Wanted/Woman (Arthur Morgan)
Summary: two stranger outlaws find themselves captured by bounty hunters (Arthur Morgan x outlaw!Reader)
Content: female reader, capture and bindings, violence and death, light gore, mentions of infertility, forced proximity, manipulative reader, enemies? (not quite but they dislike each other) to tension, crude language, male slander
Notes: surpriseeee new hyperfixation (dw will still be writing for leon too!! just added a new fictional man to the roster yum). i imagine mid-honor Arthur for this :) (also idk shit about guns so bear with me thanks). this is kind of an amateurish attempt of mine at criticizing misogyny bc i’m pissed off about today’s political climate. cliché on purpose.
The last thing you remember before going dark is the stinging pain of being pistol-whipped in the face by some bounty hunter’s grimy revolver.
As your consciousness comes to, you see flickering firelight from behind your eyelids. Even before you open them, you mentally curse at yourself for even letting yourself get in this situation in the first place. You had always prided yourself on your talent of finding secluded areas to camp out in. As well hidden as they could be when your picture was plastered on fences and announcement boards across three states with a bold, capitalized WANTED above it, anyway. You suppose you had gotten comfortable – sloppy. You slipped up and somehow those bastards found the shitty abandoned house you were using as a hideout, ambushing you while you were stubbornly focused on patching up a hole in one of your boots.
It takes you a moment to gather your surroundings in the haze of post-unconsciousness. The tent you’re being held in is hot, despite it being dark outside. The air is thick – stuffy and incredibly unpleasant. The smell of animal carcass lingers on the canvas as if it had recently been used to hold some hunt. You hear the muffled sound of men discussing by the campfire roaring outside – something rather serious, you assume by the tone of their voices. It doesn’t sound like too many of them, only two by the clean back-and-forth flow of their conversation. Somehow, the most obvious detail of your capture is the one you register last – the burn of rope at your wrists and feet, and the warmth of another body at your back. You’re bound to someone.
Your heart rate picks up at the sudden realization and you tug, beads of blood drawing at your skin. You’d typically consider yourself a rational person, but with the fog of having just woken up, your brain jumps to the worst conclusions. There’s no way of knowing if the person behind you has been shot dead already, they’re completely still… That is until he speaks.
“Would you stop that? Rubbin’ your wrists raw won’t help either of us.”
Take a breath. You’re better than this. The bounty hunters outside are men, and now you know the person behind you is one as well. Maybe some good old feminine charm could be your ticket out of here. It wouldn’t be the first time your conniving passive woman act got you out of scrapes. They might kill the man first, anyway.
You look around, making sure to make him feel you squirm. Your breath quickens and you summon a more proper accent. You won’t go down. Not like this. “W-What the hell is happening?”
The man’s body shakes lightly behind you – the sonofabitch is chuckling. “Oh, quit playin’ dumb. I saw you when they brought you in. You got posters from here to Colter.”
You make sure to yank at your ropes the way a panicked woman would. He hisses at the pain and you’re glad you don’t have to hide your prideful grin. “No, I don’t know what’s going on! There must be some mistake!”
The hunters haven’t even checked in on the two of you yet, but by the timbre of their conversation outside when you awoke, they’ll get the gist of this one too, and you’ll be damned if this stuck-up man leads to your demise.
“There ain’t no mistake, woman.” Looks like there won’t be any fooling this guy. He must be in the business, you assume. “Tryin’ to play the damsel in distress won’t help you any, so quit your whinin’ and stop pulling at the damn ropes.
“I’m not!” You sniffle. “M’not who they think I am!”
You may as well feel his eyes roll. “Right. What’s your name then?” You give him your usual decoy as he attempts to sit up straighter. “And what’s got an innocent thing like you in this kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know!” you cry. “I was mending some clothes when they burst in my house and knocked me out!” you recite with ease. It wasn’t a total lie, after all.
The man listened to your sob story, wanting to get a read on you, you presume. “Is that right? You were… just sewin’ when they magically came out of the woodworks and took ya?”
The goddamn attitude on this man… “Yes!” You start crying again. “Oh god, this can’t be real!”
You hear your companion let out a heavy sigh. “Alright, cut the dramatics, darlin’,” he grumbles. Twigs snap outside and both your heads whip in the direction of the two hunters’ shadows near the flaps. He lowers his voice. “I know you’re puttin’ on that act and it’s getting’ real old. It’d only work on someone dumb as rocks so-” he’s interrupted as the two bounty hunters waltz in, surely having heard you wailing seconds prior.
You flinch hard and make yourself fall to the side. You’re a pathetic, blubbering mess – the complete opposite of what they’ve surely heard of the outlaw they were chasing. You will make them doubt themselves. Manipulation is your specialty, and men are so simple minded~
The captors look a bit startled by your distress. One of them, the bulky one, kneels down at your side. Men just can’t help themselves, can they? They just have to save the pretty tormented girl. He tries to soothe you by placing a grubby hand on your knee. “Calm down, sweet thing.”
You try to hide your recoil. It’s not like you can scoot backward anyway, since you’re tied to the pessimistic wanted man. “P-Please, will you just tell me what’s going on?” You blink with tear-soaked lashes, being a convincing little housewife.
The hunters share a look, as if silently trying to contemplate the legitimacy of your cries. The bulky one returns his attention to you, seemingly placated. “We ain’t gonna hurtcha unless you give us a reason to, sweetheart. We’re just here to bring you down to the sheriff’s office.”
You hear the other wanted man scoff behind you. Surely, they weren’t actually falling for this?
The taller one hanging back grins cockily. “Gonna get us that nice little bounty on your head,” he adds.
It’s your turn to bite back a scoff. Little? There’s nothing little about a hard-worked two-thousand dollars on your head alone. You’d even been dubbed Bullseye.
For your own sake, your eyes go wide as saucers, as if you’re truly repulsed by the idea of having committed any crimes. “Bounty?! That’s impossible. I’ve never sinned in my life. Please, there must be a mistake-”
The tall one chuckles and you feel flames of anger licking at your insides. “Oh, there ain’t no mistake. You must’ve done some reeeeal bad things. Bounties like that ain’t given out for no reason.”
The bulky man nods to corroborate his friend’s words, but judging by its slowness, he seems a bit more apprehensive. “…You seem too soft to have a bounty of a couple grand on your head.”
Your new wanted companion whistles from behind you, impressed.
“Goddammit, Wilson!” curses the tall one.
There’s the crack you need. You keep pushing, sensing the foundation crumbling between the two. You shake your head feverishly. “I don’t know who you think I am! I’ve told you my name. I’m a housewife. M-My husband’s name is Elijah. Really, I barely ever go out. I don’t know what’s going on here.”
The two idiots glance at each other again, brows raised. Wilson tilts his head. “Roberts, maybe we fucked up. I mean, look at’er! The law has been after the girl for years. The… The posters are old. They’ve been up so long that they’re kinda faded… Maybe her and Bullseye really do just look alike.”
The tall one – Roberts – doesn’t answer right away. You’d venture to guess he’s more trigger-happy than his partner. “I didn’t see no husband inside the house.”
“He’s off on business in the next county at the moment.”
Again, they seem to communicate without speaking aloud. Wilson stands with a groan and nods in my direction with urgent eyes, evidently commanding Roberts. The latter steps forward with a sigh, his arms crossed. “Fine. I’ll bite. If that’s the truth, miss, how long you been married?”
You smile weakly, pretending to recall a memory. “Since my Elijah and I were nineteen.”
“All this time and no children?”
You drop your shoulders and strategically let your smile fade. You’ve been waiting a while to use this one. “No, sir, I been having… issues,” you admit shamefully. And you’re so proud of yourself that you hope even the non-believer tied to you is starting to wonder if he accused you of being a liar a little too quickly.
Both the hunters are taken aback at that. A woman shouldn’t be talking about private matters to strangers. The dumb bulky one breaks the silence first. “I-I’m sorry about that, ma’am…” he mumbles awkwardly.
You nod solemnly and wipe a skillful tear from your cheek with your shoulder. “I begged him not to go- begged him! A-And now I’m tied up-” You gasp and try to put some distance between yourself and the man you’re tied to, but it only yanks at both your binds. “Does that mean I’m tied to a killer?! Oh God!” you cry and squirm violently.
Wilson raises his hands the same way one would calm a horse. “Ma’am, calm down-” In an attempt to calm you down, he grabs a knife from his belt and cuts your wrists’ bindings while Roberts rushes to make sure the other outlaw doesn’t try to pull some stunt. Unlike yourself, he leaves him fully bound and secures him to one of the tent’s support posts.
Now that you aren’t back-to-back with him, you catch a glimpse of his face for the first time. Oh shit. You recognize him immediately – it’s impossible not to, not in your line of work. That’s Arthur Morgan, one of Van Der Linde’s men. One of his most feared men, actually. No doubt he has a pretty bounty on his head as well.
You don’t have time to dwell in your thoughts because that half-witted hunter speaks again. “I won’t untie your ankles, though. Can’t have you runnin’ off on us until we’re sure you ain’t it,” he says with a chuckle.
You want to punch that condescending little smirk right off his face… But you can do even better.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of running.”
“Well, that’s good ‘cau-”
He trips over his words when you snag the knife from his naively relaxed grip and jam it into his neck with all your might. As he topples over, you swiftly grab the revolver from his holster and shoot Roberts a couple of times in the chest before he can even react.
“Goddamn fools,” you mutter as you undo the rope around your ankles, seemingly unfazed by a tied-up Arthur Morgan some feet away from you.
Even writhing on the ground, Wilson disturbs your newfound peace, gargling on his own blood. You roll your eyes and put a bullet between his own. Standing, you stretch your limbs, rubbing where the rough rope had dug into your skin. You retract the bloody knife from the bounty hunter’s neck, giving it a twirl. It was a pretty knife, engraved with some intricate swirls. You earned it.
You finally look up at Arthur. “You were right, I s’pose.”
“Seems that way,” he replies, carefully watching every movement of yours. You’d seen that look in men before. He was trying to gauge if he was going to be the next recipient of your wrath.
You grin and lean back against some crates, enjoying seeing such an infamous man be so unsure. “Now, what to do with you?” you ask rhetorically.
You watch as his eyes go from the dead man at his feet to your calm figure. Evidently, you had managed to impress him. Pride swells in your chest. He nods toward his bound ankles. “Well, are you going to get these off? That would be greatly appreciated,” he inquires dryly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
You hum, giving the knife a couple more twirls. “I bet, Van Der Linde.”
The outlaw raises a brow, otherwise utterly composed. “So you know who I am… Or at least who I run with.”
“Mhm.” You trace the edge of the bloody blade with your index. “You’re no small feat, Arthur Morgan.” You push off the crates and nod at the corpses on the dirt. “They would’ve lucked out.”
“I’d say the same for you,” he replies, his gaze unrelenting.
The two morons had spoken your alias, but it’s the fact that Morgan recognized it that sticks with you. A sick sense of satisfaction bubbles within you at the knowledge that your name has been spread to one of the country’s most notorious gangs.
“Well ain’t you sweet,” you quip sarcastically.
Arthur looks down at Roberts, mere inches away from him. “Your aim on him could’ve been a bit better, though. Too far right.”
You? Aiming anything other than perfect? You scoff, your eyes narrowing as you search through a sack on the crates for your confiscated guns. “I don’t have to let you free.”
“And I don’t have to be pleasant,” he retorts gruffly, and for a second, you’re reminded of who you’re talking to. The adrenaline from your victorious escape begins to simmer down and you realize that perhaps you shouldn’t be speaking to an accomplished killer this way.
…But you’re one yourself.
You look over your shoulder with a smile. “You’re tied up, hun.”
The man scowls. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Amusing, this one. But perhaps you aren’t exactly in the position to have Dutch Van Der Linde and his boys on your tail for taking out their best man. You sling the bag full of your belongings over your shoulder and crouch before him, pushing Roberts out of the way with one foot. “I can’t see why we can’t be amicable, can you?”
One of his brows quirks up. “Depends on your definition of amicable, miss,” he dryly speaks your family name.
“Charming manners.” You tilt your head. “I reckon we ain’t that different, you and I. Two of the most notorious criminals. Everyone knows our names. We were, well-” you gesture to his bound current state. “-both tied up. On the same team, if you will. We live the same lifestyle. I don’t see the point in goin’ off and tattlin’ on each other.”
Arthur lets out a quiet huff. “So you’re suggestin’… What, an alliance?”
“I’m suggestin’ silence. You go off without worryin’ about me sending the law after you, and I do the same.”
“And how do I know I can trust you?” He’s skeptical, and you can’t quite blame him after he’s just witnessed how you swindled those men.
“It’s a two-way street, Mr. Morgan. I’m the same as you, it’d be hypocritical to turn you in. Plus, I don’t quite care to alert the law of my presence by going in to report you.”
You can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Fine. But I’m not forgettin’ this.”
But his mention of an alliance lingers in your head. You hold up a finger. “On second thought, I’ve got a better idea. More fool-proof terms, if you’re hesitant to trust me.”
He rolls his eyes, obviously not enjoying being at your mercy. “And what would those be?”
The corner of your mouth quirks up. “It’d be idiotic for members of the same gang to snitch on each other, wouldn’t it?”
A look of realization washes over his face. “It would,” his voice drops lower, not liking where this is headed.
“Then, I’ll be joining the Van Der Lindes. I’m tired of sleepin’’ with a pistol in my hand.”
His expression shifts, seemingly amused by your conviction. “Oh, are you?” he retorts with a chuckle. “What makes you think they’d even let you in?”
You grin. “You knew exactly who I was when you heard those twits call me Bullseye, that’s what.” You stand up straight. “And you’re going to give me a shining recommendation.”
“Mhm… Or I could throw you on my horse out there and we could have ourselves a nice little ride to some sheriff’s office. I figure Saint-Denis would have the most intense security. You don’t think they’d recognize me if I just rode by and dropped you on the doorstep, do you?” You jeer as you rummage through the tent, looking for anything of value to take.
Despite your threats, a small smirk creeps onto Arthur’s face. He takes a moment to study you, weighing his options.
A beat. You just stare at each other.
“Can you untie me already? We’ve got a lot of ground to cover to get back to camp.”
