in the night, after we met at the saloon, I went to go see this house.  Get the gold and bring it back to the gang, but…”

Maeve finished for him not making eye contact anymore, “That’s where you found me, running for my life,” her tone was almost emotionless. Almost, the sparks of rage were just igniting.  Arthur didn’t see this yet, “I swear, I had no idea it would be your house I was going to. If I had got there first…maybe—”

Her cold brown eyes snapped right to his, “Maybe what? You’d rob us and only beat up my daddy? Smack around my mama? Hmm?”

“No—no—” Maeve cut him off, “We’d be in bigger trouble if ya robbed us first.  Hell, maybe I’d have died quicker since there was nothing valuable to collect.  How would you have robbed us, Arthur?  Would you ask politely for the gold? With your gun pointed right at my mama—no, at me?”

“Maeve, no!  That’s not what I’m getting’ at!”  Arthur wanted to believe if had saw her with her family that he would have left them alone, but that could just be him lying to himself.

“What are you getting’ at?” Maeve shouted, “If my daddy refused to give you the gold would ya have raped my mama like the Bollard Twins did? Or go after me since we hit it off so well?  What exactly would you have done different if it were you robbin’ us, Arthur?” He could see the angry tears in her eyes, knowing whatever he said was just going to infuriate her more.

“Miss Milley, that is not how I am.  If I was robbin’ you…maybe I could have helped your family from those awful men.  I can’t know for certain how things would be different, but I can promise you it would not have happened the way it did that night.”

Maeve scorned at him as he reached out to her, “If I could take back my intentions, I would.  I wish I was just riding through on the off chance of seeing you in the rain.”  She had leaned back so he wouldn’t touch her, “You can’t.”

Arthur reeled his hand back in defeat, “I can’t.”  Nothing but dead silence was shared between the two.

The woman, still angry, turned on her heel to walk back towards their campsite, leaving Arthur all alone.  The closer she got to the fire the more Maeve didn’t want to be there. Hosea would ask where Arthur was.  Worst of all he would see the expression on her face and question that, but not just him. John would too.  Maeve glanced off to the side where some trees were was a shack, a place that fishers could set up their reels, leave some supplies, or just hide from the sun for a bit.

She decided to walk up there, to hide in until everyone was sleeping.  When she entered the shack, it couldn’t have been bigger than an Uncle laying down along and across the floor boards.  A beaten-up table was pushed against the wall and a broken chair was tucked under it. As far as supplies goes, there was an old bucket that reeked of fish and some rusty hooks were scattered around. Maeve plucked the hooks on the table, tossing them in the bucket then tossed that outside.

She sat in the chair and pulled her journal out from her saddle bag, beginning to write in it.  Hosea said she needed to find her reason to live, Maeve couldn’t think of anything better than taking the lives of the ones that ruined hers.  She wrote down Mike and Phil Bollard at the top of her ‘list’. Followed after it was a man named Bob, the gang member that escaped with the twins that night. She was going to find these men, find them and put her through the same misery they did to her.

Before she could write anymore there was a knock at the door to this shack.  Maeve stood up and shut the journal to open it up, “John?”

He placed his forearm against the doorframe to lean on it, “I’d ask what you’re doing in a smelly shack, but you’ve been doing questionable things lately I figured it’s best I don’t ask.”

“What do you want?” Maeve said staring at him.  He then went to slip his slender self through the woman and the door, “I just wanna talk.”

“You could have done that a few nights ago,” Maeve reminded him.  John gritted his teeth, “Yeah, that’s actually what I wanted to talk about. Why I didn’t.”  She stared at him waiting for him to explain, “Abigail just wouldn’t stop her hollering at me over you.  Saying how you were gonna pay for all the trouble you’ve caused our family. I only stayed back so she wouldn’t start anymore of her shit.”

Maeve rolled her eyes, “Well, don’t think I’m just gonna take whatever she can some up with.”  John shook his head, “I’d expect no less.”

After a moment of quiet John felt he needed to get out something, he’s been wanting to say for a while, “Truth is, since you’ve been back in my life, I’m starting to feel everything we had back when were together in Blackwater.  It’s not doing what’s right to Abigail and Jack, thinking about being with you,” John continued, “I’ve never been no saint, but I did want to try with them again after seeing how wholesome you and your family were.  I wanted that.”

Maeve felt her heart being stabbed at their memory, “John—”

“I’m not done,” Maeve nodded so he can finish, “I thought it should be with them, but Mae—I want that with you instead.” Her mouth parted open, “You’re the only person I ever felt I can be free with.  I didn’t have to be a certain person for you.  And I know you still have some feelings for me.”

He was staring at her, deeply into her brown orbs, “I mean why else did you want to sit by me at the campfire?  Why else did you lie for me when I begged you? Or even ask me to come along today?”

John was getting closer to Maeve now who backed up against the table, “Mae, I’m tired of denying what we have.  Aren’t you?”

Maeve bit her bottom lip, “John, we— how can we ever come back from that?  You did what you did.”

John reached his hands up to hold the sides of her face in a gentle manner, “I’m doing this now,” he leaned in to press his lips to hers.  Maeve’s hands gripped the edge of the table out of surprise, but she took it all in.  This kiss was something she wanted so much from the day he left.

She had pulled her head back to look at John, as if giving him one last warning, “Don’t make me do this, John.”

He shook his head, “Do what? I’m not makin’ you do anything.” John was praying she wouldn’t leave again.

“This,” her hands caressed the sides of his face as she placed a soft kiss on his lips now.  He went to grip her by her waist, to hold her in place during their passionate kissing, just like how they used to.

[namesonboats]

Finished! Epilogue posted. Thanks to everyone who has read and interacted with me!

I had a dream tonight. I was at the homestead, dipping my hand in the lake. A whitetail buck was on the other side of the shore, drinking from the waters. He lifted his head and stared into my eyes for a moment before he left without looking back.

[drinkinggblood]

You're a ghost You pass through me You're here, then you're gone I can see you from the corner of my eye.

based on this post

[nataliabdraws]

Since you all seemed to like my last Ramona and Arthur art here are more!! They are so fun to draw

[elesketchii]

buurp self indulgent art time! shoving the big tough man adopts reckless teenage girl trope in your face rn

[agender-wolfie]

Guys. Stop tagging your OC stories as X reader. It’s hard to sift through and I don’t go to the x reader tag for OC’s I don’t care about .

[wallbang-buzzkill]

yeehaw'gust day 4: strange hoofbeats

[readingcoco]

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 3444 words

Ao3 Link

Summary: When a new sandy-haired Deputy Sheriff arrives in town, you can't figure out why he gives you and the other Working Girls so little attention. It becomes your mission to figure him out and hopefully make some money along the way.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, eventual smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honor Arthur Morgan, angst, mutual pining, Deputy Callahan.

Thanks to @rivetingrosie4, @redwritr & @shootybangbang for all your help on this story and for being dreamy angels.

Chapter One - The Deputy

[chapter 2]

“Guess who’s downstairs!” a voice interrupts from behind your door. 

The autumn sun sits heavy in the sky, casting a warm pink haze that spills in through your bedroom window. You were supposed to start your shift an hour ago, but instead, you are here, sprawled out on your bed, hair undone, counting the money from the evening before. Muffled notes from the piano downstairs drift softly into your room. You inhale deeply on your cigarette, resenting all things that pull you away from these precious sleepy moments before you have to head downstairs. Make conversation. Smile. Perform.

Timekeeping has never been your strong suit, and you have lost count of the times Lulu had threatened to dock your tips for tardiness. These were empty threats, of course. You knew your position was secure - Even if Lulu liked to kick up a fuss in front of the other girls. 

Brow furrowed, you take another drag from your cigarette. $15. $75 total from the week so far. Money hadn’t been flowing as freely as it had done seasons past. The drought had hit everyone hard, and you knew, sure enough, if the boys were feeling it in the tobacco fields, it wouldn’t be long till you were feeling it in the cat house, too. Seemed everyone was praying for rain. Still, Saturday meant full pay packets and men eager to let loose after the working week - something you were more than happy to help them with.

“Who!?” you call out, just as Minnie peeps her head around your door.

“Christ! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge ass backwards! Lulu’s been askin' after you?” 

You hum in response, dragging a comb through the bird's nest atop your head sweeping it up into a loose bun. “Who's got you all giddy? Surely not some John?”

“That new Deputy’s back!”

You roll your eyes. “How big’s the pot now?”

“$5. $5.25, if you still fancy your chances”, Minnie smirks, perching herself at the foot of your bed, watching as you put the last of your face on. “but Ida says she’s out. She don’t wanna waste more time on a Trick who don’t want tricking.” 

“Tricks always want to be tricked,” you say, rooting through the collection of bills and coins laid out haphazardly across your bed, handing Minnie 25¢, which she slips into her coin purse.

Men were mostly the same. Sure, some might pretend to be respectable in the streets with their wives or taking their mothers to church on a Sunday, but you’d had every colour and creed between your legs. This deputy would be no different, and you were going to relish claiming the prize pot for yourself. 

With a final drag of your cigarette, you smooth out your skirts and collect the pile of money on your bed, stashing it in your linen drawer - making a mental note to deposit it in the parlour safe before the night was out. Keeping that much money in your room is foolish, and if you were more sensible, you would deposit your tips between each John. But then you’d miss out on watching the pile grow. Evidence of your labour, your time, your craft. It wasn't like you worried you wouldn’t get it back as soon as requested - Lulu’d always been good about things like that, but to hand it over before you’d even had the chance to feel the paper fully in your palm seemed like it would make it less real somehow. 

You turn to Minnie-

“You ready?”

“Girl, I’ve been waiting on you!”

“Let’s give that deputy the night of his life.”

-

Although the sun is yet to set in the sky, the house is already live with music and laughter, the mezzanine balcony providing the perfect vantage point to assess what the evening might have in store. There are men fresh from the fields playing Faro, Lemoyne Raiders several whiskeys deep, a few of the younger, more boisterous Grays and the creepy gunsmith, Mister Feeney. Not amazing pickings, but not dire either. Then you spot him, sitting quietly on the table closest to the door, hat pulled low, scribbling something furiously into some book. An odd sight, all considered. You weren’t sure most of the men in this town could read, let alone write. 

Minnie squeezes your arm before descending the spiralled staircase, the Deputy firmly in her sights. You lean back to watch as she glides effortlessly across the room—a vision in teal silk taffeta. 

As you settle onto your hip, the fine hairs on your neck abruptly stand to attention as the air pressure changes behind you. 

“So kind of you to grace us with your presence.” Lulu’s voice drips thick with syrupy disdain. Smile remaining tight. Never in front of the guests.

“Punctuality is a virtue of the bored, Miss Lulu.” You smile sweetly. 

She’s not impressed.

“Just get to work. Make Some Money.” 

As you look back down to the floor below, a dispirited Minnie is walking away from the Deputy, his nose still firmly in his book. You bristle slightly. Did this man think himself better than the women who worked here? Sure, he was paying for drinks, but a man could drink at home if he was looking for solitude. In a parlour house, it was polite, proper even, to tip the girls, whether you require our services or not. And if the deputy didn’t know this etiquette, you were more than happy to educate him. Prize pot be damned.

It was your turn to make the night’s debut down the curve of the parlour’s stairs, something that on an ordinary night, you liked to draw out for as long as possible. Feel the eyes of each man gaze up at your form like they were watching a goddess descending from heaven, blessing them with your time. True power. But tonight, it takes everything in you not to stomp down the last few steps onto the floor. 

That cad still isn’t paying you a lick of attention. 

“Deputy.” Your voice comes out curter than you intend as you reach him. You hope Lulu isn’t close enough to overhear. 

“Maybe another time, Darlin” " the man responds without looking up. 

Make conversation.

“Deputy” You try again. “Are you aware of the price on your head?” 

The sound of pencil scratching comes to a halt as he turns to face you. To your surprise, you notice that he was drawing rather than writing as he snaps the leather-bound book shut—the sound startling your gaze upwards to meet his own. And for the first time, you take in the scale of the man. Built like an Ox with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, upon which the words ‘Deputy Sheriff’ shine out from his silver badge. From this proximity, he looks unlike any lawman you’ve seen. 

He watches you intently as though trying to predict your next move - eyes a piercing shade of azure blue, locked dangerously onto your own. You have his full attention, but now you’re unsure if you want it. 

“Excuse me?”

You swallow and try to make your next words lighter in tone.

Smile.

“Nearly five and a half dollars, in fact.” 

His shoulders loosen ever so slightly. Eyes still on you but less predacious, perhaps even the suggestion of a smirk beginning to form at the corner of his mouth. 

“Five and a half dollars? That’s some bounty. What I do, rob a bank?”

“Worse,” 

He rubs his jaw.

“Oh?” 

“You got five whores questioning our faculties. There’s a sweep on which lucky lady’s gonna be the first to get you upstairs, but so far, no one’s got as far as your name.”  

A low rasp of a laugh passes the Deputy’s lips, and you feel a sense of relief as the danger in the air dissipates. Bluntness- this man responds to bluntness. And you wonder if you can hold his attention long enough to work your magic.

Perform.

“There are normally two reasons a man mightn’t want to lay with a girl like me…” 

You pause for effect, starting to have fun now.

“He’s broke. Though that don’t stop most from pushin’ their luck. Or they’re queer.” 

The Deputy straightens and clears his throat. There is something delightful about making a man like this squirm, and you can’t help but sense that he may be enjoying it too. 

“So which is it, Deputy?” 

You give him your most innocent of smiles. Hand finding purchase upon the swell of his shoulder, knowing full well that its removal could signal the latter of your accusations. You are being cruel now.

There is a moment of hesitation before the man can find the words to respond. Your unassuming smile not giving him an inch of wiggle room. Thumb beginning to make slow circles atop his shirt.

“I-It’s just not really my thing. Payin' for it, I mean. Not that I can’t, or - or-”  

“Oh? There’s some third thing I ain’t privy to? A sweetheart somewhere you’re keeping true for?”

“Not really, no.” 

A hint of regret in his voice.

“Then why deny yourself a bit of company?”

You notice the tips of his ears turn pink and leave his lack of an answer to hang in the air for a moment before taking pity-

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasin’, but you ought to know it’s customary to buy a girl a drink, even if you ain’t planning on laying with her. We all have to make a living, Deputy, and this is my house.” 

And you're not sure if it’s out of a sense of gratitude at you relenting your line of questioning or because he has started to enjoy the warmth from your hand on his shoulder, but that’s when he motions for the barkeeper to bring two drinks over to the table. 

Your eyes dart over to Minnie, who is sat between two Grays. She throws you an encouraging wink, and you become keenly aware of the four other sets of eyes watching too. This is the furthest any of you has got with this man, and a wave of responsibility washes over you. You are going to earn that $5.25 plus the additional $5 when he fucks you. You feel foolish for ever doubting your ability in the first place. A man is a man, is a man.

“Ethel White”, you hold out your hand “but call me Ettie.” 

“Arthur Callahan.” 

Arthur.

He nods to the chair across from him as he removes the leather book from the table and puts it away in his satchel. You pull out the chair next to him instead, purposefully pinning him between you and the wall. 

“Christ woman, you ain’t coy, are you?” he laughs, removing his hat, revealing a sandy crop of hair. 

Without his hat, you are better able to take in the details of his face: the strong brow, the crook of a nose broken one too many times, a smattering of sunspots across his crown. Quite handsome, you think to yourself, a welcome change from the interchangeable looks of the Grays or Braithwaites who make up the bulk of your clientele. 

“Not at all,” you smirk. “Besides, I want to take a look at what you were scribbling away at in that book. Must be awfully interesting to hold your attention so well.” You glance down at the journal now peeking out the top of his satchel. “Is that watercolour paper?”

“Huh?” 

“Watercolour paper, you know, to stop the paint seeping through and spoiling the rest of the pages? I saw you were drawing and-” 

He looks at you then, and you can see a slight flicker of shame cross his face momentarily. The feeling of someone pointing out the unfamiliar to a previously known thing, changing it somehow, making it less your own. You feel guilty. Watching him squirm was fun, but you never intended to make him feel foolish. 

“I don’t paint. It’s for sketching mostly, keepin' track of the people and places I’ve been.” 

“You do a lot of travelling, Deputy?” 

“A bit.” 

That instinct again, that there is more to this man than meets the eye. The lawman artist a walking contradiction.

“What do you paint then?” 

His question catches you off guard. Men like to be asked about themselves. They rarely ever show interest in you. A prick of heat flushes across your cheeks, and you hope the rouge of false abashment covers its authentic companion. It’s you who is in control here - not him, goddammit. But his face is filled with genuine curiosity, like he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t interested, and that’s what puzzles you further. 

“Um, landscapes mostly, but I prefer painting people.” The words spill out before a filter of allurement or double entendre can be applied. “It’s just difficult to get people to sit for any length of time. Though I’ve painted all the girls here at some point or another.”

“Where’d ya learn?”

And that is a question too far. 

You’d been gifted a great many things over the years, some thoughtful, most not, and learned the hard way how easily something given could be taken away. You’re art though, no one could take that. You wondered sometimes if that had been an oversight when you’d been promised lessons. The techniques acquired the only remaining thing worth a damn apart from your horse. Leftovers from another life.

“Don’t change the subject, Deputy. Are you going to show me your sketches or not?” Before you can stop yourself, you are leaning over him to grab at his satchel, totally aware that the danger this man displayed to you only moments earlier still lies just below the surface. With lightning-quick reflexes, he grabs the wrist of your right hand, firm in his warning. Do not push me, girl. But you have never been one to know when to stop. Your eyes are locked onto him as your breath comes in quick and heavy to your chest; You notice his start to slow. He’s read you like a book. Left hand spearing from under the table to meet your secondary attack, pinning it against his thigh. 

You look down at your fingers splayed out under the weight of his own. Knuckles scarred and calloused from a lifetime of work not typically required by law enforcement. The warmth from his thigh radiates beneath your palm, and it takes everything in you not to edge your fingers closer to the source of his heat. 

He meets you with an expression you struggle to place. Not anger - though you couldn’t blame him if it was. Amusement maybe?

“Think careful about your next move now, Miss. I wouldn't want to have to arrest you for larceny.”

You give him your widest of smiles and look carefully over your shoulder behind you. And as though suddenly clocking the inference of your shared position, Arthur lowers your right hand so it rests on the table rather than in the air. The grip still firm.

“If I let you go, will you behave?” 

“Will you show me your drawings?” 

“Woman-” But he doesn’t say no. 

“I’ll behave.” 

He looks at you, trying to figure out whether he trusts you.

“I promise.”

Gaze still set, he experiments loosening the grip on your wrist and then shadows the hand on his thigh - awaiting any sudden movements. You hold still. And for a moment, you see him grapple with himself as though he can’t quite believe what he is about to do. He releases you fully, and you take back your right hand, leaving your left firmly in place.  

“Now, if I show you, you gotta promise not to go grabbin'? There’s stuff a man should be able to keep private.” 

You nod.

He grins as he bucks his thigh, dislodging your rooted palm. 

“Hands behind your back.” 

With a playful huff you acquiesce, putting both arms behind you as though bound and look back at him coquettishly. And although he feigns disinterest at the way this new position pushes forward the peak of your chest, you catch his eyes dart across them, guilty in their haste. 

He removes the leather-bound journal from his satchel, smoothing open two pages carefully on the table. 

“Here. But that’s your lot.”

Spread across both pages is a beautifully rendered sketch of the parlour’s exterior, and you don’t know how to react. He stiffens slightly beside you. 

“Just a silly doodle,” he says, moving to close the book. Clearly reading your quietness for disappointment, disgust, something else?

“Wait-” 

To see the parlour captured in such effortless detail; The ornate carvings of the porch where you take your morning coffee, the Virginia Creeper that had to be cut back for fear it’d engulf the entire house, the hanging baskets of petunias that Lulu so lovingly tended to - feels exposing in a way you’d not expected. What other unnoticed minutiae had his perceptive eyes picked up on?

“It’s beautiful. You’ve captured it just right.” You half-whisper.

“Ain’t as good as a paintin’.”

“Different thing entirely, but if you can draw like this, I’m sure you’d make a fine painter.”

He gives you the smallest of smiles as you catch sight of Lulu’s permeating glare as she sweeps down the central staircase. You are on the clock. If he’s not biting, move on. And you remember you are not here to discuss painting or art unless it serves your more explicit purpose.

“See that top window at the back?” You make sure to graze his arm as you remove one hand from behind your back, bringing it slowly to the open page.

“That’s my bedroom.” 

“Oh?”

“Might you like to come up and see some of my work?”

You can see him contemplating the thought over in his mind, and you start to wonder if there really is some poor woman he is betrothed to… or perhaps your prior insinuation was correct, for you have never met a man so ill at ease at being in close proximity to a woman-

“Mister Callahan!” 

You are both pulled away from each other's gaze as you turn to face your intruder. Sheriff Gray. And you are up and on your feet in an instant. Eyes twinkling with faux excitement to welcome this invader of fun, spoiler of all things delightful and new. Arthur straightens to attention. 

“I see you’ve met Ettie. Ain’t she a peach? I hope she’s been treatin’ you with all the hospitality we here at Rhodes can offer.” As he slurs his words, it is clear he’s already halfway soaked and once again, you feel Lulu’s watchful eyes on the back of your neck. You have a responsibility to your house, and Sheriff Gray isn’t any regular John. To keep him placated is to keep the house protected, and it is your duty to ensure the Sheriff remains happy and drunk, coddled and empty. 

“Oh, stop it!” You coo in his ear, wrapping your arm up tightly in his. Voice layered thick with honey.

The shine on his breath hits like a train, bringing tears to your eyes that you mask by nuzzling your head to his shoulder. He sags heavy on your hip, oblivious. 

“You didn’t tell me you’d hired such a handsome new Deputy-'' 

Arthur shifts in his seat, and you wonder what detail of your performance his observant eyes have picked up on. 

“You keepin’ secrets from me, Sheriff? Or do you just want me all to yourself?” 

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.” Sheriff Gray hiccups and turns to face Arthur. “Do you mind if I accompany the lady upstairs?” 

Arthur stands, towering over the Sheriff by quite some measure and places his hat back atop his head. 

“Course not. You both enjoy your evening. I’ve to be headin' back anyway.”

For a second, your eyes meet Arthur’s, but his expression is impenetrable. The Sheriff speaks again.

“Safe travels, Deputy. Rhodes is honoured to have such honest men like you and Mr Mackintosh about. Your work rootin’ out that shine is already being felt around the county.”

Arthur nods. The effects of the shine are certainly being felt.

He hiccups again. “Don’t be a stranger, now.” 

“Don’t be a stranger.” You repeat, all traces of the sickly sweet affect gone from your voice. You yip as the Sheriff swats your backside, but you keep your head high, eyes still held on this curious lawman artist. 

Don’t be a stranger.

“Miss.” Deputy Callahan touches the brim of his hat as you lead Sheriff Gray upstairs to your room.

[gemini-forest]

Collab with @hatchi-matchii

Arthur as a dad vs John as a dad

[shootybangbang]

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns. 

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

[drizzledrawings]

Cowboys are often secretly fond of each other

[bornwholocker]

I know I should have some semblance of consistency in what I post but also I don’t care very much

[namesonboats]

Chapter update! (Ao3 link)

“Have you considered, miss, that a mere infatuation isn’t going to separate him from the people he’s been with for twenty years?” He placed his fingertips on his chest. “Now, I care for Arthur like a son.”

She dug her nails into her palms. Oh, he kept saying that. Only words and no action to prove it.

“Be fair, Mr. Van Der Linde. He gave you his youth. Give me the rest of his life.”

His expression softened. He held out his arms in a disarming gesture.

“Of course, Miss Wikander. I will give you my blessing. I only need him for one last job.”

[rdrshootist]

Smiley Arthur for a wonderful weekend <33