writingsofadelusionalgirlie

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

violets are loyalty and premature death, meadowsweet is a futile death, forget-me-nots are memory, buttercups are vanity, weeping willow is unrequited love, nettle is pain, daisies are innocence, and roses are beauty, youth and love

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Sleepy old man 💜

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

If you have listened to the NPC's of Valentine, spent some time at the saloon or even at camp in chapter 2, you might have heard about the Valentine Curse, that a lot of the locals blame for any kind of unluck that they come across. But what actually is the Valentine curse?

Well the curse is anything from finansial hard ship to bad weather, anything bad is blamed on it, but some says it also includes screams through the night or ghostly appearences.

Well the origin of the curse is actually debated even within the world of red dead redemption.

There is an artical about the curse in the New Hanover newspaper number 36, which tells us that there have been sightings of ghostly canoes and cries of Native American mothers. This artical also tells us that the curse came from a Native American family that was murdered after they had found a treassure, and that the curse had been placed upon the land after that.

The other origin which is debated can be heard from Mary-Beth and Karen who will discuss the curse while in camp. Karen says that the town believes the curse was casted due to a massacre of native americans who had previously settled on the land, and that a single surviving person casted the curse upon the land. And they are not the only people telling this version of events.

It is possible to find a camper out in the wild who will also tell this version. Not only that but he will also tell that an old painting was created of this massacre, and while it cannot be found in the game it can be found in the files, depicting the massacre of a native settlement, seemingly in the spot where Valentine is today.

Funnily the mistreatment of the natives in that specific area is mentioned even before chapter 2 begins, as in the mission "eastward bound" Hosea will mention that the natives were particularly badly murdered.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

I have a prompt idea if you're still looking for some! How about the reader finding and taking an itty bitty kitten that was orphaned and Arthur's real grumpy about it at first but then she finds him asleep on the couch with the kitten curled up on his chest and he's got a hand over it protectively or something. I know that's not really Christmas-y, but I thought it would be cute! Looking forward to all your writings as always 🥰

* ˚ ✦ Moonlight * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f! reader

word count: 1k

a/n: Sorry this was late, it's been a madhouse around here. Anyways, i love this prompt and it makes me want a house cat SO bad. i also love grumpy arthur and if you couldn't tell already, domesticity is my roman empire rn.

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: THREE days 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

“No.” Arthur growls, voice stern, resolve set. Your eyes are as big as dinner plates as you continue pleading and begging. Your lip juts out, even, testing his patience, shaking his resolve.  Arthur is notoriously bad at telling you no. When you’d asked for a second baby, he’d willingly agreed. When you’d asked for the house, and the farm, he’d made it happen for you. But this?

“Please, Arthur… Where else is he supposed to go?” You whisper so as not to wake the baby, sleeping soundly in her bassinet. 

“I don’t give a damn. Not here.” Arthur grumbles, placing his tools from work on the table. You follow him around the kitchen like a shadow as he opens and closes cupboards and drawers, putting away all his items from the day. 

Arthur is pointedly trying not to look at the little black ball of fur nestled in your arms. He’s afraid that if he catches a glimpse of those big, sad eyes, he’ll agree with you, and he’ll have an extra mouth to feed.

“Where’d you find it, anyways?” Arthur says, turning, sighing as you push the teeny kitten up towards his face, holding it under its little armpits. 

“I found him stranded on the road back from the market. Look at him, Arthur. He’s not well. We’ll have to feed him.” You plead. Arthur’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he stops and turns around. You nearly run into his back, stopping just in time. 

Arthur gets a good glimpse at the little feller then. He’s just a little cat, probably only a few months old. He’s far too skinny, and his jet black coat is ruffled and dirty from the elements. You hold the cat out to show Arthur, and then he sees the little, white, crescent-shaped mark that adorns his forehead, right between his blue eyes. Arthur releases the bridge of his nose, sighing grumpily. When his eyes crack open, and he sees your pleading face, perfectly matching the cat’s expression, he gives up. 

“Goddammit, fine. Jus’ throw him in the spare room, n’ I’ll find him some fish or somethin’.” Arthur says, rather dramatically, in your opinion. You hold the kitten close to your chest, your spare arm wrapping around the man’s neck. 

“Oh, thank you, Arthur!!” You smile, kissing him quickly before popping down from your tiptoes. 

“Yeah, well don’t get all cheery just yet. We’re tossin’ him back out in the snow as soon as he’s good and healthy.”

— — — 

The rocking chair swings back and forth quietly. Your hand gently taps your daughter’s back, and you hum quietly. She’d woken you and Arthur up in a fit, hungry, raising her little fists into the air and giving you both hell. But now, her little belly is full, and a peaceful silence has fallen over the house once more. The moonlight streaking through the windows tells you that it’s early morning, and you sigh at another night’s lack of sleep. 

“Easy, baby.” You whisper, quietly and slowly standing from the rocking chair, swaying her in your arms until you reach her bassinet. 

“Good night, my sweet girl.” You whisper sweetly, pressing a kiss to her little forehead, brushing some peach fuzz out of her face. 

You push the nursery door open quietly, eager to find your place next to Arthur in bed again.  But a few steps down the hall,  you stop in your tracks, a familiar voice coming from the living room. 

“Yeah, well you’re a right bastard, y’know that?” Arthur whispers, and you suppress a laugh, peeking around the corner. 

Arthur is sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Laying on his chest, nuzzled against his thick arm, is the little kitten. He purrs loudly, eyes closed, awfully content in your husband’s arms. Your heart melts in its cavern at the sight, and you watch the scene play out with bright eyes. 

“The lady is puttin’ the lil’ one back to bed, I figure I might as well do somethin’. So, make no mistakes, partner. We ain’t friends.” He whispers to the kitten, but contrary to his harsh words, Arthur’s finger scratches gently behind the kitten’s ear, pulling deep rumbles and purrs from the little animal. A few moments go by with Arthur’s hand resting protectively on the little cat. 

“Y’know, you are kinda cute… But don’t tell the missus I said that. I don’t want her thinkin’ I’ve gone soft.”  

You suppress a chuckle. 

“I reckon we should call you Moon… cause you got a little one right between them big eyes.” Arthur hums, eyelids growing heavy the longer he rests on the couch. You clear your throat gently, making him aware of your presence before stepping into the living room. 

“Didn’t see you there.” Arthur says, sitting straight on the couch, cheeks tinted pink. 

“She’s asleep.” You smile, “I see you’re making friends.”

Arthur exhales sharply, a huff of a laugh, “Me and the cat? Nah, he uh– he wouldn’t stop hollerin’ so I tried holdin’ him.” Arthur excuses, hand still wrapped protectively around the sleeping animal. 

“Right.” You raise an eyebrow, “You comin’ back to bed, then?” 

Arthur hesitates, looking up at you, then down to Moon. 

“I’ll be in shortly, sweetheart. Just gonna stay out here a little longer with him so he doesn’t go wakin’ you or the kids up.”

You smirk, “Alright then, Arthur.” 

 A kiss is planted to his lips before you head to the bedroom, and he sinks back down on the couch with Moon tucked into his arm. 

Five minutes turn to ten, and ten to thirty. And when you wake up to start breakfast, your husband is still cuddled up on the couch. Snores fall from his lips, matching the time of little content purrs coming from Moon, sleeping in a little ball right on Arthur’s chest.  So much for not giving a damn. You chuckle to yourself.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola @calcarius445 [to be added or removed, shoot me an ask! :)]

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Requests are open !

I'd be glad to write requests for RDR2 characters (just forget about aholes like Micah and Dutch).

A few things to note, though:

I'm terrible at writing explicit smut, and I also struggle with writing man x man couples. It just feels unnatural to me, probably because I'm a woman and never had an example of a healthy gay relationship around me. Every time I try, it ends up feeling forced and a bit cringe.

I'm a simp for lesbian couples tho. No explanations needed. Ask whatever you want.

I'm the biggest simp for Arthur Morgan. Like, I just need to comfort and take care of that man like I'm his perfect housewife and just want to make sure he eats and c*ms and sleeps enough. Told you I'm the biggest simp. I'd write anything for him.

I can take long but I'll answer to your request.

It's obvious I will not write about teenager characters like, how can you even request that ?

I can write gender neutral :)

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Friendly reminder that you should

Write that fic

Draw your OC

Redesign that blorbo

Plan that comic how you want

Create the content you want to see

Be cringe

Be free

The only thing that matters is you having fun! Not what others think!

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

The model son

Forget me nots are his flower I will not take criticism. Also deer motif has nothing compared to Arthur Morgan dog motif. That man is a hound through and through

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

"Milliken is it?"

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Low key bothers me when people draw the RDR2 boys with rippling twelve-pack abs. Yes, most of them would be in fairly good shape from the labor they do, but they are living on stew and rations. And I ain't seen one of those mf's do a single sit up or plank.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

Your Protector

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 2.9k

summary: Arthur comes to your rescue while you're being harassed.

a/n: This is technically a reupload from back in November but I added a lot more detail and its now about 1k longer so-- Also this fic was originally a request: "reader getting hit on in a shady alley and Arthur rescuing her"

warnings: gore, blood, violence (not more than game), harassment, basically a gross, greedy man who gets a bit handsy

It’s been ten minutes since Arthur left you in the alley. Nervously, you run your sweaty palms down your jeans and slow your breaths. You couldn’t deny Arthur when he had asked you to scope out this job with him. He made all the plans, crafted a safe and efficient way to get the money with no one getting hurt. And although you trust him, your nerves are still on edge. The other outlaw had caught first wind of this score when helping a passerby on the road in Bayou Nwa. Arthur helped a man with a nasty snake bite, and was gifted a token of information as a payment. Apparently, the Saint Denis gunsmith is running a little underground gambling. Big poker games, with top players, betting more money just on one game than you’ve ever laid eyes on in your life. That tip came about a few weeks ago, and after some sniffing around, Arthur found the information to be true. Tonight, at 8pm, the cards were dealt for the tournament game. The big one. 

You pace, nervously glancing down at your silver pocket watch. The time reads just after midnight. These games take hours, if not days, but by now most of the money should be out, and the players should all be here with their riches. Before jogging up the metal staircase and sneaking through a cracked window, Arthur had planted you as a lookout in the alley adjoining the gunsmith. His plan is: sneak in, play the part, and rob the bastards blind. They’ll probably be too wasted on hooch to even notice him slipping away with their life savings. Your job is strictly to keep watch, which Arthur reassured you is a very important job, despite your reservations. You glance at your pocket watch again, seeing that Arthur has now been in there for thirteen minutes. Shoving the watch into your pocket to get rid of the distraction, you glance around the alley. It's dark, and eerie. The pass way is long and narrow, with rotting wooden crates lining the walls and rats that run and squeak, causing you to jump every now and again. Water drips down from the metal overhangs, driving you mad with their constant noise. 

Anxiety pools in your gut as the shadows made by the rats and the crates shift, and the walls seem to move in on you. It’s all an illusion of course, but your heart rate picks up as the shadows shift and taunt you. A few times you scare yourself, looking at the shadows for too long until they begin to morph. So, to preserve your sanity, you distract yourself, pulling your cattleman from its holster. You grab a bottle of gun oil and a little rag from your satchel, humming to yourself as you wipe down the barrel of the gun, making sure to get in between the little grooves. Arthur had bought you this gun, and had it engraved with ornate flowers. It’s one of your most dear possessions. You still feel incredibly uneasy, like you’re being watched, followed. But you tell yourself that your mind is just playing tricks on you. You focus on the gun, keeping enough awareness of your surroundings to know if the law is coming. With a satisfied smirk, you hold your gun under the flickering street light, admiring its clean, shiny state. Suddenly the gun is knocked away from your hand, and you gasp, having only a moment to watch it fall onto the cobblestone before whipping around in shock.

A beast of a man, easily over six feet tall with broad shoulders, towers over you, sneering down at you with yellow teeth and breath that reeks of liquor. He scares the hell out of you, and you back away quickly. In one large step backwards, with a loud gasp, your back hits the alley’s brick wall. The man steps forward, sandwiching you between himself and the wall. You feel so sick, so naive right now. When you had agreed to do this job, you’d expected to run into some nasty street kids and oversized rats at the worst, but oh were you wrong. Somehow the other type of vermin roaming Saint Denis had slipped your mind: the men like this one. The men who drink their fill and search the streets for a cheap woman to spend the night with, or any woman to spend the night with. He is the exact type of man you would expect to be at an illegal poker game, with greasy hair, beady eyes, and sharp features that remind you of a predator.  Your back is still pressed against the wall, and the man in front of you corners you by bringing a hand to either side of your head on the wall. You’re trapped. You glance down to your cattleman on the street, and damningly realize you can’t reach it. When the man opens his mouth to speak, the acrid, alcoholic smell of his breath makes you gag. 

“Say, what’s a pretty lil’ thing like you doin’ in these nasty parts of town all by yourself?” His breath is hot on your face, and the smell of his sweat chokes you. You think about screaming for help, but all that would do is tie a noose around Arthur’s neck. Yelling isn’t an option. One of his large hands comes up to your face and he gently caresses your cheek with the back of his index finger. You tear your face away from his touch, fuming. You look angry and tough, but under it all you’re terrified. 

“I'm not alone, got a friend in the gunsmith, he should be back any second.” you growl, staring the man right in his colorless eyes. Slowly, he turns his head in both directions, scanning the gunsmith doors and the stairwell that leads to the attic. When he turns his head back to you, there is a sickening grin on it. 

“Well, sweet thing, I don’t see anyone… do you?” The man chuckles deeply, threateningly, “It can be real dangerous around here if you ain’t got someone to keep an eye on you…” He snarls, a mock smile on his lips that causes your stomach to flip with disgust. The man leans down, only inches away from your face as you shove your body back against the brick wall, wishing it would swallow you whole. 

“The names’ Levi… care to tell me yours, pretty girl?” Levi sneers, eyeing your scowl.

Your eyes are glued to the gunsmith’s side door, silently begging Arthur to return. You know that you can’t fight this man off. He’s much bigger than you, and even in his drunken state, he’s stronger than you are. His hands grip your forearms, pushing you back against the brick wall and you yelp. 

“I don’t need you protectin’ me, now let me go!” You yell into his face, shoving against the brute as hard as you can. Levi only laughs, pushing closer to you. His weight, sandwiching you against the wall, knocks the air out of your lungs as you attempt to push him away. He only laughs, and the smell of his alcohol ridden breath once again makes you gag.

“Why don’t you come wit’ me? I’ll show ya a real good time. Do you think a lil’ thing like you can handle me, precious?”

Eyes squinted shut, you silently beg Arthur or anyone to help you. 

— — — —

Arthur scans the room once more before swiping the cash off of the table and sliding it into his leather saddle bag. Most of the gamblers have passed out, but the ones who are still conscious are far too drunk to notice Arthur slipping by, knocking out a couple of guards and stealing their wealth. It's dark in the room, most of the candles have burned out already, and Arthur isn’t seen as he crouches, expert fingers grappling and pickpocketing as he goes. There is a little makeshift bar towards the window he had crawled in through, and on top of it rests a thick clip of money. Arthur eyes it, stepping towards the window to snatch the clip. Just as he passes the window, a breeze rolls in, and carried on it is your voice. 

“Let me go!” You growl, and Arthur peeks out the window, face pale as his heart drops. He sees a big bastard, towering over you and holding you against the wall, yelling in your face. For a second Arthur sees nothing but red.

Arthur panics, filled with both rage and fear. The cash clips that he has not yet collected are discarded on the counter as Arthur runs down the interior staircase. It's quicker than crawling through the window and dealing with the ladders. Arthur’s mind is clouded with a primal instinct to protect you as he bolts down the steps, skipping multiple as he goes.

“Shit, shit- Shit!” Arthur growls, pushing up against the main door to the gunsmith. It doesn't budge, presumably locked for the night. And although Arthur would only have to reach down and unlock the fine wooden door, he wastes no time, kicking the wood with such force that it swings open, nearly knocked off the goddamn hinges. Arthur fumes, stepping through the broken door, and dropping the saddle bag onto the ground. You’re only right across the alley now.

His eyes meet yours, and you look so small compared to the bastard who is bothering you. Arthur doesn’t hesitate for a second, coming up behind Levi in a few long strides and grabbing him by the back of his collar. Even though Levi is large in comparison to you, he is not nearly as big as Arthur. 

Arthur drags Levi back by his collar with an indescribable rage, and slams him into the brick wall, opposite of you. A sound erupts from Arthur, that could only be compared to a growl as he wraps his hand around Levi’s throat. His other fist is raised and ready to beat the life out of the bastard. You breathe deeply, sinking against the floor to catch your breath and reel over what’s playing out before you., relief washing over you because Arthur’s here.

“What in the hell were you just sayin’ to her?!” Arthur’s voice is deep, filled to the core with rage, the kind that can’t be stopped or repressed. His eyes are dark, and despite the love and the comfort that they have provided you with, Arthur looks terrifying now. 

You can do nothing but catch your breath and watch the scene play out. You’re still in shock, mindlessly rubbing your hand over the spot on your arm that your perpetrator was gripping onto so tightly. You wince, realizing that there will definitely be bruises there later.

Levi cracks a sickening smile before responding to Arthur, 

“Ah, so you’re the one this whore is fuc-” Levi’s words are cut short as Arthur’s fist meets his face. There is so much force and anger behind the punch that you are surprised Levi is still conscious. A loud crack snaps through the air- you realize that it is Levi’s nose shattering as he screams out in pain. Arthur is fuming, his shoulders rising up and down quickly as he attempts to stop himself from killing this piece of shit. He puts his fist down, but keeps his hand on Levi’s throat. A bruise in the shape of Arthur’s knuckles is already starting to form on Levi’s face. His greasy hair is now falling down in front of his eyes as he spits blood onto the ground. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s drunk, stupid or both, but he attempts to get under Arthur’s skin one last time. 

“You don’t feel like sharin, do you mister?” Levi pauses, spitting some more blood to the ground and eyeing you up and down before continuing, “Can’t say I blame you partner… If I had a woman wit a body like that I’d never-” 

Once again Levi is shut up by Arthur’s fists. Except for this time Arthur doesn’t stop. Something snaps inside the outlaw, like he’s gone completely feral. Arthur shoves Levi to the ground, straddling him while landing punch after punch to his face. You sit against the wall in shock, wincing at the wet crunch and snap of bones breaking. Arthur’s chest is heaving as he beats Levi senselessly. You’re not sure how long it goes on, but it feels like forever. 

Eventually, Levi stops resisting the blows, and Arthur gets off the half dead man, still enraged. He stands, fuming. 

“You piece of shit, don’t you ever put your goddamn hands on her again- and if you ever talk to her, or any woman, like that again, I'll do alot worse than this, you hear?!” Arthur all but snarls. 

Levi doesn’t respond, and Arthur kicks him in the ribs for it.

“Do. You. Hear?” Arthur growls, low and deep. 

You’re honestly not sure if Levi is even alive, or capable of responding. His face is beaten in, red and smashed, he's not even recognizable. You breathe a little easier when you see the beaten man nod his head up and down. He’s an awful bastard, but you’re relieved that Arthur didn’t kill him.

“Good.” Arthur hisses with an icy tone that you’ve never heard before. 

Stepping over Levi, Arthur leans down into a crouch in front of you and his features soften. He gently pulls the hair away from your ears, checking your face before running his green eyes over your body, checking that you’re not hurt. His face is pinched up in concern, and the hands that check over you are bruised and stained with the blood of your perpetrator. After doing a quick check over, Arthur grabs your gun. His gentle hands meet your waist before he helps you to stand up. As soon as you’re on your feet, without another word, he grips your hand, picks up the money bag and pulls you deeper into the alley. After some turns and bends, Arthur stops in a secluded spot. 

Arthur deems you both far enough away to be involved with any trouble from the law, and he turns to face you. His hands come up to your cheeks, and with care he gently turns your face to both sides, checking you over more thoroughly. 

“How badly do you hurt?” Arthur asks, rolling up your sleeves to assess the forming purple splotches along your arm. 

When he sees them, his jaw sets into a hard, cold state as he breathes deeply to control his rage. Your eyes flutter up to his own, and you tread on thin ice, not wanting him to go back and kill the man. 

“Im okay Arthur, really, I-” You start, tears pooling in your eyes. Arthur watches them form and then wipes them away with his thumb. 

“Now don’t lie for my sake, he hurt you? More than this?” Arthur’s hand is gently holding your bruised arm, and the other cups your cheek. His eyes speak of an ache, of regret, you know he blames himself for leaving you in the alley, and you rush to reassure him.

“No, no he didn't hurt me, shook me up a little, but nothing bad.” You whisper, catching those soft green eyes again. Arthur looks down, and his body tightens as he avoids your eyes, terrified to ask the next question.

“Did he- did he do anythin..?” Arthur looks up, eyes locked on to yours to assess your answer, and you flinch, realizing what he’s asking. God, it could have been so much worse. 

“Arthur, no, I promise, I’m okay. Really.” 

He nods, seemingly accepting your truth with a breath of relief as his tongue darts out over his lips.

“Fuckin’ bastard, I should’ve done a lot worse to him.” Arthur curses, stepping away to pace lightly.

You step forward and put a hand on his warm chest to quell his rage. 

“No, no you shouldn’t have. He got the message Arthur.”

Arthur glances up at you for a few moments, his hands resting on his belt before he steps forward, and pulls you toward him by your shoulder.

“Just… C’mere sweetheart.” He whispers.

You step towards him, grateful for the way he envelopes you into his arms. He’s so big, so warm.  It’s a comfort that you didn’t realize you needed in the moment as Arthur kisses the top of your head. Everything is perfect, just in the moments that he holds you like this.

“Y’know, I worry about you sweetheart. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or bein’ made uncomfortable by bastards like him.” Arthur mutters into your hair, still hugging you tightly.

You wrap your arms tighter around his torso, nuzzling into his chest. 

“Well that’s why I have you.” You counter, smiling into Arthur’s warmth. He chuckles, and you’re glad to hear it. 

“I'll always be your protector, darlin.” Arthur says before pressing a slow kiss to your temple.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

javier has that shit on fr.

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

ARTHUR MORGAN in Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018) ↳ 38/?

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

eagle flies my beloved

(bad quality bc i'm learning to post here)

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

charles

[writingsofadelusionalgirlie]

I see the fire in your eyes - Chapter 8 : Fragments of Truth

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

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

POV: Luisa Ganci

I had been weak and reckless to confess fragments of my life to Arthur Morgan, this man who hates and distrusts me in every way. Of my real life, I mean—my life in 2025. But I missed it, my life. I was made for it, I fit perfectly into my world, and everything in this world of 1899 either repulsed me or hated me. My skin was losing its softness, my hair was no longer as silky as it used to be, and I was sick of eating stew every day. My body was getting thinner, I was losing muscle, and in a way, it was probably my fault—I was letting myself go. I hadn’t brushed my hair in days, simply keeping it in a braid, and I no longer bothered to lift my skirts when walking through the camp.

Hosea was the first to notice how much I was wasting away and how deeply unhappy I was. I probably wasn’t strong enough to survive in such an environment. All I wanted was to get my life back, even if it meant never skiing again. He came to see me a few days after I had admitted the reason for my sorrow to Arthur, sitting down at the table across from me and handing me a bowl of stew.

- Miss Ganci, I haven’t seen you smile in weeks.

I smiled at him—partly to satisfy him, partly because I didn’t know what else to say.

- Are you unhappy ?

- Yes, I answered honestly.

- Is there anything I can do to help ?

I shook my head, holding back my tears.

- Do you remember anything ?

- I... I was an opera singer in Europe. I was famous, I had money, and people who cared about me.

- Then why not try to return to Belgium ?

- Because there’s nothing left for me there.

He seemed to think it over. He must have assumed my career had taken a bad turn or that I had lost my family. In the end, he simply gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

- I would love to hear you sing, Miss Ganci. If Europe no longer wants you, I’m sure you could bring joy to many people here. And Dutch is quite fond of opera.

I wasn’t going to bring joy to anyone here. No one liked me. I only stirred pity and curiosity, nothing more. And this situation—this feeling of being inadequate, useless—was painfully familiar. It was a feeling I had hoped never to experience again. Still, a part of me was relieved, even happy, to have spoken a sliver of truth. It was as if doing so allowed me to keep existing, as if it made my past life real.

On the other hand, I was deeply embarrassed that Arthur Morgan himself had seen me sobbing like a child by the fire. That man had lost everything—his parents, the love of his life, his son. And I was crying because I was probably trapped in a nightmare, a hallucination, or perhaps just the ramblings of a woman who had hit her head and was imagining a life in the future. In short, I was crying over losing my little diva’s comfort.

- Mr. Morgan ! Strauss called out a few yards away.

I lifted my head from my sewing, glancing around. Arthur approached the lender. He wore a black shirt with suspenders, and—good lord—I had forgotten just how broad his shoulders were. His back was a true work of art.

- So, enjoying the view ? a teasing female voice interrupted my thoughts.

I looked away, cheeks flushing red. Molly was watching me with a mix of judgment and amusement, her arms crossed over her green corset, which suited her beautifully. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

- I was just wondering why he’s staying in camp today, that’s all, I lied.

Oh, whatever. I had hormones too, a libido—I was just a woman probably in the middle of ovulation. Molly rolled her eyes and crouched beside me, tilting her chin up with that aristocratic defiance that was so characteristic of her.

-Come on, no need to play the blushing virgin with me, she said with a certain disdain. After all, he’s a handsome man... Nearly every woman in this camp has had a thing for him. Except me, of course, she added, as if the mere thought was inconceivable.

She was even more beautiful in person, and her accent had something rather charming about it.

- He never wanted anyone. No one except that Mary.

That, I already knew. I resumed my embroidery, trying to ignore the discomfort Miss O’Shea made me feel. But I could sense her eyes on me, and when I looked up, she was scanning me.

- But you... she added, looking me up and down. You might have a chance. You look less sick and desperate than the other women here.

Her comment unsettled me. The women in this camp hadn’t chosen their miserable fate; they hadn’t chosen to be hungry, cold, and afraid. Molly had. She had left a life of luxury for Dutch and had probably made the worst decision of her life. She, too, would meet a tragic end. Just like Arthur...

Despite myself, I glanced at him again. He was still talking to Strauss.

- I won’t be leaving camp today. I have things to do, he declared.

Oh no! The debt collections! I jumped up, ready to intervene, but Molly grabbed my arm.

- Come on, we’ll take care of that. It’s about time I had another respectable lady in camp to keep me company.

- I’m not trying to please him, I answered sincerely. I just want to survive.

To my great relief, Arthur kept his word and didn’t leave camp. He sat near his tent and began cleaning his guns. I let Molly drag me into her tent and untangle my hair.

- I must admit, when you arrived here, I was jealous of your hair. It was like silk. But now, it’s more like a crow’s nest. Why are you letting yourself go like this ?

Her question was softer, almost concerned. I didn’t answer. I was exhausted, tired of everything, and I didn’t feel like talking. I didn’t even know why I was letting myself waste away—after all, it wouldn’t solve my problems.

- How on earth have you managed to keep such thick eyebrows your whole life?

Oh no! Not my eyebrows! When I return to my real life in 2025, I refuse to have those thin, early-2000s-style eyebrows!

- No ! I cried, but she had already pulled out a large pair of tweezers that looked anything but practical.

- Oh, come on, don’t be a child. I’ll only pluck the stray hairs.

I sighed, resigned. After all, letting her do this would at least distract me for a few minutes. In my normal life, I took great care of my appearance, and it made me feel good. Maybe this would help me forget, if only briefly, the situation I was in. I winced at the pain, and Molly rolled her eyes. I couldn’t believe this devilish instrument already existed in 1899. Then again, it wasn’t surprising—women had always been enslaved by male beauty standards.

- If you thin my eyebrows, Miss O’Shea, I will murder you in your sleep.

- Understood, she said.

- And I don’t want you coloring them either, I added, eyeing a stick of charcoal on the crate beside us.

- You’re so demanding.

- Yes.

When she pulled out white powder, I recoiled sharply, drawing the attention of Arthur, Strauss, and Abigail nearby.

- Oh no! Not that! It’s full of lead!

- So ? she asked.

- It’s poison. You really shouldn’t put that on your skin !

But I had spoken without thinking. In this era, few people knew that. Once again, she rolled her eyes, sighed and set the powder down.

- All the better—more for me. Can I at least put kohl on you, or does that will make you blind ?

- Knock yourself out, I sighed, sitting back down.

She played dress-up with me for a few more minutes, applying rouge to my cheeks and lips with her fingers and finally handed me a mirror.

- That's better, don't you think? You're quite pretty when you make an effort.

She had styled my hair into a half-up bun, seemingly made of braids, and had coated my lashes in black, drawing a line akin to eyeliner in the process. Strangely, seeing myself made up truly pleased me. It reminded me of my life, my life, when I used to go out every day with eyeliner and mascara on my eyes.

- I'll give you a few dresses that don’t suit my complexion. Dutch doesn’t realize my hair needs to be complemented by the right colors.

Great, I was becoming Molly O’Shea’s personal doll. When I stood up, she tightened my corset so much I could barely breathe, and I protested:

— For heaven’s sake! I can’t breathe in this thing!

Half of my chest was spilling out of the neckline, and Bill Williamson didn’t even bother to hide his stare.

— Loosen this, please, or I’m going to pass out.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and Bill smirked.

— Alright, alright… You're so difficult.

She obeyed nonetheless, and I could breathe freely again. As I walked through the camp, I came across Sean, who looked at me in surprise.

— Oh my God! A French version of Molly O’Shea.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

— My dear husband, when will you understand that I’m Belgian? — Yeah, yeah, same thing. By the way, thanks for coming with me to that little banking appointment. Here, a compensation for the time it took, he said, handing me a leather pouch.

There were about ten dollars inside, probably a cut of what he had earned by picking pockets at the saloon while some drunkards were chatting me up. I tucked them away in the coach chest where I slept and decided to make the place a bit more comfortable.

Molly taking care of me had somewhat motivated me to fight. I spent a few hours fixing up the coach—patching up the canvas, securing it to the walls so the wind or rain wouldn’t seep in, pushing it under the shelter of the trees, making a more comfortable bed with freshly washed blankets and some straw. Then I closed it up completely before wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. There, it was now fully sealed. Maybe I’d stop shivering at night.

— Well, no stopping you today, huh? Decided to enter a beauty contest? Sadie teased.

Wait, did those even exist back then?

— I’m sick of letting myself become a wreck. And I’m sick of shivering at night. — Well, we’ve got work to do, she announced, nodding toward my holster. — You and me ?

She nodded.

— We’re on watch tonight. And before that, we’re escorting the girls to the river so they can wash up.

I was relieved. It wasn’t a dangerous mission. I wasn’t made for that—I was just a singer from the future. Here, I was useless.

— I won’t be able to sleep knowing it’s two females watching over our lives, came Micah Bell’s nasty, nasal voice.

Sadie turned around and looked at him. He was leaning against a tree, sharpening his knife.

— I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Bell. — If your deceased husband had put you in your place like you deserve, you wouldn’t be running your pretty little mouth.

Sadie froze, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Micah smirked, that insufferable little smirk of his, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. As he took a few confident, taunting steps toward us, my foot shot forward before I even thought about it and landed squarely between his legs.

His breath caught, and he doubled over, hands clutching his precious jewels as he let out a strangled roar:

— You filthy whore !

I had gone too far. Way too far. But now I had to own it. I stepped forward beside Sadie, lifting my chin, feigning confidence.

— Go on, Micah, I’d love to see you get your ass handed to you by women.

The entire camp had fallen silent. Dutch stormed over, and I caught a glimpse of a smile on Susan Grimshaw’s face.

— Whatever’s going on here, it’s over.

He shoved us away from Micah, glaring at me, but his eyes weren’t nearly as murderous as Micah Bell’s.

Sadie smirked at me, and I noticed a flicker of pride in her gaze.

— You’re small, but you’re tough.

I had earned Sadie Adler’s respect. And I had gained a new enemy—one I’d have to start worrying about: Micah Bell.