#morgan The Clerk

[crittrscorner]

dog i love left of the dial so much .the juxtaposition of season 3 being about losing your humanity in the pursuit of knowledge and power and fitting into a place you never expected to fit into and left of the dial being about regaining part of that humanity through the power of human (or partially human) connection and community and how love can really actually change the world in spite of all the existential dread happening . also how road trips are a love language shut the fuck up i'm breaking all of my fingers and toes and ripping my hair out screaming

[cactuscas]

chris, nicholas, static man, and morgan oh my !

(s3/lotd archive 81 gang)

closeups under the cut

[gawrkin]

Philosophia et septem artes liberales, "philosophy and the seven liberal arts." From the Hortus deliciarum of Herrad of Landsberg (12th century)

[valeriestahl]

last line challenge oooh :)

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words. Or as many as you feel like. tagged by @avocado-moon and @ivygrowingsideways

“Devoted?” Static Man said. “Ha! Being ritually tied to the man is not the same thing.”

“Loyalty is loyalty. Loyalty breeds loyalty.” Nicholas stared blankly ahead at the road. He loathed the conversation, but he couldn’t argue; there was a part of him, now, a dead, heavy part of him, that knew she was right. He sometimes felt he knew Morgan intimately, that he’d met her in some other realm, some other timeline, and could have entwined his life with hers. She knew him with an immediacy that frightened him. It had taken years to hit that place with Static Man. He still sometimes doubted they were there.

“Yeah, he’s my friend,” Static Man said, like it was a given. “I mean, he’s a shit one sometimes, but all in all - one thing doesn’t, you know, mean the other thing…isn’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Nicholas said. The road stretched on endlessly. He vaguely wondered if it was smart, to just trust the process, or if they were going to just keep driving.

i also refuse to just post one line. i also have no one who comes to mind to tag. anyone ever taken part in art before? hm?

[hihomeghere]

Fakin' it | Arthur Morgan/Reader

Word Count : 3k Summary : After a botched robbery, Arthur and you take refuge in a hotel, hiding from the O'Driscolls outside your door. When they do decide to search for you two, how will you throw them off your track? Warnings/Tags : Enemies to lovers <3, unprotected piv sex, guns, cursing, reader has female gentailia, fingering, one bed, fake marriage

Of course the job that went bad had to be with Arthur. Why Dutch had put you two together was beyond you. Everyone around the gang knew that it was volatile anytime you two were together. But, you were cunning, quick minded in a pinch. Arthur was strong, easily able to take down a man twice his size, not that someone of that caliber came along often. To put it simply, you were the brains, he was the brawn. As much as you hated to admit, you made a good team on jobs. This time however, a simple robbery had turned into dozens of O’driscolls around every corner. You two had barely made it into a hotel unscathed. 

“One room.” Arthur said, setting down some coins on the table top as you watched the door. Your hand resting against your gun in your dress pocket.

“Name?” The man asked with a smile.

“Callahan.” Arthur said looking back at you. “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.” He said, turning back to the clerk. You heard footsteps outside of the hotel, you turned quickly grabbing Arthur’s arm.

“Sweetheart.” You cooed, internally cringing as you called him by that name. You looked at him with wide eyes, “Come on.” You said with a nervous smile.

“We’re newlyweds, a bit excited if you can’t tell.” He chuckled, turning back to the clerk, his arm wrapping around your waist.

“Of course.” The clerk said with a knowing smile, you wanted to barf as Arthur squeezed your waist. “Up the stairs to the left.” He said, handing Arthur a key.

“Much appreciated.” Arthur said his hand on the small of your back as you two climbed the stairs. As soon as you turned the corner you nearly ran to the door, Arthur slid the key in the lock and turned it, ushering you inside. As soon as the door was closed behind you, he was locking it just as fast. 

Once you got in the room you moved away from Arthur’s side, letting out a sigh as you looked around the room. One bed, of course, you two were acting as a couple.

“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, really?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you turned to look at Arthur. 

“Less eyes on us if we’re a couple, not cause I wanna play house with you.” He said with a grunt, barely raising his head to look at you. He walked over to the bed, moving to take his boots off.

“Less eyes.” You scoffed, looking around the room, walking over to the window. You pulled the blinds back, peeking out to the streets below. 

“The hell you think you're doing?” Arthur hissed, his hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Looking.” You said glaring up at him. “Is that a crime?”

“Do you want to give away our position?” He growled, his eyes dark.

“I think it’s pretty damn clear we’re in one of these shops, now we have to wait it out until they’re gone.” You said pulling away your arm from his grasp. He let out a deep breath, his jaw clenched as he looked away from you.

“How many are out there?” He asked, holding his hat as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know, maybe a dozen?” You said crossing your arms.

“Dutch said to keep a low profile,” He muttered to himself, “We can’t go out there guns blazing.” He said, setting his hat down on the bedside table. 

“That’s obvious.” You said, shaking your head. He scoffed, looking up at you.

“Are you trying to piss me off, or is that just one of your special talents?” Arthur said glaring at you.

“Oh I have lots of talents.” You say, stepping closer a scowl on your face. 

“If only one of them was keeping your mouth shut.” He growled. 

“God, what is your problem?” You huff looking away from him.

“My problem?” He scoffs getting up from the bed. “You’re my problem." He said, his chest almost touching yours as you looked up at him.

“Feelings mutual.” You huff, glaring up at him. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as you walked away from him. 

“We’re gonna have to wait it out.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The hell are we gonna do?” You asked throwing your hands up. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna take advantage of this bed.” He said laying back down on the bed, placing his hat over his face. You bit your cheek looking at him as he crossed his legs. He did have a point, the bed looked a whole lot softer than your cot back at camp. You mulled it over for a second before sitting down on the edge of the bed. You unlaced your boots, laying back on the bed. Your eyes quickly drew heavy, the adrenaline of the chase finally wearing off. 

The sun was setting when you woke up, the light slowly disappearing behind the horizon. The room was quiet except for Arthur’s breathing. You sat up in bed, looking over at him. His hat had fallen off his face when he rolled over sometime during his sleep. He looked so peaceful when he slept, it was like seeing a completely different side of him. It’s at this moment you really appreciate how beautiful Arthur truly is. The bridge of his nose is high, broken one too many times. His plump lips parted slightly, like two petals. His sandy brown hair falling over his forehead. 

You wanted to reach out and move it out of his face, but thought better of it. You didn’t want to disturb him and it wasn’t often that you saw him without a furrowed brow. 

Just as you were laying back down you heard heavy footsteps up the stairs. By your guess, four, maybe five men. You sit up quietly, feeling your heart pound against your rib cage. Arthur sprang up in bed as soon as they kicked open the first door. They must have turned right when they went up the stairs. The yell of shock sounded farther down the hall. He turned to you, his eyes wide. He reached for his gun belt on the floor but you stopped him. Your brain was running through all the situations. Four or five men, sure you and Arthur could take them, but that’s not exactly a low profile. 

Against your better judgment you picked the solution with the least amount of bloodshed. You swung your leg over Arthur’s waist.

“The hell are you doing-“ Arthur hissed before you covered his mouth with your hand. Your fingers started working on the buttons of your blouse as you rolled your hips forward. Arthur looked up at you with a wide eyed expression, his bright eyes frantically moving between his gun belt on the floor and the door. His stubble lightly scratched your palm as you held your hand over his mouth, his plump lips almost kissing your palm.

You forced a high pitched moan as you moved your hips faster on the bed, the bedframe hitting the wall. Creating the illusion you two were having sex.

The gears slowly started to turn in Arthur’s mind, his hands gripping your hips as he propelled you faster. The bedframe was now rocking against the wall, as you pulled your arms out of your blouse, leaving your chest bare. Your nipples hardened from the cold air as goosebumps sprung up on your skin. Arthur’s eyes were closed as he turned his head, forcing a low groan. Although you knew his groans were fake, the way his body reacted to your touch was more than real. You kept up with your moans, trying to put on a good enough show.

The door was soon forced open, as two O’Driscolls entered  the room with their guns raised. You scream, Arthur is quick to pull your chest down to his. You were pressed tight against him, his warm hands keeping you flush against him, all of him. His work shirt rubs against your nipples in such a fucking delicious way, it doesn’t help tbe adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t see anything, your head buried into Arthur’s neck, his stubble now rubbing against your cheek.

“Get the hell out of here!” Arthur yells, hidden by your upper half.

One of them clears their throat before exiting the room, closing the door behind them. You hold your breath waiting for their footsteps to retreat down the hallway. You let out a sigh of relief as they meet back up with the other men, walking down the stairs.

Hesitantly Arthur moves his hands off your back, you sit up covering your breasts with your arms. Arthur, however, was staring up towards the ceiling. His jaw clenched as he avoided looking at you.

You moved off of his waist, grabbing your blouse before slipping your arms through the sleeves. You buttoned it up, swallowing thickly as Arthur cleared his throat. 

“Now uh-“ Arthur said letting out a sigh, “I want you to know that I didn’t see nothin’.” The bed whines slightly as he stands up. 

“I know you felt something.” You said, shaking your head as you blush from head to toe. 

“Now-“ Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair as you turned to face him, his eyes flicking around the room before settling at your feet as he held up his hand. “We can just pretend this never happened, it was a matter of life and death.”

“I understand that.” You looked at him, fully looked at him. His gaze was low, his chest rising and falling quickly, his cheeks flushed. God, he looks wrecked.

Your eyes trailed over his body as he stood there, his hand on his hip as he popped his knee out. Your eyes moved down further, almost popping out of your head as you see how painfully hard he is pressed against his pants. 

“Are you-“ The words fall out of your mouth before you can think to stop them.

“Jesus.” Arthur sighed looking down, his hand rubbing his eyebrows.

“You are.” A nervous chuckle leaves your mouth as your eyes trailed up and down his body. You felt heat begin to spread between your thighs as he met your eyes. Your heart is still pounding against your rib cage from the encounter with the O’Driscolls. 

“I’m-“ He started throwing his hands up, “I’m sorry, alright but you can’t expect me- I’m only a man.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Nothing to be ashamed-“ He cut you off, shaking his head, “There is plenty to be ashamed of, I shouldn’t be getting so… so worked up over you.” He said motioning to you. You couldn’t help that you were also getting worked up, you subtly rubbed your thighs together. Trying to get any friction where you needed it most. Heat bloomed in your stomach as the tension in the room only got worse. He furrowed his brows, studying you.

“Wait,” He chuckled, shaking his head, “You feel it too.” He said, crossing his arms.

You scoffed, looking off to the side. “You wish.” You said, hating the slight tremor in your voice. Arthur strode across the room, stopping in front of you. He reached towards you, tilting your chin so you would have to look at him. 

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He said softly, his other arm encircling your waist pulling you flush against him. You stayed silent, looking up into his blue eyes. Slowly a smirk worked its way onto his face, “That’s what I thought.” He chuckled, cupping your cheek. He leaned forward brushing his nose against yours. Giving you the option to pull away if you wanted, his eyes softening as he looked into yours. You took the plunge, capturing his lips against your own as you threaded your fingers through his hair.

A groan rumbled through his chest as his hand tightened around your waist. You felt dizzy as his lips moved against yours, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth allowing his access as he pressed into you deeper. He rubbed himself against you, his hips pressed against your lower belly. 

You pulled away, breathing hard as you looked up at him. His face was flushed, his mouth parted slightly as his chest rose and fell rapidly. You unbuttoned your blouse for the second time, just as feverishly as the first time, but now for a completely different reason. Arthur followed your lead, pushing his own suspenders down, his skillful fingers unbuttoning his own shirt. His eyes returned to your body as he ripped his shirt off of his shoulders, settling onto your breasts. He stared down at you, an almost predatory expression on his face. He closed the distance between you, his hand wrapping around your waist as the other kneaded your breast. You let out a soft gasp, which quickly turned to a moan as he ran his thumb over your perk nipple. 

“Arthur.” He stared down at you, his eyes darkening as he watched you shiver against him. He flipped you around, his hand pressing you down onto the bed. His other hand flipped your skirts up, before pulling down your underclothes. He let out a soft groan as his eyes connected with your almost dripping pussy.

“This all for me?” He cooed, swiping his finger through your folds. You gasped, nodding as your hands gripped the quilt. 

“Yes.” You breathed, “Yes all for you.”

“Good girl.” You could hear the smirk in his voice as he sunk a finger into your heat. You gasped as he slowly started pumping his finger inside of you. He leaned over you, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “Yeah you like that don’t you?” He said nibbling on your earlobe. Your breath hitched in your throat as he added another finger, scissoring them inside your walls.

“Fuck Arthur.” You melwed, pressing your forehead against the slightly scratchy quilt underneath you. “I need you.” You huffed, your walls clenching around his fingers.

“I’m gettin’ there.” He chuckled, pulling his finger out of you, you sighed at the loss. You could hear the rustling of clothing behind you, the distinctive metal on metal as you pulled off his belt. His warm calloused hands ran up your backside, gently spreading you before the head of his cock met your entrance. 

Jesus Christ he was big. 

He spit into his palm, pulling away as he spread his spit over the head of his cock. 

“What the hell is taking so long?” You asked impatiently, turning your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, a wicked grin on his face as he forcefully shoved his cock through your folds. It was like all the air had been knocked out of your lungs as you were propelled forward onto the bed. His hands pulled your hips back and speared you onto his dick. 

“Arthur!” You yelped, your fingers gripping the quilt as he thrust his pelvis flush to yours. 

“Christ woman.” He groaned, laying his forehead against your bare back. You moan as he pulls his hips back before thrusting back into you. “You sound even better when you ain’t faking it.” You can feel the chuckle rumble through his chest more than you can hear it as he speaks. 

“Arthur, Jesus." You pant, almost drooling over the way his cock hits that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Mmm.” He moans, tight lipped as he tilts his head back. You push back against him, meeting every one of his thrusts “Yeah, atta girl.” His praise only spurred you on, your thighs shaking as you pushed your ass against his pelvis. “You close?” He whispered, his warm hand moving down your thigh between your legs. His thumb circling your clit was enough to send you over the edge. You were grateful your upper half was supported by the plush bed as your legs gave out under you. A high pitched moan worked its way out of your chest as you all but collapsed on the bed. Your walls fluttered around him, milking his cock. 

“Shit.” He panted his breath fanning on your back as his forearms caged you in, his hips stuttering as he released his seed inside you. He groaned, resting his forehead against your back as he collapsed on you. His sweaty chest sticking against your back. He pulled out of you, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He whispered. 

“S’okay.” You said breathing hard, his cum seeping down your thighs. He kissed down your spine, his hand lovingly squeezing your hips. 

He grabbed a towel from the dresser, cleaning your thighs off. 

“Who would have thought you’d known about aftercare.” You chuckle softly, your heart rate slowly coming back to normal.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me sweetheart.” He huffs, a small smirk on his face as he tucked himself back into his pants. He reached down, pulling your bloomers back up over your hips. 

“Oh yeah?” You chuckled, grabbing your blouse as he grabbed his shirt off the floor.

“Yeah, Mrs. Callahan.” He smirked walking towards you, buttoning his shirt as he stood in front of you. You rolled your eyes, buttoning your blouse. He wrapped his hand around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.” He said, his hand trailing down your jaw. 

“Alright, fine. Mr. Callahan.” You huffed, a blush covering your cheeks as you rested your hands against his broad chest. 

“Next time,” He tightened his grip on your hips, his lips against your ear, “You’re riding me.”

[twola]

Can we have something with possessive/jealous Arthur Morgan? I can never get enough of this plot.

or...something with a pregnant reader? I don't know, I'm in my fertile period. 🙂‍↔️

¿Porque no los dos? Here is a little one~

Seething

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

The match sizzles as it hits the water.

Arthur runs his hand down his face, blinking at the match sink under the lake’s surface, not even interested in the unlit cigarette between his fingers. He shoves it back into his satchel as he loosens a long, worried breath.

Of course - he had known that this was possible. That this could happen. That he could be this stupid again. The worried look on your face when you came to him. The darkness under your eyes. The slipping out of his cot in the early morning you’ve been doing the last couple of weeks.

God damnit, Morgan.

Thoughts of a young waitress and a sandy-haired boy invade his thoughts. Regret, anger, fear, they rage in his gut, a maelstrom of repressed emotion threatening to boil over.

“Leave me alone-”

Your voice cuts through his wallowing like a sharpened knife. Immediately, all sense of his nervousness and pensive thought are gone - replaced by a burning rage - who could be making you yell out like that, threatened, aggrieved? 

“Come on now - honey, you know you want a real man to keep you warm at night.” A slimy, rough voice echoes from the glen where Arthur is quickly moving to. He’s gotten his answer, and as his hand closes on the smooth grip of his revolver, a natural motion whenever he senses danger.

Micah stands far too close to you for any man’s liking, and you scowl up at him from where you have gotten up from your seat on a fallen tree trunk.

You narrow your eyes as his hand closes around your bicep, “Let go of me, Micah.”

Micah smirks, his grimy hand moving up toward your neckline, “Morgan’ll never know -”

Before you can raise your voice at him further, Micah is yanked away from you, his hand around your arm jolts you forward before he lets go, but not before your blouse tears at the shoulder, the seam ripping along your neckline. You yelp as you regain your footing and clutch at the fabric of your blouse, your chemise and the swell of your breast visible before you can scramble to cover yourself.

“Tha’ fuck-?” Micah yells as he is drawn backward in surprise. You stumble a few steps back, the shadowed figure who pulled Micah from you visible now in the afternoon light.

Arthur grabs Micah by the neck, throwing him to the ground with relative ease. Swinging his leg over Micah’s chest, he leans over the man and sneers as he tightens his grip around his throat.

“I ever see you come near her again, I will rip your goddamn throat out.” Arthur threatens, unconcerned as Micah begins to gasp and cough under his iron grip. “You hear that?”

“Morg- ack- Morgan..-” Micah struggles, his hands around Arthur’s forearm, but he cannot move the larger man atop him.

“Arthur-” 

Arthur looks up, his heart racing in the way that a job gets him going - the thrill of the hunt, the joy of the kill. 

You look horrified, clutching at your ripped shirt over your breast.

“Arthur, stop. I’m fine - he - he ain’t worth it.” You breathe out. Arthur scowls in return.

“We’re getting outta camp f’r the night. Come on.” He seethes, dropping Micah as the blonde man gasps for breath on the ground.

-

Arthur does not say a single word to you the entire ride into town. Not when he stomped back to your shared tent. Not when he readied his horse. Not when he lifted you onto the mare’s rump, not when you arrived in town at the hotel, not when he gruffly requested a room and tossed a few coins at the poor clerk. 

Not when he closes the door behind you.

“Arthur.” You finally work up the courage to confront him, your hands clenching the fabric of your skirt at your sides.

He lets out a long, aggravated breath before turning around, pulling that old leather gambler’s hat, and tossing it onto the dresser next to him. He steps closer to you, but again, does not speak.

“Arthur, talk to me.”

“I-...” His hand slowly floats forward to lightly lay upon your belly, the softest, smallest swell beneath your skirts. It’s barely there, but your lover - he knows, he knows the changes in your body. The rounding of your breasts, the thickening of your waist. That swell; cradled above your hips. His child, growing there within you.

“I’m alright.” You try to calm him, covering his hand with your own and pressing it to your belly, “Nothing happened, Arthur. It’s all okay.”

“He touched you. He touched you and you’re… you’re…” He seethes.

“I’m yours.” You breathe, understanding what it is he’s stumbling over getting out, “I’m yours, Arthur. I’m yours and we’re gonna have our baby and everythin’ is going to be okay.”

“Let me…” He whispers roughly, reaching toward the shawl you wrapped over your shoulders to cover your ripped blouse. You shrug the shawl from your frame as he pushes at it gently. 

You’re drawn into his embrace forcefully, yelping slightly before he crushes his lips to yours. Your hands finally land on his biceps, steadying yourself as you return the kiss. At some point, Arthur gets impatient, grunting into your mouth as you feel his hands pull at the ties of your skirts. The fabric flutters to the floor as you start to work your ruined blouse off, gasping as his mouth moves to your neck, nipping with his teeth slightly before he lets you go to undress yourself, the blouse joining your skirt in a pile on the floor. You kick your boots off.

You pull your chemise from your frame, over your head, and throw it aside, and push your bloomers down your hips until they too fall to the floor with the rest of your clothing.

Arthur’s eyes darken, and those huge hands of his reach toward your naked frame. Those hands that murder and maim and steal and shoot.  But you know, as wound tightly as he is right now, those hands of his would never touch you with anything but gentleness.

You’re right, of course, as the back of his pointer finger lightly brushes a lock of your long hair back over your shoulder before his big, warm hand cups one of your breasts. You let out a breath of relief as he squeezes gently, pressing his lips against your forehead.

His other hand smoothes gently over your belly, moving down to that thatch of hair at the apex of your hips, his fingers slipping between your legs and finding your core with all the practiced knowledge of a lover. 

A swipe of those fingers along the seam of your body and he bites his lower lip against a groan when he finds you wet. “C’mon, hows about you lay down in that bed?”

You nod, backing up a few steps to sit on the hotel bed, watching him start to unbutton his work shirt as he kicks his boots off. You lay down as he rids himself of his pants, of his union suit. All six feet of him, scarred and muscular, paces toward the bed, a man on a mission.

Your arms snake around his neck as he climbs on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms as he gently notches his cock between your folds. He has to stifle a growl at the gasp you make as his cockhead catches the rim of your cunt.

“Y’okay there?” Arthur rumbles, waiting for a response. You nod, opening your legs a little wider for him. He presses forward, the hot, hard inches of him sliding into your body - never forced, just enough pressure to make you throw your head back on the pillow.

Arthur doesn’t smother you, doesn’t plaster his larger body against yours as he usually does, keeping himself up on his forearms and bearing his weight on his knees. As much as he wants to pound into you, to stake his claim, to make you scream his name to prove to the world that you’re his - he doesn’t. He’s gentle, he’s slow.

You sigh contentedly as your fingers work through his hair, your hips moving in tandem with his as he thrusts into your heat. His heady, full rhythm has you nearing completion imminently.

Your heels dig into the base of his spine, and he knows you're about to come. Three more heaving thrusts and his name falls from your mouth as your orgasm licks up your spine, your hands clutching at him desperately as he rides out your high. He dips his head down next to yours and angles his hips downward, completely filling you, and one long exhale finds him releasing into you.

Moments pass, and in the room, the slowing of both of your breaths is the only sound

“All right now?” You pet his sweat-dampened hair before he grunts, extracting himself from you and laying on your side.

He doesn’t respond, not with words, at least.

You take his hand and press it against that soft, small swell of your belly as you close your eyes. You feel him moving next to you and when you feel his warm lips press upon your temple, you know, at least for now, he is all right.

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

Arthur Morgan x f!reader, wc: 2k, 18+

Summary: You and Arthur sneak away from camp to the nearest hotel in the city for both of your needs.

warnings: Porn without plot. Face sitting / riding, sub!Arthur at some points, Arthur jerks off while you sit on his face. Chapter 4!Arthur Morgan, hotel room fuckin’, ( Anyway, love a man who yearns for real )

Author’s note: very very short fic while I work on something that isn’t Arthur!! oml I’m sorry but I’ll forever be obsessed with this man. Also why is there no sub!Arthur fics on here y’all please work on that.

Getting away from camp seemed to be a challenge for you and Arthur, both of you Dutch’s own personal prized ponies. A bounty hunt was a good excuse for you and Morgan to go off alone though the two of you have already used the excuse a couple times before. There was no errands need to be ran, Dutch was still conjuring up his next job for you two, and unfortunately you couldn’t so simply say that you and Arthur were going to fuck. It was tasteless not only, but it was also smart for the two of you to keep your relations a secret.

Waiting for the hand of Arthur’s pocket watch was hell as you sat in his bedroom in the old plantation home, waiting with your nerves high for a good time to leave camp. One in the morning seemed far too early, by two everyone would be drunk…er than they already were, by three everyone would be uncaring to any noise surrounding them. The sound of you and Arthur’s heavy steps against the muddy ground or the sounds of your horses trotting away from the camp.

Once the right time came you and Arthur snuck out. Riding hard to the city, streetlights making the wet roads shine to lead a path to the hotel.

His warm hand held yours as you two checked in, his voice so confident now every time he’d tell the clerk a simple “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.” That fake last name he had been using for months now. The clerk knew who you two were, frequent visitors of the hotel of course.

This was turning into a common occurrence.

His hand moved to your lower back to guide you up the stairs of the hotel, his spurs jingling with every step he took. Now to the hallway, to unlocking your door with the keys.

Arthur was a man who’d strain himself every day to be the man in charge, using his hands to choke and beat, to steal and rob. Even now his knuckles were bruised with evidence of that fact. It’d make sense for a man like him to want– to crave to not be the boss some of the time, this seeped into his sex life with you.

Falling to his knees in front of you, his forehead pressed against your knee before he craned his head back at the feeling of your fingers running through his sandy waves. The man was mush for you, his legs buckled as he kneeled against the hardwood floor. His lips trailed to press firm kisses up your thigh, spreading your legs apart. His Adam’s apple bobbing with each hard, dry swallow of all the salvia building in his throat.

His body was burning up. Somehow eating you out always brought him more pleasure than you using your mouth on him. Though, you were real fuckin’ good at that. It was better to give than to receive.

“Princess.”

His voice sounded like a strangled whine as his palms soothed up your thighs. Those pretty eyes of his would stare up at you– his pupils so blown the blue of his irises could barely be seen especially in the low light of the oil lamp casted upon the room.

“Don’t go beggin’ now.”

You’d look down at him, your fingers raking along his scalp. The feeling of his almost impossibly soft lips trailing up and up underneath your skirt as he slowly pushed it up to your hips tightened the knot in your belly even more so than it already was. Needing the relief and release you’d only find through him.

His wicked tongue.

His touch was heavy handed down your legs, grabbing onto your ankles to gently guide your legs onto his shoulders, the mass and muscle providing your own personal rests.

He dipped one of his fingers underneath the white lace of your panties, running it down your slick slit, the act not only claiming a gasp from your lips but one from his own, his head dropping to the side of your thigh as he began rubbing your clit with the pad of his index.

“S’fuckin’– Soaked. M’don’t deserve this.”

The man was desperate, he couldn’t help the need in his voice.

It was slow, so achingly slow. You needed him on that bed with you. His poor knees didn’t need to be suffering against the uncomfortable hard floor for much longer anyway. You and Arthur had gotten to the point of being able to go unspoken, yet you had grown so fond of the speaking.

“Arthur,” You’d begin, your fingers curling in his locks tight as you pulled his head up and back, his eyes glossed over– he was practically salivating. “Get up here.”

You’d say you were just as needy as him but the way he looked at you told a different story, the man was desperate for it, so quick to act on your command he’d toss your legs off his shoulders, his hands grasping at your hips to lay you on the bed just for a moment, dragging your milk white stockings down your legs and off alongside your boots. A shallow breath left the back of his throat while he slid off your panties. Soaked. Now discarded to the floor.

He was entirely weak for you. He quickly got onto the bed, not bothering taking his clothes off– no need for that, he was here to please you. His spurs dug into the mattress as he laid on his back, his mind flooded with the thoughts of what he wanted, what he could do to please you.

He wanted to be at your mercy.

You would try to get the buckle of your belt unclasped, desperately trying to get your skirt off before you felt the touch of Arthur’s hand on your arm.

“No– no need.” He’d grit. “Come up ‘ere.”

Assuming that he meant his lap you’d crawl your way onto him, your skirt flowing over his thighs as you avoided sitting right on his gun belt he had kept on. His cock would twitch against your thigh, his head leaking an embarrassing amount of pre-cum into his pants, a wet spot so-barely noticeable against the front of his pants.

You felt his hands move up your thighs, his fingers massaging into the flesh. It wasn’t long before he tugged you up, your knees bent on either side of his head as you were above him.

“Oh fuck.” The words came out as a groan, so infatuated by the sight, the smell. It was clear what he wanted when his hands would try to get your hips down, the man was silently begging you to sit.

“Arthur, I don’t know if I–”

“No– no, please. Please.”

His begs took you aback a step, his words were so fucking breathless, his head dropping back against the pillow. “Please” Another plead from the back of his throat. It was quite impossible to resist. You allowed him to tug your hips down, his nose pressed against your clit.

With the first lick from his tongue your hands instinctively went to his hair. Tugging tightly before letting him seep fully under your skirt. Worshipping your cunt with every long lick from his tongue, his lips kissing your pussy over and over again. He’d be praising you, thanking you for giving him privilege to please you, every moan that came from him muffled into your flower. His tongue delving into your hole.

“Fuck!” You’d cry, fingers pulling so tightly on his waves as your cunt contracts around his tongue. You weren’t the only one in need of touch, so desperate your whole body was in tremors: So was Arthur.

His massive hand held tight on your waist, squeezing and groping your skin. Now his freehand was moving slowly down his own body, his chest rapidly rising then falling again, his middle inflating before going back to normal once again with every deep breath. Your eyes were shut tight, the moans falling from your slacked mouth were irreligious. Once his hand moved to his jeans he blindly unclasped his belt, tugging it off as his hips bucked up. Frantically, so fucking frantically he unbuttoned his pants, the material rubbing against his swollen dick was torturess in the sense, his toes curled in his leather boots once his cock sprung free, slapping up against his stomach.

He was helpless.

He wrapped his massive hand around the girth of his cock, his face stuffed between your thighs. Burying his face into your swollen folds to muffle his own needy whines, absolutely ungodly groans coming out of his employed mouth.

His hand slid up and down the length, squeezing the thickness of it, pre-cum dribbling into his fist. Your hand braced behind your back on his chest as the other remained tangled in his brunette hair. The feeling of his frantic breaths, his heart hammering against his ribs, you’d lift your hips a bit trying to provide some air for the man beneath you– his hand immediately forcing you back down.

“Arthur! M’so fucking close–”

“Mhm.”

His hum vibrated against your pussy as you rode his mouth, he was desperate, praying to taste your sweet release. His hips violently bucking into his own fist as your sopping hole clamped around his tongue. The twisting in your tummy told you that your orgasm was around the corner, your body aching for the climax

Arthur’s as well.

The man had a gift of eating pussy, he could be suffocating in the wetness, your slick pink folds pressed against his face, he’d pass out before he tapped out. He was only a man.

The sloppy sounds of Morgan’s mouth lapping at your slickness was the last thing you heard before your own loud noise– your jaw slacking as you let out a ripping moan as the knot in your pelvis untied. Riding out your orgasm on his face.

His balls tightened up as his own orgasm hit him, his load spurting over his fist as his legs kicked out against the bed. You hadn’t even notice your poor man had been jerking his own cock til’ the moment in play, your legs shook as you got off his face, dropping down on the bed next to him, his face colored a hot red, your juices dripping down his stubble and mustache.

Once the breath stolen from him was back in his lungs he was quick to act, wrapping his arms around you to pull you onto him again, your body laying on his, you felt fucking tiny against his muscles, the mass of his body, how he could be so insanely muscular –though his body was so comfortable.

“Oh, sweet girl.”

His head craned back against his pillow, the sound of your pants harmonizing together before placing a kiss against your collar, both of you uncomfortably clothed. He was promised to serve you.

“May I?” His fingers were fiddling with the buttons of your blouse.

“No need to ask.”

He slowly pulled apart your shirt, dipping his face down to bury into the valley between your tits, the man was in constant need of your touch. His hips rocking against the bed, his body throbbing.

“More?” You’d look down at him, your fingers massaging against his scalp gaining a quiet whimper from his plump, wet lips.

“M’Just tell me I can have you… I need you– So Bad…”

His words had a habit of slurring together, laying boneless against your own body. His hand running up to squeeze your breast in a firm grip. His fingertips kneading into the tender mound.

“As long as I’m the one on top.”

You’d mutter, though that went without saying. His cheeks burned hot as his eyes peered to look into your own, his dilated pupils told you enough.

“C’mon then, sunshine.”

He placed a firm kiss against the top of your breast. Allowing you to straighten your back with his hand on your lower.

For the rest of the night he’d be worshipping you like a goddess. You were his religion.

[arthursfuckinghat]

Arthur Morgan thinks he's an ugly old fool yet he had not only women falling for him, but even the funny little station clerk in Rhodes that literally fell for him on the spot

[buneio]

Hotel dreams

High!Honor Arthur Morgan

₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Arthur and F!reader stay the night at a hotel after Arthur’s busy day, but due to the price of the hotel F!reader owes him

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Word count: 1510 (??)

Content warning(s): NSFW (MDNI/AGELESS), I’m not the best at writing smut (A learning experience), Arthur refers to himself as ‘Daddy’, reader described as tiny if that makes you uncomfortable!

₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

The rhythmic clatter of horses' hooves on the snow-packed streets mixed with the soft crunch of boots breaking through fresh powder.

Despite the season’s cruelty, the town carried on, its small, bustling streets alive with muted voices and the glow of lanterns casting flickering halos on the snow.

The chime of the hotel bell broke through the din, it's sharp ‘DING’ reverberating in the otherwise quiet lobby. It signaled a service request, but for now, the desk stood unattended.

She stood beside Arthur, shivering despite the warmth of his thick jacket draped over her petite frame. Her teeth threatened to chatter, but she bit down on the sensation, watching the lobby door anxiously for the return of the desk clerk. The cold had sunk deep into her bones, and all she could think about was the promise of heat behind one of those thick wooden doors upstairs.

Guilt nagged at her as she tugged Arthur’s jacket closer around herself. It wasn’t just the cold — it was the sight of him. Exhaustion seemed etched into every line of his rugged face, his broad shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of the gang's constant demands.

She hated how Dutch worked him to the bone, refusing to delegate tasks to others when it was clear Arthur needed rest. She wished she could help somehow, but Arthur was as stubborn as he was selfless, always pushing forward.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the low rumble of his voice. She hadn’t even noticed the clerk's return.

“One room,” Arthur said simply, sliding a small pouch of coins across the counter.

The clerk nodded, his pen scratching against the ledger. “Name, sir?”

“Kilgore,” Arthur replied without hesitation. He glanced at her briefly, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a frown. “Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore.”

The clerk raised no questions, simply nodding and handing over a small, brass key. “Room 101. First floor, to the right.”

Arthur accepted it with a tired grunt and turned toward her, resting his large hand against the small of her back as he guided her toward the stairs.

The gesture was tender, a contrast to the rough man he appeared to be. Despite his weariness, Arthur always went out of his way to take care of her.

She didn’t miss that he’d chosen a fancier hotel than usual. It was just like him to spoil her when he could, even if money was tight.

Arthur wouldn’t say it, but she knew the gang’s coffers were running dry, and the pressure of it weighed heavily on him.

The room was simple yet elegant, its polished wood furnishings and heavy curtains exuding a sense of warmth. She stepped inside first, the heat from the fireplace immediately wrapping her like a comforting embrace.

Arthur followed, shutting the door behind him with a soft click before heading straight for the bed. He didn’t even bother removing his jacket, collapsing onto the mattress with a groan.

“Since when am I Mrs.Kilgore?” She teased, a playful grin tugging at her lips as she kicked off her boots.

Arthur grunted, propping himself up just enough to glance at her. “Fewer questions that way,” he replied gruffly, tugging at his boots. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to play house with ya.”

She pouted, the gesture exaggerated and almost childlike as she crawled onto the bed beside him. “You don’t want to play house with me?” she asked, feigning hurt.

Arthur shot her a flat, unimpressed look. “Not in the mood fer’ games, girl,” he muttered, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.

She studied him for a moment, her teasing demeanor softening. He looked so tired, the lines of his face deepened by the flickering firelight.

She reached out, resting her small hand on his chest. “You deserve a break, Arthur,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but he said nothing, his eyes slipping closed. The room fell into a comfortable silence, the crackling fire filling the space between them.

For a long moment neither of them said anything, that was until Arthur spoke up again. His voice was low and thick with desire. He pushed himself up, propping himself up with his elbows. “Ya owe me, Doll.”

She gave him a confused look as she tilted her head, wrapping his jacket further around herself. It clicked finally after a few seconds. “O-Oh! Right,” she trailed off. “What do you want… I can pay you back, I promise!” she asked.

”I have a way you can pay me back, sweetheart.” His voice was softer as he slipped his large hand around her smaller hand, guiding it between his legs.

Her face flushed a bright pink hue as she stared at Arthur with a timid expression; she was unsure why she was always so shy around him when it came to sex. They've done it many times before.

She bit down on her lip as she feigned innocence, her heart pounding in her chest. “Are you sure?” she asked, pawing at him through his pants.

Seeing her hesitation, Arthur lifted her and set her down on his lap, nudging his jacket off of her. Gently coaxing her into giving in, “I’m sure,” he assured. “It’s the least ya could do for daddy, mm?” he said softly.

She knew she owed him this, and it was the best way for Arthur to get rid of stress after all.

She reluctantly listened to Arthur and lifted her dress over her small figure, biting down on her lip once again when Arthur grabbed her by the hips.

Tossing her dress to the side, she slipped her panties off and stared up at Arthur, trying to find some sort of approval from him.

She lived for his approval, his praise. She was more loyal to him than most men in the gang were.

She lifted her hips slightly when Arthur tugged his boxers down and let his hard cock spring out, earning a weary breath from the little lady.

“Shhh, shhh… s’okay… good girl, daddy’s got you.” He grunted softly, gripping her hips again, helping her lower herself on his cock, a soft groan escaping his lips.

She gasped in surprise at his size and gripped his shoulders, bouncing slightly until Arthur stopped her for a brief moment before guiding her movements instead.

“Let me do it...” Arthur rasped, gently guiding her up and down on his cock. He could listen to her little whimpers and moans all day if she let him.

She was so little, so small… so easy for him to take as he wanted. A soft grunt escaped his lips at the thought of it. “Good girl… my sweet girl…” he breathed out and sped up, bucking his hips into her.

She squeaked and moaned, her grip on his shoulders tightening as she felt the heat pool in her stomach, her small frame trembling slightly as she felt the pleasure bubble.

His grip on her hips tightened. “Don't shake, don't shake,” he groaned into her ear, burying his face in her neck, nipping at her pulse point in an attempt to claim her more.

The bedroom was filled with the soft squeaking of the bed frame and the mixture of both their moans.

She let out a soft squeak, her words coming out as a breathless whisper, “S-speed up… speed up…” she begged.

Arthur was too worn out from today to argue or manhandle her tonight, so he gave her what she wanted, a loud grunt escaping his lips. “Fuck… yer’ so tiny.”

He could feel his climax building, growing more desperate by the minute. Arthur wanted — no, he needed her. He needed her badly — he was going to have her.

In a swift motion, he flipped her over and slammed into her, gripping her legs and pinning them to stay spread.

She let out a surprised squeal and moaned louder, a soft ‘fuck’ escaping her lips as he rammed deeper into her. Her small frame trembling once again, the knot in her stomach threatening to snap “I—I’m going to….” she squeaked.

She was lucky. Arthur could barely hold on anymore — he picked up his pace and gave her a small nod. “Good girl… good fucking girl, cum fer’ daddy.” He coaxed, his thrusts getting rougher.

She squeaked and squirmed, arching her back as her body convulsed before she slumped against the mattress, exhausted breaths escaping her lips.

Arthur watched her for a moment to make sure she was okay before pulling out and rolling beside her, kissing her forehead. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, holding her close and closing his eyes.

“I love you…” she breathed out, cuddling into his chest and closing her eyes, pulling the blanket over the two of them.

“I love you too,” he grumbled tiredly, drifting off to sleep.

[liyawritesss]

ʀᴀɴᴄʜᴇʀ!ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

-> synopsis: in which arthur was able to set aside his criminal ways and leave the Van der Linde gang and live a life of relative normalcy, and perhaps meet a nice little lady to make it all worth it

         -> pairing: rancher!arthur morgan + black!fem!reader

-> from: red dead redemption 2

         -> contains: age-gap (reader is 27, arthur is 37), 2nd person ('you', 'your', 'yours'), references to canon-violence and crimes

-> a/n: my knowledge of Red Dead Redemption is limited, only really coming from watching gameplays and from beta-reading a friends fic, but arthur morgan the man that you are! I really just want him to have a good life outside the gang so i played with the whole rancher idea a little bit here, with a little bit of gen. store clerk!reader, so i hope you guys enjoy!

         -> join my taglist!

-> tags: @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @marsfunzon22 @briology @asensitivecookie @moon-bo-young @flo-milli-shit-hoe

ARTHUR MORGAN who eventually turns in his weapons and hangs in the towel of his criminal days, feigning for something more out of life than the thrill of a hunt, Though the decision wasn’t an easy one (mainly because Dutch never made things easy), the man took one last job and took the earnings from it to buy a good 10-acre stretch of land in the southern midwest territories where he knew trouble wouldn’t find him if it came looking. Within the next year he settles down into the life of a rancher, and he couldn’t have asked for anything better.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who has taken forever to nail down a routine that actually sticks when it comes to waking up and rousing the animals for the day. He does the chickens first, cuz he hates those little fuckers and how they always like to peck at his feet even though he knows he tosses the corn and feed pellets far away from him. Then the hogs start squealing whenever he even nears the pen, and Arthur always mutters about how they just ate the night before, how can they be this hungry already? After throwing their slop into the feeder, he opens the barn doors to let the cows know it’s morning and that they’ll be milked soon, but he learned not the milk them just as they wake up because they in fact do not like to be fondled so early in the morning. Instead, he grabs his horse and rounds up the few sheep and goats he’s got  and leads them to nearby pasture to graze. Here, Arthur gets the chance to rest a little, maybe snack on some dried meat and journal about his dreams if he’s had any, his aspirations for the day, or maybe even sketch the view.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who learns to like making the honest living he’s got going. It may not be as thrill seeking as robbing trains or starting saloon fights or gunslinging like the old days, but he’s comfortable. Content, even. Sometimes he’ll sell one of the hogs for a pretty penny and can afford to buy himself something he likes. The people in the nearest town say his milk from his cows is the best they’ve had in a long time! He’s not a star or anything, but he’s got something good going for himself and he’ll be damned if he lets it wither and die like the dreams he had in his youth.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who won’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t miss his old life. At the start, he feigned for it so bad; he’d try to rationalize it and say that it wouldn’t hurt no one, but he knew better. Sometimes he’d lie awake in the modest little house that was on the property when he bought it, reminiscing about the good times in the gang before the cracks started showing. When they could make a quick scheme and walk away feeling like the richest men in the world. He missed his brothers and their asshole behavior; he missed the girls sometimes, too, even if they got on his nerves. But they were behind him, and he knew he couldn’t go back. For his sake, and for theirs.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who rides into town one day to drop off some milk at the general store to see someone new behind the counter; someone younger and prettier than the stuffy old lad who talks to proper and irritates Arthur with his poshness. He’s so taken off guard that he almost drops the crate of milk he’s carrying in. He learns that you’re the store owner’s daughter and that you’ve taken over for him because he got into a wild riding accident, and that he’d be out for the next couple of months. You try not to make it so awkward on Arthur, as it seems like seeing you behind the counter instead of your father has already thrown him for a loop. When the cowboy promptly drops off the milk and bids a quick farewell, you fear you’ve made a horrible first impression.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who comes back a week later with a much more level head and a little less awkward now that he expects you behind the counter. This time he brings with him some seeds to sell that he’d gotten from a farmer a couple miles down the road that he didn’t want. He thought he’d be able to sell or exchange them for something he’d actually use. He was quiet, yet polite, and had an air of mystery around him that intrigued her. It wasn’t every day a handsome rancher came into the general store, and you wanted to know everything you could about this Arthur Morgan, who kept his cards close to his chest and was a man of few words.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who made his visits slightly longer every time he’d come into the general store, whether to sell his goods or to buy some tools or necessities from himself. After a handful of encounters, he finally blessed you with more of his voice and words - they had a roughness to them from years of hard work, but was still warm and inviting. The way he called you ‘miss’ and way he tipped his cowboy hat to you as a farewell made you giddy like a little schoolgirl. You found yourself looking forward to opening the general store every day, hoping to have a conversation with Arthur Morgan if he’d come in.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who says to you “I ain’t so good with the ladies” when you ask him why he always seems so shy talking to you, and it actually makes you giggle a little. Arthur Morgan, the unit of a man that he is, admitting his timidity of a woman? What God in Heaven made this be so? Oh, but you have no intention of letting it be just that. No, you tell Arthur Morgan, “I can teach you, if you’d like”, and you swear you see the lightest dust of pink cross his cheeks. He’s got half a mind to walk out of there like a puppy with it’s tail between it’s legs; how could you make him so embarrassed like that! Though, if it’s you than plans on teach him how to be a little less dense and awkward around women, he probably wouldn’t mind it. Maybe he could even return the favor and have you writhing in bashfulness…

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[eveomo]

bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 3 (SFW)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ synopsis : after meeting a seemingly dangerous yet kind outlaw during a bounty, your world seems to get turned upside down after you can't seem to stop running into each other. could this be the beginning of something you've both been longing for?

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ warnings/tags : MINORS MAY INTERACT WITH SFW CHAPTERS (NSFW WILL BE TAGGED), depictions of violence, arguments, angst, eventual smut, unprotected piv sex, guns, gun violence, swearing, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, soft arthur, animal death, PTSD, mentions/depictions of abuse, attempted SA (very brief and non descriptive and for plot purposes only), NO PREGNANCY, NO BABIES, MC isnt a frail weak girl who constantly needs saving, often grammatically incorrect (probably)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ contains : arthur morgan x f!reader, no use of y/n, reader changes the plot for the better

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 3.8k

You awoke to the sound of rain hitting the window panes of the hotel room you had gotten for the night. The clouds hung low, clinging to the mountains like a nervous child clings to their mother. Whatever light shone through the clouds was directly in your eyes, and you let out a groan of irritation at the intrusion. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, placing your sore feet on the ground before running your hand through your tangled hair and deciding you needed a bath—badly. 

After putting your boots back on, you headed for the front desk and placed some coins on the counter. The clerk directed you to the bathing room, and you gladly entered, appreciating the dim lighting. After undressing, you folded your clothing and placed them on the stool next to the bathtub before stepping into the hot water and sighing with relief. Grabbing the bar of soap, you rubbed it between your hands and started with your hair, scrubbing your scalp, then your shoulders, working your way down all the way to your feet. You remained in the tub for quite some time, appreciating the way the warm water released any tension held in your body. 

Now freshly clean, you left the hotel and unhitched Lenora, climbing on her back and lightly tapping her sides with your feet before trotting out of Valentine. You were low on food and money, which left you with one option to fill your empty stomach: Hunting. Were you bad at it? Not necessarily, however you had long run out of arrows and hadn’t had the time to make more, forcing you to use your revolver or rifle to hunt which was less than ideal for killing small animals such as rabbits and turkeys. Crossing over the hills, you kept your eyes out for herds of deer, or anything that would keep you fed for the next few days.

 After riding for about 20 minutes, you saw a herd just down the hill and you quickly dismounted, removing your rifle from your saddle. Taking light steps down the hillside, you crouched behind a bush and waited for the grazing deer to lift their heads up, giving you the perfect shot. You held your rifle up, closing one eye and taking a deep breath to steady yourself, finger ghosting over the trigger. You locked in on a movement, and as soon as the doe had looked up, you exhaled and fired, sending the rest of the herd running in a panic.

Letting out a sharp whistle, you approached the deer’s body while the sound of Lenora’s beating hooves got closer. You hoisted the deer onto your horse’s back, grunting at the exertion. A loud grumble erupted from your stomach, and you mounted Lenora, setting off to find a campsite so you could cook what you had hunted.

The sun was beating down on you now, a sharp contrast to the previous rain and clouds just that morning. It painted your face a slight pink despite the shade your hat provided, and you found yourself longing for your blouse despite the rolled-up sleeves of your button up you had stolen from a bounties dead body. Spotting a cloud of smoke coming from a clearing in the trees, you quickly pulled the reins and directed Lenora, hoping to find an empty camp with a forgotten fire. Unfortunately for you, gunshots began to erupt from the area. Hesitating for a moment, you urged your horse faster, quickly approaching the camp as part of you hoped you would be left with dead bodies to move, and an empty camp. Despite your speed, the gunfire had stopped as you had arrived, no more than 20 feet back. 

“Dirty O’Driscolls.” A familiar voice spat out, and you sighed at the realization that it was Arthur before dismounting and walking towards the now empty camp. 

Just as you were about to enter the clearing, you spotted a man in a green vest sneaking up on him, knife in hand before lunging and tackling Arthur to the ground and you froze. A struggle ensued, the knife getting far too close to Arthurs neck. You quickly drew your revolver and pulled the trigger, shooting the man point blank in the head. 

“We gotta stop meeting like this. You alright?” you said, finally emerging from the bushes as Arthur pushed off the dead body slumped over his.

“Sure, thank you, ma’am.” He replied with a huff, rolling his shoulders in pain. Arthur quickly looted the body, putting a watch and some tonic in his satchel before approaching you and dropping some coins in your hand.

“Ma’am? Just how old do you think I am, Mister?” Looking down at your hand, you quickly counted the small amount of coins sitting in your palm.  “‘nd hold on now, me savin’ yer life is worth $3?” You exclaimed in disbelief, cocking an eyebrow as you shoved the coins into the back pocket of your trousers.

“What? An outlaw can’t have any manners now? I already thanked you,” He scoffed, clicking his tongue as his horse returned to him. He grabbed the reins and mounted his American Standardbred, looking down at you. His gaze was strong and unnerving, a distant look in his blue eyes that chilled you to your core. 

“Well, I oughta head back-“ 

“Wait!” You spoke before you realized the words had even exited your mouth, and you felt the blood rush to your face in embarrassment. Thankfully, your minor sunburn concealed your blush.

Arthur cocked a brow before replying, “Yes?”

You threw your thumb back, gesturing to the deer resting on the rear of Lenora. 

“Err… Could you help me skin this? I ain’t all that great at it.” He shook his head in amusement and dismounted.

“Sure, I’m not expected back for another day or so anyway.” Arthur approached your horse before picking up the deer and resting its body on the ground. He squatted next to the animal, his eyes scanning its lifeless body. He let out a low whistle as he noticed the bullet hole straight through the skull.

“You got a good shot there.” You smiled softly before replying,

“No point in havin’ a good shot if I can’t skin it myself.” Shrugging, you squatted next to him and removed your hat, wiping the back of your hand along where sweat had collected at the brim. You glanced down at Arthurs hands, knuckles scabbed over from the bar fight, and various scars covering both worn hands.

“You been livin’ alone out here and you can hunt, but you don't know how to skin what you’ve caught?” Arthur teased, a glint in his blue eyes that made your breath get caught in your throat.

“I-I know how… I just ain’t good at it.” You mumbled. You were still somewhat new to this. Hunting was usually a success for you, but the skinning? That’s a different beast altogether. 

Arthur chuckled softly, voice low and gravelly. “It ain’t about knowin’ how. It’s about knowin’ when to make the right cuts. You gotta let the blade do all the work for you, not your hands.”

You shot him a skeptical glance, but his posture and the confidence in his voice made you reconsider any doubts you had. With a long sigh, you dropped your head. “Alright, teach me then.”

A small smirk worked its way onto Arthurs face, but he didn’t say anything more. He removed a knife from his satchel and it sliced through the hide without any hassle, a clean line following the curve of the ribcage. The first cut was always the hardest, and despite his years of practice he had yet to perfect it. 

He glanced over at you, admiring the furrow in your brow and the way you tugged your lip between your teeth in concentration. “You ever skin a deer before?” Arthur asked, further separating the hide from the meat and muscle.

“Once or twice,” you murmured, though it was painfully obvious from the way you shifted uncomfortably that you weren’t confident in the slightest. You gestured towards the hide as he worked. “Never as cleanly as this, though.”

Arthur paused for only a moment before continuing on. “Yeah, well that’s the trick. Slow and steady. Take your time, there’s no need to rush.” He slid the knife down the flank of the deer and handed it to you, hilt-first. “Take it from here. Just follow the line.”

“What, you think I don’t got my own knife?” Arthur rolled his eyes in response while you drew a slow, controlled cut through the hide, following the line he had made. It was much harder than Arthur had made it look, your hands were shaking and it felt as though the knife was fighting you.

“You’re gripping too tight,” Arthur said, his voice lined with a soft tenderness that disappeared as soon as it had bubbled up. “Loosen up, let the blade do all the work.”

You relaxed your grip slightly, and the knife slid more easily through the meat and hide. The scent of the deer wafted through the air, sharp and pungent. As you worked, you fell into a rhythm, the initial discomfort dissolving as your movements became more fluid. 

Arthur nodded in approval. “That’s it, girl. Just like that.” Your face flushed as he spoke, a simple praise making you feel giddy inside. He helped you peel back the hide and roll it up, placing it right behind the bedroll sitting behind your saddle. 

“Make sure you keep some fat on the meat, just not too much. You need that bit for cookin’.” He finished, and you glared at him.

“I know how to cook, thank you.” It came out sharper than intended, but Arthur just laughed.

“You sure? Even a lone wolf has more meat on its bones than you.” He joked, gesturing to your small frame.

“It ain’t polite to comment on a ladies body, Mister.” You chided him, beginning to cut the meat away from the bones.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a lady.” Arthur teased, removing his hat so he could wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

You glared at him. “Shut up.” Eyes narrowed, you continued to work while a pleasant silence settled between the two of you. The only noise being the chatter of the wildlife and the occasional grunt from you and Arthur as you worked on the deer. You worked delicately, cutting away at the tender joints and muscle. 

“Why’re you helping me, Arthur?” You asked, absent-minded as you made another cut. “Ain’t like you owe me nothin’—except your life.” He chuckled at the last comment, but stayed silent a beat before setting down the other knife he had retrieved from his satchel and studying your face for a moment. 

“You’re better off with help than on your own, and I guess because you saved my life.” He drawled. 

You didn’t ask for more, that was enough. 

You both worked together in a comfortable silence, the deer slowly being separated into usable parts. As you freed the meat from the bones, Arthur wrapped the meat, then used discarded sinew to tie it together. It was taking a lot longer than you had expected it to, and the sun was beginning to creep behind the mountaintops. You lit a cigarette, nursing it between your lips as you continued to cut away, before finally finishing and cutting some of the meat into smaller chunks. Standing up, you grabbed a couple of logs that the O’Driscolls had so kindly left, and you nursed the fire until you could feel the heat on your face. 

“Well, I’d best be on my way.” Arthur grunted as he stood, wiping his hands on his jeans before turning on his heel and approaching his horse. 

“Hey,” you started, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly “you want to stay and eat? It’s the least I could do since you helped me,” Arthur turned back around and nodded, not saying much else. 

The two of you sat around the fire, chunks of venison sitting on the blade of your knives as you cooked it and ate silently. It was a little more awkward now, the sun had set completely, the only light being the now warm glow of the fire which illuminated Arthurs sharp features. You studied his face for only a moment before his eyes met yours, and you quickly diverted your gaze towards the flames. 

Suddenly, the night was thick with smoke, the air heavy and burning your throat with each stuttering inhale. The once sturdy frame of your home enveloped in flames, now nothing more than splintered wood and blackened timber. It groaned as the flame further consumed it, shooting sparks up into the air like dying stars. 

You knelt in the snow, your hands trembling as you held the body of your now lifeless husband. His blood, warm and sticky on your palms now coated the front of your nightgown, but you didn’t notice, nor did you care. You were too focused on committing his features to memory, his pale face illuminated by the growing fire, his green eyes the same as the day when your parents had introduced the two of you, his muddy hand held out with a gap-toothed smile as you hid behind your mothers legs. You placed your hand over his now glazed over eyes, closing them forever. A warm kiss against cold, dry lips made your body wrack with sobs as you held him closer, kissing him for the final time.

His chest, once broad and full of life, was now still. There was a gaping wound where the shotgun had torn through his torso, his blood staining the white snow. He’d fallen just outside the door, trying to make it to the horses, trying to get you to safety before the debt collectors came. But they were too fast, too brutal. The gunshots rang through your ears, reminding you-

“Hey,” You were snapped out of your flashback, staring back at Arthur with wide eyes. 

“You alright?” He finished, putting out his cigarette. You sat upright, releasing yourself from the nervous posture you held. Bringing a cigarette to your lips, you struck the match and lit it, inhaling.

“Yeah, just thinking ‘s all.” Wiping a stray tear from your face, you put your blade back over the flames since the piece you had cooked had now gone cold. Arthur let out a hum, clearly not wanting to dig any deeper, and he shifted uncomfortably where he sat. He scratched his head and sighed before standing.

“I really should be going now, Miss…” He trailed off, clearly expecting your name. You spoke it softly and he repeated it, before mounting his horse and riding away. Left alone, you allowed the pit in your stomach to consume you, and your body wracked with sobs as you held your head in your hands. It felt like you could barely breathe, your chest constricting and compressing; breaths coming short and stuttered as if you were swinging on the end of a rope. 

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?” 

You froze as the click of a rifle cocking resounded through the clearing. Your hand slid instinctively to the grip of your revolver. There were 5 of them. You could hear their murmurs and the muffled shuffle of feet creeping closer from every direction.

“Look at this, boys,” came a low voice from behind you. “A pretty lady waitin’ here just for us. Ain’t that a sight?” 

He was closer now, just to your left. You didn't turn, but your fingers wrapped around the cold steel of your revolver, your eyes flicked quickly to the nearest cover—a barrel just ahead of you. You had seconds, maybe less.

“Get the rope,” another voice sneered, this one rougher and deeper, laced with authority. “Tie her up nice and tight. We got ourselves a real prize this time.”

Your heart pounded, but your movements were fluid, second nature at this point. You quickly swiveled, pulling your revolver from its holster in one quick motion. The first a scrappy man with a scar running down his face stepped into view just as you fired a round. The bullet ripped through his chest with a sickening thud, his body jerking back and collapsing into the dirt with a gurgled scream, his green vest stained with blood.

The other O’Driscolls reacted insantly, guns drawn. But you were already darting to the side, tucking low behind the barrel as bullets whizzed past you, striking the dry earth with sharp cracks.

“She’s fast,” one of them cursed, his voice filled with frustration. “Get her!”

You breathed deeply, mind sharp and calculating. You needed to thin their numbers, fast. You knew they wouldn’t just back off—these bastards would press until they had you cornered.

A younger man, no older than twenty, emerged from the trees ahead of you, eyes wide with panic as he aimed his rifle. You ducked and popped out the side of the barrel and fired, sending a bullet straight through his knee. He collapsed with a scream, his rifle falling uselessly beside him. 

“Goddamn it!” The leaders voice rang out. “You ain't getting away from this, girl!” 

You didn’t respond, you couldnt afford to. From behind the barrel, you pulled a second revolver from your belt, your finger sliding across the trigger as you darted toward a wagon, firing off two quick shots. The third O'Driscoll went down with a hit to his shoulder, his rifle flying from his hands, the second bullet catching him in the side. He didn’t make a sound as he hit the ground, twitching for a moment before stilling.

Two down. Three left.

The leader, a burly man with a thick beard, shouted for the others to fan out. You could hear their feet scrambling in the underbrush, closing in from all sides.

"Come on, girl!" the leader yelled. "We ain’t playin’ fair anymore!"

You gritted your teeth, slamming the revolver back into its holster, and grabbed the rifle you’d left propped up against a nearby tree. You rose up above the wagon and pulled the trigger, catching the next O'Driscoll—a tall man with a wild-eyed stare—right between the eyes.

The remaining two O'Driscolls exchanged panicked glances. One was the young boy you’d already injured, clutching his bleeding leg with a grimace. The other, a grizzled man with a long scar across his throat, charged forward with his rifle raised, desperation in his eyes.

You could hear him coming, his boots crashing through the underbrush. You didn’t wait. As he broke through the tree line, you were already aiming. The rifle bucked in your hands, two shots ringing out like thunder. The O'Driscoll staggered back, his rifle spinning from his hands as he crumpled into the dirt.

You felt a burning pain in your thigh, and you looked down as you watched blood begin to stain your trousers.

Shit.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and you were brought back down to earth as you remembered the boy. His face was pale, his leg a mess of blood. He was fumbling with his own gun, terror written all over his face. You took a breath, steadying yourself. you moved quickly now, ignoring the searing pain in your right leg as your boots thudded softly against the earth as you closed the distance between the two of you.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice shaking as he leveled his gun at your chest. "Please don’t—"

He didn’t get to finish. A shot that wasn’t yours rang through the air with deadly precision. The boy dropped his gun, body slumped in the dirt in a heap. You shot your arm back up, aiming for wherever that bullet had come from.

“‘S just me,” Arthur spoke, and you sighed in relief as you placed your gun back in its holster. You sucked air in through your teeth as the adrenaline left your body and you were reminded of the gunshot wound in your thigh. Looking down, a choked gasp left your throat as your pant leg was almost entirely soaked.

“Shit.” He dismounted quickly and tugged his bandana off his neck. Guiding you with a hand on your shoulder, he sat you down and instructed you to put your leg out straight as he began applying a tourniquet. You hissed in pain as he tied it.

“I know, I know.” Arthur comforted you, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled your arm over his shoulder, walking you towards his horse.

“I can ride, Arthur.” You murmured, attempting to free your arm from the grip he had on your wrist as he helped you walk.

“Not with an injury like that, you can’t.” Arthur said with a raised brow.

Huffing, you reserved yourself to your fate, allowing him to guide you to his horse. You looked away in embarrassment as he placed his arms underneath your shoulders, hoisting you up onto the back. Arthur approached Lenora, a series of ‘You’re alright, girl’s and ‘It’s okay’s left his mouth as he grabbed onto her reins and led her back over. He mounted and clicked twice, his horse jolting forward.

“Wait—Where are you taking me?” The realization dawned upon you that you had nowhere to go, and you clearly couldn’t stay at the empty O’Driscoll camp. Anxiety clawed its way into your stomach for no good reason, nausea twisting your gut as the pain in your leg grew with every stride

. 

“Back to camp. My camp, I mean. That leg needs tending to, Miss Grimshaw and the other ladies can help you with that.” Miss Grimshaw? The other ladies? Confusion settled between your brows as you held a little tighter onto Arthurs waist. Very few gangs ran with women, and if they did, it was for the men’s stress relief.  

“No! I can’t ask that of you. Just leave me somewhere with cover and I’ll figure it out.” You pleaded with Arthur, the last thing you wanted to do was invite yourself into their camp and use their resources. You hadn’t had many run-ins with gangs, sure you cleared an O’Driscoll camp here and there when you had to, but you preferred avoiding them at all costs

“You won’t last a week out here with your leg in that kinda condition. You’re coming back to camp with me and that's final.” The commanding tone of his voice shut you up instantly, and you reserved yourself to your fate with a sigh as Arthur passed you a bottle of whiskey from his satchel.

“Drink this, it’ll be a long ride without it.”

yaaay chapter 3!!! enjoy some action (just not the sexy kind)

i gave up on arthur pov at the end of the chapters bc it felt corny. hopefully the dialogue felt accurate and flowed well but if it didnt please lmk! i am always open to constructive criticism <3<3

hope u liked it! pls like + reblog <3

[the-oblivious-writer]

The Science of Loss

Dexter Morgan and Reader

Part Two: Dexter’s Perspective

Summary: Even in death you hold a great impact in Dexter Morgan's life.

Warning(s): Swearing, (major) character death, clinical descriptions of death/crime scenes, mentions of violence, grief/loss, secondary trauma (Deb), and murder/references to

Notes: Although this is a part two, it can be read separately from Deb's perspective. This is a platonic Dexter and Reader fic, let me know if I should do more

Debra's Perspective

You were one of the few people who never made Dexter feel like he needed to perform humanity. Your interactions in the lab had a comfortable precision – you'd both speak the language of blood patterns, trajectory analysis, victim positioning. He didn't have to manufacture the appropriate emotional responses because you never demanded them. You understood silence.

Now he stands in the lab where you used to work, and the silence feels different. Heavy. He touches the microscope you'd use to analyze trace evidence, remembers how you'd explain your findings without the theatrical flourish Masuka employed. Just clean, methodical observations. You'd been easier to understand than most humans.

"The blood pool indicates they were conscious for approximately two minutes after the shot," he tells Deb, because these are the facts he knows how to process. His sister stares at him with red-rimmed eyes, and he recognizes that this information isn't helpful. You would have known how to translate between his analytical approach and Deb's raw emotion. You'd done it countless times before.

The security footage plays on his laptop. He's analyzed it like any other crime scene: entrance angle, shooter position, blood spatter direction. But something uncomfortable shifts in his chest when he watches you step in front of the teenage clerk. A protective instinct that doesn't align with efficient survival. It's the kind of human behavior he's always struggled to understand, but somehow made sense when you did it.

"You know what's fucked up?" Deb's voice cracks. "They would have fucking loved analyzing their own crime scene. All that blood spatter data."

Dexter nods, because you would have. You shared his fascination with the technical aspects of death, though yours came from a place of justice rather than necessity. You'd once spent three hours explaining to him how different blood pattern classifications could reveal a victim's final moments. Not because it was relevant to a case, but because you recognized his genuine interest.

He finds himself in the morgue at night, standing where your body had been. The metal table reflects the fluorescent lights, and he remembers how you used to joke that the morgue had better lighting than your apartment. Dark humor that made others uncomfortable but made perfect sense to him.

"I don't know how to help her," he tells the empty table. Deb is spinning out, breaking down, and his usual scripts for performing brotherly comfort feel inadequate. You would have known what to say. You always knew how to reach her when she retreated behind her walls.

The irony doesn't escape him – seeking advice from a memory of someone who helped him understand human connection. But you had been different. You didn't try to fix his peculiarities or demand conventional emotional responses. Instead, you'd simply included him in your understanding of human variation. "Different wavelengths," you'd called it, "but still on the spectrum."

He keeps your last case file. Not for sentimental reasons – he doesn't do sentimental – but because your analysis was always impeccable. Sometimes he reads your notes, appreciating the logical progression of your thoughts. The way you could look at violence and find patterns, meaning, justice.

The young shooter is caught three weeks after your death. Dexter sits in the observation room during the interrogation, studying the teenager's body language, the tremor in his hands. His Dark Passenger whispers familiar suggestions, but he remembers your voice during late-night lab discussions:

"Justice isn't always about punishment, Dexter. Sometimes it's about understanding why."

You'd said that after a particularly brutal case, your gloved hands steady as you processed evidence. He hadn't understood then – his own sense of justice had always been more… direct. But watching the terrified kid break down during questioning, he thinks maybe he's beginning to grasp what you meant.

Deb finds him organizing blood slides one night. Not his special collection – just routine case evidence. But he's doing it the way you taught him, with that extra level of precision you always insisted on.

"You miss them too, don't you?" she asks, her voice rough. "In your own way."

He considers this. Misses your predictable presence in the lab? Yes. Misses how you helped him navigate complicated social situations? Also yes. But there's something else – an unfamiliar discomfort when he passes your empty workstation. A hesitation before using your favorite microscope.

"Yes," he says simply, because you appreciated when he didn't elaborate unnecessarily.

Harrison asks about you sometimes. You'd been good with him, patient in a way that matched Dexter's own careful approach to fatherhood. You'd explained complex forensic concepts to Harrison in ways that satisfied his curiosity without disturbing his innocence. A balance Dexter often struggled to find.

"Where did Y/N go?" Harrison asks one evening.

Dexter remembers your discussions about death, how you'd emphasized the importance of being honest with children while respecting their developmental stage. He tries to channel your measured approach.

"They died," he says carefully. "Someone made a very bad choice with a gun, and Y/N tried to protect another person."

"Like a hero?"

Dexter thinks about your final moments on the security footage. The calculated risk, the protective instinct, the technical perfection of the blood spatter you left behind. "Yes," he says. "Like a hero."

He helps Deb pack up your apartment because that's what siblings do, according to the social scripts he's learned. Your forensics journals are organized by date and subject matter. Your case files are meticulously labeled. Even in death, you maintain the order that made you comprehensible to him.

"Fuck," Deb chokes out, finding one of your hair ties. She crumples, and Dexter moves to support her weight, remembering how you'd coached him through similar situations.

"Let her feel it," you'd advised during one of Deb's previous crises. "You don't have to fix it. Just be there."

So he is. He holds his sister while she breaks apart, and though he can't fully understand her grief, he recognizes its patterns. The way it spreads like blood spatter – predictable trajectories, measurable impact points, analyzable distribution.

Later, he finds your notes on his own blood spatter analysis. Margins filled with observations, questions, suggestions for improvement. You'd approached his work with the same detailed attention he gave to his… extracurricular activities. Not questioning, just analyzing. Seeking to understand.

"Your brother processes things differently," he overhears you telling Deb once. "It's not wrong, just different. Like how blood spatter can tell different stories depending on the angle you view it from."

The metaphor had been oddly perfect, much like your presence in his carefully constructed world. You didn't disrupt his patterns or expose his secrets. You simply observed, analyzed, and accepted the evidence before you.

He keeps your forensics kit in his lab. Not out of sentiment – Dexter Morgan doesn't do sentiment – but because your organizational system was superior to the department standard. At least, that's what he tells himself when he finds his hands lingering on the latches, remembering how you'd walk him through your processing methods.

"Evidence tells stories," you'd say, "but only if we listen carefully."

He's listening now, in his own way. To the stories told by your absence. The way Deb's grief spreads like high-velocity spatter. The void you left in the lab's carefully calibrated ecosystem. The subtle changes in his own patterns since you've been gone.

It's not grief as others experience it. He knows this, just as he knows he processes everything differently. But it's something. A disruption in his carefully maintained routine. A gap in his understanding of human interaction. A missing data point in his ongoing study of normal behavior.

You would have appreciated the analytical approach to processing your loss. Would have helped him categorize these unfamiliar reactions with the same precision you brought to blood spatter analysis. Would have understood that his version of missing you would manifest in reorganized evidence boxes and late nights reviewing your case files.

The science of loss, he discovers, is messier than other sciences. Less predictable than blood spatter. Harder to categorize than DNA evidence. But he continues to study it, methodically documenting its effects on Deb, on the department, on his own carefully structured world.

Because that's what you would have done. You would have looked at the evidence, analyzed the patterns, and accepted the conclusions – even the uncomfortable ones. Even the ones that suggest that maybe, in his own unique way, Dexter Morgan is capable of missing someone who made his world more comprehensible.

The security footage plays one last time. He watches you make the statistically illogical choice to step in front of danger. Watches the blood pattern bloom across your chest – medium-velocity spatter, consistent with a single gunshot wound. Watches you break protocol to protect another person.

And something in his carefully ordered mind shifts, just slightly. A new pattern emerging from familiar data. A different way of understanding sacrifice, justice, connection.

You would have appreciated the symmetry of that – teaching him something new, even after you're gone.

-----------

[todaysdocument]

Letter and Summary Report of Incidents of Intimidation of Teachers during the Desegregation of South Boston High School and the Abrahams School

Record Group 21: Records of District Courts of the United StatesSeries: Tallulah Morgan et al v. James W. Hennigan et al Civil Action Case File # 72-0911

Angoff, Goldman, Manning, Pyle & Wanger

Counsellors at Law

Sidney S. Grant (1905-1957) 44 School Street

Samuel E. Angoff Boston, Massachusetts 02108

Albert L. Goldman 723-5500

Robert D. Manning

Warren H. Pyle

E. David Wanger

John F. McMahon

Joseph G. Sandulli

September 6, 1974

Stephen A. Moyhahan, Jr., Esq.

Clerk, U.S. District Court

1525, Post Office Court House

Boston, Massachusetts, 02109

[stamp] DOCKETED

[stamp] FILED [illegible] OFFICE Sep 6 9 23 AM '74 U.S. DISTRICT COURT DISTRICT OF MASS

Dear Mr. Moynahan:

There is enclosed a summary report of serious incidents of intimidation of teachers by members of the community, which the Boston Teachers Union requests be transmitted to Judge Garrity prior to the start of today's hearings.

I regret my inability to provide it earlier.

The Martin and Garret incidents have been reported to Ms. Silke Hansen and I anticipate that the Community Relations Service will report on these developments to the Court.

The Boston Teachers Union will request an in-chambers conference to discuss the contents of the report with the Court and parties.

Very truly yours,

John F. McMahon

/lt

Enclosure

cc John Mirick, Esq.

John Leubsdorf, Esq.

Sandra Lynch, Esq.

K. Maloney

338 [green ink]

18

[Complete document and transcription at link]

[willardsrestwidow]

❝We hold it in our eyes, the answer to it all❞ - Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Molly O'Shea x Fem!Reader, Molly O'Shea x (if-you-squint-your-eyes)OC!Reader.

Synopsis: After years of living as a hermit in a secluded hut in the woods, you finally find freedom, only to stumble into a life of crime. Stealing was nothing new to you, but joining a gang of outlaws changes everything. For the first time, the allure of shimmering gold pales in comparison to the captivating gaze of a certain pair of Irish green eyes.

Word Count: 5,3k

Warnings: Dutch, toxic-relationship, couple arguing but no physical violence, Dutch again, and eventual smut - oral, fingering; wlw sex basically.

Please only read if you're +18!

A/N: girlies and pals, I'm down bad for this woman, and that's that ig. I never wrote for rdr buuuuuut ive been a reader for a long time now. And speaking of long things, it's 5k words yall.... the thirst was IMMENSE!!!

Eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

It was what you were taught still as a youngster living out in the woods with your Pa.

When hunting, you just had to look into the animal’s eyes to know what sort of prey they would be. The slight convulsing of the irises, he’d say, was an indication of weakness. A fixed gaze on something else or complete disregard for human presence meant you’d need more bullets and more air in your lungs to chase the creature through the difficult terrain. And, of course, there were the eerie stares that seemed to pierce your soul — slit pupils or fully dilated ones — creatures you would encounter only three times in your life. Pa would mention bears and alligators, foul beings not to be trifled with, and a secret third one he would take to his humble grave, never to be revealed.

Well, regardless, the hunt had grown in you over time until Pa’s death, coinciding with when your needs began to grow beyond nature’s boundaries. Like a fish drawn by the shimmery light in the ocean, you took the first step out of the small shack, not knowing it’d would be the last time you set foot there.

In civilization, you found the same types of stares in store clerks, rich folk, and equally petty thieves. For once, a bullet between their eyes was not the ideal route for most encounters, if what you faced could even be called that. You began small—a poacher with a weakness for beautiful women, using the night and darkness to act upon your urges. There was no need to grow in what became your dark habit, to seek fame or further luxuries. You were content with sleeping in a different place every night until a late-night robbery got the entire sheriff’s ‘cavalry’ tailing after your sorry-ass. In the end, you rode your stolen horse off a cliff, resulting in multiple mild injuries, including a sharp stick in your thigh that rendered you bedridden for an entire week.

Bedridden, that is, because fate granted you a chance by sending a group of broad-shouldered figures mounted on horses your way. Or perhaps it was the other way around. It was while being spoon-fed by a lovely girl with dark features that you learned to whom you owed your gratitude, and the name rang a bell, if not several.

“I ain’t cut for washing clothes by the riverbank like they do. I mean, I can, but…” you recalled saying one sunny morning, the sunlight shining upon Clemens Point, to the only person you’d seen listening to others: Arthur Morgan. His hooded, blue eyes seemed to be everywhere around camp as he listened to you, even on Mary-Something, who was mindlessly reading a novel on her break. You couldn’t tell for sure because the man wouldn’t stay in one place, forcing you to keep chasing after him. Your lungs cried for help as you continued, “I just… hah, I can be useful outside camp too!”

“What they been feedin’ you and Miss Adler, huh? Look, if Dutch ain’t lettin’ you out, maybe you should try winning his trust,” Morgan mumbled over his shoulder. “Now, if I were you, I’d start with that laundry basket.”

“Did you start with laundry too? Uh… Morgan?”

Thus, your first, real week was marked by incessant running after dirty laundry and helping Pearson with cooking — which, in hindsight, was as tiring and demanding as any other job. Oddly enough, you couldn’t catch sight of Dutch or even enter his luxurious tent, the same being kept with its flaps down at all times as a high-pitched opera always emanated from within.

Like a trapped hummingbird, your patience began to wear thin. Dangerous thoughts of returning to the woods plagued your mind for a full night, but a warm morning opened your eyes to a bigger catch.

“Can I smoke in silence, woman? In God’s name, be quiet!” was the first human sound to be heard from a tent far from where you were, early on, gathering the rags sprawled around a sleeping Uncle. The gravelly tone with a slight crack in some words made you perk your head up and forget your duties. You couldn’t understand the stance your body took, as if you were young again, with a gun bigger than your body, which could just as well have been the damned laundry basket, and back out in the silent woods. You allowed the memory to take over, and careful steps to take you just about as close as a hunter could get to a creature.

An irked Dutch, deep creases carving his forehead and squinted eyes barely visible, tried to light the fat cigar hanging from his lips in front of his tent. A few feet away, Hosea sharpened his knife, and a determined Grimshaw marched across camp, though neither seemed to be part, or concerned about what soon followed.

From behind one of his shoulders, a flash of red, curly hair appeared and then disappeared. You figured it was his woman — the name failed you at the moment, but the intriguing freckled face, often marred with sadness, did not. “Charles saw it too, y’know?” she sounded from behind him, surely standing on her tiptoes for you saw another glimpse of her hair. “Charles, and Tilly, and John — bleedin’ John who’s never here has seen it. Everybody saw how you ate her with your eyes!”

“You’ve been on it since yesterday,” Dutch answered, his face showing neither sympathy nor worry about her tone. “Go get some rest. Lord knows you need it.”

“Ah, it would be easy for ya, wouldn’t it? Surely if I slept, if I disappeared, if I died, you’d be free to roam this earth after each pair of legs that may captivate ya.”

The vainglorious leader, now with a successfully lit cigar between his fingers, turned his back to you to direct his next words to the afflicted woman. “Die you shall if you spend another night wide-awake, thinking absurdities like the one you speak of.” Being met with an audible groan, he continued, “Rest, Miss O’Shea. Hopefully you oughta wake up more elucidated.”

Perhaps it was for the better that the broad-shouldered man kept her reaction veiled behind his physique and muffled her muttered response with an audible exhale. No, no 'perhaps'—it was meant to be, for it built the perfect suspense, pushing you just a tad closer to the scene in order to experience the long-awaited climax in the first row.

And, boy, did that also serve to wake the entire camp up.

Your ears caught the words, “You will know I didn’t cross the Atlantic to be your gimcrack,” before a satisfactory crack pierced the air. Angling your curious body, you were blessed with the view of the Irishwoman’s heels stomping on Dutch’s opera shellac record, straight out of his gramophone. His reaction was as expected; he let out a roar, dropped his cigar—which dangerously disappeared between his tent’s loose floorboards—and lunged at the redhead. At that very moment, you too dropped what you’re holding and charged forward to her aid, only to be rooted in place by a firm grasp on your upper arm. You turned to confront the new target of your rage, but upon facing a huffing Arthur Morgan, the grumbles emanating from within your chest ceased.

“I wanted you to feel it for yourself, but I don’t think you even have a heart to love a ting in the first place,” O’Shea continued, sounding ten paces farther away. “I’ll break whatever you own, and hope one day your pain will come near mine!”

A glance behind your shoulder was enough to spark another fire in you; the man’s big hands were then wrapped firmly around her arms. And you were sure to have convulsed under Morgan’s grasp. Alas, the sight wouldn’t come near as infuriating as the hushed threats against her ear, and ultimately the release of her as if she wasn’t worth his time. Before gathering with a somber Matthews, who was drawn in by the fight, Dutch turned to the disheveled one to let out a last hiss, “I dare you embark on the first ship back to your land,” and riveted his warning gaze towards you.

“Brown bears; damn fools, they is! If you drop on the ground and hold yer breath, you’s fine. Just never run away from one,” your old Pa said to a younger you one fine morning, while you’re out on the porch, cleaning his rifle, as he rocked on the creaky chair. “And then there’s alligators, who’s cleverer… Yer old Pa has a few scars with a bunch o’ stories along, uhum. Those ones will test yer body—have you runnin’ from side to side, jumpin’ on trees and all that good stuff. Thing is, ya can live from an encounter. Butcha won’t be runnin’ from the third one, I’ll tell ya. Ah, better yet... Heh, let time teach ya this lesson.”

And it did. For now, the third creature, the deadliest of all, was staring right back at you, its eyes reflecting a darkness you had never known.

It felt like ages had gone by when Linde broke the intense eye contact to march away from the troubles he created, a sigh of relief exiting your lungs as he did so. O’Shea remained silent after the entire ordeal. Still having to reclaim your freedom from Morgan, you watched her kick one of the record’s pieces and wander in circles inside her tent, finally resorting to sitting on her shared cot and burying her face in her hands.

“Grimshaw’s in need of more hands to clean them rifles,” Arthur finally said, oddly softly, as if he spoke with a child. Though you’d never heard him talk to Jack like that before. “Go on, then, girl.”

To say you were willing to risk your position in the gang to go running toward the weeping woman was an understatement. You were willing to risk your life, even! But… then what? You grew up around the silence of the woods, the teachings of your father that only served for hunting, and the bloodshed of innocent creatures — gallons after gallons of blood. Trivial aspects of life, like comforting one another or curling your lips around sweet words, were beyond your reach. So what if you ran toward her? So what if you took her freckled face out of her hands into your roughened ones? Could you muster the correct words to soothe her ache?

Thus, for a second time, you followed Morgan’s advice and stomped your way toward Susan Grimshaw and the many rifles on the table. The smell of gun oil and grease that would define your afternoon was never strong enough to erase the memory of the woman’s pale-green eyes, or how they danced nervously when she looked at her man.

✤ ✤ ✤

Tilly had come to you when the sun was setting in the plains’ horizon with a pleading look to her kind features. Her gaze would fall on the black grease coating your numb fingers, for a second thinking through on her request, but surrendering to her hidden urges.

You were to resume the laundry you left behind.

“’Course, anythin’,” you mumbled when wiping the sweat of your forehead with your wrist.

Your legs took you close to where the damned laundry basket was, curiously outside Dutch and O’Shea’s tent. You swallowed dryly, and without realizing it, you were tiptoeing toward the flaps-down tent.

For the first time since you joined the outlaws, an obnoxiously loud opera wasn’t resounding from the infamous gramophone. In fact, nothing was sounding from within—not even the muffled whimpers of a heartbroken and awfully tired woman. But it was the glow of a lamp seeping under the tarp that kept you on edge, enticing you to approach and press a curious eye to a single hole in the fabric separating you from…

��no one.

The stage for the early, rather disturbing event was lacking its main protagonists—whether for the worst or the better. You knew the leader had fled camp to trail trouble in some corner of the heartlands. Now, the whereabouts of the red-haired lady were truly unknown.

You knew how to look for tracks, traces of wandering life, and you did your best to find those in her tent, snooping through her belongings with a special focus on her clothes poking out of her bag and how flowery they all smelled… yes, all of them. Nevertheless, your time spent rummaging through her trinkets and personal items gave not a single clue about where she could be hiding.

For the bleak moment in hands, you found yourself fond of a golden necklace you’d seen around her neck that morning, the very same one with the oval red stone that hung tantalizingly near her freckled bosoms, calling curious eyes to ogle. Without much ceremony, you swooped the necklace into the old pouch strapped around your waist and headed north, toward the riverbank.

Arriving near the flowing stream, which served that night as a mirror for the stars above, you set the wash tubs, basket, an oil lamp, and your numb behind on the gravel, mentally preparing yourself for the pile of worn undergarments before you. You cussed under your breath; your fingers ached, and your hands bore light scars from the week of rough washing. The weight of leaving Pa’s shack to pursue what had become a living hell felt tenfold heavier upon your shoulders. Your posture sagged, you sighed, and you felt as though the cries of distant coyotes were the ones your lips wouldn’t dare utter, but were tempted to.

Your hands reached for the necklace again, bringing it before the faint glow of the crescent moon and the lamp you had brought along. You watched the gold chain dance between your fingers, the red stone resting in your palm, passing on the warmth you needed at that instant. And how odd it was that upon bringing it to your lips, you could hear its owner’s voice engulfing the open space around you.

“I bought it back in Galway while waitin’ to board the ship to America. An old gentleman was selling his families remainin’ heirlooms to pay for his daughter’s treatment. I thought it was in good condition, so I bought it.”

“Mhmm,” you replied, half-lidded eyes following the hypnotic dance you forced the necklace to make. From side to side, front and back.

“It’s true,” O’Shea’s voice resurfaced from somewhere, carrying frustration at your indifference. “That purchase was the best, and single good choice I made in my entire life. Needless to say, I want it back.”

The third time you heard that outlandish accent, it began to dawn on you that perhaps it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination driven by the guilt of stealing the woman’s necklace, but rather her real presence nearby. You whipped your head over your shoulder and saw a very real O’Shea leaning against a tree, a cigarette nestled between her fingers. Just how had you not seen her before was beyond your mortal comprehension, but there she was, enshrouded in a thick curtain of mystery.

“What’s your name, hm? I don’t believe even he knows your name.” You weren’t sure if by ‘he’ she meant Dutch or God himself… both options couldn’t be far from the truth.

“It’s… It’s…”

“I saw you earlier today,” she interrupted, saving you from the struggle of letting your name roll off your tongue, which on normal days was as easy as breathing. But the woman seemed too engrossed in her own battles to notice the unpleasantry. She then took a long drag from her cigarette and placed a supporting arm over her stomach. “What would’ve you done if Arthur hadn’t stopped you?”

Long gone were the days of washing, you thought to yourself. It was high time to seek after what truly mattered to a low-life like you. So, taking the rickety lamp, you set sail over to where she was standing, letting the crickets and hoots fill the night air while ideas blossomed in your mind. One of them was stopping just an arm’s length from her and motioning for the cigarette in her hold. You proudly watched as she guided the tobacco-filled roll to your lips, and soon enough, felt the bitter smoke fill your lungs.

“No good, that’s for sure,” you replied huskily.

“Well, I must know. Should’ve I been the object of your anger, that is.”

“I would make him learn and remember my name for centuries to come. Not the other way around.”

The shadow your body casted over O’Shea’s was not enough to hide the raise of her eyebrows, like she wanted to believe it did. Had you just then impressed or utterly disappointed her continued a mystery, for she took on the duty of raising her walls even higher — a delectable challenge for you to indulge in.

“Hmph,” she shrugged lightly, busying herself with extinguishing her cigarette. It wasn’t until her perfectly pointy nose was breathing hot air against your exposed clavicle that you saw fit to place an arm on the tree above her head, in an effort to stop leaning onto her petite self. Though she didn’t seem to mind at all once she continued, “Can’t say gracing him with the knowledge of your name would be a good offensive. Other than terribly tamed, is quite… unfair, no?”

“Right,” you chuckled, taking a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. First, you took the same hand that held the cigarette — soft to the touch, as you’d imagined — and placed the valuable necklace in it. Once your gaze returned to hers, your name slipped past your lips without further hesitation.

“Right,” she echoed, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip as she watched you step back, providing more space between your bodies. Suddenly, the cold air was unbearable to the Irishwoman. “You, erm…. You don’t have to meddle in mine and Dutch’s affairs anymore. I’m sure one day we’ll be back to normal again, and all shall be fine. I’m tempted, even, to say you shouldn’t have interfered in the first place.”

A chuckle paved the path for your tease, “I see a perfectly normal woman standin’ before me.”

“I bet me honor if somebody were to demand you to point at Molly, you wouldn’t know it is I, sweetheart.”

“Aha! That’s ‘cause I’d never raise a finger at yo’self! Now, if we’re talking about the high-and-mighty Dutch —"

"He loves me!" Molly yelled, her fists curling defensively in front of her torso. To you, this seemed like a stance ready to strike or flee. But instead of running, as her posture suggested, she marched toward you and used her fists to shove you. Though not hard enough to make you fall, you stumbled backward, feeling the pain her hands inflicted on your chest soon after. "You have no idea how I crossed the Atlantic for him, how I left everything in Ireland to follow him. I’ve shed who I was, who I could even become, just to fit here with him. Go ahead, join the others as they laugh at the fool I am! Surely that's what they’re all doin' now!”

Her body trembled like the tiny flame inside the lamp swaying in your hands. Just as you had once wished as a child, you wanted to reach out and touch it, despite all the evident warning signs. You remembered watching Pa extinguish a candle with his thumb and index finger while you soothed your own burned fingers. Back then, you attributed that ability, and that alone, to men — to control fire — and how you envied them to have touched what you could only dream of.

Luckily, the world seemed on your side for once when a distinguishable crunch sounded beneath your boot. You looked down to find the necklace which had been sacrificed during her outburst. Before she took notice of it, you snatched and carefully placed in her hold again, oddly welcoming. “Indeed, buyin’ this necklace is worth the title you gave it,” was your final comment on the matter, a prolonged silence being the deserving answer. “Well,” you sighed, “why don’t ya stop by my tent one of these days while you wait to become normal again? I ain’t got much to offer, but…”

“What, am I supposed to greet Tilly on me way in? Isn’t she the one you share your tent with?”

It wasn’t coarse or unpleasant in the least. The comment was, by all means, very ‘Molly’, and was met with nothing except an affectioned smile.

“Yer sayin’ the offer interested the likes of ya?”

O’Shea’s eyes wandered over the plain’s surroundings, blinking at every tree as if they were her audience, darting from the starry sky to the plain river behind you. She wasn’t pondering the question, no; she was grounding herself. When her gaze returned to you, her gentle green eyes flickered slightly, a maddened waltz not from fear of you but from the turmoil within her. You could only watch as she reached a personal conclusion, her nostrils flaring as she took a determined gulp of breath.

“What I am saying is mine’s far less crowded.”

✤

Much like a drunk bastard forced to go a minute without a drop of alcohol, you found yourself weak in the minutes it took to wash your face in the communal bucket of water and change into something less worn out. Your mind had come to terms with “Molly” being the only name that mattered, and from the vast knowledge about nature and hunting that once occupied your thoughts, now, nothing outside the realm of 'her' held any importance. Obviously, the feeble state of your mind was kept a secret as you marched towards Molly’s tent. The strength with which your boots left several holes in the patch of grass made most onlookers think a fight was brewing.

But all that energy died out once you stopped by the quiet tent.

What if it was a trap? Your primal instincts questioned as you crossed your arms and bit your bottom lip. What if Dutch were standing behind those closed flaps, his 5'11" frame proud and undoubtedly satisfied with his recent catch?

You began to taste blood.

Oh, but what if she was alone, after all? What if you came all this way, bent over backwards, only to be denied what you've been craving? Would you bite the bullet or would you die with it lodged in your head?

The inner dispute, loudly resonating across every corner of your mind, left almost no space for the muffled voice coming from within the tent.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” Molly said, her tone mirroring the one in your head — ardently desperate. Surely, the big shadow your body cast over the white canvas gave away your presence, not to mention the questions of several gang members about your incessant pacing, for she quickly continued, making it clear she was speaking to you, “Call me old-fashioned, but whatever you came here to do, you must to do facing me. Otherwise, be on your way.”

“Damn, you seem set on the idea that folks laughin’ at ya. Hell, do ya think I’m too? ‘Cause if so…”

“I can guarantee the only ting I’ve got me mind set on is that I don’t want to be lonely any longer than I’ve been.”

“Why, ain’t that…” you began, yet much like the chaos previously flooding your head, it watered down into pure hollowness. The sadness inflicted through her words carving unbearable holes in your insides. “I’m heading in.”

For once, the cluttered interior with its woodsy scent and Linde’s riches on display did not capture your attention. Instead, it was O'Shea who was quietly sitting on a stool, her back turned to you, holding a small pocket mirror angled to reflect your entire figure as you entered.

It took you a moment to fully take in her appearance: her delicate frame clad only in white undergarments, her hair braided to the side to showcase the golden necklace resting around her neck, and her bare shoulders rising and falling with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing.

The steps you took towards her had caused cracks from the loose floorboards, but even then, even if a gunshot sounded from within the tent, you wouldn’t have taken your eyes off the figure before you.

“For your information,” she began with a tilt in her tone, “he never hurt me. Physically, that is. He never made me regret me choices, either. I love him. I painstakingly love him; with all my heart, in every breath I take.”

Sacrificing your knees, you leveled your face with the back of her head, fingers aching to touch the crook of her neck and her soft hair but instead choosing to play along with her game. “That sounds like a big ordeal.”

Once again, she used her mirror to gaze at you, but you could only see her parted, red lips reflected in the tiny surface. You watched them exhale a shaky breath, if not for the sudden lack of oxygen felt inside the tent. “That it is.”

“Then you must be tired of lovin’ too much and receivin’ nothin’ in return...”

Whether it was from the drunken haze her scent indulged you in, or from the deep-seated urge in your heart to make her forget about Dutch, you wasted no further time and pressed your lips to her bare back, prompting a short melody to slip past her lips. Her skin, as expected, was on fire, as if each freckle was an ember in the bonfire that Molly O’Shea has become. And of course, it drove you crazy, urging you to plant more kisses across the small region until she graced you with a proper answer.

“Tired? I — Ah — am nothin’ of the kind. All this lovin’, all this sacrifice will eventually pay off.”

You grinned against her skin, teasing a small area with the tip of your tongue and finishing with a light bite. “You know, lovin’ someone shouldn’t involve sacrifice. You're puttin’ in overtime, honey. Maybe it's time to find some shade under someone else's tree,” you rasped out.

The pocket mirror shook, and in the exact second your eyes poked out from behind her shoulder you saw a glimpse of her closed eyes, “What do you suggest, then?”

“I think the woman ‘fore me was promised many things already, hm?”

“It pains me to say this,” Molly mumbled with a single nod, dropping the mirror to reach out for your compliant hands, intertwining them with hers in front of her. “But you do know me so well.”

Never before had you tasked your lips with such a delicate mission as trailing kisses from her shoulder to her neck. It was a challenging endeavor, especially since with each touch, the Irishwoman would gasp and lean further back into you, igniting the flames of what had once been an innocent and rather controlled fire between the two of you. When you reached her ear and playfully bit her earlobe, she had surrendered completely — squirming, moaning, and despite her efforts, unable to conceal the squeezing of her thighs from your hungry gaze. And you ventured to the edge of boundaries, indulging in the pleasure of sliding the straps of her nightgown down, unaware that gravity would reveal more than just the skin of her shoulders.

As for Molly, she loved how the realization that her breasts were bare had you scrambling to your feet and circling her body. Finally, driving someone crazy wasn’t met with dire consequences; instead, it brought a familiar blush to her cheeks and made the remaining clothes draped over her curves feel too tight.

“Damn me,” you choked as you sunk to your knees again, throat bobbing several times with the moans you successfully strangled.

O’Shea smiled for the first time before your eyes, leaning forward just to tease what had your mouth rapidly watering. “Someone definitely will, sweetheart. Perhaps even God himself. But I honestly couldn’t give a bleedin’ damn.”

“And to me? What’ll you give?”

Her hands suddenly flew to your hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess of knots, adding to the delicious pain as she pulled them against the roots. Soon, you understood her message and leveled your face with hers, closing any distance as she pressed her lips to yours, inviting your body closer with the opening of her legs. When her lips parted between kisses, not for air like you had thought, she blurted her answer…

“Everything.”

You had no exact answer, but you figured that the second you began flicking her nipples, to outright tugging on them, Molly had to internally scream at each of her bones to support the weight of her flesh as it seemed to feel tenfold heavier. Needless to say, the second your mouth left hers to envelop one of her hardened nubs, the woman couldn't hold her tongue any longer. A loud moan tore itself from her throat, echoing throughout the room. The sensation was overwhelming, causing every nerve ending in her body to spark alive with pleasure. The grip she had on your hair tightened, pulling slightly as if trying to force your head down even further onto her nipple.

Feeling emboldened by Molly's pleas, you slowly ventured your fingers downward, past the hem of her nightgown. Your fingertips brushed against the delicate fabric, teasing her further before finally dipping below into the wet mess she had been housing between her legs. Your fingers slid easily through her slick folds, the warmth and wetness enveloping them almost immediately. Molly's breath hitched, her body stiffening beneath yours as you explored her most intimate area. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperately seeking something — someone — to fill them.

You could practically hear the desperation in Molly's ragged breaths, her body writhing beneath yours as you continued to tease her clit with your fingers. “You're makin’ me crazy,” you gasped, though the swell of her breasts, which your face had been wantonly buried in, muffled each of your words. Regardless, every brush of your fingers against her sensitive clit sent shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, causing her to buck and writhe beneath you. The feeling, you came to understand, was more than mutual.

“You’re wasting your breath on something useless as words,” was all Molly managed to get out. Her hips jerked upwards involuntarily, seeking friction from your wandering hand.

Taking advantage of her exposed position, you shifted down, trailing kisses along the valley between her breasts, to her stomach, down to her mound. With deliberate slowness, you replaced your fingers with your mouth, swirling your tongue over her swollen clit.

Molly's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her hands sought support at the edge of her stool, her knuckles turning white.

Your tongue worked tirelessly over her clit, lapping at the throbbing bundle of nerves with relentless determination, releasing sinful sounds into the warm air. With each flick and suckle, Molly’s breathing grew heavier, her moans louder. Then, without warning, her entire world narrowed down to the point where your mouth was touching her. Every worry, every heartache seemed to fade into the background, allowing her the rare moment to exist outside of thoughts about Dutch, her family back in Ireland, and the love she had longed to experience. Her back arched off the stool, her core clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms as she came hard. And hard she came.

You couldn't control yourself either. The same whirlwind that had clearly swept through the Irishwoman had also affected you, though the chaos it caused within you wasn't as visibly exposed as it was on her. In other words, even the sweat coating her freckled skin deserved your appreciation, as it added a glow to the already god-like figure looking down upon you with something akin to adoration.

“Will you stay the night?” Molly purred tiredly as you took on the duty of securing her weakened body into her shared cot. Your eyes glimmered with lust as she wrapped her arms around your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Alas, even that seemed to wear her down completely. Gently, you laid her bare body down on the cot, unable to resist giving her one last kiss, though you kept it brief.

“Ah, don’t go playing games now,” she chuckled upon seeing you fix your clothing and ready yourself to leave. “Stay.”

“I’m gonna take ya outta this sorry life…”

“Mhmm.”

It was your turn to chuckle at the utter beauty of her sleepy face. “I’ll try with all my might to give Molly O’Shea the life she deserves.”

Her face suddenly grew grim, though her tiredness limited the severity of the grimace she meant to flash you. “Promises…” she breathed out, her eyelids growing heavier. “Promises,” she murmured before surrendering to the strong force pulling her into the depths of slumber, but not before a final, “promises,” slipped past her lipstick-smudged lips.

On the nightstand beside the now-sleeping figure, along with an oil lamp, was a forgotten glass of whiskey with a residual liquid resting at the bottom. There were no traces of red lipstick on its round edges, so you figured, as you brought the glass closer to your face, that it belonged to Van der Linde. Not that it gave you any pleasure or — God forbid — played into any fantasy you might’ve had for him, but taking the glass to your lips, feeling the bitter liquid burn down your throat, and later placing it back next to Molly’s spent figure felt like fulfilling a duty.

With that in mind, you tucked the woman in, giving her forehead one last kiss before making your way out.

The camp, much to your relief, was still buzzing with life. No one seemed to have any idea of what had transpired inside the tent, including the newcomers who had just arrived.

Yes.

Just as you stepped outside the tent, Dutch and four other men rode into camp on their horses. Some people welcomed them, while others, like you, stood their ground. It was dangerous, and you knew it: standing there in the predator’s den, bearing nothing but a victorious smile on your weary face as he made his way to his resting place. But old Pa didn’t know — and how could he? — that the deadliest creature was, in fact, an easy kill.

Only, it wouldn’t take a bullet or an arrow.

It would take some cunning and the golden necklace tangled around your fingers.

[queerwelsh]

E. Prosser Rhys won the Crown in Pontypool National Eisteddfod with 'Atgof' in 1924.

Influential in his life as a poet, editor, journalist and publisher, Prosser Rhys is remembered today for winning the Crown in the National Eisteddfod of Wales in 1924. As influential as his winning poem, ‘Atgof’ was, and continues to be, Prosser even more profoundly affected Welsh-language writing in his life than is remembered today.

Edward Prosser Rees was born on the 4th of March 1901 in Trefenter, Mynydd Bach in Ceredigion, and christened on the 9th of March at Capel Bethel. His father was a blacksmith, David Rees, and his mother was Elizabeth Rees. Prosser came from a family of blacksmiths, and they later moved to Morfa Du in Trefenter (after Prosser had moved away, in March 1918). Previously, they had lived in Llainffwlbert until 1900, where they had their previous six children.

Prosser Rhys attended Cofadail Primary School in Trefenter then Ardwyn Grammar School in Aberystwyth in 1914. Other writers, academics and politicians were educated here, who were known as 'Old Ardwynians'. His early academic success was then marred by ill health - he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis at a young age, in 1915, which affected him for the rest of his life, but immediately kept him home for the next 3 years of his life. 

Still, his name started appearing in Welsh writing as early as 1916, with the poem ‘Y Fam a’i Baban’ (The Mam and her Baby) in Baner ac Amserau Cymru, where he was published as E. Prosser Rees (under the pseudonym/ffugenw Eiddwenfab) from Trefenter, Llangwyryfon, Ceredigion. In 1917, he wrote eloquent letters to ‘Y Darian,’ a radical Welsh-language paper, where he first wrote briefly about joining a patriotic union, and the Eisteddfod. The latter was fitting as he next appeared in Y Darian in 1918 for his early Eisteddfod wins, then in local Eisteddfodau, listed within the winners from Ceredigion. He then appeared several times in Y Darian as a part of ‘Aelwyd y Beirdd,’ where he’s described as a young poet with great potential, at only 17, the brother of Reverend Wyre Rees.

Clearly, Prosser wrote, competed and performed his poetry quite a lot as a teenager. One of his early poems appears in ‘Cymru,’ a monthly Welsh-language journal founded by O.M. Edwards in 1891. It was in 1919 that ‘Canu’r Merched’ by E. Prosser Rhys appeared in the journal ‘Cymru’. This is the earliest (that I found) of his poetry appearing published under this name. Note that there are occasionally mentions of ‘Prosser Rees,’ his birth name, as well. As Prosser Rees, he also published a poem in 1917 in The Cambrian News and Merionethshire Standard in sympathy to Mr and Mrs Thomas Evans of Penbont, who lost their son, David Morgan, in France during the First World War.

Prosser worked as a clerk at Western Ocean Colliery in Nant-y-Moel, Ogmore Valley, before his community saw him coming back from the ‘sowth’ (south) as a journalist. He was at Nantymoel, apparently living with one of his brothers, John, who was a coal miner. He was still receiving treatment for tuberculosis and apparently then returned to this family in their new home in Morfa-Du. He then worked at the Liberal newspapers of the Welsh Gazette in Aberystwyth and Herald Cymraeg in Caernarfon in 1919 (where he worked with Morris T. Williams). He moved back to Aberystwyth in 1921 and became the editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru in 1923, when they moved their offices from Denbigh to Aberystwyth.

In 1923, Prosser's poetry was first published in a book - Gwaed Ifanc with another poet J.T. Jones (John Tudor Jones). As the title suggests, they were proud of being the ‘new blood’ of Welsh poetry and writing, with Prosser then being 22 and J.T. Jones being 19 years old. There was certainly some backlash to that and the book was met with some controversy, also for their poetry being more sexual than older poets of the time. There was already a tradition of the new kind of Welsh writing, started by T H Parry-Williams’ win in the Eisteddfod in 1915 with ‘Y Ddinas,’ and Rhys was aware of these new ideas of challenging Welsh writing, the Eisteddfod and therefore Welsh-language society, which he was inspired by and sought to be a part of - and succeeded. This was an attempt to challenge the writing of older poets, as well as bring attention to the newer crop of younger writers, the men who’d survived the First World War and demanded attention.

He of course especially challenged the status quo of the Eisteddfod when he won the Crown in 1924 in  the Pontypool National Eisteddfod with his poem ‘Atgof’ (Memory - or also sometimes translated as Reminiscence). This long ‘pryddest’ poem, follows a ‘llanc synhwyrus’/‘sensible lad’s journey into exploring his sexuality, from seeing ‘Sex’ ruin his parents’ relationship, to exploring his sexuality with women, and then with a man as well (who was likely Morris T. Williams), while struggling against the morals and virtues of Welsh society and religion. The judges of the Eisteddfod were at odds, one finding it to be immoral and the others praising it. 

Of course, when Prosser won, the reactions were scandalized and ‘Atgof’ became quite controversial, for its explicit discussions of sex and of course the same-sex part of the poem. It has since been called ‘homoerotic’ by many writers, while today may be seen more as a bisexual poem, or queer one. Mihangel Morgan, writing in Queer Wales, finds this to be a negative depiction of homosexuality and downplays the significance of ‘Atgof’ as a gay poem.

A’n cael ein hunain yn cofleidio ‘dynn;

A Rhyw yn ein gorthrymu; a’i fwynhau; A phallu’n sydyn fel ar lan y llyn…

And finding ourselves in a tight embrace With Sex overwhelming us; and enjoying it;

And suddenly stopping as above the lake…

These lines describe the same-sex interaction and indeed it doesn’t take up a large amount of the poem, but Mihangel Morgan’s disappointment seems to come from the poem not being homosexual enough. And indeed it isn’t, but reads as a bisexual poem that takes us through Rhys’s whole journey of realising and battling with his sexuality at this age. It still resonates with much of the LGBTQ+ community, especially when realising how explicit it was for 1924 (or it wouldn't have been so controversial), 40 years before the decriminalization of homosexuality, and its win in the Eisteddfod was well, well ahead of its time.

On the other hand, later on in Prosser’s life, it was suggested that he was so shocked by sodomy in the writing of someone else to not publish them. There is the possibility of Prosser’s viewpoints and own sexuality changing in his life, though this is merely speculation that Prosser was ‘shocked’ by writing of homosexuality. There are many possibilities here when it comes to Prosser’s own feelings and sexuality, but it is certain that they have had a great influence on LGBTQ+ writing and the community in Wales and particularly in Welsh. 

‘Atgof’ and Prosser were also mentioned in US Time Magazine in 1924, adding to evidence of the influence and legacy of this poem. Internationally, we see links in the poems to the sexology and psychiatry of the time - the psychoanalyst Ernest Jones (and possibly abusive husband of the composer Morfydd Llwyn Owen) mentioned the poem in a letter to Sigmund Freud, though it’s unclear that either actually read the poem.

Caradog Pritchard wrote in his autobiography that as a friend of Prosser’s and Morris T. Williams’ that he believed the man Prosser wrote about was Morris Williams, and this has been accepted as likely the truth since then (though there were always rumours about this). Morris T. Williams was close to Prosser, when they were roommates in Twthil near Caernarfon, while working at 'Herald Cymraeg,' and they exchanged letters after which show their close relationship - this was before Morris married Kate Roberts and they together bought Gwasg Gee. All three remained close, being friends and remaining in the same social circles as poets, as well as in Welsh publishing. More recently, it has been theorized that Kate Roberts also was queer, based on her own personal writing, as well as her short stories which are about romantic relationships between women (such as 'Christmas' and 'The Treasure'). Morris T. Williams died in 1946, a year after Prosser Rhys, after a long struggle with alcoholism.

‘Atgof’ was published as a booklet, with a translation ‘Memory’ by Hywel Davies also published as a booklet. The poem reads less explicitly than the Welsh version, though it was praised at the time. It can be read here - though a modern English translation is definitely needed. 'Atgof' can also be read here.

In 1928, Prosser married Mary Prudence Hughes in Aberystwyth, which was when both he and she took the surname ‘Rhys’. They had one daughter, Eiddwen Rhys. He founded Gwasg Aberystwyth also in 1928 and began publishing books, with Gwasg Aberystwyth growing significantly in years to come. 

As editor of Baner ac Amserau Cymru, Prosser encouraged more poets to write and publish their work. Rhys founded Y Clwb Llyfrau Cymraeg/The Welsh Books Club in 1937. This was a subscription of Welsh books, where readers would receive 4 books a year for half a crown, and which published 45 volumes up until 1945.  As successful as it was under Prosser, after his death, it was decided that there were not enough Welsh-language writers to continue it.

(Executive committee of 'Plaid Genedlaethol Cymru,' 1927- Lewis Valentine, Ambrose Bebb, D. J. Williams, Mai Roberts, Saunders Lewis, Kate Roberts, H. R. Jones, Prosser Rhys.) Prosser Rhys was a founding member of Plaid Cymru, founded in 1925. He was also the editor of ‘Y Ddraig Goch’ with Saunders Lewis and Iorwerth C. Peate, which Prosser also helped to form with H. R. Jones, though he was initially opposed to the idea due to lack of funds. However, Prosser became vocally opposed to Saunders Lewis’ right wing views. He wrote in Y Faner that many of Plaid Cymru’s members had come from the Labour party or Liberal party, or were radicals who came from no political party, where none were supportive of the views appearing in the Daily Mail, implying that Saunders Lewis’ views were too close to the matter, but that most Plaid Cymru supporters were personally too loyal to voice their concerns over this. The expulsion of Prosser from the party was discussed and suggested but Saunders Lewis opposed this. 

Following his many successes, Prosser and his family moved to 33 North Parade, Aberystwyth, where he lived until his death.

After his health had deteriorated again from 1942, Prosser died in 1945 - at the age of 43, and less than a month before his 44th birthday. He is buried at Llanbadarn Fawr Cemetery, with his grave quoting T. Gwynn Jones: “Gwyrodd êfo î’r drugaredd fawr, Ni wyr namyn Duw ddirgelwch ei wên.” Here Mary Prudence Rhys, his wife, is also buried, who died in 1991, at the age of 87. They are also buried with William Dewi Morris Jones, who died in 1983, aged 56. Rhys’s death was certainly a loss to Welsh publishing and writing.

Gwasg Aberystwyth was bought by J. D. Lewis & Sons from Llandysul after Prosser’s death, the founder of Gwasg Gomer, who continued the Welsh Books Club and took over publishing of the club’s books until 1952. This, however, did follow a legal disagreement between Mary Prudence Rhys and Morris T. Williams, who was supposed to get the first offer and chance at refusal for Gwasg Aberystwyth, according to legal documents that Prosser and Morrisagreed upon, which Morris Williams did not feel like he had gotten.

Cerddi Prosser Rhys was published in 1950 by Gwasg Gee, Morris’s first collection entirely of his own poems - published 5 years after his death. Edited by J.M. Edwards, a fellow poet who competed in Eisteddfodau and was from a similar area to Rhys, Edwards also writes the introduction of the poetry collection. He notes that he decided that 4 years after Prosser’s death was enough time to finally publish a whole collection of Prosser’s best poems (the introduction was written in July, 1949, with the book published in February, 1950.) He writes that his previous poetry collection, in ‘Gwaed Ifanc’, was ‘a volume that attracted a lot of attention and also brought a new, daring note to the world of Welsh poetry of the period, something that was urgently needed.’ His memories of Prosser while growing up show he was a well-known poet even in his youth, who Edwards and others in his own school had heard of before meeting, who was known for competing and finding success in many local Eisteddfodau around Wales. 

Of his poetry found in Cerddi Prosser Rhys, Edwards notes that ‘Y Gof’ (The Memory) is a tribute to his parents and his early life in rural Wales. His two sonnets he most praises are ‘Y Pechadur’ (The Sinner) and ‘Duw Mudan’ (Mute God). Of ‘Atgof,’ Edwards significantly notes that it was "a bold poem that created a lot of excitement and was praised by some but damned by others. The saddest feature of the whole event was that it reflects an attitude of thought in Wales which is too ready to judge the values of the world of the arts by the wrong standards." The introduction finishes by repeating what many others have said about the premature loss of Prosser to the world of Welsh writing and publishing. Edwards also hoped that there would also be a collection of Prosser’s prose, which unfortunately has not yet come to be. 

‘Mab ei Fam’ (His Mother's Son) is to "M.T.W," likely Morris T. Williams - similarly to Strancio, which was translated by Mihangel Morgan as ‘Fooling About,’ which is to: ‘I gyfaill annwyl a fu’n cyd-letya â mi’ (To a dear friend who lodged with me)

Do, bûm yn flin. Ond weithian gwybydd di Fod Fflam yn llosgi ynof, ac aml dro Yn llamu ar draws fy nghorff materol i, A’m hysu hyd fy nghyrru i maes o’m co’,

A strancio a wnaf eto rhag fy ffawd Nes torro’r Fflam ei ffordd o’i charchar cnawd.

Yes, I was angry. But sometimes you must know That a Flame burned within me, and often Sprang from my material body Plaguing me until it drove me mad And I would taunt my fate Until the Flame broke free of its prison of flesh.

-Mostly translated by Mihangel Morgan.

As with ‘Atgof,’ Mihanel Morgan downplays Strancio by stating it to be cryptic and guarded - while I'd argue that the confession of his feelings towards a man in the 1920s is explicit for its time, especially following on from the Victorian poetry that was popular before the ‘New blood’. While Mihangel Morgan says it is ‘assumed’ to be about Morris T. Williams, the dedication at the start of the poem is clear enough, at least historically, to Morris T. Williams, especially when a previous poem also is dedicated to him.

It wasn’t until 1980 that Prosser Rhys was celebrated with a book about his life, by Rhisiart Hincks. T. Robin Chapman wrote in Y Traethodydd in 2006 that Hincks probably knew of the nature of Rhys’s relationship with Morris T. Williams yet it was omitted, from the only whole biography of Prosser Rhys. This is a sign of the times in which it was written and published but shows the need now to write biographies of Rhys that include what was previously excluded, his queer identity. Hincks mentions how Williams quickly became Prosser's best friend ('ei gyfaill pennaf') when they met in Caernarfon, that they moved together to 15 Eleanor Street and that it was Prosser who introduced Williams to literature. ‘Cyfeillgarwch clos’. He also mentions that such closeness led to spats, once when they fought all night, which does show the intensity of their relationship. Perhaps, this subtext Hincks hoped to be understood by the audience of the time. Of ‘Atgof,’ Hincks notes that Prosser had previously expressed that there was a lack of sex in Welsh in recent poetry, which he blamed on the chapel. This biography remains the most detailed on Prosser’s life.

A monument on Mynydd Bach, overlooking Llyn Eiddwen near to Trefenter, where Prosser was born and lived in his childhood, was unveiled in 1992, during the National Eisteddfod in Aberystwyth. Including Rhys, the monument, ‘Cofeb i Feirdd y Mynydd Bach’ celebrates 4 poets from the local area. J.M. Edwards from Llanrhystud also won the Crown in the National Eisteddfod, in 1937, 1941 and in 1944, and wrote the introduction to Cerddi Prosser Rhys. All 4 of the poets named on the plaque of the monument were successful in the Eisteddfod. B. T. Hopkins (Benjamin Thomas Hopkins) was a successful poet from Ceredigion, who lived and farmed on Mynydd Bach. T Hughes Jones (Thomas Hughes Jones) was a Welsh poet and writer from Ceredigion who won a medal in the National Eisteddfod of 1940 for a short story, ‘Sgweier Hafila,’ which was partly judged by Kate Roberts.

Interest in Prosser, his life and career, has been renewed by research into Welsh LGBTQ+ history and writing. Notably, in 1998, a historical docudrama called ‘Atgof’ aired on S4C, directed by Ceri Sherlock, which depicted Prosser writing the poem and his relationship with Morris T. Williams, which was represented as a sexual and romantic one. There was controversy around the film, similarly to 'Atgof' the poem, with some questioning how they depicted the relationship (with some speculated, fictional details) and some also questioning whether it should be depicted or speculated about at all. Despite the discourse, Prosser Rhys had already become an inspiration to the Welsh LGBTQ+ community.

In 2019, the show ‘Corn Gwlad’ was performed at the National Eisteddfod in Llanrwst, created by Seiriol Davies, which celebrated Prosser’s win at the Eisteddfod and depicted his feelings towards Morris T. Williams. It was then a work-in-progress show, with comedy and music, and part of the ‘Mas ar y Maes’ programme of events at the National Eisteddfod, which are especially for the LGBTQ+ community, or which may be relevant to the LGBTQ+ community. Prosser was also featured in ‘Mas ar y Maes’ events with ‘Cariad yw Cariad,’ and is of course heavily featured in the 2024 National Eisteddfod in Pontypridd, on the centenary of Prosser Rhys winning the Crown with 'Atgof.' 'Atgof' was also the theme of the poems submitted to the 'Coron' - which was won by Gwynfor Dafydd.

The lasting legacy of Prosser Rhys is to be a significant voice of this community from 20th century Wales, and an icon especially for Welsh language LGBTQ+ people, queer men and bisexual people. This is what has significantly brought Prosser Rhys back into the public eye in the 1990s, with the film Atgof, and in the 2010s with LGBTQ+ History Month, and in the 2020s around the 100th anniversary of his Eisteddfod Crown winning with ‘Atgof’. Prosser also had a significant impact in Welsh publishing, Welsh society, in his article writings, in politics. Prosser Rhys was a fascinating, complicated person, a passionate advocate for Welsh poetry, writing and publishing and is a hero of the communities to which he belonged, including the local community in Ceredigion and West Wales.

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 7) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 6  Next: Chapter 8

Summary:

You stand outside for a moment, feeling the warmth of the day on your skin, before the door jingles behind you, followed by the sound of it opening and closing again. Glancing to the side, you see Arthur standing next to you. “You goin' huntin' again?” he asks. “Yeah, maybe. Ain’t decided yet,” you reply, scratching your jaw as you think over your day. “Don’t really got much planned.” Arthur seems to watch you for a moment, as if he’s weighing something in his mind, before he speaks again. “Thought you mighta been gone by now, from what you said,” he says, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

Chapter 7: Weight of Words

Content warning: Mention of guns

            ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻ The air feels different this morning, a quiet stillness that follows the weight of the decision you made the night before. The letter weighs heavily in your pocket as you walk through town, the crumpled paper a reminder of something you’re not quite ready to face. You’ve avoided it long enough, but now it’s time.

The train station comes into view as you make your way down the main street, its faded sign swinging lightly in the breeze. The clatter of footsteps and the distant whistle of a departing train set the backdrop as you step inside. The post office occupies a corner of the station, sharing space with the ticket counter and the bounty board. It’s a place where townsfolk pay off their debts, buy train tickets, and send or receive mail.

You push the door open, the scent of ink, paper, and faint traces of engine smoke hitting you all at once. The clerk was hunched over a pile of letters, barely looks up as you approach. His hands move deftly, sorting through parcels like he’s been doing this for decades.

Sliding two letters onto the counter, you exchange a few words with him, paying for the postage and watching as he stamps it and adds it to the outgoing pile. Before you handed it over, your mind lingers on the words you wrote earlier: 'I’m sorry for your loss.' Simple, blunt—your handwriting looked steadier than you’d felt while writing it. You don’t know if it’ll make any difference, but at least it’s done.

The weight in your pocket is gone now, but the heaviness in your chest lingers. It’s a small act, but it feels like a step toward something—responsibility, perhaps, or maybe just closure. You wish you could do more, but you didn't have the time to ride Annesburg. The idea of traveling to the mining town causes a sick feeling to settle in your stomach.

The second letter, however, feels just as weighty. The words written to the lackey in Blackwater—the one who gave you the job and promised the payment. You’d made your decision. Now you needed to let him know where you’ve settled with the satchel. You couldn’t stay hidden forever.

Mr. T. Barlow, Blackwater.

With a final glance at the letters now in the clerk’s pile, you turn away, the weight of both letters still pressing on you. As you leave the post office, the bustling energy of the train station surrounds you. A conductor calls out departures, a horse whinnies nearby, and someone laughs loudly on the platform. The morning sun is already warm on your back as you head out toward the street.

Walking towards the gunsmith, the familiar rustling of papers catches your attention. Your eyes land on the paperboy stationed on the corner, clutching a stack of newspapers like his life depends on it. His sharp eyes scan the street, and they narrow when they catch you glancing his way.

You approach, curiosity drawing you closer. One of the headlines—“Blackwater Incident”—catches your eye, but before you can read any further, the boy’s voice cuts through.

“Hey! Don’t go readin' that for free!”

The sharpness in his tone surprises you. “Wasn't doing no such thing,” you mutter, straightening and pulling your hand back.

The boy huffs, looking unimpressed as he tightens his grip on the stack. “You’ll have to buy one like everyone else. Can’t just be readin’ all day for nothin’.”

With a glance at the paper, you take a step back, a small huff passing your lips before walking away. The moment stays with you as you make your way down the street, the town’s usual hum of life settling back around you. It’s not the scolding that lingers, really—it’s the weight of what you caught a glimpses of.

                                   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

Rounding the corner, you find yourself at the gunsmith, thinking about restocking on ammunition with your extra funds. The faint tang of gun oil and metal hangs in the air, a scent you’ve come to associate with places like this. The bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and your eyes immediately catch sight of a familiar figure at the counter.

Arthur is leaning casually against the polished wood, his attention fixed on a revolver laid out in front of him. His hat sits low, but not low enough to hide the furrow of concentration on his brow. His hand rests on the counter, fingers drumming idly as he listens to the smith explaining the firearm’s finer points.

Your boots echo on the floorboards as you approach, and Arthur looks up at the sound. His expression shifts quickly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, if it ain’t the best shot I know,” Arthur muttered in greeting, his voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement. “Didn’t expect to see you here. What’s this? Early shoppin’ for trouble?”

You arch an eyebrow, placing your own revolver on the counter as the gunsmith comes to inspect it. “Just making sure I’m still in working order,” you reply evenly, glancing at the rifle Arthur’s been inspecting. “What about you? Upgrading your arsenal?”

Arthur shrugs, his hand brushing over the stock of the rifle beside him. “Gotta keep the gear in shape. You never know when you’ll need somethin’ that hits hard enough to stop something in its tracks.”

The gunsmith, who’s been silent up until now, chuckles lightly as he picks up your revolver to check its condition. “You two seem to get along well,” he says, glancing between you and Arthur. His tone is conversational, but there’s a glint of curiosity in his eye. “Funny, though. Thought that fella who gave Tommy all that trouble was your business, miss. Didn’t peg you for the type to run with folks like him. No offence, Mister.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavier than they ought to be. You feel Arthur’s gaze shift to you, his expression unreadable as he waits to see how you’ll respond. For a brief moment, you’re caught off guard, unsure of how much to say—or how much to let on.

You clear your throat, giving the gunsmith a sidelong look as you lean casually against the counter. “Oh, he ain’t so bad,” you say, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Only trouble I’ve seen from him is his aim. Pretty sure the sky’s got more to worry about than any man he’s pointing a gun at.”

Arthur straightens up, feigning offense as he turns to you, the faintest trace of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Now hold on,” he drawls, his southern accent drawing out the words. “That’s a bold claim comin’ from someone who’s been pickin’ off targets from the comfort of high ground.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “Comfort of high ground? Pretty sure you’ve benefited from me takin’ those shots, Mister Morgan.”

The gunsmith chuckles, clearly entertained by the exchange as he continues his work. “Well, ain’t this a sight,” he says, glancing between the two of you. “Almost feels like watchin’ an old married couple bicker.”

Arthur straightens, his smirk fading for a moment as his brow furrows ever so slightly. He glances at the gunsmith, then back at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. A grin returns quickly enough, but there’s a different weight to it now, like he’s turning the gunsmith’s words over in his head.

“Well, I guess if she were my wife,” Arthur drawls, leaning back on the counter with an exaggerated nonchalance, “I’d be in for a hell of a lot more trouble than I already got.” He pauses just long enough to let the words settle, then shoots you a sidelong look, a spark of amusement returning. “And I reckon she’d make sure I knew it, too.”

You scoff lightly, though you feel the faintest twinge of something you can’t quite name. Heat rises to your cheeks, but you quickly brush it off, fixing the gunsmith and Arthur with a sharp look. “Careful now,” you warn, though your tone is more amused than annoyed. “Though I’d like to think I’d keep you in one piece—mostly for the entertainment value.”

Arthur chuckles at that, shaking his head as he leans down to inspect a rifle. The moment passes easily, slipping back into the rhythm of lighthearted banter, but you catch yourself watching him a second longer than you should.

After a moment, Arthur speaks up again, tipping his hat back slightly as he leans closer to you. “You know,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make it sound conspiratorial, “for someone who talks big, I don’t remember you outshootin’ me last time.”

“Must’ve been your memory playin’ tricks on you,” you fire back smoothly, meeting his gaze without missing a beat.

Arthur chuckles, his gaze lingering on you a beat longer than necessary before he straightens up and turns his attention back to the rifle on the counter. It’s subtle, but there’s something in his posture that speaks of easy confidence—a man who doesn’t let words like the gunsmith’s stick too long.

You, on the other hand, find yourself mulling over the exchange. The banter between you and Arthur feels… strange. Not in a bad way, but unfamiliar, like slipping on a well-worn coat that doesn’t quite belong to you. How long had it been since you traded words with someone without suspicion weighing heavy on your mind? Since a conversation wasn’t just about getting the job done or getting information to find another?

The thought nags at you as you watch Arthur inspect the rifle, his movements steady and deliberate. He’s still practically a stranger, just someone you keep running into by chance. And yet, there’s something about him—something in the way he moves, the way he talks—that feels… easy. Too easy for someone you barely know.

“Alright, what d’you think?” Arthur asks suddenly, breaking your train of thought as he glances your way, holding the rifle up. “Think this one’s worth my coin, or should I stick with what I got?”

You snap back to the moment, shaking off the strange weight of your own thoughts as you cross your arms and tilt your head, studying the weapon in his hands. “Looks like it’d suit you,” you say after a moment, a teasing edge slipping back into your tone. “Though I’m not sure a fancy rifle’s gonna help your aim.”

Arthur lets out a scoff at that, the sound filling the small shop as he sets the rifle back down. “You’re relentless, y’know that?”

“Someone’s gotta say it,” you shoot back smoothly, but your earlier thoughts linger, a quiet hum in the back of your mind as the conversation continues.

By the time the gunsmith hands you back your revolver, polished and ready, the tension has eased back into the comfortable rhythm of banter. You thank the man for his service, paying him, and getting a few more boxes of ammunition before giving him a nod of acknowledgment.

As you step outside and feel the sunlight on your face, you can’t quite shake the thought: for someone who’s spent years keeping others at arm’s length, Arthur Morgan feels a little too close for comfort—and somehow, you don’t entirely mind.

You stand outside for a moment, feeling the warmth of the day on your skin, before the door jingles behind you, followed by the sound of it opening and closing again. Glancing to the side, you see Arthur standing next to you.

“You goin' huntin' again?” he asks.

“Yeah, maybe. Ain’t decided yet,” you reply, scratching your jaw as you think over your day. “Don’t really got much planned.”

Arthur seems to watch you for a moment, as if he’s weighing something in his mind, before he speaks again. “Thought you mighta been gone by now, from what you said,” he says, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

“Eh, I’m waitin’ on a letter to get here before I move on,” you say, offering enough of an explanation to hopefully satisfy his curiosity.

With the cigarette between his lips, you’re surprised when he offers you the packet. You shake your head, declining, and watch him tuck it away before lighting a match on the heel of his boot. He takes a drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly.

“Huh,” he mumbles, glancing at you with a knowing look. “Seems like we both got our reasons to stick around this place for a little longer.”

You nod, the words hanging in the air for a moment. The weight of the day starts to settle in as the quiet stretches, both of you standing there in the warmth of the sun, surrounded by the bustle of the town.

Arthur takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes on the street ahead. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something thoughtful, but it passes quickly.

After a brief pause, Arthur exhales a cloud of smoke and looks over at you again, his expression softening slightly. He clears his throat, shifting his weight as he taps the cigarette to knock of the ash, the smoke curling upward. “Guess I better get goin’. Got some things to take care of today,” he adds, the lightness of his voice returning as he straightens up. “But, uh… I’ll see you around. Maybe.”

You nod, though there's a flicker of reluctance that catches you off guard. “Maybe. Take care, Mister Morgan.”

With a final glance in your direction, he tips his hat slightly and walks off, the familiar rhythm of his boots tapping against the ground as he moves down the street. You watch him go for a moment, then turn your attention back to the task at hand, the weight of the day ahead settling back into place.

But even as you walk away from the gunsmith, you can’t shake the feeling that somehow, the world’s gotten just a little smaller.

                             ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

Later that day, you find yourself tending to Tater, brushing his coat with a slow, measured hand, feeding him a handful of oats. The familiar rhythm of the task calms your racing thoughts, grounding you in the simplicity of the moment. You had spent the morning riding further away from Valentine, scouting for a new camping spot, finding some quiet far from the bustle of the town. The land stretched wide before you, the hills rolling into the horizon like an open canvas, unmarked and vast. The air was still, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind against the grass.

You didn’t have any particular destination in mind, just the need for space, for solitude. It had been a peaceful ride, just you and Tater, the sound of his hooves and the soft breath of the earth around you. By the time the sun began its descent, you’d found a small grove just off the trail—secluded but not too far. The trees were thick enough to provide cover, and the area felt hidden enough to make you feel safe, yet close enough to a trail that it wouldn’t take long to get away should you need to.

As the daylight started to fade, you made your way back to your camp, the fire already crackling with life, the smell of burning wood filling the cool evening air. Wrapped in a blanket, you settled beside the flames, the warmth a relief against the night’s chill. You let the fire’s glow dance across the trees, shadows flickering with the breeze. The night settled in around you, the quiet almost too perfect, too still. It was a kind of peace you rarely found, and you were reluctant to leave it behind.

But then, the stillness broke.

A rustle from the shadows, too close. Too deliberate. Your heart jumped in your chest, your body locking in instinctual tension. You felt the familiar sting of danger creeping up your spine, but before you could make a move or even react, the cold pressure of a gun barrel pressed against the back of your head. The suddenness of it stole your breath, and you froze, every muscle in your body locking. The barrel was too close, too intimate—your skin prickled as if the cold steel could reach inside you, and for a split second, everything felt impossibly small.

Your heart pounded, but your body refused to move. You couldn’t. You shouldn’t.

“Don’t make a sound,” a voice growled. Gruff, low, and steady. The words carried weight, and they froze you further.

The seconds stretched. The silence grew thick and suffocating. You were aware of nothing but the cold muzzle of the gun and the sound of your own breath in your ears.

Your fingers twitched, but you kept them still. Fight or flight—that was all your instincts screamed at you. But you couldn’t fight what you couldn’t see, and running wasn’t an option with a gun to your head. The world seemed to shrink, everything narrowing down to the feeling of the barrel pressed so intimately against your skin. The fire crackled before you, but it felt a lifetime away. The wind rustled the trees, but it sounded muffled, distant.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together any clue to make sense of this. A simple robbery? Or something worse? Your pulse quickened, but there was no shifting of weight, no sound from behind you to indicate who this was. No footsteps, no shift of clothing. The figure behind you was still, waiting for something.

Then, your panicked mind clicked on something.

His voice.

“Mister Morgan?” you finally asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. You weren’t sure what you expected, but the name left your lips like a desperate hope. You’d barely recognized the voice at first, the sound muffled around the speaker, but now, with your nerves screaming, it felt impossible that you wouldn’t know. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. But still, there was nothing.

The seconds seemed to stretch for eternity, and the pressure of the gun remained.

“Mister Morgan?” you repeated, a little louder, as though saying the name again might break the spell of confusion. But still, nothing. No shift of weight. No movement.

A tense silence hung in the air. The world around you seemed to hold its breath.

Then, a curse. Soft. Low. Familiar.

The sound of boots shifting, a slight shuffle in the dirt—slow, hesitant. The pressure of the barrel lifted slightly, but it didn’t ease the tension in your chest. It didn’t make you feel safe. Instead, it left an unsettling void behind, a space you couldn’t fill. The emptiness felt worse than the gun itself. Your heart beat harder in your chest, trying to catch up with the rush of confusion flooding your thoughts.

And still, the silence lingered.

The sound of your breath felt deafening, like it could be heard for miles. Every breath felt like it was echoing in your skull. And in that quiet, you could feel the sharpness of the moment creeping in, the weight of the situation becoming clearer by the second. This wasn’t the danger you expected. This wasn’t the threat you thought it was.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the voice came through again. Low. Raspy. A hint of something underneath that you hadn’t quite noticed before, something almost apologetic.

“I—hell, I didn’t expect—didn’t know it was you.”

The realization hit you like a wave, slow but undeniable. The voice you had feared—and hoped—not to hear, and yet, there it was. The same voice that had spoken to you a few times before. The voice of someone who had come to mean something you hadn’t fully understood.

Arthur Morgan.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was confusion, disbelief. You hadn’t heard it immediately, hadn’t fully recognized it, but now, the pieces were starting to fall into place, even if your mind was still reeling.

The weight of the gun was gone, but you could still feel the ghost of it, the coldness lingering at the back of your neck. Your body was still frozen, every inch of you tense and on edge, not knowing what to do or say.

You turn slowly, the blanket falling from your shoulders as you look at the man behind you. The firelight flickers across his face, casting deep shadows that make him look almost unreal. The bandana still covers the lower half of his face, and his expression is unreadable, a mixture of frustration, surprise, and something else you can’t quite name.

Arthur is there. But this isn’t the way it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to be like this—looming over you, a stranger in the most familiar way.

“I thought you were someone else,” he mutters, his voice shaking slightly. His hand grips the gun tightly, but it’s lowered now, like he’s unsure whether to keep it or drop it. “I didn’t mean—hell, I wasn’t gonna hurt you.”

The apology is awkward, rushed. Almost too late.

You sat frozen, your mind spinning, struggling to make sense of it all. Trying to make sense of him. Trying to make sense of this.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak yet. You can’t.

Instead, the words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice sharp and edged with confusion, a little anger, a little disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing?”                                       ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

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