#rdr fanfic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thisfanisgonesorry · 4 months

Text

relaxation — charles smith

a camping trip, some stress relief kinktober day 3: size kink

tags: smut, size kink / stomach bulge, breeding, ambiguous timeline, petplay/hybrids? use of bunny/bear

🐇

His large arms wrapped around my torso, his hands grabbing the flesh of my stomach and his chin resting on the top of my head. “Evenin’, baby. Any chance you’d wanna come hunting with me?” He spoke casually.

“Hi.” I smiled, not turning my head as I rinsed bowls in the lukewarm water. “We’re going hunting?”

“Of course. You’re always helpful.” He spoke sweetly, biting his tongue and pressing a kiss onto my temple. “Prefer you to anyone else.”

His large hands grabbed hold of my waist as he helped me down from my steed. “You know I can do that myself, right?” I laughed softly,

“But why would you when I’m right here?” He placed me on the ground and hitched my horse to the nearby tree.

He started putting up the tent casually, like nothing was going on beyond a simple day out and it was beginning to feel like exactly that.

“So what’re we hunting?” I attempted to scrounge together as many sticks as possible, trying to start a small campfire, and I slumped down on the ground, striking a match against my boot and letting it light.

He shrugged as he put the tent up, tying the entryway flaps open with a clip. I shrugged, handing him the bedrolls and he laid them down side-by-side. He let out a small laugh at my actions, watching me sit back down next to the small fire.

“Nothin’. Just needed to get you out of camp.” He admitted once he climbed out of the tent, he sat by the edge and crossed his legs.

“And to think you were being helpful.” I scoffed slightly, though he simply patted his thighs, gesturing for his intentions. I crawled towards him, and eventually took a perch on his lap.

“That’s my good girl.” He cooed.

“You’re predictable.”

“You’re beautiful.” His chest rumbled slightly. “I had to take care of my sweet bunny, hm? I could tell you needed time away.” His words were sweet, and each sentence was met with a kiss to the face.

I wrapped my arms around his strong shoulders, nuzzling myself into his neck. “Maybe you got one thing right.” I commented, legs sprayed across his large thighs. His hands run up and down my back, holding me close to him.

“Such a good bunny.” He cooed, removing my boots softly and placing them to the side.

He moved us further into the tent, moving swiftly to lay me down flat against the soft bedroll. He shut the tent flaps behind us and pressed a kiss on my shoulder.

The sun was setting, and his hands fiddled with the edge of my pants. “Chose here on purpose. Don’t be afraid to make some noise.” He spoke sweetly, his large hands moving to remove my pants and bloomers, folding them neatly to the side before he unbuttoned my shirt.

He then pulled at his own shirt, throwing it haphazardly to the side, before dipping his head down and pressing a kiss onto my stomach. “Tell me you missed me. You missed this.”

“I missed you.” I moaned out as his lips pressed a firm kiss on my clit before leaving a light suckle, then running his tongue up the length.

His soft eyes watched me carefully as he slowly buried himself deeper into me, his nose brushing against my clit until he’d move up and swirl his tongue around it, taking it between his lips and moaning as he sucked, wet sounds filling the air, and then letting it pop loudly.

He let a low chuckle at the pink tint covering my face and he hunched over, his head dipping lower and part of his hair covering his eyes. “Smother me.” He groaned, his hands dug into the plush flesh of my thighs, pulling me closer to him.

I gave a light tug onto his hair, writhing under him and my fingers closed tight with his locks trapped within my fist. “Charles—” I whined, pulling him away from me for just a moment.

“What can your bear do for you, bunny?”

I dug my feet into his back with a strained whine. “Fingers, please.”

“Aw, that’s it.” He cooed. “You just want your tight pussy stretched out.” He smiled, not faltering his movements as his two large digits rubbed against the entrance.

He started sucking on my clit again harshly, and slowly pushing his fingers in. I sobbed against my palm, muffling the sound. “Don’t.” He growled. He reached up, taking my hand away and after carefully untangling my hand from his hair, he pinned my wrists together under my sternum, my elbows digging into the bedroll.

He listened to the symphony of moans that fell from my mouth at his movements, intentionally making it agonisingly slow until he reached the hilt.

His movements began slow and steady, a gracious pace while his tongue swirled against the bundle of nerves. “Sweet girl.” He groaned to himself, pushing the pads of his fingers to the perfect spot that made me clench around him.

“Charles, I’m—“ And he pulled away, placing one last kiss on my stomach before crawling up my body, his fingers still working to stretch me apart for him.

“I know, I know.” He purred to my whines of protest, the sudden lack of stimulation causing me to spasm around him.

I threw my head back against the bedroll, squirming against his hands for friction and earning a small, pitied smile in return.

He leant closer, his lips ghosting mine. “Taste yourself.” He waited for me to lean forward, pressing his against mine, and he was smiling into the kiss at the sounds of my moans.

His hand left my wrists, and wrapped around my throat loosely, holding me in place as his other quickened, going at an inhumane pace. My eyes rolled back as I struggled to keep kissing him.

He groaned, not relenting on its speed. “Fastest way to stretch you out, yeah?” He teased, sounding incredibly smug at the desperation. “You sound so pretty.”

“Charles—!” I sobbed into his mouth, my hands grabbing onto him, my fingernails threatening to break his skin.

“You’re a needy girl, beg me to split you apart on my dick.” His soft smile never faltered despite the sweetness not being in his words. His kiss stayed tender as he waited for the fog to lift and for words to spill from my lips.

“Please.” I managed out once I could see through the haze. “Oh my god, please. Charles, need you. Need you to split me open.”

He let out a pleased hum, enjoying the way the words caught in my throat at the brutal pace he’d set. His hands slowed gradually before pulling out completely. “You’re my good bunny. So good at begging.” He cooed, removing his pants gradually, kicking them off and wrapping his slick fingers around the length.

I whined, squirming under his touch as he rubbed the tip up and down the folds. “Please, give it to me.”

“You love how big I am, yeah? How small you are compared to me?” He commented, rubbing his head up and down a few more times before slowly pushing in until he felt resistance. “How I can only— Fuck, get so far in at first before it starts to hurt you.” His voice was a low growl as he slowly began to thrust what he could. “Always gotta stretch you out more ‘till I fit.”

His thrusts were shallow and slow, and he let out short groans, his face scrunching up occasionally as he tried to restrain himself from bullying himself into the small space.

The wet sounds that filled the tent only beckoned the various moans from both of us to become louder and filthier, causing my ears to perk up. “You.. You’re sure no one’s gonna— fuck— hear us?”

“Mhm.” He nodded. “We’re miles away from a town. There’s no chance anyone will come here.”

“What if they ride past the road?”

“They’ll only see a tent. I made sure. They won’t hear a thing. ‘Nd baby, you’re clenching around me too much, can’t fuckin’ move.” He hissed, his palm soothingly running up and down my thigh. “Just trust me and calm down. It’s in no one’s business to come up to us.”

“What if they try to rob us?”

“Then they won’t be alive much longer.” He spoke sternly, his other hand cupping my face. “Take a breath ‘n’relax f’me.”

I took a sharp inhale, sucking the air into my lungs as I tried to untense my muscles. He sighed softly, squeezing my thigh and nodding reassuringly as he continued his ministrations.

“That’a girl, let me just fuck those thoughts out of your head.”

He moved my legs to wrap tightly around his torso, hooking my fit together as they dug into his lower back, pulling him closer to me though he was met with resistance when he didn’t fit just yet. He let out a guttural groan and I winced at the intrusion. His fat head pressing against the deepest part of my walls, threatening to push deeper into my guts, tearing me in half.

“You don’t have to worry about anything.” He crooned, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. A mewl crawled out of my throat, a choked cry of pleasure. “Shh, that’s it, all wound up. Unwind.” He took a handful of my hair, making a messy ponytail in his fingers, tugging back my hair slightly to display my neck to him.

Gentle kisses were littered on my throat and chest as he was grinding his hips into mine, trying to push himself deeper. “Charles, it’s too much.” I struggled against his sheer size. The humiliating lingering thought of someone overhearing filled my senses as he filled my tightness.

“Ah, just open up for me, bunny.” He whispered with feverish need, reassuring me gently as my heels dug sharply into his thighs. I moaned, wanting to cover my mouth again but he caught my hand before I could, a short glare of daggers that said ‘don’t’ filled the air and I closed my eyes tight, my eyes half-lidded and glancing down at him.

His strong chest held me down, pinning me to the bedroll. His movements slow and careful as he was grinding himself into me with short thrusts. It chased little pleasure besides the feeling of fullness, the warmth taking him wholly and perfectly.

“Always so surprised by how you take me so well.” He praised sweetly, his words lingered as he eased me open, still kissing and lapping at the skin in front of his eyes. “You’re doing so—” He choked on his words briefly as he finally pushed to his hilt, a short groan leaving his lips as his eyes forcibly fell shut. “—So fucking good, sweetheart.”

I let out a short yelp of surprise, before it subdued into moans. He continued grinding into me slowly, letting me clench helplessly around him. His scratchy, well groomed pubic hair brushed against my clit and his muscles tensed as he watched me carefully.

“Oh my fucking god.” I cried out, my body arching up into him. His mouth grazed across my chest. He watched carefully, his eyes drinking in every detail of the scene, before he wrapped his lips around one of my nipples, earning another strangled moan. “Ah, Charles—”

“No. What’d I say?” He interjected. “No thoughts. No thinking. All you have to do is lay back, relax and take it.” His slowly began to move more, sliding in and out at an everlasting slow pace, letting the largeness consume my thoughts as I felt every aching inch of him fill my pulsing walls.

My head was clouded and fuzzy as all the stress melted away. “I want more.” I whispered, pleadingly. “Please.” I added as an afterthought. “Please, bear.”

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby.” He groaned in response, the ball of his palm pressing into the bulge through my stomach. His hips snapping into place, enough to make my tits bounce in place. “Such a good bunny, hm? All tight ‘n’warm for her big bear.” His words bordered on animalistic grunts.

“All f’you.”

“That’s right, all for me.” He nodded, pressing his lips against mine quickly. “What do you need to cum?” He asked tentatively. His hips moved, a gracious but deep pace, his body itching to go brutally with sharp movements, to press his head against my cervix harshly and fill it without a second thought.

My eyes blinked at him, bleary as I squeezed him like a vice. “Fuck me deeper.” I rasped out.

“Deeper?” He laughed, his thick digits reaching down to my middle. He rolled his neck hesitantly before abiding. He pulled away, his chest no longer pressed against mine and he took in the view of a heaving chest, arching upwards.

“Mhm, more.” I nodded blankly. His hips moved, dragging himself from the slickness and harshly bullying himself back to the hilt, moving his hips to attempt to move his tip deeper into the heat.

“Unwind.” He repeated softer, keeping the punishing pace as shameful sounds filled the tents air. “Y’re so wound up, baby, relax and you’ll cum like that.” He commented with a figurative click of the fingers.

I whined incessantly, nearing closer to the edge. “Can’t.”

“You can.” A smile spread across his lips but his eyebrows knitted. “I want you to.” He continued, his voice gentle, unintended to come across as any form of pressure. “There’s no expectations for you here. I will do what you want.”

My words caught in my throat once again, and his hand ran over my torso, squeezing my breast before pinching at the nipple. “You wanna sit on my face? I’ll eat you up ‘til you’re creamin’ all over me.” He whispered, trying to beckon some form of command from me. “You wanna ride me? I’ll get the saddle all ready for you. Whatever it takes.”

“This’s good — don’t stop.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep fuckin’ you like this.” He reassured with a hiss, his movements faltering. He let out a brief huff of amusement, taking in every detail he could. “You’re right there, bunny.”

“So close.” I croaked out, pleading with him.

“Haven’t fucked those thoughts out yet though.” He spoke quietly, a short hum and a sharp slap to my thighs. “People just ask so much from you, but you’re away.” He spoke the obvious, I wasn’t at camp currently, though I was still tense and acting like I was.

My thighs flinched at the contact, a slight sting and the flesh turning into a pink handprint. I whimpered, a good sign to his ears, my fingers grasping onto his shoulders and pulling him closer however he stayed still as a statue. His hands were occupied, one circling my clit and the other pinching and squeezing at my chest.

“What else do you need?” His words of affirmation melted away as his own orgasm approached. “Let me get you there.”

“Cum in me.” I blurted out, the first words that came to mind when I pleaded with myself to figure out what would work. I tightened my legs around him to prove a point, and he hissed, trying to pull away briefly to test my strength.

“Yeah?” He leant over me, his hand leaving my breast to hold himself up as he had a reborn vigour, using his knees to push my hips into position, moving it so he could hit deeper, his tip nudging against the cervix. “Want me to fill you up?”

I nodded, and his ragged breathing paused as he took in the utter desperation in my eyes. “You need this, bunny.” He nodded in understanding. “You deserve it.”

His thrusts staggered, short gasps and grunts leaving him. He put his sentences behind him, his eyes threatening to close each time he felt himself brush against the spongy opening to the womb, a shooting pleasure each time he did.

“Gonna cum.” He rasped out. “Y’gonna cum with me.” It wasn’t a question in the slightest, though I nodded in agreement, trying to itch myself closer. My hand met his, and I pushed his hand to move faster.

I gasped, a silent squeal leaving my throat. “Don’t stop.” I pleaded. Another choked cry, I pressed myself up to meet his chest again, my hand digging into his shoulder, pulling his body closer to mine.

My eyes squeezed shut as I clamped down on him. “That’s it, right there.” He crooned with a shaking voice, “Good breeding bunny.” He hissed with a sharp inhale, feeling the spasm around him.

“For the love of god, don’t you dare—”

“I won’t stop, bun, go on. Cum all over me. Squeeze my cock dry.” He whispered carefully, his hot breath on my face. His breathing was ragged, his hips continued to stutter.

He held my hips firmly, angling the waist. He pushed against my cervix once again, his cock twitching with low groans. He twitched, a pornographic moan falling from his lips before he could give a warning as he pressed a rough kiss onto my mouth — messy and wet, lips clashing together as his movements slowed down, grinding harshly in place as he weakly spurted cum with guttural groans.

“‘M not done yet.” I managed to choke out.

He nodded blankly, a glazed over look in his eyes as he continued his movements through our orgasms, his overstimulation beginning to sting, but he ached for my pleasure. His cum threatened to seep out of me, coating his length and our thighs, his weak thrusts trying to push the cum further inside. “That’s a good cocksleeve, take it, bunny.”

I slumped down limply, pushing myself up onto my elbows and he pressed a kiss onto my temple, nuzzling the sweat-slicked hair out of my face, I panted lightly and he had a low groan, still grinding his hips idly.

My eyes were hazy, I watched him with a lop-sided grin. “Thank you, bear.” I hummed.

“Course, sweet bunny girl.” He pressed another kiss onto my temple. “Gotta make sure you’re taken care of, hm?”

I gave a short laugh, a kind smile of adoration. “Appreciate you.” I spoke quietly, yearning for the closeness between us. “Y’re too good f’me.”

“Wanna keep my cock in you?” He whispered, scooping me up in his large hands, and laying on his side, keeping me close. “Keep all that cum in place.” A low hum, his face buried into my neck, a deep inhale of my scent.

“Y’gonna fall asleep?” I murmured.

“Mhm, I’ll only ever rest when you’re sated.”

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

215 notes · View notes

margowritesthings · 10 months

Text

The Greatest Gift III: She Sleeps

SERIES MASTERPOST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 1017 words warnings: teeth-rotting fluff, tbh this made me cry a/n: just a cute lil drabble for my favourite family in the world

taglist:@cowboydisaster@inkandbloodbound@beea-nie@cloudynoiire@punctillous@missvanderlinde@twola@pine4pple-b0i@alice-vanderlinde@photo1030

The newly appointed Uncle Dutch stays for a little while, admiring his new goddaughter until he and Arthur notice you struggling to stay awake. You’ve drifted off completely by the time Dutch hands Jade back to her father and congratulates the pair of you once more, returning to his tent to gush over the new addition to the gang.

Sleep overtakes you completely and utterly, your body so exhausted from the last nine months you could probably sleep through a riot. That much is proven about an hour later, when Jade stirs in her cot and begins to cry, the very first time in a long, long period of sleepless nights for the three of you. Her little screams pierce the formerly tranquil air, the trauma of waking up in the real world seemingly alone not really agreeing with her.

You’re normally not such a heavy sleeper, where the snap of a nearby twig or Uncle’s less than melodic singing, no matter how far away, is enough to wake you. But exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how your body aches right now, how it longs for rest and clings onto it with a mighty grip when you finally get it. You don’t even stir.

Arthur, on the other hand, is woken instantly, paternal instincts already setting in ferociously. He looks down to you, smiling to himself when he sees you’re sound asleep, just about managing to untangle his limbs from yours without waking you and pressing a kiss to the top of your hair. When he gets off your shared cot, he makes sure to wrap the blanket back around you.

“Hey, little lady…” he whispers, almost apprehensively as he walks towards his daughter, hands raised in the air as if he’s approaching a spooked horse. Force of habit. “It’s all right, baby girl… Daddy’s here.”

To Arthur, Jade is made of glass, and he lifts her into his arms as such. His precious, fragile little masterpiece, who makes him feel bigger and more brutish than he ever has before. He sits in the chair at the foot of your cot, Jade settling in his strong arms like she was made for them. She was, Arthur thinks, he just never realised until this moment. That’s all it takes for Jade to stop crying: her daddy, who would lasso the moon for her if it meant she could see the stars a little brighter.

Even in the dark of your tent, Arthur can see her eyes glistening up at him, and can still make out her tiny features. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, save for you, of course.

He thinks of Isaac for a moment, and how he held him like this precious few times, vowing that his memory will live on in the way that he will protect Jade from the evils of the world no matter what stands in his way. He will do for Jade what he failed to do for his son, in his honour.

Breaking the silence settling around your little family, you moan softly in your sleep, turning onto your side. It draws Arthur’s attention to you again- not that it would ever be too far away- and he smiles to himself, entranced by how peaceful you look, how beautiful you are.

Jade reaches up to Arthur’s chin, pressing tiny fingers against his stubble and capturing his attention once more. The quietest of chuckles escapes his chest, a smile so pure stretching his lips.

“Ain’t she beautiful, baby girl? I’m so damn proud of her…” Arthur physically winces when he realises he just cursed to a 4 hour old baby, but will later realise he should be the last of his own troubles, what with her having a dozen outlaws for aunts and uncles. “Sorry…” he hums, glancing between his wife and daughter to direct the apology to both of you.

“But I am. Proud of her, that is… We’re the luckiest two people in the whole world, little lady, cause we got her…”

Apparently finding her father’s chin to be a little scratchy (with Arthur making a mental note to shave first thing in the morning), Jade reaches out into the open air, and Arthur can’t help but reach right back. He adjusts his hold on her, freeing one hand to let her grip her tiny digits around his singular finger. He feels like a giant, but he’ll be damned if his heart isn’t pounding right out of his chest at how happy he is right now.

“You’ve got the best momma in the whole world, you know that? And I… Well, I’m gonna do everything I can to be a good papa, baby… Everything I can.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified. Arthur has owned a fair few front row tickets to displays of how not to be a father, from his own Pa to how easy it has been for Marston to mess up again and again over the years. And hell, he’s never seen anyone raise a little girl before. But as he promises, with his entire heart and soul, he is going to do his absolute best to be everything he can be to Jade.

“Hey, and I hope you know how loved you are, little one. Your momma and I… God, I can’t even tell ya’, baby… You were a surprise, I’ll tell ya’, but we love you so much…” She’s squeezing around his finger as hard as she can, leaving the tiniest crescent moons from the smallest fingernails Arthur has ever seen.

“You both did so well today… you were both so brave, huh? My brave girls…” He whispers, his words riding a content sigh. Jade’s eyes begin to flutter shut, her eyelids too heavy for her little self to fight. “You get some sleep, darlin’... I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.”

The moon is falling fast, and it’ll soon be sunrise, but Arthur just can’t bring himself to sleep and miss one second of this night, watching his girls and silently promising them the world.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #the greatest gift #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr fanfic #rdr imagine

368 notes · View notes

zanazirafanfic · 5 months

Text

RDR Event Timeline (Canon + Headcanon)

This is the timeline I have constructed and use for all of my Red Dead writings. Canon event dates/ages are taken from the Red Dead Wiki, and headcanon estimations for more ambiguous events/characters are based on their approximate ages in-game by 1899 and what makes the most logical sense to me based on that timeline.

Please feel free to use this as a reference for your own works too, if it helps. (Canon events are noted as such, and my headcanons are labeled "HC.")

1839 - Uncle born (HC)

1844 - Hosea Matthews born (Canon)

1845 - Rains Fall born (HC)

1846 - Leopold Stauss born (HC)

1850 - Susan Grimshaw born (HC)

1853 - Orville Swanson born (HC)

1855 - Dutch Van der Linde born (Canon)

1857 - Josiah Trelawney born (HC)

1860 - Micah Bell III born (Canon) (newspaper clipping mentions Micah Bell Jr. robbing with his 17-year-old son in 1877)

1861 - Simon Pearson born (HC)

1863 - Arthur Morgan born (Canon)

1866 - Bill Williamson born (Canon)

1870 - Dutch leaves home aged 15 (Canon); Kieran Duffy born (HC)

1871 - Sadie Adler born (HC)

1872 - Charles Smith born (HC) (based on est. age of 27 in 1899)

1873 - John Marston born (Canon); Javier Escuella born (HC)

1874 - Lyle Morgan arrested and hanged, Arthur orphaned (Canon); Molly O'Shea born (HC)

1875 - Karen Jones born (HC)

1876 - Dutch and Hosea meet outside of Chicago, IL (Canon); Sean MacGuire born (HC)

1877 - Abigail Roberts born; Arthur joins the gang, aged 14 (Canon)

1878 - Eagle Flies born (HC)

1879 - Tilly Jackson and MaryBeth Gaskill born (HC)

1880 - Lenny Summers born (Canon)

1881 - John Marston's father dies, John orphaned (Canon)

1882- Annabelle and Bessie join the gang (HC)

1883 - Bessie and Hosea marry and leave the gang (Canon); Arthur meets and begins dating Mary Gillis (HC) (Jamie Gillis references both Annabelle and Bessie during the mission in Chapter 2, so IMO this would've been the most likely time for all 3 to have met one another.)

1884 - Dutch kills Colm O'Driscoll's unnamed brother, Annabelle killed by Colm in retaliation; Hosea returns to the gang (HC)

1885 - John Marston and Susan Grimshaw join the gang (Canon); Charles Smith leaves home, aged 13 (HC) (based on est. DOB 1872)

1886 - Arthur proposes to and subsequently breaks up with Mary in the springtime; Arthur meets Eliza (19) later in the year, and Isaac is conceived (HC)

1887 - Lee & Hoyt Bank Robbery, April (Canon); Isaac Morgan born (HC) (According to Arthur in-game, Eliza only knew who he was after she got pregnant. Based on this they most likely met in late 1886 or very early 1887, with the bank robbery in April '87 and Isaac born that autumn.)

1888 - Death of Bessie Matthews (HC) (based on the assumption that she passed some time before Arthur lost his son. Her cause of death is never specified in canon, but I HC it was a fairly quick battle with pneumonia over the winter.)

1891 - Isaac Morgan (4) and Eliza (23) killed in a home robbery (HC)

1892 - Bill Williamson dishonorably discharged from the U.S. Army (Canon); Uncle joins the gang (HC)

1893 - Bill Williamson joins the gang (Canon)

1894 - Abigail Roberts joins the gang, introduced to them by Uncle (Canon)

1895 - Jack Marston born; Javier joins the gang (Canon)

1896 - John Marston leaves the gang; Jake and Sadie Adler marry in September (Canon)

1897 - John Marston returns to the gang after a year (Canon)

1898 - Micah Bell, Charles Smith, Lenny Summers, and Jenny Kirk join the gang (Canon)

1899 - Blackwater Massacre; dissolving of the Van der Linde gang; deaths of Jenny Kirk, Mac and Davey Callender, Sean MacGuire, Kieran Duffy, Hosea Matthews, Lenny Summers, Molly O'Shea, Eagle Flies, Susan Grimshaw, and Arthur Morgan (Canon)

1907 - Construction of Beecher's Hope ranch; John and Abigail marry; death of Micah Bell III (Canon)

1911 - Kidnapping of Abigail and Jack Marston by the U.S. Government in exchange for John's cooperation; deaths of Bill Williamson, Javier Escuella, Dutch Van der Linde, Uncle, and John Marston (Canon)

1914 - Death of Abigail Marston; Jack Marston kills Edgar Ross to avenge his father's murder (Canon)

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #fanfiction #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr fanfic #red dead redemption timeline #writing resources #canon compliant #heacanons #zanazirawrites

66 notes · View notes

strwbite · 11 months

Note

i can already tell this is about to be my new fav blog… can i request something about john and arthur (separately?? whatever is easiest) falling for a fem gunslinger who’s new to the gang?? :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ A/N; how sweet of you to say, anon!! thank you so much! :D <333 and yes, of course you can! gonna be so honest here, i got SUPER into writing arthur's part and made it way too long, so this post is condensed to just arthur's perspective. i'm currently writing up john's, but i think it'd make the post a bit too long if i included both, so i decided to go ahead and post this one tonight! i hope to have john's up some time tomorrow—in a separate post so nothing is too long! i hope you understand and i am so excited! i had a lot of fun writing this for you!:D i hope it's in character for arthur, i tried my best!:) anyways, enough rambling, let's get into it!

♡ ; WARNINGS; fluff, some angsty themes, descriptions of a wound, hurt/comfort ♡ ; SUMMARY; you tend to arthur's wounds and he realizes just how much he cares for you ♡ ; RATING; sfw ♡ ; CHARACTERS; arthur morgan ♡ ; DETAILS; 3.5k words, part one - find john's part here (wip)

“Arthur Morgan!”

Your voice was hushed in your throat as you whisper-shouted his name through the air of Horseshoe Overlook, your words sounding more like a scold than a greeting. Said scolding hung heavy over Arthur and he tipped his head down in embarrassment, the black leather of his hat covering what little you could see of his face. He sat in his horse's saddle, one hand holding the reins as he led her to the post. The other hand held a white-knuckled grip on the opposing shoulder, his body slouched over as he guarded it. Taking a step closer, you noticed the crimson stain seeping into button-up that lay beneath his equally bloody hand, ichor oozing out of what you could only chalk up to some sort of wound.

It was around four in the morning and most everyone at the camp was fast asleep, save for some of the camp’s night owls, who wandered around, aimlessly. You had finished your chores around camp and decided to spend some time picking up the slack where other members had failed to keep up with their responsibilities; a selfless attempt to avoid any conflict between Grimshaw and aforementioned slackers. You had been wiping down a dirtied table that sat across from the hitching posts when you were interrupted by the sound of hooves clobbering against the dew-covered grown. The hoofbeats were met with a sleep-deprived Lenny who called out, ‘Who goes there?’, which was met with Arthur’s half-hearted, ‘S’just me, Lenny.’, before he rode up to the hitching post.

“Christ, what happened to you?” You chided, rushing to his side as you took a closer look at the blood-stained hand he held over the presumed lesion. There was more blood than you had originally noticed, some of which was a deep brown that dried and seeped into the cotton of his sleeve, speaking note to just how long it had been bleeding. You reached up, gesturing for him to move his hand, but he only nursed it closer to his side, causing a grimace to spread across his face at the movement.

He was in pain, that you knew for sure—despite what you’ve learned of his durable reputation, seeing him like this worried you. You and Arthur had grown somewhat close after your arrival. At first, you had a hard time accumulating to the hectic nature of the gang, but he aided you in your transition into the Van der Linde lifestyle. He checked up on you daily, offering you food, errands—just about anything you could think of. Arthur also held conversations about your life before, allowing you to ramble on about who you are and where you came from; how different things are now—and he'd validate everything you had to say about the Gang's way of life and your upheaval. After some time, he even took to bringing you small gifts and trinkets he found when he'd run off somewhere, each time saying something along the lines of, ‘I know you ain't got none of your old stuff with you, so here, saw this and thought of you.”.

Needless to say, you had developed a strong affinity for the cowboy. So when he disappeared, seemingly without a trace, it troubled you.

You hadn’t seen or heard from him in days—in fact, no one around the camp had. Days without Arthur turned into a full week without Arthur and you couldn’t hide the concern that stirred inside of you. Despite your new position in the gang, you know this wasn’t unheard of, per se—Arthur had a habit of disappearing for days at a time, only to return with various trophies and animal pelts from his adventures. But something felt off to you, this was different. That feeling only served to be solidified when you overheard Charles muttering something along the lines of, ‘Didn’t find him when I went lookin’ earlier.’, in a passing conversation with Javier.

And yet, here he was—the cat dragged him in, albeit not without a few scratches and bruises. He slung his leg over the saddle and to the other side of his horse, a hiss slipping through his gritted teeth at the pain that seared through his shoulder at the movement. You offered him a hand and helped him down, supporting his weight to the best of your ability. After he was on the ground, you slung his non-injured arm across your shoulder, ignoring his stubborn insistence of, ‘I can walk on my own, ‘m fine.’, as you urged him to use you as support. Arthur accepted his fate and hooked his arm around your shoulders—the blood leaking from the injury at the loss of pressure—and allowed you to help him to his tent.

“Can’t believe you’d run off on us like that, Morgan—you do this a lot?” You griped at him, but concern tinged your every word. “Had everyone worried half to death—‘m glad you’re back, even though I hate seein’ you like this.”

“Ain’t nothin’ for you to make a fuss over, best you quit that bellyachin’. Don’t wanna make yourself sick worryin’ about me.” He remarked.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m always worryin’ about you.”

Arthur could hear the genuinity in your tone, so palpable and honest, and it sent a fire of guilt burning through him, his head drooping low once more in avoidance. He never meant to worry you. The last thing he ever wanted to do was keep you up at night, wondering if he was okay or if you'd ever see him again. He was adamant that a newcomer like you shouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing in the first place—you were just getting your land legs within the gang, you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with the likes of him. Despite the remorse pooling in his stomach, it was hard to ignore the way his heart sputtered against his chest at your expressed concern. Arthur wasn’t the most in-tune with his emotions and when he was, it was scarcely pleasant. His feelings were deprecative at best, most of them leading him to believe he was undeserving of care; that everything he'd ever accomplished had been nothing but evil, hateful deeds—that he deserved all the bad things that happened to him—that would happen to him. He had it coming, of course. The thought of a lady like you caring for a wicked man like him profoundly confused him and sent his brain wracking. But even he had to admit, the way you spoke to him with such consideration piqued his interest. On one hand, he felt he wasn’t worthy of such a sweet, caring person in his life—on the other, he wondered what it would be like to be to get to know you. To open up to you. To let you in.

“I ain’t worth the fuss.” He remarked, disregarding the way his heart heaved heavy in his ears at the thought of something more tangible between the two of you. He averted his attention back to the wound he nursed on his shoulder, taking notice of the grime and debris that surrounded the gash. He assumed that all the poking and prodding at it with less-than-clean hands egged on the infection that dared to fester. His adrenaline had worn off at this point. His shoulder ached and throbbed.

“Just got myself a souvenir from an O’Driscoll, s’all—graze at that, mind you. Ain’t nothin’ to write home about—why’re you so concerned anyways, Miss?”

“Oh sure, just a graze,” you scoffed and rolled your eyes, your tone dripping with sarcasm. Despite his aloof demeanor, you continued guiding him to his tent with slow, tentative steps as you supported his weight with your own. “‘Cause, Arthur, that could get nasty real quick and I ain’t too keen on lettin’ you up and die by the hands of an O’Driscoll. Graze or not, you’re lettin’ me doctor you up—and I mean proper.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue—to insist that he would be fine, that he didn’t need a lady such as yourself to waste precious time on a man like him, but the words fell short when he turned to look down at you. Your gaze met his own, your demeanor softened with worry and care, and it sent a flight of butterflies he didn’t quite know he had fluttering in his stomach. How could he say no to you? With a long-winded exhale, Arthur nodded his head in response, his eyes darting around the camp to avoid your stare.

“Sure.”

When the two of you reached his modest tent, you eased him into a seated position on the cot before taking a step back. With an insignificant gesture that said ‘one second’, you scurried off to grab the much-needed supplies, leaving the cowboy to sit and fester in his stirring emotions and searing pain. You weren’t gone too long, though, and you returned with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. The other held a strip of flannel and a roll of gauze.

“Now, this ain’t gonna feel good by any means,” you murmured as you lowered yourself to the cot, taking a seat next to him.

Arthur had been through this process many times—several of those times were unfortunately at the mercy of less-than-careful hands. Needless to say, he knew the pain and he knew it well. His painstaking fate mattered little to him at the moment, though, as all he could focus on was how close you sat to him. He’d sat next to you before, sure—but not like this. You sat with pure intentions, leg brushing up against his own as you leaned in to examine the wound with such care. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—you knew of the things he had done, his reputation certainly preceded him. You knew exactly the type of man he was, tied up in his wrongdoings and sins, and yet, you didn’t question a single thing. Instead, you gave him a brief scolding and treated him with a gentle kindness he’d never quite received. You took care of him. The moment felt tender like never before, filled with consideration and attentiveness—Arthur couldn’t recall a time he had been so vulnerable with someone, save for Mary Linton, which was long over and done with.

“Don’t I know it.” He grumbled.

Arthur shifted his position on the cot, leaning forward to give you a better view of the supposed ‘graze’. What you could make of the surrounding flesh beneath his shirt’s fabric was red and inflamed, a testament to the trauma it bore. The wound itself pulsated as blood trickled down, matting the ripped fabric of the shirt to his skin. Your feeble fingers grazed around the edges as you struggled to get a closer look through squinted eyes. Some of the view was obstructed by clotting blood and torn fabric—Arthur grimaced at the sensation of your touch against the inflamed skin.

“How long I got, doc?” He queried, voice hitching in his throat in pain while he attempted to make light of the situation. You had to admit, it was a nasty wound—a bullet to the shoulder was rarely a welcomed invitation, especially to those who didn’t receive care from a proper medic, but you had seen worse.

“Well, Mister Morgan,” you spoke as your hands worked the cap of the whiskey bottle, a loud ‘pop!’ signaling that it was open. You lifted the flannel to the top of the bottle and flipped it over, soaking the material as the stench of alcohol flooded your nose. “You’ll live. Probably. Y’know you’re lucky you found yourself at the hands of a medic such as myself.”

The two of you shared a laugh at your jest—in all actuality, you had little to no idea what you were doing when it came to anything medicinal. The best you knew was to clean it with whiskey, drink the aforementioned whiskey to help with the pain, wrap it up, and pray it doesn't get infected. But you would be damned if you didn’t at least try to assist the poor man; you didn’t know Arthur to ask for help. The little time you had spent with the man proved him to be self-reliant, sometimes to a fault. The fact that he accepted your aid, albeit begrudgingly, was a surefire sign that something was wrong.

Your gesture didn’t go over his head, either, as he watched you work the bottle and cloth with attentive hands. He shook his head and a nervous-lipped grin twitched at his lips as he looked down at the liquid courage in your hands.

“S’pose you’re right. Dunno what I’d do with myself if it weren’t for you.”

“You’d do nothin’, I imagine it’d be a lonesome life, Mister Morgan. ‘Sides, who else ‘round here would fix up your,” You paused, as if searching for the right words, “Graze wounds, if you hadn’t met me?”

And with that, you raised the alcohol-soaked strip to the wound and gingerly pressed it against the laceration, dabbing it in repetition to remove any excess blood or dirt. Arthur flinched in response to the cloth brushing against the inflammation, followed by a small hiss slipping through gritted teeth as the raw sting of whiskey sept into the gash. You worked with vigilance and the most delicate touch you could manage, and he sat still for you, knowing it was for the better. The consequences posed if you didn’t flush it out served enough for him to bite his tongue and suffer through the pain.

When you finished the final touches of your doctoring, you pulled the flannel away and discarded it to the cot beside you. You replaced it with the roll of gauze and worked it around his arm, covering the scrape and securing it to itself. After finishing, your hand lingered on the unbothered skin below, your thumb rubbing circles against the skin to soothe him.

“It ain't perfect by any means, but that should do it.” You assured him with a gentle smile.

At this point, you sat so close to him. You enveloped Arthur’s every sense, from the wavering heat of your hand against his arm to the smell of gunpowder and wildflowers wafting off of you—the sight of you peering up at him with such fondness sent his heart racing once again. His hands fidgeted, nervous and awkward, as he stared at you for just a moment longer than necessary, before breaking away. The grip you had on Arthur grew tighter and tighter with every moment he spent in your presence. He wasn’t the best with these sorts of things, finding it all too complicated and confusing to put into words; he even rambled about it in his journal, writing, ‘I am not sure why I find myself so drawn to her; how do I explain this to her if I can’t even explain it to myself?’. From the way you carried yourself across the camp with such poise, to the way you gawked at him from across the campfire sent sparks flying in Arthur’s mind. Not to mention the eager way you rushed up to speak with him every time he came home—he was enamored with you, as nervous as he was to admit it.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmured as his eyes darted from yours to the thumb tracing circles on his bicep. He prayed you wouldn’t notice the flush that crept across his cheeks, starting from his nose, traveling all the way to his ears and neck.

Despite his wishful thinking, you noticed it, but you found it endearing. You had never seen Arthur this flustered—tongue-tied, sure, but never quite like this.

“I sure do appreciate it.”

You gave him a soft smile, eyes trailing along the heat that crept across his sun-kissed cheeks. You started to stand from the cot, keeping your eyes set on him as you rose to your feet. “‘Course, Arthur. Now, you just go ahead and rest up, all right?”

He nodded along as you spoke, avoiding looking into your eyes with a sense of embarrassment. It was never his intention to worry you, and he knew he'd be beating himself up for weeks over this entire endeavor. “Thank you for takin’ care of me—didn’t think you’d much care ‘bout it, 'bout me. ‘M sorry for bein’ gone so long.”

“Pfft,” You stifled a small laugh from within your throat as you placed a flattened palm against his non-injured shoulder, urging him to look up at you. “Don’t mention it. And ‘course I care ‘bout it. I care ‘bout you, Arthur—we all do.”

You offered him, yet another, sweet smile and used your thumb to rub the same circles against his shoulder. If you’d let him, Arthur was certain he'd stay like this for hours—under the comfort of your touch as the soft glow from oil lamps and moonlight shone over you. Your time spent with him was short-lived, sure, but there was no denying the way he gravitated to you. You were a fresh face, so kind and sweet to everyone you met, despite your reticence, and he found himself wanting to spend time with you. He'd ask you to accompany him into town, even if it were just to drop off some mail or pick up something on behalf of Dutch. He even took to bringing you along while hunting or going on scouting missions, despite initial hesitance. He was reluctant to put your in harm's way, but with some convincing on your end and a showcase of your way around a gun, he obliged you and found himself enjoying the company.

The world made sense when you were around, not so much when you weren’t.

“I care 'bout you, too. I'd even say I enjoy havin' you around, 'specially when you're fixin' me up." Arthur blurted out after a moment's silence, hands fidgeting as the boldness of his words sat heavy on his shoulders. Nerves soon sat in and his stomach twisted into a bundle of anxiety, sweat beading at his hands and forehead—did he say the wrong thing?

"Pardon, I, uh, not that I don't always enjoy your company, ‘cause I sure do-you're, uh, a real pleasure to be around, s'just—am I talkin' too much? Feels like ‘m talkin’ too much.”

He blabbered on, stammering over his words as he struggled to form a coherent sentence and you couldn’t conceal the laugh that slipped from your lips. It wasn’t one of malice or mockery; it was pure admiration.

“Oh, Arthur,” you sighed, your voice filled with warmth and affection that sent a fire of nerves burning through him. With a mix of nervousness and longing, you leaned in closer, bridging the gap between the two of you. Your eyes locked, and you could sense the anticipation in the cool air surrounding you. At that moment, time seemed to falter and come to a standstill. One of your hands caressed his hair, running your fingers through the long locks just before your lips met his in a tender, heartfelt kiss. It was soft, sweet, and everything he had ever wanted. His entire body tensed up as he felt your touch against him—it was supple and delicate, a tenderness he had seldom been gifted before, such a contrast to the pain that scorched through his shoulder and his very being. As if he needed any more confirmation, the feeling of your gentle affection laid upon him solidified everything—you made sense. He wanted to know you. He needed to know you.

With that, you pulled back, just after trailing another light touch through his hair, before you stood back to your upright position. He said nothing. You didn’t either. No words were needed when your sentiment spoke a thousand things more than he could ever dream of saying. The two of you lingered for a moment, taking in the moment as you stroked a delicate thumb against his stubble-covered cheek, tracing his time-weathered features. He leaned into your touch, ever-so-slightly.

Finally, you broke the spell of silence, your voice inching just above a whisper, “Get some rest, Arthur. You need it.”

With a final graze across his cheek, you retracted your hand and headed out of his tent, returning to the tables you were tending to, but his image stayed etched deep in your mind.

Arthur watched you retreat, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to shake the warmth that pooled in him at your kiss. His mind swirled with emotions he couldn’t quite put into words. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time; it was a feeling he thought he had lost forever, and he still questioned if he truly deserved it, even now. He replayed the fleeting moment in his mind, committing every detail to memory—the touch of your hand, the softness of your lips, the tenderness in your eyes.

With deliberate movements, mindful not to aggravate his injured shoulder, he settled flat on his back, lying down on the cot. His gaze fixed on the canvas ceiling above and his thoughts raced, consumed by you and what could be.

Gradually, sleep beckoned Arthur, tempting him with heavy eyelids and the gentle chorus of crickets chirping in the nearby woods. As the night wore on, the camp embraced a stillness that only the wilderness could offer, coaxing him into a deep sleep. In that stillness, your presence lingered, a gentle reminder that Arthur wasn’t alone; that you cared for him.

Just as he cared for you.

336 notes · View notes

vittoriaisfuckingpathetic · 5 days

Text

save me from the nothing i've become

rated M | read it on ao3 | 3k words | next chapter

John’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. He had no idea that Abigail had settled down. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a feller,”

She tilted her head, appearing confused. Then, understanding washed over her. “Oh, John, I’m not…” She shook her head. “I’m not married.”

She could tell he was still (justifiably) confused, so she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. John, this is my son, Jack… Jack Marston.”

1899. Three months after the dissolution of the Van Der Linde gang, John reunites with Abigail, whom he hasn't seen in 5 years. Unbeknownst to him, she's kept a part of him with her the whole time.

NOVEMBER 1894

That fateful evening, everything had seemed relatively normal. Until, of course, it wasn’t.

Abigail approached John at the campfire. The New Austin heat had cooled as the sun went down, and now there was a chill in the air. As such, he had been sitting with Arthur and Javier, the latter strumming his guitar somewhat aimlessly.

“John? Can I talk to you?” She asked.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He looked her up-and-down. There was something wrong, her body language was off, her voice a little shaky. She’d been acting standoffish and strange lately, so he’d been giving her space. Perhaps she was upset by it, and they’d likely argue. But then they’d go back to normal soon enough, as they always did.

She glanced at the other two men. Arthur was nodding off, and Javier was paying no attention, instead focused on his guitar. She cleared her throat. “Can we talk alone?”

John raised an eyebrow, but complied nonetheless. He grabbed his jacket off of the ground first, slightly put off by the fact that he had to leave the warmth of the campfire. Abigail lead him to the area overlooking the rocky cliffside, where two sideways barrels sat as makeshift seats. She gestured to one of the barrels. John sat, confused.

He looked at her, tilting his head. “You alright?” He was starting to get a little worried.

“No. Yes. I will be.” She sat down on the other barrel gingerly, folding her hands in her lap.

Her confusing answer did little to abate his worries. On instinct, he shrugged his jacket off and placed it around her shoulders. She accepted the gesture with little gusto.

“It’s okay. You can tell me,” he assured her.

Abigail nodded tensely. She shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her throat. “Christ, I just.. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out the best way to say this. Spent all day tryin’ to come up with the words and I still can’t.”

John was silent as he waited for her to continue.

She was quiet for a good while, staring up at the stars. The sky was an inky black, and the cosmos twinkled in a cloudless sky. “I just— I can’t keep doin’ this, John.”

His heart sunk. What did she mean by that? Couldn’t continue with their relationship? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong lately, besides being a little distant. But they both liked their space at different points, and it was never an issue before, so why would it be a problem now?

John opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… you’re breakin’ up with me?” He let out an awkward sort of breathy laugh as a nervous tic.

Abigail pursed her lips, mulling over her words. She shook her head. “No. I need out of this,” she gestured loosely. “This life, I can’t do it.”

What else would she do? She hated her life before. Was her old life really better than whatever existence she’d carved herself in the gang?

“So… you’d rather go back to prostitutin’?” He asked, indignant. He felt immediate regret upon seeing her expression. The way her mouth pressed into a thin line and her brow furrowed.

She stomped her foot angrily, a cloud of dust rising from the impact. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’ and you know it! Christ, you can be so—“ She cut herself off with a clench of her fists.

“So what are you sayin’, then? You leavin’ ‘cause ‘a me?” He stood up, rising to his full height. He was just about ready to storm off and leave.

“Will you get your head outta your own ass for a minute an’ listen to me? This ain’t helpin’ nothin’!” She threw her hands in the air, gesticulating with an air of anger.

John sat back down with a huff. “I’m sorry. Go on.” he forced out. He had so many questions, so much more he wanted to add. But he’d hear her out; deep down, he knew she was right. Arguing wouldn’t help her explain herself.

She shook her head sadly, not meeting his gaze. “It ain’t nothin’ against you, John. You know how much I care about you. But I gotta do what’s best for me.” She hugged herself — hugging the jacket, John’s jacket, closer.

“And?” he pressed.

Her arms were still crossed, but the ire was gone from her voice. “I need to feel safe, and livin’ on the run with a bunch’a criminals ain’t safe. I have to protect myself.”

Rationally, John couldn’t argue with her logic. But the thought of losing her hurt more than he could have ever thought.

He said nothing in response — Hell, what even could he say?

Abigail reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, John. I ain’t doin’ this to hurt you.” She let out a sigh, and when she finally met his gaze, her eyes were misty. “I already know what your answer is gonna be. But I have to ask, ‘cause I’ll spend the rest of my life kickin’ myself if I didn’t. Will you come with me?”

His mouth went dry. There were two clear-cut paths laid out in front of him.

He could keep living this life — wild, lawless, dangerous. All the freedom he could want and all the danger that came with it. Going to sleep and wondering if he’d be greeted with a torched camp and a knife in his throat in the morning. The constant brushes with death and the exhilarating temptation it brought.

Or a life with Abigail. Freedom — but in a very different way; experiencing the wild, untamed world with the woman he loved by his side.

That meant no more gang. No more safety net. No more stability. No more Arthur or Hosea or Grimshaw or Dutch.

Dutch…

He thought of how Dutch would react, shuddering. He’d be labeled a traitor… and maybe Dutch would be right for it. After all, how selfish could he be? To leave his family, even if it was for Abigail? He couldn’t do that, could he? They needed him.

But Abigail wanted him. Yet she was willing to leave, seemingly with or without him. She’d survived much longer without him. True, she didn’t need him. But did the gang need him? Surely they did, he put his due effort in and in turn they took care of him. He owed the whole gang so much.

He bowed his head down, unwilling to see the look on her face when he rejected her. “I… I can’t.” You fucking coward.

Abigail nodded, seeming like she expected this. “I know,” she said sadly. She rose from the barrel she was sitting on. Silhouetted by moonlight, the grayish jacket on her almost looked like a pair of angel’s wings.

Perhaps, she was an angel, of sorts. She wasn’t meant to stay in Hell with him. She was meant to soar to the heavens, far above this life.

She was leaving. She was leaving him. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, a dull ache blooming in his chest. “Wait. Abigail?”

“Yeah?”

He couldn’t let her leave without saying it at least once. He exhaled shakily. “...I love you,” It felt only fair that if she was going to shatter his heart, he may as well give it to her fully.

She gave him a sort of sad smile. “I know you do, John. I know you do.”

And just like that, she was gone, like smoke dissolving in the air, having left his heart adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

OCTOBER 1899

FIVE YEARS LATER

Three months.

Three months had passed since everything had fallen apart.

He had rode until the horse he’d stolen (after Old Boy had been shot out from under him) until it dropped. Then another, and another after that, until he’d passed through West Elizabeth. He spent his time roaming New Austin for a few weeks, then he went north into New Mexico.

John wandered the desert almost as a ghost, wandering from place to place aimlessly. He was far enough away that he hadn’t seen any Pinkertons, and he’d done his due diligence to cover his tracks.

He hadn’t fully let his guard down yet, but he felt confident enough to stay in a settlement for more than a day or two.

That was how he had found himself in his newest haunt. For the southwest, it was a decently big town — one by the name of Brimstone. It wasn’t quite the size of Blackwater, but it was close to as large, and besides, it was a good place to lie low.

John hitched his newest horse in front of a water trough. “Go ‘head, get yourself a drink, miss. You’ve earned it,” he said, smoothing his hand down her mane.

He’d stolen the Gypsy Cob from a rather bold bounty hunter (who’d unfortunately caught a bullet in between his eyes). She was a pretty thing, white splashed-bay coated with soul-stirring blue eyes. “I’ll be back, lady. Think I’m gonna get myself a drink an’ find us a place to stay.” He had no reason to speak to the horse, but he’d been sorely lacking conversation as of late.

The horse, naturally, didn’t answer him back, getting herself a well-deserved drink.

The town’s saloon was right across from where he’d hitched his horse. It was a short walk inside, every step made a little more excruciating by the sun beating down on him.

God, he was filthy. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t caked in sweat.

The saloon, of course, housed degenerates of all sorts — the exact people John fit in seamlessly with. However, it was fairly empty, considering it was high noon.

All the better. Meant less people would talk to him. The wooden floors creaked under every step he took, drawing the attention of the few patrons inside.

John fished a coin out of Arthur’s his satchel and apathetically tossed it onto the bar.

The bartender looked at him curiously. “You new ‘round these parts, stranger?”

“Guess you could say that,” John replied impassively. “Gimme a whiskey.”

The bartender poured him a shot and slid it to him. “You look rough, partner.”

“Feel rough,” John muttered before tossing his head back and downing the shot. The acrid taste and slight sting in his throat made him feel a little bit less like a zombie.

The room was quiet for a moment. The only other patrons were either sad drunks half-asleep on the floor, or crusty old men playing cards.

It was a downright depressing environment. Then again, he supposed he fit in perfectly with that.

“We got rooms and a bath upstairs, if you need ‘em. Fifty cents for both.” The bartender informed him.

John sighed deeply. He reached into the satchel blindly, then placed a dollar coin on the counter. “That should cover me for about one bath and three nights.”

“Thank you kindly, sir. Can I get you anythin’ else?”

“Nope,” John replied tersely. “Just the bath.”

“Sure, partner. Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right.”

He muttered a thanks in reply and pushed himself away from the bar.

As swiftly as he could manage, John sorted himself out. There was no reason to be hurried, but months of being on the run, it had become a habit to do just about everything quickly. After all, he had no idea when he’d next have to pack his things and go.

That had been his reality ever since the Blackwater incident. For most of the year, there was always someone hot on his tail, only now he didn’t have the safety in numbers that being in the gang provided.

Firstly, set down the few items he owned inside his rented room. Soon after scrubbing himself clean in a rather tepid bath, shaving, and putting on (semi) clean clothes, John walked outside, the blazing sun still high in the sky. According to the bartender, there was an open-air market the next street over. He needed supplies; it had been almost two weeks since he’d bought anything, and his rations were getting uncomfortably low. Should he have to flee town suddenly, he’d probably be up shit creek without a paddle.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have any money. When Arthur gave him the satchel, there was a ridiculous amount of money with it.

Arthur…

It still hurt to think about him. Hurt to think about a lot of people. All the people he’d lost.

Hosea. Miss Grimshaw. Lenny. Sean. Kieran. Jenny. Mac. Davey.

Even Abigail, though she wasn’t a direct consequence of Dutch’s insanity. Though it had been years, he still felt her absence keenly. Almost like a wound that never quite healed. She haunted his thoughts nearly every day — but did she still think of him?

He had no idea if she was even alive. And now, it would be nigh impossible to find her with the bounty on his head.

Perhaps it was fate that he ended up completely alone. He’d spent his formative years alone on the streets, and now it was much the same.

Of course, the difference was that he knew how to take care of himself.

Still, he was just as alone as he’d been then.

The open-air market was much larger than he expected. Not only that, but it was rather crowded considering the time of day.

Merchants came from decently far, but considering Brimstone was the only town for miles, it made sense. The closest town was Tumbleweed, and it had taken him about two days to get from Tumbleweed to Brimstone.

He was perusing the lackluster selection of fruit — granted, it was hard to get a nice selection of produce all the way out in the desert. A kindly old woman was selling plums, upselling to him about how they were the best locally-grown fruit you could find in Brimstone.

His stomach growled at the prospect of having something fresh to eat. He’d been living off of canned food and jerky (when he remembered to stop and actually eat, that was) for months.

“How much will it be?”

“Five cents, sir,”

He fished around inside his satchel until he found a quarter and placed it in her wrinkled hand. Then, he grabbed a second plum. “Keep the change, ma’am,”

She grinned. “Bless you, young man.”

Sometimes, it was the simplest acts of kindness that made him feel a little less like an irredeemable monster.

John nodded at the old saleswoman, then continued to wander aimlessly. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted to buy, but he was hoping something else would catch his eye the way the plums did.

The trapper’s stand didn’t have much that interested him, but he did stroll by a little slower upon seeing a few of the pelts. Nothing was quite attention-grabbing enough, and after a moment he continued on.

Until he stopped dead in his tracks — because the woman just a few yards ahead looked eerily familiar.

It couldn’t be… could it?

Abigail.

He’d recognize her anywhere. The woman who had haunted his dreams every day since she had left his life.

She looked good. Happy. Relaxed. Healthy. All adjectives that couldn’t be used to describe himself.

She turned to face him — and when their eyes met, it was as if time had completely frozen. He forgot how to speak, how to stand, how to breathe. His mind played those last moments between them, how she had left him with his heart in her palm.

“Wait. Abigail?”

“Yeah?”

“...I love you,”

“I know you do, John. I know you do.”

“John?”

“Abigail,” he whispered. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He pushed away the urge to run to her, scoop her into his arms and never let go, instead walking to her at a slightly hurried pace. He bumped into indignant townsfolk, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His sights were solely on Abigail. John had complete tunnel vision; all he could focus on was her.

He was enraptured yet again by her bright blue eyes. They seized all the sadness in his heart when she looked at him.

“It’s, um, it’s really good to see you,” He finally said, dumbly. He mentally kicked himself. He’d been thinking about this moment for five years and that was the best he could come up with?

His only other want was to take her into his arms and kiss her like he’d never see her again. He had so many questions for her. How long had she been here? Why was she in Brimstone, the middle of nowhere, of all places?

“I heard what happened, it was in all the papers," she said, face scrunched in concern. “...You look like death.”

How he’d missed her. He thought about her so often, wondering what a reunion between them would be like.

"Thanks," he replied, accompanied by a dry laugh, "I feel like death."

She reached out to touch him, just a brush of her hand against his chest. Still, it made his heart flutter.

“...I thought you were dead,” she added quietly.

John could say the same about her. He sighed, trying to ignore the memories she unwittingly dredged up. “I was one of the lucky ones,”

“Karen? Arthur? Hosea?”

He simply shook his head, eyes downcast. There was so much he needed to tell her. It would surely take hours just to cover everything that had happened this year alone.

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “God, I’m sorry,”

At that moment, a little boy — one with eyes that were the same blue as Abigail’s — decided to make his presence known, tugging on Abigail’s skirt insistently. “Mama, what are we doin’?”

John’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. He had no idea that Abigail had settled down and had children. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a feller,”

She tilted her head, appearing confused. Then, understanding washed over her. “Oh, John, I’m not…” She shook her head. “I’m not married.”

She could tell he was still (justifiably) confused, so she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. John, this is my son, Jack… Jack Marston.”

#red dead redemption fanfic #rdr fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #johnigail #john marston x abigail roberts #john marston #abigail roberts #john marston fanfic #jack marston #rdr fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #vittoria.doc

30 notes · View notes

vids-rdr2-artblog · 1 month

Text

Saving Mary-Beth

I wanted to write a little fic where Kieran shows off that he’s not really a coward and saves Mary-Beth after she’s been kidnapped. I might write a second part that’s just pure fluff.

Pairing: Kieran and Mary-Beth

Trigger Warnings: Violence against women, Murder, Abuse, Time period sexism.

(Please do not read if you are sensitive on these topics!)

7,203 words

Thank you @glenechoslasher for beta reading for me <3

Read it on AO3

***

Mary-Beth ventured into Rhodes with Mr. Pearson, having volunteered for the task for many different reasons—she loved to check and see if there were new books or authors listed in the newspaper and to simply get away from Miss Grimshaw. There was this relief that prickled the back of her neck when she knew that the woman wasn’t right there, breathing down her neck in the back of the wagon, and there was a sense of freedom seeing the open roads rather than their crowded camp.

Pearson talked the entire way, so Mary-Beth didn’t bring a book, as much as she’d rather drown herself in words rather than his nonsense. This man probably had his lungs stored in his stomach or had a second pair because Mary swore she never saw him take a breath between his sentences. But she listened to him anyway, glad the trip between Rhodes and Clemens Points wasn’t long.

“I’m glad you like to listen to me, Miss Mary!” Pearson said, sounding genuinely excited, which did make her feel good in some way, “Sometimes the others don’t like to listen to my stories, but you’re a good girl, Mary-Beth. When people say someone doesn’t have a mean bone in their body, you’re who I think of. I should take you on trips more often!” He laughed.

Mary-Beth became flustered and nodded, not wanting to say anything to bring down the mood of the jovial man, “Of course, Pearson. I think I read something in a book once about a brave navy man who sorta reminds me of you.”

Pearson perked up. “Oh? What book?”

Mary-Beth thought of a quick lie, a finger to her chin, “I don’t remember because it was so long ago, but if I find or remember it, I’ll tell you immediately!”

“Thanks, Mary. I’m not sure if I’d read it or not, but it’s great to see when great men are recognized.”

Pearson’s smile grew as he flicked the reins of the horse a bit more vigorously, and eventually, they reached Rhodes. It was sometime around 1pm, not too early and not too late into the afternoon. Thanks to Arthur being deputized here in Rhodes, she didn’t fear the lawmen as much as she did in Valentine and didn’t worry that they would be watching her every move. The folks here were a lot calmer and some of the women actually waved to her as she passed by. Welcoming, really. But man did she hope that the people of Rhodes didn’t think that she and Pearson were man and wife. A feller could get the wrong idea seeing them arriving on the cart together. She supposed however that if they had to hide their identities that way, then she would have to go through it even if she didn’t like it. Though her inner reader was curious and she had wondered how a romance between a couple with the likeness of them would interact. The girl did have a wild imagination, after all.

Pearson parked the wagon next to the general store and the two climbed down, meeting at the back of the wagon. It seemed that they came at the right time because the train had just reached the station, its whistle blowing in the air. The man put his hands on his back and stretched his body, Mary hearing a few pops as she did so. He whistled at the store, “I’d love to have one of these puppies sometime. I think it would be exciting to run a shop like this!” he said excitedly before turning toward their empty wagon. He took out pieces of parchment from his pocket and handed one to her but kept the other for himself. “Alright then, I’ll have you get the stuff that we need from the general store and then I’ll go over to the butcher for some real meat. Arthur’s been good at gettin’ money for us, but he ruins a lot of the meat he brings to us, skinnin’ them himself…Plus I want something other than venison once in a while…” He grumbled mostly to himself then resumed, “You got all that?”

Mary-Beth nodded excitedly and held the note to her chest, “I got it, Pearson. When I’m done, I’m going to go find the newspaper boy, OK? I want to see if there’s been any new releases or authors.”

“Sure, sure.” Pearson nodded then took money from his pocket, “Here’s the money from the box. Buy ONLY what’s on the list or else Dutch will have our heads. You shouldn’t have to pay the men to put everything in the wagon, so let me know if they try to trick you.” He pointed a finger. “I’ll meet you back in an hour, Mary-Beth. An hour.”

“An hour, yes. Will do, Pearson.” Mary-Beth smiled and glanced over the list. Most of what he had put was canned vegetables and fruits, bread, and luxuries such as tea, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco. She was surprised to not see ammo on the list but some of the other gang members probably took care of that separately from a simple grocery trip.

Taking the list to the man behind the counter, “Hello, I have a pretty big order to put in, can I get some men to help load some crates and put them on my wagon?” “Sure can.” The clerk pushed the catalog to her and she pointed out everything she needed and read off the number that was on the list. Reading it to him also gave her the comfort that she wouldn’t be scammed because she was a woman. Most men assumed that women couldn’t read, so she made sure to show that she could. “When do you think you could take it out to the wagon?”

The man answered as he rang her up on the cash register, “Oh, you’ll be able to load it immediately. We’re actually well-staffed, and my young men will be able to help ya. Maybe about fifteen minutes.” He smiled and told her the amount she needed to pay.

Mary counted the bills and handed them to the man. She double checked the change before pocketing it. There would always be a side of her that believed anyone was capable of scamming her only because she was the type of person to do the scamming herself. She leaned against the counter with her hands, “It’s the wagon parked out next to the store. My companion is over at the butcher’s and he might come back in time to help out too. Do you need me to wait here, or could I go on another quick errand?”

“My boys will start putting your order together now and start loading on yer wagon. They’re fine boys too, I ain’t never had to swat them once. So you can stay and watch or come back when we’re done.”

Mary-Beth smiled and nodded, pushing off the counter, “Thanks sir, I won’t be too long. I just want to grab a newspaper. Do you know where it’s at?”

“Oh, the boy likes to move around town, but I think I spotted him toward the saloon, if you know where that is.”

“Uh huh, I do sir. Thank you!” Mary-Beth pocketed everything and left the general store. After taking a quick glance over to the butcher’s and seeing that Pearson was still busy haggling with the butcher, Mary-Beth headed toward the saloon with a chipper smile on her face, comfortable walking around the town by herself since it didn’t feel dangerous at all.

As she headed up the road and toward the saloon, she kept her ears open for a newspaper boy, announcing the next paper but heard nothing. Maybe he sold out that day…Damn…Maybe the saloon had a copy that she could borrow for a couple of minutes.

Mary-Beth placed her hand on the door to the building but it didn’t budge. Damnit. Locked. Were they closed or was she just at the wrong entrance?

Making her way along the side of the saloon, she kept her eyes on the windows, trying to spot anyone inside. There wasn’t, and from the little that she saw of the bar, she noticed that even the bartender was out. It was strange to see the saloon closed at such a weird hour of the day, but maybe all towns acted differently than each other, and maybe not everyone here was a stupid drunk.

Mary-Beth came around the back end of the saloon and just as she did, she heard voices. She instantly hid along the edge of the house. Two Irish-speaking men had a man wearing an apron held against the wall, a gun at his abdomen. Down at their feet was the body of a younger man. Dead. Mary-Beth looked behind her and realized that she had been so busy looking into the windows that she hadn’t noticed the blood trail right under her shoes. She had walked into a murder scene in the making.

Mary-Beth’s instincts told her to flee. Just seconds after she saw the scene, she turned to leave, her jaw clenched shut. But someone was there now. She met the stale breath and before her stood a man. Then, there was a blinding pain above her left eye, right on her temple, his arm casting a shadow over her. Blood poured out from the gash on her head immediately. She hadn’t been knocked out immediately, but she fell back enough that the men behind the saloon noticed and dropped the man in the apron. She tried to crawl away but there was pressure in her lower back as her attacker pressed his heel and spur there. “What do we have here?” The one who had held a gun to the man in the apron approached, using the butt of his gun to lift Mary-Beth’s chin, causing a searing pain slice through her forehead. He swatted her hand away when she instinctively went to touch it. She could barely think of words to say.

“A witness. I saw her peeking around the corner at the two of you.”

“Tsk. Tsk. I hate to kill such a pretty thing, but I did tell the dead feller over there that there would be no witnesses. I’d be a bad man if I didn’t keep my promises.”

Mary-Beth flinched when his thumb pulled back the hammer of his cattleman, cocking it.

The third man pulled his shoulder back enough that he stopped the man from shooting Mary-Beth. It took the woman a few seconds to realize that her brains hadn’t been splattered along the ground and that she was alive.

“Wait a second there, I think I recognized her. I think I saw this woman in that livestock town with that shitty Arthur Morgan once. She might be a part of the Van Der Linde gang.”

Mary-Beth’s blood ran cold. Were these Irishmen O’Driscolls? She was in trouble…

The man with a gun whistled and looked down at Mary-Beth with hungry eyes. “Well, will ya lookie here. A simple armed robbery is turning into a gang heist. I won’t even ask you if you’re a part of the gang. If you are, then they’ll come save you. If you aren’t or if they’re dumb enough to save such an insignificant whore like yourself, then we’ll just kill ya. We won’t be wasting any of our supplies because we won’t feed ya. How does that sound, bitch?” He didn’t wait for an answer, not that she would have answered him in the first place, “Tie her up.”

“No—!” But before Mary-Beth could scream, her attacker kneeled right on her back where her lungs were, knocking the air from them. He shoved a nasty-tasting cloth in her mouth before tying her up with a lasso, pulling her arms behind her back.

The O’Driscoll, with the gun, holstered it before he kneeled in front of her, sticking his finger into her blood, making the pain in her head significantly worse. She didn’t know what he was using her blood for but he kept pressing his thumb in the same spot before he finished whatever he was doing. “Take her to the horses, use the train to not be seen. And you…” He turned to the man with the apron, pointing his gun at him now, “Not another word of what happened here, yeah? We know where you work and where you live, so even if you blab about what happened here after we’ve left, we’ll come back and kill your family then force feed you their guts. Got that?”

The man in the apron nodded, quickly disappearing inside, glad that his life had been spared, even if it cost this woman he didn’t know.

The last thing Mary-Beth remembered was being carried by the two men, one at her legs and one at her shoulders. With the throbbing headache she had, she was hardly able to squirm, and unable to scream. They carried her across the train and to their horses hidden on the other side.

Who would save Mary-Beth?

Pearson returned the wagon and didn’t find Mary-Beth there. It wasn’t strange, considering she said he was going to track down the paperboy. Plus, it hadn’t been an hour exactly. So, he placed the carefully packaged meats and placed them on a crate that had already been loaded by the shop. He saw the boys bringing out a few more crates.

One greeted him with a smile, “There’s just four more inside, sir.”

“Bring 'em’ out here and leave them on the stairs. I can get the rest of it from here.” Pearson took out two dollars from his own pocket and gave them each one for their hard work. They thanked him before bringing the rest of the gang’s provisions out and setting them at the top of the chairs. Pearson expected Mary-Beth to be back by the time he loaded up the last of the crates and strapped them down, but she wasn’t.

She’s probably just talking to a local. She’s a good, chatty girl. We can’t go anywhere with the train being there anyway.

And so Pearson waited. And waited. The longer he waited, however, the worse he began to feel, especially when he heard the whistle of the train before it slowly left the station. There wasn’t quite anything right about this. Mary-Beth wouldn’t have told him one thing and then done another. Something must be wrong.

“Mary-Beth?” he asked and looked down the alleyways around the general store and even the buildings surrounding it. Nothing. Wait, she did talk to the general store man, maybe he knows something. So, Pearson stepped into the building and walked straight up to the man, “Excuse me sir, my womanly…companion came up to you earlier to pay for the stuff that’s in the wagon next to your store. I can’t seem to find her though, did you happen to see where she went?”

The clerk cocked his head. “Oh yes, I did. She was looking for the newspaper, so I pointed her in the direction of the saloon.”

“Okay, thanks, sir.”

“No problem, thank you for your purchase, and have a good day.”

“You too.”

If Mary-Beth went to the saloon for a drink then it would make sense as to why she hadn’t returned yet. If she were a man. Mary-Beth was so…feminine and it didn’t seem to be like her to wander off for a beer or two. If it had been Karen with him instead, then there would be no doubt about it that she went out for drinks, but Mary-Beth didn’t do that sort of thing. Not to his knowledge, at least.

Pearson made a quick trip to the saloon. He wasn’t sure if it had been busy beforehand but there were a couple men who looked more sober than the bartender themselves, so they must have just gotten there.

“S’cuse me, you see a woman around here?” Pearson approached the bar and tried to ignore the hungry look in the men’s eyes when he said the word woman.

The bartender looked drunk and dissociated from his job as he cleaned an already cleaned glass, only smudging it more. There was a nasty bruise on his eye, leading down to his jaw. Pearson wondered what happened to him. He probably shouldn’t have asked in the first place and just searched around the place himself. He only didn’t want to seem like a creep or worse, a thief.

“Nope. Not around here.”

“Alright, thank you kindly,” Pearson said without revealing much more to the conversation so the men who were drinking didn’t get any funny ideas.

Pearson snuck around the side of the saloon before his stomach dropped. There on the ground was a drop of blood, leading to around the back of the saloon, accompanied by larger dried splotches of blood. His immediate thought was of Mary-Beth. Oh god, she’s dead! Mary-Beth is dead and I let her die! However, when he looked closer at the blood, he noticed that it wasn’t fresh and more dried up. He wasn’t an expert at human blood, but after skinning dead animals for as long as he had…He could tell when blood was new and old. It couldn’t have been more than an hour. This wasn’t Mary-Beth’s blood. However, it didn’t mean that there couldn’t be anything waiting for him around the corner.

Following the blood, he stepped around the corner and found a mutilated body.

There was a young man. Probably late teens or early twenties. Probably around the same age of the men who helped load his cart. His eyes were gone and lacerations around his body explained the blood that soaked the ground. It already had a decomposing smell of it, tangling with the smell of vomit and alcohol. While he didn’t like murder like this—it was overkill—he was secretly glad that he didn’t encounter the body of Mary-Beth torn to shreds.

Pearson stepped closer and noticed a piece of wood with a knife in it laid out on the palm of the dead man’s hand. The closer he got, the more he realized that there was blood on the wood too, but it was fresher, drawn out methodically on the wood. He had to kneel to read the blood writings, which sent a chill down his spine.

DVL

3 DAY

COLM

And then there was a drawn picture of a location with a noose on it.

There, lying next to the dead man’s hand was a cut lock of Mary-Beth’s hair and a torn piece of cloth that matched the same color and texture of the dress she had been wearing. The blood on the board was Mary-Beth’s. It was fresher compared to the dead male’s, making the man want to vomit.

Pearson’s mouth dried when he concluded what had happened. The O’Driscolls had kidnapped Mary-Beth and left a message for Dutch and Arthur about where to meet them. The O’Drisicolls had them by the balls and were steering them in the direction that they wanted them to go.

Pearson tore the knife from the board and hid it on his belt, unsure if it was what ended this man’s life or was just left to accentuate their message. After hiding the lock of hair and cloth that would link Mary to this man, he grabbed the wood and rushed away from the scene as fast as possible, not wanting to be caught. Good thing the time meant that most men were working, though he wondered if they had gone at a different time if this would have even happened at all. Mary-Beth would be back at camp with her nose buried in one of her books.

As much as he wanted to go to the sheriff, he knew he couldn’t. It involved his gang and the O’Driscolls! That wasn’t a good combination.

Getting back to his wagon as fast as he could, Pearson raced back to his camp, constantly looking over his shoulder, not wanting to be ambushed on the way back, or followed back to camp. At some point along the ride, he considered abandoning the wagon and riding the horse back to camp, but he would still risk being followed and at the additional loss of money and supplies.

“Who’s there?” Came John’s rough voice when he came close enough.

“It’s Pearson!” Pearson raced on by, doing his best to not tip the wagon by how fast he was rolling into camp. The horses whined the whole way, having been spent racing back to the camp, sweating and desperate for water. When they came to a halt, the young O’Driscoll approached to untether them. Seeing Kieran made Pearson’s blood boil and face turn red, but it hadn’t been Kieran’s fault this happened, just the gang he used to run with so he did his best to not direct his anger toward him.

Pearson rushed directly toward Dutch’s tent, catching everyone’s attention from the fast pace he clearly wasn’t used to doing. Dutch sat in the chair outside his tent, a book in one hand and a cigar in the other. Arthur was thankfully in camp, just in his own tent.

“Dutch! Arthur! We have a BIG issue right now!”

Arthur perked up upon hearing his name and slowly sauntered his way over to Pearson and Dutch, his hands on his belt, “Oh yeah? What’s that? You eat all our groceries on the way back from Rhodes?”

“Now is not the time for jokes Arthur.” Pearson took the wood out, some of the blood smeared on his fingers but thankfully not enough to make the writing illegible. He also took the knife from his belt loop. Dutch and Arthur stared at the knife, intrigued, Arthur, stood up a bit straighter when he saw how serious Pearson was acting. It was unusual for him.

“Well, then spit it out already!” Arthur tore the cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the ground. “What the hell happened?”

Since he had stopped running, there was an unsettled feeling in Pearson’s stomach. He felt like he was about to throw up.

“Dutch…Arthur…Mary-Beth was taken by the O’Driscolls… They left us this note with her blood.”

The moment O’Driscolls was brought up, Dutch’s face became red. “WHAT?! What did you see, Pearson?!”

“NUTHIN!” Pearson gasped, “She wandered off when I was at the butcher’s and they kidnapped her when she was behind the saloon. There was also a dead body behind there. The bartender had this ugly bruise on his face, so I have a feeling he saw something, but if we try to talk to him, it might link the gang to the O’Driscolls,” he explained, the words flying out of his mouth, “They left this with Colom’s name and a lock of Mary-Beth’s hair. They’ve got her fer sure now….” He handed the wood over. Arthur leaned over Dutch’s shoulder to read what the blood was, his eyebrows furrowing.

By then the rest of the gang were gathering around, particularly the girls. Tilly held a hand over her mouth, “Mary-Beth…She was taken? Oh, Pearson…” Tears were in her eyes.

Pearson could hardly look at them all, all their faces that of a grieving person in mourning. He felt a lot of shame for letting this happen to such a vulnerable woman. But Mary-Beth wasn’t dead, or at least he hoped that she wasn’t. He couldn’t live with the thought of getting an innocent woman killed.

Kieran found himself on the edge of the conversation, but not close enough to hear the conversation. He had been so busy taking the horses off the wagon that he nearly missed it entirely. He brought each horse to the water trough, which they drank greedily before he joined the congregating crowd. What’s going on here? He wanted to ask but kept his mouth shut when the eyes of this gang had fallen on him. Had he done something wrong?

Well, if they were staring at him, then it had something to do with the…

“O’Driscoll, what did you do?!” Karen abruptly snapped at Kieran. Everyone seemed shocked at her outburst, seeing how kindly she treated Kieran at camp. There weren’t any tears in her eyes, but her face was worse than a raging bull’s.

“W-What do you mean?” Kieran asked, stuttering but not showing any lack of confidence. He kept his composure. “I ain’t done nothin’ other than take care of the damn horses lately,” he added defensively.

“Your O’Driscolls KIDNAPPED MARY-BETH!”

Usually, Kieran would have fought them on this. Would have yelled that he wasn’t an O’Driscoll! But ‘Mary-Beth’ and ‘kidnapped’ mentioned in the same sentence was something he didn’t like to hear. He couldn’t argue with them this time.

“They took Mary-Beth…?” he gasped and looked over toward Arthur, “We have to go save her! They’ll do awful things to her.”

Arthur squinted his eyes at the man as if observing them for anything suspicious, and Kieran hated the feeling that it left in his stomach. “You mean you had nothing to do with this?”

“Of course not!” Kieran spat out, flaring at Arthur’s accusatory tone, “I like Mary-Beth and I hate the O’Driscolls. You should know that by now 'cause I tell it to you every day!” He hissed. “We can’t spend time here, just wasting, we have to go and track her…Who knows what they will do to her.”

“Leave that to me,” Charles said, ready to jump on his horse that second.

“Wait just a minute!” Arthur said, holding his hand out, stopping everyone from doing anything stupid, “There’s a date written here, and they’re goin’ to expect us to meet them there at that time, or else. Charles, you can go, but you have to be extra careful. One wrong move on ANY of us is goin’ to end Mary-Beth’s life.” He pointed his finger at everyone as he spoke to them.

From the looks of the entire camp right now, everyone was willing to pick up their guns right now and hunt down their sick rivals. Some like Grimshaw and Lenny already had their guns out and ready.

“And the note was addressed to only Dutch and me. We’ll have to be the ones to go. If they see more than us, it won’t be pretty for us and Mary-Beth.”

“But you’re gonna be outnumbered by those idiots…” Bill argued, his hands clutching at his sides, not because he particularly liked Mary-Beth but because he hated how the O’Driscolls could easily try to blackmail them. “You never know how many people they’re gonna bring, Arthur. You need more than two men…”

“If they lay a hand on Mary-Beth, I’ll fucking tear their balls off…” Sadie gritted her teeth. Not another woman whose life was on the line thanks to this gang…

“If you should take anyone extra, then it should be me,” Kieran volunteered, stepping forward. “I don’t think they would be intimidated if they saw me.”

Bill laughed. “Yeah! Might be able to trade him for the girl. Take him with ya.” He shoved Kieran forward by his shoulder.

“Not a bad idea.” Arthur rubbed his chin.

If it came to that, then so be it, Kieran thought to himself. Mary-Beth had been the first one in the gang to be kind to him, to show Kieran the proper respect he deserved as a person by giving him that small glass of water. It had meant so much to him. There was no way in hell he would allow people like the O’Driscolls to hurt someone as gentle as her. If it meant that he had to trade his life for her, then maybe he could do something good and prove himself, even if he didn’t make it out alive.

“Oh, Mary-Beth…Please be okay…” Tilly kept a hand to her mouth, then spoke softly to Kieran, “Please get her back for us.”

Kieran spoke softly to her, “I promise that we’ll get her back, Tilly. Arthur and I ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to her, we promise…”

“You better.”

Mary-Beth tried to imagine herself in a whole new world, completely separate from the reality of hell she was currently facing. She was a princess and her prince charming sat across from her on the blanket, feeding her strawberries and telling her how much he would marry her and care for her. The bitter yet sweet taste in her tongue was imaginary but it was helping her free herself from the flames threatening to engulf her. She dissociated, forgetting anything that the O’Driscoll men did to her the moment they happened.

She didn’t know when her own gang planned to get her, if they were even coming for her at all. Her hands were tied behind her back, connected to her ankles, making it impossible for her to move unless she twisted her body around, and even then it was far too painful for her to do that. She would be too exhausted before she could break the ropes.

If Mary-Beth had been listening, she would know that she had two days before the O’Driscolls were going to lay her out for bait, two days before she would learn if she lived or died. The gang planned to use her as bait, to lure the two strongest members of the Van Der Linde gang.

One of the O’Driscolls approached her. She saw his boots right in front of her face and smelled the shit he had stepped in earlier. Her nose wrinkled and she refused to meet his eyes. “Oh, what a squirmin’ bitch ya are,” he laughed and spat on her face, making Mary-Beth flinch and swallowing a whimper climbing its way up her throat. She was surprised that he didn’t kick her before he stormed off, laughing and drinking with his friends—having an early celebration of the fall of the Van Der Linde gang.

Just remember your prince charming. Hell, you’d accept Sean as your prince charming at this point, she spoke mostly to herself, in her head and attempted to put herself back into the world of the last book she had read, imagining herself as the main character and Kieran as her prince charming.

Wait.

Kieran…?

Why did she think of Kieran?

Sure, the two had been flirty with each other before, but she had never seen him in such a romantic light, or even imagined…kissing him…

But the memory soothed the aching in her heart, so her mind played the same scene over and over again as the days passed.

Kieran and Mary were in the meadows, sitting on a blanket softer than anything she had ever felt before. Wait, was it a cloud? There was a whole buffet of food laid out in front of her, and no matter how many bites she took, it never emptied. Behind them were two horses grazing and snoozing together. And whenever she looked at Kieran’s face, she felt the happiest she had ever been in a long time…

Sometimes her brain had convinced herself this was reality. She wanted it to be.

Mary-Beth was half asleep when a man grabbed her arm and cut the bindings, made her legs release, making them cramp, and her muscles scream in pain. Her hands were still tied as he pulled her to her feet, yelling at her as her legs wobbled and she would have buckled had the men not held her up.

“Where…Where…” she mumbled before she was interrupted.

“Shut up, you bitch.”

A cloth was shoved into her mouth, forcing her to be quiet.

“Put the woman on the back of the horse.”

Mary-Beth’s stomach lurched as she was lifted by her waist. She grunted as she was laid on the back of a chestnut colored horse, her stomach feeling the pressure as she was laid on her stomach. Never in all her life had she been hogtied and put on the back of the horse. She whined but shut up quickly to avoid them yelling at her any further.

A man climbed on the back of the horse, kicking its sides with sharp spurs that were close to her face. Mary-Beth, with her eyes constantly on the ground, couldn’t tell where they were going. All she could do was count the seconds. It took them approximately seventeen minutes to pull to a full stop, the men whispering around her.

“Quick, get the girl ready. They could be watching us and pop out at any moment.”

Mary-Beth saw the shoes of one of the O’Driscolls before they lifted her up. Instead of taking her off the horse, they shifted her into the saddle. All she could do was watch in horror as the men threw a rope over the branch of the tree they were under, a noose hanging at the end of it. She began to strain and pull on the restraints on her wrists but someone held her still as another pair of hands grabbed the noose and pulled it over her head. She felt tears as the noose pressed against her throat, tightening enough that it wouldn’t slide off her and only tighten when she fell off the side of the horse. They were going to hang her. Holy shit, they were going to fucking hang her! After that, she fell absolutely still, no matter how badly her body screamed at her to move.

“Two hours…If they’re not here in two hours just slap the horse and let it run.” Mary-Beth couldn’t see them, but an O’Driscoll stood behind her, a hand on the rear of the horse, who luckily remained calm for now. She relied on that calmness. But the woman wondered if the horse would feel her anxiety and become agitated before running off.

“Then leave her body. Maybe they’ll come back later and find her hanging and learn their lesson…We don’t spare the innocent.”

Please, Arthur. Sean. Charles. Kieran. She whispered the names like they were saints, praying they would come to rescue her.

Time passed, but Mary-Beth wasn’t counting this time. Every second felt like an agonizing hour.

“How long has it been?”

“About an hour…”

And so they waited even longer. Mary-Beth’s thighs were aching from how tight she was squeezing on the horse’s saddle.

An arrow sliced through the air, hitting the man behind Mary-Beth. The action was so abrupt that there was a moment of stunned silence. The horse shifted but luckily didn’t run off. Mary-Beth looked up, seeing the trees across the horizon, but saw no one in sight. Were her saviors still out there? “They’re he—” Another arrow whizzed through the air, shooting the man in front of her.

“DAMNIT!” Mary-Beth looked in horror as one of the O’Driscolls raised a gun in the air. No, no, no! Mary-Beth cried out in her mind, screaming and crying, wishing she could keep the horse in place.

A gun fired, and then hellfire began. At first, it was arrows, and then it was gunshots.

Mary-Beth stared in terror as the horse’s ears flicked back. It freaked out before running forward, Mary-Beth hardly able to stop the rope from tightening around her neck. Just as the horse ran out from under her legs, arms wrapped around her body, desperately holding her around the waist and legs in a way to keep herself up.

Even as the gunshots were heavy in the air, Mary-Beth was able to stare down at the person holding her. It was Kieran. KIERAN More tears formed in her eyes as she saw the man struggling to keep her up, to keep her from hanging right there.

“SHOOT THE ROPE, SHOOT THE ROPE!” Kieran called out.

Mary-Beth did her best to sit as still as possible, but everything was aching and she could hardly keep herself up as her body was crumbling quickly and she was hardly able to control what limb twitched. A choked cry escaped her throat and tears were impossible to hold back.

An O’Driscoll stormed up to the two of them, his gun raised, ready to shoot Kieran between the eyes. Right as he pulled the hammer back on his revolver, there was a rifle shot, and blood splattered on Kieran’s face and on Mary-Beth’s dress. Then there was a second shot, and the rope around Mary-Beth’s throat became very loose. Mary-Beth fell on top of Kieran, taking the two of them to the ground. Kieran was on his feet a second later and grabbed Mary-beth by the shoulders. Even though she would have not wanted to be dragged anymore, there was a mutual and silent agreement that safety was more important as Kieran dragged Mary-Beth into the forest and brush, hiding them from the gunfight. Kieran sat back on the ground and pulled Mary-Beth flush against his chest. As quietly as he could, he took the cloth from her mouth and fumbled with his knife, cutting the bindings from her wrists, freeing her completely.

Mary-Beth’s mouth was open, tears in her eyes when she realized it ached more to shut her mouth from how long the cloth was stuck in her mouth. Kieran was about to pull away from the woman, to give her space, but Mary-Beth grabbed his arm and wrapped it around her body—feeling safe and protected like in the dreams she had hidden in the past few days. She closed her eyes and cried silent tears.

Kieran hesitated but could tell that she just needed to be held for now. He kept her close to his chest as the gunshots thinned and the voices of the small group of O’Driscolls died out completely. They were all dead. But he remained quiet until he knew for sure that it was safe to come out.

“Mary-Beth? Kieran?” Came Arthur’s voice.

Mary-Beth couldn’t speak.

“We’re in here—!” Kieran stuttered and pulled himself and Mary-Beth up, taking the two of them out of the brush.

When Mary-Beth saw Arthur, she practically fell into the arms of the man. “Oh Arthur…! You call came for me!” she sobbed.

Arthur awkwardly wrapped his arms around Mary-Beth. “Course we did. You’re a part of the family. We wouldn’t have left that to ya, all alone.”

“Are they all dead?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering.

Arthur nodded. “Dutch has one of them tied up right now and is talking to them. Otherwise, yeah. They’re all dead. Are you okay?” He asked as he pulled her back, looking her up and down, seeing the bruises and tatters on her. “Oh, Mary-Beth…You need to get back to camp. You think you can take her, Kieran? I’m gonna stay back and help Dutch get information out of this damn maggot.”

“Yes, please, I want to go back now. Is Pearson OK?” Mary-Beth asked.

“Don’t worry, Mary-Beth, he’s alright. Just get her to camp, Kieran.” Arthur walked away.

Kieran nodded and put his hand on Mary-Beth’s elbow, guiding her all the way to Branwen. When they were at the horse, he gently touched her arm. “Mary-Beth, I am SO sorry fer what happened to ya. Are ya okay?”

“I…I think so. I just want to get back to camp.” She approached Branwen from the side and turned her back to the horse, facing Kieran. “Can you help me onto the horse, please?” she asked, her arms slightly raised. “Everything hurts too much.”

“I sure can…” Kieran nodded and put his hands on her waist. He lifted her onto the back of his horse, feeling even more guilty as she winced in pain. The last thing he wanted was to cause her even more pain. After that, he climbed into the saddle in front of her, then raced off back to camp. His heart pounded with the leftover adrenaline from the gunfight, but it soared higher when Mary-Beth wrapped her arms around his waist and she leaned her cheek against his back. She…Wanted comfort from him? Him, of all people? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he was glad that she could trust him.

Kieran knew that there would be a group gathering when they returned to camp, so he made sure to approach quietly and calmly, hitching his horse at one of their posts. He got down and held his arms out naturally to take Mary-Beth off the horse. By the time he turned around, he saw the group gathering—just as he thought.

“Oh, Mary-Beth!” Tilly cried out and ran before anyone else could. She ran to her best friend and hugged her, keeping her close. Mary-Beth broke down into tears as she hugged Tilly back. Kieran backed off and gave the woman some space, his hand on Branwen’s neck. However, he watched from afar. He watched as Mary-Beth was given new clothes, and how John gave her his tent so she could have privacy for a while. Karen, Grimshaw, and Tilly came in and out of the tent often, checking in on Mary-Beth. Sometimes he heard her crying, and it broke his heart.

Sometime later in the evening, when it was darker than it was light, Kieran approached the flap of the tent and whispered, “Mary-Beth, is it okay if I came in?” he asked and waited for her answer.

There was a small sniffle. “Oh, yeah, it’s okay…”

Kieran came in, carrying a tin plate of stew. “Have ya ate yet?” he asked.

Mary-Beth sat on John’s cot, wearing one of her other outfits. The old clothes had been burned as no one, especially her, would want to attempt to stitch such clothing back together.

“Oh, no…I ain’t…I just haven’t had the appetite for it, but I probably should soon.”

“I got something for ya. Eat what you feel like ya can.” Kieran came in and moved across the tent and sat down next to her with the stew, handing it to her. Mary-Beth smiled fondly and sipped some of the broth. At least her stomach could handle that.

“Mary-Beth…Yer awfully brave. Most don’t have the confidence when in the presence of an O’Driscoll.”

“Oh Kieran…” she whispered, “It was awful. I thought I was going to die…I thought they were gonna hang me. Had you not caught me, who knows whether I would have suffocated or if the rope would have snapped my neck right away. I wasn’t ready to die.”

“I’m glad I was there, Mary-Beth. I don’t know how you survived that…” Kieran’s hand touched hers, but then he hesitated. She noticed and immediately brought his hand back when he tried to take it away.

“I just…I just imagined myself inside one of my books. I guess escapin’ into my own head was something that helped me…” Mary-Beth admitted Kieran, squeezing his hand. “It kept me alive until you saved me, Kieran. You’re a real hero. Thank you so much…” She wrapped her arms around his neck and held the man, who she sort of related to in some way now. She wasn’t sure if she should tell Kieran that she imagined that he was her imaginary hero. She didn’t have to though—Kieran was her real hero now.

#mary beth gaskill #kieran duffy #kieran x mary beth #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfic #rdr #rdr 2 #rdr fanfic #rdr 2 fanfic #rdr2 community #rdr2 #rdr2 fanart #red dead redemption 2 fanart #rdr2 fandom #red dead 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two

23 notes · View notes

hoeseamatthews · 1 year

Text

Sick Day

A/N: First piece in a veeeery long time, slightly nervous!!

Pairing: Charles Smith x Reader

Word Count: 1,034

Summary: You’re sick and frustrated with being on bed rest, so Charles comes in to comfort you.

“Ugh, dammit!”

With a sniffle, you grumble to yourself while you attempt to sit upright in your bed. Bed rest wasn’t your first choice, but ever since you’ve taken ill, Charles has insisted that you stay in bed and take the time to recuperate, as opposed to attempting to go about your days as though you haven’t been coughing and sneezing your guts up for the past few days.

You can’t fault Charles - he’s not complained about doting on you and being at your beck and call. Not even once. Any and every little thing you’ve needed, he’s done for you without as much as a huff or a mutter under his breath. He’s not been overbearing about it in the slightest, either. He’s let you at least try doing things for yourself, as long as you continue to take it easy.

“Hon? You okay in there? Need any help?”

Charles calls out softly, overhearing your struggle on his venture to your room. He pokes his head around the bedroom door that’s cracked ajar, one hand resting against the oak, the other holding a fresh, hot cup of tea for you. When you don’t reply, he nudges the door open with his foot and takes a step inside.

You look downright exhausted and fed up as you lay there, but you’re still unable to fight the soft smile you offer Charles as he strolls his way over to the foot of your bed. You briefly brush stray strands of your hair back with a hand before carding your fingers through the rest of it, and Charles sets your cup down on the bedside table before he perches himself next to you on the empty side of the bed, gently reaching out to take your hand and bringing it to his lips to plant a few tender pecks on your knuckles.

“Hey, don’t struggle by yourself. You need anything, anything at all, you call for me. Okay?” he tells you, maintaining eye contact until you give him an affirming nod, “But other than that, you actually get some sleep this time? Feeling at least a little better at all?”

“More than the night before last, I think. Little less in and out of it, but…more than anything, I’m just getting frustrated. I’m getting so sick of being stuck in bed by myself. It’s so lonely. I wanna be outside, actually doing something productive,” you gesture towards the open window to your left, “It’s driving me crazy, Charles. I’m tired of this damn flu already.”

“I know, I know.” he softly shushes you, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, “But you need to take it easy, rest up. Try rushing it, you’re gonna make yourself even worse.”

Slumping back against your pillow, you sigh. Charles is right. You know he is, but you can’t help feeling helpless, lonely, and slightly stir crazy from your time on bed rest. He’s been amazing in caring for you, you can’t fault that even if you tried to, but you’d give anything to be helping out with the animals or even helping in general on the homestead with him as opposed to being cooped up in bed for days on end.

The wistful look on your face doesn’t go unnoticed by Charles, either. He reaches over to the bedside table, hands you your cup of tea, and he waits for you to finish taking a sip before he takes the cup away from you once more to set it down on the nightstand, and he hums while he cracks a smile at you.

“Tell you what,” he begins, regaining your full attention, “I’ve done a lot on the land so far already, so…would it make you feel any better if I lay here with you for a while? Sadly, I can’t take the flu away, but I can help cure the loneliness.”

“But won’t you get sick, too? You’ve risked it enough just by kissing me and all.”

You furrow your brow in concern, but Charles is quick enough to shake his head and wave a hand in dismissal. Instead, he kicks off his boots before peeling back the covers and sliding into the bed next to you, aiding you in getting yourself comfortable once more before he slouches down and does the same.

“Nah, I’m not worried about that.”

Charles smiles and angles himself towards you, opening his arms to invite you in. You’re still hesitant, the thought of potentially getting him sick is still fresh in your mind, but you don’t have the heart to turn him down. Scooting closer to him, you’re soon enveloped in his warm embrace, curling your own arms around him while you lay your head flat against his chest with a sigh of pure contentment.

“You’re allowed to blame me if you do get sick, y’know. I warned you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut once Charles begins to play with your hair, absentmindedly yet tenderly twisting and curling stray locks around his fingers. A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest at this, the sound and feel of it against you prompting warmth to bloom in your chest.

“I’m not blaming you for anything.” he tells you, and he plants a kiss atop your head, “But even if I do get sick, make it up to me by getting some rest right now. Think you can do that?”

“I can try to,” with a hum, you nod your head yes at him, “You still gonna be here when I wake up?”

You ask, and you allow yourself to fully settle down against him, nestling under the covers while Charles continues to toy with your hair with one hand and traces soft, haphazard patterns across random sections of your back with the other. He stops only to fully pull the covers over you both while attempting to make himself comfortable in the process, cocooning the two of you in the bed to wordlessly hint to you that he’s here for the duration.

“I’ll still be here when you wake up, hon. Get some sleep, okay?” he smiles, drawing you in closer to his chest, “Not leaving this bed until you’re awake again, I promise.”

#charles smith x reader #rdr fanfiction #rdr imagine #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 imagine #red dead redemption fanfic #red dead redemption imagine #rdr fanfic

96 notes · View notes

renslo161605 · 4 months

Text

PART ELEVEN: CATS OUT OF BAG

if Isaac Morgan lives and join the O'driscolls. Except he just got caught meeting up with Keiran Duffy i secret.

Yeah he TRIED to make a grand stand of "I'm not scared of you haha!" Spoiler alert it doesn't work out. Imagine the old school TV automated crowd laugh.

This part is based in chapter four not long after Jack gets found, to put into perspective whats about to happen lol.

BRIEF OVERVIEW:

Isaac ran away when his mother died n got found by the O'driscolls, years later he finds himself in the same territory as the Van Der Lindes and realises how close his father really is but his mentor (Dermot) has raised him ever since he joined the O'driscolls and is very Loyal to them. He ends up meeting up with Keiran multiple times in secret to both get food (Colm doesn't feed the child, he's not very useful) and because he doesn't really have any friends. He's the one that plants the file that lets Arthur escape in Blessed are the Peace Makers. Eventually tho they get caught and that leads us to here.

Hope yous enjoy sorry I've been distracted from this I've been trying to upload every day but it's not fully working out LMAO

<333

13 notes · View notes

flameohotpotatooo · 6 days

Text

THE WRITING JUICE IS FLOWING THROUGH MY FINGERS

Mwahahahahahah

#rdr fanfic #writing #arthur morgan x reader

2 notes · View notes

lovearthur · 15 days

Note

How would Arthur react if reader thought it would be funny to shave half of Dutch's mustache?

𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 (𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒈𝒏!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓡𝓔𝓐𝓓! gn!reader . dating arthur . horseshoe overlook chapter . dutch and molly mention . arthur can not stop giggling and laughing at dutch's failed facial hair

u thought it'll be funny.

well to you, yes, but dutch himself? maybe not...

as the sky changed from pretty orange-yellows to dark blues and black into the darkness of the night and u made sure everyone either turned in for the night or were drunkenly passed out before u quietly made the way to the tent that held in miss molly o'shea and dutch van der linde. molly was in deep sleep by now, sleeping like an angel even. dutch was sleeping as he was sitting on the wooden chair, close to molly. u took a few steps closer to dutch, the floor creaking slightly with each step.

u kept ur touch light and fragile as u angled dutch's face just right. his facial hair was thick, black, and real untidy. u never saw molly offer to help him out, so what if you just tidied it up? aslong as u didnt nothing bad, itll be fine. and u did just that. u carefully dragged the cut-throat razor across his prepped chin and jawline, tidying up the hair on his face. he did move slightly here and there, but u moved just in time so u didn't mess up, but as u continue, it felt like there was a devil on ur shoulder all of a sudden. what if u just... cut off a little more? just a little, no one will notice.

no. u wouldn't dare. he was the dutch van der linde, he should u kindness when he picked u up from the streets. but then again, itll grow back.. but no, u wouldn't.

after trimming his hair, u decided to cut a little extra, just a trim. nothing more, nothing less. u dragged the razor once more. “[name], what're ya doin'?” u flinched as a rough voice asked u. u swiftly turned around that u didn't realise u cut half of dutch's moustache off. “nothin'! i aint doin' nothin'..” u protested in a soft voice while u had the razor behind ur back. a low chuckle left his lips with that smirk on his face. "yer quite the woman, ain't ya?"

u cocked ur head to the side slightly since u didn't know what u meant until u turned to Dutch. his moustache was almost gone. u must have shaven it off without realising. u quickly made ur way to Arthur in case u woke up dutch. "sh-shit, arthur! he's gonna be so mad- i didnt even mean-." he wrapped an arm around u as u panicked slightly, but of course, Arthur found this hilarious. “it's alrigh', darlin'. it's alrigh'.. he ain't gonna be mad. he might not even notice.” he says, trying to contain his laughter at the sight. “'course he'll notice! it's dutch, he ain't gonna like it.” u rolled ur eyes in a playful manner as u nudged him.

u were sitting on Arthur's bed while he was sitting in the chair. his elbows on his knees as he was cleaning his gun with gun oil while listening to u rambling on about ur day yesterday since he was away, doing something for dutch as usual. after a little while, he quickly hushed u. with a nod of his head, signalling to listen to dutch and molly. “dutch.. love, what happened to ya?” molly asked softly as she looked up at dutch. “im fine, my dear.” he replied, softly dismissing her words. “i dunno, dutch.. yer hair on yer face is a little off.” arthur interrupted as he walked over to dutch. he looked in a hand-sized mirror, and his eyes widened slightly. u noticed arthur trying to stiff laugh, and so u nudged him in the ribs, reminding him not to make his laugh noticeable. dutch wasn't impressed, to say the least.

“goddamn it...” dutch mumbled under his breath.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #dutch van der linde #divider credit to florietas and chaefilm

86 notes · View notes

theheartlandsblog · 3 months

Text

hooray! happy 2-years-old birthday to my first ever completed fanfiction, DUST. 🏛

RDR1 - john marston - pinkertons - nonconsent - shenanigans. ;)

alternate link source here -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/36601390

#sorry for the double post i jumped the gun yesterday by accident!!#theheartlands fanfiction #rdr fanfiction #rdr fanfic #red dead redemption fanfiction #mine

2 notes · View notes

margowritesthings · 1 year

Text

Blood On His Hands

pairing: Dutch van der Linde x f!reader

summary: during your time of the month, Dutch offers a helping hand and some advice from good old Mr Miller

word count: 3308 words

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION, menstruating reader, period sex, fingering on period, mentions of blood, slight blood play, sexual content, vaginal sex, breeding kink, explicit language and blasphemy

a/n: uhhhhhhhhhhh I have no excuses for this. i just know nothing would ever get between dutch van der linde and pleasuring his lady, and then this happened. whoops. totally get that this one won't be for everyone, but its what i wanted to write so I did hehe

as always, big love to my love @cowboydisaster for beta-ing and reassuring me i wasn't wrecking my own idea every minute of the day

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @beea-nie

did you enjoy this? consider buying me a coffee!

“Y’know, I think the Lord must hate his women, what with all he goddamn puts us through.” You grumble as you enter yours and Dutch’s bedroom, slamming the splintered door shut behind you to stalk right past Dutch, falling onto the creaky bed and shoving your face into your pillow.

“Something bothering you, dear?” Dutch raises a brow before looking over at you. He puts his finger on the line he was reading, to save the page when he closes the book to offer you his full attention.

Your neck strains when you lift your head to meet Dutch’s eye. His stare feels hot and intense, which isn’t exactly unusual for a look between you and him, but is definitely heightened by the hormones raging through you. Your stomach aches and cramps, your pussy practically mewling for a release you can’t even reach right now.

“Just that time of the month, love. Nothin’ to worry about.”

But Dutch’s finger slips out from between the pages, closing the book properly and discarding it on the table beside his chair. You’ve bundled up the blankets beneath you, pressing the ball of wool into your abdomen to let the pressure attempt (and fail) to ease the pain.

Your face is stuffed back into the pillow, so the first indication Dutch has joined you is the dip on the bed. He holds your frame, moving you to your side with such an ease and slotting himself behind you. His large hands cover your stomach, the heat from him comforting and actually soothing you a little. It’s wild to you that the man can somehow numb a pain that whiskey can’t, but that’s Dutch. He’s incredible.

The way you’re laying on the bed, your body the little spoon to his larger one, means that Dutch slots in right behind you. You’re sure he’s not even trying to turn you on, focused only on your comfort, but the incessant poking, ever hardening cock branding onto the side of your ass. You so wish you could turn around and let him have his way with you, but knowing the exact thing that has you so feral in the first place is the one thing stopping you from taking what you want. No, what you need.

Dutch presses a kiss to your temple from behind, his fingers rubbing gentle circles into your belly. It helps the pain, but not the winding feeling tightening your core. Your ass feels how rock hard Dutch is now, and it burns into your flesh until you can take it no more. You grind up against him and he growls deep into your ear. When his tongue slides up the side of your ear, you jolt, and Dutch takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on you and flip you over. He’s hovering above you now, hands roaming everywhere, tongue delving into your mouth as he undoes your shirt and pushes it off your shoulders.

"I once read that it's a scientifically proven fact that cumming for me relieves those sorts of... symptoms." Dutch whispers teasingly.

The war between mind and body rages in your core. Your body is desperate for him to continue, desperate to feel the trail of his fingers lower and lower until they’re buried deep inside you, but your mind seems tethered to taboos hammered into your subconscious by a conservative world. It’s your mind that forces your hand to grip Dutch’s wrist, though your fingers barely meet wrapped around him, stopping him just above your sore abdomen.

“Dutch, we… we can’t.”

It’s an awful feeling, forcing yourself to deny what you truly want, and you curse whatever force or, more probably, some old guy years ago with a quill and a fear of women is making you feel so uncomfortable.

You want nothing more than for Dutch to plunge himself into you and fuck you better, you want nothing less than to disappoint him. You’re surprised when instead of the furrowed brows and frowned lips you’re expecting, Dutch simply smirks.

“My dear… there’s blood on my hands from creatures far less beautiful than you.”

The shock is all you can focus on, so your grip on Dutch’s wrist slackens enough for him to break free and continue his journey downwards. It sends shivers over your entire body and you blink wide eyes up at him, speechless.

“What kind of man would I be…” he starts, expertly sliding the buttons of your pants out of their holes and pulling down the zip, agonisingly slowly.

“… if I could bathe in the blood of my enemies, shed in hatred and violence, but shied away from this, the life force of my love?”

You’re blushing furiously, you’re sure of it, but something in his poetic words, the comfort in his tone, chips away at your shame. It cracks, breaking away to reveal a more vulnerable version of yourself, reserved only for Dutch. This layer of you fears not the judgement or the embarrassment, it cares only for the wants and desires of yourself and Dutch.

And right now, you desire Dutch.

He frees you yet again.

He’s always freeing you. When you met, he freed you from those beliefs ingrained into you by your parents about what society should be, instead showing you how the world is. He freed you from the boundaries you built around yourself, loving you and nurturing you until you found who you really are. He liberated you, quite literally, taking you from your little corner of the world on that ranch and riding you both into the sunset, stopping off at the most incredible places along the way. And now, freeing you from whatever was holding you back from this act with one loving, fervid, searing kiss, breaking away only to add, “But only if you’re comfortable, my love.”

It seals the deal, the absolute devotion in his eyes when he seeks consent and you nod, biting down on your bottom lip coyly. Words are simply too much.

“Oh, good girl…” he seems impressed, glad that you’ve let go just enough for him to experience this with him. Dutch gets back to the task at hand, slipping one of the darker blankets underneath you and hooking his fingers into your jeans and underwear to peel them down your legs.

You try not to think about what he must see down there, and it takes everything in you not to squirm, not to retreat back into thoughts planted in you by others and instead to simply be here with Dutch. The struggle manifests itself in a furious blush on your cheeks and an inability to look anywhere but up at the ceiling of the tent. You miss the stars. You wish you could count them.

Ever the expert on you, Dutch notices your inhibitions winning the battle. He’s hovering just above your heat and he places the softest of kisses just below your belly button. His voice is low when he begins to speak to you, “You know…”

You glance down to Dutch, curiosity overtaking whatever was stopping you meeting his eye, “I was reading earlier and Mr. Miller has some quite interesting views on freedom.” The giggle is inevitable, tumbling from your lips like a waterfall and crashing over Dutch. He’s always talking about Evelyn goddamn Miller, even now. God, you love him.

“Go on…” you reach down to him, tangling your fingers into a stray lock of hair and pushing it behind his ear. You cup his cheek, enjoying watching the flickering candle beside the two of you glistening in his otherwise inky orbs. Your hand looks so tiny beside his chiselled features and you can feel his jaw flutter against your palm. The world melts around you.

“So the question the seeker of allegorical poetry should ask himself-”

Dutch begins to roll the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing those stunning, strong forearms, “or indeed, herself…” he adds, glancing to you before kissing your belly once more.

“Is this:”

As he crawls back up the length of your body, you can feel hot breath tickling your jawline. Your lips part, desperate for his taste but he denies you for just a second longer.

“Is it in the seeking that we find or the finding that we seek?”

Finally your lips meet, even if it’s far too briefly, Dutch’s hand trailing back down your front as his tongue dances with yours. You’re trying so hard to concentrate on his words that the nerves seem to have dissipated into the air.

“While this may seem like a pathway towards insanity…”

On insanity, he pinches one of your nipples between his fingertips softly, but just hard enough for the sensation to travel down your centre, the feeling everywhere, and a moan escapes your lips.

“…it’s an important distinction, and also a clear one.”

The trickle of his fingers running down your stomach sends ripples of sensation over the rest of your skin. You are no longer thinking about your reservations, only Dutch and his words and the passion in the way he speaks them.

“She who finds things is wise…”

You lose his touch, but somehow know his fingers are lined up at your entrance. You’re quivering with anticipation.

“…but she who continues to seek…”

You hang on his every word.

“…is evermore free.”

Two fingers plunge into you, curling up deep and hitting your sweet spot with the confidence of a man who knows every inch of you like the back of his hand. It’s different. It’s incredible. Even with just two of Dutch’s fingers, you feel full.

He gives you a second to adjust, before sliding his fingers almost all the way out, only to push them back in until his rings are practically steaming against your heated flesh. With this movement, his thumb lands on your clit and begins to move slow, gentle circles in time with his thrusts.

You see stars. You don’t have the capacity to count them.

“O-Oh my god- Dutch!”

“I know, my dear, I know… doesn’t it feel good? To seek?” He whispers right into your ear, so close his moustache tickles your lobe. All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip so hard it will surely swell in the morning. You feel a million times more sensitive right now, every bit of pressure or movement on your nub hurtling you closer and closer to what surely must be oblivion.

“I’m so proud of you, exploring this with me, letting me show you what we can find together.” The praise washes over you, working in perfect tandem with Dutch’s expert hands to wind your coil tighter and tighter until you’re all but a babbling mess, wantonly pressing your hips up to meet Dutch’s hand with a harsher force.

Somehow, you manage to finally flutter your eyes open, finding Dutch smirking as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“That’s it… good girl. Let go, princess, I’ve got you…”

Of course he does. Dutch would die for you. Dutch would kill for you. He’d do this for you, and you wonder how you could have ever hesitated.

The wonder is brief, cut short when Dutch van der Linde steals every coherent thought from you the second he slips that third finger in knuckle deep. You scream out his name, arching your back, the woollen blanket beneath you scratching at your shoulders.Dutch continues to orchestrate your euphoria, pumping deep in and out of you and circling your clit just how he knows you love it. It’s so intense and there’s so many stars you’re not quite sure you could count them if you had all the time in the world.

You come down slowly, guided by Dutch’s voice. Your legs tremble and your cheeks feel wet, though you’re not sure when the tears fell, most likely glistening in the light of those stars you saw just seconds ago. They’re replaced instead by Dutch, who is running gentle fingers of the hand not currently sliding out of you through your hair.

“Oh, my good girl. My beautiful, good girl, doing so well for me…” He knows you, so knows when you make it back to this realm. It’s in the way you smile at him, the way the spark returns to your eye. He smiles right back, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. You’re too quick for him, though only because he’s certainly not expecting much energy from you after that orgasm, snaking a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss you properly. Passionately.

Your tongue demands entrance and Dutch is happy to oblige. You hear that low growl deep in his chest and the vibrations seem to reverberate through you, spurring you on like a siren’s call. The ache in your abdomen is long forgotten, inhibitions beaten to a pulp and left on the side of the road to die. It doesn’t even phase you when Dutch pulls back to wipe down his crimson right hand on his shirt and you spot the blood splattered on his arm. It’s actually… pretty goddamn hot. He’s right, if the image of him coated in the blood of his victims is enough to set you off, what could be so wrong with this? An act of pure devotion, love and sex in their rawest, most vulnerable forms.

His shirt is left with a scarlet handprint Dutch will surely later claim belongs to an O’Driscoll, but that doesn’t matter for long as he pulls it off his shoulders and discards it to the ground. He unbuttons his pants, slipping them off before returning to you, his body covering and warming yours before you can even realise you’re shivering.

“You astound me every single day, my dear…” He speaks so quietly, seemingly afraid of bursting the bubble formed around the two of you, cutting you off from everything and anything but each other.

“Gotta keep seeking…” You quip, unable to keep the cheeky smile from your lips when you watch Dutch realise you’re the one quoting Evelyn Miller now. He kisses the corner of your lip, where the smile first started to tug. It’s a playful kiss, at first, but with each second that passes the laughter dies, he holds you tighter and the passion bubbles to the point you feel you might shatter if you don’t have him soon.

“Dutch…” You gasp breathlessly, the neediness in your tone working with the gyrating of your hips to let Dutch know just what you want, as if he’d ever need the help figuring it out. When you feel the head of his thick cock lining up at your entrance, you think of how much tighter it felt with Dutch’s fingers. About half a second before the anxiety can manifest itself, Dutch pushes into you. It’s euphoric, like no fullness you’ve ever felt before. There’s definitely a stretch deep inside, but the ever so slight pain only seems to burn the pleasure brighter. The noise that escapes your lips is obscene, and Dutch dips down to catch it with a deep kiss. Part of him definitely does it so that that noise can be reserved for only him, but the other half of the kiss holds a message: I’m here. He’s right here with you in this, holding you in a way that shields you from everything. In this moment, at your most unguarded, you know you can trust Dutch van der Linde with your life. With everything.

And you suddenly find what you seek.

When Dutch’s hips pull back, you feel every ridge, every vein, so beautifully massaging you that you experience it head to toe. He pushes back in, and you feel every muscle that twitches in his hard back under your fingers.

“Some beings, my dear, will never truly appreciate what your body is doing right now…” He growls, picking up a rhythm and hitting that sweet spot he seems to have a map to every damn time. It sends you dizzy and you can feel your heartbeat throbbing deep in your cunt, “But I do. It’s magnificent. You’re magnificent, and one day this cycle you endure will allow me to fuck my babies into you…” His rhythm picks up and you feel yourself climbing, serenaded by his words. You’ve never talked about babies before, but the way Dutch’s breath tickles your ear, the way his words harden your nipples and steal the breath from you, you suddenly know you want that more than anything.

Yet another discovery.

“Oh, God, Dutch, I-I’m gonna-”

“That’s right, princess… Cum for me. You wanna cum with me, baby? Let go for me.”

And how could you not?

Dutch seems to sense the impending scream, pressing his thumb into your mouth to let you bite down on it. You do. Hard.

It’s as though every piece of you explodes, crashing into all the pieces of Dutch and bonding to them forever. The rushing blood in your ears is the only other thing you can hear but Dutch’s visceral groans as he too loses control, his once steady rhythm growing erratic, his thrusts getting harsher and harsher. You never knew an ache could feel so good until right this moment.

And just when you feel like you’re in orbit, like you couldn’t possibly reach a higher ecstasy, Dutch presses the thumb not clamped between your teeth onto your clit and starts to rub.

And you get it. You really, truly understand it. Mr Miller is right, he’s so damn right.

This, the comfort you find in being in Dutch’s arms that unlocks the ability to just keep seeking more from life, this is true freedom. He holds you and guides you from one life changing find to another, allowing you to shape what you want from the world and doing everything he can to bring it to you. The two of you find magical things, like the carnal lusts you experience near nightly, but with his encouragement and love, you continue to seek. You seek times like these, where you’ve never been so vulnerable with another and yet have never felt pleasure and connection so all-consuming.

You and Dutch, when you’re together…

You’re evermore free.

Free to seek and find, and then keep seeking until you reach this: true bliss.

You cum to the sweet melody of Dutch’s moans and praises, wave after wave radiating over you. Your toes curl; your nails dig into the skin on Dutch’s back, surely ripping it and shedding more blood between you. You can feel your pussy clenching around Dutch’s entire shaft, which twitches madly as it pumps you full of his hot spend.

It feels as if it lasts forever, like when you blink your eyes open the world will have ended, leaving you and Dutch to fuck into eternity and repopulate the Earth. You’d do it. Gladly.

Alas, when you do open your eyes, you’re met with the world, just as it was when you seemingly left it. Your world: Dutch. His arms are tense around you, as to not let his entire weight crush you and when he slips out of you, he lowers himself to your side. You see the blood on his right hand, but it doesn’t look too unlike the blood on your own hands. You’re breathless, feeling the laboured rise and fall of Dutch’s chest when you rest your head on it, but you just about manage to whisper to him, “Sorry for scratching you…” with the cheekiest smile on your swollen lips.

Dutch raises a brow, entangling his cleaner hand with one of your own and raising them both to the candlelight to inspect the damage.

“Y’know… I quite like the look of my blood on your hands, my dear.”

You grin, thinking of the long forgotten cramping and bad mood you once knew.

“Likewise, Mr. van der Linde.”

#Dutch Van Der Linde #Dutch Van Der Linde smut #Dutch Van Der Linde x reader #Dutch Van Der Linde x you #dutch van der linde fanfiction #rdr #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #Dutch Van Der Linde fanfic #Dutch Van Der Linde imagine #rdr imagine #rdr fanfic #Dutch rdr2

535 notes · View notes