Main Characters: Arthur Morgan, Female Reader, Unnamed Woman
Minor Characters: Sean McGuire, Lenny Summers, Javier Escuella, John Marston, Unnamed Men, Cliff (the bartender)
CW: kidnapping, forced incapacitation, assault, implied trafficking, loss of consciousness, general frontier-era violence
Summary: Reader is a server in the Valentine Saloon. She meets a couple of customers who decide she would meet the needs of their boss quite well. Their boss? Colm O'Driscoll.
Author's Note: So, I've been writing this for at least a week. It's my first challenge and dedicated series, and it's been hard because I've got a lot going on personally and don't have much time to write! Maybe I shouldn't have been so ambitious, but here we are! Anyway, I hope you enjoy 💗 also graphics are mine except the lace by @uzmacchiato
Whumpril 2026 Arthur x Reader Series Master Post
Part 2: Carry
All graphic content is under the cut.
Intro:
You came to Valentine in search of a job and a new life. You had very little money but heard the bustling, growing livestock town was in need of females, especially working ones. The majority of females already in town were prostitutes. Though that was fine and all for a frontier town, the place needed women who could work in other ways.
It surely needed some cleaning up.
You were hired the day after some big brawl in the saloon. As you walked down Main Street, you noticed the saloon owner struggling to clean the bar up still, and the glass from the broken window inside. You offered to help, an offer he was all too gracious to accept.
From there, you got the place cleaned up and in order before the bar was set to open. Though the work wasn't exactly hard, the owner assured you the place wouldn't have opened that night without you.
After that, you took on the position of 'waiter girl'. You directed the men to buy the saloon girls dances and filled the position of bath attendant when the regular girl went home in the evening. Plus, Cliff the bartender, was given a bit of reprieve. Having a server made his job easier. Some of the men still came to the bar and got their drinks and food, but most sat at a table and were waited on by you. It cleared the crowd from the bar and allowed him more time to keep the bar clean and stocked. He'd been begging the saloon owner for weeks now to hire another person to help out, but the man was a bit wary of spending the money.
Since you showed up though, he realized how much of a mistake that had been.
You started on a trial period of a week, making only tips. But, the tips were pretty good, most men in this town willing to spend a little money on a pretty woman who was handing them beers and whiskeys...
After that, you negotiated for your salary: Five dollars a week with free room and board, and any tips made were yours to keep.
People in town were quick to treat you with respect after you started working there. You cleaned the place up a quite a bit, enforcing rules that never had been enforced before, making regulars pay their tabs instead of allowing it to build for months at a time, advocating for the women who'd been asking the owner to step in when things got too rough, and cutting off men known to start fights before any actual fighting started.
The Saloon was loud tonight.
Reckless drunks and painted women all over the floor, dancing and giggling, or trying to start a fight with one another.
You set a tray down near a pair of men who elbowed each other, watching you a little too much for your liking, but it wasn't like that was uncommon. They didn't address you though. The woman with them laughed a little too loud, twirling a lock of straw blonde hair around her finger, keeping her eyes on the room, but then coming to you. She had sunken eyes and too much rouge to be from polite society. She looked you up and down, like she was sizing you up.
"Can I get you three anything else?" you ask with a polite smile.
She smiled wide and shook her head.
"Nope. Thanks though, sweetie."
Her smile was fake and her calling you sweetie made your skin crawl, not to mention that she looked at least a good five years younger than you. But you just nodded politely and made your way over to another table calling to you
There had been an auction this morning, and all the locals were celebrating the sale of their livestock who they'd been breeding, feeding, rearing, and herding, for months or for years. It was always like this after a big auction, according to the working girls...
Too many men coming in, smelling like pigs and sheep and cow shit. Too many men acting like fools in the name of impressing a few saloon girls. And too many men spending their hard earned cash on simple luxuries like alcohol, whores, and hot baths.
You weave through the crowd of men and the occasional woman, mostly saloon girls and prostitutes, carrying your tray full of beers to the next table.
"Billy, quit crying into your beer and go join your buddies," you say gently as you notice a young farm boy that had been rejected. "There'll be other girls, honey. And they won't be ones selling themselves in a saloon."
"Mister Higgins, you are far too old and far too drunk to be grabbing at me. If you keep it up, I'm gonna have to bust your kneecap with my tray, and that'll be a long walk home just to explain to your wife why you're limping."
"Jim, I don't care if you've been coming here since the war, either pay off your tab or drink water."
As you carry a tray of drinks to another group, you notice him walking through the door, a rare, slight smile on his face.
Him. He never told you his name. He asked yours and when you asked his in response, he said he didn't have one. Though it wasn't the usual, this place had plenty of ghosts. You yourself were one. A woman with no past as far as the locals knew, a widow from somewhere that didn't have a name, just knowing it wasn't anywhere near here. He was a ghost, too. The only difference was that you had a name to go by; he did not.
He must have been celebrating, coming in with a few other men. You knew some of the names, notably Sean and Javier from their flirting with the local girls, and the one younger guy named Lenny, only because of that one night where he came in with the kid, calling out Lenny's name all night, trying to find him and drunk off his ass... He looked very carefree that night... You wish you saw him like that more often.
The last man was a little younger than him, a freshly formed, still sort of healing scar along his face, with shaggy, dark-colored hair, and quite the scowl, seemingly at the fact that the saloon was filled with people.
"Aw, come on! Why is it the one damn time y'all drag me out here it's stuffed fuller than a pair of Pearson's pants on supply day?"
The redheaded Irish one, Sean, snickered.
"Aye, you payin' attention to what's in the cook's pants, are ya?"
The Mexican one, Javier, smiled mischievously.
"Si, Sean. John is Mandilón; Abigail wears the pants in that relationship. Maybe if he paid attention to what's in her pants, she would forgive him quicker, no?"
Sean and Javier both begin laughing, and Lenny looks like he was trying his best not to.
John threw his hands up in the air with an exasperated huff.
"That's it! I'm leaving. Y'all can–"
He cut him off, looking at him sidelong.
"John, calm down. You can't handle some teasin'? You been drivin' Abigail up the wall with your sulkin' 'round camp like you been; you ain't goin' back yet. Now come on, let's find a table that ain't already full of drunken bastards."
John pouted, but they did find a table, Sean and Javier still cracking jokes behind his back, making him send a sharp glare their direction when they sat.
You head over, feeling yourself put on your prettiest smile and letting your hips sway back and forth as you walk. Not a performance many people got. But... He was different.
You ask the group, but your smile is directed at him.
He turns slightly to look up at you, that slight little upturn in the corner of one mouth growing. He nods once.
"That we are, ma'am. A round for the table. Beer. And keep 'em comin', whatever these boys want."
"Sure thing," you respond, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
"Here... five for the tab," he says, not giving it a second thought, handing you a five dollar bill. That was a lot of money, but if he was buying for the whole table for the entire night? It would more than cover it, and five dollars wasn't out of the question.
Before you could walk away though, he stopped you.
"And... For you, ma'am."
He doesn't look away from your eyes, and hands you a carefully unfolded 1896 five dollar silver certificate from the 'educational' series. You don't hide your look of surprise at it, not having seen one in person. Most people didn't carry five dollar bills into the saloon, and especially not these ones.
The picture on it was the most beautiful you've ever seen on something like paper money, like a Renaissance painting, featuring the modern Lady Electricity drawn as a goddess of sorts.
You look at him, bewildered. It was an entire weeks wages if you didn't include the tips. Not that you would ever want to actually spend this. Like when a man gives a woman a piece of expensive jewelry: even though it's expensive, you wouldn't spend it. You'd cherish it.
This?
This was cherishable.
"Uh... Did you mean to give me this?" you ask, wanting to make sure he didn't hand it to you accidentally in place of some old beat up dollar or something. (Not that you really thought it was an accident; he didn't do things accidentally.)
He just nodded once, slow, his eyes still on yours.
"I did."
Normally you have no trouble keeping your cool, not like many men were anything worth blushing over around here anyway, but this time your cheeks flush and you look away.
"Thank you... I'll be back with those drinks then..."
You quickly make your way to the bar, then lean against it for a moment. You look down at the bill still in your hand, the one he gave to you, and absently handing Cliff the one for the tab. Your finger traces over the image in the center as Cliff sets the beers on your tray. You still had the flush on your cheeks when you went to give them to the group, but mostly regained your composure.
"If ya need anything else, just holler."
You caught his eye, smiling before you turn and go back to serving other patrons, the smile on your face more genuine than it had been earlier.
Arthur turns back to the table, noting the smile Lenny's trying to hide, the raised eyebrow from John, and the shit eating grins on Sean and Javier's faces.
His smile drops as he rolls his eyes.
Here we go...
"Huh. Well I'll be a son of a bitch... Did I imagine that, or did you just damn near flirt with that lady?"
"Oi! You goin' soft on us Morgan? Didn't know ye knew how to smile like that! And tippin' the lass, too! Does Dutch know how yer spendin' yer money?"
"Mira eso, Arthur Morgan, con encanto. Didn't know you had it in you amigo. Better be careful, I believe she likes you back."
Lenny was unable to hide his smile anymore. "You sweet on her Arthur? She looks like she likes you..."
"Jesus Christ, y'all act like I'm some... schoolboy or somethin'. Ain't sweet on no one, just bein' polite is all."
"Dios mio. Polite? That was more than polite, mi amigo."
"Polite my arse. You was givin' her the ol' Morgan charm. I saw it with me own two eyes, I did."
"They do have a point, brother..."
Arthur looked at them all incredulously. His gaze finally landed on Lenny who looked ready to burst into laughter.
"What the hell are you laughin' at boy?"
Lenny had to hold a hand up placatingly, a snort coming from behind his other one.
"Uh uh... I ain't sayin' nothin' else."
You hear the men laughing, not catching the words, until... there it was. Arthur Morgan. His name. The ghost had a name...
You get called to another table, the one with the two men who looked at you like you were in the window for sale, and the woman who felt a little too friendly.
The woman asked how much the tab was, then paid with a few coins. You went to leave, but she grabbed your arm.
"Sugar, can you point me in the direction where I might take a hot bath? I need to go... freshen up."
You purse your lips and nod. You had been lucky enough tonight to not have anyone request a bath past nine, which was when the usual bath attendant went home for the night. It seems your luck ran out.
"Yes ma'am, it's just upstairs. Twenty-five cents."
"Well, how much is it for the deluxe?" she asked, her smile widening in an almost a little too much. She looked... strangely predatory.
"I'm sorry, but... We're too busy to be doing the deluxe baths tonight. There's a hotel down the street that does 'em–"
You were interrupted by the sharp noise of someone purposely clearing their throat. You turn to it, and behind the bar is standing the owner. You take a deep breath and turn back to the woman.
"Sorry, miss. It's seventy-five for the deluxe."
Her grin brightened and she scrunched her nose with feigned delight, then pulled three quarters from a small coin purse, placing them in your hand.
"Make sure it's extra hot for me, sugar. And bring a few extra towels."
You nod, doing your best to keep your cool.
"Yes, ma'am, I'll come let you know when it's ready."
You take your serving tray and walk to the bar, firmly pushing it and the coins into the hands of Mister Smithfield, a rather unamused look on your face. You turn and start towards the back where the bathing room is.
"Here, you want to take me off the floor? You can serve the damn drinks yourself."
"Hey, wait, I can't do this!" he yells, chasing you back.
You shoot him a sharp look and he shuts up immediately before retreating to the front of the house with a huff.
You draw up the bath, placing out the scrub brush and bar of lavender scented lye soap, a clean rag and a few towels. Once the tub is filled and the bath ready, you show the woman to the back, allowing her to step into the room.
"I'm gonna need a few minutes to myself before havin' your... company."
"Yes ma'am. Just let me know when you need me."
You let her go and then went across the hall to the stock room that you usually waited in while patrons were getting settled in the tub. You sit on the chair, crossing your legs and arms and then tapping your toe against the floor, impatient to get back out on the floor.
Your mind briefly wanders back to him, no, Arthur. He had a name. You wanted to use it, even if only in your mind.
You slip your hand into your pocket, absentmindedly feeling the silver certificate mingling with the cool, metal coins.
Then, your train of thought's broken by the woman's fake, high pitched voice.
"Sug- I'll take your assistance now!"
You sigh, then stand and smooth out your skirt before walking across the hall and into the bathing room.
The woman is leaning back in the tub, a look of true contentment on her face. You see her though; you see her faint marks left by bruises days or weeks old, some fresher, blotchy purple and green and yellow on her pale arms and shoulders.
Now you just feel guilty. You've been judging this woman on what? A gut feeling?
You approach the tub with slow, steady movements, sitting on the stool next to her and lathering the brush with soap.
"Well ain't you just stiff as a board? Why don't you lighten up sugar? I ain't gonna bite," she says with a disarming smile.
"Sorry, ma'am. Just tryin' to do my job."
"Well, I could see that. Just thinkin' you could use a little relaxin', that's all."
"Ma'am, the relaxation is meant for you; you paid for it," you reply, your tone gentler than before.
"Oh, come on. Ain't any harm in it."
You scrubbed her arms and back with the brush, moving her hair out of the way as you did. She let out a soft sigh of contentment.
"Mmm... You know what? I know just what'll help you relax."
"Ma'am, if you're gonna tell me I should have a drink, I have to let you know I ain't supposed to drink while I'm working."
The woman laughed, surprising you. It was the most real thing she'd done all night, and you felt the tension drop slightly in your shoulders.
"Oh, sweetheart, I ain't gonna put you through that grief. No, I know something better."
She reached over to the items she had laying on the stand beside her, the contents of her pockets emptied there before she got in the bath.
She grabs a silk handkerchief and hands it to you. Your movements with the soap brush are slow as you take it from her.
"What's this?" you ask curiously.
"That is my Maw-Maw's handkerchief. See, she always put a bit of her perfume oil on it? And it just smells real divine. Go on, try it."
You look at the handkerchief warily, your gaze flickering between the woman and it. But the way she smiles, it looks genuine, unlike before.
Finally, you take a small sniff of it. It smelled... Strange. Not unpleasant, almost... Fruity? But then kind of cloying... You pull away and look back up at her questioningly, but she just urges you to smell it more.
"Go on, you gotta breathe deeper, sweetheart."
You were already suspicious but the way she's urging you is deeply off-putting. Something's up.
You pull back, shaking your head.
"Uh, no thanks ma'am, that's fine–"
You're cut off by the woman suddenly reaching to grab you by your hair, pulling you down, almost into the bath tub. She shoves the cloth to your face, holding it firmly against your nose and mouth, the smell of lavender lye soap and steam changing into the now sickly sweet smell of whatever was on the cloth.
You tried pulling away, but your arms were soapy and wet, making you unable to grip the lady or the tub or anything that you could pull yourself up from. You almost were able to sit up, but then you heard heavy footsteps behind you.
Someone came up and grabbed your arms, letting the woman in the tub keep the handkerchief pressed hard into your mouth and nose.
The sound of water splashing and the distant noise from the piano in the saloon was all you could register as you slowly sank down into a state of helplessness.
"There we are. See you just had to put up a fight, didn't you, sugar? That's alright... Colm likes 'em to have some fight to 'em..."
Your head is swimming and you feel your body slumping, eyes starting to dim.
The door creaks. You hear muffled, faint voices. You feel like you're underwater as you listen to them, garbled and strange, making no sense at all.
The lady finally takes the rag away, leaving you gasping for clean air, but it's not of much use.
You're unable to see, the room spinning. You're unable to hear anything clearly, and the noise from downstairs in the saloon is a distant thrumming. You're unable to think, the fog pulling you down deep, dragging you from the bathing room, out the back door, into the mud. What was his name?
"No... Please don't..." you call out, lifting a hand toward your captors, the men and the woman from earlier. But you can't lift your hand properly, your head properly. You can't yell or even barely open your mouth. Your brain tries its best to make sense of the situation...
What are they doing?
Your thoughts come and go, flitting here and there like a dragonfly you couldn't get close to. The moment it's hovering and you reach? It flies quickly out of grasp.
You gasp and try and speak, your words coming out more moan than speech.
"No... Please–"
The handkerchief is pressed against your nose and mouth again, suffocating you slowly by way of sickeningly sweet rotting fruit and chemicals...
"Shut the hell up!" you hear a male voice say. "Carl, where the hell did you get this shit? It ain't putting her out none."
"The doc said it takes a few minutes."
"Yeah, you best hope it works. Colm ain't gonna be pleased with how long we took."
You feel the tears streaming down your face, the snot coming from your nose, hindering your breathing and making you cough and sputter. Soon, however, you are silent once again, the darkness consuming your thoughts, pulling you under into a state of unconsciousness.
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Days, weeks, of readjusting to his own body, and he's already landed himself here, bloodied and in agony. After all the work V did, all the money Kerry poured on the merc just for this, Johnny ended up in practically the same place again.
He can't look. There's no need to show the hurt he knows is written all over his face. It's his own damn fault and he can't even come up with something to say. No joke, no scoff or jab.
The blood loss makes him tired. His head swims and his body feels like it's being pulled down and down... Did Vik give him something for the pain? He can't remember.
A metallic shimmer on the floor keeps his gaze, eyes locked on whatever it is, though going between blurry vision and teary vision. There's not much of a difference between the two anyway.
This—being stuck in a ripper's chair and watched—is all too familiar for him. There's something blocking him from reaching the exact memory, or memories, but he can taste it on his tongue; Iron and bitterness, from something he can't recall vividly enough to say it's real. He just knows that it's there, and drilling into his core, filling it with aches and fear.
Johnny doesn't do fear, he does anger and recklessness, and yet, his shoulders shake just enough to draw attention. He breathes, but it's all the wrong pattern. He blinks, but only every ten, if not fifteen seconds, like he can't truly even see what he's shying away from.
And he doesn't even know why. He's not ashamed of this, whatever he's done this time to give him a nice new set of scars from broken beer bottles slashed into his sides, he's not even fucking angry. There's nothing to be scared of here, but he can't look at the tools, he can't look at Viktor, and he can't look down at himself.
It's familiar and he can't pull up a damn memory to tell him why this makes his chest pound and his ears ring. It was taken away from him, that's all he knows. Whatever 'it' was—the memory or something else.
He just stares, looking almost peaceful if it wasn't for his shaking shoulders and the way he hadn't stopped gnawing on his lip since he got here. It's quiet, the way he panics here. No more lashing out, or drinking and smoking until he couldn't think anymore. That's not an option when he was dragged here in the first place, and the merc who pulled him here is waiting across the room.
Something like yelling sits on his lips, but it never comes out, even as Vik presses needle and thread into his wounded skin over and over. He takes it, silently. Almost enough to make him sick, at least something about this was.
Is it a whimper or a cry bubbling in his chest? Something so fragile; that, he can tell. Either way, it never makes it passed his throat. He can't let it. One way or another, it'll come out, and that time it will be through yelling or something getting broken. If it'll be himself breaking or not is a different problem for later.
For now he just waits, staring while he sucks in shuddering breaths and hears his own heart beat in his ears. The words exchanged around the room dont get an ounce of acknowledgement as they talk and talk about him. His brain tells him this will happen again, he'll feel all of this again just when he stopped running to catch his breath for a single second.
