#dutch van der linde oneshot

[2demondogs]

Dutch x Reader. just pure heartbreaking, soul crushing, stomach aching angst you can write where Reader gets killed by Colm , making them yet another lover of Dutch’s fall victim to him.

We never see Dutch have a breakdown, and not a "Oh my God, we need money or else we all die" breakdown, but a "Oh my God, my whole world just got taken away from me and there's nothing I can do to save them" break down (maybe with Hosea but I need this man to UGLY CRY)

Doesn't matter how you get reader in Colms hands. That's completely up to you! They could be kidnapped and killed, caught in a shootout between Dutch and Colm, perhaps a ransom situation gone wrong! I'm just throwing ideas out there, but I'll say it again it up to you!

I love your writing so much, thank you :))

Thank you! This one got the Evil Gears working. You guys never fail to complete my villainous whump urges. I be like "cut his arm off with a boulder" and y'all are like "he will never love again."

Hosea's there and so's some others... it takes a village. Thank you to my platonic husband once again for some ideas because the block on this one was tuff. I'm sorry if the execution is not that good T-T.

Words: 3.7k Tags: canon typical violence, grief/mourning, trigger warning Micah (and I guess the rest of it)

The muscle memory kicks in before his consciousness does: the boom of a rifle — Charles' bolt-action, Dutch knows in his veins, can usually tell each of his men's guns apart by report — and then instantaneous sit up, find his gun, rub his face into some semblance of wakefulness as he storms half-dressed out of the tent, canvas flapping. Chilly midnight air is hitting his skin before the echo of the shot has faded into the treeline surrounding camp.

The stillness wakes him up the rest of the way. At least, the stillness of the woodlands, eerie-quiet as they always fall after fire. For the camp's part, men are stumbling out and tripping over themselves, tents rustling, and the women are getting up, Abigail shushing a too-loud Jack. Susan nearly beats Arthur to meeting his stride, her kerosene lantern roving light over the dying grass on the ground.

Micah is always first, a dark shadow already standing at the perimeter where Charles is looming over two shapes heaped on the ground. He doesn't think that man ever sleeps.

"Charles!" He calls, and the two turn from talking hushedly. "What's goin' on?"

Charles tenses up, and Micah speaks before he does, face clearing as Dutch squints the blurriness from his eyes. "Your, ah," — throwing a hand up at Charles, starting towards Dutch with his hands out to grab his elbows — "You oughta be warned, sir."

His brows furrow. Micah of all people is not one to beat around bushes, let alone with him. It gnaws at him, some, a vague sense of dread. It passes his mind where you are, but you had a habit of staying nights over in town if it got too dark to ride comfortably.

"What the Hell are you talkin' about?" He repeats. He shrugs his hands off, pushes past him, hears his gunbelt clinking as he stumbles a step. "Charles, what—?"

"Ain't no one else," Charles starts, not stepping from where he stands in front of the tree they'd assigned as an unofficial camp outpost. That's odd, too, and he has a feeling the man doesn't believe there's no one else, not with his gun clenched in his hands like that. No one else? "But there was an O'Driscoll with—"

And then Susan's lantern swings once across the start of the brush, throws light against hair and a fallen hat, laying on its crown. His fingers ready at his trigger, eyes hardening. "How did they find us this goddamn time?" Dutch asks the air.

Unlike usual, Charles does not keep talking once he's put his two-cents in the pot. He has that tension about him that he always does when there's something he would prefer not to say aloud, a habit that scratches Dutch raw in the wrong ways. He's about to spout off some aggressive twist to avoid the one in his gut, something about I'm the fucking man, Thomas, why are you not explaining this to me? until Susan steps the few paces ahead of him to meet the tree, and the warm glow of her lantern lands on familiarity.

His finger slips from the trigger, all curling bone-white around the grip instead.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, and he waves at the heap with his gun, throat clicking loud enough he thinks he may have cocked it on accident. When he turns to him instead of the ground, he can't make out his son's face in the shadow cast by his own head, only sees glints off his eyes in the darkness.

"You... you take care of this, Arthur," Dutch is saying, feels a hand on his elbow, curling into the inner of it to hold him back, and brushes Micah off once more. Micah, or someone else— the fingers were thinner, but his ears are starting to ring. His throat feels clogged, sticky.

"Dutch," a voice says, and he isn't sure who it is through the roar of blood.

Sanguine is seeping into the ground that Susan's lantern reveals, sliding over the dirt from a gaping hole in the skull of an O'Driscoll. Always goes for the instant kill, Charles does. Green bandana, green vest, dressed like a big green clown by his standards — an imitation of uniform, all of them wannabe munton-shunting clowns wear green, munton-shunter wannabes is all those men are at the end of the day: swine united under one God, hollow be His name — and flailed onto the dirt by the rifle blow. Not from this close, no, he'd be gone from the shoulders up, which means the bastard had almost made it past the perimeter, unnoticed. Dutch can't find it in himself to tear Charles a new asshole for that.

You lay there, too. Unbleeding, but shot all the same.

"Dutch," comes again. He listens this time, because it's Hosea's sleep-ridden nasal and his cool fingers on his burning wrist, pulling him away as his mind grows louder. "Let Arthur handle this."

And he listens to the words this time, because it's Hosea.

He won't think of why Charles is good at fashioning these wooden crosses. Perhaps it's selfish to think that, and to neglect most anything besides the blackness eating at himself— but you are gone.

If he were a different sort of crier, maybe he'd turn to him now and tell Hosea he's lucky to have lived through two. That Arthur and John are, too, and especially Susan— but you are gone, and Dutch only finds one thing funny, in the sour way men laugh over spilled blood and ashes and misfires.

It's own his negligence that must've led to this. Letting you do as you wished, wanting you to be happy instead of entirely safe. If he had only listened to that little voice in his head, surely, you would have come back from town alive and well and pressing some little jewelry piece you'd stolen into his hands like some of promise, the way you always did.

But no, that's not right. The regret is talking now that something has happened, trying to paint over the simple fact that Dutch trusted you enough there were no nagging inclinations when you went out on your lonesome. He wouldn't have liked you this much if there weren't that ability to hold your own, how you offered him some semblance of safety in every regard that he hasn't felt in a long, long while. Give and take.

There is, too, the wish that he had been with you in your last moments. If he were, they wouldn't have been your last; but even if things went the way things always do — which is the end, eventually — he would've liked to have been there, holding you, the way lovers die.

Susan did her best to clean you off and freshen you up. Charles' crosses, and her mortuary sciences. They're both skills that shouldn't be held. Dutch kneeled by your side and gripped the stiffened hand as if the warmth of his skin could've made the flesh tender and rosy once more.

The work is done by the time the sun reveals itself over the treeline. A patch of clearing near camp holds you now, in the grave Charles and Arthur have dug. The two strongest, as reluctant as he was to ask anything of them knowing they were his first choices for scouting a new campsite. He was reluctant to even consider the fact that as soon as you were buried, he might have only a few minutes with that sorry, scored cross that now claims to be you.

Dutch wasn't sure what to do with himself when the work began, and he isn't sure what he spent the hours since midnight doing now that they've passed. He doesn't think he's moved from the spot he stepped into, and Hosea's arm linked through his is so burning hot in the crook of his elbow that he believes maybe he hasn't even breathed.

A respectable distance, in front of the boys. Arthur offers him the last shovel's-worth of dirt, and it means something that Dutch will probably soon regret shaking his head to. His brain skitters at the hard casing of his skull when he does, eyes backed up and stinging. That pain started sometime while he knelt beside you, which seems so long ago now.

Once Charles and Arthur leave, he crumbles onto Hosea, and it all feels very far away. Enclosed in it, locked outside of it; his nostrils burn as if he's snorted capsaicin, mucus coming to his throat without any tears.

"I know, Dutch," Hosea says, voice so weary that Dutch feels his fingers grow stiff and numb with it.

Here he is, and there goes his knees, Hosea stepping back once under his weight but holding him up, in the end, arms tight around his ribs. He realizes it hurts because he's talking, that Hosea has spoken in response to him.

"I should've—" He's starting, but now that he's listening to himself he does not know what he was going to say, and grows frustrated enough that he only groans, inhales a mouthful of the half-dirty collar of Hosea's fur-lined coat.

Here he is, and how he has forgotten what the shards of a broken heart feel like stabbing into a man's lungs.

Dutch has crumbled two sets of tobacco leaves in his fingers, blinking the sun out of his eyes where it crawls up and beneath the overhang of shading the folding chair beside his tent. He sighs sharply, hanging his hands and head between his knees. At this rate, he'll crush every last leaf in his rolling tin and still be out the soothe of nicotine.

Months have passed, but still he struggles to grasp himself again. The idea that you were gone for a job was a lie so clear to him by the end of that first week, Dutch could no longer fool himself on why his cot didn't smell like you anymore. He packed your things alongside his own, but they stay in the crates they were placed into — not stuffed, not like his possessions were — since the gang moved from Blackwater, to Colter, to here.

God, you're all the way back there.

Why did life not cross the border with us? He wonders, at times. He then remembers that it's little use to think that way, before he continues to do it.

There was no use toting a — as impersonal as it sounds, he has no other words for it — corpse around. If he could have, he would've buried you where he believed they might stay for a while. That place hasn't come to him yet, either, as quiet as the overlook seems to be, and so who knows how long he would've been playing that sick game. A proper graveyard was out of the question, if it even could've been done; the only usefulness in such a burial is a relatively sure landmarker by which to find you. Dutch has never been one to go back to the past.

But it's you. He did not go to his mother's grave, and he wouldn't go to hers now. You're more than the past, though. He wishes he could have buried you somewhere beautiful, at least; he wants to go back and sit with you. He doesn't think you will ever be so little as the past.

Dutch doesn't realize he's been mumbling these things to himself until Arthur's voice breaks through the drone of his own, rumbling murmurs and brings them to light amongst the ambiance of camp that he had tuned out.

"You okay, Dutch?" Familiar, gritty like his own voice. Lighter, and concerned.

Dutch looks up at him and sighs, seeing the draw of his brow. His hand raises to gesture before he can think of what he should say— what he even can say, or if there's anything that needs saying to begin with. Finally, the struggle exhausts his mind too much to do anything beyond summarizing his thoughts.

"How many more people I love?" He muses, flicks his wrist and lets it fall back to limply resting on his knee. The sentence cracks and falls between them, Arthur shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

Everyone has been uncomfortable around him, as of late, and that's getting on Dutch's nerves more than it is depressing him. He supposes it does its fair share of that, too. He believes that he does a fine job of swallowing himself and giving them what they need: a leader, strong and shiny and well-groomed, who knows what he's doing, what they're all doing. A man to be proud of, and to make proud.

A man who feels very unlike the way Dutch feels behind that blank expression he lets them paint something better onto in their heads.

Arthur is nodding, looking both ways as if clearing the camp of witnesses before he lays a hand on his shoulder. Lord, Dutch remembers when his hands weren't so meaty and rough. Near dainty, spindly fingers on some teenaged mutt that could barely lift an arm long enough to wave, hands that always seemed too-cold and clammy. That— now, that is the past.

"I know, man," he starts, and says something else he does not hear. All he can think of is when Arthur used to call him Dad, every now and then. "—have to move on," he's saying.

Dutch assumes what needs brushed past, and he has never been a man to agree with the truth, so he asks of Arthur the least he can imagine asking of him. "I know, son," he interjects, gently moves his hand from his shoulder to raise. Arthur steps back, sighs. "Can you...?" Dutch aches, he does; aches for something here that he cannot put a name to, unsure what would soothe any part of him that's currently stirring. He doesn't find the answer as his eyes search the collar of his red workshirt, the treeline past his shoulder where the horses are grazing on the sloping ground. "I need to be alone. Please."

Arthur's jaw clicks as he moves it, then nods and steps away. He pauses before he obeys.

"I..." — that pregnant, lingering thing comes between them again, keeping Arthur's chin raised as he hesitates — "Sure, Dutch," he says, and leaves him to picking up the larger crumbs of tobacco that fell to the ground.

Bitter brown and orange scattered through green grass and patches of raw dirt. In the soil, he figures out that, foolishly, he wanted to be embraced.

Not much more can be done about you. Not now.

It's been burning his skin, this need to be held. It's less than that, Dutch thinks, maybe just a desire for a vague thing like the right kind of comfort.

What can fill a hole this vast?

What can mend a man?

"What's wrong?" Hosea asks, and it's the only what Dutch knows the answer to.

He must know, too. In the lantern light inside Dutch's tent, his face is sliding away from even into one akin to the expression men turn on kicked dogs. They've grating on one another since abandoning the Overlook, and it's been too long since he's seen that much warmth in his eyes.

If only the kinship didn't come from something so terrible. Dutch hasn't pulled him aside this late into the evening since Annabelle's death sent him to nightmares. How strange it feels to taste her name in his thoughts again. Slowly, you've come to stand beside her, to be dead just like her. Nor with as much haste, with hands that shook so hard gripping Hosea's shoulder that he followed without a question.

"I just," — wringing his hands, pacing around the sprawling bear rug thrown over the ground, seems so gaudy now, all of it seems gaudy — "I don't know what to do with myself."

"Ah, Dutch," Hosea says, voice soft. His face grows hot with the sting of oncoming tears. "I know."

His hands are shaking before the words have fully left his mouth. It comes to him that he hasn't cried in the months since you've passed, and suddenly the wave of it hits him at once. He didn't cry for Annabelle until a year had gone by and Arthur had asked, unknowing, if he'd felt the same way with her as he was feeling with that Linton girl.

He had, was the worst part.

He had felt it with you, too. That youthfulness, the carelessness, let them all know; the way his eyes would soften and give him away before he could ever hope to hide it; the burning of loneliness without you, your hand on his arms or how right your skin felt under his palms; how he liked the way you laughed and smiled, so much that it left him bristling with an energy he didn't know how to waste. Dutch was always bad at hiding himself away, in anger or love. His breath never steadied, 'round you. Nothing was even, nothing was ever as clean-cut as he wished it to be. He realizes he's thinking as if he is dead, and stops himself.

It's almost more than you, now. The weight of it takes him to his knees, all the while ashamed in the back of his mind of what he's come to. Hosea follows. Grunting when his knee joint pops, but follows instantly all the same. For some reason, Dutch's face scrunches up harder at that, and he lets it happen when arms link around his shoulders. He remembers the cold of the air the morning you were buried, and lets out a whinging, broken noise.

Time lapses fast and slow. He's unsure how long he spends crying, or how pitiful it must sound. He's unsure when the last time he even cried was. There's not much to mourn in a life spent living amongst the dead, not really— and not much else warrants tears, not out of a man like him.

They come hard, and then dry up enough his head throbs with the strain to find more with which to release himself. His heart races alongside, pounding hard in his wrists where they are both pressed between their stomachs, fingers clenching and unclenching, rings making divets in the webbing that ache. Nose pressed to the breast pocket of Hosea's shirt, gasping breath in between sobs, Dutch comes to a semblance of his senses, to consciousness. It's still difficult to think through the migraine threatening to take out his vision entirely when he attempts to crack his eyelids. It's almost like a first hangover.

Whiskey would do me much better than bawling, he hears himself pondering.

There's nothing more to think of, not about that evening nor the ride you took. There's nothing he has not thought of on the matters of what those groveling weasels may have done to you before they took your life, and there's nothing he has ever doubted on what information they tried to extort from you.

It was personal, it was. No point would have been had in ratting Dutch out to the law, no safety in sending one of his sniffling newsies to the cops only for that one to be extorted and take everyone down with them. Nothing is fair in love nor war, and this feud has always been made of both.

Your death was a chess piece to Colm. If he really meant it, really wanted Dutch to do anything but get pissed off and show his soft belly while struggling to retaliate— Colm would have brought himself and his best men, and he would have dumped your body before him. Personally, like a real bastard. At least, this is the fantasy Dutch imagines in a world where revenge is feasible, and smart.

There's nothing he hasn't done for you in this world besides cry, and if he doesn't stop this heaving, he'll suffocate. His temple is scorching, burns worse when he tries to pull his head away and he cringes, fumbling for his handkerchief to get rid of the mucus sticking his nose to Hosea in thick strands.

"God, I'm sorry, this is— I'm disgusting," he groans, throat clogged. He's on the brink of tears again just from using his voice. It's thick, and he squeezes his eyes shut trying to fix the mess he's sobbed onto him.

Hosea's hand smooths over his shoulder blade. "No, you're grievin'," he says. "You're lovin'."

Curse him and how— how open he is in being kind. Dutch's feverish forehead falls onto his shoulder, but at least these new tears well up right into the handkerchief instead of all over the already soaked patch on his friend's shirt.

Friend. Brother, really. Hosea must be a brother to hold him this quietly as his organs try to squeeze out his body, to give him this thing he never could have asked for in a silence so much more tolerable than lies of how things will be better soon and reminders that men do not show their pulse points like this.

He is getting old, and Dutch doesn't know what he will do. He thinks the last piece of his soul will die with the man.

His mind thrashes so violently inside his head, he thinks it may come out in bloody chunks as he blows his nose. The skin is screaming and raw by the time he can wrangle a bit of air through his nostrils again. Once hot and writhing, he feels his body going numb, painfully empty. His fingers lock up where they cling to each other at Hosea's chest, and it grows hard to breathe; he slumps against him, rakes in air until his stomach feels connected to himself again, and lets out a shuddering sigh that sinks his shoulders back towards the ground.

Wherever he had been, it was very far away. Maybe it was closer to you.

"When does it stop?" Dutch asks, moving to lay his mouth hard against Hosea's collarbone through the shoulder-seam of his shirt. It's sharp and he leans hard enough to feel as though the bone is grinding on his teeth.

He opens his eyes, though it feels more like prying with the drying tears on his lashes, and— looks at the tent, he supposes, but doesn't see much. A crate of your things stares back at him.

Hosea sighs. "It doesn't," he says, pats his shoulder once. "You'll hurt until you join them."

Dutch hates that he's right.

[cosurmqne]

01 — a short life of trouble

[ RDR2 X fem reader , 2334 words ] — next ✶

rhodes was a quiet town at the best of times. as much as the pompous sherrif, mr leigh gray, liked to juice up his line of work, the most action this collection of run-down buildings saw was the same petty feud between two families that was seemingly everlasting. an alleyway punch up after a night of drinking, perhaps even a few shots on the outskirts of town; this was all that was worth talking about amongst its residents, whatever distracted them from their lungs filling with red dust kicked up by horses and the sun drying up their almost forgotten patch of land in the valley of lemoyne.

when dutch van der linde first rode into the town, he felt at home, a welcome sight for the conman. it was a clean slate, filled with nooks and crannies that he could infiltrate and manipulate at his will. the townsfolk were stupid, the law even more so; it was a perfect combination to have some fun. it was no surprise to the rest of his gang that in no time at all, he was already sitting pretty on the porch of the sheriffs office, hand rested on the shoulder of sheriff gray himself. and lets not forget, with a gleaming deputy badge pinned firmly on his chest.

his main confidants, arthur morgan and hosea matthews, agreed that there was an opportunity for control here, to take what they needed and disappear before anyone in rhodes knew what had hit them, or that they were to blame. they were, after all, outlaws. on the run from forces beyond their capabilities. it only took a matter of days for the rest of their gang to settle in and set themselves up once again in a temporary camp to call home, finding a location south of the town in a secluded grassy plain. it was close to town, but still hidden unless you knew the right tracks to follow.

placing himself firmly amongst the law had led to dutch walking freely around town, a feeling he had not been able to experience in months, perhaps even years. still in a state of high alert (one that never seemed to leave), he allowed himself to look less frequently over his shoulder, not analyse every face he saw or mentally count how many weapons the men around him may have on them at any given moment. occupational hazards had ingrained this behaviour into him since a young age, but at least he could leave the confines of his camp more confident than he had in a long while.

arthur and himself rode down the now familiar dirt road towards the sunbaked town, passing dry fields and even nodding at passers by. dutch chuckled slightly, “we are living it up now son! look at me, look at us!”

arthur let himself crack a smile, “yup, i don’t know how you manage to squeeze your way into situations like these but …. thank goodness. everyone at camp seems settled in, happy even.”

dutch turned to the outlaw riding next to him, “what did i tell you arthur. i have a plan. it’s working. these fools are just the beginning.” he raised his hand to gesture to rhodes, now larger on the horizon and full of morning activity. people entering the train station to the right, some riding through to perhaps visit some of the general stores throughout. the local saloon would even start filling up with its regular drunks soon enough , even this early in the day.

“now,” dutch continued, “you break off to the left here and go visit our dear friend trelawny. last i heard he’s living amongst thieves in old trailers on the outskirts of town, see what kind of information he’s kicked up these past couple of weeks. meanwhile, i’ll go catch up with our great protector.” he placed an exaggerated hand on the deputy badge his chest, chuckling once again, “this sheriff’s perhaps a greater fool than even uncle.”

arthur laughed then let out a sigh, “fine, but next time you deal with trelawny. who knows what scheme he’s going to wrap me into.” with a kick to his horse, he rode away from dutch, leaving him to continue riding deeper into town.

hitching his loyal arabian in front of of the sheriffs office, he entered the building oozing the charisma and confidence that any man would dream to have. within ten minutes, he left holding official papers and a smug look on his face. mr gray had so graciously given him a tip off about some illegal moonshiners east of rhodes, the only instruction? to eradicate the men; any means necessary, just get the job done.

this translated to only mean two things to dutch; free booze and easy money.

eager to return to camp and start planning this ‘offical raid’ with a few extra men, he jumped back onto his horse and slowly started to make his way back home. shoving the papers into the saddle bag on his left, he allowed himself to light a cigar and let out a low sigh while he held it loosely between his calloused fingers. delicious and familiar smoke filling his lung, with an oblivious town in front of him. things were looking damn good …

just as he passed the bloody faced butcher hacking at a deer, he heard the first gunshot.

instantly alert, his still-lit cigar hit the dirt road and both hands were like stone by his sides, each ready to uncap the holsters beneath them at a moments notice. he scanned the area, turning his head every which way, already looking towards the hiding places he had mentally noted weeks earlier in which someone could potentially hide. just as he was straining to hear any sort of noise, he heard yet another gunshot within seconds.

habits had made him duck closer to his saddle, his horse becoming skiddish as dutch looked around once again. the townspeople were on high alert also, most crouched or back indoors after a few shouts. seconds passed before dutch realised that the shots were coming from out of town entirely, the echoes ringing out from where he guessed was the thicker forest that stood in the distance. these past months had made him assume every gun was pointed towards him, each loud noise, bullet or not, had made him instantly ready to fight and assuming the worst.

sitting straighter and tightening the grip around his reins to calm his horse, he figured the folk around him had concluded the same, most standing up and even waving their hands with a dismissive gesture. he had come to realise that in this town, if the shooting wasn’t at your front door, it wasn’t your problem ….

‘righteous people, truly ….’ he jokingly thought to himself.

another shot ran out from the trees, causing the remaining birds in the area to fly over the canopy. flinching less than before, dutch started his horse into a gallop once again, leaving rhodes to deal with their own backyard business. whoever it was, dutch figured he would rather it be their problem than his. moving closer towards the tree line on the dirt track to camp, he did let himself wonder what all the ruckus was about…. then it hit him …. that sinking feeling that usually rested at the bottom of his chest.

arthur …..

quickening his horse, dutch cut off the path and ran towards the forest. ‘trelawny….. that damn fool.’ he thought, his mind racing towards conclusion that he hoped weren't true. ‘who knows what kind of business he put those two up too. those gunshots could have been from anybody … but ….’

breaking through the tree line, he scanned the area on horseback, looking on the ground for tracks, broken branches, blood strains, anything. moving closer to where he guessed the shots were coming from, he got down from his horse and continued on foot. each step he took was barely audible despite the dry leaf litter below, his right hand once again hovering steady above the shining revolver on his hip… he could smell gunpowder in the air, this must be the place.

“arthur? son are you here?” he let himself say aloud in shouted whisper, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. the area was thick with stumps, boulders, tree trunks and bushes, all bending and layering into a green and brown mess. it was eerily quiet, most animals being scared into running with all the noise, despite a few birds chirping as they bravely returned to their nests so soon.

eyes, ears and mind alert, ducth finally saw something, a body laying face down a few feet in front of him. he let himself rush over and sighed as he realised it belonged to a stranger. not just a stranger he realised, but an o’driscoll! ‘yes’ he thought, ‘green vest, rusty gun… missing teeth… good riddance.’

looking up he saw another body laying in a flower bed to the right. both men were huge in stature, undoubtably lacking brains, but still a force not taken on without guts and skill. looking down at the o’driscoll closest to him once again, he noticed that he had a gunshot wound, right in the middle of his forehead…. impressive. walking over to the other, he had the same. a clean and fatal shot. perhaps this was arthurs handy-work?

he stood and continued deeper into the forest, calling for arthur once again. he passed yet another dead o’driscoll, taking the satisfaction of stepping right over his body and observing yet another perfect headshot. three gunshots, three wounds, three dead o’driscolls. mystery solved.

right?

“arthur, where the hell are you boy?” he called once again. perhaps trelawney and himself were long gone, away from the scene and disappeared before the real trouble of the law or more o’driscolls showed up. or maybe they were never here at all?

dutch stood straighter and felt himself relax. whatever happened here seemed to be over, and his two men were nowhere to be seen. just as he figured he may as well leave this be and head on his way, he heard the snap of a branch behind him. turning around in an instant, hand already holding the loaded revolver in his hand, he froze as he came face to face with the barrel of a rusted repeater.

“dont. move.”

a woman was standing before him. her hair was matted, eyes wide, skin covered in who knows what but hands steady as a rock, eyebrows furrowed in fierce concentration. she was wearing a blouse, ripped and stained dark with what dutch assumed to be blood, her skirt torn and thinning. the boot she wore seemed three sized too big, a second gun on her side attached with nothing but a thin rope tied around her waist.

dutch slowly raised his palms in line with his shoulders, gun pointed upwards, “miss? i-” he started.

“don’t. who the hell are you.” she spoke stern but her voice sounded exhausted. she hid the shakiness well.

“i’m ….” he trailed off, “miss, did you kill those men back there?”

she stood unmoving. “so what if i did. those are bad men.… now answer my question.”

“oh i know,” he ignored her still, moving his right hand to touch his chest and daring to take a small step forward. “i’m glad they're laying face down in the dirt where they belong.” he paused. “thats some fine shooting you must have had.”

she looked him up and down with a quick glance, eyebrows furrowed, “what are you playing at…”

dutch dared once again to take a step forward, eyes glued to the woman with an unwavering confidence, despite the gun pointed right at his chest. “you asked who i am? my name is dutch van der line. i’m somewhat of a… outlaw around here. cast off and trying to survive….. i sense that you can relate to that.”

the woman seemed to slip out of her fierce gaze for a split second, her arms lowering slightly then snapping back into position, even taking a cowering step backwards as the stranger in front of her continued forward.

“i’m sure you're tired miss, hungry?” dutch continued. “when was the last time you laid to rest without keeping one eye open…” he moved closer still, his steps more frequent. “trust me, i’ve been there. i can help. we can help you.”

the woman stared, she didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to respond. and dutch knew it. he had her just how he wanted.

he was close enough now to raise his hand and place it on the barrel of her gun, slowly lowering it and moving in. he spoke low, calm and considerate. “miss… if you come with me, i can give you all these things. we have a camp, not too far from here. we already have a common enemy it seems,” he gestured behind him to the dead o’driscolls, even smiling slightly as he turned back, “it doesn't matter who you are, what you’ve done, just … trust me.”

the woman was staring unblinkingly at dutch, but he could tell that she had no choice, she seemed so exhausted, guessed she had nowhere to go. how long had see been alone for? was the dried blood that painted her clothes her own, or some other dead fool? “please miss, whats you’re name.”

“y/n.” she responded weakly, finally letting her arms drop by her sides. it seemed despite her unmoving position, she was struggling to hold up the heavy gun, her arms and strength exhausted. she allowed herself to let her guard down, her legs making her sway, shoulders slumped. it was all too much.

ducth let himself touch her shoulder, holding her small frame in his skilled hands as he let out a high whistle, calling his horse towards them.

“come on y/n. you’re safe now.”

[vanderlesbian]

daughter of a cop

arthur morgan x fem reader

now playing: daughter of a cop - tv girl

— a short fic inspired by the tv girl song! this is my first actual piece of writing on this blog so i hope you guys enjoy it <3 i think i have a ghost fic planned that ill start working on soon :) (it may or may not be based off a mitski song)

warnings: slight suggestive content/references

masterlist

saint denis was the epitomy of growing industrialization. factories, tight neighborhoods, trolleys that didn't seem to care if someone was crossing the pavement, and most importantly; police. it wasn't a place for a man like arthur morgan to be lingering around, and he knew it. he didn't enjoy the city, anyways. it was congested, and there were far too many rules for an outlaw like him to follow. the constant glares from men in blue uniforms and silly hats irritated him—this was nothing like the west he was used to.

however, within saint denis, there was a spot where the police didn't go. a small saloon hidden within a maze of an alley way, disguised by the neighborhood homes that surrounded it, making it appear as just another residence. it was a place that arthur frequented, but not for any reasons that his fellow outlaws would think. he didn't go to gather intel, nor did he go to have chats with dutch. no, he went because of one thing. or, perhaps one person.

he went because of a woman.

he would never admit it to the others, for several reasons. one, he was simply just embarrassed over it all, but two, she was a woman of higher class. a young woman who wore a new dress each time he saw her, with her manners being rather formal compared to the sloppy outlaw, yet she never found his habits strange or uncivilized.

that woman was you, and you were nothing other than the daughter of a cop.

it was obvious that you liked arthur. from the way you let your hand linger on his bicep each time he made a silly remark, to always hushing him when he began to talk bad of himself, telling him that he was handsome and kind. though, arthur refused to believe that was the case. he tried not to show his own affection and often wrote notes to himself in his journal that he would never meet up with you again, but time and time again he made his way into that saloon, eyes searching for you in the crowd of other outlaws. he would curse himself for coming again, but all of his anxieties were eased the moment he saw you push through the saloon doors.

you stuck out like a sore thumb—or, to put in nicer words as arthur thought he should, perhaps a daisy in a field of clovers? the moon on a clear night? arthur crossed out several made up metaphors in his journal. whatever the metaphor was, you were different from the outlaw men that frequented the hidden saloon. you were full of life, clean, unscathed, and rather innocent. arthur noted the way your eyes widened each time he told you a story about his many days of being what he called "a bad man", and how you would bring a hand to your mouth as it fell into an 'o' shape from pure shock and surprise.

though, you were never scared of him, and that's something that arthur also took note of. you held some level of empathy for outlaws, for ones that come from challenging backgrounds. you had met arthur because he had saved you from a couple of strange men, and immediately you knew that he was a kind man. there was something about him that intrigued you, aside from the fact that you found him to be attractive, and you had made it your goal to get to know him.

"i know a place where the cops don't go." you had told him. before he could say anything, you grabbed his wrist and led him through that maze of alleys, leading him to the saloon that became your special spot.

"how do you know this place?" he had asked you the day you first took him. you simply shrugged and held a hushing finger to your lips. he chuckled, and you felt your cheeks grow hot.

eventually you had told him that you were the daughter of a police man. you expected him to get upset at that fact—and he did, but it wasn't anything serious. he furrowed his brows and questioned in a low voice if you were in on some kind of ploy to catch him, to which you sincerely told him that it was nothing of that sort. your father wasn't even aware of the fact that you were seeing this man with a five thousand dollar bounty hanging above his head. arthur didn't grow as upset as you expected him to because deep within himself, he had already trusted you. it was more of a natural instinct to grow suspicious of you, but immediately felt eased the moment you placed your hand on his knee and told him that you weren't working for your father.

so, arthur continued to visit you. he waited for your letters at his camp, and he also kept each one. the other members of the gang would raise eyebrows at the mysterious parcels, to which arthur would always bashfully shrug off with a "it ain't none of your business" before riding his horse into saint denis. what was originally one visit maybe every three weeks became one visit every week, then two, then the both of you simply began to walk into the saloon any time you felt like it in hopes of seeing the other already there.

both of you knew it was risky, yet neither of you cared. your father began to question where you were going, to which you always had an elaborate excuse. dutch would question why arthur was in saint denis so often, and he would reply with some half thought out lie that made dutch raise an eyebrow in return, but ultimately shrugged off. the two of you had even began spending time outside of the saloon, out in the open streets of saint denis. arthur was rather hesitant about it all, not wanting you to be seen with a man like himself, yet you insisted.

you took arthur to your favorite spots around saint denis; gardens and parks where you sat along the edge of a pond, and to theatres where you would watch whatever event was on that evening. accidental faint brushes of finger tips had become full blown hand holding, and each time before you would hop on the trolley to depart, you would place a kiss on the stubble growing on his cheek. it was this strange stage between the both of you, one where neither of you had admitted your feelings simply because both of you were afraid of the differences in your life, yet the feeling of his lips against yours was no longer a foreign feeling, and it simply kept growing.

perhaps it was just the both of you being eager and needy, but there were several instances where you had found yourself pressed against the wall of an alley way with arthur's large, calloused hands snaking up the skirt of your dress and running along the bare skin of your thighs. privacy hardly existed within the city which cornered you into sometimes uncomfortable spots, yet you couldn't ride out on the back of arthur's horse, especially with the increased questioning from your father. the blindness of the love you were experiencing with this outlaw had completely shrouded you from the fact that your father had begun investigating your whereabouts—not until the police had barged into that saloon that had stayed hidden for so long.

you saw your father among the uniformed men, making eye contact with his furious gaze. you were the one who had grabbed arthur and ran with him out the back door of the saloon, starting a chase that was probably much bigger than it should've been. arthur had called you insane as the two of you snuck through nooks and crannies in an attempt to make it back to his horse, but there was an obvious hint of amusement in his voice as he said it. you were a woman completely separated from the world of outlaws, yet you were a natural escape artist.

eventually making it to arthur's horse, the two of you attempted to flee the city. the adrenaline was something you had never felt before, and you could hear arthur's thumping heartbeat as your ear pressed against his back while you held onto him. the police held no guns upon your father's instructions, insisting that they capture arthur alive and keep you unharmed. though, their numbers quickly increased, and you began to see the concern growing in arthur's expression.

while guiding him through the streets, arthur suddenly took a different turn than what you had told him. the feeling of his horse coming to a sudden halt made you gasp, and you hardly had time to process as he dismounted his horse and held his arms out to help you off.

"come on." he told you, eyes glancing to the side to check for signs of the law. "you ain't coming with me."

stubbornly, you refused. it wasn't until the sounds of whistles began growing closer that you saw genuine concern in arthur's face, and you hopped off the horse into his arms without a word. however, when you peered back up at him, arthur was smiling; a smile that looked as if he were holding back a chuckle.

"you are one crazy woman." he told you in a hushed tone, lifting his worn hat from his head and placing it on yours before letting you go. "now get on out of here, you shouldn't be caught up in all this."

you immediately knew his hat was a sign from him telling you that he would see you again. it was too big for your own head and blocked your eyes from seeing his horse gallop away, but when you lifted it to look, the law was racing down a nearby street with arthur nowhere to be seen. a large smile spread across your face, and you couldn't help but giggle to yourself as you disappeared into the alleys between buildings, taking a complex path back home to avoid detection.

needless to say, your father wasn't pleased when he came home to you innocently prepping tea for yourself. you didn't listen to his nagging words; something about uncivilized people, chaos and getting involved with the wrong kind. however, your interest was finally piqued when you heard that arthur had been arrested.

"it wasn't his fault." you immediately told the man, forgetting about the boiling kettle. your father scoffed, but you continued to tell him that you were the one who made arthur flee. though, he didn't budge, raising his voice as he nagged you for getting involved with such a dangerous man.

the word 'dangerous' seemed to strike something within you, because you had yelled back that arthur had saved you. that evening, those two strange men, the way arthur held your shoulders and reassured you that you were alright; there was nothing dangerous about him in your eyes. you saw your father's expression lose it's anger, and it seemed that was when he noticed arthur's hat sitting loosely upon your head.

"what's that?" he asked, pointing at the tattered leather hat.

you shrugged. "a gift from a dangerous man."

arthur had stayed in the saint denis jail for two days. what he thought was his fellow gang members coming to bust him out ended up being you, a soft smile on your lips as you wrapped your fingers around the metal bars of the jail cell. his hat still sat on your head, making arthur chuckle at the sight of you.

"did you think i was going to leave you in a cell to rot?" you giggled, allowing space for a law man to unlock arthur's cell.

"thought i was gonna have to use other means to get out of here." arthur replied in an amused tone as he stood up from the metal slab that the jail called a bed. the law man cocked an eyebrow, to which arthur raised his hands in defense. "kidding, of course."

your father waited at the jail entrance, arms crossed and a dismissive look sprawled on his face. he was the one that had told the law men to set arthur free, you explained. arthur seemed rather flustered at that information; he didn't want to thank a cop. he figured a nod of the head was enough of an acknowledgement, though it only earned a cold glare from the older man.

"how the hell did you get that bastard—" he cleared his throat. "apologies, that fine man to let me out?" arthur questioned as the two of you left the jail. you playfully hit his arm at the comment, then shrugged your shoulders.

"i was honest. told him you saved me." you answered, lifting the hat from your head and placing it back onto it's owner. you brushed a strand of arthur's long blonde hair from his face and smiled. "there ya go, cowboy."

arthur rolled his eyes, tipping his hat downwards before replying. "you know, i enjoyed that little chase of ours." he told you, holding out his arm for you to link yours with. neither of you knew where you were headed off to; you simply strolled down the street as if nothing had happened. "but don't think about doin' something that stupid again."

"i did too, actually." you then admit with a chuckle, somewhat ignoring his nagging. "it makes things fun."

after the events of that rather chaotic day, your father agreed to leave that hidden saloon alone upon your pleading requests, and it once again became your favorite spot to frequent with arthur. the two of you did earn a bit more freedom to roam saint denis and it's outskirts, allowing the two of you to enjoy some privacy, and eventually express your true feelings for one another. however, there continued to be close encounters with the law every now and then simply because of arthur's antics with his rowdy gang, but it always ended in silly laughter and breathless kisses from running so much.

arthur wrote many things about you in his journal, mindlessly sketching portraits of you next to entries about how you enjoyed sneaking around the city after dark and running errands with him whenever possible. though, at the end of his entry, there was a phrase scribbled in his neat cursive:

she was the daughter of a cop.

[koboivanderlinde]

hey are you able to write something for dutch where his s/o has an awful nightmare and he comforts her?

Hello, thank you for the request ! I tried, it's a bit short but I hope you'll like it :)

Dutch comforting his S/O who had a nightmare

Pairing : Dutch van der Linde x Reader

Warnings : mentions of blood

Tags : angst, fluff,

A/N : As I am very new to writing, this is my first "fanfiction" ever. I am open to criticism as long as it's not too rude, I hope you'll like it anyways :)

Fire, fire everywhere. The camp was destroyed, flames licking the canvas of the tents. You were standing in front of you and Dutch's tent, petrified by the vision before you. Everyone was dead, their lifeless bodies lying on the floor next to your feet. Your hands were covered in their blood. The Pinkertons had come and burned the camp to the ground. They mercilessly slaughtered your friends -- your family. You felt as if you were drowning, despair submerging you, smothering you as you gasped for air, your sight grew dim and-

Your eyes opened wide. Your chest rose and fell back down a few times, and you tried unsuccessfully to regain control of your breath. Tears were rolling down your face without a noise. You instinctively wiped your forehead with your forearm, but all you removed was sweat. A nightmare, again. It was not unusual for you to have those, but it has been happening more and more often lately. As silently as you could, you rolled over to see Dutch's back facing you. At least I didn't wake him up, you thought. He was tired as of late, the gang's dangerous situation had taken a toll on him. The last thing you wanted to do was tire him even more.

The camp was silent. Everyone had gone to sleep for at least an hour now; There was no sound but the occasional singing of a cuckoo. Careful not to make any noise that could awaken your lover, you slowly stood up. As you were walking out of the tent, you heard a low voice behind you.

“Come back, sweetheart. What happened?”

You felt your whole body become tense. So he heard everything, you thought. His voice was enough to make the tears you tried to repress flow. You crawled back into the cot, facing Dutch as he was now turned to face you. 

“Had a nightmare… These bastards killed everyone but me,” you whispered with a shaky voice, sobbing. You hated this feeling that was creeping over you; you felt like this was just gonna worry Dutch even more. But your thoughts were interrupted by his sleepy voice.

“Oh, darling,” he sighed. He slowly cupped your cheek. “You know I would never let these men come here.”

He looked at you with concern, as he lovingly moved his hand to your chin. He gently brought your lips to his, fondly kissing you. His facial hair softly tickled you, but you didn’t mind.

“I had your blood on my hands, Dutch. I felt so hopeless..”

“Look at me.” He grabbed one of your hands and kissed it countless times. “Those hands will never get dirty as long as I am here,” he said as he pulled you close to him and embraced you tightly.

  You wished you could stay here forever, protected in his strong arms as the hand that didn’t hold your chin was affectionately stroking your back. 

“You are safe. We are safe. Alright, dear?”

“I love you, Dutch.”

“I love you too. Now come here.”

He laid flat on his back and gently grabbed your arm to help you move yourself on top of him. You rested your head in the crook of his neck, closing your eyes as you smelled his comforting Cologne scent. His arms rested on your back, securing you in place as the two of you fell back asleep, the only thing on your mind being how lucky you were to have Dutch.

[unmaskthewriter]

You’re A Great Man, Arthur Morgan {Sean Macguire x Reader}

Summary: Arthur would always look after his younger sister, in this life and the next.

A/N: This is a first attempt at a Red Dead fanfiction. I apologize if it’s a little OOC. I just finished the game for the first time and boy, oh boy, was I heartbroken.

I do not give permission for any of my work to be copied, published and/or translated on any platform including Tumblr.

Word Count: 2092

Warnings: Angst, Implied Canon Death, Injury, Language

GIF IS NOT MINE: ALL CREDITS BELONG TO LEVITHESTRIPPER

Summer; Clemens Point, 1899

When only Dutch and Micah had returned to camp from meeting Colm O’Driscoll, you felt your heart sink to your stomach. You had been hanging the laundry out to dry when the two unmounted their horses. Slowly, you come around the clothesline and approach the two men.

“Dutch… what happened? Where’s… where’s Arthur?” You asked softly, looking between the two men. Arthur was your brother, only a few years difference in age. After your parents had passed, and the two of you had been orphaned, Arthur joined the Van Der Linde gang in hopes of procuring money to take care of you. You’ve been stuck with the gang ever since.

“We… we don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know, Dutch?” You raise your voice and take a step closer. Micah intervenes, pressing a rough hand to your shoulder and slightly pushing you back.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Micah! Where is Arthur?!” You began to yell, an aching in your chest at the grief your brother may be lost or dead to the O’Driscolls. Sean, your fiancé, appears and gently holds you from behind as tears stream down your cheeks.

“Shhhh, my love. It’ll be alright, won’t it?” He reassures quietly, his free hand gently brushing back your hair.

“Oughta put a muzzle on her, Dutch.” Micah grumbled but it wasn’t unheard to you or Sean. Sean quickly turned, letting you go and standing toe to toe with Micah.

“What are you gonna do, cowpoke?” Micah questioned, his voice low and threatening.

“What a pile of shit you are, talking to ‘er thattaway.” Sean responded, looking up to Micah from under his hat. You gently took Sean’s hand, bringing him back and centered. He slowly backed away from Micah, never breaking eye contact.

“You’re a dead man, Micah.” Sean threatened before retreating with you to your tent. He sat you down on your makeshift bed, and crouched down in front of you, holding your hands. You sniffled.

“What am I going to do,” You hiccuped and looked away, “He’s my brother, Sean… and Dutch… I don’t think Dutch has any plan to rescue him.”

“Oh, lass. ‘M sure he’s already thinking of something,” He gently kissed your knuckles before standing, “let me get ya something t’ eat. It’ll help ya feel better.” He says before leaving the tent.

“Pearson’s cooking could never work such magic.” You mumble under your breath, looking away for a moment.

As you and Sean ate dinner, you silently formulated a plan to rescue Arthur. You would wait until Sean had his nightly drink, passing out drunkenly on the bedroll of your tent. As you watched his breathing slow down, the empty whiskey bottle in hand, you quietly grabbed your weapon belt, clipping it around your waist. You tiptoed over your fiancé’s body, quietly leaving the tent and sneaking over to the horses. Swiftly, you mounted Dakota, a Missouri Fox Trotter breed you had found a little ways from camp.

“Going somewhere, miss?” A soft spoken voice interrupts the silence and you freeze, slowly turning your head to see Kieran emerge from behind a tree, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I just… I was worried about you, and I-I saw you coming… y-you’re gonna go find Arthur, aren’t ya?“ He slowly approaches, patting your horse on the neck.

“Kieran, please don’t tell anyone.” You plead, gripping the reins.

“O-of course miss. I’ll think of something if anyone asks.” He quickly replies before stepping back and allowing you to ride off into the night. With nothing but the stars above to guide you, you ride forth, trying to ignore the various situations procured in your mind about what happened to Arthur.

As you’re searching not far from camp, a familiar horse approaches with someone riding on his back. Your heart skips, and you squint your eyes.

“Arthur!” You shout, quickly pulling the reins to slow your horse. Arthur slowly falls off the side of the saddle, lying face up in the dirt. He was stripped to his union suit, bloody and bruised. You dismount and rush over quickly, kneeling down beside your brother.

“Arthur… what did they do to you?” You ask quietly, tears coming to your eyes. You look around frantically before sitting up and carefully lifting him to his feet with much struggle.

“You know… this reminds me of that time.. you, Lenny and I got drunk at the saloon in Valentine. You had to carry me out...” Arthur chuckles as you help him onto the saddle, and mount in front of him.

“Only you could joke at a time like this.” You huff, grabbing his horse’s reins with a free hand and begin trotting back to camp. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when you returned.

“They’re back!” Javier shouted, standing guard outside of camp. He quickly rushes over to help as Dutch emerges from his tent. You dismount and watch Javier and Dutch retrieve Arthur from his horse.

“I told you it was a setup, Dutch.” Arthur groans softly at the sudden movement. His feet land on the rough earth beneath him, stumbling slightly before Javier helps him stand properly.

“My boy, my dear boy, what?”

“They got me… but I got away. They were gonna set the law on us.” Arthur explains, letting out a small cough.

“Oh, of course he was.” Dutch grumbles

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Morgan, you’re safe now…” The Reverend reassures him.

“Let's get him to bed.” You insist, helping Javier lead him to his tent as Dutch followed.

“You’re safe now, Arthur… you’re safe now.” Dutch affirms as Arthur is carefully placed into bed. Javier backs away as you pull up a chair alongside his bed, keeping him company.

It takes a few days for him to wake. You would sit at his bedside day and night, often eating and napping in his tent. Sean would often stop by, offer his apologies and what not.

“You have t’ know, I’m sorry… if I had known, I woulda went with ya, lass.. instead of gettin’ drunk and sleepin’ on the floor.” Sean spoke quietly, standing at the foot of Arthur’s bed.

“This isn’t your fault, Sean… it’s just the life we live,” You reassure him, flashing a small smile, “Stay out of trouble, my love. I’ll be with you soon,” You grab his hand gently and kiss it, “I promise.” He smiles and nods, leaving the tent.

“You’re too good for him, ya know…” Arthur groans and you quickly turn, your face lighting up.

“A-Arthur, oh thank god!” You begin to cry as you take his hand. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, looking around rather confused.

“Hell… what happened?”

“They took you, Arthur.. the O’Driscolls and his men, while Dutch was striking false bargains with that snake, Colm… I found you out there riding by yourself.. thought you were dead.” You whispered the last part, looking down.

“Ah, I ain’t going nowhere, girl… been taking care of ya for as long as I could remember.” He chuckles, slowly pushing himself up. He indulges himself with the glass of water at the bedside. A moment passes.

“Do you mean it… that I’m too good for Sean?” You question, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re too good for anyone, but I see he cares about you a lot… why’d ya ask?” Arthur raises a brow, slowly setting the now empty glass on the nightstand.

“Well.. I-I.. this isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but I’m.. I’m pregnant.”

A few months later; Beaver Hollow, 1899

You sit at the campfire in the center of the almost empty camp, enjoying its warmth as Sean sits alongside you. Closer to the northern mountains, the fall brought a certain chill in the air that was difficult to shake. Not to mention, the area surrounding Beaver Hollow held a certain eeriness to it. You were aware Arthur and Charles had to clear the campsite of Murfree men and women before the gang’s arrival. Those who escaped still lingered in the woods of Roanoke Ridge.

Beside you, Sean’s red hair was creeping out from the edges of his hat, his eyes focused on you. Since you told him of your condition, he hardly let you out of his sight. Naturally, you would still assist in chores and such as seen fit, but you couldn’t help but spend most of your time worrying about your brother. He has been rather sickly as of late, no matter the herbs and flowers you provided to help him feel better. You watch as Arthur talks to Sadie on the outskirts of camp as she practices throwing knives.

“What’s on ya mind, love?” Sean gently grabs your arm, looking at you with love and concern.

“I’m worried about Arthur is all… he won’t tell me what’s wrong, I suppose he doesn’t want to worry me when I’m like this.” You sigh softly. Sean smiled weakly.

“It’s gon’ be alright, lass. Arthur’s a tough man.” He tries to reassure you. Arthur and Sadie ride off from camp and you sigh softly. ‘I hope so.’

“Do you ever feel like… all of this,” You gesture to the camp, “… is falling apart?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t go as far t’ say that. It’ll all work out in the end,” Sean tries to comfort you, placing a hand on your swollen tummy, “it has to.”

A few weeks had passed, and tensions between the government and the Native Americans were growing. You despised that your brother had gotten involved, considering Dutch had pushed the effort in order to take some of the attention away from the gang. While Dutch and the others were assisting Eagle Flies on his final stand, Sadie rode into camp rather frantically.

“Sadie, I thought you were with the others..” You stand, folding the last piece of clothing and placing it in the basket. She quickly dismounts her horse. Sean approaches you from the tent you both shared, placing his hand on the small of your back.

“They’re fine but… you need to leave. Dutch… isn’t himself and Pinkertons aren’t far.” Sadie explains, almost out of breath.

“What about Arthur?”

“Arthur asked me to do this, please, just hurry.” She pleads, helping grab your things. You look at Sean, lost.

“Did you know about this?” You question, and he sighs, taking off his hat for a moment.

“My parents were criminals.. and I don’t only have myself to think about anymore,” He explains, placing his hand on your stomach now, “After everything dies down, we can come back for Arthur.” He reassures before walking to the tent and grabbing his packed bags.

Sean helps you onto his horse, taking one last look at the camp before following Sadie to Copperhead Landing where Abigail and Jack were. You fought back the tears, a deep feeling settling inside you that you wouldn’t see your brother again.

—

It was the following day before John had met with us and the others at Copperhead Landing. He looked… lost, and hurt, but was putting on a brave face.

“John!”

“Pa!”

On his side was a familiar item that would make you crumble to your knees.

Arthur’s satchel.

John quickly greeted Abigail and Jack before approaching you. For a moment he was quiet, unsure of what to say.

“I-I’m so sorry. I tried... I tried to make him come with me…” John explained, his own throat getting caught on his words. Sean kneels down beside you, rubbing your back.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” You grumble before throwing up your lunch, gripping the grass beneath you tightly. Sadie stood back, standing watch. Sean comforts you.

“There ya go, lass… let it out of ya.”

“I-is he gone… did you see him?” You slowly look up, wiping the edges of your mouth with a small handkerchief provided by Sean.

“I couldn’t.. Dutch and the Pinkertons.. he wouldn’t let me stay, I’m so sorry,” John told her, before reaching in the satchel for a letter, “he told me to give this to ya.” You grab the satchel from John, gripping it tightly and refusing to let go.

“I hate to break this up, but we better get goin’.” Sadie interrupts as Sean helps you stand and mount his horse. He clambers in front of you, gripping the reins. You can’t help but look to the mountains as the group rides off, holding the satchel to your chest as you all flee from your past, and into a future unknown.

[roamingtigress]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde Characters: Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde Additional Tags: Spring, Old Married Couple, Married Couple, Married Life, BAMF Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews Lives, Dutch van der Linde Has a Plan, Dutch van der Linde Lives, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, Affection, Belly Rubs, Bees, Butterflies, Cute, Sleepy Cuddles, Video Game: Red Dead Online (2019), Minor Character Death, Reminiscing, vandermatthews, Hosea and Dutch are an old married couple, Good Parents Hosea Matthews and Dutch van der Linde, Mentioned Arthur Morgan, Mentioned John Marston Summary:

Spring often brings new beginnings, but for one old man couple -- Hosea and Dutch -- it's another chapter in their lives. Who will spot the first bee of the season, who will see the first butterfly?

[thececil666]

X Reader Requests Are Open

Hi I’m a little rusty on writing fanfic so I wanna do some requests with the gang to get back into it since I have a *big* fic idea I want to write eventually <3

I’ll write for pretty much anyone in the gang so long as I like the request hehe

Also I’ll write suggestive stuff but probably not all out smut sorry

I’ll probably write what you want so long as I have time <3

DON’T BE SHY ASK BOX IS OPEN HEHE

[amourlyns]

Nothing here yet...

[2demondogs]

It's a Gas | Hosea/Dutch & Arthur

Tags: Young VanDerMatthews and Arthur, father-son bonding and father-father bickering, drabble. Words: 932 A/N: From Kinktober SFW list, tying a tie except not really but IDGAF bc it did blossom from that prompt and I'm 2 fics behind rn.

It's both surprising and not that they've skirted the issue of getting Arthur a suit for this long.

There aren't many occasions where either of them need one, to Dutch's dismay and Hosea's moderate relief. If he'd known how exhausting getting the boy fitted for one would be, he would've planned on accompanying Dutch to the dinner instead.

Now, he's busy picking at the horse hairs that cling to the seams of his only pair of untorn slacks instead of smacking his hand hard into the gut of the oaf sitting next to him in the fitting room. They've already argued about whether Arthur should get a suit to grow into or not, which Hosea's more reasonable but less well-fitted answer of yes won.

My son and I, Dutch told the railroad owner. There's little choice given by the crow's feet at Hosea's eyes and the clear lack of relation between them. If there were, he would've corralled them all back out the door at the price of the thing, let alone the keen feeling of being a wet rag that eventually comes over him while accompanying these two fools on any trip.

Maybe it's only his imagination, but he thinks that Arthur is growing to look more like Dutch every day. In the cheeks and nose, at least, though Arthur's were granted to him by starvation and a fist fight respectively. On days where he doesn't care to give into affectionate fantasies, he tells himself it's just their dark hair.

Dutch says they have the same eyes; Hosea believes he's trying to force him into a matriarchal role. He won't think about how softly his man says it, nor how softly he feels about the menial truth in it.

Despite the clear sour expression on Arthur's face as the tailor took his measurements and made idle chatter with Hosea and Dutch — completely ignoring the boy, which he seemed to loathe even more than the conversation the man had first struck with him about nonexistent girlfriends and wives — he feels something he cannot name. It is warm and unfamiliar, a little hard to swallow when it climbs in his throat from the boughs of his chest.

Pride, or something even kinder.

Hosea has lorded the fact Arthur looks to him more often over Dutch's head since they began dragging the kid around, those years ago— and here he looks at him now, because the tailor has asked him if they've got a special occasion. Panic is brief on his face.

"Nothing special," Hosea lies easily. "A dinner for Yale alumni. He's old enough to start networking. Right, son?"

Arthur just nods. The tailor looks quite pleased to present his work to such a crowd. Dutch smiles knowingly, because this is one of the oldest backstories they've concocted.

"Yale? Which of you gentlemen?" The tailor asks, clearly glad for polite conversation that isn't about the weather or the scrappy teenager that looks like he wants to bite him.

Good Lord, Hosea realizes. He will need to talk to Arthur about not making that nasty of a face in view of the public.

"Both," he answers. "1865."

"'76," Dutch adds.

Another, impressed nod precedes banal talk of office locations, business relations, and notable gossip — cue the I can't say much due to client confidentiality, but you may have heard of... and then one of the many other false tales they've cooked up over a campfire while half asleep. The tailor now believes that they are their own lawyers, for their own crimes; he is not the first person they've fooled with in this way, but Hosea does take a particular enjoyment out of this fellow's overzealous reactions to gruesome details like a one-hundred dollar paycheck and a severed hand.

Oh, how easy it is to make a life when you've only got to live the most exciting half of it.

The atmosphere begins to change once questions are asked about the suit. Predictably enough, it is never anything besides the heart of a matter that hurts when it comes to cooperating with a man like Dutch.

Mother's eyes, please God, mother's tongue, too, Hosea thinks, and he is sorely misguided in hoping Arthur would make things any easier, given his age.

"He'll be sweltering," Hosea insists when wool is suggested for the fabric, and Dutch scoffs, waves a hand at where Arthur is stood on the tailor's podium awkwardly and without direction.

"When have you ever been comfortable and presentable?" He asks, as if he's got a real hail Mary.

"Quite often." Hosea glares at him, earns one right back. "Linen or cotton, man. Please."

"Linen is too cheap looking," Dutch stabs. Hosea's suits are usually linen, because his blood runs too hot for comfort beneath woolen layers. "Cotton it is."

"Blue cotton?"

"Jesus, no," Dutch says. "Are you insane? Dark grey is much more refined than blue."

"Why does the colors even matter?" Arthur pipes in.

"Say 'why do' not 'why does'," Hosea corrects, barely even realizing he's doing it. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "You two are like herding cats."

"Maybe he's just wondering," Dutch says, because apparently nothing can go without a rebuttal now.

Arthur disagrees immediately. "No, I think this is stupid. I don't care what color this thing is."

"Arthur, watch your mouth," he sighs.

"Sorry," Arthur says. "I think it's ridiculous. Is that better?"

The two older men share a look. Christ, is he genuinely asking? Hosea's eyes ask, and Dutch's answer: He looks like he's genuinely asking.

Blissfully, the tailor remains silent.

[cosurmqne]

02 — a short life of trouble

[ RDR2 X fem reader , 2310 words ] — previous ✶

“what were you thinking! bringing another woman in here.” “great, another mouth to feed.” “what if she draws more trouble right to us?”

“SHUT UP! all of you. she needs help. last time i checked half of you wouldn’t be standing here today if it weren’t for us taking your sorry asses in.”

the blood stained stranger was laying down in a bed of rough canvas and animal hide, it’s fabric the softest thing she had ever felt after a month of dirt floors and blankets of pine-needles. the distant voices slowly awoke her mind, her eyes opening carefully as the morning sun stung them with its bright beams. how long had she been asleep? she knew it was morning when she was lifted onto a strangers horse, morning still when she slumped onto the mans back out of exhaustion and defeat, not even caring what would happen to her when she awoke or where he was taking her. and yet here she was, still morning? no, the stiffness of her joints suggest at least a full days rest, her legs wobbling slightly as she turned over and placed them on the soft grass beside her.

her hands travelled to her face, expecting the almost familiar texture of dried blood, crusty and flaky, but was met with her soft skin. the edges of her hair and a few tricky spots still had reminisce of blood she could scrape off with her chipped nails, but it seemed someone had wiped her face clean.

her clothes were different too, the blouse and pants she was wearing a size too big but clean and comfortable, her ripped outfit she last remembered wearing folded neatly at the end of her bed and completely pink. she figured someone had tried to scrub them clean, but the redness was impossible to remove.

“good to see you’re finally awake.”

the sudden closeness of a mans voice made her jump and spin around. she was met with a surprisingly kind face of an older man, smiling cautiously and offering a homemade mug in his left hand, the steam and smell suggesting the rare liquid that was coffee. her mouth watered instantly.

“here, it’s for you.” he moved closer, kneeling down next to her bed and placed the warm mug in her stuff hands. “don’t worry, it wont jump out at ya’”

y/n let a small smile escape her lips, “thank you.” she croaked, her voice straining and making her cough slightly. maybe she had been out for more than a day?

as she sipped her drink and let the coffee warm her from head to toe, the man continued. “my names hosea. i’m … i guess you could say i’m kind of a top man around here. just don’t tell the others i’m really in charge …. HA!” he joked and let out a small chuckle, but the woman just looked at him curiously, seemingly frozen still apart from her arms lifting up and down. he guessed he should change his approach ….

hosea cleared his throat, “ahem, well…. you sure gave us a fright earlier on. all that blood on ya, we’d thought dutch brought back a corpse, with you slumped over and all…” with again no response, he continued. “look miss, we’re good people here. well, not really good, but better than most, i can assure you. why don’t we go somewhere a little more private, you can talk to me. tell me how you got into this mess.”

he stood and offered his arm. to y/n’s surprise, she rose and linked her own. while she should never trust a man so easily, her conscience screaming at her for it. but he seemed kind. honest and trustworthy. human. something she hadn’t seen in a long time. besides, she figured if they had wanted her dead, she would be face down in a river by now…

they walked, making a beeline towards the trees in front of them. “what was your name miss?” hosea asked.

“y/n.” she responded.

with her eyes adjusted, bearings found and legs moving again, she let herself scan the area around her. she was in a camp, one that seemed small but … live in? tents, campfires, horses and even a kitchen of sorts was set up. quite a few people were living here, men, women, even a child? she tried avoided the eye contact of the strangers around her, not knowing what mess she could have landed herself into. it seemed a few had stopped their morning chores for a fleeting moment to get a glimpse at her walking past them, pretending to take no notice of her and continuing on whenever she caught their eye. had they been waiting for her to wake up? she guessed she was a stranger sleeping amongst them, concluding she would be just as curious to get a glance at herself as well.

looking around still, she held the gaze of a familiar face, the one she had once pointed a gun towards and one took her to this place. dutch was his name right? hosea beside her seemed to look his way as well, letting out a single tune whistle and pointing his head towards the forest they were heading too. the dark haired man instantly dismissed the two men he was talking to and started coming their way. it was like a shepards call she thought, a codependent understanding that could only be trained with years of practice.

“here, this is a nice spot. i tend to do a lot of thinking here.” hosea said, leading and sitting them both down to opposite logs on soft grassy ground, much greener than the almost dirt floors back at the camp, untouched and unflattened by consistent steps. it looked out over the lake that surrounded the area, but was still thick with trees and streaked with sunlight peeking through the canopy.

the heavy footsteps of dutch became closer, his voice loud and true, “aaah, our celebrity guest, awake at last.”

as he stood before them, y/n rose upright at once, standing stiff and attentive before she could stop herself. she tried to swallow the familiar feeling of guilt like a rock stuck in her throat. “th… thank you.” she let out, quicker than she was intending. “i’d sure be dead and buried if not for you.”

she felt like this needed to said, right then and there. not totally understanding it herself, but knowing that his actions will forever be a debt she could probably never return. she knew from experience and dread that owing someone an unpayable debt was the worst burden to carry, and a feeling she wanted to loosen as soon as possible. a thanks was a start.

dutch just smiled and chuckled, raising his hands up like he did in the forest on their first encounter, “theres no need for thanks, just … take it a day at a time. at ease.”

y/n sat back down, almost embarrassed by her outburst but distracted when hosea spoke up. “dutch here said you had a run in with some o’driscolls. dealt with them pretty well too, where did you learn to shoot like that?”

the woman swallowed, she figured there was no reason to be coy anymore. a voice in the back of her head was yelling out, what are you doing!? you don’t know these men!? they don’t need to know nothin’!? and yet …. she was almost beyond caring about that now.

“my pa taught me,” she admitted, taken aback already by her honesty. “and my brother. he was a lot older than i am, sharp shooter and kept us out of trouble.”

dutch let out a noise, “tsss, some trouble you must have had. not even half my men here couldn’t kill with such efficiency.”

“well, we had a farm up north, a big property. it wasn’t much, just a few horses to sell and trade but it had been with my family for generations. it was home.” she paused. dutch and his partner were sitting opposite her and staring with unbroken attention, seemingly hanging on every word. it threw her off a little but she continued on. “being isolated up there we were bound to run into trouble, usually just some fool trying to swipe a horse, wolves maybe trying to take one for a meal. nothing unusual, but being able to take care of ourselves was a high priority, and my pa taught us well. he made sure we knew how to handle all kinds of trouble…”

“when my brother went and got himself killed down south in the war, it was me who was left in charge, with my father too old and my mother untrained. we got along just fine, until these men keep knocking at our door. harassing us, showing up constantly, trashing our barns, stealing our horses. they wanted us gone, for what reason i couldn’t say … after a few months it was manageable, i’d shot enough of them to make their appearances less frequent… but…”

she had stopped, her throat closing slightly her but no tears threatened to break free. she was thankful, crying in front of these men seemed like the worst scenario. never again would she let a sign of weakness slip from her. she had done her weeping, was done with meekness and dependency. she could tell dutch sensed that about her, while hosea watched her with concern and understanding, he was smirking slightly, like he was seeing straight through to her core.

“but?” dutch pushed her on.

with a tough swallow, she continued. “but… one day when i was collecting water from our well down by the river, i looked back up the to see a pillar of smoke. thick, grey and as high as i’d ever seen. by the time i ran back and got view of our burning home, our barns were pitch black, the horses aflame and running in every which direction, the air orange and almost unbreathable. when i saw the roof of our house collapse completely, i knew it was over. everything inside was destroyed, my parents included….” she cleared her throat. “i had just raced to our shed and grabbed as many guns as i could carry, when i heard men laughing. all those men, probably twenty, who had been coming up to us for months. all here. i realised they must have all been from some sort of gang, and could tell they’d tried to steal as much as they could from us. i knew we had hardly any money in the house, and by the small bad one of them was holding, they’d only managed to swipe no more than 30 dollars …. all that . my home, my family, everything. taken away for 30 dollars….”

she could feel heat rising through her cheeks, hands clenched into fists without knowing and her voice rising. “i guess they weren’t happy with that and decided to make their exhibition worth their time… their laughing stopped as soon as i started shooting. one by one, not even caring to hide or take cover, just wanting them dead. i needed them all dead. i don’t even know or care to remember what happened. a-mist the flames and gunpowder i one jumped me, but id stabbed with him their own knives. i shot though them all like they were no more than the deer i had killed countless times for supper. like it was a necessity, not a murder.”

“wether they were all dead or ran away or lost in the fires, i’d escaped with nothing but what i had on me. for months i’ve been running, not really sure what to do, where to go. stealing food, money, constantly moving and too scared to fall asleep or stay in one spot for longer than a week… i ran into a few more of those men here and there, they seemed to be scouting me. i learnt that they called themselves the o’driscolls and their leader was furious that a woman had outsmarted his men, that a quick robbery had turned into a slaughter. he wanted me dead. still wants me dead i guess…”

“and, this is where we meet?” dutch said, his arms now rested on his knees and hands fidgeting with the large rings on his hands but full attention of her words.

“yes, i’d been running for four days straight, how far i travelled i’m not too sure but i knew they wanted me dead for good. they’d sent a bunch of those irish bastards to me and i was constantly trying to lose them. i didn’t know if i was alive or dead, asleep or awake, i just shot anything that moved, trusted no one and tried to make it to the next sunrise… and yes, thats where you come into the picture and … i guess, now i’m here.”

“well … hell of a time you’ve had.” hosea finally spoke, his sympathetic gaze surprisingly comforting. when he reached out and cupped his hands on her own, she didn’t resist. “you can let your guard down y/n, you’ll be safe here for however long you need. i assure you, we hate those o’driscolls just as much as you do. for every one of those fools shot dead the dirt beneath us gains another worm!” to this, he chuckled to himself, y/n even letting out a small giggle.

dutch joined in with his deep laugh, “oh yes, you will fit in just fine here miss.” he stood up and gestured to the camp behind him, now full of activity. “this gang can be your home now, we’re all misfits and outlaws, once lost and then found again.”

he looked at her not with hoseas sympathy, but with eyes that assessed and schemed, invasive and sharp.

“yes, i think you’ll be just fine…”

[sulleeu]

VAN DER LINDE GIRL

arthur morgan oneshot!

pairing: low honor!arthur morgan x oc (name or looks not specified)

cw: please refrain from reading if you're uncomfortable with mentions of human trafficking, arthur is a selfish asshole, fingering, missionary, cowgirl, unprotected piv, alcohol abuse, manipulation to a certain extent, sex workers, Dutch owns OC, but there isn't a romatic relationship, OC is in love with Arthur, NSFW, MDNI

wc: roughly 2.9k

summary: Dutch has something Arthur wants. And if Arthur wants something, he's going to take it and claim it.

an: this is loosely inspired by Gibson Girl by Ethel Cain. i'd never dare to disrepect a song or an artist. please take it with a BIG grain of salt. i've recently became obsessed with her music and some of her songs had inspired me to write again. if you look at the lyrics of this song, i tried to incorporate them in this oneshot. i tried to capture the meaning of this song only very loosely in this oneshot - you may find some aspects of it in it with some of my own added pieces.

proofread but there may be grammar or spelling errors regardless.

tags: @frillydolle <3

➽─────────────────────❥

The evening air was sharp against his skin, like thousands of needles piercing his flesh, injecting poison into his veins. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, his hair damp from the humidity surrounding him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and made his way through the camp toward Dutch's tent. The plan had to work tonight. The tension in his muscles, coiled and ready to snap, made his vision blur with rage, always on edge. And the only thing that could make it bearable was her. More specifically, sex with her. The countless nights spent alone in his cot, fantasizing about her naked body, his hand around his throbbing shaft—her breasts, the valley between them, her ass, the curve of her spine as it arched under the force of his thrusts. He imagined taking her, showing her pleasure like Dutch never could. There was nobody else, and he was so selfish about it. No other woman could rile him like she did. She occupied his mind, lived there rent-free, and it was driving him mad. The fact that she was Dutch’s most prized possession only made it worse. He swore he could burn down an entire town if it meant she was his and not Dutch's.

His steps were heavy with the weight of his desires. He rolled his shoulders in frustration, shaking off the chill in his bones, then cleared his throat before calling Dutch's name.

"How 'bout we saddle up and grab us a drink, son?"

The plan was simple: get Dutch as drunk as possible, preferably until he passed out, then ride to her house and fuck her senseless. He knew it would be impossible to get to her with Dutch always nagging about money. Arthur never understood Dutch's obsession with cash, especially when the infamous leader was secretly running a side business with working girls in Saint Denis.

The hustle involved private sex workers. Dutch would find young women, desperate for money and preferably without family, and recruit them to work for him. By day, they appeared as ordinary women on the streets of Saint Denis, but when night fell, they spread their legs for rich men in the privacy of their own homes.

The woman who consumed Arthur's thoughts was part of that hustle, and for some strange reason, she was Dutch's favorite. He kept her for himself, the selfish bastard. The knowledge crawled under Arthur’s skin, gnawing at anything soft or good inside him. All that remained was poison, disguised as jealousy and the burning need to possess her.

So, the two older men mounted their horses and rode out of camp toward town. The ride felt interminable for Arthur, his thoughts sinking deeper into a sea of frustration. He couldn’t help but fantasize about devouring her, marking her body with bruises of pure want. Dutch's words about the next plan seemed to fall on deaf ears. All Arthur could do was give him a hard stare, indifferent to whether Dutch noticed. After all, soon enough, Dutch wouldn't remember a thing about tonight.

They both dismounted, hitched their horses, and strode into the saloon, heading straight for the bar.

"Two glasses of whiskey, sir," Dutch barked at the bartender, slamming two dollar bills onto the counter. The bartender nodded, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and poured two glasses.

Arthur watched Dutch down his shot, then raise his glass with a muttered, "To this night," before swallowing the thick liquid that burned its way down his throat.

A few more drinks and countless stories later, Dutch’s legs grew unsteady. After another two glasses and a heartfelt speech about how much he appreciated Arthur, his head dropped onto the counter, magnetized by exhaustion. Arthur patted his back, slipped a five-dollar bill to the bartender, exchanged goodbyes, and made his way out of the saloon.

The tension in his legs, fueled by the alcohol, only intensified. He could feel an indescribable warmth spreading through his flesh. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine, and his fingertips tingled with anticipation.

At half-past one, he knocked on her door. No answer. A minute later, he grabbed a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and took a drag. Then he knocked again, this time with more force. The door creaked open, revealing her face, peeking through the narrow gap.

"You open that door for just anyone?" he rasped, the cigarette swaying between his lips. "At this hour?" He raised a brow.

Without a word, she stepped back, revealing the interior of her apartment. Arthur took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and stepping inside.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

Arthur moved around her kitchen, inspecting the utensils, the counter, the sink, before pulling out a chair from the table. He lowered himself into it, crossing one leg over the other. She stood there in her nightgown, watching him, before clearing her throat to repeat her question.

"What do you wan—"

"Heard ya the first time."

She stood, dumbfounded, scanning him from head to toe.

"C'mere." He motioned with a hand, and she hesitantly took a step closer.

Arthur uncrossed his legs, his hand resting on her hip, pulling her closer. She gasped meekly, shifting on the wooden floor.

"Ever get that feelin' like you're after something real bad, but deep down you know it ain't never gonna be yours?"

She stayed silent, the rhythmic thud of her heartbeat the only sound in the room. After a moment, she nodded.

"Hmm. Ever got it?"

She shook her head.

"Thought so. The difference between you and me is, I ain't waitin' around for nothin'. When I want it, I take it."

Her face scrunched in confusion, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"That's why I'm here tonight. Dutch has somethin’ in his hands, and I aim to make it mine."

His thumb traced a slow, repetitive pattern on her hip, his eyes peeking up at her from beneath the brim of his hat like a predator in the shadows. She bit her lip, a heat blooming deep in her stomach, and she exhaled a slow breath.

Her hands found their way to his broad shoulders, the muscles rippling under his shirt as he drew her close. His arms circled her waist, pulling her between his spread legs. His nose brushed the curve under her breast, his lips pressing lightly against her skin through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

She tilted her head back, her eyes closing to absorb the feeling of his presence consuming her. The scent of gunpowder, sweat, and musk, tinged with a hint of vanilla, enveloped her, shutting down her rational thoughts.

When she opened her eyes again, she met his gaze—dark, hungry. She felt a surge of arousal between her thighs, and she rubbed her legs together. There was something so erotic in his eyes—the way he looked at her, the way his hands explored her hips and thighs, the fact that she was betraying Dutch and letting his trusted son make her feel this way. But it wasn’t like Dutch and she had a real relationship. He owned her body, not her soul. It was Arthur who owned her soul, pure and only his to do as he pleased. And he was about to claim it.

One of his hands slid beneath the hem of her skirt, his fingers grazing her knee, then moving upwards to the waistband of her bloomers. Her fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, and he leaned in to kiss her stomach, his other hand pulling her bloomers down her legs.

Her eyes locked with his, the pupils dilated, as she pulled off his worn hat, revealing his crown of brown hair. He inhaled her scent deeply, then stood, grabbing both of her ass cheeks in his hands. She yelped, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him into a fierce kiss. He wrapped her thighs around his waist.

It took him no more than a few steps before he laid her on her bed. Careful not to crush her, he laid her down on her bed, then pulled away from her momentarily to pull the shirt restricting him from further action over his head and he tossed it over his shoulder somewhere on the wooden floor. With a sharp pull of his teeth, he took off his leather gloves and dropped them on the pile at his feet.

She watched him with lust in her eyes, mentally stripping him entirely, piece by piece until there was nothing left. Her thighs rubbed together at the outline of his cock in his pants and he unzipped them dismissively with practiced ease to free himself from the unbearable restraint. Noticing her hungry gaze, he gave himself a few strokes which made her bite her lip and pull the nightgown over her head, too. He crawled between the sprawl of her legs, his breathing hard, his chest heaving and eyes churning with undeniable arousal.

"I want to claim you." The tone of his voice sent goosebumps and electrifying shocks down her spinal cord, the hair on her arms and back of her neck rising as he traced the back of his finger along her jaw towards the shell of her ear.

A shudder of breath came past her lips. His hands explored her pale skin, beautiful and neat unlike his—endless scars scattered across his torso, healed yet ugly and a constant reminder of the life he's living. His stomach was flush againt her own, his pulsating cock pressed againt her skin. She mewled at the marvel of the moment, gently slipping her hand between their bodies to seize his length, her fingers curling around it.

"Woman, you ain’t got the slightest idea what you’re stirrin’ up in me."

She gave him a few languid strokes with a flick of her wrist, her thumb coming to press at his slit on top and he shuddered above her, lips teasingly nipping at the skin on her neck, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. He thrust his hips into her palm, desperately seeking the friction he needed to ease the tension he had been suppressing all this time.

He felt as though he could shatter into a million pieces right now, and she would be there to gather them, to piece him back together. All his, not Dutch's. The primal urge to take charge, to claim control, settled deeply in his bones. The simple fact that she was now under his control, doing things to him he had only imagined in the solitude of his cot, was enough to shatter his patience in an instant.

He lowered himself to her face, capturing her lips. His tongue invaded her mouth and she gasped into the kiss, feeling his dick twitch in her grasp as she ran the pad of her thumb along one of his veins. She spread her legs around his torso, locking her ankles at his lower back.

"I want you to fuck me, Arthur," she cooed against his lips, her nails scraping at his back with each buck of his hips into her hand.

He groaned in response, pulling at her bottom lip with his teeth before lowering his head to the underside of her jaw, kissing his way down her collar bone until he reached her breast. His mouth closed around her nipple then suckled and her eyes fluttered shut. Her hand released his weeping cock and glided upwards his stomach, soflty ghosting over the density of his muscles before landing upon his hair and her fingers sweeped back the moist strands hanging down his forehead.

With a soft pop he drew himself back from her, catching a glimpse of her gaze and locking his eyes on hers. Something dark churned behind his eyes and she shivered underneath him.

Giving himself a few strokes at hand, he aligned himself with her entrance, hissed under his breath when his tip pushed inside and slipped in easily. She choked on her breath, scratching her nails down his back.

He set a slow, torturing pace, his thrusts tantalizing, hard yet slow. She squirmed under his frame and gasped a plea. His lips captured hers, tongue protrding inside of her mouth in a rough manner, the kiss aggressive, filled with passion and deep rooted lust. Her walls fluttered around him with each thrust of his cock, his hips flushed against hers with every glide of his length inside of her.

She gasped again and his lips were on hers, panting hard against her mouth. His hand palmed her ass cheek, pulling her hips closer to his to close the already narrow gap between them and to angle her to his liking. The tip of his dick hit that sweet spot inside of her, the action making her moan in surprise. He chuckled with satisfaction as he fucked her weak body into her sheets. She cried out his name again and again.

"Good girl," he drawled as he bit down on her collar bone sending her over the edge with a hard moan. He groaned against her skin as he came, too, filling her up with his spend.

She squirmed slightly, feeling his cum seep out of her pussy and trickle down on the sheets. He panted against her chest, his breathing slowly coming down to a haste. And after a couple of minutes his digits dug into the flesh of her waist, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him in the motion.

She yelped in surprise, and in the brief moment of impact, braced herself against his chest. His calloused hands slid over her hips, gliding toward her waist before continuing upward to cup her breasts. A low groan escaped his lips as he kneaded the soft weight resting in his palms.

She bent down slowly, her hair framing her face as she landed a soft peck upon his lips before raising her hips and grabbing him at his base. He was quick to move one of his hands between their bodies, his fingers spreading her folds apart and circling her entrance. She gasped against his mouth, letting his tongue dive into her mouth with vigor. Her toes curled when his finger entered her, thick, long and hefty, and he marveled in her pants, possessiveness gnawing at his features.

She ground her hips into him, thighs trembling with anticipation. Her lips traveled along his jaw, stopping at his ear and biting at his earlobe while exhaling sharply. His hot breath fanned over her ear, the man whispering sweet nothings that echoed inside her skull.

"C'mon, baby," he mewled. "Give it to me good."

She sighed in response, releasing the skin on his ear from between her teeth and tilting her head to look down between their bodies. He leaned his forehead against hers, watching her align his cock with her entrance before painfully slowly sinking down on him. He watched the head of his length catch at the rim of her cunt before it disappeared entirely and she moaned into his ear.

Everyone seeks it, even Dutch. But in her mind, only Arthur could have it. There was no one else she wanted more. His strong arms, his eyes, his face, his broad shoulders and wide back, the way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt, the way his riding pants and chaps hugged his thick thighs and long legs, the way he handled a gun, and the cigarette that always dangled from his lips, swaying with every word he spoke.

"If it feels good, then it can't be bad," he whispered to himself.

Oh, boy does it feel good. The tension, the unspoken lust for each other, his cock filling her up, his digits dimpling her skin right above her hips. And she feels so immoral in his lap. Going behind Dutch's back. Fucking someone he trusts.

Her eyes closed as she kissed him again, lowering herself on top of his thighs until he was burried to the hilt. Her heartbeat picked up on speed, her breathing increasing and she took a deep breath, then rolled her hips on him and he moaned.

His jaw went slack from the sheer amount of pleasure, his breath catching in his throat as she continued to roll her hips on him. And he tried his utmost hardest not to flip her around and fuck her senseless. His arms twitching from the effort of holding back, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

The coil in the pit of her stomach spiraled, and she breathed out a sharp breath when the head of his cock nudged that deeply sensitive spot inside of her. His fingers angled her on top of him, the renewed spark circling in her guts as he kept hitting that spot repetitively, bringing her closer to the finishing line. Her toes curled again, her back arched into him. His voice distantly breathed a praise into her ear and she managed to choke out a quiet moan before the coil snapped and she awkwardly settled on top of his chest.

It took few more thrusts inside of her until he filled her up with his spend, the notion making her whimper in overstimulation. His hands came to hold her sides, one of them traveling further down to her ass and gripping the flesh tightly before delivering a sharp slap to her skin. She cried out in pain, curling on top of him.

"I own you."

[livingdeadmlm]

Master list Requests:Open!

Fluff🤍

Nsfw🩶

Smut 🖤

headcannon format 🕸️

Oneshot format🌾

Kinktober 2023🪨

Kinktober 2024🪻

Characters with no links have no fics as of 12/15/2024

Also this is in no way every fic I have written as I went crazy when I made this blog so most Jojo fics are lost to time (and not good)

Red Dead Redemption

Arthur Morgan

Low Honor Morgan Priest Reader 🩶🖤🪻🌾

Werewolf Morgan HCs 🕸️

John Marston

Javier Escuella

Voyeurism🩶🖤🪻🌾

Charles Smith

Dutch Van der Linde

Kieran Duffy

Sean MacGuire

Obey me!

Lucifer

Mammon

Pet Play🩶🖤🪻🌾

Tail Play🩶🖤🪨🌾

Leviathan

Diavolo

Breast Worshipping 🩶🖤🪻🌾

Solomon

Barbatos

Simeon

Asmodeus

Beelzebub

Belphegor

House MD

Gregory House

James Wilson

Robert Chase

Eric Forman

Mouthwashing

Captain Curly

Daisuke

Age Gap🩶🪻🌾

Metalocalypse

Nathan explosion

Table Sex🩶🖤🪻🌾

Pickles the drummer

Toki Wartooth

Charles offdensen

Blood Play🩶🪻🌾

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

Yandere Skwisgaar 🖤🌾

Dethklok

Nudes with Dethklok🩶🖤🪻🕸️🌾

Doing their Makeup before a Show🤍🕸️

After a Long Tour🤍🕸️

Breaking Bad/Better call Saul

Saul Goodman

General Dating HCs🤍🩶🕸️

Fake Dating to Lovers🤍🩶🌾

Lingerie 🩶🖤🪻🌾

Cuddle HC's 🤍🌾

Jessie Pinkman

Nacho Varga

Lalo Salamanca

Mortal Kombat

Kung Lao

Dating HCs 🤍🩶🕸️

Face Sitting🩶🖤🌾🕸️

Johnny cage

Face Sitting🩶🖤🪻🌾

Kenshi Takahashi

Reptile/Syzoth

Radian

Liu Kang

Hellsing

Alucard

American Psycho

Patrick Bateman

Creampie 🩶🖤🪨🌾

Complimenting his beauty

Working with Patrick

Big Businessman Reader

Fight club

Jack/ The narrator

Tyler Durden

Dating HCs 🕸️🩶

Scott pilgrim vs the world/takes off

Scott Pilgrim

Wallace Wells

Lucas Lee

Todd Ingran

Nu Carnival

Eiden

Aster

Morvay

Yakumo

Edmond

Quincy

Kuya

Garu

Blade

Dante

Rei

Other

Oral Fixation Bruce Banner 🩶🪻🌾

Vampire Midas Fortnite🩶🪻🌾

Hol Horse 🌾

Mike Schmidt with an Insomniac Reader🌾

Monster Fucking with Postal Dude🩶🖤🪨🌾

Ryo Asuka with Affectionate Devilman 🤍🕸️

Clingy Reader with Gyro Zeppeli 🌾

Hugging Miles Edgeworth🕸️🤍🌾

Akira Fudo with a himbo bf

[always-andromeda]

𓍊𓋼𓍊 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙖'𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙚𝙘 𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙥 𓍊𓋼𓍊

Happy late Thanksgiving!! I hope everyone had a decent holiday and if you didn't I'm sending you the most massive hug. I had a nice little celebration with my family and I managed to read quite a bit from my drafts. I've been falling a little further down the RDR2 rabbithole aND managed to stumble down the Roman Roy route as well lmao.

I also took some inspiration from @guiltyasdave with the way her fic rec key is laid out with little markers differentiating oneshots from series since I've been reading some more multipart fics lately. While I have things labeled on genre, as always, please heed to the warnings of individual fics. And if you do read, remember to like, comment, and reblog these writers work because they very much deserve the love!!

Divider credits go to @saradika-graphics!!

💖 – fluff. 💙 – angst. ❤️‍🔥 – smut. 🖤 – dark fic.

🗒️ – headcanons. 📖 – oneshot. 📚 – series.

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧

❤️‍🔥🗒️ arthur morgan headcanons (high vs low honor) by @messrmoonyy

❤️‍🔥📖 give me my sin again by @messrmoonyy

𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤

💙🖤📖 every breath you take by @guiltyasdave

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐨

❤️‍🔥📖 salt, shot, lime by @freelancearsonist

𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞

❤️‍🔥📖 reason on the common love (of you lovin' me) by @devnmon

💖❤️‍🔥🗒️ dating dutch van der linde headcanons by @devnmon

𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

🖤📚 crossroads by @thosewickedlovelies

💖💙❤️‍🔥🖤📚 temptation by @pedgito

𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

💙📖 brother by @macfrog

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐲

❤️‍🔥🖤�� tear you apart by @strang3lov3

❤️‍🔥🖤📚 boundaries by @strang3lov3

❤️‍🔥🖤📚 midnight snack by @strang3lov3

❤️‍🔥🖤📚 hot date by @strang3lov3

💖❤️‍🔥🖤📚 a favor by @strang3lov3

💖❤️‍🔥🖤📚 under the table by @strang3lov3

𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐫

💖❤️‍🔥🗒️ sadie adler gf headcanons by @messrmoonyy

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐨𝐬

❤️‍🔥🖤📖 titty sucking by @messrmoonyy

💖💙❤️‍🔥📚 long, long time by @devnmon

[outlawwithaheart]

Outlaw's Masterlist :)

Asks open :) Feel free to ask for Headcannons, or oneshots! I do fluff, or smut (I don't write anything violent, if you want specifics you can ask anonymously if you want <3)

Arthur Morgan💗

General Relationship Headcannons (pt. 1)

General Relationship Headcannons (pt. 2)

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Charles Smith💕

General Relationship Headcannons

NSFW Headcannons

Charles x Reader Oneshot (GN! Reader)

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Charles x Virgin! Reader (NSFW HCs)

Micah Bell💛

Micah x Reader (Oneshot)

Micah during pregnancy, and as a father (HCs)

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Javier Escuella💜

Javier Escuella Relationship Headcannons

Javier Escuella Fluff Headcannons

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Sean MacGuire

Sean MacGuire General Relationship HCs

Modern! Sean x Reader (smut, oneshot)

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Hosea Matthews ❣️

Hosea as a Dad to a Young Adult!Reader (HCs)

Kerian Duffy💕💗💕💗💕

General Headcannons for Keiran

Bill Williamson 💙

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

Dutch Van Der Linde ❤️

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

John Marston🖤

How Clingy are the RDR2 Boys? (HCs)

[midnighvtm4ss]

hii, first of all i'd like to thank u for ur support under my works, u're truly such a sweetheart and i appreciate it a lot<33

second of all; imagine this: reader is apart of an enemy gang/the pinkerton detective agency (🤭), and arthur then meets her somewhere (its up to u where and under what circumstances), which he thinks is a random encounter (its not, she planned the whole thing). her plan is to get as much information as she can, but arthur is completely clueless, and basically nearly spills everything. they start meeting more often which leads to both of them catching feelings for each other, and she starts to feel really bad for what she's doing and starts fighting this moral battle whether to run away with arthur and the gang or keep snitching on them, but before she could decide, micah snitches on her to dutch and then theres this whole shoot out thing with the van der linde gang and her gang/the agency, which she gets badly injured during and THEN there's this scene where she's propped up against a tree with a bleeding wound in her stomach and arthur approaches her and tells he forgives her, then kisses her as she tells him she loves him and then she takes her last breath 🤞🏻

i know this is very complex and probably long, but i would love to see u do ur magic and turn this into an angsty oneshot if possible!! (Feel free to js briefly introduce the background and then paint the last scene). if not thats completely fine, and hope u have a nice day<3

— love, s<3

OMGG the way your mind works is truly amazing !! i have two works coming up but as soon as I’m done with them I’ll get to write this !! thank you for your request this is gonna be so fun to write <33

[flw3rrr]

If you plan to request anything for any character please be considerate and read these carefully!

things I will NOT write for

Incest.

illegal age gaps

r3pe/sa

age play

any topic regarding abuse

non-con

etc

Things I will write for

fluff

angst

smut

oneshots

fem!reader (I would do male! reader, but I am not very experienced, and I do not want to ruin, or have a misunderstanding, and not to upset or disrespect)

gn!reader

pregnancy

bad endings

happy endings

pretty much you have free range for whatever plot or what happens. As long as it doesn’t have anything under that i won’t write for. because i will have to ignore

Who do I write for?

Coriolanus snow (TBOSAS)

Dutch van der linde

Joel miller

Billy the kid

Tyler owen’s

Sevika - arcane

(Currently thinking of more!)

Extra

When you request, all I ask is that you have an idea of what you'd like and send in the request. Also, make sure, if possible, to at least give me some details (not major), but at least some so I can make sure your request comes to your liking.

Thank you so much, and never feel afraid to ask for a request, even if it's something short!