#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. 

[siennaii]

I heard you're taking one shot requests so I was wondering if you could do a oneshot of arthur tending to a sick or injured reader.

<3

hi!♥ i hope this is what u wanted.... im not good at writing fluff but i really tried my best!! as always there might be a lot of mistakes oops.

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

It was supposed to be a simple job—quick, clean, no trouble. And it was, save for the fever that had clung to you all day before. But you, stubborn little mule that you were, always so damn determined to prove yourself just as useful as the men, had pushed through the blurred, doubled vision and rode out for the robbery.

Everything had gone as planned. You’d played your part, kept your head high and steady, even as that pounding in your skull gnawed at your senses and had your jaw clenching against the pain.

Victory had been within reach.

But you sure as hell hadn’t noticed the storm rolling in, not until the skies cracked open and drowned the plains in a downpour. The dry earth turned slick, treacherous under the weight of the rain, and Dutch had barked the order to split—better scattered than a whole pack of outlaws riding back together after spilling blood across the land.

Instinct, or maybe something deeper, had Arthur riding north with you. He’d noticed the flush on your cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with excitement, and the way your eyes burned too bright, like fever-lit lanterns flickering against the storm.

The trail had turned to sludge beneath the relentless rain, each step of your horse more uncertain than the last. The path blurred—double, then triple—until, without warning, the world tilted, and you were falling.

Your body hit the ground, swallowed by the mud, clothes clinging heavy and soaked through to the skin. You burned—hot and fast—your breath coming quick and shallow, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Arthur was off his horse in an instant.

His gut twisted, seized by something raw, something cold, as he dropped to his knees beside you. A thousand terrible things flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last.

"Dammit…" His voice was low, rough, choked by worry.

Your lashes fluttered weakly, the world around you thick and sluggish, spinning in and out of focus. Time had lost all meaning. The only thing you truly felt was the steady, pounding ache in your skull—a cruel, throbbing proof that you were still alive.

Your lips were dry, leeched of colour. Arthur reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle for hands so accustomed to violence, tilting your chin up just enough to see your face, to look into your eyes.

"You with me, woman? Can you hear me?"

His gaze locked onto yours—wild, desperate, like he’d ride through hell itself just to get you right again.

"Arthur..?"

Your voice was nothing more than a whisper—so faint, so fragile, that a deer in the distance would’ve spoken with more conviction.

Even with your blurred vision, you could still make out the face you’d cherished more than some civilizations worship the stars. That three-day beard—rugged, untamed—was closer than ever, the kind of rough silk you’d longed to touch a hundred times over, though that mercy had never been granted to you.

Arthur pressed his lips together, something twisting in his gut, a slow-burning rage born of seeing you like this. It was the kind of anger that could bring a whole army to its knees.

"I’m here, darlin’… What the hell happened to you?"

You tried to speak, but no sound made it past your lips. Before you could even attempt again, you felt a strong arm slide beneath your shoulders, another under your legs. And then—suddenly—you were against him, your head pressing into a broad chest marked by scars you’d never seen before.

He lifted you like you were nothing but a feather in arms that had only ever known how to take, never to give. The only response you could muster was a rough, aching whimper as the motion sent nausea twisting through your stomach.

"I know, girl, I know… Just hold on, alright, darlin’? Ain't lettin’ you die out here. Stay with me, you hear?"

You were still wrapped in his arms, encircled by a kind of gentleness you’d never have imagined from a man like him. He carried you toward his horse, mounting as best he could with you against him, then kicked the beast into motion, shielding you from the rain as much as he was able.

He rode hard, long enough for the muddy roads to turn unfamiliar—or maybe it was just your fevered haze keeping you from recognizing them. After what felt like an eternity, pressed tight against his chest, you felt yourself being lifted again.

Through your hazy vision, you caught sight of a rundown cabin, its wooden frame damp and sagging from years of wear. The scent of dust clung to the air, tickling your nose enough to make you sneeze. Arthur laid you down on a makeshift bed, the sheets rough and questionably clean, though you were too far gone to care.

Minutes passed—maybe more—your eyes fighting to stay open as the flicker of firelight stretched long shadows over the cabin walls. Arthur had gotten a fire going, its glow dancing across his face as he knelt beside you, hesitant fingers brushing against your forehead.

The touch sent you reeling.

"You’re burnin’ up…" he muttered, pulling off your rain-soaked poncho.

Your breath came slow, uneven, and when he started undoing the buttons of your shirt—his movements too careful, too respectful—it made you pause. His blues flickered away, not wanting to make you uneasy, though his fingers struggled with the buttons all the same.

You must’ve drifted, because the next thing you knew, he had a cloth—damp and cool—wiping the sweat from your skin.

"Ain’t much of a doctor," he murmured.

"You're doin’ alright, cowboy." You managed, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips as you watched Arthur turn away to prepare some kind of herbal brew—probably something he’d seen Hosea use before.

Time felt distorted, stretched thin by fever and the sight of Arthur so damn close. He took a step toward you, closing the space between you both, before pressing a cup against your parched lips.

"Drink, woman."

"Ugh." You groaned, taking a sip—and instantly regretted it. A grimace twisted your face as you swallowed. "Arthur, that’s goddamn awful."

"That so?" He raised a brow, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Well, reckon dyin’s worse. ’Specially if I gotta be the one to put you in the ground ’cause you won’t listen. Drink. You need it."

There wasn’t much arguing with that tone, nor the way his voice carried the weight of something final. You took another sip, this time without protest.

The cabin fell into quiet save for the rain hammering against the roof and the soft crackling of the fire. Arthur remained beside you, kneeling close, offering whatever warmth he could. He wiped the sweat from your brow with steady hands, bending to your every need without a single complaint. He held firm, but there was something raw in his silence—an ache he wouldn’t voice, a torment buried deep in the pit of his gut.

"You best pull through, woman," he muttered, voice gruff.

You didn’t answer with words, only squeezed his hand where it still cradled yours. Arthur had let his mind wander to places he never should’ve let it go—to the thought of burying you, of watching the dirt swallow you whole. It drove something sharp into his chest, something real painful, and his fingers ghosted over yours as if you might break right there in his grasp. His face was tight with something unspoken, something he’d never let himself feel before.

"Arthur…" you whispered, shifting slightly beneath the heavy blankets wrapped around you.

"M’right here."

His grip tightened, grounding you.

"You got a hell of a fever, idiot… Why the hell didn’t you stay at camp?"

You coughed, a flush creeping up your cheeks—not from the fever, but from something more shameful. The firelight only deepened the colour.

"I… just wanted to be useful. And… to impress you."

Arthur clicked his tongue, visibly torn between frustration and something else—something softer—before he exhaled long and slow.

"That’s dumb."

That was the last thing you heard before the fever dragged you under again, into a restless sleep.

You tossed and turned, soft whimpers slipping past your lips, every shift of your body a fresh jolt of pain. Once, you stirred just enough to catch a glimpse of Arthur—slumped in a chair, arms crossed, chin dipped forward as sleep caught up with him. And then, just like that, you were gone again.

For once, there were no dreams—only sickness, only survival.

By the time dawn finally crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, it cast the room in pale gold. Soft beams of light stretched across the floor, catching on Arthur’s still form. His hat sat low, covering most of his face, but what little was visible looked almost… peaceful. The sun kissed the hard lines of his features, making him look less like some untouchable legend and more like a man.

With the careful movements of a body still aching, you propped yourself up on your elbows, then dared to try slipping out of bed.

A deep, tired growl cut through the quiet, stopping you in your tracks.

"Wouldn’t do that if I were you."

Arthur’s voice was rough, thick with sleep, but his eyes—half-lidded, sharp—were already locked onto you.

"Did you stay up watcin' over me all night?"

"I wouldn't go makin’ a fuss ‘bout it if I were you." His voice was low, rough, like a man speaking more to himself than to the world.

He stretched, not with grace but with the quiet authority of a man who owned the space he stood in. Then he rose to his feet, his shadow stretching long in the early light.

"You'll be alright, just gotta take it easy these next few days." He leaned down, pressing a calloused palm to your forehead, the heat of your fever pulsing against his touch. "You feelin’ any better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." You swore you felt the ghost of his finger trailing over your skin. "I’d hate to be haulin’ you around all day, dumbass."

"Arthur." You forced the name past the tightness in your throat. You felt a little stronger, but nowhere near free of the sickness that still had its claws in you.

He turned, brow raised, the golden light playing across his face, softening him in a way you’d never imagined.

"I reckon," you swallowed, heart pounding, "a little human warmth's worth more than a pile of blankets."

A flicker of something crossed his eyes—shock, hesitation—before a slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips.

"You’re a damn pain in the ass when you're sick, darling."

"So..?"

He didn’t hesitate this time. With one step, he closed the space between you, lowering himself beside you on the bed. The so-called safe distance shattered as his arm slid around your waist, pulling you to him. Your stomach flipped at the warmth of his touch. He looked away, pretending to take in the room, but suddenly, he felt more fragile, more human, than ever before.

"Arthur," you whispered again, voice weak.

"Mhhm..?" His grip on your waist never loosened.

"Thank you."

You felt his fingers tighten against you. And before you could think, before you could talk yourself out of it, you lifted your face and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his lips.

Silence.

You had no idea why you did it. But now you both lay there, stiff, unmoving, as Arthur stared at you, eyes wide. A thousand sensations crashed through you, and when he finally broke the quiet, his voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"You goddamn fool."

"I'm sorry," you blurted, regret already sinking its teeth in.

"Christ, don’t be," he muttered.

And in that instant, you saw something rare flicker across his face—something tender, something delicate. The red creeping up his cheeks, painting his ears, his throat. Something had bloomed between you, fragile, waiting to be nurtured by two lost souls who’d only ever known how to take.

He shattered the distance between you again, lips pressing against yours—not rushed, not reckless, but desperate in the way a man starved of something good finally lets himself taste it. You were there, soft and warm, slipping between his fingers like something precious.

"Maybe I’m the fool in all this," he murmured against your lips, his breath mixing with yours, unwilling to pull away.

The fever in your skull felt almost sweet, for just a moment.

"Then that makes two of us."

"No, no, darling, it ain't that."

His gaze flickered away, his large hand scraping over his beard, restless. Then, voice rougher, almost hesitant, he muttered,

"Shit, woman. If I start wantin’ you—wantin’ this—there ain’t no going back."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with meaning. And then, without a word, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against the heat of his flushed cheek.

"You goddamn fool," you murmured, mimicking him. "I don’t want to go back."

Arthur finally exhaled, a breath that felt like surrender. He leaned in, forehead pressing against yours, the tension in his face easing as though he was tasting freedom for the first time in years. He breathed you in, every soft exhale, like a man starved for something real.

"Good," he murmured, softer now, less rough edges, more warmth.

And there, in that little cabin hidden away from the eyes of the world, two lost souls found something new. They learned tenderness where once was only a trigger pull. They learned how to hold without taking. The scent of gunpowder faded, replaced by a quiet, unspoken promise—to cherish each other, for as long as fate allowed.

[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.

[twola]

how would you explain Ruth’s and Arthur’s relationship? Because I love that sweet mixture of them butting heads a bit (mostly due to Arthur being a bit of an asshole to be fair) but with them at least trying to be civil. Like could you expand a bit more on how their relationship works? <3 Luv the your writing by the way!!

BUH 😭 Okay so before I dive in, thank you so much - I have this major major hangup about writing an OC and people just… not being a fan of that story. Its the largest part of my writing heart.

Okay, so now that I've gotten that over with~

Ruth is trying to figure out her place in the world - newly widowed, thrust into a situation where she has little agency. Used to having the respect of her late husband, here she is in an outlaw gang of all places, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. She’s beholden to this group, knowing she doesn't have much to survive on if she were to leave. At least now, she's surrounded by people who (hopefully) will protect her, especially with certain men with badges trying to find her.

Arthur (at least in Devil’s Backbone-verse) is perennially annoyed when he meets her. I really try to thread that line between low and high honor. He’s trying to get work done, and now he’s been saddled with bringing this woman back to camp for (what looks like to him) Hosea’s fondness. She's not a thief, not a shot, in his eyes, she's fairly useless. While he may idolize a bit of that genteel and womanly charm outside of the gang (read: Mary) when it is IN the gang, it is getting in the way.

When Ruth grows a little backbone and they have a spat, does Arthur find that maybe she isn't just some doe-eyed proper woman. And when he is forced to apologize, Ruth finds that maybe he isn’t all piss and vinegar.

Over time, bit by bit, Ruth finds a source of comfort, strength, and protection in Arthur, which is what she is so desperately looking for. Arthur finds that she needs him to protect her, and goddamnit, and the bottom of his black heart, being needed for what he actually excels in is quite the feeling for him, instead of being measured up to his faults. Arthur sees that Ruth needs a man who can use violence to his (and her) benefit, after her having gone through so much of it herself. Shit, he’s good at that.

So around and around they go, unwilling to admit a smoldering tension between them.

At least, that’s where they are as of chapter 17 😉 I’m so excited to say that I made a ton of headway over the last weekend to the next two chapters of Devil’s Backbone, and I hope to get chapter 18 out by the end of the month.

Agh, you’ve hit me right in the feels. Thank you for asking, anon. I'm not sure if you realize how much it means to me 💕

[gluechugger]

Arthur Morgan and my serial killer OC Ethel Marjorie Gein because I need to torture him BARKBARKBARKBARK I’m a sick fuck.

Yes she’s based off Ed Gein, but instead of an abusive and overbearing mother, her father was violent and puritanical and Ethel desired his unattainable attention more than anything. She’s been taking care of her family farm by herself for the last 6 years since he croaked, who can say how many men she’s killed? Not me because I haven’t decided yet.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

I see the fire in your eyes - Chapter 4 : A damsel in distress

Summary: Luisa Ganci, a Belgian opera singer, wakes up in 1899 within the world of Red Dead Redemption 2. Trapped in a reality that was never meant to exist, she struggles to survive among the Van der Linde gang while carrying a dangerous secret—she knows how their story ends.

Arthur Morgan doesn’t trust her. She knows too much, and he’s determined to find out why. But can fate truly be changed, or is Luisa doomed to watch tragedy unfold before her eyes?

POV: Luisa Ganci

I didn’t take long to figure out that the Irishman who had taken me hostage was none other than Sean MacGuire. As I was jostled against the sides of his horse, I could feel the edge of the saddle pressing against my stomach, breathing in the dust kicked up by the ride. I felt sick, on the verge of vomiting. Fortunately for me, my ordeal didn’t last long, and we slowed down as we entered a thicket.

"This is fun!" Sean exclaimed, laughter in his voice.

For him, maybe. But not for me.

"Alright, little lady!" he announced cheerfully, grabbing me by the waist. He slid me off his horse without gentleness, laughed at my unbalance, and tapped the horse’s neck. "You’ve earned the right to run away!" he added.

John Marston walked toward me and roughly threw my trunk at me.

"For the trouble of taking you hostage, we’ll give you your things back," he said in his gravelly voice. Just like in the game.

I felt like I was dreaming, but everything was far too real. Suddenly, purple spots blurred my vision, and I was overcome by a horrible urge to vomit. I held my hair with one hand and rushed behind a tree to relieve myself.

"Charming," Sean MacGuire scoffed, while John Marston let out a disgusted sound.

A large, warm, reassuring hand rested on my shoulder, and water was offered to me.

"Here, it’s going to be okay."

It was Charles Smith. In real life, he seemed even more imposing, but a quiet strength emanated from him. Suddenly, I saw him like a rock, someone stable and trustworthy, and it brought tears to my eyes. I took the water bottle, drank, and sat against the tree, trying to calm my panicked, overwhelmed body.

"Breathe slowly," he told me, his voice like velvet.

I obeyed and used a breathing technique that had been very useful to me before my competitions and operas. It calmed me within minutes, and I opened my eyes to see before me the half-worried, half-amused, half-despairing gazes of Sean, John, Charles, and Arthur Morgan.

I watched them without subtlety, trying to recognize in them what I knew from my favorite video game, searching for a difference, an additional detail, but nothing. They were identical. Identical, but far more real. Sean, arms crossed, seemed to enjoy the show. John was expressionless, maybe incredulous, and Arthur was pinching the bridge of his nose, visibly irritated. Only Charles looked at me with tenderness.

"I'm sorry, miss. If I’d known you’d react so badly, I would’ve chosen someone else," Sean said after clearing his throat.

He handed me a chocolate bar, but I didn’t open it, nervously playing with the matte paper wrapping.

"It’s not that," I replied in a trembling voice. "Well, yes, but not just that. I... I was peacefully skiing. Okay, I messed up, but I don’t think I’m dead. I don’t want to die. I... I just want to go back home. But now I’m here, in 1899, thousands of miles from home, and even if I made it back, I wouldn’t recognize anyone because it’s not my world anymore, it’s not my home. And I’ve asked for help, but they want to send me to that stupid sanatorium."

As I explained my story, my voice filled with sobs, and their faces took on expressions of pity and confusion. I knew it was pointless to explain all of this. They probably wouldn’t understand a thing. And that’s what happened. John let out a nervous laugh and scratched his hair.

"Yeah, I think she belongs in a sanatorium."

"Skiing," Charles said softly. "You fell while skiing?"

Finally! Someone believed me, understood me!

"Yes!" I exclaimed.

His comrades asked him what skiing was, and he explained that it was a way of traveling on snow. In the meantime, I tried to straighten up my outfit and hair, trying not to look crazier than I already felt. I caught Arthur Morgan's gaze on me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt intimidated.

"Did you bump your head?" he asked. "How’s your head?"

"I... I’m fine."

They would never understand my story if I told them. They’d send me to that sanatorium I was trying to escape from.

"Are you French?" Charles asked, taking the chocolate bar from my hands to unwrap it for me.

"No, I’m Belgian."

"Do you need to get to Saint-Denis?"

"No!" I exclaimed, terrified by the idea.

Arthur Morgan smirked and murmured:

"I can understand."

"We’re taking her with us," Charles announced, handing me a piece of chocolate.

"What? No way!" Arthur shouted.

"She’s clearly confused and panicked. We can’t just leave her like this in the woods," Charles defended.

"We’ll drop her off at the nearest station," Morgan replied gruffly.

"She doesn’t have a penny on her," Sean intervened. "I searched her."

Arthur sighed and threw his arms up in the air, irritated.

"Go ahead, add another mouth to feed in this camp. It’s not like we have enough already, right?"

Annoyed, I clung to my dignity. It was all I had left. I stood up, brushed off my dress, grabbed my trunk, and shook my head.

"I’ll manage on my own. Thank you, gentlemen."

"No!" Arthur growled in annoyance. "We’ll take you to your family."

"I don’t have any. I haven’t remembered anything since I fell." I lied.

He suddenly grabbed my left hand. I jumped, scared, but he simply inspected my ring finger before letting go.

"Not married," he muttered.

I wondered why the doctor, the sheriff, and Emily hadn’t thought to do that. It was much smarter. Even though, of course, I knew I wasn’t married back home in 2025.

"Did someone steal her damn wedding ring?" he asked, looking at his companions and stopping on Sean.

"I didn’t take anything from her," the Irishman assured.

Arthur Morgan sighed and mounted his horse.

"Alright. Do what you want. I have things to take care of."

"Dutch is not going to be happy," John said, getting on his horse.

"I don’t want to cause you any trouble," I stammered.

"We’re not leaving a lady in distress alone in the woods in the middle of the night," Charles assured.

He helped me onto his horse and settled in front of me.

"Hold on tight."

I didn’t need to be told twice. I grabbed onto whatever I could and probably ended up suffocating poor Charles.

The horses slowed as we approached the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. The fatigue weighed heavily on my shoulders, and every movement of the animal beneath me reminded me that I wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t just a game. It was real. At the camp, everything was exactly as I remembered. Horseshoe Overlook. Hosea, Dutch, Susan Grimshaw, Abigail, and even little Jack, they were all there. They stood up and approached the horses as they arrived.

Sean was the first to dismount, jumping down from his horse with his usual nonchalance.

"Well, friends!" he announced loudly. "Another traveler for our lovely little camp!"

I heard voices rise, first curious, then wary. Eyes turned toward me, some intrigued, others hostile. Charles gallantly helped me down and steadied me once I was on the ground.

"What have you brought us this time, Sean?" Dutch growled as he stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest.

"A damsel in distress," Sean replied with a mocking smile.

"Another one," Dutch hissed.

I ignored him as Sadie approached, eyeing me with a certain warmth in her gaze. While Sean entertained the group by telling them about my adventures—fleeing from the train, vomiting behind a tree, and my nonsensical ramblings—Charles escorted me to the fire, indicating that I should sit down. Hosea was there and smiled politely at me.

"What’s your name, dear?"

"My name is Luisa Ganci."

"Luisa, are you from France?"

Given my accent, I knew everyone would ask me that question.

"I'm from Belgium."

Hosea seemed to think for a moment and muttered my name.

"My parents are from Sicily and Sardinia... in Italy," I explained.

"Go get some rest, Luisa. You seem to have had a long day."

Although I was tired of being told what to do, I obeyed, genuinely exhausted. They made me sleep in a coach since the tents were all taken, but I had a hard time falling asleep, torn between fear, confusion, and deep loneliness.

[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

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42 (This chapter contains BDSM and is super NSFW.)

[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. 

[siennaii]

"hellcat" ch.1 lingering ghosts

Arthur Morgan x female OC.

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

hi! just wanted to let you know that english isn't my first language, there might be quite a few mistakes. ♥ whole story is already planned, i've got a few chapters ready! tysm for reading this if you are :( ♥ 

_ _ _ _

Strawberry, 1901.

The decrepit saloon was louder than usual, its worn wooden floor groaning under every step, every shifting weight. The man, seated at the far end of the bar with a dry gin in hand, scanned the room as if his life depended on it; the faint jingle of spurs barely perceptible to the untrained ear. He drank. He drank, and his shoulders remained tense. Paused. Scanned again—his gaze straight, sharp, unyielding... worn.

With a slow movement, he tilted his hat up. The saloon doors swung open, creaking, exhausted from a lifetime of fights and liquor, of sin and sweat-soaked bodies pressed against its curve. Thick fingers tapped against the bar—one... two... three. Oh my darlin', oh my darlin'... played faintly in the background. The piano was too sharp, out of tune.

The door swung open again. Another creak that made him clench his teeth; blue eyes snapped toward the source of light—and widened. He froze.

"Hellcat."

His voice carried just enough to make the woman stepping inside take notice. She tilted her head, amber eyes adjusting to the dim saloon light, and then—finally—lips, painted in hastily applied red, stretched into a smile he hadn't seen in years.

"Thought you were layin' low, same as me." He grunted, his broad frame pushing against the too-small barstool, making it groan.

"You weren't thinkin' nothin' at all, Morgan.."

Arthur's fingers drummed against the counter—dry, restless. Rose's voice cut through the murmurs of the saloon, sharp as the knife she used to skin her rabbit at sundown, dry as lips left too long under the desert sun, parched for water.

"I just didn't expect to see you here. Not... after all this time."

He swallowed. His voice was rough but steady—never wavering. A moth landed near his glass; he crushed it without a second thought. A dry chuckle rasped past cracked lips.

He barely looked at her.

The man's eyes, sharp as a wolf on the hunt, flickered down to the twin revolvers at her hips—the same damn ones she'd worn the night she up and disappeared. No note. No warning. Just gone. His gaze lifted again, blue locking onto amber.

"Still carryin' them old relics like a trophy?"

The question weighed heavy in his mouth, but rolled off hers like nothin' at all. He thought of that night, the way she'd walked away—no farewells, no second thoughts—leaving the gang, the camp, him behind. She thought of those pistols as nothing more than proof of her will, her strength.

She slid onto the barstool beside him, her steps smooth, blending into the saloon's hum of voices and clinking glasses. It was true—she'd left. Just like that. But she'd seen through Dutch's madness long before the others, a slip of a woman who never had much patience for prophets. She ordered a whiskey. The glass landed beside his gin, close enough that their hands almost brushed—just enough to feel the warmth of the other. She cleared her throat, long black hair cascading down her back, catching on the high chair. She reeked of confidence. Arrogant. Untouchable.

Arthur's gaze drifted past her, locking onto two men arguing near the back. Any excuse to not look at her. A few years ago, he'd hated her for leaving—traitor, slippin' away in the dead of night without a damn word. But after Dutch's madness, after everything... he reckoned she'd been the only sane one all along.

"Surprised you ain't locked up yet. Or hangin' from a rope." Her voice was smooth, lazy, whiskey glass now smudged with red lipstick. "Heard 'bout Blackwater, and I was states away."

Arthur's dry thumb ran over the worn leather of his satchel, the creases old, familiar. He smirked.

"Lawmen these days couldn't track a damn mangy coyote if it dropped dead in front of 'em."

She burst out laughing—a sharp, crystalline sound that cut through the saloon noise, lodged itself in his ears. She had that way about her, always had. Not 'cause of a skirt swapped for pants, not 'cause of the fine shirt that probably cost more than half the town made in a month. No, it was the way she carried herself. That hungry stare. That silk-spun hair. That something sharp, teasing, always caught on the curve of her lips.

"Guessin' you're here for the bounty on those three ex-Pinkertons turned raiders, Morgan." She knew. Of course she knew. She cast him a glance from the corner of her eye, slow and searing, and he went rigid, knocking back the rest of his gin in one hard swallow.

"They're holed up in an abandoned mine." Arthur's worn boot nudged her chair under the bar, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. "You left before Dutch lost his damn mind. Smart." The glass hit the counter with a dull thud—too rough, but that was the only way he knew how. His voice dropped, edged like a blade. "Fifty-fifty on the bounty. That is, if you ain't gone soft after all these years."

She arched a brow, nostril flaring just slightly. Arthur's jaw tensed as he watched her, throat bobbing with a slow swallow. He bit his tongue, waited. Then, finally, she gave a small nod. Wordless, he reached into his satchel, fishing out a half-crumpled bounty poster, nearly lost beneath the junk he carried. No care in his movements, he flattened it out with a rough hand and shoved it toward her, knocking against the half-full whiskey glass, smudged with red lipstick stains he couldn't bring himself to look at without sneering.

"There's dynamite rigged up 'round that mine," he muttered, voice dry as gunpowder. "Better watch that pretty little face of yours. I ain't scrapin' up pieces of you just to give you a proper grave."

She tilted her head, sizing him up, before a slow smirk unfurled across her lips. "Fifty-fifty and your hat."

"Deal."

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, but before he could move, Rose swiped his hat clean off his head and settled it onto her own. The old thing, cracked and worn with time, sat like a damn crown against her dark hair. His fingers twitched, curled into a fist. He tossed a coin onto the counter, enough to cover both their drinks. "Got a shitty room above the saloon. Meet me 'fore sundown."

She didn't answer, just adjusted the brim of his hat like she'd been born wearing it. He exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath, too low to be heard over the saloon's din. Oh My Darling wheezed from the out-of-tune piano.

"Shoulda known you'd still be a damn thief."

He walked off, shoving a man too drunk for midday against the railing, the wood groaning under the sudden weight. His fingers brushed over the twin revolvers strapped to his belt before he climbed the stairs back to his room. Just a few hours of rest before another damn job. He could feel those honey-colored eyes burning into his back as he left, but he didn't turn around. Didn't say a thing.

Rose and Arthur had never been close, not when she was still running with the gang. Maybe they'd talked once or twice by a campfire, ridden out together on a few lousy jobs. Maybe, in passing, she'd told him about her dreams, her dime novels filled with love and tragedy. Maybe he'd told her about Mary, voice rough, gaze lingering just a little too long. Maybe, one night, they'd fucked in some run-down saloon after a few too many glasses of whiskey, and for a fleeting moment, he'd felt alive again, his fingers burning against soft skin. Maybe he'd started bringing back extra cans of peaches, just in case. Maybe he'd caught himself, like a fool, sketching the sharp lines of her face in the pages of his journal.

Maybe.

But they were never close. And she still left.

[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:

[twola]

Received this beautiful piece of Ruth and Arthur (Devil’s Backbone) from my beloved @redwritr as part of a Secret Santa 💕🎄😭

I swear I can feel the warm prairie breeze looking at this ✨

[nataliabdraws]

Summer love ☀️

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

I see the fire in your eyes - Chapter 7 : A burden

Summary: Luisa Ganci, a Belgian opera singer, wakes up in 1899 within the world of Red Dead Redemption 2. Trapped in a reality that was never meant to exist, she struggles to survive among the Van der Linde gang while carrying a dangerous secret—she knows how their story ends.

Arthur Morgan doesn’t trust her. She knows too much, and he’s determined to find out why. But can fate truly be changed, or is Luisa doomed to watch tragedy unfold before her eyes?

POV: Arthur Morgan

Freeing Micah hadn’t been a pleasure for me. I had no desire to see that snake back in our camp, but Dutch’s orders were Dutch’s orders.

Things were tough. The train robbery had brought in money, but also another person whose survival had now become our responsibility: Luisa Ganci.

It was unthinkable to me that a woman like her—clearly bilingual, able to discuss intellectual topics with Hosea—could not remember her past and saw no problem spending her time in the filth, discomfort, and danger of this camp. To me, it was obvious: she had been sent to spy on us. Dutch shared my opinion, but Hosea... Hosea pitied her, and it made me sick. How could a man as intelligent as him be fooled by this cliché of the damsel in distress? The decision had been made, however: innocent until proven guilty, Luisa had the right to stay among us but was not allowed to leave the camp. And when we found out the truth, her fate would be sealed—it would be either freedom or death.

Maybe I should have felt something about the idea of seeing a young life wasted like this, but I was past that. Only the gang’s survival mattered.

Luisa didn’t make her presence any easier to tolerate. She spent her time giving us advice on hygiene, insisting that we wash and change clothes more often, meticulously cleaning every tent—though I had chased her out of mine—and worrying excessively about the fate of animals. On top of that, she was incapable of doing certain things that were basic and natural for us, like starting a fire, saddling and riding a horse properly, telling the time by the sun, plucking or skinning the game we hunted or fished, or even killing a chicken. If she hadn’t been such a good cook and seamstress, she would have been a total dead weight to us.

So, when she had to go into town with Sean, posing as his wife so he could visit the bank and study its infrastructure, I wasn’t surprised to see her awkwardly saddling the old mare she had borrowed. When she mounted the animal, the saddle slipped and flipped over. She let out a ridiculous little yelp, and I caught her on instinct before setting her back down, irritated. If I hadn’t been there, she could have seriously hurt herself. But instead of thanking me and asking me to tighten the girth, she just apologized, her cheeks red. That’s what she always did. She was clumsy, slipping, tripping, knocking things over, forgetting others, and always apologizing. She apologized all the time, with an annoying excess of politeness, as if she were apologizing for existing.

I couldn’t help but notice that she smelled good—rare and unlikely in this camp—and that was the only pleasant thing I could find about her. Sean came to help her tighten the girth again, and I walked away toward the logs I had to chop.

I hated her perpetually neutral and overly dignified expression, her know-it-all gaze watching us like she had us all figured out, her stubbornness in keeping everything clean, even her dresses, which she lifted slightly every time she walked through the muddy camp, and that distant air of someone always lost in thought—probably busy judging us or plotting our arrest. Her snobbish and feminine manners had no place among us, and I was sure she saw us as nothing more than lowly peasants.

I muttered under my breath as I stacked the chopped wood, and Karen, sitting nearby with a whiskey bottle in hand, handed it to me with an amused smile.

— You don’t like her, do you?

I grimaced, gesturing vaguely. I wanted to deny it, but I gave in.

— I don’t trust her.

— And I don’t like her. She acts like she’s better than everyone, yet she can’t do anything… and Sean and Javier hovering around her—it’s pathetic, she said bitterly.

I suspected she was jealous, but she wasn’t wrong either. I was relieved not to be the only one who didn’t trust the newcomer. She stood out, as if she didn’t belong in our world, and that scared me.

— Mr. Morgan, mail for you!

Susan Grimshaw interrupted me, handing me a letter.

I frowned as I opened the envelope. I wasn’t used to receiving mail. As I unfolded the letter, I immediately recognized the handwriting and felt a blow to my stomach.

Dear Arthur

I've written this letter a hundred times or more and I cannot get it right. It's me. You know it's me from the bad hand writing. I know I said when last we spoke and I was going off to get married, that we would not speak again. I know I said a lot of things and I meant them, I suppose, at the time, but I am not so proud as to not speak to people who care for me, or cared for me.

I've been in Valentine for a couple of months. I had some bad luck and, well, it's a long story and not an interesting one, but I am here for now. I saw a couple of the girls, or whatever the polite term for them is, that ran with you and your associates in town and I heard tell of a man who sounded like you. I would love to see you again, if you could spare me a little bit of your time. I'm renting a room at Chadwick Farm, just north of Valentine.

Yours,

Mary Linton

Mary Linton. When I had met her, she was Mary Gillis. We were young and naive, so much so that I had believed and hoped she might one day be called Mary Morgan. Mrs. Morgan. But alas, there would never be a Mrs. Morgan, and that was for the best.

And yet, despite everything, I rode toward Valentine with a glimmer of hope.

I knew exactly where she was talking about—Valentine was a small town, easy to navigate. I took a moment to smooth some pomade into my hair before knocking on the door.

It wasn’t Mary who answered, but an armed woman who eyed me warily. My racing heart calmed.

— Hello, is Mrs.… Linton here? I asked, holding back a grimace at the name.

— I’ll check, she said, shutting the door.

A few seconds later, the door reopened. I turned around, my heart pounding, my stomach in knots. I had taken off my hat and was fidgeting with it.

Mary was there. She didn’t dare meet my eyes. Her lips were tight, she had lost weight, and the ten years since our last meeting had left their mark on her face. And yet, I still found her just as beautiful. She no longer had that youthful glow, that innocence, but it was Mary, and her face had always been harmonious.

It had been years since I’d last seen her, but damn, it was like time had suddenly stopped. Just looking at her, I felt everything I had buried deep down rising to the surface. She was different, but she was still her.

And me… I was still the fool who reacted like a damn kid whenever he saw her.

She opened her mouth, and her voice—soft, hesitant—hit me like a punch to the gut.

— Hello, Arthur.

She spoke as if she were surprised to see me. I took a deep breath.

— Mary…

I had wanted to say something else, but nothing came. Just her name. As if it were the only word that mattered at that moment.

I felt stupid.

She played with her fingers, avoiding my gaze. I didn’t know if I was the reason for her nervousness or if it was something else. Then she spoke again, her voice still as fragile:

— I heard that you and your friends were around. I…

She hesitated, and I narrowed my eyes.

— Okay… where is… what’s his name?

I didn’t want to say it. I had never liked the guy, and she knew it.

— Dead.

The word cracked through the air like a gunshot.

My eyes locked onto her, searching for any emotion on her face. And I saw it. Sadness, barely hidden.

I lowered my eyes, still fiddling with my hat between my fingers. He was younger than me. I had wished for his death for a long time, but not anymore. Not for a while. And yet, it had happened.

— I’m sorry to hear that, I breathed sincerely.

She nodded, and her voice broke slightly.

— Yeah, me too… me too. It happened a long time ago. Pneumonia.

I nodded, tightening my grip on my hat.

— Nasty thing.

— Really nasty.

Silence settled in, and I felt a weight pressing on my chest. I didn’t belong here, yet I couldn’t leave. Something was keeping me in place, something invisible but damn powerful.

Then, an idea crossed my mind, and I lifted my gaze to her, my eyes hardening with suspicion.

— So… You became a widow, and now you come looking for me, is that it?

I threw that out with a colder tone than I had intended, but I needed to know. I didn’t want to be that guy, the one who comes running whenever she snaps her fingers. Not again.

Her face changed, surprise flashing across it, almost reproachful. She opened her mouth, then closed it, shaking her head slightly.

— No, that’s not it, Arthur.

Something inside me loosened, but it left room for another feeling—something bitter. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.

— Oh. Okay.

I tried to sound relaxed, but my heart was still beating too fast.

She hesitated, wet her lips, and I saw in her eyes that she was about to say what had really brought her here.

I watched her, those pleading eyes, and it was like she was pulling me right back to those years when everything was simpler, before everything went to hell. Before all that damn drama tore us apart. And now, she was asking for my help.

— Listen, I… I… my family… I need your help.

She stepped forward slightly, as if every movement cost her, as if she knew her request would hurt me. And it did. Every word she spoke stung a little more.

— Oh, your family? I scoffed, my voice rough. You mean the family that always looked down on me? And now you want me to help them?

Anger boiled inside me, rising to my head. It was absurd. My throat tightened, my breathing quickened. How dare she? I could see her father’s face, that pompous, self-righteous man, looking at me like I was trash on their pristine flowerbeds.

She leaned slightly forward, resting against the porch railing.

— It’s my brother, Jamie.

I froze, shock hitting me like a slap. Jamie? The only one in that damn family who never looked down on me? It was him?

She went on, talking about her father’s broken heart, the suffering in her family. Apparently, Jamie had joined some religious cult, which seemed to be the final blow to their fragile illusion of perfection. Mary explained it all with that desperate gleam in her eyes, as if I could believe it, as if I was still that young man full of hope and good intentions.

And, damn it, maybe I was. Maybe I still was.

I chuckled bitterly to myself. If I were Jamie, I’d probably do the same thing. I could still remember the unpleasant presence of the Gillis family, the way they had treated me, the way they treated their servants. If I were in Jamie’s place, I too would have preferred religious extremists over the family home. But I kept silent, forcing myself to listen. Because, in some twisted way, I wanted to know.

Then reality hit me like a punch to the gut. I must have been a fool. I should have seen this coming. Mary... Mary didn’t want me. Not now. Not after all this time. I was nothing but a memory to her, an old relic she pulled out when it suited her. I was still that man—too poor, too naïve, too unworthy in her eyes. I hadn’t changed. I had nothing to offer her. And yet, here I was, standing before her, fists clenched, as she asked me to bend to her whims. It wasn’t fair. It felt like I’d been thrown twelve years back, when she used to ask me to intimidate men for her own affairs.

And yet... another part of me, the part I despised, was already caught in her web. It was pure weakness. But a weakness that came from deep inside, from that place where I still wanted to protect her. Because, goddamn it, I knew her. And despite everything, I knew that if I walked away, I’d feel even more hollow than before.

— Fine, Mary. Fine.

I hadn’t even thought before saying it—it was stronger than me. That part of me that still wanted to save her, to shield her from whatever might break her. Even though I knew it would all end in shit again. But I couldn’t... I couldn’t let her suffer, not after all this time. Not when she looked at me like that. And Jamie... Jamie deserved better than being trapped in her bad choices.

Mary gave me a look of relief, and, goddamn it, that glimmer in her eyes made me both melt and grit my teeth.

Night had fallen by the time Jamie and I arrived at the train station in Valentine. The air was cool, and the dust from the tracks clung to my skin. I said nothing, partly lost in thought, too unsettled by this whole situation that made no sense.

Jamie, walking beside me, seemed more at ease than before. He kept casting me side glances, as if he knew exactly what I was feeling.

— You’re nervous about seeing her, aren’t you?

I stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, feigning indifference. But he wasn’t wrong, in a way. It was more complicated than that. Mary—though she’d never said it outright—treated me like a memory she wanted to erase. And yet, here I was again, helping her after all this time. I didn’t want to admit it, but something still chained me to her.

We entered the station, and I spotted her immediately. She stood tall, as always, proud as ever, but this time, it was as if she were looking right through me. I was no longer the man she had known, and she was no longer the woman I had loved. We had grown. We had aged. She threw herself at her brother, and I watched them, a part of me wishing I could be part of that family, that closeness. But it was too late.

I took Mary’s suitcase without a word. She reached out to help me lift it, and when our fingers brushed, a jolt ran through me. It was just a touch, a simple gesture, but it brought back all those moments we had shared—so intense, so vivid—yet so distant. It was as if they had never really happened, until now. Until we touched again. I didn’t want to let go. For a fraction of a second, time stood still.

She climbed onto the train, and I followed, handing her the suitcase. I felt her gaze on me, and despite everything that had changed, despite everything we had been through, I wished I could stop her. I wished she wouldn’t leave. But I also knew that it was too late for that. She had been gone for a long time already.

The dim station lights cast a soft glow on her face, making her look almost unreal. She had that distant expression, that quiet melancholy that, deep down, still broke me. Her eyes were just as beautiful as ever. She knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling. She knew that seeing her leave was tearing me apart.

But she murmured, with a sad kind of certainty:

— Oh, Arthur… you’ll never change, I know that.

I stared at her, the words stuck in my throat. She was probably right. Maybe I’d never change. Maybe I was doomed to always be this man—the one who gave without expecting anything, the one who let himself be crushed by his own choices. My chest tightened, a dull pain rising in my throat. I wanted to stop her, to take her hand, to tell her I wasn’t who she thought I was, that I could change—but it was too late. All of that, I should have told her ten years ago. More importantly, I should have proved it. But she was right—I wasn’t capable of that.

She stepped onto the train, and the door shut behind her. The sound of the departing train faded, and I stood there, alone on the platform, watching its shadow disappear into the night.

I returned to camp at a slow trot, despite the late hour. I needed solitude. I needed to process these memories, this storm of emotions. When I arrived, the camp was quiet. I tied up my horse and was about to go grab a drink by the fire when I saw a figure.

Miss Ganci.

She had her back to me. She hadn’t heard me come in, and she was crying—crying so hard that her whole body shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I stood there, frozen for a moment, torn between giving her space and stepping forward. Then, without thinking, I moved. My head screamed at me to leave her be, but my body disobeyed.

The rustle of my boots in the grass seemed to alert her. She turned sharply, quickly wiping her tears with the sleeve of her shirt in a clumsy motion. Her eyes were swollen and red, but she forced a smile. It wasn’t convincing, and she was no good at pretending.

Feeling awkward, I cleared my throat. I was ready to turn away, but she spoke, her voice unsteady and hoarse.

— Good evening, Mister Morgan. You’re back late.

Nice attempt at changing the subject.

— Had things to take care of.

She discreetly sniffled and nodded, turning her gaze to a piece of embroidered fabric.

- Me too. Embroidery. - Is it the embroidery that's making you feel this way?

She shook her head with a sad smile, stifling a hiccup.

- It’s the smoke. It stings my eyes.

She was lying. And she was a terrible liar. That reassured me, in a way. If she were a real Pinkerton spy, she’d be better at it. And she wouldn’t be in such a state, sitting alone in the night.

I sat down in front of her, amused. Suddenly, I found her interesting.

- You’re a bad liar, I stated.

She looked away and shrugged.

- I know. I’ve never been very good at making things up.

That was probably true, and it was a comforting thought. She seemed far less threatening from that angle. I studied her for a moment. There was something both fascinating and unsettling about the way she played with the truth, how she manipulated appearances. And despite myself, I wondered why she had really been crying. She wasn’t who she claimed to be, and I felt caught in a trap, even if I hadn’t yet figured out all its threads. But I simply stayed there, saying nothing. We were both sharing a moment of solitude, each burdened with our own troubles. And if she didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t force her. I knew exactly how that felt.

- Rough day? I asked, more to fill the painful silence than out of any real curiosity.

She let out a bitter laugh and answered in a dull voice:

- Rough life.

She had an ironic smile I didn’t quite understand.

- I know what that’s like, I replied. Except I have the misfortune of remembering everything. You should consider yourself lucky.

- Some memories have come back, she murmured.

I believed her. She seemed sincere.

- Really?

- Yes... I was an opera singer in Europe. I was loved. And I loved what I did… I loved my life and my friends.

- That sounds like good news. You should be happy.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and that annoyed me.

- No. I lost everything. I will never get that back. That’s why I cry. I cry for everything I’ve lost.

It was my turn to give a bitter smile. Clearly, we had both faced the same kind of reckoning tonight, in our own ways.

- Yeah… I know what that’s like, I repeated.

She suddenly stood up, as if embarrassed by this moment of honesty and emotion, and forced another smile—without much success.

- I’ll feel much better after a good night’s sleep. Good night, Mr. Morgan.

- Good night, Miss Ganci.

I flicked the end of my cigar into the fire and uncorked a bottle of my finest bourbon, savoring the familiar burn down my throat. It was the only pain I could handle tonight.

[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.

[moeitsu]

oh lord I can’t believe I forgot to post this

I commissioned @elesketchii for my Red Dead Redemption OC Kate McCanon!!! 💖☀️

Oh my, Isn’t she just gorgeous. I’m so in love with her (and so is Arthur🤭)