#Arthur Morgan X female OC

[eccentricallygothic]

|| The Farmer's Way ||

Description: With the gang gone for good, Arthur had retired and you were his reward. Or so he believed. 

Pairing: Dark!Arthur Morgan | Gender-Neutral Spouse!You. 

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own Arthur Morgan or the RDR universe. This story contains dark and mature content so browse at your own discretion, please. Minors do not interact. 

Warning(s): Noncon/Dubcon, gross stuff because that's all I think about while playing the game, age gap, groping, dirty talk, degradation, doggy style, penetration, spanking, biting/marking, sexism, wife kink but it doesn't matter what you identify as because he's gross like that so tw for sure. 

Note: Fair warning, he's a bit of a sicko and I am a mental slut. Also this is kinda my first time with gender neutral smut so I am very sorry if I got something wrong. I am willing to rectify if I did make any such mistake. 

The hot June air blew past you and pricked at your rather pampered skin. You felt a droplet of sweat trickle down your temple as you winced and shielded your face from the sun, the rays now attacking the skin of your arm instead. A grunt escaped you when you willed your feet, which were clad in some glittery pumps, to push on towards the huge barn of your family farm. A string of disgusted curses foxed their way out of your mouth when the smell of dung and hay wafted into your nostrils from the giant red wooden box that was literally radiating stinky heat. 

Your feet halted right outside the heavy double doors and you had to take a long breath to brace yourself before you entered. Your features scrunched in disdain as you tried to hold your breath, clutching the cool jug and glass that you were holding tighter as you slipped inside before the weight of the door caused it to close by itself. Clenching your jaw to focus on the task at hand, you slowly walked forwards and concentrated on your breathing to ensure you didn't inhale any of the barn filth. 

It was a fairly easy piece of work.

Give the lemonade to your husband and leave. 

Simple, right? 

No. 

Not when said husband is Arthur Morgan. 

As his fingers wrapped around your wrists to keep you from leaving after you had placed the jug and glass down, your breath hitched as you felt a bile rise in your throat from pure disgust. The dust and sweat on his fingers was gut wrenching. 

"Fixin' to leave already?" His other hand came up to tangle in one of the two silky ribbons you wore on both sides of your head in half ponytails after he had pulled you against his hard chest, the coarse hairs on his chest scratching the skin of your back. "I was missin' you so much, baby" you uneasily shifted in his hold, goosebumps rising on your skin when you felt his fingers trail up from your wrist to your forearm. "It's almost like you showed up 'cause you read my mind" you could barely suppress your gasp as your body jumped in reaction to his stubbly lips suddenly finding your ear. 

"I…" Your voice was a mere squeak and you had to concentrate to make yourself sound a bit less pathetic. "I left the food on the stove" your eyes fluttered shut before clenching as you suppressed the urge to retch at both the feeling and smell, arm folding to let your elbow press into the side of his torso. The man only hummed as his browned and dirty hands felt you up, basically frisking your barely clad body as his lips pressed rushed kisses against your neck. "A- Arthur!" You flinched when he bit down on a hickey on the junction of your neck, fingers finding your nipples through the sheer fabric of one of the many silk dresses he made you wear. 

The older man did not budge, only grunting when you probed his chest harder, hips trying to wriggle free. "The grub can wait, hush now" your limbs screamed at you to fight. Try and push him away. Hit him with something. Make a run for it. Never look back. "Mmm, baby" your eyes teared up when his other hand slipped from the ribbon to trail down your abdomen and to your nether regions. "If it was up to me, I'd keep ya bare as a jaybird 'round the clock" your jaw clenched at his words but you knew better than to hurl the heavy jug that was in front of you against his head. 

Because you had done stuff like that countless times in the beginning of your forced marriage seven months ago. 

Except, you had no idea how but your husband had somehow trained and kept a number of wolves to guard the property only God knew how. 

No one could come in and you could never leave. 

The punishments that you had been subjected to upon trying to do so were more than enough to keep you on your best behavior. 

"Oh, darlin', you taste mighty fine" you were flipped and easily backed into one of the many stables. "Now, let me try out that pretty little mouth" your eyebrows scrunched as you craned your neck backwards to get away from him. The reverberations of Arthur's chuckle buzzed through your chest as he pressed into you and left you trapped and helpless. "Ain't ya just a foolish little thing? Thinkin' you can get away from your old man?" His rough palms cupped your face as he dipped his head in, chasing your lips with his own and snickering when you tried to move. 

When you had seen this mysterious cowboy turn up to buy your family farm off of your useless brother seven months ago, you had not thought much of it. Sure, you were angry that his gambling had ended him up in so much debt that he had no choice but to sell off your family legacy, but you had bright plans with your scholarship program at a prestigious college, and you had been so ready to leave this life that you had never liked much in the first place behind for one of revolution and modernity. 

Only, when all of your documentation as well as your brother and his family disappeared the night before your final departure, the then stranger and now your husband revealed that you had been part of the deal. 

As Arthur fucked into you on your wedding night -as he had promised your brother that he would not take you before that-, the man had confessed how lovely you had looked resting on a tree branch as you chewed on your lip, completely engrossed in your book. 

You knew alcohol and the colorful powders that your brother loved to use had done his mind in, but handing you off like merchandise to a man with no regard for your orientation or taste was something you had never expected from him. Not after he had been your legal guardian for so long. 

But then again, he never understood your ways and thought revolution was a blasphemy. 

In your brother's world, you either did the hard work on the field or became a field worker's home runner. 

And your open disdain for the farm work had earned you the latter. 

The irony was laughable, because he probably thought he was protecting you by choosing a secure future for his baby sibling. The right thing. 

Your spark had always scared him, and so he suppressed it once and for all under the mundaneness of the farm by locking you up in his own kind of a gilded cage and handing the keys to the man who was all over you at the moment.  

'Excitement is a double edged sword. It is thrilling and promising but it can also be dangerous.' That you couldn't deny.

The thrumming in your nether regions was proof. 

Frightening, shameful, repulsive proof.

"Arthur…" You whimpered as your vision zeroed in on his rough lips that brushed against yours soon before pressing into them. 

The man moaned, rubbing his crotch against yours as he deepened the kiss by tilting his head to the side and forcing his tongue in your mouth, the taste of cigarettes and coffee making you cringe and try to move away but a tight squeeze to your ass with his coarse hand made you gasp and hence open your mouth. Then his tongue was down your throat. 

Everything was rough and dirty about him. 

You hated it.

Sometimes he purposely rubbed his filth against your clean clothes and body to add insult to injury. He would laugh as you would hold your breath and try to get away only to be trapped between his strong body and some surface. Arthur would then watch you squirm and struggle until you ran out of breath and had no choice but to inhale his scent. 

"Dang it, I can't hold back no more" Arthur was panting when he finally broke off to let you both breathe, one of his hands bolting down to his belt while the other one held you steady. "I need ya right now…" The kiss had flushed your lips and you could feel the change in size as you ran your tongue over them to accumulate some moisture. "You gonna be good and take it for me, darlin', won't ya?" And while your brain screamed at you to know better, you squeezed your legs and whined, taking deep breaths as one of your fists bunched some of his sweaty shirt in it. 

"Arthur…" A small smirk made its way on his face while he hurriedly relieved himself of all decency. He recognized that tone. 

"Now ya know better than to call me that, baby" heat spread across your cheeks as you whimpered, biting your lip before you lowered your head and reached for his hand that was pinching one of your nipples through your sheer dress. "Go on now, you know my preference" your eyes fluttered shut as you took a shaky breath, massaging the hand that was toying with your chest and arching your back. 

"... H- Hubby…" Arthur cursed under his breath like he always did whenever he got you to call him that. Then he reached out for your other hand and brought it to his erect cock, the feeling of its thick veins against your soft fingertips causing your hole to clench around air. 

"Aw, shit, darlin'" he guided your hand up and down his twitching cock. "Can ya feel it?" His body pressed against yours. "This here is what ya do to me" the tip of his organ released some hot precum and you couldn't help but shudder at the memories it triggered. 

Memories of how it felt inside you. 

Before you knew it, as always, reason was out the window before you could grab onto it and your mind had decided shame could come later. Who knew when or if you would ever make it out of here and Arthur was way too good at making you feel strange things that kept you giving into him for more.

"Please, hubby" you whispered, unable to hold back anymore as you worked your wrist to please him. "Please…"

"Please, what, baby?" He pecked your lips over and over before moving down to the corner of your mouth and then further along your jaw. "Use your words for me" his lips locked around a patch of your delicate skin as he sucked, causing you to bend your back outwards. "Get, now."

"P- Please take me…" You shuddered as the sound of his lips forming yet another bruise along the expanse of your neck grew louder and louder in the air. "Please… please…" You couldn't get yourself to utter any more obscenity than that. 

"You mean you want me to fuck you?" Your heart dropped at the bluntness of his words, the feeling of his stubbly lips curling against your skin almost making you want to retreat, but only almost. 

Besides, you couldn't leave on your accord even if you wanted to. 

Though you really didn't want to leave this barn anymore. 

Not before the ache between your legs was relieved. 

When you didn't respond verbally, Arthur clicked his tongue as he came back up to face you and reached for his hat before placing it on your head. He loved to take you like that. "Come on, darlin'. You know I ain't gon' do nothin' 'til you say it for me" but then one of his hands creeped between your legs to caress your intimate part and your legs trembled in reaction; body submitting at once. 

Taking in a deep and shaky breath, you braced yourself before mumbling out your words, hoping and praying they were enough for him because you knew as well as you knew it was day that you didn't have any more indecency in you to talk the kind of filth he could with a straight face.

"P- Please fuck me, hubby…" One of his eyebrows raised as he leaned in closer. 

"I'm sorry, what was that there?" You almost choked his cock between your fingers but you knew better than hostility. 

"I- I said…"

"You said?" 

Your jaw clenched in annoyance because you were so needy all thanks to his dirty hands and now he was not helping. 

"I said p- please fuck me, hubby" you said as clearly as you possibly could, tone almost blunt. 

He finally seemed intent. "Your wish is my command, darlin'" the man had you flipped and bent over the stable before you could even register it. 

Your gaze settled on the little pony in front of you as you felt his stiff tip prod your entrance, the foreplay having lubed his cock more than enough. Since you weren't allowed to wear underwear, the lack of it granted him easier access to you and Arthur was sliding in with a grunt a moment later, squeezing both your ass cheeks at the same time as he cursed. 

"Fuck, baby. You're the tightest little thing I've ever laid down with" your fingers gripped the stable as you jumped when he landed a spank to one of your cheeks, slowly moving through you to get you to adjust. "Shit, look at you. Such a pretty little farm wife, baby" your face scrunched up in both discomfort and sensory overload due to how sensitive you felt down there. 

"Please…" Your mouth always betrayed you in moments like these despite your best efforts to stay as quiet as possible. 

But it felt even better when you let it get the best of you and drown you completely, the vile words coming out of your own mouth adding to the pressure between your hips before stars exploded in your vision. 

"Please what, sweet little thing?" You felt his chest drape over your back as he rubbed his stubbly cheek against yours, hips starting to find a rhythm as the speed of his thrusts increased. 

"Please… more" you couldn't help but lean your face against his to withstand the sensitivity, eyes fluttering as you chewed on your bottom lip in concentration, your velvety walls sheathing his veiny cock with every push. 

Arthur's chest reverberated against your back. "Ya act like you're too good for all this, but deep down you're just a horny little hussy, ain't ya darlin'?" You whined loudly as you clenched around him, starting to move your own hips against his now. "Jus' look at you, whinin' and squeezin' 'round me in front of li'l Sally like a silly 'lil jezebel" that was what you had named the pony that stared at you with her curious eyes. "But ya love that deep down, don't ya?" Your eyebrows furrowed when his words started to crack the haze that had formed in your mind, making you lower your head to cancel him out and focus on your relief.

But you could never win with Arthur. 

"You can go on ahead and deny it all you want. But this trashy li'l hole of yours tells me all I need to know everytime, honey" his lips bluntly moved against the shell of your ear as he gathered one of your knees in his hands and pushed it up against the frame of the stable before finding its way to your nipples again, other hand gliding down to the quivering organ between your legs. 

As Arthur's hips sped up and your body started to rock back and forth against the wooden frame with each powerful thrust, the sound of skin clapping against its like filled up the smelly barn. His hat fell over your eyes and you knew you were in for a long day. 

[obsessivelullabies]

Bonjour!!💗

may i send in a request for arthur morgan??

(fem, shy, french reader;) )

i was born in france and i have a thick accent and people have a hard time understanding me and i became very quiet in crowds and around others because of this,

how would arthur respond to a french reader with a thick accent? would he like it??

I also had a lil idea : )

what if arthur had a liking for you around camp, he never truly showed his liking towards you but people automatically knew he had a thing for you. your looks, extremely caring and kind towards everyone in camp, esp. jack or the other girl in camp, your sudden quietness when talking to others...

How would he deal with a fem reader with terrible social anxiety and insecurity over their voice?

Love, 🦢🎀

(Another extra is if reader was related to dutch in some way, would dutch be protective??)

arthur definitely enjoyed your accent on the rare occasion you talked. he thinks it's something special about you, it just added to his attraction for you. he'll always greet you and ask your opinion on any matters. arthur always tells you that you should talk more.

he struggles to understand why you're so sheepish, he thinks you're so bright and sweet. he wishes there were more people like you.

the way he'd show his interest, also the way everyone knew he had a thing for you, was constantly offering to help you. whether you're doing washing, cooking, cleaning or just lounging around camp, he's always asking if you need help.

"ya need somethin'? anything at all?" he'd drawl. if you ask him for anything, he'll do it. he loves when you shyly thank him for his help.

dutch was a distant relative of yours, yet you were still family to him. dutch would constantly interject arthurs attempt of helping you. "she don't need your help, morgan." he'd huff.

dutch would constantly pull you aside and tell you to leave arthur alone. he would speak for you whenever arthur was involved.

arthur would continue to helping you! he doesn't care what dutch thinks. he loves whenever you open up and have a nice conversation with him. you make his day just by speaking to him.

i understand this ask spiritually, my slavic accent is so embarrassing sometimes. my mother has a french accent too! i really like them cause they remind me of her :)

masterlist! | reblogs and comments appreciated. | unedited.

[morning-star-joy]

morning-star-joy Arthur Morgan masterlist

Series

when men like you come around (x Original Female Character, hiatus)

One-Shots

let me take care of you (angst, mutual pining, unresolved, F!Reader)

lose your faith in me (Low to High Honor!Arthur x One-Sided F!Reader, angst, canon ending)

some sweet ending (F!Reader, established relationship, smut & fluff)

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila V: Respite in the Valley

After the return to Owanjila, settling into a routine proves to be difficult for several members of the gang.

cw: smut, post-traumatic stress, heartache (a lot of that last one)

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You awaken softly in the morning light, not all at once, like the blooming sun far in the eastern horizon. Birdsong wafts through the window, even through the pane of somewhat cloudy glass, the chirps of tanagers and cardinals fill the air.

You stretch your back in the bed, blinking as you feel the rumble of your bedmate behind you, the long, warm line of a body curled up next to yours, an arm thrown around your waist.

Chapped lips touch the back of your neck and you smile against your pillow. A calloused hand moves under the sheet from your waist up, up, to cradle your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple as it hardens. 

A breathy moan escapes you as you press yourself backward against him, the both of you bare under the sheet, skin running hot, and against your rear, you can feel him stirring. 

“Ruth…” A sleep-hoarse groan of your name is whispered into your ear as the hand slinks downward to the meeting of your thighs, and your legs open of their own accord to welcome him in.

“Mmm…” You moan as strong fingers press against your folds, parting them and tracing the seam of your body. You jolt as he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it as you begin to pant. 

He’s thick and ready with arousal behind you, and your slick begins to come, readying yourself for him as you press your small hand over his own, guiding him to press harder against you, then guiding him the blessed few inches from your clit back to your entrance. He slides a long, thick finger inside you and you do not even attempt to suppress the high, flighty moan, accompanied by his low one as he begins to work his finger in and out of you. His hips press against your rear in time with his thrusts.

“God damn, Ruth.”  He groans into your ear, pressing his middle finger into your cunt and you mewl, grasping the sheet for dear life between your fingers.

“P-please.” You whimper, feeling as if you’re going to burst, that you need this burning desire quenched in your very core.

“I gotcha, I’ve gotcha-” He pants, extracting his hand and moving it to tilt your hip, pressing his cock to your weeping entrance and gently pushing inside.

You moan outright at the feeling of being filled, stuttering breath on your neck from behind you as he begins to thrust.

“God,”  You cry out, causing him to groan aloud as he moves his pelvis against yours, hand tight over the curve of your hip.

“Ruth… Ruth. Here we’ll build our town,” He rasps, his voice hoarse as he pants with exertion, “Here we’ll build our family.”

Wait…

His arms clutch around you as you stiffen, unable to turn around, feeling like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thumps like a war drum in your chest, less from arousal and more from the sense of dread building up in your belly.

He whispers in your ear, throwing his hips against yours in finality, driving himself into you and shuddering.

“Right here in Limpany.”

You rocket up from your bedroll, hand splayed over your sternum, gasping for air. You look around, the camp on the hillside is still dark, and the other women are all still fast asleep in a line next to you under the protective awning. A campfire several feet away glows softly, down to embers before the breaking of the dawn. Far to the east, the sky begins to burn red.

You get up, grabbing your checked shawl and wrapping it over your shoulders to stave off the morning chill, harsh once you shed the blankets of your bedroll and quietly pace away from where the women sleep. Your bare feet collect morning dew as you descend down the hillside, unable to stop the flow of tears down your cheeks, trying at least to stifle the sob trying to claw itself from your throat. You try to ignore the damp feeling of the seam of your bloomers against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily, eyes overflowing by the time you reach the lakeside, bare feet freezing as cold lake water flows over them.

The sob you were trying to hold back works its way out, and your shoulders heave as you wrap your arms around yourself.  All of this, the death and the misery and being alone, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you just wake up from this nightmare?

You weep, standing there ankle-deep in the cool waters of Owanjila. You weep for your child, your husband, your friends. You weep for your former life, never to be lived again.

Above the sound of your shuddering breath, unheard by you, a match is struck in the night to light a cigarette. Arthur Morgan stands back on the hillside, observing your shaking shoulders and the soft sound of your cries.

He thinks of how he wrapped himself around your small frame, how you sank back into him, and how he seemed to assuage your tears. How you looked at him like he was some heaven-sent savior pulling you from the fire. He wants to walk down there and draw you in, to pat down your sleep-addled hair, and whisper words that could tamp your shaking shoulders.

But nothing good can come of this desire - Micah’s words slither into his mind like a snake, ready to strike at the remnants of his beating heart. 

You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want is her sweet little cunt.

No, Arthur Morgan simply takes a drag of his cigarette, nothing good would come of it indeed.

-

The widow Adler is in a fugue state of grief. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and bloodshot, there along the hill overlooking Owanjila.

Fortunately, the girls were able to scrape enough clothing together for her. Mary Beth tries to offer her coffee, but it is two days before she even accepts. She gazes out at the lake, silent in her suffering, not speaking to any of the other women who try to keep her company. Even Grimshaw gives her a wide berth as her bruises and cuts heal.

You will certainly admit to yourself it is far too long before you approach the woman alone, her silent stoicism near standoffish as she does not acknowledge your presence as you sit down on the hill next to her, some yards away from the shoreline. 

“Missus Adler-”

“Sadie.”  She croaks, not turning toward you at all.

“...Sadie,” You are corrected, and pull your knees up toward your chest to loop your arms around them, “I know there’s nothing any of us can say to make it better or get your husband back-”

“My Jakey - he was a good man- and they butchered ‘im.” Sadie’s voice goes low, hoarse, and angry as you can tell she is gritting her teeth, “God damn O’Driscolls…”

You swallow, staring ahead at the still waters of the lake. Sadie sniffles next to you, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Dutch thinks it was O’Driscolls that killed my husband… I never saw who did it…” You say softly, your chin on your drawn-up knees, not trying to discount her loss, but trying to establish a connection through your own.

Sadie sniffles again, her jaw setting hard as she swats at her eyes, remaining quiet at your admission. Her ill-fitting clothing and bruised face are a reflection of her frightful state in the morning light. 

Several moments of silence sit between the two of you before you stretch out your legs again to get up.

You stand up, dusting leaves and dirt off your skirt. “I know it isn’t going to change anything, but I’m here, Missus Adler, if you ever need anything.”

Sadie doesn’t reply, staring off at the lake once again. You hold in the sigh you feel like letting loose until you are far enough away that she won’t hear you. Walking back up the hill, you move straight towards the tent to the side of the camp, just past the bubbling coffeepot over the main campfire.

You let another sigh out as you sit down in an empty chair, rubbing at your eyes tiredly before turning to look at the person occupying the next seat over. Hosea inhales deeply over his steaming cup of coffee as he sits in the rickety old chair next to you. “My dear…”

You frown, looking back toward Sadie as she stares off into the distance, northward into the Grizzlies, to the life she used to have. You know that stare, should you travel back toward the ice-blue waters of the Dakota, you would have that same grief in your eyes.

“I was like that… the first few days.” 

“Better than I was when my Bessie passed,” Hosea continues to sip his coffee, “Stayed drunk for the better part of a year.”

You frown, looking down at your hands. It was humbling, though you knew that certainly, you weren’t the only widow in the world, that you are now surrounded by people who have keenly felt that kind of loss. Part of you feels silly for your breakdown the other morning, thankful that no one saw that moment of weakness.

“Missus Adler will have to work things through her own way,” Hosea continues, “All we can do is try to offer her some kind of solace.”

“Indeed.” You reply, watching forlornly as you see her shoulders crumble into sobs.

-

“Sure you don’t have anything to tell us about Colm?” Dutch eyes the prisoner with disdain. The poor man, unkempt and unshaven is a frightful mess, terrified and stumbling against the rope tying him uncomfortably to a tree along the edge of the camp.

“Jus- jus that he’s hittin’ the train in Ambarino - I s-swear, that’s all I know.” He sputters, wide-eyed and fearful, surrounded by men who look like they’d love to torture him in any bodily way possible. 

“I dunno, Dutch,” Arthur blows smoke in the young man’s face from his cigarette, “He ain’t entirely convincin’ me.”

Dutch runs a hand over his mustache, exaggerating the idea that he is mulling over the prisoner’s fate, “Bill, what do you think?”

The slide of metal on metal pierces the air as the prisoner’s wide eyes move from Dutch to the larger, burly man beside him.

“I think he don’t need some parts on ‘im, Dutch.” Bill replies, the large tongs in his hands loudly opening and shutting.

“Please- please, I don’t know anything more!” He screeches as Bill gets closer.

Dutch gleams with a predatory glare.

“That’s a shame there, O’Driscoll. I am running out of reasons to stop ol’ Mister Williamson from gelding you.”

-

“You’re goddamn lucky you have people that give a shit whether or not you die.”

John wishes he could escape. But he’s bedridden still, nearly a week after the journey down the mountains and his unfortunate run-in with enemies of the canine variety. The long ride did his body no favors, keeping him in the cot in the sick tent for days longer. His stitches itch across his face, and his bruised and bloody body still wracks in pain when he tries to move.

Abigail breathes out heavily in frustration as she wrings out the warm water from the rag over the steaming bowl of water set at the side of his cot. She leans over him, pulling back the blanket to expose his bruised chest.

“Hell if I need you to bathe me, you damned-”

“You smell worse than horse shit, you worthless-”

John curses aloud, lurching upward as Abigail swipes the rag across his collarbone, not exactly gently, over red and inflamed skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Abigail, that shit hurts.” He snarls up at her, and for a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks like regret before they harden again.

“Stop your bellyachin’.” Abigail sneers, and turns back to the bowl to dip the rag in the water again, muttering under her breath as she wrings it out. John’s scowl deepens as he can’t make out what she’s said.

“What now, woman?”

“You’ve got a son, John Marston. Y’cant… you can’t be goin’ off doing shit like you have a deathwish.” Abigail sighs, dabbing the rag more gently over his collarbones and shoulders.

“I ain’t doin’ anything like I’ve got some deathwish, Abigail.” He retorts, laying back on the cot and wincing as he tries to get comfortable again.

Abigail pulls the blanket down further, exposing his lean waist. John has always been skinny - half-starved and hunger panged through his difficult life.

“I told you, you don’t need to-”

“John, ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Numerous times.” Abigail cuts him off, pulling the blanket further down his torso against his protests. He immediately looks at the pitch of the tent as the blanket moves over his hips, trying to think of anything other than Abigail stripping him down to bathe him with that rag.

“Yeah but-”

“Just be quiet. Ain’t gonna submit any of the other women to have to deal with you stinkin’ like shit.”

John wishes he could escape. He wishes he could not feel Abigail’s hands on him. He wishes he were anywhere else… and god almighty, he wishes he could see something else behind his eyes when he closes them than Abigail climbing over him like she used to.

-

Arthur grumbles to himself as the old Walker trots back up the hillside along Owanjila before the afternoon sun dips behind the cliffs. He knew better than to trust one of Micah’s leads. But no, he went along with this one - robbing a stage outside of Riggs Station - too damn close to Blackwater. And the stage had guards that Micah hadn’t planned on. 

So of course, it turned into a mess that Arthur was forced to remedy by emptying his revolver. At least the lockbox on the stage had a decent amount of cash and a large bag of jewelry. Also, Micah had the good sense to slink away to Strawberry instead of riding the whole way back to camp with him - Arthur was vexed enough as is to have spent any more time next to that snake.

The golden light of the setting sun glints off the lake as Arthur glances toward it before he pats the Walker’s mane, pulling a sugar cube from his satchel and feeding it to the horse. The horse had a good temperament - maybe Arthur wouldn’t sell him and keep him around camp and just spring for a new mount. He needed to get over toward Valentine at some point.

He swings himself down from the saddle before tying the reins of the Walker to the makeshift hitching post on the edge of the camp. Tapping the horse’s flank, Arthur grimaces as he rolls his shoulder, the tightness in it betraying his aging body. He clears his throat before readjusting the hat on his head, walking through the camp toward Dutch’s large tent and the gang’s cash box to unload his ill-gotten gains.

“Oh, Mister Morgan - do you mind if…”

The outlaw looks up to find you standing a few feet away from Dutch’s tent, fiddling with the wrist of your blouse nervously, staring at your feet.

“Missus Shaw?”

“I was wonderin’-”, You stumble, “wonderin’ if you might be able to spare a chain from that pile of jewelry you’ve got there.” You nod upwards at the large bag in his hand, hovering over the camp’s cash box.

“It’s just the chain I need, no pendant or anything.” You finally make eye contact with him and he curses himself that he finds the blush dusting your cheeks endearing.

“Course, Missus Shaw.” He places the bag down on Dutch’s table and pulls out a necklace with a delicate gold chain. Dangling it out toward you, you step closer and grasp it. You undo its clasp and slide off the pendant, a solitary pearl drop you place back in Arthur’s gloved hand. As you stick your hand into your skirt pocket, you try to ignore where this necklace came from.

Arthur tosses the pendant into the box, turning back toward you as you find what you’re looking for in your pocket.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry abou’ it.” He says softly, his eyes on your hands as you thread the chain through something small between your fingers.

When he finally sees what you’re working with as you move to hang the chain around your neck, he feels as if he’s been shot in his chest, trying to maintain composure as you lay the gold around your neck and clasp the necklace.

A gold wedding ring adorns your throat, and your delicate fingers press over it quickly before you let your hands fall back down to your sides. The pit of his stomach opening up becomes too much to bear.

Arthur nods, stepping toward his own tent, trying desperately to escape the situation unscathed. “Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You call out softly as he retreats.

By the time he reaches his tent and yanks the canvas shut, he breathes out an angry, frustrated breath out his nose as he yanks his hat from his head, throwing it on the side table next to his cot. 

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, letting out another breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He looks back to the table where he set his hat. A piece of paper lies on the table. He grasps at it, unfolding what he sees as a letter, with proper, looping handwriting.

His arrow-shot chest cracks again.

Dear Arthur…

[tastycakes99]

The Problems With Outlaws and Time Travel

Thought I'd start updating with the fic I'm currently writing, The Problems with Outlaws and Time Travel. Sophie Soileau, a journalist in 2024 Blackwater, time travels back to 1898. She manages to make a life for herself in the past, which is complicated when Arthur Morgan shows up. Cue them fighting and falling in love. Updated weekly on Ao3 (and I guess here now).

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20 - NSFW

Chapter 21 - NSFW

Chapter 22 - NSFW

Chapter 23 - NSFW

Chapter 24 - NSFW

Chapter 25 - NSFW

Chapter 26

Chapter 27 - NSFW

Chapter 28 -(CW: Violence)

Chapter 29 (NSFW)

Chapter 30

Chapter 31 (NSFW)

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

[kaismasterlist]

| 🩶: angst | 🩷: fluff | ♥️: smut | 🖤: dark |

Hers (Dark!Abby | You) 🖤

The Farmer's Way (Dark!Arthur Morgan | Gender-Neutral Spouse!You) 🖤

[revolversandlace]

Blemished Silk | Chapter Twenty-Seven - Give me Closure

Chapter Index

Arthur Morgan x f!OC Longfic

Mature Rating - 10.2k Words

Chapter Tags & Warnings: f!OC POV, Strong Language, References of Child Abuse, Period Typical Sexism,  Explicit Smut

Summary: Amelia finds herself in conflict with Cornwell’s men, and after discovering her Uncle Josiah has been attacked, she finds herself turning to Arthur for comfort. 

Saint Denis, June 1899 

The coach rattled across the Lemoyne countryside, the small crack of the window making little difference as the thick summer air wrapped around them like a snake. 

However, regardless of the sweat that Amelia felt trickling between her skin and corset, she simply couldn’t stop herself from smirking. 

Of course, she attempted to put out the thought of Arthur from her mind, a niggle of guilt sitting close with her. She saw a man shot to death, not a stone's throw away from her as her staff fought their lives. Yet even so, she had still found a way to enjoy herself without a second thought as everyone else in the house no doubt tossed and turned, startled by every creak.

But her night was soundless, with nothing more than Arthur’s heavy breathing as his hand covered her waist. 

‘You seem in awfully high spirits, ma’am,’ Mr Jameson said, his face as neutral as ever. 

The guilt stirred once again, but Arthur aside, she was still in a good mood. There was a fire in her stomach, a rush of excitement that filled her blood.

‘I have a good feeling about today,’ Amelia smiled. 

‘What is our agenda for today?’ Mr Jameson said.

Amelia smiled, the thought of Cornwall grimacing at her audacity. The outrage he would poorly conceal at a woman matching him with just as much business acumen as he believed he held. 

‘No doubt there will be further discussion about selling the assets or signing them over to Mr Cornwall under a thinly veiled threat. But we will stand firm.’ Amelia said. 

‘Forgive me, ma’am, but that hasn’t seemed to work.’ Mr Jameson said. 

‘I’m aware. I have a plan to make a compromise with him, but not one that will mean that I give him an inch of ground.’ Amelia smiled, turning to her advisor. ‘Between that and sending both you and Talako to West Elizabeth soon, I’m certain that things will finally start to look up again.’

‘I trust you ma’am.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘Thank you, Mr Jameson, that means a lot.’ Amelia said with a small nod as the carriage rattled across the wooden bridge that led into Saint Denis, the sound of wheels changing to a heavy, rhythmic echo. 

‘We could certainly do with a good turn of fortune.’ Mr Jameson said.

As the carriage pulled to a halt outside of the limestone hotel, Amelia paid the driver as her shoes clipped across the pebbled road. Greeted by the doormen, they made their way through the grand entrance way with marbled floors, crystal chandeliers and palm ferns at every corner. 

After speaking with the clerk, who promptly led them to their table at the hotel bar, Amelia saw two gentlemen already seated. Both of which she recognised, but neither was Mr Cornwall. 

‘Why hello again, miss,’ Mr Cooper said. ‘I believe you have already met with Mr Hornbrook.’ 

Amelia studied their faces, the cold and cruel grimace already playing on Mr Cooper’s face as she could feel her own mouth pressing into a taut line. Mr Hornbrook, however, had a softer demeanour. She had never particularly disliked the man, and even felt a twinge of sympathy that he chose a line of work with a man such as Leviticus Cornwall. 

‘Gentleman. This is my advisor, Mr Jameson. Where is Mr Cornwall?’ Amelia said, clutching her hands around the band of her purse. So far, this was turning out to be a rather disappointing meeting indeed. 

‘He was unable to make it. He had an important business meeting.’ Mr Cooper said.

Stifling back a laugh, Amelia took a deep breath in an attempt to hide her annoyance, or any sign for that matter, that she was disgruntled. Mr Cooper was not a man that she wanted to give the upper hand to in any situation. Both she and Mr Jameson took to the settee opposite the men. 

We will do this the hard way then, Mr Cooper, she thought.

‘Of course he did. Very well, if he doesn’t deem this as important, then this shouldn’t take too long.’ Amelia said. 

‘Our proposal remains the same, Miss Edwards.’ Mr Hornbrook said ‘However, given the recent boom in the northern Great Lakes, Mr Cornwall has reviewed his offer.’

Amelia eyed him curiously but before she could say anything, one of the waitstaff approached them, taking their drinks order as they all waited patiently for the young man to excuse himself. 

‘He can review it all he wishes, gentleman. I am not selling.’ Amelia said, holding her shoulders back and her chin high, the way Uncle had always taught her. 

‘I know it’s difficult for a… woman, such as yourself, to keep an open mind,’ Mr Cooper said, ‘but I’d suggest you read the offer.’ He almost spat the word ‘woman,’ like that in itself was a derogatory term. Amelia supposed it was on purpose, an act to intimidate her as usual. She felt her pulse quicken as it had previously been around Mr Cooper. He was certainly not a man whose company she enjoyed by any means. 

She pushed the thought of their last encounter from her mind. Reminding herself that thoughts of her father would do her no good, at least of all now. She was her own woman, and a damn fine one at that. Her pride would not allow her to be spited. 

As Mr Hornbrook took a folded note from his leather-bound pad, he slid it across the table towards her. She eyed it ruefully, picking it up and unfolded the paper. 

‘One million dollars?’ Amelia said, unable to keep her voice from faltering. She felt weak, unsure how this was anything other than a parlour trick. 

It was a tempting sum of money, too tempting perhaps. 

‘I’m sure you’re aware of the situation with longleaf pine.’ Mr Hornbrook said, his round glasses slightly slipping down the bridge of his nose, ‘price has quadrupled in the past three months alone, as with the expansion across the southern western territories, it’s in extreme supply especially in demand with the more lucrative properties.’ 

He was a distant man, but not cold. Just the sort that Amelia supposed would rather be left alone with his numbers and ledgers than to spend time with his family. 

‘As generous as this offer is, I will not concede.’ She said in response, and the waitstaff returned, setting their drinks out before them. ‘What I can assure Mr Cornwall is, however, is that my northern production will not expand in any areas that he is already operating in to ensure that no competition is being driven so he can continue to exploit the markets there.’ 

She could see them exchange a look, but not one that she could read. Mr Cooper took out a fat cigar from the inside of his jacket and ran his thumb across his lips with a smirk. An expression she had seen before and one that was slowly becoming a tell. 

‘We have a counterproposal.’ Mr Hornbrook said after a moment as they all took a sip from their glasses. 

‘You certainly are in the mood for negotiating.’ Amelia said with a tight smile, her head also growing near tight, her concentration briefly faltering in the summer heat. 

‘In the event that you do not wish to sell, Mr Cornwall proposes a syndicate for both the lumber and wool.’ Mr Hornbrook said, closing the leather-bound book, resting it on his knee. 

‘Is this some sort of joke, gentleman?’ Amelia said, her eyebrows pulling together, her face utterly readable, and she could feel the tension emanating from Mr Jameson at her side.

‘Not at all.’ Mr Hornbrook said, ‘In the event that you do not wish to sell, Mr Cornwall has suggested you sign him as an official partner. He will take over the operations under Cornwall Industries and you will retain some of the profits which will allow you to focus on other endeavours.’ 

She felt as though someone was sitting on her chest. Her thoughts raced, unsure as to whether this was a good thing or not. Surely it showed that Mr Cornwall was becoming desperate with the endless rebuttals. But she sensed it was a trap, somehow. Would he simply dissolve her company and leave her destitute? She thought it lucky and if she knew anything about the countless lawyers he had on retainer, any contract she signed with him could not possibly lead to anything good. 

‘And what endeavours would those be?’ Amelia said, unsure exactly what her next move was. She needed time.

‘A woman of your age. Probably best you find a husband, if you can. Start a family as you’re intended to do.’ Mr Cooper said, his ashy blonde eyebrows arching in amusement. 

‘If I had any interest in either marriage or children, I would have done exactly that and would still continue to run my business.’ Amelia said, although her voice sounded distant to her own ears. Why couldn’t she think of her way out of this? A syndicate? But why?

‘You sure about that, miss?’ Mr Cooper said.

Amelia ignored him, taking another sip of her brandy. 

‘Even if I did wish to form a syndicate with Mr Cornwall, or anyone else for that matter, creating a bottleneck in the market through a monopoly would make no sense. Our prices are dictated by the consumer and without competition, the product would become so inflated due to greed that the business would simply collapse. Whatever profits I would “retain” would not be for long, of that I assure you. In fact, if the index is correct, that is exactly what is happening to Mr Cornwall’s oil.’ Amelia said. It was a textbook speech, and she knew it. But she didn’t have time for the nuances of east coast business. 

‘Your tenacity will not serve you well, miss.’ Mr Cooper said.

‘And why is that, Mr Cooper, because it seems that my tenacity is exactly what has made me the only successful self-made businesswoman in the south.’ Amelia said, her patience running thin as she desperately wanted a moment of silence to just think. It’s not just about the business anymore.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but her gut whispered to her. Something was behind their words, something they knew beyond the negotiations. They had made it all too easy for her. One million dollars, or team up with Cornwall? Something wasn’t right at all. 

‘Tenacity does not keep you alive, Miss,’ Mr Cooper said.

‘Sir, mind your tone,’ Mr Jameson said.

‘I have had quite enough of this nonsense both here and on my estate.’ Amelia said. ‘And I assure you, gentlemen, if you continue to partake in this manner of discussions or any other actions against my estate, you will be met with force time and time again.’ 

She met Mr Cooper’s gaze, a look which he held full malice in. A challenge and a dare for her to carry on. 

Amelia had heard of wild beasts in the British Raj, a giant cat with orange fur and black stripes. She would hear the men from her childhood speak of hunting them and turning them into rugs, as they were the greatest conquest on earth. Bigger than lions, a solitary creature that would hide in jungles and rip villages apart once the cover of darkness had fallen. At that moment, she knew who the tiger was in the opulent hotel, and it certainly wasn’t her. 

‘Mr Cornwall has an associate,’ Mr Cooper said, his eyes glistening with the promise of a kill. ‘I believe you may know of him, a Mr Fairfax. Need I remind you again of your situation as a spinster, you are legally still the property of Mr Fairfax.’  

She could feel the heat from Mr Jameson, but was thankful that his diligence kept him from looking at her. Another series of questions she would no doubt have to answer. She felt sick as her stomach turned inside of her, giving her that awful feeling that she was falling. Although she was grateful, she was able to hold her composure a lot better than the last time her father’s name was brought up. 

There was a small part of her that even expected Mr Cooper to play this card, if she was being quite honest. 

‘I am no such thing, sir. Mr Fairfax, whomever he may be, is sorely mistaken in who he believes me to be.’ Amelia said, her voice a hell of a lot calmer than what she truly felt. ‘This is America, and my guardianship, if you wish to speak in legal matters, is with that of Mr Trelawny.’ 

‘Ah, yes, Mr Trelawny. I believe he has had a meeting today with some friends of a Mr Stoudemire.’ Mr Cooper said. 

Amelia stood slowly, standing over the men with a gaze she felt was so scathing it could melt metal. Amelia had tolerance for many matters, but she would not be manipulated through her kinship with Josiah. 

‘Your threats once again remain empty and uninteresting.’ She said, a fire burning in the pit of her stomach, ‘my business will continue to operate. I am not a woman to be bought with either money or intimidation. Mr Cooper, if I see you at my residence again, I will consider it an act of trespassing. Please tell Mr Cornwall that perhaps he should look at a map more often, for there is plenty of room in America and plenty of trees. Mr Jameson, shall we?’ 

She waited for no retort and no good days. Although Mr Hornbrook scrambled to his feet as she left, Mr Cooper remained seated, and she felt his eyes on the back of her every step of the way. 

‘Ma’am, I do not like that gentleman or his tone,’ Mr Jameson said, as they walked up the pavement towards a stationed carriage waiting for their next patron. 

‘No, neither do I. I will admit that I am concerned, though. We need to get back to the estate immediately and find Uncle.’ Amelia said, a slight shake in her voice. 

If what Mr Cooper said was true, and she had no reason to believe he was lying about this - or anything else for that matter - she feared the situation she would find her uncle in. 

‘What did those men mean, ma’am. Seems I’m missing some details.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘You are, Mr Jameson.’ Amelia sighed. ‘I fear that my life before coming to America is catching up with me.’ She felt cold, far colder than she should have felt for the middle of June in Saint Denis. 

‘Ma’am?’ Mr Jameson said.

‘I will tell you, in good time. Just… one problem at a time.’ Amelia said, as he guided her into the carriage.

Taking a deep breath, Amelia scrunched her hands together in her lap, looking up at the leather ceiling. 

‘Perhaps we need to look into more guards.’ Mr Jameson said, his bushy silver eyebrows folded together in concern. It had been a trying few months for them all and she knew that Mr Jameson was the sort to take on those burdens with a particularly personal responsibility. It was admirable really, if not another thing to be added to her list of worries. 

‘I am confident in our security, Mr Jameson.’ Amelia said, trying to find some composure. Some answer in her own mind, but there was nothing. She felt that her head had been taken over by wasps, buzzing and angry, smashing into every corner of her skull in the same vein that they threw themselves at the windows in the last month of summer. 

‘What about when me and Talako leave?’ Mr Jameson said.

She knew it wasn’t his fault, but she was growing rather inpatient with Mr Jameson. She knew he cared deeply, but God, she just needed a moment to think clearly. 

‘I’m sure Mr Morgan can handle things at the estate.’ Amelia said, her voice more curt than she intended as she gazed out the window into the smoggy side streets of the city that nestled in the swamps. 

‘Seems there’s been a lot of trouble since he came around.’ He said, his face passive, but she knew all too well his dislike of Arthur. 

‘What are you trying to say to Mr Jameson?’ She replied, turning towards him with narrow eyes. She knew she was being mean spirited, but she feared the last few days had pushed her over the edge into some delirious state. 

‘Nothing by it, ma’am, just an observation.’ Mr Jameson said, clearly sensing the strain from Amelia. 

‘Good, keep it that way. Uncle trusts him and he’s proved very useful since he has been employed.’ 

‘Ma’am, maybe all this suggestion of getting married might be something worth considering. If there’s a personal vendetta here, it could buy you some time.’ Mr Jameson said. 

She couldn’t believe her ears. Almost feeling the rage boil to the surface, she took a deep breath, calming herself and the shake of her hands. After a moment, she spoke softer this time. 

‘It’s doubtful. Besides, I would rather sell before I sign everything over for free to some extortionist.’ Amelia said.

‘Of course, ma’am, I didn’t mean anything by it.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘I know, Mr Jameson.’ Amelia said.

‘I admire you, ma’am, I really do. I hope my daughters will grow to be someone like you.’ Mr Jameson said.

She smiled despite herself. Mr Jameson was a much more personable man than even she sometimes gave him credit for. 

‘That’s very touching, Mr Jameson. I hope they too learn that they can succeed in the world on their own merits.’ Amelia said.

‘Oh, I have no doubt about that.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘Hopefully, with this venture to West Elizabeth, it could give us another advantage. Anything would be a win at the moment. I just hope Uncle is okay.’ Amelia said, her mind still reeling from what on earth he was doing with Mr Stoudemire or his associates in the first place. 

‘Who was that man they were speaking of? Mr Stremer?’ Mr Jameson said.

‘Stoudemire. Another ghost from my past I fear.’ Amelia said with a heavy sigh, growing wearisome from all these men trying to force their way back into her life in one capacity or another.

‘Is he dangerous?’ Mr Jameson said.

‘I’m beginning to think anyone linked to Mr Cornwall is dangerous, quite frankly. But how he’s involved with him, I’m not too sure…. You see…’ Amelia faltered, unable to formulate the right words, but Mr Jameson deserved some explanation at the very least. ‘Mr Stoudemire, he was… a friend of my father’s back in England.’ 

Before she could even decide whether to continue, Mr Jameson interrupted her, placing a tentative and unsure hand over hers. 

‘Then we should hurry.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘Quite.’ Amelia said.

His hand lingered for only a moment, and Mr Jameson was a cordial man, not one for affection, well at least not in a professional situation. She would count him as family as much as the others, but naturally, they did not share the same familiarity that she and Josiah shared. It was touching regardless, and she gave him a weak smile. Perhaps Mr Jameson was perfectly capable of reading between the lines, and had made his own connections through what he had seen and heard regarding Amelia’s past. 

Not that she really minded if he did. He was as loyal as a hound, for which she was eternally grateful. 

‘I’m still not sure if this is the best time for me and Talako to be leaving the estate, ma’am.’ Mr Jameson said.

‘No, perhaps not. But I fear we haven’t got too much of a choice at this time. The business must come first, above all else.’ Amelia said.

‘Very well, ma’am.’ Mr Jameson said.

The journey felt long, much longer than it was in reality and when they finally arrived at the estate, Amelia made little time as she slammed the door behind her before Mr Jameson could aid her as she shoved some bills into the driver’s hand. 

Her heart entered her throat, and she nearly tripped over her damn dress as she saw Mrs Fearnsby standing on the porch, her hands wringing at her apron. 

‘Mrs Fearnsby, what’s the matter?’ Amelia said, her voice rose as she rushed towards the estate. 

‘Please ma’am, there’s no cause for alarm, but there has been an incident.’ Mrs Fearnsby said, her face taut, more so than usual, and Amelia already had her suspicions. 

The front door opened, as Arthur stepped out, his imposing figure casting a long shadow on the wooden beams of the porch as his hat rested low on his brow. 

‘Arthur, what is it? What happened?’ Amelia said as her heart beated furiously, as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

‘Your Uncle, he’s been hurt, but he’s doin’ okay.’ Arthur said.

It was her worst fear as Amelia carried on right up to Arthur, searching his face for something, anything. 

‘Where is he?’ Amelia said, desperate to make sense of this. She knew he hadn’t been hurt by a simple horse riding accident. 

Was this what Cornwall and her father were going to resort to? It wasn’t enough to punish her but everyone else she was close to. Was it their plan to threaten, beat and kill them one by one until they strong-armed her into exactly what they wanted?

‘Restin’, ma’am.’ Arthur said, but she barely heard the words as she looked over her shoulder to Mr Jameson, a look of equal concern on his face. 

‘He’s been placed in his room. A little bit sore, but he is asleep at the moment.’ Mrs Fearnsby said.

She looked between the three of them. How was everyone so damn calm? 

‘That doesn’t tell me what on earth happened,’ Amelia said, her voice bordering on yelling. It wasn’t often that Amelia raised her voice, but she had no control over herself. 

‘Amelia, he’s okay. Just had a… misunderstanding at a saloon.’ Arthur said, his arm nearly reaching out to her, before placing it on his gun belt. 

‘What do you mean?’ Amelia said, barely understanding Arthur’s words. 

‘Couple of fellers were drunk, thought he was someone else.’ Arthur said with a simple shrug. 

‘Mr Morgan, we will speak of this in private.’ Amelia said, trying her best to get her head in order as she pushed past him into the house. 

Amelia reached the study so quickly she was sure at one point she was taking the stairs two at a time. She could hear Arthur behind her, but could barely look at him. The day was proving to be testing to say the least. 

Her shaking hands reached for the decanter and she left the door open, waiting for Arthur to enter. She poured two healthy and ill-advised measures into the glass, the whiskey splashing over the side and over her fingers, leaving a cool, sticky trace. 

‘Arthur, I want to make it perfectly clear, if you are lying to me…’ Amelia said as she heard him enter cautiously, shoving the whiskey at him. 

‘Whaddya mean?’ Arthur said, as he removed his hat, a look of almost amusement on his features. God, she wanted to slap him there and then. 

‘Are you lying to me?’ Amelia said more firmly, in no mood for games or jokes as she swallowed heavily at her drink. 

‘Look, Amelia, he’s okay. Just a bit beat up.’ Arthur said, almost nonchalant as she walked to the door and slammed it shut. 

‘“A bit beat up” for god’s sake Arthur, this is serious!’ Amelia said, her voice becoming shrill as she took another gulp, almost choking on the liquor’s heat. 

‘I know, I know.’ Arthur said, as he too followed suit, swallowing thickly. 

‘I know he was with some men on behalf of Mr Stoudemire.’ Amelia said. ‘And I know you’re lying.’ 

She could have spat fire, kicked and screamed at him. Why was he lying? Did he have something to do with this?

She felt herself slipping as she turned her back to him, finding her way to her seat at the desk, her hands falling into her face. Perhaps this was her undoing. Perhaps it is what would finally would turn her as mad as all the men of town supposed she was? 

‘How you know that?’ Arthur said. 

‘Unimportant. What happened?’ Amelia said into her hands, her breath becoming more ragged by the second. 

He said nothing, and as she reached again for her drink and her smoke. He just looked at her with a near blank expression. 

‘Is it something to do with the robbery’ Amelia said, as she struggled with her lighter from her hands shaking. On the third click, the flame shot out, and she hastily lit the cigarette, throwing the metal lighter down. 

‘Hell if I know. Look okay, it was some bounty hunters, but listen -’

‘Bounty hunters?! What the fuck, Arthur,’ Amelia said, growing more hysterical by the second. 

‘It was a misunderstandin’ all the same. They thought he was someone else. It’s been dealt with.’ 

How was he so damn calm about all of this?

‘What does that mean?’Amelia said, punctuating every word, as she took a swig, a puff, then another swig. 

‘I mean, it’s been dealt with.’ Arthur said, his voice firm and dark. 

‘Arthur, what aren’t you telling me? How is it that one of Cornwall’s men knew Uncle was with them?’ She was sure the staff could hear her from the other side of the door, not that she particularly cared. 

‘I don’t… I ain’t sure.’ Arthur said. 

Resting her forehead on the heel of her palm, Amelia shook her head, hoping it would clear the cobwebs that had somehow formed. If only she could think straight… 

For what felt like the thousandth time of the day, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. 

Uncle is alive. That is the most important thing. You can’t let them win.

‘There’s a man, the awful sort.’ She stuttered, ‘works for Cornwall, I was with him today and he said that Uncle had a meeting or sorts but the way he said it…’ Amelia said, chewing at her lip as Arthur stood, finding his way to her side of the desk. 

‘You think Cornwall’s behind the robbery?’ He said, kneeling down on his haunches as Amelia almost wanted to ignore him. 

‘Well, why not?’ She seethed as she turned to look down at him, his blue eyes coursing like the ocean. ‘He’s been trying to buy me out for months, then he doesn’t even attend this meeting, brings up Stoudemire and now Uncle is beaten. This can’t be a coincidence.’ Amelia said pitifully, sniffing as she took another large swig of her drink. 

‘Mmm, somethin’ don’t seem right.’ Arthur said, rubbing at his stubble with his hand.

‘Oh, you think?’ Amelia said, throwing her hand in the air with exasperation.

‘C’mon Amelia. This ain’t my fault. We found your uncle and he will be okay, just sore for a while.’ Arthur said. 

‘Who’s we?’ 

‘Me and Charles.’

Amelia wanted to chide herself. Arthur was right. This wasn’t his fault and once again he was a candle in the ever-growing darkness around her. 

‘Arthur, I think I know who’s behind this, I just…’ taking a drag that turned half her cigarette to white hot ash, Amelia sighed as the smoke filled the room. Arthur placed his hand on her knee, giving it a slight squeeze. 

‘Talk to me,’ he said, so gently she was mistaken if she had heard him correctly. It reminded her of the way that one would talk to a spooked horse, soft but firm. 

She felt so uneasy, so sick with the situation that seemed to become her never ending reality. Her trust was thin, but she couldn’t do this alone anymore. And if Josiah had ended up worse… God forbid, she needed a contingency plan. The secrets that both her and uncle were theirs alone, and he had always cautioned her against telling anyone. So far she had kept that unspoken promise, an abandoned life that, in her childish mind, she thought would simply disappear as long as she never spoke of it. 

Perhaps it was the stress of the day that made her feel so paranoid, but as she stubbed out the remnants of her cigarette, she stood as Arthur did the same. 

‘Not here,’ she said, finishing her drink, ‘are you familiar with Ringneck Creek?’ 

Arthur gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving her face. She didn’t dare think about what his face made her think about, not with everything that was going on. But it would have been easy to fall into those stormy eyes of his and never think about anything else again. 

‘Meet me there in an hour,’ she said, looking away from him.

‘Okay, one hour,’ he nodded solemnly, giving her arm a small squeeze as he left, leaving her to her thoughts. 

She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, at a time she arguably needed it the most. She had always had this problem. Once a thought burrowed into her, there was nothing else but that single railroad in her mind. 

Amelia was unsure whether she was subconsciously blind to it all, choosing to ignore the dots, or whether perhaps she was nowhere near as intellectual as she thought she was. But that niggle she had since the first robbery, since her first meeting with Mr Cooper and certainly after today only made her confront what she had known deep down for sometime. 

She made her way to Josiah’s room, rasping her knuckles lightly across the wooden door. She heard no response but let herself in any way. A candle burned gently on the drawers with the curtains closed. The smell of iodine and salt filled the room and she gently walked over to the bed where he lay. 

There was already a chair propped close to it, presumably from where one of the servants had spent their time cleaning him with the washbasin and a freshly filled jug of water that stood on the end table. 

She could hear his laboured breathing, his black hair falling across his brown as his face was a molten of purple and yellow. Although it was not as bad as she supposed, there was something about seeing her uncle in such a way that made her realise the mortality of it all. How fragile they all truly were. 

Her uncle was not a strong man in the traditional sense. He wasn’t one to raise a gun or boom his voice at defiance. But he was strong nevertheless. As slick as a newt, she had always thought of him as. Mystical and illusive to the world, but never to her. Not really. He was her confident, her guide and protector, her best friend and mentor. No doubt that without him, sooner or later she would have been shipped off to one of the specialised women's infirmaries or even dead. But not with Josiah. 

Yes, he was odd, but none of that really mattered. Not then and not now. But as she sat on the chair, folding her skirt underneath her knees, she leant her elbows on the bed, looking up at his newly beaten face, watching his chest rise and fall as though all the wind had been knocked from him. 

A single tear rolled down her cheek, thick and heavy, as she wiped at it furiously. She was about to break their promise, but he at least deserved to know from her lips.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle,’ she mused under her breath, placing her hand on his chest as she had seen mothers do to their sick children, ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but keeping our secret cannot do us any good any longer. You brought Arthur here because you trust him… You trust him to keep us safe. And…’

What were the words? There were no words she could think of and words she had only seen in those books filled with dross and unfettered romance, but she was sure in her convictions. 

‘We need him,’ she said, I need him. But she kept that part to herself. There was only so much Josiah needed to know. 

‘The business is everything to me. I need to do what I can to protect it.’ 

He made a sound, a choking sound in his throat as he began to splutter, coughing with a wince as his eyes screwed shut even more so. 

‘C…Caneton?’ He said, barely audible. 

‘Uncle?’ she replied, finding his hand in haste and bringing it to her lips. 

‘There’s… there’s,’ his voice strangled as he weakly grabbed at her hand, ‘too many secrets.’

He said nothing else as his breath returned to its even and slow draw as he fell back into a sudden slumber. 

Smiling to herself in pain, she rose and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. 

‘Sleep well, Uncle,’ 

Before she had left, she had given stern instructions that Josiah was to be checked on every half an hour and to be kept as clean as possible. She knew the staff were as good as any, and she had seen it enough times, but at least giving the instructions made her feel in control of the situation. She told Cook to save her portion of supper, for she feared she would not be back in time for serving and that Mr Jameson and Talako should make plans on their trips to West Elizabeth and be prepared to give her a report upon her return. 

If nothing else, she was thankful for some alone time, just her and Tallulah as she made her way north to Ringneck Creek. 

It turned out to be a beautiful late afternoon as the heat had finally dropped, giving way to a light breeze with wispy clouds breaking into the sky, offering some release from the stifling warmth and humidity. Of course, as it always did, it brought the annoyance of midges and mosquitoes, but as she left the swamps behind, they became fewer and further between. 

Passing Mattock Pond, she knew there was little of the ride left, and almost fearing the conversation she was about to have with Arthur, she clacked at the bridle bringing Tallulah into a sauntered as she heard the low growl of an alligator not too far away. 

The woods and thickets around her sieved out the sun, splitting it into golden beams in the way she always loved. Despite it all, she couldn’t help but breathe in the air, a soft smile appearing on her face in that moment of peace. Of course, she knew it was not enough to solve her problems as much as she would entertain the thought of selling it all and growing old in the woods with nothing but an axe and a shack that fell apart at the seams. 

But Amelia, however, was not that sort of woman. She was a woman of purpose, one who was lucky enough to find it and one who would not let it wash down the kitchen sink. 

As Tallulah threw her head between the tree trunks, the birds sang their afternoon song as the racoons rustled and nattered amongst the ground.

Making her way up the creek, Amelia searched around for Arthur and Montague, her heart building with both excitement and trepidation. She was never one to be so cavalier with her emotions, with her past especially, but she reminded herself this wasn’t about her or about them. It was about the business, about those she had made a secret pact with God to protect. Once again, her uncle was right. There were too many damn secrets. 

As she reached the end of the creek where the brooked turned into a splay of shallow water, she saw him. Perched on a boulder, he had his foot propped on the rock, the other leg dangling as he puffed on his smoke that danced in sunbeams. She heard a plop in the water as he threw his arm back, skipping stones across the surface. 

She couldn’t help but smile. She was not unfamiliar with the flights of fancy that most women had, the idle daydreams of the man she wound no doubt end up marrying and spawning a child or four. But never in her wildest dreams was it to be a man like Arthur Morgan that her heart would be claimed by. In all her endeavours, not one made her feel so enamoured, or to be so much like those fainting maids on a couch. Not that she was, of course, but she was damn close. 

‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,’ she said, sliding off of the side of her horse as he looked up at her from the brim of his hat. 

‘Not at all,’ he said, returning her smile as he pushed himself from the rock, pacing over towards her. 

She appreciated the chivalry as always, even though it seemed so unlike a man like him. Yet he was as gracious as those who had been taught such things, and then she wondered where a man like Arthur had learnt it from. He was as wild as the bobcats of the mountain, quick with a gun and so dirty that sometimes she thought he would use mud instead of cologne. All of it, however, was part of his charm. The charm of America and the wild. 

As she readjusted her habit as Arthur tied up her horse on a nearby trunk near Montague, the horses nicked at each other. Well, Tallulah did anyway, the temperamental beast that she was. Montague took it in his stride, neighing softly in a greeting as though it was almost expected. 

He shrugged his jacket from his shoulders, pulling the sleeves down his arm. In an instant, her heart began to thrum in her chest. What is he…? And just like that, he gave it a swift shake, placing it on the boulder and gesturing for her to sit. 

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, attempting to hide her blushing cheeks beneath her curls as she took to the rock, crossing her ankles. 

Arthur, however, returned to his horse, unbuckled the saddle and retrieved a bottle of a ruby brown liquid she did not recognise. Making his way back to her, he popped the cork, taking a swig before handing it to her. 

‘What is it?’ She said curiously, holding it up to the light. It truly was a beautiful colour, almost a light coloured port. 

‘Guarma Rum, hard to come by, hell of a lot better than that Kentucky Bourbon,’ he said with a smirk, pulling a fresh smoke from his packet. Placing two in his mouth, he lit them both from the match that he struck across the bottom of his shoe. 

Giving it a sniff, Amelia was not as repelled as she would have thought. It was strong as the fumes burned her eyes, but it had a sweetness to it, like hibiscus and sugar cane, but she had no doubt that it packed a punch. 

Taking a tentative swig. She wasn’t wrong. It kicked at her throat, but by no means it was unpleasant and Arthur didn’t take his eyes from her as he held out the cigarette. 

‘That’s certainly the best thing that’s happened today, I must admit,’ she said with a slight laugh, wiping at the corners of her mouth. 

‘Thought you’d need it,’ he said, taking the bottle from her and propping his foot on a rogue log, folding his elbows across his knees. ‘You gonna tell me then?’ 

She met his gaze, almost unsure of herself. She couldn’t help but slump her shoulders in, almost recoiling from the question. Once again, she had found herself emotionally vulnerable, alone, and sharing a bottle with Arthur. Life could be ironically cruel sometimes. 

With a breath to steady herself, Amelia looked on at the thicket before her. It truly was beautiful. A place she wished she had more time to visit. Perhaps after all this nonsense, she’d make more time to visit it with a book in hand. But today was not that day. 

‘I know who’s behind the attacks,’ she said as Arthur straightened, eyeing her up and down with some sort of scrutiny. ‘ I don’t have proof but… It’s complicated.’

She nervously looked at him, trying to gauge him. She wasn’t scared per se, but she didn’t want to think that she was stupid or hysterical or whatever other words men tended to lend towards themselves when it came to women. Not that Arthur was like that, of course. 

‘Cornwall?’ he said, narrowing his eyes. A look flashed across him, one she had seen before and equally brief. 

‘In a roundabout sort of way. Now, like I said, I don’t have any proof but -’

‘Tell me,’ he said with a low grumble. 

That was exactly what she didn’t want. She knew he was not angry with her, but after today; she didn’t need any outbursts, any snap judgements. She just wanted to tell him, as difficult as it would be. 

‘It’s…’ Amelia stopped herself, as Arthur passed her the rum, for which she was thankful. As her fingers brushed his ever so slightly, he sat next to her, pulling another drag on the cigarette. 

‘There’s a man, Mr Cooper. I mentioned him earlier. He’s a man that is not to be taken lightly. A thug I presume of Cornwall’s,’ she said, almost stumbling over her words as they shot out. ‘He has this awful way about him… Anyway, some time ago he came to the estate on behalf of Cornwall, made some threats, tactics of intimidation, nothing utterly out of the ordinary but…’

Where to even begin, the story was so long, so convoluted at this point and at times Amelia doubted her memory on what had or hadn’t happened and how much her mind had inflated or hidden away in those secret boxes at the back of her mind. 

She took another swig of the bottle, a slow feeling of comfort wrapping over her. There truly was something about being amongst the trees and fresh air once the alcohol took hold. She felt like a child again, the word bright and curious. 

Arthur, however, said nothing, as she struggled to find all the pieces. In her mind, she was so sure, but as soon as she began speaking, it all seemed so daft. 

‘Well, anyway, he mentioned my father. Said that he sends his regards,’ she sighed, drinking another two gulps before passing the bottle back to Athur. ‘It’s him Arthur, I know it is.’ 

Arthur flicked the butt of his cigarette, holding his silence. She had a feeling it was a tactic of his. No questions, no judgements. Oddly, it seemed to be working and Amelia suddenly felt compelled to tell him all. 

‘I was seventeen when I found out I was to be wed to Mr Stoudemire,’ she said, the words falling from her lips, God, I am drunk already, ‘I knew him very briefly, he worked with my father in Parliament.’ 

Arthur raised a brow as she looked up at him from underneath her lashes. 

‘It’s the English government. They’re all bankers, aristocrats and well anyway…’ That rum was strong, ‘He was so old, at least in his forties. I cried for a week when my mother told me not that she cared. She just said that I should be lucky that anyone agreed to it. She was so awful for her words, would tell me I was never good enough, that I brought shame to the family in one capacity or another, but Father… He was…’ 

She swallowed. Scrambling for another cigarette. 

‘After I found out about this arrangement, I ran to this place, not unlike this really. A friend of mine, Edmund, we would play there often. Write poems that sort of thing. He lived on the estate next to ours… Well.’ 

Giving another sharp intake of breath, Amelia looked around the forest, finding those small alcoves of beauty anywhere she could. 

‘I was found with him. It was quite unsavoury at our age to be alone with one another, you see. My father dragged me back to the house by my hair and beat me so hard I bled for days and couldn’t sit. He was the sort of man that even when I was a small girl he would find his way to my bedroom when he had enough wine and whack me so hard… He was a terrible man. But after that incident, after Edmund, my arm was broken, I had welts on the back of my legs - I couldn’t leave my room, and even after five weeks when Josiah came to visit…’ 

Silence hung in the air, as Arthur continued to look at her, not a word of pity or anything, but she could see something so dark in his eyes she nearly recoiled. 

‘I was his property. My father’s I mean,’ Amelia stammered. Years of the secrets and the relief it brought her seemed to merge together into a terrible shake as she broke into a sob. Wiping at her nose, Arthur placed his arm around her, pulling her in close as he rested his chin on the top of her head. The smell of his sweat and rum and smoke, the usual comfort he brought her, filled her as she sank into his chest. 

‘He’s a monster Arthur, I don’t know how they’re connected, but it’s him, I know it.’ 

‘Hey,’ he said, putting his finger under her chin and lifting her face to look at him. The same way he did last night. ‘We will fix this.’

That was all she needed to hear. She smiled at him as he brought his thumb to her cheeks, wiping away her tears. 

‘It’s not about money, Arthur. They want to destroy me. My father was a proud and powerful man. I don’t know how he’s found me after all the precautions we took, but he has.’

Arthur nodded, passing her the rum again. 

‘Well, then…’ He began, still with his arm wrapped around her as Amelia snuggled deeper into him, bringing her knees to her chest. ‘’Spose, we just have to destroy them first.’ 

She wanted to laugh, but she could sense the devilry in his words. Was this what she wanted? To meet fire with fire? Is that something she was prepared for? Something rumbled within her, and at that moment, with the alcohol with the promises that Arthur whispered to her, she thought that she could sanction such things. But whatever those things were, she kept to herself at that moment. 

The silence found itself between them yet again. A silence she had grown used to, as a small fox kit ran out to the edge of the creek, followed by its siblings as they lapped at the edge of the water like a cat with a fresh bowl of cream. Their mother wasn’t far behind as neither of them moved, watching the young find their solace in the soon to be evening light. Their mother gazed at them, hungry and fearful, as Arthur reached into his pocket, pulling out an oatcake. 

Breaking it into several pieces, he slowly released his embrace for which any other time, Amelia would have been disappointed by. Yet as he bent his knees and slowly crept towards the edge of the creek, he scattered the crumbs, and made his way back to the rock as silently as he left it. 

The three kits raised their tiny noses to their air, their marbled brown and auburn fur moving with the wind. Arthur sat back down next to Amelia, pulling something else from his pocket. As she looked over at him curiously with another swig of the rum, she saw it was a pencil and he leant gently and quietly to his satchel on the floor. She watched him with a juvenile curiosity, smiling to herself with a new weightlessness, as Arthur pulled a small leather-bound book from the bag. 

He flicked it open with his thumb, licking at the pencil, as the rough edges of the pages sprawled to a blank canvas page. 

He drew effortlessly, a line here, a line there, and with the smudge of his thumb and a crosshatch, the image jumped to life. The creek, the trees, the foxes and all the surrounding light. He seemed to do it with nothing other than instinct. Looking up here and there before, one of the kits barked, chasing the others back into the grove. 

She smiled again, admiring his talent as he closed the book as easily as he had opened it before, storing it away and prying the bottle from her hands. 

How things had changed since their encounter in the stable. Even since last night, there was a change between them. As easy as he had drawn the lines on the paper. Natural, easy and oh so wonderful. 

‘You know,’ he began, lighting another smoke, ‘my daddy used to belt seven hells into me. Damn mean bastard. Used to beat my mother too, what I remember of her.’ 

Amelia swallowed the saliva from her throat. Whatever the hell that rum was, it certainly wasn’t weak. 

‘Lot of mean bastards out there. Hell, I’m one of them,’ he chuckled, passing the bottle back to her. 

She looked at him curiously. Arthur was a lot of things, but she could never imagine him beating a child. Those who did were certainly the cruellest of the cruel. There were men who stole, cheated and lied. Some because they could, because they were greedy or didn’t even have much of a choice. But even most drew that moral line. A line that children were innocent, a compass that was not to be reckoned with. But she knew the truth of this world, even if what she saw was just a fraction of it. 

The unjust held her in a chokehold. Her empathy was the thing that drove her, drove her to stop the world from being what it was. She was to protect, to serve, to help. And through it all, no matter how different she and Arthur were on the surface, that was most likely the thing that drew her to him. His sense of duty, his sense of good. 

‘Arthur,’ she whispered, the rum making her sway slightly. Her mind was true, or so she thought at that moment. Her body may have betrayed her intoxication, but her mind told her that she was right. Hell, it didn’t even matter if she was right, she wanted to tell him.

‘Yeah?’ he said, his foot slipping from the boulder as he passed the rum back towards her. 

‘My name… it’s funny, it’s not even my real name,’ she slurred, her composure slipping by the second, not that she gave a damn. ‘I was born Lady Beatrice Fairfax. For all that it was worth. I never liked the name, anyway.’ 

Arthur turned to her as she readjusted herself on the rock, her heels digging into the dried soil of the mud. Arthur chuckled throatily as he took the bottle from her once more. 

‘Funny that,’ he said, his muddy cheeks blushing ever so slightly. ‘My ma’ was a Beatrice.’ 

She snapped her head around, looking at him in such a cockeyed manner. She was sure she was going to fall over. 

‘That’s not funny!’ she nearly screeched, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag before passing it back to him. 

‘Promise,’ he said, a boyish smirk plastered across his face. 

There was something so endearing about him. About all of him. He could go from a mean old cowboy to a cheeky boy at church in the back of the pews. She hated him and loved him in equal measures, and she playfully pushed him on his arm. 

Did I just… think what I thought? 

She was abashed with herself. A man she barely knew had only laid with once, and in that moment she was ready to take his hand and run off into the forest with him and never look back. 

Crossing her arms in some hope of steadying herself, she leant her head on his shoulder. An easy gesture and all the troubles of the day slipped away. As she always did with Arthur, she felt ever so selfish, allowing her problems to dissolve into nothingness as she felt his warmth and strength. 

‘What the hell is the stuff made from?’ she said, eyeing the bottle, tittering away. 

Arthur lifted the bottle. There wasn’t even a third gone and yet, they were both beyond squiffy. 

‘Damned if I know,’ he said. A chortle broke from his chest. She felt the rumble of it, as the air took a sudden sink, the chill of the early evening finally settling in. ‘You wanna head back?’ He said, his voice low and so wonderfully drunkenly seductive? 

Lifting her head, Amelia looked up at him. Maybe it was just because she had already made herself so emotionally vulnerable, the baby foxes, or the fact she was so damn infatuated with Arthur, but she shook her head with the pout of her lips and wide eyes. 

‘Not yet,’ she muttered, as they both broke into a laugh and Arthur crashed his mouth into hers. 

Giggling into his mouth, she absorbed everything he had to offer her. It was wet, sloppy, drunk and so foolish. Not that it really mattered. 

Falling into a tumble on the ground, the leaves crunch beneath Amelia as she let out a gasp underneath Arthur’s weight. 

She felt like a clumsy adolescent, her hands making her way into his hair, knocking off his hat as his fingers dug into thighs, fumbling with her silk stockings. She continued to kiss him feverishly and urgently, the taste of liquor heavy on both of their lips. 

The sun dipped behind the trees, casting a warm glow over them both as Arthur wrestled with this gun belt, he cast it aside, bringing his lips down to her neck as Amelia moaned into Arthur’s ear. 

Pushing his hips into her, Amelia gasped, as her body responded in kind, as she lifted her skirts, whilst his rough hands explored every inch of her body. She felt dizzy, both from the alcohol and him, the pleasure coursing through her in a desperate heat as she felt the heat of his body on hers. 

Her mind was no longer her own as Arthur continued to kiss at her neck, her jaw, everywhere and anywhere he could find as he moved himself lower, leaving a trail of wet kisses on the lace of her dress. 

He pulled at her undergarments, wrestling them from her legs as they tangled around her ankles. She laughed at their eagerness as Arthur chewed his lip, looking down at her. Her heart fluttered at the sight of his as finally he freed her of her drawers, slipping his hand underneath her skirts. 

Her breaths were already coming through in ragged gasps as his fingers found her wet and ready. She cried out as he slid two of his thick fingers into her, as she let out a long mewl into the summer air.

He was gentle at first, letting her get used to the feel of him inside her. She had never felt anything like it before. It was almost indescribable. The alcohol mixed with a sheer audacity of what they were doing, out in the open. He worked the inside of her like an instrument, curving his fingers to find that perfect spot. As if by magic, she was lost to his touch. Her body was his and his alone to command. And when he began to thrust his fingers deep into her core, her body gave in to his demands, writhing and moaning at his mastery of her body.

Just when she thought she was about to be undone right there and then, Arthur brought his mouth down to her, his tongue rolling over her most sensitive parts as she gave a cry of pleasure, her back arching. 

Her hands found their way into his hair as Arthur grabbed at her hips roughly with his free hand, pulling her further into his mouth whilst his fingers moved faster in and out of her.

Amelia felt as though she would go insane from the feeling of release. She wanted more, wanted him to fill her, to give her more of whatever he was doing to her. His fingers were still moving, sending waves of pleasure through her. She felt a tingle between her legs as his tongue pressed harder against her swollen clit, making it throb and ache. 

She was so close to exploding, so close she thought it was going to be impossible to stop herself from crying out loud and yet, as if by instinct, she closed her eyes and bit down hard on her lip as he lifted himself from her, leaving her aching and empty.

‘I want you so much,’ he growled into her ear, and all Amelia could do was moan in response. 

She had never heard a man sound so sensual or so passionate. There wasn’t a word in the English language that could describe it. It was as if a beast was taking her over, a beast that she knew she had no control over and there was no part of her that wanted anything else.

Arthur fiddles with the buttons on his jeans as he bent down to kiss her again, his mouth sweet from her own juices as she mewled into his mouth, seemingly only to encourage him all the more. Before she could even think, he thrusted himself deep inside of her, leaving her breathless as all air seemed to leave her body.

They moved with each other, almost animalistically, their sounds filling the forest whilst their hands grabbing for anything they could. He pounded at her, deep and hard, as Amelia felt the pleasure building as Arthur’s warm breath grunted on her skin. Whatever the rum had done to her felt like a tainted potion, sending the both of them in a debauched frenzy of lust and passion. She was moaning, panting, screaming and shrieking with abandon. All the while, he continued to pound away at her.

Her back arched, and he fell upon her, his lips kissing at her neck, her cheek as he drove himself deeper into her.

In a flash, her orgasm ripped through her like a bolt of lightning from the heavens as a group of birds shot from the trees, retreating from the sound. 

‘Fuck,’ Arthur grunted as he pulled himself in haste from her, his spend landing in thick drops on the ground between her legs. 

Amelia panted, wiping the sweat from her brow as Arthur sat back on his haunches, putting himself away. 

‘You sure you didn’t put something in that rum?’ Amelia said with a breathless laugh. Her eyes were spotted with black dots that danced across her vision as her chest heaved. 

Arthur said nothing as he ran his hand through his hair as he leant over to retrieve her bloomers. 

‘Told ya it was better than Kentucky,’ he said with a smirk as he grabbed at her ankles, putting them through the leg holes of her undergarments, before he stood on uneven legs. 

As Amelia dressed herself, her legs still shaking from their encounter; she hauled herself up, attempting to pick the debris of nature that had found its way into her dress and hair. Twigs, leaves and even a weevil had managed to bury themselves into the lace as her breath slowly abated, leaving a warm tingle of bliss throughout her entire body. 

‘Am I muddy?’ She said to Arthur, attempting to look over her shoulder to see the state of the back of her, but thankfully after a brisk brush of Arthur’s hand, she managed to escape too much incrimination of what they had been up to. 

‘I’ll ride with you back to the estate, but I’ve got some stuff I need to deal with,’ he said hoarsely as he picked up his hat, dusting off the dirt. 

‘Thank you, Arthur. And please… What I said to you -’

‘I ain’t tellin’ no one,’ he said with a warm smile, walking over to her and planting a kiss on her head. ‘But you best get back before the search party comes hollerin’.’ 

She nodded, unsure how she was even going to be able to ride back in her state. 

However, as Arthur knelt, lacing his fingers together as he boosted her onto Tallulah, going back to the estate was the last thing she wanted. Maybe selling the business wouldn’t be the worst idea. Before she could continue her train of thought, Arthur gave her a pat on the side of the thigh. 

‘When you get back,’ he said, sliding the rum into the satchel on her horse, ‘make sure you check your dresser. I left ya a little surprise,’ he said with a wink. 

[summerontatooine]

Chapters: 26/26 Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Arthur Morgan, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston, Jack Marston Additional Tags: Romance, Slow Burn, Marriage of Convenience, Marriage, Family, Angst, Arthur Morgan Lives, Fix-It, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Miscommunication, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Smut Summary:

Arthur Morgan has left the Van Der Linde gang for good. There's no way he could continue on the path that Dutch had been steering them towards. Now he has left for the far northwest portion of The Grizzlies Territory to work as a logger in a town called Hemlock. In an unexpected turn of events, he befriends an older couple that lives across the street from him. As time goes on, he finds him self caring about the family. Especially for the couples daughter named Temperance. Will Arthurs' past continue to haunt him in this new place and what will happen when tragedy strikes the family he has come to care about?

@photo1030

[admiralsweko]

I...

I...

I'm speechless. This is so absolutely gorgeous. It's beyond breathtaking. Simply stunning! I am struggling to find appropriate adjectives to proper describe how utterly beautiful this is. Words fail me.

Thank you so much for this. I'm so touched I could cry. I literally have tears in my eyes. Truly, thank you both from the bottom of my heart. I will never forget this.

Happy bday, @admiralsweko !! Present from the other half of Ditto Duo

Hope you like it C:

[nataliabdraws]

Summer love ☀️

[readingcoco]

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 3444 words

Ao3 Link

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

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

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

Chapter One - The Deputy

[chapter 2]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That new Deputy’s back!”

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

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

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

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

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

You turn to Minnie-

“You ready?”

“Girl, I’ve been waiting on you!”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

She’s not impressed.

“Just get to work. Make Some Money.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Make conversation.

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

Smile.

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

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

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

“Worse,” 

He rubs his jaw.

“Oh?” 

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

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

Perform.

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

You pause for effect, starting to have fun now.

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

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

“So which is it, Deputy?” 

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

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

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

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

“Not really, no.” 

A hint of regret in his voice.

“Then why deny yourself a bit of company?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Arthur Callahan.” 

Arthur.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” 

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

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

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

“You do a lot of travelling, Deputy?” 

“A bit.” 

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

“What do you paint then?” 

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

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

“Where’d ya learn?”

And that is a question too far. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I let you go, will you behave?” 

“Will you show me your drawings?” 

“Woman-” But he doesn’t say no. 

“I’ll behave.” 

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

“I promise.”

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

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

You nod.

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

“Hands behind your back.” 

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

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

“Here. But that’s your lot.”

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

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

“Wait-” 

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

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

“Ain’t as good as a paintin’.”

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

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

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

“That’s my bedroom.” 

“Oh?”

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

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

“Mister Callahan!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t be a stranger.

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

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila IV

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila IV: The Open Wound

The band heads northward, into the Grizzlies, to find John. Braving the inhospitable weather, they find more than just him.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Whoever they were in Strawberry talkin’ of a blizzard rolling through the Grizzlies were right. Very right. 

Hell, as soon as the ragtag crew of outlaws crossed the state line into Ambarino, the dusting of snow on the ground grew and grew as the horses hiked northward and upward in altitude. You’re thankful for the woolen coat and shawl Abigail insisted on wrapping your head in, and the gloves she gave you as well. The snow blanketed the ground once the shadow of Mount Hagen was reached.

“You gonna keep that old boy?” Dutch calls over to Arthur from his mount, buried under a large, dark woolen coat.

“Haven’t had a chance to find another one - once we rescue the fair princess, I’ll probably go on over to Valentine and get a new horse.”

Dutch chuckles, amused at Arthur's irritation at John. Beneath him, The Count steps high through the growing snowbanks, the trail barely visible under the blanket of white snow that has settled. Three horses climb northward, up, up into the mountains.

While the snow isn't actively falling, a cold, bitter wind sweeps across the white landscape, trying to force the group away from the accursed mountains, as if warning intruders to stay back and seek refuge in more hospitable lands.

Micah, bundled tight atop his horse Baylock, spits on the ground and blows out hot air through his nose. He snarls, rolling his shoulders, whilst looking at you as you ride behind Arthur in his saddle. "I hope you know where you're going, missy."

You glance over Arthur's shoulder from your seat behind him, and lean up to point over his shoulder with one hand, the other one around his ribcage to keep you on the horse. "There, that's Lake I-Isabella," Your teeth stutter as you raise your jaw from the scarf wrapped around your neck, "F-follow that c-creek to the right - C-Colter should be just a bit further n-north."

You huddle closer into Arthur’s back as the wind gusts more snow directly down the valley as it opens over the large partially frozen lake. He turns his head slightly, “Y’okay back there?”

“J-j-just peachy.” You stutter, shivering uncontrollably. You’ve turned your body into Arthur’s back, trying to use him as a shield against the biting wind. 

“Alright, enough of this.” He pulls on the Walker’s reins, and the horse whinnies, and comes to a stop. You back off him slightly, as he moves his leg over the saddle to get off the horse. 

Arthur points to the saddle. “C’mon, up you go. I’ll ride behind you.”

You nod, slowly. Pulling your skirts in front of you, you slide yourself into the saddle, throwing your leg across the horse’s back. The cold wind chafes your legs, only partially hidden by your skirts and the heavy woolen stockings Abigail also forced upon you.

Arthur swings back up on the horse, shaking snow off his boots, and settles in on his saddle behind you, flush to your back. You're glad for the scarf that was given you to bury your face into as a blush overtakes your cheeks, heightening even more when one of his arms wraps around your belly, pulling your frame tightly against his as he retakes the reins in his other hand and spurs the horse forward.

Though the rest of the ride was made in silence, by the time the men reached the old mining town, with its dilapidated buildings and lack of life, you will admit, you aren’t as cold anymore.

-

The valley in which the mining town lies loses the sun quickly to the peaks in the west, prompting Dutch to proclaim that the group would rest there for the night, and at dawn, the men would go out searching for John. 

You sit on the cold floor of the cabin, wrapped in the blanket stuffed between your bedroll, next to the old hearth, which mercifully, Arthur was able to clear out and get a fire started. 

Only one or two of the buildings in this old town was habitable - and that was stretching the truth. The large cabin the group had huddled in barely kept out the cold, but it would have to do. The horses were stabled and there was at least a semblance of a roof over your head.

Dutch wrings his hands within his gloves seated on an old chair in front of the hearth. Micah and Arthur have gone to smoke outside as the darkness of night sets in.

“What in God’s name brought you to this hell hole?” Dutch asks, blowing into his hands while staring into the fire.

You swallow the spoonful of beans you’ve been nursing from the can warmed over the fire. “We traveled through from the north and spent some time in Colorado. Wasn’t snowing when we came through though.”

“Mhm,” Dutch nods, placing his elbows on his knees as he leans closer to the hearth, “What was it that you said your husband did?”

Your eyes narrow as you stare into the flames, and you try not to flinch and keep a straight face. 

Here’s the thing, you didn’t say. And you certainly weren’t going to open yourself up to Dutch asking further probing questions that would lead to Limpany and Leviticus Cornwall. 

It's warm enough, at least next to the fire, for you to unwind the scarf from around your head, your blonde hair frizzing messily from the low bun you've pulled it back into. "He worked in Saint Denis for years... but then we left to pursue our fortune and lives in the west." 

Dutch nods, staring into the flames, the answer at least enough to satiate him for the moment. An awkward silence settled as you scrape the last bits of food from the can before setting it down next to you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a beaten-up tin bucket in the dark corner of the cabin - dirty, but looking like it's not broken, you shrug the blanket from your shoulders and crawl over your knees to grab it, shaking dust and dirt. You stand up, moving closer to the hearth to see clearer, inspecting the bucket for holes. Once you see none, you look back toward Dutch for a moment.

"I'm going to go gather some snow to boil for water."

Dutch nods, reaching his hands out toward the fire for warmth, "Stay warm."

You grit your teeth to the inevitable gust of freezing air once you push out the rickety door of the cabin and stomp through the shin-deep snow away from the road - to where the white powder was undisturbed - virginal. You swear under your breath as a breeze makes your ears sting - you left the scarf on the cabin floor and your hair was doing little to nothing to keep your head warm.

Stooping over, you place the bucket on the ground and start scooping snow into the bucket, filling it halfway before an arm grabs you around the waist and you're roughly hauled against a man's body, yelping in surprise.

“C’mon now sweetie, it’s gonna be a cold night, you should spend it in my bedroll.” Micah hums in your ear, arm tight around your waist.

“Get off of me.” You hiss back, trying to pull yourself away, knowing the precarious situation you find yourself in. If you scream, who are these men going to believe? Some woman that was just brought back to the gang, or one of the money-earning established guns? Arthur, maybe, but certainly not Dutch. Not Dutch who seems to leer at you at times with the same dark-eyed stare.

“Breakin’ my heart here, little Ruth.” Micah’s fetid, whiskey-addled breath pours over your ear and you whip your head in the other direction.

Fortunately, you gain some courage and dig the heel of your boot into his foot and he lets go enough for you to break his hold, stumbling forward as he curses, snarling at you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a lantern at the next building over, the open awning where the horses are stabled, the blue of Arthur’s long coat moves in the orange light.

You hitch your skirt and run, gasping aloud as you pray that Micah doesn’t run after you - there’s no way you can outrun him, he’ll catch you in the twenty feet between you and the building. He’ll catch you and drag you and you don’t want to imagine further what he’ll do to you.

You can hear him curse behind you and your heart tries to claw out your throat as you struggle through the snow, the drifts halfway up your shin, soaking your stockings under your skirt and pouring into your boots.

If you can just reach…

“Whoa there!”

You collide with Arthur’s back, gasping and throwing your arms to wind around the trunk of his waist. He turns in surprise, and you bury yourself into his coat, praying for salvation. One of his arms settles loosely on your back as he turns fully, facing you as you clutch desperately at him.

“R-Ruth-?”

You’re gasping for air against him, your face buried in his coat, and it’s then that he looks up and sees Micah scowling halfway between the buildings.

“Don’t let him-” you mumble into his coat, and upon hearing your fearful tone, he winds the arm braced across your back firmer, drawing you against him.

Micah slinks away in a lizard-like fashion under the weight of Arthur’s glare. 

You open your eye slightly and see him head back into the main building, but for a moment, you do not move.

Selfishly, you try to hold on to this feeling of being protected, clutching at the fur lining of Arthur’s coat, extremely mindful of the small circles his thumb is making against your lower back.

-

The morning breaks and you’re huddled in the corner of the room, having not slept much at all overnight - the thought of Micah was enough to keep you awake. The sounds of the men getting up and getting a pot of coffee started pulls you into a sitting position at least, feigning a yawn as you move to stand up, rewrapping the blanket around your shoulders.

“Missus Shaw,” Dutch clears his throat - “The boys and I are gonna go scout around for John. You’ll be okay here by yourself?”

“S-sure,” You nod, shivering slightly. Dutch hands you a cup of coffee and you smile back at him, he nods in reply. He takes one of the polished, glinting revolvers from his belt and places it in your free hand, “You take this if there’s any trouble.”

You stare at the gun, engraved with swirling lines, for a long moment before looking back up to Dutch. In the man’s dark eyes, you can sense weariness - perhaps the first time you’ve seen it.

You nod, sheepishly, as if you were a child. He gently clasps your shoulder before turning back toward the door.

They leave, high on their horses, into the mountain passes, and once the sounds of them galloping away fade, you are left in the cold cabin, staring into the fire.

Hours go by. You scuttle around the cabin, trying to stay warm and keep the fire lit. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sounds of horses outside make you hurry over to the door and whip it open. Clouds have rolled into the afternoon sky, darkening the valley as the wind grows even colder. 

Three horses return to Colter - and you see behind Dutch a fourth man leaning limply against him.

“Missus Shaw!” Dutch calls out as he brings The Count to a stop on the icy road, Arthur and Micah following him. They dismount and go to pull the bleeding body off the back of the horse.

“John’s in a bad way - ” Dutch states as he slides out of his saddle, Arthur and Micah wrap their arms under Marston’s and slowly drag him into the cabin. He groans in pain, his feet stumbling along the way.

You cannot hide the cringe on your face when you look at John - his face is nearly torn open, huge gashes across his cheek,

“Bring him here, lay him down by the fire.” You say as you follow them inside the old cabin. Dutch lumbers behind you.

“Had a bit of a run-in with some wolves,” Dutch says as John is laid out on the floor, and you hurry to the sparse supplies that were packed before grabbing the bucket of snowmelt and getting down on your knees next to the fire and where John lays.

John winces but blinks up at you with a groan as Arthur and Micah step away, ostensibly to smoke outside. Dutch follows, allowing you to work. 

“God, John - You almost got eaten there…” You say with an air of pity as you reach toward the gashes on his face.

John grimaces as you lightly brush over the broken skin of his cheek. “Jesus, woman.”

“I have to stitch these shut, it’s gonna hurt, I’m sorry,” you apologize in a pleading tone, “can you lay your head on my lap here?”

He groans, using the last bit of his strength to scoot himself closer to you and lay his head on your lap, closing his eyes to ward off another wave of pain. You brush back the locks of his tangled hair, tucking it behind his ear. “Turn a little for me.”

John groans again, cursing under his breath as he turns on his shoulder, facing toward you. His marred cheek continues to ooze blood.

“Here we go,” you whisper gently, holding the ridges of the wound in place as you pierce the skin for the first suture. 

A hissed curse escapes John’s mouth, and as you pull the thread through his skin, his eyes squeeze shut in pain. He has the wherewithal to wait until your fingers start pulling the thread through his cheek and the needle is away from his face for his hand to swing forward and grab the meat of your thigh, digging in. You try not to jump, noting how white his knuckles are as you move to pierce his skin again.

“Goddamn.” He mutters, his fingers grasping your thigh painfully.  You haven’t the heart to take his hand from your leg and decide to simply allow the man some comfort, however small it may be. 

You work, as quickly as you can, but the stitching is still slow on the two long gashes on his face. As you tie off the last suture, John grimaces, trying not to move his cheek, his fingers pulsing on your thigh again. 

You put the needle down, grab your stained handkerchief again, and pour more whiskey on it. Glancing back down, your expression is pained as you brush his hair back again gently, not wishing to cause this man more pain. “Last thing, then we’re done,” you say softly.

Dabbing the alcohol-soaked fabric against his face, you pass gently against the black sutures crawling up his cheeks like spiders burrowing into his skin. John swears, loudly, as your other hand moves to his brow, dusting your fingers over his skin in an attempt to calm, "Shh, shh.”

“Why’d you come to find me? Dutch said it was your idea to come up here. I ain’t been nothin’ but short with you since you joined us.”

“Abigail begged us to come find you. I value her friendship. And she values you, despite the volume of your arguments.”

John stares up at you, for once, at a loss for words, a guilty look in the one eye that remains uncovered by bandages.

The injured man shudders and groans as another wave of pain radiates through him.

“Here, hold my hand. Takes your mind off it. Just make sure not to crush my fingers or the stitching on your shirts is gonna be a lot less straight.”

He snorts softly, taking your outstretched hand somewhat meekly. A grimace works over his face again and he squeezes your fingers. Your other hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, taming it somewhat as you gently stroke the crown of his head.

You begin to hum, trying everything possible to help to comfort this man. If there was one thing you couldn’t stand, it was seeing someone in agony.

The door opens and shuts behind you, but you give it little notice, continuing to run your fingers lightly through John’s messy hair.

There, sitting in front of the fireplace with John Marston’s head in your lap, humming a soft song and holding his hand, is where the gruff enforcer of the group finds you.

And for some uncontrollable reason, some flare of emotion long buried, Arthur Morgan takes in the scene and scowls.

-

The howl of the icy wind through the valley rattles against the rotting wood of the cabin. John has finally fallen asleep after several gulps of whiskey from a bottle that the men had brought, laid out on a blanket in front of the fire. 

“Ain’t got anything else to eat here,” Micah grumbles, “We need to leave in the morning.”

You look up from the linen bandages you’re washing in the lone bucket. Scowling, you pipe up, “John can’t ride like this. He needs at least a day or two before he could make it all the way back to the lake.”

Micah rolls his eyes, about to spit out something sarcastic when Dutch stands from his seat, rolling his shoulders. “She’s right. We need to hunker down here while John recovers for a few days.” 

“And eat what, boss? Ain’t anything left around here.” Micah spits on the floor, and you purse your lips in disgust.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe you and Arthur should go hunting...” Dutch trails off as he moves toward a broken window, night falling early in these damned mountains.

“What about that ranch John was looking for? I know there’s one to the northeast of here. May have been the same one.” You interrupt, fully cognizant of Micah’s glare under the rim of his white hat.

Dutch stares at you for a moment, until the hint of a smile appears under his mustache.

“Quite the industrious one, aren’t you, Missus Shaw?”

-

You suppose that’s how you wound up huddling under a small awning, next to a wagon with a dead man inside as gunshots ring out from inside the cabin. Opening your damn mouth, that’s why. The ranch you recall passing a year and a half ago on the way south was indeed here… but someone had found it before you did.

Specifically O’Driscolls.

The door to the cabin swings open, light pouring out into the night, as Arthur yells for you to come inside, you pull the scarf wound tightly around your head to hide your face as you trudge through the snow, trying to ignore the bleeding bodies of dispatched O’Driscolls that you need to step over to come inside. 

Dutch looks around the large cabin, nodding to Arthur and Micah to look for supplies. “Ruth, how about you check over by that cabinet and up in the loft?”

You nod, pulling the scarf down and laying it across your shoulders as you follow his instructions, passing empty bottles and cans that the O’Driscolls had left from their own ransacking of the cabin. Moving toward the opposite side of the cabin, you pause shortly in front of the roaring fireplace, warming your hands in your gloves for a moment.

You look at a photograph framed on the mantle. The man outside, dead in the wagon, in this photograph smiles, flanked by a blonde woman in a white dress, who also smiles.

God, a pain pangs at your heart, these poor people. This could have so easily been you. You wonder if that poor woman was forced to run as well - out into the blizzard, and cold wilderness. Was she dead also?

You grasp the frame of the photo and place it face down on the mantle before frowning and continuing your search for anything you can take - canned food, matches, alcohol. Not finding much that hadn’t already been plundered, you climb the ladder up to the loft, straightening your skirts as you reach the top, and start looking around for anything of value. You open a chest and start rooting through it.

“Now look what I’ve found!”

A screech from below jolts you. Notably feminine. There was a woman here?

You peer over the loft's edge to see Micah turn over the table onto its side, Dutch yells at him, shoving him backward and away from a half-feral woman, screaming and looking for items to throw at the outlaw. The poor woman was half-dressed, her dark blonde hair wild. Glass breaks from where the table was overturned, obscured from your view.

“You fool, Micah!

You pull back, stepping away from the loft’s edge, watching in horror as Micah snickers, lascivious, at the woman clad only in a chemise, she holds out a knife shakily to try and defend herself.

Defend herself against this man. Who would rape her or worse - you know he would. She’s not safe. You’re not safe. 

You keep stepping backward, heart racing, cold sweat dripping down your back, and catch your boot on the corner of the rug, falling to the floor and hitting your head on the open chest - and all goes black.

-

The cabin quickly goes up in flames as Dutch ushers the poor woman out, and Arthur has half a mind to throw Micah back in there and lock the door - the damned fool. He follows Dutch as they reach his stallion, and helps to lift the woman onto the horse.

“Where’s the other one?” Micah yells over the roar of the fire as he mounts up on his steed.

Arthur stops, staring at Micah, then looks around to find no sign of the other woman with the small party. He curses under his breath, handing the lantern back to Dutch as the new one is settled atop The Count’s rump.

“Go on - I’ll catch up!” He yells as he storms back toward the burning cabin.

He heaves his shoulder into the heavy door, nearly breaking it off of its hinges as he presses inside.

“Ruth!” Arthur yells, throwing his arm ahead of his face to shield himself from the fire. “Ruth!”

You’ve awoken from your fall to the heat of flames, coughing as your watering eyes try to focus. As you gain some semblance of bearing, you stumble back from the edge of the loft, against the wall as you scream in terror. You’ve backed your way into a corner to fall huddled on the floor, coughing violently as the flames lick closer. Blood trickles from your temple down your cheek.

A rafter crashes to the ground across the house and suddenly you’re back in your cabin, your little abode along the Dakota, watching your life burn to pieces around you.

You curl yourself tighter against the wall, shielding your face with your arms as uncontrollable tears burst forth from your eyes - paralyzed by the sight of the encroaching flames.

Frederick wasn’t coming to save you this time.

“Ruth!”

Your eyes dart toward the ladder a few feet away, where a black hat bursts up from the floor, Arthur’s blue coat covered in soot emerging up the ladder. 

“Ar-Arthur-!” You cough, the smoke quickly overtaking the loft as the fire builds and builds below. Arthur scrambles up the ladder, covering the lower half of his face with his arm as he coughs. “C’mon, Ruth -"

Another rafter crashes down and you cry out in fear, curling into yourself again as Arthur moves closer. You see him look back over the loft quickly before starting back toward the wall, where a small window seems to be the best route of escape.

He throws his elbow against the glass windowpane and it shatters. Turning back to you, he holds his hand out for you to take, but you feel like you’re stuck in molasses, unable to move, stricken as orange and red light takes over your vision. Arthur steps closer when you don’t move and stoops down toward you.

“You gotta - you, Ruth-” Arthur grabs your shoulders and shakes you as you hyperventilate, “C’mon, honey - you gotta get it together. We gotta go.”

You shake, a coughing fit overtaking you as the vision of him blurs behind your tears. Arthur mumbles something before grabbing you by the waist and heaving you over his shoulder. He heaves himself up, dragging the both of you through the broken-out window, tumbling to the raised awning roof a few feet below the sill. Arthur hacks, spitting on the snow-covered roof, pulling you down from his shoulder and dragging you to the edge of the overhang, where you struggle to stand. 

He grabs your waist, moves your frame with complete ease, and slides you both over the edge, falling several feet to the ground, cushioned by the several inches of snow. You land a few feet away from him, sprawled on your back, groaning slightly before you devolve into another coughing fit from the smoke. Your hair has spilled out from the scarf you used to keep your head warm, lost somewhere in the fire - a mess of wavy curls spread out over the snow.

Arthur grunts, rolling to his knees as he rasps, grabbing his hat from where it fell from his head, shaking it off before replacing it as he struggles up.

“Arthur! You two alright?” Dutch calls out from several feet away, holding the lantern high.

“Yeah - heh -” Arthur coughs, stepping to where you’re still crumbled on the ground wheezing, “We’ll catch up.”

He pulls you up, and you’re still unable to find your feet, allowing him to nearly drag you further away from the burning house in a blur.

Before you know it, he’s somehow gotten you astride his horse, you grasp blindly at the saddle pommel as you continue to breathe heavily, the wet track of tears on your cheeks stinging in the freezing wind. Arthur swings himself up onto the horse behind you, drawing you up against him with an arm around your stomach. 

You close your eyes tightly, shivering, trying to calm your breathing, but in the blazing light of the fire claiming the building behind you, it’s near impossible for you to choke back a sob.

Instantly, Arthur’s other arm winds around your shoulders, as he curls himself around you. 

“You’re alright, you’re alrigh’…” he drawls in your ear, his breath hot on the side of your face.

Your hand, shaking, moves slowly from the pommel to grasp his forearm above your chest, warm even through the layers of fabric of coats and sleeves and gloves. You feel yourself recline into him, the fur trimming at his collar soft against your cheek.

“I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, Ruth.”

He’s going to keep you safe.

The crashing of the roof of the burning ranch house jolts you, the horse stamps beneath the two of you, as Arthur’s hand snaps down from your shoulders to grab the reins. “Whoa there, c’mon now.”

His arm around your waist remains, his hand splaying across your stomach, holding you tightly against him. He circles the horse, glancing back at the fire. The house’s frame begins to collapse into itself. 

“Let’s get goin’, gotta get back to Colter,” Arthur mutters and clicks his tongue as he pulls on the reins, turning the horse back toward the path away from the ranch. He kicks his spurs gently into the horse’s side, and the animal moves forward through the snow, following the path already worn by Dutch and Micah’s horses.

Your gloved hands clench the pommel of the saddle, but slowly, one of them shakily moves up, up, up to cover his across your waist. Your fingers find his, feathered out against your coat, and you interlace them, squeezing his hand gently. He curls his fingers slightly in return, his leather gloves sticking against yours.

He leans over you again as the horse trudges on, the motion of its gait swaying you into each other. Arthur’s cheek presses into your temple as you feel his grip tighten at your waist.

“Y’alright?”

You feel it, rather than hear the question, the low rumble of his voice against your skin. You nod, a soft sound coming from your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve ridden away from a fiery death. A rush of familiarity comes over you, a dread settling in your chest like a shot to your heart.

“Yeah,” you cough slightly, your voice hoarse. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay.”

He’s going to keep you safe.

Arthur sits up straight again; but keeps that hand on your waist, keeps your fingers interlaced, as you trudge through the cold, blustery night away from the burning ranch, away from the blazing fire.

He’s going to keep you safe.

-

You sleep fitfully that night on the cold floor of the cabin, exhausted. The widow Adler sleeps as well - likely even more exhausted from her ordeal. The morning sun has risen in a cloudless sky before you awaken, the men had already made their coffee and making moves for the day. 

John sits up against the wall, bandages wound tightly across his head, covering one eye, which mercifully wasn’t torn out by the wolves.

The widow stares into the fire, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

Your gaze lingers on her - the poor woman, Sadie, she’s just as pitiful as you were - possibly more so, dark splotches of bruises on her skin that she tries to hide. Lord only knows what those men did to her.

Dutch decides to saddle the horses and head south, back to Owanjila. Two extra people mean that all three of the horses would have to ride double - Micah rolls his eyes as you and Dutch help John to stand from where he lay. Arthur resaddles the Walker under the awning of the building, the door open as the group gathers bedrolls together and prepares to leave this blasted down.

Baylock whinnies next to the Walker.

“Y’gonna take this one too?” Micah sneers, nodding inside over to where you stand next to Sadie, wrapping another blanket around her shoulders as they continue to ready the horses.

“The hell you talkin’ about?”

“I see the way you look at that little widow Ruth. The way she runs to you at the hint of trouble. Maybe that’s your type, I don’t judge. Sad little needy widows.” He shrugs, “But maybe you should leave some for the rest of us.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, glaring.

“Oh, cowpoke. I strike a nerve? So you ain't makin’ her squeal at night? If you ain’t, I would be more than happy to.”

“You best walk away, Micah. Before I make you.” Arthur growls, clenching his fist, the leather of his gloves whining as it stretches.

Micah throws a hand up in defense, snickering, “You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want with her is her sweet little cunt.”

Arthur scowls, but Micah flicks his cigarette into the snow, walking past with a dismissive chuckle. He continues out from under the awning of the old house to where the horses are stabled.

He looks back and sees you watching, a concerned, frightful look in your eye, even as you lean next to the widow Adler, rubbing her back as she openly sobs into her hands.

Setting his jaw, Arthur glares daggers at Micah’s back as he finishes saddling up Baylock.

[revolversandlace]

Colour mapping for Arthur is finished! I really like how I’ve done the background considering it took about 5mins but is really effective for some ambient lighting. All in all this has taken about 12hours~ to complete, maybe a little bit longer but this is only 20% of the job. Time for some detailing!

[summerontatooine]

Chapters: 25/26 Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Arthur Morgan, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston, Jack Marston Additional Tags: Romance, Slow Burn, Marriage of Convenience, Marriage, Family, Angst, Arthur Morgan Lives, Fix-It, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Miscommunication, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Smut Summary:

Arthur Morgan has left the Van Der Linde gang for good. There's no way he could continue on the path that Dutch had been steering them towards. Now he has left for the far northwest portion of The Grizzlies Territory to work as a logger in a town called Hemlock. In an unexpected turn of events, he befriends an older couple that lives across the street from him. As time goes on, he finds him self caring about the family. Especially for the couples daughter named Temperance. Will Arthurs' past continue to haunt him in this new place and what will happen when tragedy strikes the family he has come to care about?

@photo1030

[jennyartkim]

[radawayghoul]

I will likely no longer be tagging this as x reader as I’ve gotten a few people inboxing me asking me not to. So if you’d like to be tagged let me know :)

Taming The Wolf | A.M.

Introduction

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC (Adeline Curtis)

Warnings: explicit content, 18+, MINORS DNI, canon typical violence, smoking, drinking, age gap relationship

Adeline Nora Curtis was 18 years old when she crossed paths with Arthur for the first time. Back then, she was just a girl with a dream of being a dancer.

Now, she's a hardened 23 year old outlaw, running with the Van Der Linde gang. Arthur had saved her the night of her families death, can she keep him from facing the same fate?

Hello dear readers! This is a new story I'm working on! I tagged the x reader tag because Adeline won't be described outside of age and height! It's just easier for me to write with a name in mind. Anywho, this story will loosely follow the events of the game off and on! The first chapter will likely take place in Horseshoe Overlook :)