#leviticus cornwall's daughter

[twola]

Devil's Backbone: Limpany V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

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

Limpany V : A Proposition, Of Sorts

Scared and alone, Ruth tries to forge a path forward. Where that path goes, however, is anyone’s guess.

cw: violence. very surprising, right?

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“It was fortuitous that we should ride by you, Miss Ruth. God be good, He was watching out for you.”

The wagon bounced against the rough dirt trail. The two old draft horses lumbered on as the wooden wheels groaned and creaked under pressure and weight.

Small hands weave through your hair, trying to tame the wild kinks and waves that have gone days without any care. Another hand softly touches your shoulder. You look up to find the mother of this family giving you a reassuring smile. She whispers softly to her young daughter, who is attempting to braid your hair as you sit on the floorboards of the wagon. As much as you try, you cannot return the smile, only nodding with downcast eyes. 

You pull your knees to your chest, making yourself small within the covered wagon. 

“Miss,” the woman, maybe ten years older than you, pipes up, softly rubbing your shoulder again, “Are you sure we can’t take you any further than Blackwater? We’re heading north after stopping there.”

“No,” your voice is small, as you look up at the woman sitting atop a trunk, “Thank you, I know folks in Blackwater. You and your husband are good, kind people, ma’am.”

She smiles, squeezing your shoulder. “The word instructs us to be generous to those less fortunate. It is the least we can do.”

“Praise be.” A masculine voice interjects from the head of the wagon. The father of this family was a strict, solemn man, long-bearded, and had not once smiled in the hours you have been riding in their wagon.

This family came upon you stumbling, dirty, and exhausted along the side of the road where the foothills gave way to open prairie. Your cheeks were sunburnt and hair windswept, red-rimmed eyes made you a pitiful sight for this family, passing by in a wagon in the noontime sun. A Mormon family, traveling east from the valleys beyond Gaptooth Ridge.

It had been two days since you fled the cabin along the ridges of the Lower Montana. You’ve barely slept, barely eaten, hiding in the woodlands, afraid of being caught by the men who so kindly escorted you away from the old cabin. You had no idea where you were going, trails crisscrossing the woods and foothills, just knowing that Blackwater was east. 

“Miss?” 

You look up, craning your head to the side to acknowledge the small voice addressing you. The daughter, probably no older than twelve, hands you a small mirror. You take it and look at her handiwork. Your blonde hair, dirty and unkempt, was tamed into two braids that trailed down your shoulders.

“T-thank you, miss.” You croak out, bringing a bright smile to the girl’s face. Handing the mirror back, you try to smile back, but are unsure if you are convincing in any way.

“Take some rest, Miss Ruth,” the mother places a hand on your shoulder, handing you a shawl, “Still several hours til we reach Blackwater.”

You nod your thanks, taking the shawl. Leaning back against a crate, you close your eyes, praying to God that you will wake up and this will all be a terrible nightmare.

—

“The Lord tests those he favors, Miss. Believe that He will reward you if you keep the faith.”

You swallow, nodding to the stern man atop the wagon bench. “Thank you, sir. You and your family have been very kind.”

The man’s wife, who had climbed out of the wagon bed, walks up to you, the brown checkered shawl you had wrapped around you earlier in her hands. She offers it to you with a smile. “Please, take this.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Nonsense,” she presses the shawl into your hands, and you close your eyes before slowly reopening them.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

She nods back to you, “May the Lord grant you comfort in your time of need.”

You say your goodbyes, waving at the young daughter in the back of the wagon as the father snaps the reins, jolting it forward. As the wagon lumbers noisily away, you pull the shawl around your shoulders, sighing. You turn, wringing your hands, and start to walk down the road, into the heart of Blackwater. Past the construction of new buildings, the post office, shops, and saloons. Past men and women mulling about, a newspaper boy cries out about the election of a new Senator in Lemoyne. Dust blows down the street, a cloud you shield yourself from with a raised hand over your eyes. It hasn’t rained in god knows how long. Ducking behind a slow-moving wagon, you glance up at the street sign, confirming that you were heading in the right direction.  

Minutes later, you find yourself standing in front of a door you knew too well. You had memorized the way the sign’s paint was peeling in the corner, how the paned window needed cleaning in the upper corner. How the bell chimed when the door opened.

Silas Smith, M.D., Physician

The doorknob seems to mock you, your hand wavering inches from it.  You swallow, your stomach at your feet. Here you were, dirty and disheveled, with nothing, relying on the kindness of strangers. The first day after you left the Lower Montana, you swore you were going to die on the road to Blackwater. Maybe it was divine providence that brought you that family’s wagon - for even though you had never been a believer, you probably would have died of thirst on the open prairie if it were not for them.

Your fingers wrap around the brass, the metal warmed from the afternoon sun. You sigh, close your eyes, and take a deep breath before twisting it and pushing open the door. The bells chime, just as you remember. You close it behind you, as you hear footsteps coming from the hallway. “One minute!”

You smooth down your black skirt, trying to look presentable, but your white blouse underneath your leather vest is irredeemably dirty, the brown dust of the prairie staining the fabric. You run your hands over the braids in your hair, which, fortunately, were still orderly. One part of you that at least looked put together.

“How can I… Oh!” The doctor walks up, losing his train of thought as recognition sweeps over his face, “Missus Shaw, it’s good to see you.”

He takes his spectacles from where they hang on his collar, placing them on his face. He blinks as his eyes adjust, then sees the state of your clothing.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

Your eyes water over. The dam that had been holding back the all-encompassing weight of your reality burst as your shoulders shudder and the room is filled with your gasping sobs.

“F-Frederick…H-he’s…. he’s dead,” you hiccup, utterly and completely unable to control the deluge of tears from your eyes. “K-killed…”

“Rosalia!” The man calls back down the hallway, before leaning over your shaking form. He places a hand on your shoulder, extending the other down to you, “Oh, Ruth, alright, come here, let’s get you in here.”

You take his hand and let him walk you in from the foyer, but feel your face crumble again with a shuddering sob.  Rosalia dashes down the hallway, a bewildered look on her face for a second before she moves quickly to your side, quickly throwing an arm across your back, and pulling you into her embrace. 

“Missus Ruth.” She whispers, and that is all it takes for you to curl into her and openly weep into her shoulder.  Rosalia rubs her hand across your upper back in comforting circles. She looks up to her husband, with a questioning look, and over your heaving breath, you can hear him quietly tell her what you did.

“Mister Shaw was killed.”

You look up at Rosalia and move your glance between her and her husband. “I- I have nothing, I have no p-place to go, I didn’t… I didn’t  k-know what else to…” you trail off, closing your eyes tightly against welling tears.

“Oh, no, claro. Missus Ruth, you can stay with us.” Rosalia offers quickly, pulling back you into an embrace. “Come, I was just starting dinner . ”

“I-I’m sorry, I know I’m imposing…”

“Nonsense.” Doctor Smith pipes up, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt, “I’ll take out the spare cot. It may not be the most comfortable accommodation, but we have room in the storeroom for you to stay in. We’re leaving for Mexico at the end of the week, but please, stay to get back on your feet.” He nods and moves past you and his wife, down the hallway of the office.

Rosalia rubs your back with one hand and hands you a handkerchief with the other. “Missus Ruth, come, let me get you fed. I take you to get new clothes in the morning and these washed.”

They usher you further into the building, past the examination room that you had been in far too much over the past several months. Upstairs, in their living quarters, you’re fed, you’re examined by the doctor, you’re given copious amounts of water for dehydration. Doctor Smith and Rosalia quietly move around you, as you find yourself slipping into the withdrawn quietness you recognize from the other day, the heaviness, the slowness, the darkness weighing on your shoulders.

As night sets in, Rosalia leads you to a small storeroom back downstairs, where Doctor Smith has set out a cot. She brings a blanket, a pitcher of water, and a bowl for you to wash your face.

“Tomorrow we will go out and get you what you need.” She had said before giving a sad smile, closing the door behind her.

You sit on the cot, surveying the storeroom. The candlelight flickered against crates and boxes, casting shadows in the small room. You unbutton your vest, sliding it tiredly down your shoulders. Folding it and placing it atop a box at the foot of the cot, you sigh as you pull your boots off, setting them on the floor. You divest of your dirty blouse and skirts, bared down to your chemise. Tossing the skirt upon the pile of clothing, you stop as you hear something clink onto the wooden floor. Grabbing the candle, you wave it along the floorboards to attempt to find what fell. You see a glint shine against the light briefly and get down on your knees to run your hand across the floorboard where you saw it.

Your fingers find purchase on something metallic, as you close your fingers around the object. Turning your palm around, you open it next to the candle. Your eyes immediately begin to water over. In the center of your palm is the gold circle of your wedding ring. It must have been in the pocket of your petticoat. Your fingers slowly close around the ring as you pull yourself off the floor to sit on the cot. You put the candle down on the crate next to you and leaned over to blow it out. With your free hand, you grope for the blanket on the end of the cot that the doctor left. You find it and pull it toward you, spreading it over the cot.

Curling into a fetal position under the blanket, you begin to sob quietly in the darkness, clutching your wedding ring tightly into your chest.

-

“Go ahead and pick one.”

“Rosalia… I don’t-, I don’t want a handout.” You whine back at her, but she cuts you off with a wave of her hand. 

“No, no, no arguing. Missus Ruth, you’re getting a dress. Go and pick.”

You sigh and follow the stout woman into the tailor’s shop, scolded. You squirm slightly as the clerk looks up and greets you, eyeing your dirty blouse sleeves. You had been able to beat the dust out of your black skirt and wipe down your leather vest to look somewhat presentable, but the cream color of your blouse was tinged a red yellow from being out on the prairie. Instead of having the blouse cleaned, you were just going to get rid of it. There was no salvaging it at this point.

After much prodding, you select a grey woolen dress and another black skirt. Rosalia orders two more blouses over your objections. The clerk takes the order and cash from your benefactor, stating that the clothes can be picked up the day after tomorrow.

“Thank you, really, you didn’t have to do that.” You say meekly as you exit the shop, holding the door open for Rosalia.

She sighs, “Señora. If you feel so strong about this, how about you help me in my husband’s office until we leave. We will pay you.”

Considering there weren’t enough hours in the day for you to work and earn enough to repay what Rosalia and Silas have already given you, you agree heartily as you walk with her across the street. After another stop in the general store for provisions, you and Rosalia return to the office.

Doctor Smith is rearranging dark bottles of different liquids on the shelves when you return.  Rosalia takes her items upstairs to the living quarters, leaving you with the Doctor.

“I see you survived a shopping trip with her, get anything good?” He laughs, turning back to the shelving.

“Rosalia bought me a few items of clothing… thank you, Doctor Smith.” You say sheepishly, feeling awkward to be so dependent on the kindness of others.

“Oh, good. We want you to be comfortable. Do you have an idea what you’re going to do?”

You blink, of course, you knew this was temporary. They said as much last night. They are about to leave for Mexico, and you can’t think to outstay their kindness forever. You run a hand over your forehead and think back to this morning, as you and Rosalia began your day with a walk along Sisika Avenue, along the wharf and the shores of Flat Iron Lake. You recall eyeing the docks, Lemoyne Eastern Riverboat Company, thinking of times long ago, and days gone by.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts,  “I… I think I’m going to go back to Saint Denis. I lived there several years ago.” 

“Let me get the ferry ticket, at the very least.” Doctor Smith says, taking your hands in his.

“You’ve already given me so much, I can’t take more from you.”

“Missus Shaw.” He says, in a scolding tone.

“Doctor Smith.” You parrot back, exasperated.

Rosalia butts in, “Miss Ruth, she is going to help out for the week before we leave. I told her we will pay her for it.”

Smith nods, a smile on his face. “That sounds like an agreement we can work with, right, Ruth?”

Seeing that they are a united front, you give in. “Sure, Doctor Smith.”

-

Days pass. Rosalia teaches you how to wrap a splint on the arm of a boy who fell off his father’s wagon onto a flat river stone in the Dakota. You cringe as Doctor Smith sets the bone, and your heart aches when the boy cries, but his arm was saved.

Doctor Smith shows you how he stitches a wound shut on the forearm of a workman that sliced it open on a timber axe; working on building a warehouse near the wharf. Stitching skin is not all that different from the sewing of fabric that you’ve done all your life, once you get over the squeamishness.

Patients filter through the office over the week. A woman suffering a malady of the stomach, an old man with a lingering cough, a child running a fever. You watch the doctor dispense remedies and cures, tonics and medicinal herbs. 

At the end of the week, the doctor hands you a leather satchel to pack your few clothes in, and an envelope with more money than you knew you earned, but the doctor could not be dissuaded. You helped them pack their wagon, and on the day they are to leave, you help to tidy up the office, and pack yourself up. After Doctor Smith locks the door to the office, you tearfully say goodbye to Rosalia and wave as their wagon clambered down the street and out of view, heading west. 

You instead look east, toward the wharf. The ferry to Saint Denis was to leave at dusk. You had enough time for a meal before boarding. You look down the street, to the Blackwater Saloon, and decide you have enough money to at least have a quick bite to eat. Adjusting your shawl over your grey dress, you pull on the strap of your satchel as you push through the glass doors of the saloon. It's busy, hazy with cigar smoke and the smell of whiskey wafts through the air, sure to have been spilled on the floorboards, permeating them.

You move to the bar, order a bowl of stew from the bartender, and sit at a small table on the side of the room, hoping to remain unseen amongst the patrons of the bar. Unfortunately, as tucked away as you were, a mustachioed man at the bar caught your gaze before your eyes darted away. He smirked, leaning against the bar, downing the shot of whiskey in front of him, and turning toward you. His dark hair was shorn short against his head, and you could see in the way he swayed as he pushed himself off the bartop, that he had been a patron for most of the day.

“Pretty Miss, what are you doing all alone at the bar? D’ya need a big strong man to protect ya?”

“I’m fine, thank you, I was just leaving.” You spit back, drawing away from the man, whose stench of whiskey was close to nauseating. You push away from your seat, leaving the stew half eaten, losing your appetite. You grit your teeth and turn away from the table and the man that had sidled up to you. You eye the door, taking a step toward it.

“Hey, c’mon now, Miss, Miss!”

The man - the drunk - caught your arm and yanked you to the side, leaving you stumbling. You regain your footing, turning to face the man, who leers at you, still holding on to your forearm.

“Sir, let go of me.” You say icily, trying to pull your arm back.

“Now, you’re breaking my heart, darlin’.” He responds, not letting go. 

“Let go of me.” You spit, swinging at the man with your open palm. You make purchase with his face, and his head swings to the side. Unfortunately, his grip on your forearm only gets stronger. The mustachioed man turns back to you with rage in his eyes and grabs you by the shoulder, and you crumble, gasping as your old wounds flare in pain. 

The saloon is crowded, noisy. No one notices a man drag a woman out the side door and into the alley between two buildings. 

“That wasn’t very nice, lady. I should treat you nice in return.”

“Leave me alone!” You screech, trying to scratch at the man. He has wisened up since the last blow you were able to catch him on, however. He pushes you back against the brick wall of the saloon and the wind is knocked out of you. His hands clamp on your shoulders like vices, and you wince.

“Pretty little thing, maybe I should take you home and make you mine.” 

He leans in, with terrible whiskey breath, and you turn away, closing your eyes tightly and gritting your teeth.

“Now, I reckon it’s been a while for someone as old as me, but my friend and I think this lady doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

Both of your heads turn toward the voice coming from the end of the alley. A figure stands between the brick walls, his face shadowed against the light emanating from the open street behind him. 

“Piss off!” The drunk yells, turning back to you and moving one of his hands from your shoulder to your waist, as you push back against him, he shoves you against the brick again, and you bang your head on the hard wall, hissing in pain.

“You should leave her alone, good sir.” 

“I said piss off!” He rolls his eyes, turning his head back toward the interloper. He barely had time to look before a large form barrels into him. You’re unhanded, sliding down the wall as you gasp. The two stumble further down the alley until they crash into a box of crates, the wood breaking and splintering under the weight of the two men.

“Miss?”

You’re surprised, looking in the other direction, toward the street. An older man, the one you realize was the one speaking, moves closer to you, extending his hand down. You take it, allowing him to pull you up. “You alright? That ruffian do anything to you?”

Great, more people involving themselves in this mess. At this point, you just want to board the damn ferry, and get out of this stupid town and stupid state. More wood splinters at the end of the alley and you grimace. 

“We’ll take care of that man, miss.”

“Please don’t, sir, I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” You plead, hands on his forearm.

He laughs in return. “Sweet girl, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. My friend over here, he can handle himself.”

At that, the older man leans backward, looking down the alley. He nods to you, and you lean to look past him, and he places a hand on your upper back to steady you.

Oh.

He was right. Very right. The drunk who had been manhandling you was getting the daylight beat out of him in the alley. The other man whaled on your harasser, his limp form crumbling to the ground in the pile of broken wooden crates. 

You look back, eyes raised, at the man next to you. He smiles, turning you away from the brawl and walking you to the street. “Come here, ma’am. Didn’t seem like you were takin’ a liking to that gentleman. ”

“No.. no… t-thank you.” You mutter, still trying to calm your nerves.

He takes off his black hat, studded with a brown leather band, with one hand, gallantly placing it over his waistcoat.  He had a shock of greying hair, clean shaven, lean. Put together, you note, unlike the drunken man who approached you earlier.

You also note the gun belt at his hips, a bone-handled revolver fastened into a holster.

“Seems like this here man isn’t going to bother you anymore.” He nods back to the alley, where the brawl seems to have ended, decisively. The other man, the compatriot of the one in front of you, walks up the alley, shaking his hand a bit before clenching his fist again. You notice blood on his knuckles. He’s a large, looming figure, pacing out into the sunlight. No wonder the drunk lost, looking at the size of this man. He scowls, looking back at the alley again before wiping his knuckles against his black pants. He adjusts his worn leather hat on his head, running his hand down his bearded face. He, too, wears a gun belt slung around his hips, revolver gleaming in the sunlight.

“Give ya much trouble there?” The older man laughs, bemused.

“Naw.” He drawls in response, inspecting his knuckles.

“So, what’s your name, Miss?”

You shake your head, coming back to yourself. You’re so tired of running and worrying and overthinking, these men didn’t seem like Pinkertons, you sigh and don’t even bother coming up with a fake name on the spot. If you’re going to be killed, you’re going to be killed, telling two men at a saloon in a town you’re leaving isn’t going to change that.

“Calluna Shaw.”

The younger of the two men looks at you with a questioning expression, eyebrow cocked. “Calluna… like the plant?”

“My mother was a bit eccentric,” you reply, slightly off-kilter, trying to tame errant strands of your hair that had escalated their binding, “I go by Ruth.”

“Hosea Matthews, Miss Shaw,” the older man shakes your hand, “And this fine example of poor manners over here is Arthur Morgan.”

“Miss.” The other man, Arthur, simply nods, tipping his black leather hat.

“Any family we can take you to? A father, brother, husband?” Hosea asks, brushing off the dust that accumulated on his vest as a wagon passed on the dusty street.

Your gaze moves downward, your voice is small in your reply. “No… I’m a recent widow.”

“Ah,” Hosea clicks his tongue, “my condolences, Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, before that gentleman so rudely interrupted you, you were in the saloon? Can we get you a drink? Dinner?” The older man asks. 

“I was just finishing up, I need to catch the ferry to Saint Denis tonight.”

Arthur scowls. Hosea chuckles softly. You cock your brow in questioning.

“Ah, Saint Denis. The big city. So many people-” Hosea looks at Arthur while pulling a packet of cigarettes from his vest pocket.

“Too many people,”  Arthur interjects, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s there for you, Missus Shaw?” Hosea asks, placing a cigarette between his teeth.

“I… I don’t know, I guess. I lived there about ten years ago, but I haven’t been back since.”

Hosea strikes a match, lighting the cigarette. He waves his hand, extinguishing the flame before dropping the used match to the ground.  He tosses the pack of cigarettes at Arthur, who catches it easily, sliding one out before tucking it in a satchel slung across his shoulder.

“Well, safe travels to you, Miss. I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for in Saint Denis.” Hosea places his hat on his head.

“Thank you, Mister Matthews. And to you, Mister Morgan. Thank you to both of you for stepping in when you did.”

Arthur simply nods in response, lighting a cigarette behind his cupped hand. Hosea taps on your hand gently as he holds it. “Arthur, be a gentleman and take the lady’s bag.”

The younger man rolls his eyes but turns his head to blow smoke from his cigarette, placing his matchbook back into the satchel at his hip.

“Oh, no, I am more than capable-” you interject, flustered. You reach toward your leather bag on the ground, but Arthur snatches it up before you can.

“Nonsense. Besides, the boy needs a lesson in manners every so often, ain’t that right, Arthur?”

Boy? You think, he’s got to be older than I am, at the very least. You quirk your eyebrow as Hosea cheerily offers you his arm. “Miss, let me escort you to the ferry dock. You never know what kind of ruffians you can run into here.”

Arthur mumbles under his breath, placing his hat back on his head with his free hand. He looks annoyed as he moves around you and Hosea, walking in the direction of the docks.

You take Hosea’s arm, “T-thank you, sir.”

“So, Saint Denis. I’ve been there a few times, but not in many years.” Hosea says, leading you down the street at a leisurely pace, several paces behind Arthur. “What do you plan to do there?”

“I don’t really know. Find some work, I guess. I don’t have much to fall back on. I’ve fallen on… difficult circumstances recently…” You say, sighing. Hosea gives you a pitying look. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Life has a way of really giving it to us sometimes.”

You purse your lips, looking ahead. Several feet ahead of you, Arthur moves up the street. You turn back to Hosea.

“Is he your son?” The earlier comment came back to you, as you try to make conversation.

“Arthur? No. Picked him up as a teenage delinquent. I try to teach him manners, but you can see how well that went.” He laughs, coughing slightly to clear his throat.

“Delinquent?”

“Hasn’t grown much out of it, I’m afraid.” 

You smile, laughing softly at Hosea’s comment. A smile graces the man’s face as he winds his arm tighter around yours. 

“I know you said you’re goin’ to Saint Denis, but if you find yourself needing people ‘round, well, you’re welcome to come with us. We move around a bit, but have a good group. Several women too.”

“Oh,  thank you, Mister Matthews, but I really should make that ferry.” 

“Of course. You just seem like you need some lookin’ out for.” Hosea replies, leading you up the stairs of the pier, unwinding his arm as you reach the top. People have started to queue ahead of the blue-painted ticket window in the building set further down the pier. Arthur waits, smoking his cigarette, next to a bench.

“Thank you again, gentlemen.” You say, turning to Arthur and Hosea in turn.

Arthur places the leather bag on the ground next to you, gently at least. He takes the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and drops it, crunching the end under his boot. “ ‘M gonna get the horses ready,” he turns toward you, dipping his hat quickly, “Good luck in the city, Miss.”

“Thank you,” you reply. He takes his leave, his large frame moving between people and horses and wagons gathered at the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake.

Hosea smiles, “Offer still stands, Miss Ruth.”

He nods, backing away, he taps the rim of his hat with two fingers in a mock salute before turning back toward the town. You wave in return, watching him disappear into the crowd. You sigh, moving to the line of people near the ticket counter. You gaze out at the lake, the evening sun reflecting on the water.

What was waiting for you in Saint Denis? You haven’t been back there in years. Fleeing there as a young woman, alone in the world. Like the past ten years hadn’t happened.

“Miss?” 

You shake yourself from your thoughts. You’re at the ticket counter, and the uniformed man behind the desk looks at you expectantly.

“Y’buying a ticket to Saint Denis?”

Your heart beats loudly in your head, deafening in its staccato rhythm. You stare at the man, who quirks his eyebrow at you.

What was waiting for you in Saint Denis?

Nothing. No one. At all. No family, no friends. Nothing.

“Miss?”

“No. No, I’m not.” You spit out, leaving the queue and hurrying back to the road, away from the ticket counter.

Your breathing is heavy as your mind races. You look around, eyes darting this way and that, shooting across men and women and horses and movement, searching for your possible salvation in a black studded hat.

Nothing, you don’t see them along Sisika Avenue. 

You hike your skirt with one hand, grasping tightly onto the leather bag, and run, darting around and through people queuing for the ferry. Back toward the saloon, would they still be there?

Rushing down the block, past the butcher and the sheriff’s office, you look for them, eyes darting this way and that, head on a swivel as you come upon the saloon that you had met them in. You could not see them, the thin, older man and his younger partner, who was built like a brick wall.

You raise onto your toes, trying to catch sight of them the length of the street. Finally, you catch sight of their hats, the two men mounted high on horses, turning off of the street and heading north, on the road out of town. Leaving Blackwater, leaving you behind, leaving you alone. You are utterly alone in this world.

You run, grasping your skirts in one hand and your bag in the other, weaving past people on the street, catching sight of the horses as you round the corner. They were almost out of earshot. Your lungs feel as if they are about to burst, but you throw your bag to the ground and cup your hands around your mouth to amplify your voice.

“Wait!”

You see the two men pull on the reins of their steeds, causing them to circle around on the road. Hosea nudges his grey horse forward, walking back down the hill toward you.

He smiles at you once in earshot. “Change of heart, dear girl?”

“I…” you trail off, still breathing heavily.

A large red mare trots up to you as well. The man atop it scowls, which makes you reconsider your current path of action for a passing second.

“I’ve got nothing…and no one, Mister Matthews. There’s nothing waiting for me in Saint Denis.” You explain, voice breathy after your dash from the docks.

“Come with us, Missus Shaw. We’ll watch out for you.” Hosea extends his hand forward toward you.

Arthur narrows his eyes, “Hosea….” He warns, trailing off.

“Now, now. C’mon Arthur, what has Dutch always said? We save folk who need savin’.”

He eyes you, up and down, warily. 

“Fine, fine,” he retorts, grumbling. He swings his leg over his mare’s rump, jumping down to the dirt. The large man lumbers over toward you, motioning with his thumb to Hosea’s horse. “C’mon Miss, up you go.”

He grabs your waist and heaves you up onto the rump of the grey Turkoman as if you were nothing. You clutch your small bag in your lap as you get situated, smoothing your skirts down.

“Y’good there, Missus Shaw?” Hosea looks over his shoulder as Arthur remounts his horse.

“Yes, and please, y’all just call me Ruth.”

“Alright there, Ruth. Let’s be on our way.” Hosea replies, pulling on the reins.

The horses trot away from Blackwater as the ferry’s horn sounds, piercing the stillness of dusk. You’re not on it. The lights of the town are starting to come ablaze, as you look back on the receding skyline against Flat Iron Lake.

You are on a road heading north.

-

END CHAPTER 1: LIMPANY

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 #rdr #devil’s backbone #twolafic #arthur morgan x female oc #arthur morgan x female reader

[aesthetic-solar-space]

Catherine of Aragon

She was a Spanish Princess. Originally she married Henry's elder brother, Arthur. However when he died in 1502, her marriage was dissolved and she married Henry as he came into power in 1509.

Then come children, right? This is where it gets sad. Catherine had her first pregnancy in 1510, with a stillborn girl. 1511, she bore Henry, Duke of Cornwall who died when he was 2 months old. 1513, a stillborn boy. 1515, she bore another boy, however he only lived a few hours. 1516, she finally bore a healthy girl, Princess Mary. Two years later in 1518 she tried again and had yet another short lived child.

It's said the two truly loved each other, but with time Henry became obsessed with having a son to continue the Tudor dynasty.

Throughout the marriage he took many mistresses. and by the late 1520s, it had become clear Catherine would not be able to bear children any longer. This lead to Henry's obsession with Anne Boleyn growing

At the time Henry was Roman Catholic and at first sought out the pope for an annulment; siting Leviticus Chapter 20 Verse 2. Even with the pope's refusal, Henry separated from Catherine in 1531.

On May 23rd 1533, Thomas Cranmer ruled the marriage between Catherine and Henry null and void.

On May 28th 1533 Thomas pronounced Henry legally married to Anne Boleyn.

Shortly after the marriage Henry sent Catherine away, she would never see Henry or their daughter Mary again.

Shakespeare in a play called her "The Queen of Earthly Queens."

Catherine of Aragon died January 7th 1536

#college student #college life #chronicles of a sick person #adult ish #social distancing #long live the queue #it was always queue #all queued up #catherine of aragon #Catherine #Aragon #spanish princess #queen of England #mary of Aragon #mary tudor #henry viii #henry vii of england #king henry viii #english #Spain

[amorgansgal]

Bestie, I have a request and omg I just know that u would write this perfectly.

Imagine enemies to lovers with Arthur BUT dancing during ball party in saint Denis? I'm not gonna add details since Im not very creative but 👀👀👀

Ok, I ended up dreaming about this last night and woke up stupidly early so I could write all this down. So I'm going to apologise for how long this is, because I just got super carried away and into this and almost a bit flustered.

Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Warnings: None, just some good old sexual tension and heavy flirting.

A Pretty Cage

Being the daughter to Leviticus Cornwall is both a blessing and a curse. You know your father is loved and loathed in equal measure.

Well, love is a strong word. Respected might be more suitable.

High society still has its gossip and rumours abound about how your father made his wealth, how he’s buying out small business holders or forcing them to.

You always try to pretend as though you have no idea what’s going on and that talk of business bores you to tears. But you’re a Cornwall for a reason and Leviticus isn’t one to make use of an asset.

You’ve been a spy on behalf of your father for far longer than you can count.

One day, you’re called to his study without much warning. Something of a surprise, usually he’s either away on business or makes an appointment to see you. Even when he returns home, he rarely bothers to let you know.

You enter the room and find him sat at his desk, documents, newspapers and letters scattered all about him. You’ve never seen him look so flustered. You cough softly to announce your arrival.

‘Ah, my dear, thank you for coming here. Please take a seat.’

You dutifully sit down. Sometimes you wonder if your father knows how to be a father, he always treats you more like a business partner. You’ve often wondered if that’s something to fear, you’ve known of the partners who have mysteriously disappeared or wound up in boating accidents.

‘It’s good to see you again, father. I missed your comp-’ you begin to say, but he gives an irritable wave of his hand and you stop speaking.

He looks up at you keenly. ‘My dear, I assume you have heard of the Van Der Linde Gang?’

You nod slowly. The Van Der Linde Gang and their exploits are the talk of most newspapers and parlours, when the usual topics of conversation have been exhausted.

You know all too well that they have targeted your father’s business, incurred his wrath and now he’s working with the Pinkertons. He’ll stop at nothing to see them all hanged. If he can tie the rope around their necks then so much the better.

‘Good. You have heard tell that the jumped-up mayor of Saint Denis is holding a party and we have been cordially invited. There is talk that Dutch Van Der Linde has been invited.’ You see your father grind his teeth.

‘If I, apparently, show my face there it will do me little good. They know me, I know them. I need you to attend in my stead. Lemieux has to sign a contract that will… well it doesn’t matter, you don’t need to know that. But I need you to provide some distraction and ensure that Lemieux signs it. Do you understand?’

You’ve never been given an option to disagree with your father’s wishes. You bite your lip nervously. The newspapers have been full of Harold Fairweather’s courtship of you and it’s only a matter of time before he proposes. If he doesn’t want the full wrath of your father and is sensible, he will.

‘When you say distraction-?’ you ask.

Your father sighs tetchily. ‘Van Der Linde will not go alone; he is not so foolish as all that. He will have his enforcers, his henchmen. They are more likely to talk to a pretty face. Flirt with them, flatter them, do whatever you can. Right now, Fairweather must understand that my business comes before his feelings.’

You swallow uncomfortably, but give a short nod. There’s not much else you can do.

You can hear an audible gasp as you make your way up the garden, in order to greet the host, as you are accompanied by the footman and your personal guard. He’s there to keep an eye on things, but has been told to not interfere.

In comparison to the other women there, your dress is simple and unadorned. Pure black velvet encases your figure, light sheer sleeves that are decorated with burgundy-red roses. Your hair is tied up in a simple Gibson roll, a loose curl escaping it at the back and draped elegantly over your shoulder.

You had your maid tighten your corset until your breasts are pressed against the soft swell of fabric and the arch of your back and hips can be admired.

The layers of fabric, bright jewelled colours, excessive ribbons, lace and jewellery on the other women looks gaudy and old fashioned. You see some look affronted and try to pull their husbands away; others self-consciously touch their gowns.

‘Ah Mademoiselle Cornwall, tu es magnifique.’ Lemieux takes hold of your silk gloved hand and presses a kiss to it. ‘Like a dark goddess.’

You smile at his flattery. ‘Bonsoir, Maire Lemieux. My father sends his apologies at being unable to attend, he’s very busy, but he hopes my company will suffice instead.’

‘I’m certain it will, Mademoiselle Cornwall.’

Laughter and jovial shouts from the balcony makes you look up towards the house. The twinkling golden lights do not cut through deep shadows of the evening, so you struggle to make out who is stood up there. But when they shout out:

‘I look forward to watching you die!’ in Italian, you can guess. A number of the guest raise their glasses and titter as Signor Bronte smiles down on you all. They have no clue what has been said and you play along, offering a winning smile.

Bronte’s cold eyes drinks you in and he wears a slimy smirk as he gestures to you, and presumably tells two men to his right who you are. You can see the man closest to him with a large top hat, dark, curly hair and a beard, straighten up slightly. The other man stays where he is, leaning casually against the railing, but his eyes never leave yours and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

You know on seeing the two gentlemen that they are who you’re looking for, you have no doubt that this is Mr Van Der Linde and his enforcer, Mr Arthur Morgan.

You have done your usual affair of mingling throughout the crowd. Making a beeline for the two would have been strange and you kept an eye on them, while you greeted old friends and were introduced to new acquaintances.

Finally, Mayor Lemieux makes his way over to the pair. ‘Gentlemen, may I introduce our lady of the hour, Mademoiselle Cornwall. Her father is the great Leviticus Cornwall, who sadly cannot be with us tonight. Mademoiselle Cornwall, this is Monsieur Featherstone Chambers and Monsieur Arthur Callahan.’

You avoid snorting with laughter at the ridiculous sounding name of Featherstone Chambers and give them both a warm, inviting smile and extending your hand. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure.’

‘The pleasure,’ Mr Van Der Linde smoothly inclines his head and presses a kiss to your hand, ‘Is all ours, Miss Cornwall.’

You extend your hand to Arthur. His wanted poster had really not done him justice. It had shown him with a deep frown, a thick beard, covered in scars and lines. As his large hand takes hold of yours, you feel your breath catch as your fingers near his smooth cheeks, the twinkling lights overhead show the lustre of his golden hair beautifully and his blue-green eyes, the colour of a clear, flat lake, stay fixed on yours.

You can feel your heart beating furiously, your cheeks warm in the cool evening air, your mouth opens slightly as he kisses your hand. You shake your head, trying desperately to remind yourself that this is the enemy, this man is your father’s nemesis, you should not find him attractive.

You see other women staring unabashedly at him, taking in his broad shoulders, the jacket highlighting the strength of his arms and his slim waist. Amongst all these pathetic, scrawny men of business, politics and petty criminals, Arthur Morgan is a beast, a mountain, a wonder.

You watch his beautiful eyes scan down your chest and hips, but he has the decency to look a little embarrassed at having done so and a faint blush comes to his cheeks. God, he is delicious, and that Cornwall instinct rears its ravenous head. You want to keep him all to yourself.

Van Der Linde gives an uncomfortable cough and you are both keenly reminded you aren’t the only people there.

‘I believe I’ve heard you both work in industry,’ you say.

‘You are correct,’ Mr Van Der Linde smiles. ‘Men of industry. Mr Callahan here has found an oil reserve in Alaska and I am involved in steelwork.’

‘How wonderful. I’m sure you’ve heard that my father is a great businessman and he is always interested in forming new business relations. But, before we discuss business, Mr Callahan, I believe you requested a dance from Miss Doubiton, but alas she is indisposed. Perhaps I could be honoured to have the next dance?’ you ask smoothly.

Arthur looks puzzled. ‘What? I ain’t asked-’

Mr Van Der Linde steps on his foot and Arthur lets out a croak. ‘Miss Cornwall, it is very kind of you to let Mr Callahan know, and I do hope Miss Doubiton feels better soon. I’m sure Mr Callahan would love to have the next dance with you.’

Dutch gives you both a steely smile, partially pleased to apparently have his henchman be dancing with the daughter of his enemy, but also frustrated that he does not get to do so.

You keep your hand in Arthur’s as he guides you across the floor. You place your hand on his shoulder and feel his fingers carefully cup your waist. You breathe evenly through your nose and try to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

‘Can’t say I’m much of a dancer, Miss Cornwall.’

‘Follow my lead and don’t step on my feet then,’ you reply.

‘You’re quite the strong-minded woman,’ Arthur says. From some men it would be an insult, from him it sounds like high praise.

A waltz strikes up, and for all his insistence he is not a dancer, Arthur moves you around the floor like a swan on water. ‘Do you not like strong-minded women, Mr Callahan?’ you ask.

‘I like ‘em just fine. Prefer honest ones,’ he replies.

Your eyes meet and you wonder how much he knows, or thinks he knows, or if you’ve already captured him and he wants to know more.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x f/reader #arthur morgan x f reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr #arthur morgan hcs #arthur morgan headcanon #arthur morgan hc #reddead2 #a gilded cage #dutch van der linde #leviticus cornwall #leviticus cornwall's daughter #saint denis

[coldmorte]

How do you think Dutch would react if his son/daughter came out as gay?

This is quite a layered question! It depends on whether we are talking about one of his fellow gang members (if you believe in the “family dynamics” interpretation) or if we are talking about a biological child (which is a whole new realm entirely that opens up many other questions).

Anyhow, I tried to make this response applicable either way! It even has a bit of a plot thrown in 🥰 Hope you enjoy it!! 💜

(Warning: Homophobia and angst)

“The promise of this great nation - men created equal, liberty and justice for all - that might be nonsense, but it’s worth trying for. It’s worth believing in.” ~ Dutch van der Linde (1899)

It’s a real journey for Dutch. A learning curve.

At first, he’s unhappy about his child coming out. He claims he doesn’t want to see them suffer or be persecuted by others, and he feels the revelation will make that inevitable.

But more than that, he is self-conscious about what others will think of HIM. It's a personal pride issue because there is such an intense stigma around homosexuality. He is afraid his leadership and his gang will be shunned, if the word gets out.

And he knows it WILL get out.

So, the first time his rival, Colm O’Driscoll, makes a snide remark about it? Dutch is furious. He regards Colm’s insult as a direct attack on not only his child, but on himself.

Due to his personal frustrations with both sides - his child and Colm - he does little to initially react. He broods over the situation and chooses to distance himself from his child. He feels humiliated.

Dutch stops listening to his child’s fears and feelings. They begin to leave camp unattended to rebel against him, and he allows it to happen.

However, when he learns that the police arrested his child in Saint Denis for “sodomy,” he is positively livid. He is enraged at the legal system for punishing something consensual, while allowing for crooks (like Angelo Bronte and Leviticus Cornwall) to go unpunished.

But that’s not all. He won't openly admit this, but he is even more disappointed in himself for allowing his pride to get in the way (again).

The arrest is an awakening call for Dutch. He realizes he and his child should have been on the same side the entire time. Instead of denouncing them for coming out, he recognizes that he should have been celebrating it. He begins to see it as an advantage, rather than a weakness.

After all, Dutch’s entire life revolves around the idea of fighting the establishment and high-society.

If the people in power don’t like his child just because they prefer partners of the same sex? Dutch decides he will openly support homosexuality as another way of revolting against dominant social standards.

Especially since these same people “enforcing the laws” fail to punish manipulative mobsters and crony capitalists for their crimes. In Dutch's mind, this is hypocritical and backwards. A scam.

Dutch decides to put risks aside, and he breaks his child out of jail.

Once he gets them back, he begins to take pride in their identity and encourages them to do the same. He is determined never to let anybody hurt his child like that again. Not on his watch.

The next time Colm makes an offhand remark? He better watch the hell out.

Same with the others in the camp. Somebody so much as makes a joke, Dutch will not hesitate to put them in their place.

Ultimately, Dutch wants to make his new stance clear. He even goes so far as to throw a party to celebrate his child’s return. He puts some gang money aside to purchase champagne. As the corks pop and the drinks pour, he wraps an arm around his child’s shoulder and whispers in their ear, “welcome home.”

In the end, Dutch comes to understand that sexuality doesn’t really define his child or his ability to love them. The stigmas surrounding any type of “deviant” sexual behavior should not disqualify people from life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

To Dutch, that’s the REAL American way 🇺🇸❤️🏳️‍🌈

#thank you for the ask anon <3 #this is all I'm allowing myself to answer today... I will get to more tomorrow!!! #feel free to send more in... I am kind of curious about the possibility of a biological child but that was too much for this post #I hope this was an okay response :P #the way I see it is that Dutch has very libertarian values deep down #dutch van der linde #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #writing #original #mine #ask #anon #anonymous #dutch x female reader #dutch x male reader #dutch x gender neutral reader #headcanons #Angelo bronte #Leviticus cornwall #Colm o'driscoll #lgbt

[fonfan121]

Alexandra Higgins

Born in San Francisco 1872 with her twin sister Elizabeth, their mother Delilah died during birth. The father (they refused to say his name out of spite) was a racist asshole and railroad baron, who helped develop the rail between San Francisco and Los Angeles and eventually the rail from Los Angeles to Saint Denis (stand-in New Orleans)

Despite their father being an asshole, he got them good educations. Alexandra learned Spanish and Medicine but doesn't pass and Elizabeth learned French and Economics, acing her studies. Still being an asshole he tried to groom the twins to be married into rich families, they have absolutely none of it. At the age of 17 Alexandra punches one of her would be suitors in the face, infuriating her father.

Alexandra is eventually fed up with dad and Elizabeth helps make a plan to flee from San Francisco to Los Angeles at age 21, stealing dad's wallet with several hundred $$$. Elizabeth furthered her education and joined a small business, while Alexandra starts heavy lifting work and doing ring fights on the side. The pair are forced to split up in 1895 when Elizabeth is discovered to be using her father's name to drum up business and Alexandra is busted courting (or rather cavorting at the time) with a prominent citizen's daughter.

Elizabeth heads to New York in an attempt to create her own business, with dreams to become as successful if not more so than individuals such as Leviticus Cornwall while Alexandra heads to Saint Denis in early 1896, before drifting around doing odd jobs and eventually settling into Blackwater in 1897.

By late 1897/early 1898, Alexandra has rented a small office/bedroom in Blackwater while doing assigned jobs for individuals such as Sheriff Freeman, the McFarlane Ranch, various postal/train stations and occasional deliveries to the Adler family.

Later in 1898 she is wrongfully arrested in connection for the death of Mr Phillip LeClerk, being sent to Sisika Penitentiary. When freed by Horley via Jessica LeClerk, little fuss is made due to her established reputation among the people of West Elizabeth/New Austin.

After assisting Blackwater’s chief of police apprehend a conman hiding in Pike's Basin the chief points Alexandra to Rhodes, where Sheriff Gray was said to be in need of bounty hunters to stem the flow of Braithwaites/Lemoyne Raiders in the area. After an encounter with The Woman With no Name (That's literally what it says her name is on the wiki) and acquiring a bounty hunter license, Alexandra quickly sets out to establish a reputation for herself, while also assisting the various law enforcement groups under the recommendation of Horley.

While checking the pockets of one of her bounties, she comes across a richelieu amethyst necklace. When taking it to a local fence for appraisal, she is instead pointed towards a mysterious woman by the name of Madam Nazar. Upon meeting the madam she agrees to look for more "curios" and "artifacts" during her travels, for which she would be surprisingly well compensated.

During these events, Ms Higgins is approached by Cripps to help start his trading company. She agrees to help but only part-time, as she still has prior engagements with bounty hunting, Madam Nazar and finishing business with Mrs LeClerk.

To increase their reputation and income across the states, the Woman With no Name tasked Alexandra with hunting more "infamous" and Legendary" bounties. They included the successful captures of Etta Doyle, Phillip Carlier, Red Ben Clempson, Nikolai "Yukon Nik" Borodin and Gene "Beau" Finley; the deaths of Cecil C. Tucker (arsonist fucker had it coming), Sergio Vincenza, the "Owlhoot Family", the "Wolf Man" and Tobin Winfield. (dumbass got himself killed, priority was the deeds he had stashed)

After the failed attempt to capture Barbarella Alcazar (Too many goons, tired and bloody after the initial capture she escaped during a rest stop en-route to Tumbleweed. Was not killed by Alcazar due to mutual respect for being hard-as-nails) Alexandra was forced to reconsider her tactics, taking a more careful, tactical approach. This proved to be invaluable in the capture of Carmela Montez when being severely outnumbered and outgunned.

Cripps would eventually contact her, saying that other associates of Mrs Leclerk she worked with have started a moonshining operation with his old flame, Maggie Fike. He requests that she keep an eye on the group so they don't get killed during their business.

Once Alexandra has finished filling out Madam Nazar's requests for items, Nazar informs that she must leave before the year is out. Having more than enough money to tend things in Blackwater for several years, Ms Higgins decides to accompany the Madam to Mexico, avoiding the events of RDR2 and establishing herself as a bounty hunter across the border.

During her stay in Mexico, Alexandra developed an affinity for vintage Gran Corazon Madeira and began a relationship(?) with Madam Nazar. Aside from bounties, she was also occasionally hired as security for the current local government.

Capturing bounties in Mexico required much more tact and stealth, as she stuck out like a sore thumb even in crowds. Despite earning far less pay or fame than in the US, her reputation and her arsenal still expanded.

The pair returned to Blackwater in 1901 and Alexandra refurbished her office to accommodate both of their work. She also bought a small plot of land on the south road into Blackwater, to build a house for them to store things that wouldn't fit in the office.

Eventually Alexandra got back to bounty hunting in the US, her reputation now cemented on both sides of the border. The adopted tactics from both her career's turning point and from Mexico payed off in the long run, as her name and sometimes face had become very recognizable to targets. She would accompany Nazar on her roaming caravan trips, keeping a low profile for whatever reasons the madam deemed appropriate.

Alexandra would have a chance encounter with Sadie Adler in 1902 while hunting the same bounty as her in Gaptooth Ridge, the latter mentioning the loss of her husband and subsequent travels with Arthur Morgan. They paired up for a second time when a group hired by her father arrives to take her back to San Francisco, Alexandra payed Sadie well for her trouble and wishes her the best before making plans to find and confront her father. (Screenshots are by me, artwork was commissioned from u/greenecowpoke on reddit.) 

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead online #rdr2 #oc

[elizacornwall]

Vengeance is an Idiot’s Game  - Chapter 21 - Death by Proclamation

Eliza was relieved to see the rest of the group had made it back unscathed, just ahead of them and thankfully with the wagon and all their supplies. Their reunion was interrupted by Miss Grimshaw marching in, accusing Sadie of being reckless and putting her girls in unnecessary danger. Their argument looked a lot like a mother bear fighting a cougar and Eliza slunk away with the three girls, not particularly eager to get into another battle today. The way the two women shouted at each other, she thought she preferred bullets whizzing around her. After a quick recount of the events from when they got split up with Mary-Beth, Karen and Tilly, Dutch showed up with Hosea close behind him. “Trouble in town? I hope everyone is safe and sound?” The four looked up, nodding. “Some darned bounty hunter recognised Miss Adler, thankfully we already had all we needed and was hidin’ in the store! Eliza weren’t so lucky, got dragged into the fight, we thought they was gonna gun down the whole town”, Tilly explained. “Well, we headed back after them when the coast was clear, I’m just glad no one knew they was with us.”

Karen and Mary-Beth nodded. Dutch turned to Eliza, concern in his eyes as he was considering her carefully. “Are you feeling alright, Miss Eliza? This must have been quite the shock for you.” His voice was so soothing she almost got completely lulled in by it, forgetting all the troubles of the day. Heavens, Molly didn’t seem quite so stupid to her in that moment, listening to him cooing like this after the adrenaline of a deadly shootout had pumped through her body would make any woman’s stomach flutter. She forced herself to return to reality, blinking up at him. “I’m fine, Sadie got me out of there. Just a bit shaken, that’s all.” The black haired man nodded and Hosea smiled at her, relieved. Now this was a man whose emotions she could take for what they appeared as. “Indeed, shaken will be right. I’m glad, I was you might have changed your mind about staying with us after this terrible ordeal. You are a welcome addition to our little family, and I’m sure we all would be sad to see you go.” Dutch squeezed her shoulder for a short moment, then turned to head back to his tent where Molly stood at the entrance, squinting at them suspiciously. The pretty redhead was a problem for another time Eliza decided, it wasn’t even midday yet and she already wanted to go back to bed. Hosea went off and grabbed some tins from the kitchen wagon, placing them onto the table nearby. He beckoned her and the girls to have a seat and eat something after the stressful events of the morning. Her stomach growled at this and she was reminded that she hadn’t had any food yet. Maybe that was for the better, considering the chase had led her to throw up violently. She sat down beside the old kindly man, wordlessly picking away at some strawberries and wasn’t sure if she could stomach them and the turmoil of this morning. Sadie plopped herself down at the table a short while later, sighing exhaustedly. “If I had the choice between gettin’ shot at by a bunch of ugly bastards and bein’ yelled at by that woman, I think I’d take the shootin’ any day.” Eliza laughed, having thought something similar not too long ago. Hosea chuckled. “She’s a frightful woman, but that’s one of her best qualities. No one is gonna come between her and her girls!” “Her slaves, more like”, added Karen, grumbling. She really didn’t take kindly being woken up that early. Tilly slapped her arm, laughing. “What would you know ‘bout slavery! Your parent’s ain’t been owned by some rich white folk! Really, sometimes I wonder if you ain’t never looked at me.” The whole table shared a hearty laugh, shaking off the agitation of the morning. When everyone turned their attention to the food again Sadie waved her hand in an expecting gesture at Eliza. “You ever gonna read that paper we almost died for then?” For a moment the girl didn’t know what she was talking about, then remembered why she had gone back past the gunsmith in the first place. With a small cry she pulled a heavily crinkled newspaper out of her dress, smoothing it out on the table. She scanned the front page, headlining a train robbery, something about some nonsense the President spouted, a murderer on the loose and about her father, expanding his reach to the Caribbean. She skimmed over the article, there was nothing new, only the same ruthless businessman he had always been. She moved on to the train robbery piece, headlining ‘who are the Scarlett Meadows Bandits?’, when Mary-Beth joined her, curiously following the same article. She broke out in a loud laugh. “Well, ain’t that a coincidence! I can tell ya a secret, them name’s are Arthur, John and Charles!” Eliza turned to her, in disbelief. “They robbed a train?! B-but it says here there were casualties…” She stopped talking, everyone’s eyes were planted on her. She had spoken without thinking, of course there would be casualties. Sadie didn’t just get chased out of town by half a dozen men for mere robbery. She wondered how high the price on each of their heads was and dropped her gaze back to the paper. “Sorry”, she mumbled, her voice

meek. “Well”, Hosea stretched out, getting ready to leave, “You’ll get used to the thought of being surrounded by murderers and thieves, we all did. At least we’re not like the O’Driscolls, we try not to take innocent folk’s lives.” Eliza just nodded, humming her agreement. The thought of lawmen not being deemed as innocent people was strange to her, but in the end surely most of them had blood on their hands too? She had shot at men today, hitting at least two or three of them, and even if she didn’t take their lives she definitely wasn’t innocent herself anymore. The thought of this made her uneasy. Her eyes were fixed blankly on the paper, not taking in the lines they were following when Mary-Beth pulled it out of her hands. “Karen!” She hissed sharply, staring on something on the page with growing excitement. Karen looked up, her expression slightly irritated. “Karen, look!”, she handed the paper to the blonde girl, pointing at the article about the murderer. “It’s Sean! He’s alive, and he’s free! They got him out!” Karen’s face changed in a split second. She grabbed the paper and almost tore it out of Mary-Beth’s hand, searching eagerly for the story in question. “Sean MacGuire, a member of the notorious Dutch van der Linde’s gang,��has escaped from custody. MacGuire was captured and in the process of being transported from Blackwater to a federal prison in the west. The Van der Linde’s gang was responsible for the Blackwater boat robbery in 1899 that left many dead.”, she cited the article aloud. “…shootout was fierce… Upper Montana river… the escape is yet another example of the incompetence of police… They’ve done it, they got him!” She jumped up with a wide smile on her face and ran to tell everyone that would want to hear the news, dropping half the paper on the ground. Sadie leaned back in her chair fishing for it and threw it back on the table. “Well someone’s sure changed her tone”, she said, her eyes following the blonde. “Ain’t sweet on him, sure.” She smirked. Tilly leaned in, keeping her voice low. “Why d’y’all think it’s taking them so long to get back here?” Sadie studied her, her forehead wrinkled with thought. “I ain’t sure… Probably ran into some trouble or other and had to lie low for a while. Blackwater’s still crawling with Pinkertons, we ain’t wanna lead them back to camp.” Eliza listened to their speculations and flipped through the rest of the pages. There wasn’t much of interest, until her eyes got caught by a little article, tucked away between advertisements past the middle of the paper. Her mouth dropped open in silent disbelief as she read, hot anger rising in her chest. Tears started to gather in her eyes, and she slammed the paper on the table, ignoring the sharp pain on the edges of her hands. The three women jerked up. “Eliza, what’s wrong?” Mary-Beth asked, confused. She stammered for a moment, before she could get the words out. “H-he… My… My bloody father, that’s what’s wrong!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with indignation, pointing at the article that laid open on the table. Sadie took the paper and read aloud for the others to hear. “Tragic loss of oil baron’s daughter. Eliza Cornwall, 26, daughter of famous oil and businessman Leviticus Cornwall, has been killed at the hands of the van der Linde’s gang. Cornwall announced her kidnapping in early March, along with a letter of blackmail by the wanted criminal Dutch van der Linde. The widely known gang, also referred to as Dutch’s Boys, demanded five thousand dollars for her return. Despite the police’s best efforts, her whereabouts remained unknown. At the site of the exchange a gunfight broke out, killing her in the process. The Pinkerton Detective Agency is looking for the murderers, it is believed they are currently residing in southern Ambarino.” Sadie let a whistle through her teeth, putting the paper down. Her eyes were resting on Eliza. “So, he killed you then.” She was shaking from head to toe, hot tears of anger rolling down her cheeks. “How… How could he. How dare he.” She clenched her hands into

fists, staring at the cursed piece of paper. Mary-Beth was at her side, pulling her into a hug. She struggled at first, too worked up to care. She wanted to break something, hurt someone. The girl didn’t let go, and slowly Eliza succumbed to her embrace, leaning her forehead against her shoulder. “I… I knew he didn’t care for me much, but this is just… I hate him. I’ll kill him.” Mary-Beth gave her a pat on her shoulder, untangling herself and looking at her. “You don’t mean that.” “You better believe I do. He’s a disgusting human being, always only out for his own good. Lying and cheating, he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself! He destroyed my mum’s life and many others, and now he cut ties with me, telling everyone he tried to get me back?!” Her voice echoed across the campsite, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’m gonna kill him, and if it’s the last bloody thing I do. FUCK.” The last word was yelled into the sky, it felt good to curse. Her father had abandoned her, finally discarded her after ten years. She laughed bitterly. “Come on now Miss Eliza, let’s sit you down.” Hosea had reappeared, holding her at the arms and guiding her towards her canopy. “Mr. Pearson, would you mind getting us some nice hot tea?” He gently pushed the desperately upset woman down into a seat on her bedroll, taking the lantern off the stool before he sat down on it himself, his hand still resting on her shoulder. “Hosea, I… I hate him.” She looked at him, pleading for understanding. “He’s an awful man”, he sighed, nodding. “I thought so before and now, well, now we know how he treats his own kin.” His eyes rested on her, filled with hurt. “We may be criminals, robbin’ and killin’ folk out there, but at least we do it with our own hands. Men like him, they…” “They pay others to do it for them”, she murmured, pulling her knees to her chest. “Yeah, I know he’s done that before. Keeps his hands and conscience clean, if he even has one.” Pearson hurried back with a cup of hot tea, holding it out to her. Sadie walked up behind him, sitting down on the cot beside her. Mary-Beth and Tilly were speaking to Karen and Miss Grimshaw, and they were headed in her direction too. Suddenly Eliza felt overwhelmed by all the support and consolation she was given here, causing the tears to flow again. “Now, now, Miss Cornwall, no need to cry. Your father is an atrocious man, and we’re all right here behind you. At least you ain’t ever gonna have to go back to him now.” Miss Grimshaw looked at her, with deep sympathy written across her face. She noticed the cup in the girl’s hands and produced a flask out of her apron's pocket, adding what could only be assumed was whiskey to the tea. “Now, drink up and get some rest. You girls are all excused from the chores today, I think the day has had plenty of excitement otherwise.”

___

A short nap, aided by the generous amount of alcohol added to her tea by Miss Grimshaw, proved to do wonders for Eliza’s mental state. Waking up in the late afternoon she felt settled and much less erratic. Her mood was still grim, full of dark thoughts about her father, but now her anger had a calculated energy to it. She would pay him back, she just didn’t know yet how. Dutch came by as she was stood at the edge of camp, staring out into the valley and deep in thought of how she could make her father’s life hell. “I hope you don’t mind me joining you Miss, I couldn’t help but hear of your father’s appalling newspaper report. May I just say, we are more than happy to have you here in our midst and we do not ever abandon our own.” He stopped next to her, hooking one hand under his belt, in the other one of his cigars. As much as she didn’t trust him, to hear these words coming from the leader of this gang was comforting. “Thank you Dutch”, she replied, throwing him a quick glance. The low standing sun gave his features a golden glow. She let out a deep sigh. “It was just a bit much. He’s never been kind to me, but this… I guess it hit a nerve.” Shrugging, her eyes followed the slow flow of the river, as they had so often before. “It is more than understandable, Miss. What he did was… cruel.” Shaking his head, he took a draft of his cigar. “No man should ever betray his child like this.” He turned to her and placed one hand firmly on her shoulder, an earnest expression written on his face. “I promise you Eliza, I won’t let him hurt you any more. One day, we will make him pay.” The girl couldn’t help but stare at him, lost for words. She hadn’t expected him to support her in this way, and her mind flicked back to Molly and what she’d think if she saw her man in such close proximity to another woman. Slightly uncomfortable, she eased herself out of his grip. He let go, but not without a nod that was clearly meant to underline his sincerity. “Thank you Mr. – I mean Dutch, I really appreciate it. I… I should get back to camp, I wanted to see if I could help Mr. Pearson with dinner”, she lied and hurried off. He really was a strange man, so unreadable. Spending time alone in his company made her nervous, and that was the last thing she needed today. To not prove her falsehood, she headed towards the kitchen wagon where Pearson was kneeling, stirring the pot on the fire. “Can I help you Mr. Pearson? I wanted to thank you for the tea earlier.” The man looked up at her, a wide smile beneath his giant moustache. “Don’t worry dear, it’s pretty much ready. And ‘t was no bother, no bother at all.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Not quite knowing what to do with herself until dinner she steered towards the campfire. Uncle laid passed out under one of the tents opposite, Lenny and Tilly both shared a quiet conversation when she approached, smiling at her as she sat onto the log. “You alright? Been quite a day for ya”, Lenny asked. Eliza’s lips curled into a half smile, having someone that much younger enquire about her wellbeing in such an elderly-sibling manner amused her. “I’m okay, thank you Lenny.” She took a deep breath, stretching her back and closing her eyes for a moment, tilting her neck back. “How are you guys doing?” “Better than you I reckon. Karen’s all happy and ain’t touched a bottle yet, even Miss Grimshaw seems t’ be happy about the news of Sean. Lenny and I was just wonderin’ when they’ll be back.” “Don’t we all”, Eliza mumbled. The absence of some of the gang’s most capable members had grown heavy, and she started to truly miss Charles and Arthur. Until now she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but their company had always filled her with a sense of calmness and security. The three of them sat there for a little while, Lenny shared a story of of him and Morgan getting mighty drunk in the Valentine saloon some while ago to pass the time until dinner. The laughter was soothing, gently washing over the hurt inside her. “And then – listen – then he’s runnin’ off into the alley next to the

saloon an’ tryin’ to jump a fence, all while yellin’ ‘I’m an American’! And what happens next? He’s landin’ face first in a steamin’ pile of shit!” All three of them were wiping tears out of their eyes, Lenny was wheezing hard, struggling to continue. “I got away, but Sheriff’s got him, tanked up as he was. Only saw him again the next day, came draggin’ back to camp like some rusty gut.” “He really wasn’t in a good mood, I remember! Barking at everyone to quiet down ‘cause he had a stinkin’ headache”, Tilly confirmed. Eliza’s stomach muscles were hurting and she was struggling for air, it was hard trying to imagine Arthur Morgan in such a state, near impossible. He always seemed in control of himself, a bit awkward at times maybe or ferocious in his anger, but loose? Never. Slowly the cramps in her abdomen eased off and she was able to sit up straight again, just in time for Pearson’s “Dinner’s ready folks” call from the cooking fire.

Sadie waved from her wagon as the three of them were strolling over to the stew pot, still chuckling. Eliza grabbed her portion and followed Sadie’s invitation, seating herself next to her on the back of her wagon. “You alright? Sounds like yer day ain’t as bad now as it was”, she asked, not bothering to swallow her food before she spoke. “Yeah, thank you. I’m much better than earlier. That reminds me, I didn’t even thank you for getting me out of town safe… Well, I-err… Thanks Sadie.” Her cackling laugh was loud and drew a few confused glances. “Ya wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for me in the first place! But sure, you’re welcome. Sorry it gave you such a fright.” She smiled shily. Sadie was right of course, but she was thankful all the same. After all those articles about her, she should have known better than to presume that a trip into town with Sadie Adler would be a completely mundane, safe endeavour. Trouble followed her like a pack of wolves on the trail of a wounded animal, and it rarely ended in a drunken Can-Can for her. “Saw you runnin’ away from Dutch earlier, he botherin’ you?” The abrupt change of topic caused Eliza to almost choke on a piece of mushy carrot, she didn’t think anyone would have seen the short exchange she had had with him. Sadie slapped her back as she coughed and the girl could feel the colour raise to her cheeks. “I – I wasn’t running away from him, I just… Well, he wouldn’t be my first choice of company when I just want a bit of peace and quiet.” She had been fleeing his presence of course, but that surely wouldn’t sit well with the rest of the gang. She chose to be in this family herself and didn’t want to give away the impression that she didn’t at least respect him as the head of it all. Sadie nodded, her expression utterly indifferent. “He sure likes to hear himself talk. I prefer my own company most days.” “So why are you putting up with me then?” Eliza tilted her head, curiously. Did the woman just feel obliged, after she did her the favour of upscaling her living quarters? Sadie hummed, seeming to be searching for the right words whilst scooping the last bite into her mouth. “Well, you’re prettier than Dutch for one”, she jested, “but I s’pose I put up with you like I put up with Morgan. You’re good company, and also got your head screwed on right.” Putting her empty bowl down, she caught her glance. “I bet not one of them girls would’ve shot at them fellers in town this mornin’ if they’d’ve been in your shoes. Well, Miss Jones maybe, but only because her head ain’t screwed on right.” Eliza bristled at her judgemental tone when she spoke and felt the need to defend the blonde girl. “Karen is not that bad you know. She’s loud and a bit brash sometimes, but she’s a good person really.” “Oh I ain’t sayin’ she’s not, darlin’. She’s a damn good actress, seen it myself once or twice. She just ain’t exactly the type that can sit with ya in silence sometimes. Same with Dutch, right?” She gave an amused bark, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of thin air and offering it to her young friend after she took a sip herself. Eliza decided against it, becoming a drunkard wasn’t on her plan even if she would grow into a fully fletched outlaw. “Is that why you’re close with Arthur? Because he doesn’t talk much?” “Well, partly. He’s a decent feller, got a bright head on his shoulders when he decides to think for himself. He also ain’t never looked down on me ‘cause I’m a woman, can’t say that about most people. Even here.” She took another hearty swallow and Eliza pondered on her words. She had grown to like the man well enough herself, enough even to be worried about him being absent for so long, same as Charles. Only, Charles was easy to understand, straight forward and his personality was transparent as anything. Arthur? Well… He was a mystery to her. She didn’t know why he was humouring her presence in those early mornings at the cliff, or why he’d check up on her whenever their path crossed in camp. Did he feel like she needed protection after Micah’s attack? The

thought of someone assuming a guardian role for her because they didn’t believe in her own ability to protect herself was humiliating, no matter how much she had yet to learn. It reminded her of the fact that she was in way over her head and made her feel like a child thrown into the ocean to learn how to swim. “Where the hell’s your filly run off to? You still with me girl?” Sadie’s voice brought her back to the present, and she quickly loosened the frown her face had pulled itself into. “Sorry, my thoughts went wandering there. Did you say something?” The blonde woman cocked an eyebrow at her, showing a half smile with an expression Eliza could not read. “Your head off with the horses there, hm? I just said Arthur reminds me of my Jakey, in some ways. He’s the best man I know.” Her gaze trailed off, staring at a point somewhere in the distance. “Do you miss him?” “Yeah… every day. But he wouldn’t approve of who I’m now I suppose.” She shrugged and let out a deep sigh. “He’d understand though. Life ain’t fair or just, but we gotta make the best out of the worst situations. We’re all just a bunch of stranded folk, tryin’ to survive.” After a moment’s hesitation Eliza put her hand on her arm, hoping to infuse the little gesture with as much empathy as she could. “I’m sorry about your husband”, she said quietly. Seeing Sadie so vulnerable was strange, she had been her hero for a long time and she wanted to comfort her. But she just shook her head and smiled at her. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, girl. You ain’t had it easy either, even before you got dragged into all this“ – she gestured towards the camp – “mess; and now your own daddy pronounced you dead.” Getting up, she stretched tall and gave a yawn. “Knowin’ there’s good people like Morgan surroundin’ you makes it a bit easier, hm?” Eliza followed her example and hopped off the wagon, picking up the empty bowls, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. “Seeing the good in people takes a while when they kidnapped you in the first place. But I suppose you’re right, Arthur doesn’t seem like a bad man.” “I sure hope they come back soon”, Sadie nodded as Eliza dropped the plates into the water barrel by the kitchen wagon. “Else I’ll have to ride out myself an’ make sure they’re alright. Been a while now even for them.” She tipped her imaginary hat at Hosea, that was walking past, getting ready to settle for the night. He gave them his warm smile and wished a goodnight. Sadie decided she needed some sleep too, giving her friend a gentle squeeze on the shoulder when she declared she’d stay awake a while longer. The gang was slowly tucking themselves away into their bedrolls and it got quiet. Without Javier’s guitar the campfire seemed only half as enjoyable in the night and most people preferred the quiet conversations with their tent partners, safe and warm. Having had a lengthy nap during the day, tiredness was some way away for Eliza still, so she strolled towards the cliff that had somewhat become her favourite spot to spend her spare time at. The night air was fresh, and the soft breeze made her shiver a little as she sat down behind a big rock, obscured from curious eyes. Her gaze once again followed the river, moonlight reflecting on its rippling surface. The little cluster of trees and bushes where she and the girls had washed down in that distressing night drew her attention, and her eyes lingered there. Sadie was right, he was a good man. And if the woman had reason to be worried about the boys being away for longer than anticipated, well… Eliza certainly didn’t need to feel guilty admitting she was worried about him too.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #mywriting #eliza cornwall #arthur morgan #vengeance is an idiot's game #arthur morgan x original female character

[whirlybirbs]

    ✪ ------ 1. OF ROBBERY, KIDNAPPING & MURDER.

summary: the van der linde gang aims to beat the o’driscolls to the punch in kidnapping the bride-to-be of a railroad magnate named waylon robbins. for miss turner, this is quickly becoming the worst day of her life... cue a botched kidnapping and symbolism abound. arthur called it, really. word count: 3.4k pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name. listen to: “kicks” by barn courtney a/n: i told you my one goal was to make you all fall in love with with arthur, so uhhhhhhh buckle the fuck up folks

“Kidnapping...?”

It sounds so damn simple when said aloud.

... All of Dutch van der Linde’s plans usually do.

Arthur Morgan, though, a man built on loyalty and fiercely so, would never openly admit he hates how easily the aging leader of the Van Der Linde gang can string him and the others along with the promise of success and cash. Swindling -- it’s like second nature to Dutch; he’s slippery and well-spoken and charming and cunning more than anything else in this world.

He’ll be a snake in the next life, Hosea used to say with wisdom and wit, Just you see.

There’s something respectable about it, though -- Arthur is aware he himself is far too easy to read to be some gallivanting gang leader destined to bring his people promises of fortune and health and all things good. He’s always been like that. His intentions show on his face. In moments like these, Arthur needs not to say a thing. Instead, his hesitation shines through in a scowl, his disposition morphed into something unimpressed and skeptical.

Hosea can’t help but hide a smile into his cup of coffee. The boy he’d nearly nursed is a man now -- through and through -- but still holds a youthful sort of ruggedness to him at times. Arthur is pouting. Plainly put.

“Kidnapping,” Arthur says again, sounding it out and not liking the taste it leaves in his mouth, “I dunno, Dutch...”

“Mr. Morgan,” it’s Karen who speaks then, looming over Arthur’s shoulder and pointing out the skepticism in question, “All I’ve been hearin’ is chatter about the O’Driscolls --”

Her voice is eager. Ever an excitable woman.

“And wouldn’t it be nice to beat Colm to the punch?” cracks Micah, as if he’s some kind of puppet for Dutch.

Kiss ass.

The rickety wooden table in the center of van der Linde’s camp has gathered nearly everyone -- save for Abigail and little Jack -- and Arthur is suddenly very aware of the eyes glued to him.

The outlaw crosses his arms, pushing a hand along his jaw. A low rumble works itself from his throat.

“So, what? We kidnap some girl for money,” Arthur drawls on, sounding out the plan, “Ransom her off, expectin’ th’ law, who, mind you is still diggin’ through the hills of West Elizabeth lookin’ for us, to ignore it? We’re still getting our footing here an’ --”

“And cash would help,” says Dutch, “I understand your hesitation, my friend, but --”

“But, Arthur has a point,” Hosea, ever the voice of reason, musters, “This is going to garner attention.”

“Who is this lady anyway?”

It’s Mary-Beth who steps up, now, hands clasped tightly around her journal. “She’s the daughter of a lawyer from Point Pleasant, a town out West. Turner is the family name -- rumors been spreadin’ like wildfire that she’s due to marry some railroad magnate named Waylon Robbins.”

“Right,” Arthur scoffs with a bitterness everyone knows well, “A friend a’ Leviticus Cornwall, no doubt.”

“Brother-in-law, actually.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Not at all,” Mary-Beth insists, “Meaning there’s a lot of money here, Mr. Morgan, and that is why the O’Driscolls want to make the first move.”

“How’d y’ hear about this again?” Arthur leans back in his chair, knuckles drumming on the table before he waves and bites in with a questioning tone, “Can we confirm any of it?”

“Sure can,” John says, “Charles and I scouted out the area the girls heard them talkin’ about -- the O’Driscolls have set up camp there, no doubt ready to choke the carriages off when they hit the pass.”

Arthur spares Charles a look. He trusts him more than Morstan. Charles nods. Clapping Arthur’s shoulder.

“This could be good, Arthur.”

“... Seems like y’all have all made yer minds up, then.”

“We just need our best man, Arthur.”

That’s a plea if he’s ever heard one. Dutch is leaned forward now, hands on the table and eyes set on his left-hand man. Hosea, to the right, is quiet, watching as the blonde outlaw exhales.

Then, he sips his coffee.

After a moment of silence and weighing the odds, Arthur Morgan shrugs.

“Kidnapping, then.”

A chorus of woops circles the table.

The ride is miserable.

That’s really the only way you can describe it -- I mean, there you are, sweating bullets across from your bitter mother and bitter father and your less-than-amused younger sister. Jenny, though, spares you a single look and, from your left, nudges your elbow and offers you her fan.

You gratefully accept it. You feel like you could throw up.

Fwip, fwip, fwip.

You’re weighed down by the intricate gown your mother had insisted upon for this morning’s failure of a breakfast -- your hair had been done up an intricate plaits, pinned with pearls and the promise of marriage. The corset around your waist is awfully tight, maybe too tight, and your find yourself wishing you could just rip the plooms of fabric around your shoulders off. The high neckline might paint you all sorts of sophistication, but right now, it just makes you want to scream.

What you’d give to be back home, back at your desk. A good book would take the edge off.

Cue another miserable pass of more silence.

The carriage rocks and you hold your breath, trying desperately to stop the whole world from spinning. You’re tied between tunnel vision and hurling when your mother catches your eye.

Fwip, fwip, fwip, a bit more furiously now.

“ -- You surely can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” you bite back with a woozy look, “I won’t --”

“Enough.”

You father doesn’t even look at you.

Miserable. Absolutely miserable.

And that’s when the yelling starts.

Overhead, a hawk cries.

The sand dances with mirages in the valley.

The carriage, a deep plum and with windows blocked by plush curtains, rocks along.

From his spot on the grassy overlook, Arthur drops his binoculars back into his sacel and pushes himself up into a squat. He taps Charles shoulder, beckoning to John. The both blink up at him, squinting into the sun.

Christ, it’s hot.

“Tha’s our lucky carriage,” he says, “Both of you, on me. We’re gunna run ‘em West of th’ gorge, Dutch an’ Micah an’ Hosea will choke ‘em off on th’ other side of th’ pass. Don’t wanna get the attention of the O’Driscolls now.”

The mid-day sun is beating on Arthur’s back when he beats into the stirrups and kicks his stead into a sprint -- the formation is lead by the blonde outlaw, quick to wind through the mountain pass. Bandanas and sleeves are pulled up, faces masked under the black material and brim of hats.

It’s something mighty terrible -- they are, all of them, outlaws and criminals and wanted men in this moment -- the sight of the them, holstered up and with fire in their eyes, might be enough to scare off even the most daring of lawmen. Arthur, in the heat of moments like these, is proud to be in thick with the thieves.

This feeling? It’s unstoppable.

And so, in a storm of dust and vicious jeers, the van der Linde gang descends upon the Turner family’s carriage.

“What in the fresh hell --”

A bullet tears through the middle of the carriage.

In one side, out the other. Straight between you and your father.

Symbolism is one hell of a thing, isn’t it?

You and your sister blink at it.

The furious fwip, fwip, fwip-ing of your fan stops and suddenly, the carriage kicks forward in a panicked sprint. You yelp, gripping Jenny tight as your mother flies into your lap with a screech. As if the jarring movements of the carriage hadn’t already been horrid, now it’s worse -- the yell of the driver rattles through the cabin.

“We’ve got a problem, Mr. Turner!”

You move, peeling aside the velvet curtains -- up along the ridge are three men on horses, pounding into the sand; the sight, if it wasn’t so real, could be considered awesome like something out of a story-book. Your jaw falls slack. Their faces are hidden beneath bandanas, guns gripped tight in one hand and reigns in the other.

Highwaymen.

Their whoops echo off the canyon walls.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

This is, officially, the worst day of your life.

Suddenly, your view is blocked by the dark side of a horse pulling up along the carriage -- you’re offered a single, humorous tip of a hat by the man in question, striking blue eyes pulled into a wildly devilish look. He spurs his horse on, moving to press himself up onto his saddle. His boots, polished jet-black with golden spurs, glint in the light.

And he jumps.

Arthur lands atop the carriage with a heavy thud, ribs screaming in protest. He’s sweatin’ like a pig now, gloved hand moving to grasp at his hat as he gets his footing. He pushes on, leaning as he digs his fists into the driver’s shoulders of his dress shirt.

“Sorry, pal.”

The carriage rocks and you blanch as the driver -- a kind man by the name of Thomas -- flies by your window with a horrible scream. You fly forward as the carriage is stopped dead in the middle of the canyon pass.

The carriage skids, tipping violently back and forth as it settle in the dirt. The dust kicked up around the carriage begins to settle as you realize you’re stopped in a standstill. 

There’s another cry of a hawk above.

This is an awfully well curated robbery, you think. The high, rocky walls of the gorge are blocking the carriage in and the circling of the highwaymen atop their horses becomes ever present.

Along with the laughter.

The outlaws are laughing.

Inside, the carriage is silent.

Jenny grips your hand.

“John,” it’s your mother, clinging to your father with a whisper, “What do we do?”

“We reason with them --”

You spare a look at your father, then, and his usual coolness is back -- his aging face is set with an angry sort of determination that is swiftly cut down when the door to the carriage is yanked open.

If this wasn’t life or death, maybe you would have gotten more satisfaction out of it.

“Hiya, folks.”

The gun pressed to the temple of your father riles a scream out of your mother. You and Jenny keep quiet, lips sealed tight, and you watch as the men seem to double in numbers -- suddenly, there’s three hauling your family from the carriage. You watch as Jenny is passed into a rough grip, one man helps her down and another trains his hands on her waist.

Stepping into the sun, you blink rather incredulously, at the act.

Irritation, born out of the heat and torture of the morning boils over.

When you emerge, struck square in the face by the heat of the summer sun, the gang falls into silence for a breaking moment, all eyes landing on you as you stand in the doorway of the carriage.

You’re certainly something -- a high-class girl poised in a dress worth more than him, he reasons. Your hair, swept into an intricate style, screams Paris couture and Arthur realizes that all the rumors the girls had overheard about you must be true. You look like you sleep on a mattress full of money.

Arthur shares a look of approval with Dutch.

This might actually work, this whole kidnapping thing.

“And you must be th’ Miss Turner we’ve all heard so much about.”

It’s a low drawl.

Arthur, sweeps his hat from his head, dropping into a rather mocking bow as you recognize him as the one who’d kindly chucked Thomas off the canyon five hundred feet back.

He’s something scary -- all muscle and broad shoulders and guns strapped to his hips and thigh. His eyes are wild with something you can’t pin down. You’re nearly sure you see a smirk behind his black bandana; the creeping tan along his arms calls to man who spends his afternoons running from lawmen. His hair is like gold, messed from the afternoon ride and lawless activities.

You decide, in that moment, you don’t like him.

From the bottom step of the carriage, he offers a hand.

You swat it away on instinct.

The look on your face is one of fire and determination.

You snap. “I can manage fine, thank you.”

That riles sudden laughter out of the gang. The one with the blue eyes gives a deep laugh then, his hat pressed to his abdomen as he does. He swipes at sweat along his brow, dropping a hand to his belt as he eyes you critically.

“And an attitude t’ boot!”

Anger flares in your chest, face twisted into a horribly mean look. You help yourself down on shaking knees. Your heels hit the hot dirt and you stumble; the summer heat of West Elizabeth is like a punch in the gut. Jenny is quick to glue herself to your side, fisting your dresses sleeves in a tight grip. You glance to the back of the carriage, watching as two other men begin to off load trunks of belongings onto their horses. You spot yours, a small black one, throw among their stash.

“Awfully kind a’ you folks t’ stop fer us,” says another highwayman now, “Now, if you’d --”

“If you’re smart,” bites your father, “You’ll let us go. I have money, I can write a check --”

“That,” the one with the blue eyes says as he raises a finger, “We know --”

“Then let us go!” cries your mother, “We’ll give you all we have and go on our way --”

“Betsy --”

“Shut up, John --!”

Suddenly, another gunshot. Everyone jumps as the sound ricochets around the red canyon.

It kicks dust between you and the blue-eyed outlaw.

Symbolism. What a thing.

Simple.

This was supposed to be simple.

This is not simple.

“O’Driscolls!”

The gang scatters on instinct, running like ants under a boot at the sudden appearance of at least ten O’Driscolls on the canyon’s ledge -- beneath the iron sights of their rifles, the gang is exposed and so is their damn loot; Arthur calls out to Charles and John quickly, fingers drawn between his lips as he whistles for his horse.

“Grab th’ girl!” he cries, “Grab ‘er an’ get outta here!”

He didn’t specify which girl.

Arthur, really, didn’t think he’d need to.

But, when the boys pull Jenny from you and throw her on the back of Charles’ horse, you’re left pinned to the back side of the carriage as bullets swiss in and out of the wood. Arthur’s eyes are pulled wide as he realizes you’re the one they needed -- he skids to the dirt at your feet, hand wrapping tight around your wrist as he pulls you towards his horse.

“Time t’ go, lady!”

“Let go of me!”

“Will you stop --!”

You land a good punch on his arm, kicking as he drags you up with a huff and pins you in-front of him on the saddle -- his horse bucks with an angry whinny and bucks. You pale, motion sickness roaring back up like a tide as you become a bit more passive.

Arthur calls out to Dutch and the others over his shoulder:

“Get the goods out of here -- we gotta go!”

Your eyes widen as horses begin to pour into the canyon behind you. You shriek as a bullet whizzes by your head and you swear you could feel the air on it. Your hands fist the saddle, voice pulling a startled yell from your throat as the outlaw kicks his golden spurs into the belly of the beast underneath you and sends you both flying into a sprint. Your back hits his chest, hair flying wildly.

Arthur sputters, spitting hair out of his mouth. He pulls a face before calling out.

“C’mon, boy! Hiya!”

The pace is grueling, fueled by the hot iron on their heels. Bullets are whizzing by left and right, the clobber of hooves filling your ears. You can feel him, the blue-eyed man, hunching over you, trying his best to protect you from the firefight. He snaps the reigns with a flick of his wrist, pulling his bandana down so he can breathe. He turns, looking back to check his six, losing his hat in the process.

The first time you ever get a good look at Arthur Morgan, he’s cursing like a sailor, sweating like a pig and running for his life.

As far as first impressions go, this is just about right.

The sudden change in sound of his horses hooves catches your attention and you blink down, noticing the change in terrain -- it’s a hollow sound.

You’re on railroad tracks.

You realize, suddenly, the outlaw is trying to make a pass, to hike up and around the bridge the other gang is trying to choke him off at -- but, when he hits the trail, Arthur tugs fast the other way. He can see O’Driscolls are lining the ridge to the South, towards camp, and the split decision in direction sends you both and his horse careening across a narrow bridge.

You blink down.

KAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNK. The sound of the hooves on the bridge is panic inducing.

Twenty feet down, the Dakota river rushes by.

A bullet kicks wood splinter up ahead of you.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream in a rush over the wind, fingers gripping the saddle, “You’re going to kill us both!”

“Will you shut up?!”

Don’t remind me.

Down the valley, there’s at least fifteen men on horses following you, their rides splashing through a shallow end of the river as they cross fifty feet up the hill -- to your right, it’s the same; you’d be thankful if they were lawmen, but you have an inkling of a feeling these O’Driscoll boys are out to get the same thing as the man behind you on the saddle.

The bridge, though? Well, it’s a clear shot -- no winding trails and hills -- and as Arthur begins to pull ahead, begins to think this just might work...

The blaring horn of a train hits his ears as it exits the tunnel up ahead.

Your eyes widen.

His horse comes to a painfully sharp stop and you fly forward; the horse gives a horrible cry as it realizes the impending danger just as you both do.

“There’s -- oh no, no, no--”

“Yeah, I see it, damn it--”

“Train, train!”

Arthur turns back then, yanking the reigns in a panic and trying to speed his horse up, but -- there’s no way. Not with that 1,500 ton, coal swallowing, iron giant barreling towards them. Not with you and him both on the back of it. Arthur curses, eyes moving to the edge of the bridge as they ride at a breaking pace.

The river below is deep there. The water is dark blue, glittering in the high afternoon sun.

His eyes are wild, blinking back at the train over his shoulder.

“... Son of a bitch,” he grumbles, coming to the realization that this is going to have to happen.

Suddenly, he pulls back on the reigns, They stop. He swings his legs over the edge of his horse.

CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG! CHOOOOOOOOOOOO --

“What are you doing?!” you shriek again, kicking his hands away, clawing at the reigns.

“Nice day fer a swim, don’t you think --”

“What -- get off --!”

The horn blares, louder this time, and the chug of wheels rattle the bridge. You both turn to look, eyes pulled into panic. Arthur’s grip on your waist is tight, hauling you over his shoulder as he slaps the back of his horse, sending it off in a blink. You screech, clawing at his back as the train gets closer and closer and the bridge is shaking and the horn rattles your chest and it’s getting closer and closer and closer --

CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG --

And the last thing you see is the blue-eyed outlaw’s apologetic look as he hauls you and then himself off the bridge at Fool’s Pass.

-- CHOOOOoooooo!

SPLASH!

Kidnapping.

It’s always simpler said aloud.

#simpler said aloud #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan fanfic #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 reader insert #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption imagine #WOOF A FULL FIC? ME? YEAH

[sweets-fanfics]

Homecoming 6

Title: Bonding time

Word Count: 2309 (Small i know){sarcasm}

Warnings: Violence

A/N: Bet you weren’t expecting a chapter tonight. Neither was I. I just realized my document on google doc was five pages long and decided better post it now.

Tags: @rollyjogerjones

“Little Van der Linde.” Mr. Strauss said as he walked up to Henry and you one day. 

“Which one?” Henry asked. 

“You. I need help but I can’t find Herr Morgan anywhere. Can you go collect debts from this list of people?” He handed Henry a sheet of paper.

“I’m not sure… Henry is not very intimidating.” you joked as Henry bumped your shoulder.

“Just because of what my dear sister just said I will gladly do this for you.” Strauss smiled and walked away. “Well, I better be off.” 

You followed him to Lightning as he checked his saddlebag. “Look at you, big brother, growing into the outlaw life?” 

“When I went out with Dutch the other day he said some things that really seemed to speak to me. I think I want to give this…” He looked back at the camp. “New ‘family’ a chance.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Now when can I start robbin’?” You asked.

“Never. I think you should stay out of gang stuff, I’ll be such to voice my opinions to Dutch… and Arthur.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” you threatened in a sweet voice.

“Try me.” He smirked taking off. 

As he rode out you noticed Arthur’s grey Kentucky saddler coming in. You started to wave but you saw he wasn’t alone. A blond man on a Missouri fox trotter. He had a long mustache and seemed to have a face that just made a person hate him. 

Arthur saw you and immediately perked up riding up to hitch his horse near where you were standing. “Hello, princess.” He grinned as he hopped off his horse and kissed your forehead.

“Hi, who is that?” You looked as the man climbed from his horse. He noticed Arthur’s greeting to you and came over with a bit of confusion on his face.

“That’s Micah, don’t give him any attention. May benefit you the most.” You looked up at him in confusion and Arthur tried to steer you from the man who was now in front of the two of you. 

“Well, brother, you aren’t going to introduce me to this beautiful creature?” Micah sneered.

You held out a hand around Arthur to shake Micah’s, “Y/N Van Der Linde.” You smiled.

Micah took your hand slowly. “Micah Bell… wait, your name…”

“Dutch is my father.” You confirmed, “I have a brother as well but he’s running an errand for Strauss.” 

“No offense, but when the hell did Dutch have children?” He asked Arthur.

“Well, I can answer that.” You said pushing in front of Arthur as you started to get annoyed. “Seeing as my brother and I are twins and we are 26 years of age that means he had children 26 years ago.” He seemed to get a little annoyed. “With my mother so Colm O’Driscoll murdered.”

“Ah, your Annabelle’s kid.” He eyed Arthur and then looked back at you. “And you and the cowpoke here seem to have a sort of relationship…”

“Yes. Where have you been?” You smiled.

“Arthur helped me rob a stagecoach,” Micah said proudly.

“How much did you guys get?”

“What?” He looked dumbfounded.

“How much money?” You ask again.

“What’s it to you, missy? Being a Van Der Linde doesn’t give you some sort of authority.”

You felt Arthur put a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N I believe Dutch called ya.” 

You sighed and started to turn away. “Damn Morgan, you found a pretty obedient one, huh?” Before Arthur could shut him up, you spun back around kneeing him in the groin making him keel over. 

“I’m sorry? I missed what you said?” You lied smiling sweetly.

Arthur started dragging you away as Micah mumbled to himself and gave you a dirty look. “That’s my girl, but maybe just avoid him for now.”

“He was asking for it, Mr. Morgan.” You gave him the sweetest smile possible.

“He’s usually askin’ for it that’s why it’d be best to just ignore him.” He smiled. “Your father did want you though.”

“I swear if he tells me to try and stay in camp I may snap.” Arthur chuckles as he pushes you in to your father’s tent. 

“Ah Y/N,” Dutch looks up from his book. “I believe Arthur and John are going to do a job. How would you like to go into town with me?”

“You mean like… A job, or…”

“I mean, the two of us can get to know each other a bit more.” He smiled at you.

You started to get excited. As a child, you always dreamed about something like this. You had seen a dad take his daughter who was around your age at the time to a fair that was in town. You knew it wouldn’t be like that. You weren’t a seven-year-old. But still, this was something you didn’t think would ever happen.

“Sure.” You tried to sound nonchalant but you weren’t sure it worked.

 ----------------

As the two of you rode into Valentine he stopped at the small saloon at the end of the main street. You had worked in the big one but this one always seemed a bit more comfortable for you.

The bartender smiled at you as you walked in before your father, “Y/N! I almost thought you moved away. I like this cowboy look you got goin’ on.”

His smile faltered a bit as Dutch entered the saloon. “Hey Jesse, can we have a bottle of whiskey at my usual table?” He nodded without looking away from Dutch. “Pa, we can sit here.”

You take a seat as he sits across from you. “You sure seem to know a lot of people, my dear.” He mentioned nodding his head towards Jesse as he put down to glasses and the bottle.

“Well, when I was down here alone for a bit I’d study in this place.” Dutch looked at you guiltily. “I’m over it. I knew I probably wouldn’t get any degree, being a woman and all.” You chuckle to yourself.

“I had to stop paying for you guys because stuff was getting shakey around the camp. I wasn’t able to sneak out and send you two money like I always could before.” Dutch took a drink and set his glass down. “We had three other people in our gang, the Callandar boys and a young girl named Jenny. We tried to do a job in Blackwater and it ended up bloody.”

You sipped your drink. “I… I read that in the paper.” You admitted, “I had kinda hoped it wasn’t you but… again I never thought I’d even meet ya.” You sighed a bit. “For a long time, Henry and I just assumed we were accidents from a drunken night or whatever.”

“Trust me, Y/N. Your mother and I wanted you and your brother, we were going to surprise people and everything, but once your mother died… I’ll admit I didn’t think I could do it alone.”

“You had Uncle Hosea.” 

Dutch chuckled, “Yes, but I had maybe a bit too much pride back then.” 

“I’m glad you are getting your shot now.” He smiled at you, “Cause if Henry had to be my only family any longer I may have killed myself.”

Dutch let out a rough laugh, “He can be that bad?”

“Let’s just say since we met you, it’s been like havin’ two fathers.” Dutch patted your shoulder. 

“So tell me about your hobbies and such.” 

You thought for a moment, It had been so hectic lately. You hadn’t even thought of it. “Violin of course, but I can play a fair share of other things. Books are also things I enjoy a lot. I can’t think of much else at the moment.”

“Books and music.” He seemed as if tasting the idea. “You sound like a true romantic.”

“Hardly,” You rolled your eyes, “Father I did want to ask you about Mr. Bell…”

“Ah, you met him,”

“Unfortunately, I have.” You took another drink.

“He’s a good man, I assure you.” He also takes another drink.

“He seems like an asshole. And I only spoke to ‘im for two minutes.” Dutch started chuckling. “I’m serious, Pa. There’s somethin’ about him I don’t trust very much.” 

Dutch slightly waves you off. “I promise you, it’s just his face.” 

You try not to smile. “If you say so, father.”

------

As you two spoke you could hear the saloon doors behind you swing open and close. “Ah, there they are.” Dutch waved. You looked over your shoulder as John and Arthur walked up. “Y/N, how about and John go outside make sure nothin’ suspicious is goin’ on, I wanna have a little chat with Arthur here.” 

You gave your father a bit of a weary look as you stood. “I promise I’ll be good,” Dutch said putting a hand up and crossing his heart.

You squeezed Arthur’s hand as you walked past him and out the door with John. “That seemed awkward.”

“You love pointing out the obvious, huh?” You smirked. 

As the two of you stepped outside John was suddenly grabbed by a man. You started to yell but someone came up behind you and put a hand over your mouth. You tried the thrash around and swing at him but his grip on you was too tight. 

A man stands on a wagon and began to yell, “Dutch Van Der Linde!” You notice people on the street start to move away. “My name is Leviticus Cornwall, and you robbed my train. Come out now and I won’t kill your hired guns.” 

You watch Dutch and Arthur slowly walk out of the saloon with their hands up. “There has to be some mistake, sir.” Dutch attempts to say cooly. You look at Arthur seeing his eyes are fixed on the man holding a gun to your head.

“Kill them,” Cornwall says as his carriage takes off. There’s a pop sound and the fight begins as the man who had been holding you drops to the ground. You pull out your pistol shooting the man who was holding John. 

John moved you behind a wagon while the other two joined you. “Can’t I just have a normal day?” You ask slightly annoyed. 

“Not with this lot,” Arthur says as he fires at some men across the way. 

You leaned out to shoot at someone when you felt a pain shoot up your leg. “Fuck.” You fall back and look at your leg. “Damn it… I got shot.” 

Both Arthur and Dutch’s head snapped in your direction. “Arthur get her on the back of the cart,” Dutch commanded as he shot the man who had got your leg. 

Arthur carefully lifted you into cart making sure your leg didn’t move as much. “Have I told you how much you love scaring the shit out of me?” He asked as he made sure you’d be comfortable.

“Not in a few days.” You winced at your leg.

“Don’t shoot, just keep the pressure on the leg.” He ordered. 

“John, help me push this. We are going to literally walk out of here.” Dutch cried chuckling almost. “Arthur make sure no one messes with us.” 

As your father predicted the four of you were able to walk out with the help of the wagon blocking most of the bullets. John came up and lifted you on to Dutch’s horse. “Arthur. Make sure no one follows.” Dutch said before taking off towards camp.

“Pa, is it safe to leave Arthur alone?” You ask looking back.

“Arthur will be fine, my dear. But for now, we need to wrap your leg and then find a new camp.” 

“My leg will be fine.” You say before immediately wincing at the pain.

“Uh-huh.” Dutch eyes you a bit. “You should have been more careful.” He stops his horse at the camp.

“I am not going to listen to a lecture right now so save it.” You groan hoping off the horse trying to balance on one leg. 

“Mr. Pearson, Ms. Grimshaw please start disassembling camp. We need to move quickly.” Dutch yelled as he grabbed your arm and helped you to his cot. “John, go grab Strauss medical supplies so I can wrap Y/N’s leg.” The hole was towards the bottom of your calf so Dutch was able to easily lift your pants. You knew you’d probably need new boots as you saw a hole go straight through the boot.

“Do I need to cut it off?” You ask half-joking. 

“No, it looks like the bullet when clean through.” Without warning, he poured alcohol that was at his bedside on it the wound.

You yelped and hit the bed you were sitting on. “Damnit. Give me some damn warning.” 

“Y/N.” Arthur hurried up before leaning over to catch his breath. “How is it?” He asked.

“I’m gonna be fine. Pa is overreacting.” You sigh.

“I’m not overreacting, gunshots are important.” Dutch narrowed his eyes. “Arthur you and Charles go ahead and try to find a new place for us.” Arthur starts to walk away.

“Wait.” You called to him, “Pa, give me a moment with Arthur.”

“Y/N now is not the time to be a couple-” Dutch starts to say.

“Just go make sure everything is coming along fine it’s not what you think.” You grumble. He threw his hands up and walked away mumbling.

Arthur walks up and gets on a knee in front of you so you can be eye to eye.

You smile a bit. “Okay, maybe I lied, I just wanted a kiss but I know you won’t with him around.”

He chuckled and leaned in giving you a soft kiss on the lips. “Miss Van Der Linde, you are somethin’ else.” 

“I try to be. Now go before he comes back.” He gives you one more tender kiss before running off to his horse.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fandom #rdr #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #dutch van der linde #john marston #writing #write #cowboys #dutch x Daughter!reader

[saxonspud]

Kidnapped - Chapter 4

You stood in the sitting room, trembling as you stared at Dutch’s face.

Tears began to pool in your eyes, no one had ever told you that you were a disappointment. You weren't sure whether it was that or the fear of what this man might do to you.

“I...I’m sorry,” you whispered, as your voice cracked.

Dutch narrowed his eyes, “why are you sorry? Sorry because you ran away, sorry because you stole from me, or sorry because you got caught?” he hissed, as he let go of your chin.

You lowered your head, then reached down into your dress, and pulled the money out. You held the money out to him, as a tear trickled down your cheek.

Dutch snatched the money from your hand, and glared at you angrily, before turning away and walking over the small box and replacing the money.

Dutch walked back over to you, any softness that he had shown the previous night was gone. He grabbed you by your arm and dragged you over to the bedroom door. He opened it, and pushed you inside.

“Get out of those clothes and put your nightdress back on!” he growled.

You turned and looked at him, “What?” you asked, in surprise.

“You heard me,” he growled, “and put everything away in the bag, unless you want to be in more trouble than you’re in already!”

Dutch slammed the door behind you.

You stared at the closed door, and wiped the tear from your cheek.

Dutch turned around and looked at Charles,

“Thank you,” he said, sighing.

“Don't be too hard on her Dutch, she thinks you’re gonna beat her within an inch of her life!”

Dutch huffed, and glared at Charles.

Charles nodded, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “you are though, aren't you?”

Dutch turned to look at Arthur, “did you see what she was wearing, what sort of father dresses their daughter in clothes like that!”

Arthur sighed, “the sort that wants to sell her off to the highest bidder. Parade her around in front of a few wealthy old men, see who offers the most!”

“That man is a complete bastard, he might as well have hawked her around the streets of St. Denis,” Dutch hissed.

Arthur walked towards the door, “You’re still gonna beat her though, aintcha? You wanna be careful, Dutch. She’s terrified. You rough her up too much, she’s gonna go running straight back to her ol’ man. Leviticus Cornwall or not!”

Dutch folded his arms, and stared at Arthur.

“No she ain’t, son. She’s gonna take her punishment, and when we’ve got our money, she’s gonna stay right here, with us.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “and how you gonna get her to do that?”

Dutch looked at the floor, then looked Arthur straight in the eye, “I need you to get me something...from the basement!”

You took off your dress and bra, quickly picking up your nightdress, you put it back on.

You had a good idea, what Dutch was gonna do, so you left your panties on.

You packed everything else back in the bag.

You stood by the bed, looking towards the door. You were trembling even more now. When you saw the doorknob turning, you ran to the far corner of the room, and sat on the floor. You pulled your knees into your chest, wrapped your arms around them, looking fearfully towards the door.

Dutch slowly opened the door. He knew you were terrified, and prolonging your agony was part of the punishment.

He was a little surprised to see you curled up in a ball, in the farthest corner of the room. Maybe he had miscalculated exactly how scared you were. He took off his jacket, and folded it. Placing it at the bottom of the bed. Then he walked around and sat on the edge of the bed, closest to you.

“Come here, Emmeline!” He commanded.

You stared at him, frozen to the spot. The palms of your hands, and the soles of your feet, sweating.

“Emmeline, you have exactly five seconds to come here, or your punishment will be doubled!” Dutch warned.

He waited.

“Five...Four...Three...”

You ran across to where he was sitting, crashing to your knees in front of him.

“I...I’m sorry, I p...promise I wont do it again,” you blurted.

Dutch rested his hand gently on the top of your head.

“I know you won’t, sweetheart, but that doesn't mean you won’t be punished for what you’ve done,” he explained.

You looked up at him, tears trickling down your cheeks, “please don’t...don’t hurt me,” you sobbed.

Dutch cupped your cheek in his hand, and gently brushed the tears away with his thumb.

“Emmeline, I don't want to, but you haven't given me any choice,” he soothed, “now come here.”

Dutch held out his hand, which you tentatively took. Once you had stood up, he pulled you towards him and over his lap.

Dutch grabbed the hem of your nightdress, and pulled it up.

“Tsk tsk, Emmeline, I told you to take off your clothes, and put on your nightdress, and what do I find?”

Dutch pulled you from his lap, until you were standing.

You lowered your head, “sorry,” you mumbled.

“You know Emmeline,” Dutch began, “sorry doesn’t really cut it, does it. You cant even follow a simple instruction!”

Dutch started to tap his fingers on his leg. “Take them off! Now.”

You felt your face heat up, as you lifted your nightdress, and pulled down your panties. You let them drop to the floor, then you stepped out of them.

“Good girl,” Dutch praised, “now come here.”

You went back over to him, and he once again pulled you onto his lap.

He pulled up your nightdress.

You flinched as he laid his hand on the cheeks of your bottom.

“Now Emmeline, tell me why we’re doing this?” he asked.

Your breath hitched in your throat, “b...because I ran away, and b...because it took your money,” you whimpered.

“and?” he added.

“I...I don’t know,” you panicked.

Dutch sighed, “Emmeline, its because you put yourself in danger. Anything could have happened out in those woods, do you understand?”

You nodded, “yes sir,” you whimpered.

Dutch gently rubbed the cheek of your bottom, then before you realised what was happening his hand came down hard. You cried out, half from shock, and half from pain. It was a lot harder than when he had hit you the previous night, or perhaps it was because you had nothing covering you.

The smacks rained down on you, each one seemed to be more painful than the last. You tried to keep count, but after about five you were sobbing.

“Pl...please s...stop!” you begged. You bottom felt like it was throbbing.

Dutch rubbed your cheeks with the palm of his hand, “stop Emmeline? I’ve only just started!” He warned.

You tried moving your hand to cover you cheeks, but he just grabbed it, and held it against your back.

You weren’t sure how many times he hit you, but eventually he stopped.

He pulled you from his lap, and stood you up. Your sobbing, uncontrollable.

Dutch stood up, “That was for running away, disobeying me, and putting yourself in danger. Now I’m going to punish you for stealing. No one steals from me Emmeline, and hopefully this will be a valuable lesson you wont forget,” he lectured.

You sobbed even harder, you thought that he had finished with you.

He laid you over the bed, you gripped the blanket, and buried your face. You didn't even want to know what was coming.

Curiosity however, got the better of you. You turned your head to look, and watched as Dutch unbuckled his belt.

“Emmeline, I want you to count after each strike.”

If you had thought that the spanks were painful, the first hit of his belt made you scream.

“Count Emmeline,” he demanded.

“O...ne,” you sobbed.

You heard the swish through the air, before it made contact, and you screamed again, before counting.

“T...wo.”

This carried on, when the fifth strike came, you couldn't even speak, you were sobbing so hard.

When his hand touched your head, you flinched, still sobbing.

“Sshh sweetheart, its all over now.” Dutch whispered.

You felt his hand go to your back, rubbing circles.

“You’ve been such a good girl,” he soothed.

Your sobbing started to subside. Why was he being nice, when he’d just beaten you half to death.

You didn't even look up when you heard the door open.

“She gonna be alright?” Arthur asked, as he handed Dutch a pot.

Dutch nodded, continuing to rub your back. “Did you get what I asked for, son?”

Arthur nodded, “are you sure about this?”

Dutch nodded again, “it’s only for a couple of days.”

Arthur nodded again, and left the room.

You felt something cold on your bottom, and Dutch’s hand rubbing gently circles.

“It hurts,” you mumbled.

“I know sweetheart,” Dutch soothed, “but this will help.”

You turned your face to look at him, your eyes red, and cheeks tear stained.

“I’m really sorry,” you whimpered.

Dutch smiled softly, and gently stroked your face, “I know you are sweetheart, now I want you to close your eyes, and rest. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, “yes sir.”

Dutch gently pressed his lips to your temple, “good girl, I’ll be back in a little while.”

You closed your eyes. You were exhausted. Even with the pain you were in, it didn't take you more than a few moments to drift off to sleep.

You weren't quite sure how long you had slept for. The pain in your rear, whilst still there, wasn't as bad as it had been. Something though, didn't feel quite right.

You rubbed your eyes, and gently rolled over, mindful that your bottom was still sore. You heard a clink, metal on metal. You looked towards the foot of the bed.

“NO!” you screamed.

You sat up, throwing off the blanket. The cold feeling around your ankle, was confirmed.

You looked at the metal cuff around your ankle. It was attached to a chain, which was secured to the bedstead.

You sat up and pulled at the chain, but it wasn't going anywhere.

“HELP!” you screamed at the top of your voice, yanking at the chain, but it was fixed securely.

You sat on the bed, and started to cry.

Then you saw the note. You picked it up and read it.

Emmeline,

Sorry to have to do this, but its for your own good.

I will pop in later with some food.

There is water on the table.

Dutch.

You looked at the table next to the bed, and saw a jug of water and a cup.

“NO! Let me go!” you screamed, and flung the jug of water, at the door.

You burst into tears, “I hate you,” you wailed, as you buried your head in the pillow.

#rdr2 fanfic #original female character #Emmeline McKenzie #dutch van der linde #charles smith #arthur morgan #wattpad #a03

[vogelfreyh]

Oh maybe 4, 21, 25 and 32 for Alice? :0

For Alice Milton

4. What type of discipline was your character subjected to at home? Strict? Lenient?

Alice’s parents really bothered to educate their daughter to become a decent and respected woman. Of course, they had to be strict with her. And little Alice - being a stubborn and wayward brat - didn’t make things any easier for them. But it paid off in the end and as a grown up woman Alice is grateful for what they did.

21. What are your character’s manners like. What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate? 

What are your character’s manners like?

Alice has refined manners. She knows how to behave well and how to act as the kind of woman people of her time preferred to see. When she was a little girl, her mother often told her that good manners were the key to success in society and that a well behaved, pretty woman could wrap anyone around her finger.

What is their type of hero?

Her type of hero would be someone who lives by the law and protects innocent folk from danger and criminals, as well as steppin in for their rights. Someone who ensures people to live in a safe place and tries to make the world a little better. And - of course – does it with passion.

Whom do they hate?

She despises corrupt business men just like she hates outlaws and criminals. People who would sell their soul to the devil for money. One person she really personally loathes is Leviticus Cornwall.

25. What are their hobbies and interests?

Alice enjoys reading, mostly philosophical or historical books. She’s also interested in art and especially loves European artists.

When listening to her favorite music, jazz and Irish fiddle tunes, she enjoys dancing to it (Only when nobody is watching her, though.) If someone asks her to dance in public, she will only dance to slow music.

Another passion of her is going to the theatre. Her favorite is the Theatre Râleur in Saint Denis, which she visits with her husband on a regular base.

32. How does your character react to stress situations? Defensively? Aggressively? Evasively?

It really depends on the situation. Most of the time she becomes rather silent and tries to play it cool on the outside. But if the stress situation consists of friends, good colleagues or even family getting in danger she’s sure to react aggressively and protective, which leads to her losing her concentration and often ends in frailties.

Just an example –

When her best friend, Emily Ross, went into labour and eventually lost the child, Alice became so emotional and worried for her, that she threatened the doctor to shoot him if Emily wouldn’t make it.

Of course, she apologized for what she said after Emily was out of danger. But the doctor was shocked for life as you can imagine :’>

#thanks a lot <33 #sorry for my english today :') #alice milton #agent milton #rdr #rdr oc

[thebritishmonarchycouk]

On This Day In Royal History . 11 June 1509 . King Henry VIII married Katharine of Aragon . . 👑 Henry’s wedding to Katharine was kept low-key & was held at the friar’s church in Greenwich on 11 June 1509. The king was just days short of his 18th birthday, Katharine was 23 years of age. . 👑 On 23 June 1509, Henry led Katharine from the Tower of London to Westminster Abbey for their coronation, which took place the following day. It was a grand affair: the king’s passage was lined with tapestries & laid with fine cloth. Following the ceremony, there was a grand banquet in Westminster Hall. As Katharine wrote to her father, “our time is spent in continuous festival”. . Katharine became pregnant in 1510, but the girl was stillborn. She became pregnant again in 1511 & gave birth to Henry, Duke of Cornwall, who died almost two months later. She gave birth to a stillborn boy in 1513, & to another boy who died within hours in 1515. Finally, she bore a healthy daughter, Mary, in 1516. It was two years before she conceived again; the pregnancy ended with a short-lived girl. It is said that Henry truly loved Katharine of Aragon, as he professed it many times. . Henry, at the time a Roman Catholic, sought the Pope’s approval for an annulment on the grounds that Katharine had first been his brother’s wife. He used a passage from the Old Testament (Leviticus Chapter 20 Verse 21): “If a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an impurity; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.” Henry had begun an affair with Anne Boleyn, who refused to become his mistress. (He had already ended an affair with Anne’s sister, Mary Boleyn.) Despite the pope’s refusal to annul the marriage Henry separated from Katharine in 1531. He ordered the highest church official in England, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, to convene a court. On 23 May 1533, Cranmer ruled the marriage to Katharine null & void. . (at Greenwich) https://www.instagram.com/p/CP_KqCkjXaW/?utm_medium=tumblr

[amorgansgal]

Sooooooooooooooo, you know how I wrote that Cornwall's Daughter x Arthur Morgan headcanon thing and everyone seemed to really like it (thank you very much to everyone who liked and reblogged it <3)... I might have accidentally written a second part.

You can read the first part here: A Pretty Cage

Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Warnings: That good old sexual tension, kidnapping, suggestions of an abusive family relationship.

A Pretty Bird

‘Mr Cornwall, Miss Cornwall is-!’ you heard your maid began to say, but a loud crash made you turn your head and you quickly got to your feet.

You were still wearing your nightgown with a soft peach, silk robe covering you but you still wrapped it around you as your father stormed in your private quarters.

Your maid nervously followed, but you quickly shook your head at her, it wasn’t worth her getting in trouble and being fired when your father was in a rage.

‘Father, I-!’

‘You had one goddamn job! Just one and you failed!’ he snarled.

‘I spoke to Mr Van Der Linde and his associate-!’

‘You spoke, you flirted, you danced, you drank champagne and wasted my time!’

‘I thought that was what you wanted me to do, father.’ You wanted to defend yourself, but instead you let him rant and rave, lowering your head. You waited for him to tell you how you had failed.

You saw his top lip quiver with anger, his moustache flecked with spit. ‘I gave you two tasks, you incompetent child! I asked you to make sure Lemieux signed that contract. He has not.’

You nervously bit your lip and could feel heat rush into your cheeks. You had been so entranced by Arthur Morgan’s eyes, the way his fingers had firmly held onto your waist, the way you had both been so close when whispering to one another you could’ve almost kissed, you had forgotten about the contract.

‘Lemieux has the contract though and I intend to see to it that he does-’

‘You better. My patience is growing shorter with you by the day. The fact that you’re my daughter doesn’t matter, fail me again and you won’t be. No one in polite society will give a damn about you.’

‘Father, you can trust me to-!’

He raised a finger to stop you from speaking further. ‘You’ll have tea with him today, see to it that the document is signed.’

‘What about Mr Fairweather and his-?’

‘I already told you,’ Your father says through gritted teeth. ‘Mr Fairweather will have to decide whether he cares more about his own pride or the family business, because if he marries into this family his desires will have to come second.’

You nodded, swallowing harshly and looked back to your vanity table. You picked up a hairbrush, running your fingers over the bristles. Your father marched out of the room and your maid cautiously entered.

‘Are you alright, Miss Cornwall?’ she asked politely, her voice trembled slightly.

‘I’m fine,’ you said, but your hand trembled as you placed the brush down on the vanity. You exhaled slowly.

You gazed at yourself in the mirror. Your father had never hit you or threatened you with physical violence, but every day was like treading on thin ice. One wrong move and you would crash under the freezing water, not allowed to swim up towards the surface.

Maybe that’s why you were so keen on marrying a boring fool like Harold Fairweather, he would be easy for you to control. He’d do whatever you said and you wouldn’t be stuck under the thumb of your father or your husband. Maybe that was delusional, your father would always be there.

Your tea dress was a muted affair in comparison to the black velvet evening gown you had worn the night before. But in the muggy heat of Saint Denis, you were grateful for the simple white cotton dress with its three-quarter-length, sleeves decorated with lace and pearl buttons. The wide brim, straw sailor hat, decorated with white ribbons and roses, kept your face from the hot afternoon sun.

You pulled out your fan, it had simple white slats decorated with blue forget-me-not flowers and you began to fan yourself, trying to gain some composure in the hot afternoon sun as you followed the butler up to Lemieux’s house.

You spotted the gentleman sitting under the shade of a large oak tree. There was a pretty, intricate metal table similar to the ones you sometimes saw outside the bistros and cafes of Saint Denis, it was covered with a white cloth and a tea service.

You frowned when you realised he was sitting with two other people, a man with lank, dark curling hair and a woman with her bright red hair tidied into a neat bun. Though the painful red flush on her neck suggested the heat was getting to her too.

As they turned on hearing your tread on the gravel footpath, you recognised Mr Van Der Linde. Your heart leapt into your throat and you quickly looked around to see if Mr Morgan was nearby.

‘Ahh, Miss Cornwall,’ Mr Van Der Linde gracefully got to his feet. He strolled over and pressed a kiss to your hand. ‘It is a delight and a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more.’

‘As it is mine, Mr Chambers.’

Lemieux practically stumbled around the table and hurried over to you, clasping your hand in his. ‘Miss Cornwall, how are you today?’

‘Very well, thank you Maire Lemieux. I didn’t realise you would be entertaining other guests.’ You bite your cheek. It would be a lot easier not to have Mr Van Der Linde around while you are trying to conduct your father’s business.

‘But of course, it would be inappropriate for a woman to have tea alone with a man. So, I asked if Mr Chambers would know of any women who would like to join us for tea. Luckily, this is his wife, Mrs Chambers.’

Lemieux pulled out a seat from the table and gestured for you to sit down. You could see the woman practically bristle as Van Der Linde’s shoulder briefly brushed against yours. You take her in.

She’s a beauty: Flame red hair, green eyes, skin as pale as milk but dusted with freckles, a pretty pouty mouth. She wore a dark green blouse patterned with gold thread and a burgundy skirt.

You did your best not to raise your brows. The outfit was nice enough, but not suitable for afternoon tea. It was too dark and clashed too much to be appropriate.

But you could already tell, she cared too much to be his wife. This was, undoubtedly, Van Der Linde’s mistress.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Chambers.’

‘Afternoon, Miss Cornwall. My husband’s told me a great deal about you.’ Her voice would have sounded pretty too, a soft, lilting Irish accent. But her tone suggested she would much rather you were dead in the ground, than here drinking tea!

‘Oh really? I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure of speaking much to Mr Chambers at the party, though I do know he extolled you highly when we did speak.’

Mrs Chambers turned on Van Der Linde coolly. ‘Did he now? Extoll me?’

Van Der Linde offered a cold smile. It was already plain to see he would prefer Mrs Chambers not to be here.

‘But speaking of the party, I was wondering if Mr Callahan will be joining us?’ you asked.

‘Alas not, Mr Callahan has been called away on business,’ Van Der Linde replied.

‘Ah, a pity, my father would like to learn more about his oil in Alaska.’ You watched as Lemieux gestured for a maid to cut him a slice of orange spiced cake. If he hoped to avoid the topic of the contract by having Mr Van Der Linde present, you were perfectly happy to make things awkward for him.

‘Speaking of business affairs, Mr Lemieux, have you had the opportunity to sign my father’s contract? It would be quite fitting if I could return that to him this afternoon.’

Lemieux’s face briefly showed his true emotion, irritation, but he kept his smooth smile in place and gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Ah, Miss Cornwall, I’m afraid I quite forgot and I’m not quite sure where it is in my study, but please ensure your father-’

‘Oh, no matter,’ you gestured for your maid servant, who was carrying a satchel. You opened the satchel and pulled out the contract. ‘My father is always prepared to make multiple copies.’

Lemieux gave an amused smile, though you could see the contempt in his eyes as he stared at you. He made a great show of patting down his pockets. ‘Alas, I do not have a pen on me. When trying to enjoy tea, I rarely do-’

You pulled out a pen from the bag and gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. ‘As a man of politics, Monsieur Lemieux, you do surprise me. A man should always carry a fine pen on him, do you not agree Mr Van- Mr Chambers?’

You silently cursed at your foolish slip up. How could you have let that happen? You saw a brief shadow pass over Van Der Linde’s expression, though he was much better at not making it obvious that he had noticed your mistake. Mrs Chambers eyes nervously darted between you and her husband.

‘I certainly do, Miss Cornwall,’ Van Der Linde replied, taking a sip of his tea and looking at you over the rim of the cup. A shiver ran down your spine. You didn’t even notice Lemieux furiously signing the papers, you were too focused on how you could be so stupid to let Van Der Linde that you knew who he really was.

You were happy for the afternoon tea to be wrapped up quickly. The conversation was stilted and uncomfortable, so you were quite happy to make your excuses and to be accompanied out to your carriage.

As you climbed up the steps, with the help of your guard, you noticed Van Der Linde leaving the mayor’s house and hastily walking down the street. His mistress followed him, though Van Der Linde made no attempt to wait for her or offer his arm when she slipped slightly on a raised cobblestone.

They disappeared around a corner and you quickly got into the carriage, eager to be off home and to get the signed documents to your father. You could prove to him that you were a worthy asset and would not disappoint him again.

You had been so busy and in thought, as you travelled across the Rhodes countryside, you barely realised the coach had stopped until your maid touched your elbow.

‘Mistress, we’ve-’

‘Now, I would suggest not doing anything foolish, sir.’ A voice called out loudly and, with dread, you recognised it instantly. Van Der Linde. ‘I think you will find you are outnumbered, if you value you your life-’

A gunshot went off, your maid screamed, another shot followed the first. You pulled your maid down onto the floor of the carriage. You could hear the horses whinny in fear and suddenly the coach was travelling at speed down the road. Your maid was sobbing.

‘Arthur-!’

‘On it!’

You could hear the beat of horse hooves approaching your carriage and the familiar voice of Arthur Morgan called out. ‘Lenny, see if you can jump up into the seat and stop the damn thing! I’ll get the horses!’

It seemed to take both forever and no time at all, but the coach slammed to a halt and you almost rolled under the other seats. Your maid was still crying and you were doing your best to comfort her, when the door was pulled open.

You look up. The bright late afternoon sunshine was making it difficult to figure out who was standing at the open door, but it didn't take you long to recognise the broad shoulders. Arthur Morgan offered a hand to help you up, but you refused to take it and stepped out of the carriage.

You glanced up the road and wished you hadn’t. You could see the bodies of the driver and guard scattered along the dusty track. Van Der Linde rode up to you. There were several other men with him, but you looked at Arthur. Even with a mask covering his mouth and nose, his eyes were unmistakable.

‘Miss Cornwall, I apologise for the interruption to your journey-’

‘Do you, Mr Van Der Linde?’ you snapped.

‘Ah, so you do know me.’

‘Of course, I do. I’d have to be a fool not to.’

He gave an indulgent chuckle, as though you were a child having a temper tantrum. ‘Your father and I are having some disagreements.’

‘You robbed his train first!’

‘I’ve robbed many trains, Miss Cornwall. One of those just happened to belong to your father and now he is dead set on seeing us destroyed.’

‘Perhaps if you tried not robbing trains-!’

‘Oh, I’m sure that could be arranged, Miss Cornwall. But I expect if your father wants us to leave him be, he can pay for your ransom and we will happily leave.’

‘My father wants you all dead, he won’t be happy until you are!’

‘Well, I think we have ways of persuading him otherwise.’He offered his men an amused grin and a few chuckled as though he had told an excellent joke. You rolled your eyes and raised an eyebrow, as though you had found what he said utterly dull.

‘I’m afraid, Miss Cornwall, you will be accompanying us and your maid will return to your estate to inform your father that his sole, beloved daughter has been taken hostage. Of course, you will be returned safely and with your dignity intact, but only if your father agrees to paying your ransom in full.’

Your maid looked terrified and she clutched the satchel between hands that were trembling. She was jostled over to a horse and a young man with dark, lank hair helped her onto it. He mounted up, gave a quick nod to everyone gathered there and then they rode off.

You slowly realised, with a sudden jolt of fear and growing nausea in the pit of your stomach, that the maid had the signed contract on her in the bag. You hoped that you were just being foolish, but you couldn’t help but wonder if your father wouldn’t even bother paying for your ransom, considering he now had got what he wanted from Lemieux.

Your heart beat faster as you watched your maid disappear from view. You had to keep your mouth shut, had to buy yourself time, had to figure a way of escape without the help of your father.

‘Miss Cornwall, as you seemed to get along so infamously with Arthur, why don’t you ride with him?’ Van Der Linde’s mocking voice cut through your whirling thoughts.

Arthur came to your side and tugged down his bandana. His cheeks and jaw were covered with the first prickle of stubble and his clothes were dusted with the dirt from the road. He looked very different from how he had done at the mayor’s party.

He was still handsome, ocean eyes gazing into your own and you felt yourself lift your chin up, as though encouraging him to admire the line of your neck. You watched his gaze follow down your throat, then back up over your lips.

You suddenly imagined the desperate, demanding kiss he would give you. Pressed up against the abandoned coach, the leather of his gloves warm against your arms and the way his knee would nudge between your legs.

You bit your lower lip and Arthur quickly turned his head. He lowered his gaze to the road, hiding his expression under the brim of his hat as though he had sensed what you were thinking about.

‘You know how to ride?’

‘Yes,’ you replied.

‘Without any of that side saddle nonsense?’

‘Yes. But I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion,’ you muttered irritably. You hated the thought that your fine, pure white tea dress was about to be ruined.

Arthur abruptly placed his hands around his waist and heaved you up onto his horse, before you could even splutter with rage.

‘You ain’t exactly in a position to be asking for favours.’

You tried to make yourself comfortable on the horse, though the cut of the dress made it difficult for you to move your legs. He mounted the horse and you pulled off your gloves, then dusted down his jacket. You scowled at the dirt that covered your palms, but heard his chuckle.

‘You’ll have to forgive us, we don’t usually kidnap people in our Sunday best!’

You wrapped your arms around his midsection and felt him stiffen slightly as your hands came to rest on his stomach.

‘My father won’t be happy if you try anything untoward.’

‘Wouldn’ dream of it, Miss Cornwall.’

‘Y/N, you can call me that.’

You felt Arthur chuckle once more, then he clicked his tongue and his horse moved forward into a smooth trot.

You cast one more look behind you. The coach looked like it had been abandoned by the road side for months, the wheels caked in mud, the horses had already been unattached and taken by the gang. You prayed that your father would consider it worth the expense to rescue you.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x f/reader #arthur morgan x f reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan hcs #arthur morgan headcanon #arthur morgan hc #dutch van der linde #leviticus cornwall #leviticus cornwall's daughter #arthur morgan x leviticus cornwall's daughter #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr #van der linde gang

[amorgansgal]

A Pretty Temper

Part 3 of A Pretty Cage and you're not best pleased with your new circumstances, now that you're staying with the Van Der Linde gang at Shady Belle! Part 4 will probably be posted this evening.

Warnings: None, some minor physical violence and ye good olde sexual tension!

‘You will!’

‘I certainly will not!’

‘I think you’ll find, Miss Cornwall-!’

‘I think you’ll find, Miss Grimshaw, that I am not in the habit of being told what to do, least of all by someone beneath me, least of all by the people who have kidnapped me!’

‘You should be grateful, girl!’

‘Grateful!’ You let out a furious gasp. ‘Grateful? For what exactly? For having my guard and driver shot? For having my maid terrified beyond all measure? For being dragged off to this hell hole?’

‘You have been treated very well, fed, given a decent bed-!’

‘A decent bed! You wouldn’t know a decent bed if it danced a jig around this camp!’

Grimshaw raised a hand, but Hosea was already up and out of his seat. He placed a hand on her elbow. Grimshaw irritably turned on him, but when she saw who it was, she lowered her hand.

‘Mr Matthews, something must be done about this girl, she does nothing but waste her time gossiping with Molly and reading books and then complaining she doesn’t have enough to do, but will not lift a finger!’

You gave a snort of contempt. ‘Oh, forgive me for not wasting my time on repairing the pants of the men who kidnapped me!’

Grimshaw gave a growl like a tiger but you returned her contempt with a withering look.

‘Susan, why don’t I take Miss Cornwall on a walk, get her out of your hair and we can have a chat about this?’ Hosea suggested.

You’re about to give Hosea a piece of your mind, but he’s already grabbed your elbow in a surprisingly firm grip and pulled you away. You glared at Miss Grimshaw as you passed her, but she was already focused instead on Karen’s sloppy stitches!

You were absolutely fuming, storming ahead until you heard Hosea give a chuckle. He coughed a little, then laughed once more.

You turned around to look at him, he was laughing fit to burst and you couldn’t help the rueful smile that came to your own lips.

‘You are certainly causing a stir in camp, but I warned Dutch that would be the case!’

‘I could stop causing a stir if you would let me go back to my father.’

‘I would if I could, Miss Cornwall. But I believe Dutch is convinced your father will pay considerably for his daughter and heir.’

You gazed out at the swampy marshland and the tall trees that blocked out the sun, but kept the heat sinking into the boggy land. You pulled out your fan, it was now a dirty, off-white colour and the blue forget-me-nots had faded.

You weren’t exactly popular around camp, but you almost hoped that by causing a stink about everything eventually they would get fed up with you and dropped you back in Saint Denis.

You complained bitterly when your tea dress got dirty and the lace was ripped during careless washing.

You hadn’t made any friends with the girls when you said you would know if they stole a pearl button, because you had counted them all. There were five gone by the time you got it back, all in odd places so the thing wouldn’t do up properly.

You turned your nose up at the food, insisting the smell of the stew made you feel ill and you wouldn’t feed such slop to a dog.

You hated your bed, even though it was apparently a great honour to be given a proper bedroll and not just a blanket on the floor! Even if no one was listening, you still whined about the lumps in the mattress, the bugs that had bitten you, the room was too hot and your blanket too thin.

Evidently, you had got under the skin of so many that a foul man, by the name of Williamson, had once stormed up to you and told you to shut up or he’d make you.

You’d slapped him sharply across the face and it took Arthur getting in between the two of you to prevent a full fight breaking out.

Not that a lady would suffer the indignity of involving herself in such matters.

Though the other girls had warmed up to you a little after that. Karen even returned two of your peal buttons.

‘Ah, Arthur! Come here a second.’

You glanced up as Arthur walked towards Hosea, nodding his head in greeting at the older man and giving you a quizzical look.

‘I think it would do Miss Cornwall some good to get back to civilisation. Why don’t you see if you can get Mary-Beth to lend her a dress and take her for a bath and a bite to eat in Valentine?’

Arthur grumbled slightly. ‘Long way to go for a goddamn bath!’

‘Rhodes is too close to Saint Denis, too many people might recognise her there.’

‘She goin’ to behave?’

‘I am not a child, Mr Morgan. If I can have a hot bath and something decent to eat, I might even become pleasant to be around!’ you snapped, scratching at a rather irritating mosquito bite you had on your arm.

Arthur suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of your arm, stopping you from what you were doing.

‘Hey!’

‘Yer goin’ to make it worse.’

You yanked your arm away, hating the way your heart had leapt into a full gallop when he had touched you. Arthur exhaled noisily, looked at Hosea, back to you, then raised his hands as though in surrender.

‘Fine! I’ll take her,’ he said, then continued walking back to the rest of camp.

‘When?’ you called after him.

‘Once I’ve spoken to Mary-Beth ‘bout that dress!’

You supposed you should thank Hosea for the idea about the bath. But when you looked at him, you frowned slightly on seeing his amused expression and raised eyebrows.

‘What?’ you asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing! You go wait by Arthur’s horse, I’m sure he won’t be long.’

You’d like to question Hosea further, but he had already left your side and was walking back to the dominos table.

You sank into the hot water, grateful for the soothing warmth and for the first time feeling you might actually get clean. The bites and stings of insects on your arms stung a little, but eventually even the irritation of that disappeared.

You scrubbed every inch of you with a plain bar of soap. You would’ve given anything for your rosewater and geranium soap, but it at least got you clean. Truth be told you would much rather bathe in your own bath, the cool smooth ceramic of the porcelain tub certainly felt nicer on your skin than this rough wood.

The room here was kept warm by a fire and the bath woman said she could bring you more hot water if you needed it, but you much preferred the ease of simply turning on the tap and allowing the hot water to fill the tub.

Even as you gazed dreamily up at the ceiling, you had to face facts that you were not alone. Arthur was just outside, waiting for you. If someone thought it odd that your “husband” wouldn’t even allow you to bathe in peace, they hadn’t said anything!

You eventually found yourself looking at a window. It was a small one, presumably to allow the steam to leave the room. It had a chintz curtain over it to stop people looking in. You wondered… it was big enough to probably allow a person to slide through it, if you ducked your head and kept your arms tucked in.

As quietly as you could, you got up out of the bath and then tiptoed over to Mary-Beth’s clothes. She had been kind enough to lend you a yellow skirt and grey blouse.

You hadn’t exactly been polite to her, sneering in contempt when she began to pester you with questions about what your house was like, what it was like to have a maid, what it was like to attend balls and dinner parties and afternoon tea.

Eventually she stopped talking to you. As did the other women. Except for Molly. But then Molly was different, she was at least the closest in class and station to you, and had proven herself to be intelligent and well read.

Choices of romantic partner aside, you liked her, and she agreed with you that it was absurd Miss Grimshaw asked you to help with the camp chores. ‘After all, you didn’t exactly ask to come here!’

You grabbed your clothes and then headed back over to the bath. You picked up the scrubbing brush and began to slosh it about in the water, so hopefully Arthur would still think you were in the tub.

With some difficulty, you managed to dress yourself and then snuck back over to the window. You pulled back the curtain and carefully lifted the latch. To your great relief the window opened with ease and you pushed it open.

You picked up a nearby stool, climbed up and then managed to slide your way out of the window. You were fortunate that the bathroom overlooked the back of the hotel, so the only people there were in the distance and hadn’t noticed a woman clambering her way out of a hotel’s window!

You glanced around you and then began to make your way towards the Post Office. If you could just send a letter to your father, tell him where the gang was and how he could rescue you, then surely-!

You staggered to a halt as Arthur Morgan lazily walked around a barn and smirked at your shocked expression.

‘Guess you forgot there’s a window in the hallway, so I could see your little dash from where I was sittin’. Got to admit, I’m impressed you got the nerve to do somethin’ like that.’

He stepped towards you, and you found yourself backed up against the barn. You were hidden from view and more so when Arthur placed both his hands either side of your head. You couldn’t help but stare up at him, his eyes gleamed wickedly. You were all too aware of his bare forearms.

His leaned closer, his mouth just hovering above your jawline, his nose tracing down your neck. You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the heady rush of desire that was flooding your body.

He could easily pick you up, carry you in his arms or even over his shoulder. You felt hot shame prickle on your cheeks as a dull ache between your legs made you squeeze them together.

A hand, rough with callouses, gripped your chin and cheek. You were amazed that his hand could even cover that, everything about Arthur was so big. His hands, his arms, his shoulders, his thighs…

You quickly brought your eyes back up to his face, but he had seen you all too clearly and let out a rich, throaty chuckle.

‘C’mon, darlin’, think we need to have a nice, long chat.’

And with that he suddenly scooped you up and was carrying you across the yard, back to the hotel.

‘Arthur!’ was all you managed to cry out, as you clung to him. His hand under your legs gave a quick squeezed to your thighs and the one around your waist dug into you more firmly.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x leviticus cornwall's daughter #leviticus cornwall's daughter #leviticus cornwall #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x f/reader #arthur morgan x f reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr #susan grimshaw #hosea matthews #molly o'shea #mary beth gaskill #karen jones #bill williamson #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfic #reddead2 #red dead #shady belle

[amorgansgal]

Writing part 3 of the Arthur Morgan x Leviticus Cornwall (reader) fic, which has gotten so long, it looks like part 4 has also shown up! Who's ready for some smut?

#arthur morgan x leviticus cornwall's daughter #leviticus cornwall's daughter #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #smut

[amorgansgal]

Ooooh goddamit, I really want to write a third part to the arthur morgan x cornwall's daughter (reader) fic, but I feel bad for not writing other things. But it's a really fun idea and it involves a bath ;)

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x leviticus cornwall's daughter #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

[amorgansgal]

I feel slightly bad for writing the part 2 of arthur x leviticus cornwall's daughter fic, when I promised @tecker's anon that their Charles fic would be ready in a day or two. I am editing it currently, so should have it done pretty soon! Thank you for your patience <3

#charles smith #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfic #charles smith x reader