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allzelemonz · 1 year ago

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Boys’ Night: The Van der Linde Boys X Male Reader

Dutch Van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, Charles Smith, Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, Sean MacGuire, Kieran Duffy, Javier Esquella

Fictober Prompt: Day 31, Orgy Pronouns: None Mentioned Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Orgy, threesomes, kissing, anal fingering, anal sex, oral sex, blow jobs, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Sean’s drunken mind, marking, viagra-esc tonics, almost everyone is passed around to everyone else, Reader takes both top and bottom roles Summary: Sean has an idea that leads most of the boys in the gang to a damn fun time.

Sean, in his mildly drunken wisdom, decided that a boys’ night needs more than just poker, five finger filet, and songs. With most of the older folks and women out of camp for a special con, Sean knows his only hindrance might be Dutch. So he enlists the best sycophant he’s ever met.

“Can’t tell me it won’t be fun.” Sean grins. “All a’ us-“

“I ain’t gonna be a part a’ some invert orgy.” Micah mutters.

Sean leans closer. “Oh, really? Even if a certain cowpoke’s involved?”

Micah glares up at Sean from his seat by the scout fire, then follows the Irishman’s eyes to the filet table. There you stand, arms crossed as you watch Morgan and Marston play. And Micah might be able to turn it down, let his senses say no again, but then Dutch leans a little closer and whispers something in your ear. Micah’s head swims with lewd images of the two men he finds himself pining for in his alone time despite his best efforts.

“Fine.” He snaps, holstering his gun and glaring at Sean. “But ain’t no one ta know ‘bout this, understand that?”

Sean grins with a little chuckle. “Ya mean ‘side from the boys fuckin’ ya?”

Micah’s fists clench at his sides, but he stops himself from punching Sean. He’s in too deep at this point, half hard in his pants and more frustrated than he’s ever been. “Shut yer damn mouth, cowboy, ‘for I decide ta leave ya with blue balls.”

Sean puts his hands up, giggling to himself. “Got it, big man.”

Micah stomps off and Sean watches him carefully. The blond makes his way over to Dutch, coaxing him away from the table and back to the fire. This might be easier than he thought.

Dutch is skeptical at first, concerned about how the gang might take such a proposition. But with Micah’s easy words, Sean watches the gang leader become so much more comfortable with the idea of the gang doing this for bonding and morale.

And the word spreads fast.

Folks are a little nervous at first, shuffling and unsure. Plenty of pining goes around camp on the average day, but being given the green light is a little daunting. So, Dutch being Dutch, he makes the first move. Shedding the hat from the blond’s head, Dutch pulls Micah into a kiss by the collar of his shirt. Most of the gang watches as he walks Micah back into the filet table and lets his hands wander. Sean gets the next burst of confidence, practically lunging to kiss Lenny. John bursts out laughing when they fall onto the ground together, but he’s silenced quickly by Javier. Then Bill sheepishly cups Kieran’s face before the former O’Driscoll puts his arms over Bill’s shoulders and kisses him as if he’s been waiting to for years. It’s only yourself, Charles, and Arthur left standing in the midst of the mess, looking around at the others of the gang in various states of intimacy and undress.

Arthur clears his throat, the red of his face only getting worse as he glances around. “Well… suppose…”

You look over at him, those pretty eyes staring back at you. “You…uh, you wanna…?”

There’s a weight on your shoulder and you turn to see Charles, his other hand held out towards Arthur. The workhorse dips his head, his hat hiding his face as he steps forward and takes Charles’s hand.

“We could go somewhere a little private.” Charles suggests, nodding towards Arthur’s tent.

The thought is comforting, making your pounding heart calm a bit. Most others have simply started at their partners where they happened to fall. Only Bill and Kieran have moved behind the chuck wagon. Sean nearly has Lenny out of his pants on the ground, Javier is shamelessly grinding into John against the tree, Dutch has Micah surprisingly whimpering at the attention he gets, Charles simply leads you and a bashful Arthur away from the others.

Arthur sits on his cot, rubbing a hand down his face as he takes a breath. You don’t blame him given the circumstances.

“We don’t have to.” Charles says, sitting next to him with a kind hand on his shoulder. “Just because Dutch said it would be a good idea, doesn’t make it true.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No… I been…” He sighs. “Been wantin’ somethin; fer a while.” His hand reaches up to hold Charles’s on his shoulder, his eyes finding yours as they scrunch from a smile. “Guess I got a dirty mind.”

You chuckle lightly at the joke, happily taking Charles’s hand again as he pulls you into his lap. Charles kisses you softly, one of his hands on your waist. You gasp, pulling back slightly, when he starts to rut against you with a half-hard dick. Arthur has moved behind Charles, kissing at his neck while his hands lift up his shirt. Charles’s chest is broad and built, firm to the touch when you rest your hands on him. You watch Arthur’s hand move, twisting into your shirt to pull you forward. You’re pressed flush against Charles as Arthur kisses you over the other man’s shoulder. It’s Charles’s turn to give neck kisses now, his hands firmly holding your hips so you grind down into him.

“I want ya.” Arthur mutters against your lips. “Ya wanna fuck me, partner?”

You nod, kissing him again.

“What do you want from me?” Charles asks, his hand tilting Arthurs head so they can look at each other over his shoulder.

Arthur’s breath hitches as he looks at the man. “I… I wanna suck ya off, Charles.”

Charles smiles and that in itself is a slight. “Of course you do.”

The three of you move, hands guiding and wandering as clothes are shed. In the distance, Sean can be heard begging and groaning, there’s some curse shouted in Spanish, and the camp echos with skin slapping skin and the slurping, popping, and smacking of spit. It’s all overwhelming and you try to focus on what’s in front of you.

Arthur’s on his back, Charles nearly sitting on his chest as his dick is sucked. You’ve already spread Arthur’s legs, the tube of gun oil feeling heavy in your hand. You open it quickly, spilling half of it before getting your fingers covered and entering Arthur. In front of you, Charles throws his head back with a deep groan as his hips begin to stutter and fuck into Arthur’s mouth. You can’t help your free hand pumping yourself as you watch, your other scissoring Arthur open. It’s premature, you know it is, but you can’t take it anymore. You should stretch him more, but your dick aches in your hand and you retract your hands to grip Arthur’s hips instead.

You press into him and hear a muffled moan as Charles shivers from the vibrations it brings. Both of you still, giving Arthur time. You watch his hand grip at Charles’s hip, pulling him forward. Charles sits up, propping himself on the box behind Arthur’s cot so he can get the proper angle to fuck down into Arthur’s mouth. You start your pace, rough and fast like Charles. Arthur’s legs shake as he wraps them around your waist, his hand squeezing at Charles’s ass. You wish you could see their faces, but you can imagine. Charles’s is likely twisted in pleasure and concentration, Arthur’s might be slobbery and tear stained.

It’s Arthur that comes first, his dick untouched as it releases a flood of cum onto his stomach, a few spurts hitting Charles’s ass. Arthur’s body goes still as he whines, being used as a set of holes by now. Charles is next and you watch the bounce of his ass lose its nice rhythm as he shoots his release down Arthur’s throat. Charles seems to bury himself deep and Arthur grips his hips as he swallows what he’s given. You double your efforts, wanting to fill Arthur from both ends. You gaze falls downwards to watch yourself fuck into Arthur’s tight hole. Charles catches you off guard, tilting your head up for a kiss as he straddles Arthur’s stomach. His hand reaches down, passing your furious thrusting to fondle at your balls as they bounce off of Arthur. The heat builds fast and you release just as Charles bites at your lip.

When you let go of Arthur’s hips, he falls back down to his cot completely. Charles continues to kiss you as you pull out, smiling into it. You can hear Arthur’s labored breaths beneath you and you’re so in your own head that you don’t register the footsteps.

“Mind if I try somethin’, fellas?”

You turn from Charles to see Micah leaning against Arthur’s shaving stand. He only has his red shirt on, half buttoned, and a smirk rests on his face. Charles’s hand has yet to leave your balls and you feel him squeezing slightly as his other turns your head back to him for another kiss, silently telling you to ignore Micah.

“Aw, come on, Smith.” Micah drawls. “Lemme have a turn.”

Charles pulls back, his lips wetted and dark from all the kissing. “A turn?”

You hear Micah take a step forward and Charles moves fast. He leaves you and you nearly fall onto Arthur, only just catching yourself before collision. You look over your shoulder to watch Charles push Micah down to bend over Arthur’s weapon’s chest. A new pool of heat starts when Charles sucks on his fingers before shoving them into Micah, eliciting a moan from the older man.

“Shit…” Arthur mutters under you.

You turn to look down at him, chuckling. “Don’t think it’s what he had in mind.”

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, I doubt it.”

His hand finds the back of your neck and pulls you down for a kiss. Micah’s whimpers and curses fill the tent and you feel yourself getting hard again. Arthur grunts against you, pressing up until he brushes his dick to yours.

“‘m gettin’ too old fer this.” He mutters, blushing at his still soft dick.

Behind you, Micah gasps and you look back to watch him bury his face in his arm as Charles enters him roughly. Charles thrusts like a beast, fucking every last pathetic noise he can out of Micah. Kind of serves him right.

“C-Charlie…” Micah gasps, his voice light and breathless. “Ah! Fuck…”

Arthur hisses, his hand wrapping around his dick and trying to get himself going again. You trail your hand down, helping him stroke himself, but to no avail. After a few seconds a bottle lands beside Arthur on the cot, a tonic bottle. You look up as Arthur cranes his neck in the same direction. Standing to the side is Bill, a timid looking Kieran right behind him. Both of them are bare besides a blanket draped over Kieran’s shoulders.

“It helps.” Bill mutters, his eyes trailing over to watch Charles and Micah for a moment. “Works fer whiskey dick at least.”

Arthur looks the other outlaw up and down strangely. “Thanks.”

Bill clears his throat. “Ya wanna trade, Morgan?”

You look down at Arthur who glances between you and Kieran. He catches your nod before looking at Bill. “Sure.”

Kieran steps forward, a sheepish grin on his face. You give Arthur a final kiss before standing. As you pass him, you chance giving Kieran a kiss and he accepts it, melting into you for the few seconds it lasts. When you pull away and turn to Bill, the large man has taken himself in his hand at the sight. Your eyes catch on that motion, swallowing thickly at the size, nearly as big as Charles. You find the sense to step closer to Bill and kiss him. Behind you, Kieran squeaks from something and Arthur mumbles an apology. Bill’s hands find your hips, pulling you against him well enough to smush your dicks together between your stomachs.

Charles practically growls behind you and you hear Micah gasp again. “How’s that for a darkie, Micah?”

There’s a thud and you imagine Charles let Micah go or maybe even threw him on the ground. A few beats later, Sean calls out to Charles with a drunken shake to his voice. Bill pulls you with him, keeping his lips busy on your neck until he turns you around to bend you over Staruss’s little table. Bill fumbles, finding a tonic on the ground and pouring it over his hand before he pushes his fingers inside. You spread your legs for him, raising your ass a bit now that you’ve lost whatever care for shame you had at the start of all of this.

“Gentlemen.” Dutch greets, settling himself against the tree behind the two of you. “Don’t mind me.”

Bill’s finger’s stall for a moment, likely nervous about fucking someone in front of his boss, but he continues after a few seconds. You try not to think about Dutch watching you, feeling that same set of performance nerves. Bill fumbles more as he moves, spreading your ass cheeks apart with one hand as he guides himself inside. Both of you groan as he enters and pushes himself in fully. Bill leans forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before he starts thrusting. You fix your feet steady on the ground when the table under you shakes from the combined weight. Bill’s thrusts are moderate and steady, hitting deep and brushing heavenly every time.

There’s a small groan, sounding like Kieran, that makes you shiver when you think about what Arthur is doing to him. A few more thrusts from Bill makes you grip the table tighter as your legs feel shaky. Then there’s a shout of Spanish with Charles’s name mixed in. Bill’s hands wander up your body a bit, caressing your sides as he keeps up his steady fucking. A low groan reminds you that Dutch is watching and you have half a mind to look back at him, but Bill picks up his speed and you bury your face into your arm instead. Bill’s climax pumps you full, the trickling feeling distinct as his dick already starts to push the excess out with a few final thrusts.

Only a moment after Bill has stepped back there are hands on your hips. Sean pulls you to him, falling to his knees in front of you and taking you in his mouth too fast for you to think. Your hands go to his soft hair and he relents immediately, letting you fuck his mouth without question.

“Arthur!” Kieran cries somewhere in the background.

Behind you, hands grip your hips as kisses are pressed to your neck. The tickle of a mustache tells you it’s likely Javier, but you’re too occupied with fucking Sean’s willing mouth to think further. You release for the second time, letting Sean take everything you have. In the midst of your high, Javier presses inside of you and starts fucking without inhabition. His hands on your waist hold you still, his lips beginning to suck in a mark to your neck. Sean stands, grinning at you before he runs over to Arthur and all but jumps on the older man’s dick. Javier wraps his arms around you, filling your ears with mumbled Spanish that is slurred by ecstasy.

Your eyes move around camp, finding several things to admire. Bill has Micah in his lap, stroking him with one hand and fingering him with another. John and Lenny each have each other in hand as they kiss, Charles watching them from the campfire. Dutch has Kieran on the ground, fucking him roughly as he mutters about O’Driscolls but Kieran moans all the same. Arthur stares from afar, Sean bouncing on his dick as he watches the sight of Javier finally burying himself deep and mixing his cum deep inside of you with Bill’s.

“You’re so warm, cariño.” Javier mutters in your ear before he chuckles. “Who’re you seeing next?”

“Not sure.” You take a few breaths. “Haven’t seen half of them yet.”

Javier pulls himself out, causing the mixed cum to leak out. “John’s a good hole, dirty mouth too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You turn in time for Javier to kiss you before he heads over to Arthur, teasing words spilling out as he climbs onto the older man’s lap to replace a spent Sean. When you turn back, Dutch is a few feet away. He beckons, gesturing to the ground and some part of wanting to please your boss makes you sink to your knees without question. Dutch guides his dick to your lips and, once again, you don’t hesitate. You only get a few bobs in before Dutch clutches at your head, beginning to use you without care.

“Shit!” Bill yells, not sounding pleased. “Wagons!”

Dutch pulls you off and you turn your head to peer through the trees. Glimpses of horses, a few colorful dresses… shit indeed. Everyone scrambles, hiding in tents, pulling clothes back on, trying to clean up cum from various surfaces. You all but fall into your tent, rummaging for at least a union suit or some kind of underwear. Pants, you find pants and pull them on.

“Dutch…” Hosea calls. “What’s gone on here?”

From your tent you can see Bill hiding behind a tree, not a thing covering him. Dutch comes out of his tent, somehow fully dressed, and greets Hosea as if he hasn’t fucked half of his men in the last hour. Miss Grimshaw looks around, sniffing with a crease in her brow for a moment. She’s distracted by Tilly asking a question and you take the opportunity to grab the union suit you know to be Bill’s on the ground in front of you before running over to him in the trees.

“Owe ya.” He mutters, pulling on the covering.

You nod, turning to leave, but Bill catches your arm and pulls you closer to kiss your cheek. You give him a smile before circling around the trees, acting like you’d gone out to piss. Passing Lenny and Sean hiding out by the lake with a single fishing pole as an excuse, you sneak as best you can to Arthur’s tent. As if expecting you, a half dressed Arthur with a bulge in his pants, hands you the clothes you’d shed earlier. You dress the rest of the way next to the munitions, eyes checking for onlookers on occasion.

The camp settles, the secret kept. Everything is well and most of the boys have elected not to bring it up, others whisper and snicker about it. It’s dark when Micah sits next to you and you look at him, finding flushed cheeks for only a moment before he kisses you. It’s surprisingly soft despite the chapped and bruised lips. He pulls back, glancing to see if anyone saw before looking back at you with a sparkle in his blue eyes.

“Didn’t get the chance, cowpoke.”

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dyingbuck · 8 months ago

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Arthur’s tuberculosis will always make me sad 'cause I cant help putting myself in his shoes and imagining what it would be like to feel your body giving up on you and knowing that you're going to die soon.

Especially when you consider that Arthur was one of the strongman of the Van Der Linde's gang. Just imagining that after being seen as an intimidating force, people look at you with sorrow or cruel amusement. People aren't afraid of you anymore, see you as a weak and feeble guy (like the miners in the mission Don't seek absolution). Knowing that you aren't as strong, one of your biggest asset, anymore and that people treat you accordingly (like Sadie in the last mission) by trying to keep you away from work and fight.

It just breaks my heart to imagine how Arthur must have felt during his last few weeks, knowing he's withering away into a ghost of his former self.

#red dead redemption #rdr2 #arthur morgan #as usual idk if i make sense or anything but its just something ive been thinking nonstop #especially when i see his reaction after sadie tells him to keep guard cause hes a better shooter and how mad he get

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2demondogs · 1 month ago

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Hi! Could I get some domestic Charles headcanons? Like if him on his own ranch with his partner and children?

Sure!! Gender-neutral reader! Sorta hit a block on this one bc while I want to wife Charles up 100%, I am very much destined to be a Cool Gay Uncle, so I hope it's okay lol.

Charles does most of the hunting, slaughtering, and cooking. He's good at the former, doesn't mind the rest, and he likes that you compliment the latter. If you want to join him catching dinner or cooking it, Charles is usually more than happy to have company. He'd also love the opportunity to teach you whatever he can; once they're old enough, teaching the kids is his favorite way to bond with them.

He does need alone time, and wants to give you yours. There's only so much interaction anyone can take, and Charles is a naturally reclusive man. Normally, he'll take hunting trips or repairs around the place as an excuse to be on his lonesome for a while. If you're not someone who frequently needs to recharge on your own, he'll probably worry that he's stressing you out being so... around.

For a quiet guy, he rambles at night. Charles tends to talk pre-sleep anxieties out with you when he's tired enough — and he has a lot of them, for living such a slow life nowadays. Things from the past, what comes in the future, what that hide will fetch. By the time kids come along, he'll wear his brain smooth on one side worrying about them. Especially the girls. He is a Girl Dad for sure.

Charles is not very good with young kids. He's good at respecting them as their own tiny, more chaotic versions of adults. Patience is a virtue, and he can put up with their nonsense — though that's more affectionately thought than anything — for a long time, as long as they're satisfied in committing it. Once they start crying, though... let's just say that approaching a child the same way he approaches wounded animals worked until he spoke too hard on accident, and the kid burst into tears again.

Kids love him regardless. Usually, anyways. There was a period of time where babies tended to cry whenever he looked at them, and neither of you really know why to this day. But he's quiet, so they can talk all they want; he's tall and sturdy enough to climb; very firm hugs, and doesn't mind giving them; and once they're old enough, his advice is solid without being too kind. He's kept his physique if only because, for some reason, every single kid has loved being swung around like a feed sack. Like most things, he doesn't get the appeal, but whatever makes the critters happy, y'know?

Despite the difficulties, a family was never a bad idea. Charles likes the idea of having roots, and having them with you. Anything stationary is a grace in his life. To think the rest of it could be nothing but that is at once suffocating and comforting. He'll probably drag you all on a few trips and wander off on some excursions to sate the drive to run around, but beyond that, he's just fine being a homebody now that he's got a home.

One of his more sentimental insistences is a yearly family portrait. It's an expense, but ranching is good enough money to warrant it. Beyond expressions of contentment, he doesn't often make gestures or say much in the vein of this— but it says enough about what you all mean to him that he gets a few prints of each one.

He doesn't tell the kids much of his history. Of course, he connects with them as deeply as he can because they're his babies. Charles is the master of dropping absolutely horrific lore on them over a beer once they hit their thirties, but before then? Good luck. It's dangerous, sure; he wasn't always a good man, no, and sometimes he's ashamed; most of all, what happened in and to the Van der Linde gang — and the world they sprouted from, and where that world is buried, and where the world is going nowadays, and everything else — still scares him. He would be happier if you didn't know a lick of it, either.

#rdr2 headcanons #charles smith x reader #charles smith #charles smith headcanons #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #sfw #headcanon #ask #neutralreader #He kinda looks like he's hitting a vape

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conkreetmonkey · 3 months ago

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So Jack Marston was 4 in 1899. He was 19 in 1914. This has some truly crazy implications about the time periods Jack could reasonably live to see. Despite the low likelihood of it given his lifestyle, let's assume he lives to die of old age.

(it's a long one under the cut)

Jack Marston would be 25 in 1920, meaning he would be in the prime of his life during the roaring twenties. He would be 34 on Black Tuesday in 1929, and live through the Great Depression, coming out the other side at 46 years old.

He would live through both world wars, so if we're assuming he's somehow cleaned up his name and is no longer n outlaw, perhaps existing under another identity, he would be drafted into at least one world war, as he would live through both WWI and WWII. Let's assume he either dodges the draft or survives the battlefield; likely the former, as he'd still hate the federal government with a burning passion, and is no stranger to evading their grasp.

When WWII ended in 1945, Jack would have been about 50. He'd have seen both gunslingers and nukes in his lifetime. He'd have watched horses be replaced by cars, and airplanes become a mainstream technology.

Jack Marston would be 55-65 in the 1950s. He'd witness the development and popularization of plastic, TVs pop up in every home, and hyperconsumerism become the norm as wrinkles set in and his hair started falling out. At this point, especially for the time, he'd truly be getting old. Maybe he'd have kids, or even grandkids by thus point. Would he be happy, having experienced the best and worst of America? He was probably too old to serve in Vietnam; there's no way he wouldn't have some sort of disability by this point.

Jack Marston would be 75 in 1970. At this point, death of old age becomes exponentially more likely with every passing year, but let's be hyper-optimistic just to push this to its limits. Jack would witness hippies. Would he like or dislike them, these men who despise the government-mandated bloodshed he'd lived through, yet resisted through bright colours, bongoes and weed?

Old Man Marston, if still kicking, would be 85 in 1980. Probably going senile by this point, but if still mentally sharp and with nimble enough fingers, Jack could have played Donkey Kong at 86. He could have set foot in an arcade, assuming he can still walk.

Now, as egregiously unlikely as it is, let's assume Jack lives to 100. An obscenely old age, especially given all the things he's lived through. The stress, the bullets, the cigarette smoke and lead paint... let's assume his body remains functional despite it all, some defiant force deep in his soul refusing to let him die.

If he lived to 100, Jack would have died in 1995.

Think about how insane that would be. A man raised by the last remnants of the wild west, fading out as the internet begins. He'd have seen the moon landing, and eaten at McDonald's.

Six more years, and he would have witnessed 9/11.

Jack's great grandchildren, assuming he and every child afterwards reproduced at age 30, would have been about 10 in '95. They'd have been millennials. They'd be 35 during the beginning of the Covid lockdowns. They'd be alive today, and remember their great grandfather. Perhaps they inherited a few hats and antique guns. Perhaps they now live in sprawling urban environments like Saint Denis or Blackwater, watching electronic billboards and anti-homeless architecture go up, rent go up 20% per year, and a sandwich go from $5 to $15. Maybe they'd watch Jack's now-senile firstborn lose money that used to, long ago, belong to the Van Der Linde Gang, falling for a Nigerian prince or Google gift card scam.

Or maybe Jack Marston's kid(s) died to Covid. It's entirely possible, nay plausible given the timeline as it exists. Jack was one generation away from possibly living to read Homestuck or watch Space Jam in the old folks home.

What do you think Arthur, John and Jack would think if there was an afterlife, looking down upon what America had become in 12 short decades? Would they relate to John's great-great-grandchildren, to living in a time and place that doesn't want you? To the impossibility of making an honest living, of escaping America's newest model of the Orphan Crushing Machine? Would they see Dutch echoed in Trump, Cornwall in Bezos or Musk? An empire they watched grow up begin to slow down from age, never ceasing in its quest to ruin as many lives as possible?

How would they feel, watching Jack's 9 year old great-great-grandchild, still bearing the Marston name, do active shooter drills in her classroom as the air turned to poison and the summer to a kiln? As men like Dutch prod her along into a life of miserable servitude to a gang of thieves, elevated to untouchable American royalty with Pinkertons and the law as their knights?

Personally, I think they'd be quite upset.

#rdr #rdr2 #jack marston #john marston #red dead #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption two

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lyinginahammock · 1 year ago

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In GTA V, you can find a book entitled "Red Dead," written by a J. Marston. This has been used as proof that Jack Marston (son of Red Dead Redemption protagonist John Marston) wrote "Red Dead" in the universe of GTA.

But I want to take it one step further - I think that Jack also wrote Red Dead Redemption II in the same universe when he was an older, more experienced author, and that both of them act as historical fiction in honor of his father, with the supernatural elements added in by Jack.

Red Dead Redemption shows John Marston as a great guy - smart, clever, caring for his family, and well-meaning in general, who sets out on a quest to destroy the remnants of the Van Der Linde gang in order to save his family before being gunned down in an impossible last stand. He is an uncritical depiction of Jack's father.

Red Dead Redemption II features a more complicated protagonist in Arthur Morgan, a more morally grey character, in the final months of his life, as he's dying from TB (the result of his own actions). His last act is to save the Marstons, and the epilogues show John telling Jack stories about Arthur, almost certainly in a heroic light. I think that an older Jack decides to track down as many people who would have interacted with Arthur in order to get a more critical look at Arthur as a person, including his former lover and the family of the man Arthur kicked the shit out of, resulting in Arthur developing TB.

Dutch Van Der Linde's portrayal as almost cartoonishly stupid and evil in Red Dead Redemption II is explained by this idea. The only surviving people who knew Dutch would've seen him as a villain - Sadie, Rains Falls, etc - and Arthur as a flawed hero, and Jack would've already talked to these people about his father. That, combined with watching Dutch abandon John a number of times (and Arthur bailing John out), would've cemented Dutch as a major villain in Jack's life as well.

As I said before, this theory also explains the more...fantastical elements of the games - vampires, time travel, robots, etc. I don't think that John or Arthur actually, in-universe, encountered those things, nor would they have claimed to. In Red Dead Redemption II, Jack is seen reading about King Arthur, much to his father's approval, and John seems to be supportive of Jack's dreams of being a novelist, so I don't doubt that in the year between the two Redemption games, John would have spent a good amount of money buying books for his son, loving father that he is. Thus, as part of the homage to his father that I believe these in-universe novels were, Jack would've put in those elements of science fiction and fantasy he read about with his father's approval.

Tl;dr - The Red Dead Redemption games (I and II) are historical fiction novels in the universe of GTA, written by Jack Marston, and the supernatural elements are additions made by Jack to honor his father's support of his reading habit.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #john marston #red dead redemption theory

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rockscanfly · 3 months ago

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Sometimes I write things! Usually if there's a fandom I love and I don't see the specific kind of stuff I'm interested in reading that's when the writing bug will hit me. Hence, a lot of rarepairs or rare dynamics. Sampler of works I'm proud of below, sorted by fandom:

Red Dead Redemption 2 (currently most active fandom. i'm engaged in an ongoing campaign to bring more bottom!Charles Smith to the world)

the stars are not wanted now: Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Snow Bunny: Three years after the dissolution of the Van der Linde gang, Arthur and Charles pass a long winter together. Arthur calls Charles something new in bed, to rave reviews. Later, he earns a new nickname of his own. (or, Arthur Morgan-Smith's Guide To Surviving The Canadian Winter, Cowboy Style)

Once Bitten, Twice Shy: Running it alone for over a decade doesn't tend to make you very good at communication. When Arthur's un-buried ghosts darken the doorstep of the home he and Charles have built together, Charles’ instinct to pull away ignites a conflagration that threatens to burn that home to its foundations. (or, Arthur considers reconnecting with his former mentor. Charles loses his fucking mind)

Young Justice (pretty much every fic is about Kaldur, my forever girl. My oldest and most prolific fandom, have some WIPs but TBD on if they see the light of day. )

Recovery: No one's really been okay since the invasion ended. Artemis is back on the Team and back to school in Central City, M'gann and Connor are helping the Team stay afloat, Roy's quit the business to take care of Lian, and Dick has retreated back to Blüdhaven. With all this, everyone can't help but notice how Kaldur's reacting to the last year of trauma, and to it finally being over. (Or, in better words, how he's not reacting.)

Gallows Humor: Five jokes that only Artemis and Kaldur laughed at. (or: A Treatise On the Effects of Exposure to Organized Violence in Early Adolescence)

and four a.m. knows all my secrets: (five beds Kaldur has lied awake in and one where he found rest)

Atlantean Cryptanalysis For Beginners: Concept: the little eel faces on Kaldur's hands change their expression depending on his mood (or, Artemis is great at detail, and everyone else is a moron. Nothing is new)

I Saw The Harbor Lights (They Told Me We Were Parting): It’s Kaldur’s last night before he puts his and Dick’s plan into action. And he’s going to spend it with his boyfriend. (or, In Which Kaldur And Roy Go On A Date And Everything Is Beautiful And Nothing Hurts)

I have other fics that I've enjoyed writing, but these are the ones I want to pin for easy access.

#mine #young justice #red dead redemption 2 #kaldur #charles smith #arthur morgan #charthur

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yanderes-galore · 2 months ago

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yandere Dutch concept?

I'll do some horror with RDR1 Dutch, but if/when I do a RDR2 Dutch concept. I'll try to make it connect into this one

Yandere! RDR1! Dutch Van Der Linde Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Sadism, Kidnapping, Possessive behavior, Paranoia/Trust issues, Cannibalism, Blood, Biting, Murder, Delusional behavior, Manipulation, Forced relationship.

While RDR2 Dutch is gradual with his obsession...

RDR1 Dutch wastes no time.

Dutch by this point is ALL unhinged.

He's lost everything yet still fights like a feral animal.

Truthfully he was never the same when Hosea and Arthur died... really everything went to hell when the Saint Denis bank robbery went wrong.

Now there's always a chance you were in his gang and simply left like many others.

But imagine how scary it would be if you just... didn't know him?

Imagine if you merely heard of him as an infamous gang leader and met him under unfortunate circumstances?

Maybe you were in a saloon one day at the wrong time... Only to be abducted by the infamous Dutch Van Der Linde in his unhinged state.

That's one way to look at this.

Another is when you knew him as a fellow gang member.

You both had an interest in each other at one point in time.

Although as things got worse with the gang and Dutch began to slowly lose it... You left.

Maybe he was always possessive, but when he started getting reckless, you knew you needed an out.

You haven't seen the man in years except for Wanted Posters.

You moved to New Austin for a new life...

Only to meet Dutch one day... Again, at either a saloon or maybe even a robbery in the area.

Dutch remembers you... Of course he does.

This time he isn't going to let you go, either.

If I had to see who is worse, RDR2 or RDR1 Dutch?

It's RDR1, no doubt about it, as he's lost it by this point.

Dutch doesn't give a damn about those around him.

He used to garner loyalty, be a charming con man.

Now he's just a murderer.

Dutch would stalk you like an animal, tracking you with his new gang.

Then, when you're vulnerable, he'll pounce.

An animal is the best way to explain him, he's feral with no humanity.

Not anymore at least.

Even if you knew him before, you can tell he's a changed man.

It's no longer really manipulation he uses as his main weapon.

It's all violence.

Dutch would kill to have his obsession in his grasp.

He'd even do it in front of them.

Doesn't matter if they were innocent or a threat.

Dutch has killed many at this point...

As long as he gets what he wants, he'll do whatever it takes.

Dutch would follow you anywhere.

He'd slaughter countless until he's covered in blood and gunpowder just to have you.

Sometimes he'll chuckle at your fear... Other times he's eerily cold with his gaze.

Dutch may not even bother with a lasso.

He could, sure, but you'd listen if he pulled a gun on you, right?

If not... He'll shoot your foot to prevent you from running, watching the blood trickle and you scream.

Then he'll drag you to his current hideout, threatening to kill anyone if they touch you...

Even his boys in the gang if he has to.

Dutch is a husk of his former self, now just an instinctual beast desperately trying to cling to his obsession.

If you were a former gang member, he claims you were the only person who kept him sane.

There may be some truth to this... but it could also just be his delusions.

If you were merely some poor soul he fell for...

Well, he treats you more like a fascination.

A forced companion meant to please him.

Dutch is still manipulative.

But he's more willing to pull a gun without Hosea's voice of reason.

I mean... Does he even have reason anymore?

Dutch wouldn't trust anyone with you.

Honestly, before he lost it he had similar thoughts...

Yet he clings to you now like you're his last chance of anchoring himself.

You may be simply trying to chat to one of his boys to occupy yourself during your captivity...

Only for Dutch to drag the man away by the neck...

You never see them again, either.

Not unless they became Dutch's next meal.

Speaking of which, regardless of how canon it is or not, Dutch may be a cannibal in this state.

There's deer to hunt, yes, but sometimes he can't be caught hunting...

Luring poor souls in for him to feed off doesn't happen often...

Yet it does, much to your dismay.

Dutch may even want to nibble you.

Like it's some way to keep you to himself.

Dutch, in his delusional state, may just think drinking your blood or nibbling your flesh is a way to keep you with him.

He may even eat a finger if you kept trying to pressure him.

RDR1 Dutch has a higher chance to murder his obsession.

He's paranoid and scared you'll leave him.

That or you'll sell him out.

With your constant escape attempts... You may just push him over the edge...

Imagine Dutch snapping and either accidentally killing you... or doing it on purpose as some twisted way to keep you to himself.

Then, of course, he can't let anyone else have you... Not even your meat or bones....

Dutch would probably cry the whole time once he realizes what he's done...

But he'd probably eat you to keep you with him.

Oof... The sight...

One of his boys hears Dutch crying in his cabin.

They go to check on him...

Only to see that man chowing down on his lover like an animal.

Blood is streaming down his mouth like his tears, murmuring about how you two will be together forever now.

Now you can't leave him...

Now you're all his...

He'll even keep your bones until the day he dies.

Dutch is willing to do anything to survive... to get what he wants and keep his freedom.

He misses you at first, but... Then he realizes he shouldn't.

Now you'll never betray him...

You'll be forever his, right inside him, and he'll never love another like you....

#yandere red dead redemption #yandere rdr2 #yandere rdr1 #yandere dutch van der linde

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08melancholie · 12 days ago

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Hello! As the Micah Bell HQ and CEO do u have any hcs/analysis on his dynamic & backstory with cleet + joe? How they met, their interactions, reaction to cleet running off, etc. Have a nice day xoxo

Joe, Cleet and Micah.

As the Micah Bell HQ and CEO, I have a few ideas and headcannons about them and the relationship between Micah, Cleet and Joe and their backstory.

And of course, a warning; spoilers for RDR2 and RDR1.

1. Meeting.

2. Backstory.

3. "Joseph" Joe and Cleet

4. Micah's gang

5. Epilogue.

6. Headcannons and Thoughts.

I'll also add information about the topics I talk about, so you can actually use this as another info post like my 'writing Micah' one.

First things first; my analysis and sum of the canon information.

1. Meeting.

We meet Cleet and Joe in the final chapter as Arthur, which is Chapter 6: "Beaver Hollow" at the start of the mission "My Last Boy".

Around Dutch's tent are Micah, Joe, Cleet and Dutch himself when Arthur interrupts, asking who the two men are. In response, Micah say that "We need guns for what's coming", that Cleet and Joe know how to fight and how "it's lucky Micah bumped into 'em". Arthur's response to this is asking Dutch what's going on and what's happening to them; what's happening to Dutch himself. Micah asks Arthur to "show Dutch some respect", and before things can escalate, Eagle Flies interrupts the conversation to ask Arthur, Dutch and anyone that would like to join in to ride with him into their war—which starts the mission gameplay and ends the cutscene.

We don't find out anything about these two men when we meet them, other than their names and skills with firearms, and that they're needed "for whats coming".

2. Backstory.

Per Micah's word, he only came affiliated with Joe and Cleet recently in Chapter 6, having 'bumped into them' and deemed them good enough to help out with whatever next was coming for the gang. Joe and Cleet however, don't seem very close to Micah at all. They don't talk to Micah in camp, seemingly just doing their own thing and practically ignoring the other man. I think that's a very interesting and overlooked detail, seeing as they're supposed to be at least kind-of close to each other if there really is trust between Micah, enough to invite the two men into the gang, but maybe not.

3. "Joseph" Joe and Cleet.

Joe, full name Joseph, is recruited by Micah for the US army train robbery, like Cleet. Joe was definitely more loyal to Micah in comparison to Cleet, seeing as he stayed with Micah until his end; being shot down by John while he was climbing up Mount Hagen to get to Micah. I don't have much more information, as the two of them are very minimal characters in the game.

Cleet wasn't as loyal as Joe and he had more empathy than Joe did, seeing as he left Micah after the killings of that one family with the little girl he had tried saving. If his whole story about that is true, then we know that Cleet was a lot more 'human' than his companion Joe.

With that out of the way, a small fun-fact to fill a gap;

Cleet and Joe each have a tattoo on their chest which says "tout me fait rire", French for "Everything makes me laugh". Cleets' tattoo is a bit more hidden by his neckerchief, but Joe's is more open. This is very interesting and it actually gives us a bit more about their characters; Joe seems more proud of it whereas Cleet hides it, which makes me think it was the formers' idea to get those, and it also shows that they had a strong enough bond for a matching tattoo. Also, they might know French! So that's really cool tbh...

4. Micah's gang.

After the fall-out of the Van der Linde gang, Micah starts up his own gang which includes Cleet—for a while—and Joe. They commit a mass of crime in their path like robbery and murder, which sometimes included dismemberment. Micah himself has taken a massive amount of lives, estimated to be up to two dozen people. His gang becomes very feared by that time, and you can find newspaper talking about it; saying that Micah's horrid actions "rival that of Van der Linde himself".

Cleet fell out of Micah's gang when he killed an entire family during an attack on a homestead at some point between 1899 and 1907. Upon trying to murder a little girl in that assault, Cleet attempted to save her; to which Micah responded by attempting to kill Cleet himself, before Cleet got away.

At some point around 1907, Dutch Van der Linde joined hands with Micah once more to retrieve the money in Blackwater from the botched ferry robbery in 1899.

5. Epilogue

After finding out about Cleet's whereabouts, Sadie visits John at Beechers Hope and gets him to go with her to finish Micah off. Sadie leads Charles and John to the town of Strawberry to find Cleet, who they interrogate while threatening with the rope. He's made to talk by John and Sadie as they stand close-by the level which leads to Cleet's death, if the player chooses to go down that path. He tells us that Micah is up on Mount Hagen, and how he's got a whole gang now. Cleet pleads his case by telling us he tried to stop Micah murdering a family containing a little girl which let to Micah attempting to murder Cleet, before he 'luckily' got away.

Depending on the player's choice, Cleet either gets hanged in front of a small crowd of Valentine residents, or is shot by Sadie.

With the information from Cleet, Sadie, Charles and John set out to into the snow and mountains once more, where the events of RDR2 start. They ride to Mount Hagen when Sadie and Charles get injured, which then leaves John—the player—to fight off Micah's gang on his own. John is almost immediately confronted by Joe and two unknown gang members. After a short talk, John shoots all three down before continuing his way towards Micah. John climbs up the mountain, shooting down any and all of Micah's gang members in the process until he finds Micah at the top before a cabin, and the two quickly get into a shootout where Sadie manages to surprise Micah from behind and holds him at gunpoint. Micah holsters his guns in surrender, but before anything else can happen, Dutch exits the nearby cabin to reveal himself, and aims his revolvers at Sadie and John. In a moment of surprise, Sadie is overpowered by Micah, and the only thing that 'saves' them is Dutch's betrayal of Micah by fatally shooting him in the torso to which Micah says his infamous line: "You shot me pretty good", before being finished off by the player/John.

By the end of the mission, Micah is shot to his death by the mutual effort of Dutch and John, with the former leaving the scene alive until the events of RDR1 transpire.

6. Headcannons and Thoughts.

Finally, what you've been waiting to hear; my thoughts.

First, I want to start at the background—I have a hard time believing Micah didn't know Cleet and Joe prior to events of Beaver Hollow. It's hard for me to even imagine Micah so freely and carelessly introducing two random men he just met into the gang; which is why I'm even more surprised by Dutch who allowed it. It feels very uncharacteristically stupid and risky for Micah's persona, which is why I feel like he already knew Cleet and Joe, but for some reason kept everyone in the dark about it. Maybe he didn't want to be accused of 'doing things behind Dutch's back' like he did for Arthur once Eagle Flies said so during "My Last Boy".

As far as the backstory between the two men and Micah goes, I think there was a lot more to it than randomly stumbling into them one day in 1899—I personally think Cleet and Joe were somewhat similar to what Norman, known as 'Skinny', was to Micah; old acquaintances he used to run with. The only difference was that Micah knew they wouldn't rat on him like Norman did, and so he probably got them in on his entire plan with Dutch and the rest of the gang, maybe even paid them because he knew that, in the end, things would have gone his way, regardless of what happened in-between or as result of his choices of action.

Another detail, one I already mentioned; Cleet and Joe aren't around Micah much inside camp. As I said in my second point, "Backstory", Joe and Cleet spend little to no free time with Micah like you'd expect them to be. That's another part which confuses me. If my previous theory were true, of them knowing one-another beforehand, then I'd expect them to actually be talking to each other and not doing their own stuff. So, why does it seem as if they're ignoring each other? That's where I wish Cleet and Joe weren't minimal characters, because I'm very curious about them and how their relation to Micah was in the game and story.

As far as Cleet running off and leaving Micah's gang goes, I don't think it bothered Micah too much. His gang was full of strong, capable men—just like he's always envisioned for himself. Losing one member over murdering one person, albeit an innocent little girl, just showed Micah that Cleet was more 'weak-minded', and I think that that was actually a positive in Micah's head; it showed him who was too 'weak' in his gang. You could almost call the action a small test. Again, they didn't seem to be so close to Micah, so both Joe and Cleet running off/dying likely didn't mean so much to Micah, at least not after he knew he had the backs and lives of an entire gang in his hands.

Thank you for the lovely ask, anon! I had a lot of fun with gathering all the information and with sharing my own thoughts about Cleet, Joe and their relations to Micah. It's been a pleasure answering, as always.

Sources <3

Joe and Cleet — Villains Wiki

Joe — Separate Wiki

Cleet — Separate Wiki

"My Last Boy" Mission

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verdemoun · 2 months ago

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how would rdr1 change if everyone survived? If the gang still fell apart and John was still forced to hunt down his associates, what would happen now that there were more to hunt?

cracks my fingers if EVERYONE survived? oops i hit the tumblr word count who knew that was a thing

The list John has to hunt down is heavily based on notoriety. Assuming Charles, Sadie, Pearson, Orville, Mary-Beth and Tilly were still alive in rdr1 - Ross only tasked him with hunting down the members of the gang still considered the scourge of society.

His new list includes: Mac and Davey Callander, Sean Macguire, Karen Jones, Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Leopold Strauss, Josiah Trelawney, Micah Bell, Dutch van der Linde, and Arthur Morgan. Javier has been considered MIA since Beaver Hollow, and never resurfaced in Mexico (to John's heartbreak, who was very in love with Javier and genuinely believes he is dead).

In hunting down the old gang, he incidentally runs into a lot of the former gang members while looking for the rest.

Lenny took Hosea's advice, and with a forceful shove from Arthur, took off before the shootout at Beaver Hollow and became a lawyer. John goes to him first to try and get his family back legally without needing to hunt down the gang - no dice. But Jenny's looking well! She eventually agreed to Lenny's constant 'please, please, please, please-', and they're very happy together. Very modern marriage for the time period: she's technically his receptionist, but does PI work when he's stuck on a case.

Davey's the first target John locates. Despite being injured, he ran off in Colter to try and find Mac. While missing the plot of rdr2, he built up a decent gang of morons for himself. Easily taking enough out to send the last few running, John tries to insist he can take Davey in alive. Davey refuses, and they end up in a stand-off that John effortlessly wins. One down.

Pearson (for entirely selfish reasons - their coach robberies are driving up prices) gives John a tip that Karen and Sean are believed to be hiding out in a shack somewhere in Lemoyne. Despite them putting up a hell of a fight, with many fire bottles involved, he's able to take both alive. Sean's already contacted Lenny to try and avoid the noose, and Karen's going to play the helpless little lady at the whims of a madman to escape charges. The bureau is forced to be a bit more law abiding than the pinkertons, so John is cautiously optimistic they'll actually be okay.

Next, he finds Strauss running a scam in the slums of Saint Denis. Strauss surrenders much more easily, due to not understanding how many of his crimes have been traced back to him: if he doesn't hang, he'll die in jail anyway.

In Saint Denis he also bumps into Tilly, who merrily invites him over for dinner. Grimshaw, and shockingly, Molly, are there: employed by the Pierres as nannies. Tilly already heard from Arthur about him hunting down the gang, but is surprisingly supportive Only because if it was her family, she would do the same. Despite knowing Arthur is on the list, she gives him a very stern younger sibling talk about not visiting him in over a decade. John makes a lazy excuse.

Next comes Trelawney. John expects the old con to come quietly, but instead ends up in a shootout with his sons Tarquin and Cornelius. Bandits in their own right, they're not willing to let their last surviving parent surrender. John, regrettably, ends up killing both to save his own skin. Trelawney is left broken, and says he will turn himself in if John gives him the chance to bury his children himself. John agrees.

In Valentine he runs into a delighted novellist Mary-Beth and significantly less delighted Kieran, working at the stables. Kieran actually stayed in Beaver Hollow after Mary-Beth left, and helped John escape at Arthur's insistence when Arthur thought he wasn't going to get off the mountain. They advise him to go west if he wants to find Bill, who Kieran still dislikes more than John.

Bill's gang isn't nearly as terrifying as it is in rdr1: a small band of deviants (read: homosexuals forced to become criminals because society wouldn't let them to live in peace). Bill still shoots John, and he ends up at the MacFarlane's ranch.

Where he hears a familiar voice - and finds out Javier is still alive and has been working for the MacFarlane's as a vaquero. Javier is incredibly bitter about how the VDLs ended and shows nothing but resentment for John for abandoning Dutch, and hunting the gang down all these years later.

It's romantic tension, fellas. Obviously they end up having sex before Javier agrees to help John find whoever's left - so John can go back to 'playing happy little family' and leave him the hell alone.

The two of them are more than enough to wipe out Bill's gang. In the back room, they find Bill very softly patting Mac Callander's hand, explaining he's got to 'go away for a bit'. Mac survived his encounter with the pinkertons in 1899, but was left with severe brain injuries and Bill had secretly been caring for him ever since. Bill agrees to surrender, only for Javier to shoot him realizing Bill had a trigger in his hand and enough dynamite to leave Fort Mercer a smoldering crater.

They take Mac to a hospital, where he can live comfortably for however long he has left. John tells the bureau he died in the shootout.

Following the natural progression, they find Hosea living in the little cottage he once shared with Bessie. Age has not been kind to him, but he's delighted to see John, and even more delighted to see John and Javier riding together again. Without a word of protest, Hosea packs his bag and comes willingly. It's a few days' travel to the nearest station: they pitch tents around a campfire, drink and tell stories just like the old days. Hosea convinces Javier to play guitar again. But the ride proves too much, and Hosea passes away in his sleep. John very quietly hands over his body over.

Dutch and Micah are next. They have been riding together ever since Beaver Hollow: completely unhinged. Typical rdr1 Dutch behavior but worse, encouraged by Micah who is as conniving and vile as ever. Javier is shot non-fatally by Micah, John kills Micah with no remorse, and Dutch, cornered again, still jumps to his death.

Javier has to stay in hospital, leaving John to face the last surviving VDL alone.

John rides up to the tiny, falling apart house with two wooden crosses in the yard and a third grave pre-dug. Arthur greets him at the door and welcomes him inside as warmly as a social call. John agrees, but keeps some distance between himself and the figure he's meant to recognize as his brother.

Despite surviving his first brush with TB-induced pneumonia, Arthur still very much has TB. He's grotesquely, sickly thin, with blemishes and sores over his skin. His arms shake with the effort of pouring a cup of coffee. As much as he was in love with Charles, he wouldn't let himself risk making Charles sick too. His voice cracks with the chronic dryness of coughing, but also disuse. Other than his horse, and the occasional visit from Sadie or Tilly, or Hosea when the old man could still travel, he's been completely alone.

Before he lets himself be turned in, Arthur asks him how he's been. They just talk: mostly about John, about Abigail and how Jack's doing, whether he's thinking about colleges or following his 'pa' into ranching. He tells Arthur about how the ones who got out are going: Pearson's shop, about Tilly's children, Mary-Beth and Kieran, Javier, that he heard Swanson's in New York. Arthur tells him Charles still writes, that he's happy in Canada, and still helps Rains Fall.

John stays the night. In the morning, Arthur says his good-bye to Eliza, and Isaac. He mounts his horse for the last time, and follows John to where Ross is waiting. The bureau, visibly disgusted at the sight of him, alow Arthur to climb into the back of the car himself. Arthur says it was nice seeing John after all these years.

Abigail and Jack have been released, and are waiting at Beecher's Hope.

The bureau decide to make good on their promise and leave him be. Honestly, they just forgot about him. Sean doesn't escape the noose. Despite Tilly trying to help her after her release, Karen drinks herself to death with grief. Josiah, with nothing left to lose, accepts his execution with relief. It only takes a month in prison for Strauss to ask to be hanged instead.

Javier comes to Beecher's Hope for work for a bit, before it hurts too much seeing John with Abigail and heads back to the MacFarlane's. John tries to visit, but Javier insists they go separate ways.

And the only time Abigail has ever seen her husband cry is reading a tiny article that announced Arthur Morgan died of natural causes in prison.

#rdr2 'fix it but i actually made everything worse'

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applepiesupreme · 4 months ago

Text

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 30

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/149566579

She was growing to like Shady Belle, or rather, disliking it less. If she were given a choice, she would have gladly returned to the former two spots, but the ride to work was considerably shorter and work was getting busier, so there was at least that.

Ecco hadn’t acknowledged her since the last incident. She had been on edge for a long time, but as he continued to ignore her day after day, her wariness had passed. Just as she was getting lulled by safety, thinking whatever happened had been it and that wasn’t so bad after all, he showed up at her station as if he could read her mind.

“Go to my office, Savigne.”

She froze and broke out in cold sweat. Several moments she lingered, unable to make her feet move. Even though nobody was paying attention, she felt like everyone knew, that all of Saint Denis knew and talked behind her back. She felt deep shame despite not having done anything at all as she slowly walked up the stairs. When she arrived at his office, it was empty. There was only one chair. So she waited, standing across from his desk.

A minute passed. Then two. Then ten. After twenty minutes she checked her pocket watch and wondered if she was going crazy, if she had dreamed up the entire thing. She watched the slow, tedious crawl of the hands of the watch. Thirty minutes. She vacillated between going back down and waiting on. Maybe he had forgotten? Maybe he was sidetracked? She remained rooted, too afraid to go against his word. Her feet hurt from standing all day but there was nowhere to sit down, so she stood on. The days were shorter now, she watched the window darken and looked at her watch again. Forty-two minutes. He must have forgotten she told herself. I’ll wait five more minutes and then I’ll leave.

Five minutes later she thought what's another five minutes. She shuffled on her feet and timidly eyed the desk. The temptation to lean against it was overwhelming. The pain on her feet moved up to her lower back. Next time she checked the time, it was an hour. She went to the door and looked out. Chef Ecco was nowhere to be seen. Again she thought she should leave. It was getting late and she was tired. And yet, she returned to the room and stood around. The fear of offending Chef Ecco even more than she had and inviting his ire intimidated her. He was already clearly displeased with her and he could fire her. Then she would eat into her savings and her savings were for the cabin.

The notion of the cabin gave her strength and she ignored the pain pulsing in her lower back by going over recipes in her head. When she ran out of those she wanted to check the time again but didn’t, afraid to see how late it was. The room got dark. She didn’t know if she should turn on the gas lamp so she stood there in the dark for what felt like hours as the pain in her legs became unbearable. She felt shamefully weak and small, debating how she could allow herself to be treated like this and counter-debating that after all the waiting she had done, it would be foolish to leave now.

Saint Denis transformed outside the window as the arc lights in the streets flickered on. She started to fall into a dreamy state of mind where she hung in limbo, separate from everything. She thought about her childhood and all the orphanages she'd been through and the friends she had lost contact with one way or another and Sister Rodriguez and Sister DuBois and her ex flames, her ex bosses - the entire arc of her life that had started with her carried off the ship with only a tattered book and a photo pressed between the pages, cared for and fed by strangers to now: the chapter where she had somehow, some way managed to find her own family. Sometimes, when she was tense like she was now, she liked to construct imaginary moments in her head. Like introducing Arthur to her parents. Who - because she conveniently could 'remember' them however she wanted - were funny and mischivieous and warm. She imagined helping her mom in the kitchen but her mom would be the superior cook, teaching Savigne the best tricks while her dad opened the door and there was Arthur, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Scratch that, that didn't look right at all. Maybe a box of sweets? No, not right either. More like with a deer slung over his shoulder? God, that sounded absurd.

When she heard the door close behind her she jumped and broke out of her reverie. She looked over her shoulder and saw his silhouette standing by the door, a shadow against other shadows. He didn’t light the lamp and he didn’t move. There was a long silence.

He didn’t apologize, but simply said “Good.”

She turned back to stare at the window. “I need to go home,” she said finally, a tad irritated. “My boyfriend…”

“I want to talk about your future prospects,” was the smooth interjection.

She heard the rustle of clothes behind her and for a moment panicked, thinking he was undressing. She was terrified to look, and so she didn’t. Her heart was thumping in her chest. When he glided to stand right behind her she felt herself start to tremble.

“You’re a good cook Savigne,” was the sigh in her ear. “But that’s not enough. Good cooks are a dime a dozen.”

She cleared her throat but when she tried to speak, her voice was gone.

She flinched when she felt his hand on her upper left arm, light and ephemeral, crawling up to her neckline to casually tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t move!” he ordered when she tried to shift away and she froze with the low command. She hated the idea that he could feel her tremble.

“Do you like it here?” was the same mild question he had asked her the first time and it triggered something in her, as if she was a lab rat, conditioned for it.

Not anymore, she thought but what she said was “I’m learning a lot, Chef.”

He chuckled at her answer, fingers brushing over the shell of her ear as she resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“Have you learned that everything has a price?”

She wasn't sure how to answer this loaded question and for long moments just watched the dust motes lazily dance in the beam of light that was coming from the streetlamp.

“I need to go home,” she droned again finally, feeling short of breath. “My partner will be worried.”

She couldn't see his face as he stood behind her left shoulder but sensed the flare up of his anger. A huff of disappointment as he shifted to her right. She held very still as fingers spidered down her chest, lightly circled a breast. Suddenly a flash of the Murfree incident sparked in her mind and it was like a gut punch. These two men touching her against her will overlapped and for a moment a sense of dislocation and confusion washed over her and she wasn’t sure where she stood in space and time.

“When you’re here, be here,” he snarled and the feeling passed as the present solidified.

She felt his palm ghost down her breast and bile rose in her throat as her shuddering intensified. The slow, deep intake of a breath behind her right ear told her that he enjoyed her discomfort.

“I have an excellent job for you,” he muttered as he came around to stand before her. His hands, deceptively strong after years of kneading and scrunching and molding, held her waist, before they traveled up. His breath smelled of peppermint as he puffed in her face and she had a distant thought that she would hate the scent from here on throughout her life.

Then something very strange happened - Savigne felt herself fracture into two.

She stood there as he gently palmed her breasts, sensitive and swollen with her expected period, revolted at herself for letting it happen but too hypnotized to act.

But she was also outside the window, screaming mutely and beating on the glass to wake herself up.

His lips moved but she didn't hear him. What she heard was the smack of the palms on the window pane - tha thump, tha thump, tha thump - a deep, primal sound she heard whooshing and beating in her ears.

Only when the hands on her breasts clenched and a needle sharp pain jolted through her, did she manage to whimper and take in a shuddering breath and the cotton in her ears fell off. The world became louder, sharper, warmer.

“…good,” she caught the last bit of the sentence cooed softly in her ear.

She stood swaying on her feet, trying to gather her thoughts when he idly stepped around her and disappeared behind her back.

A match was struck and the light that flicked on in the room startled her and hurt her eyes.

Footsteps approached, then passed her as Ecco walked around his desk and sat in his chair.

He huffed at the paperwork piled on his desk and casually checked the folders, stacking them up in their proper order. She watched him, marveling how she had thought him handsome and charming. He looked slimy and dirty, beads of sweat lined up on his greasy mustache; hair caked stiff with pomade, littered with specks of dandruff.

“This job I have for you…” he sighed, distracted by the folder in his hand. “There is this ball coming up. I was invited to cook for it. And I’m going to pick a few people to come along…” His dark eyes turned up to her, dull and lifeless. “Interested?”

She felt incapable of speech but someone did it for her and she heard herself stupidly say “A ball?”

He nodded. “Extra money.”

She blinked at him. The speed with which he entered and left his moods intimidated and unbalanced her because she never knew what he would do a moment later, and she suspected that this was intentional. Very little with Chef Ecco, after all, was accidental. The precision and mastery of his meals, of his plating, of the set up of his menu - all things practiced and perfected through years of observation and mastery. This was no different to him than cooking she realized - something to be done with excellence and unsentimental perfection.

“Good money,” he pushed, taking her silence as hesitation.

Whoever was working her vocal cords, did it again:

“I never cooked for a ball before.”

He waved her argument away, all amicable smiles and easy banter. “Same thing. Easier if you ask me. Lots of cold hors d’ouvres and whatnot, so a lot of the cooking happens ahead of time. Lots of pastries. You’re good at those.”

“If you say so, chef,” she droned listlessly.

“I know you are,” he said warmly. “I actually have something particular in mind. Something…more traditional. Something a bit more Italian. Anyone can make a pie,” he said with mild disdain, “I want a desert that’s more unique.”

“Like what?” It was a surreal experience - hearing herself speak but not doing the talking. Like listening to her own voice on a gramophone but having no memory of the recording.

“How is your frutta martorana game?”

“I haven’t made that…in ages,” she heard herself concede.

“You’ll be great, I know it,” he waved her discomfort away. “You’re great at anything you set your mind to.” The warmth of his voice bolstered the idea that she was dreaming because surely this couldn't be the same man from minutes ago?

She felt her facial muscles strain as her mouth was pulled into a smile. “Where is this ball?”

“Mr. Bronte’s mansion.” The panes of her face moved and whatever expression that resulted in, made him ask “You know him?”

“I know of him.” She heard the tone of wariness in her own voice but he didn’t.

“Important man,” he said and she noticed his nod of approval. “Anyhow, I mean to surprise him with something from the motherland. What do you think?”

“I think it’ll hit the mark,” Savigne said and her voice sounded muffled to her ears, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Especially if he’s Sicilian.”

He smiled conspiratorially when he replied: “I think so too.”

Then a jolt of her inner voice: Refuse.

“I…” she cleared her throat, “I’m not sure if I’m the right choice for the job, chef.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said dismissively, thumbing through the folder again.

Don’t take this as payment for what he did.

“Why, what did he do?” she thought morosely and the memory of minutes ago flared up in her. She was alarmed by how efficiently and quickly she had managed to rugsweep it.

Refuse!

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

He blinked up at her.

“But what about the cabin?” she thought helplessly. “He said good money.”

Her inner voice was sharp like barbwire she had curled a fist on: REFUSE!

“I’m not a good fit,” she said with more determination.

His eyes hardened at her rejection and her breath caught in her throat. “Nonsense,” he said, giving her a weighed look, “You’re perfect. You will accept. I don’t do charity, you earned it.” He looked her a long moment, eyes boring into her, daring her to argue and to her own horror, proud as she imagined herself to be, she wilted under that stare like a child. Not that long ago she had believed Dutch to be intimidating, but when the moment came, she had easily stood up to, spoken back at Dutch. Ecco, not so much.

“Yes, chef,” she whispered at last.

He nodded curtly. “I stocked up marzipan. Practice until the ball. Now go.”

She dreamily marched out of the room on stiff legs and found herself in the street. Then she walked around for a while, her mind blank and dim, turning random corners, brushing against strangers. When she found a deserted alley she doubled over and threw up. One half was horrified to be vomiting in public like some drunkard, but the other half felt relieved as if she had thrown up all the dirt and ugliness and she was clean again. She stumbled away in shame and found a fountain and washed her mouth and her face. Then she walked some more and as she walked, like the focus of a pair of binoculars being adjusted until the image became crisp, her shattered halves glided over one another and solidified into one person again.

When she looked up, she was surprised that she was standing across the door of the steakhouse. She stood there for a long time, watching the door, unsure what to do.

Go home, said her inner voice eventually. It’s late.

She knew it to be true but still hesitated with indecision.

It was nothing. You're fine. Go home to your family.

The word mushroomed a deep feeling of warmth and safety in her gut and she turned around towards the stables to pick up Cricket.

Whenever she was late, he would sit by the main camp fire because it was right across the horses and today was no different. He jumped up and strode over when she rode in.

"Was 'bout to ride out for ya," he said when he arrived. "Yer late."

She turned around and hugged him tightly and he stiffened a little with surprise. Embracing him all the way out by their distant tent used to make him uncomfortable, now he merely tensed up here in full view of the gang and it made her inexplicably but also immeasurably happy.

"Woman, yer drunk again?"

"No," she chuckled into his chest.

He gripped her shoulders and held her out to look at her face. He must have smelled the droplets of vomit on her clothes. "Ya got sick?"

“Threw up,” she sighed. “Did a lot of tasting today. Something I ate must have been off.” If he heard her lie, he didn't push. Instead he pulled the saddle off Cricket as she fed him an apple. Then he took the basket from her and strolled alongside her to their tent.

She thought about telling him about the ball but she knew he wasn't going to like it and she didn't have the energy to fight him about it tonight. “How was your day?” she asked instead.

“Fine,” was his typical stoic retort.

"My back is hurting something fierce," she sighed, giving him a side eye. "A massage would be nice."

"That so?" he grinned.

"But someone has to clean me up first."

He hummed with amusement.

"Think you can help me with that?"

"I can try, ma'am."

The next day Chef Ecco was gone out of town and Savigne burst with so much joy at the news, she got into a work frenzy. It was as if she had twice the energy to spare as she chopped and whisked and shucked, food appearing in front of her like magic. One of the plates she prepared as a suggestion for the upcoming winter menu was so brilliant, the sous chef came over and inspected it from all angles and praised her until she turned red. She grinned self consciously, shy but proud and Sarah gave her a ‘well done’ smile from her station which boosted her spirits further.

Then she left Antoine’s and headed right to the market and shopped until her basket grew heavy. She saw a little dirty kitten in a corner and cried a little, then almost lost her head in a heated argument with the butcher, then went to pick up Cricket and found herself prattling to Jebediah about how to make remoulade, all the while ignoring the deep confusion and disinterest in his face.

That evening she cooked Arthur meatloaf and sat watching him eat with gusto after her own meal was done.

“Do you chew? Like, at all?” she said with a mixture of concern and disgust.

He grunted and nodded in confirmation, her sarcasm lost on him.

She sighed and watched the gang idle about, feeling antsy and restless and brimming. In her mind, she was gearing up to have a fight with him because she knew he wasn't going to like her cooking for Bronte and just then the universe decided to trip her:

“Bronte’s gonna have a ball in a few days.” he said around his food. “‘M tellin’ ya so you don’ spin tales in that head o’yours when ya see me all fancy.”

She blinked at him, stupefied. “W-what?” was all she managed a long while later.

He ran his tongue along his teeth and took a sip from his whiskey before he clarified: “‘M goin’ to some silly ball. Don’ want ya to think 'm meetin' a woman or some other nonsense cause I cleaned up.”

“First of all..." she said coolly "...I don't have a single jealous bone in my body." She ignored the dry side eye he gave her. "And second, I guess I'll see you there!"

"How d'ya mean?"

“I have been asked to cook for the ball," she gloated and sat back in her chair. He gave her a sharp look and swallowed his food. “What?” she said with unease when he remained quiet.

“Waitin’ for ya to say you refused.”

“What!? I can’t refuse.”

His eyebrows rose. “Said you was asked, didn’ ya?”

“It’s not that kind of asking,” was her annoyed answer. “I was politely told.” When he didn’t divert his gaze: “What now?”

“Aint’ a good idea.”

She huffed in disbelief. “You just told me you’re going yourself!”

He completely breezed over that point. “Ya don’ wanna mingle with these folks, Savigne.”

“Who’s mingling? I’m just going to be in the kitchen, cooking food.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yer excused,” he said around his food after he stuffed an enormous piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

There was a long silence as she watched him chew with disbelief. “You know, it’s sort of amazing, your hypocrisy.” She enjoyed his startled pause. “Are you seriously telling me you’re going but I can’t?” Her anger sizzled.

His eyes flicked at her. “This man took Jack.”

“You think I hit my head or something? I know he took Jack.”

He continued his dinner for a few moments. “Then ya know it ain’t safe.”

“How come you’re going, anyway?”

“Was invited. With Dutch and others.”

She blinked again and almost laughed because he had to be joking. When he ate on as if it was perfectly normal, she said “Are you serious?”

He did his ‘sure, why wouldn’t I be?’ shrug.

“The man who took Jack invited you guys to a ball?”

He hummed in affirmation. Still maddeningly eating. Her temper flared up properly.

“And you accepted?”

“Dutch wants to go,” he said, taking a sip from his whiskey. “Thinks we can…find something for us there.”

She gaped at him as he refilled his bowl.

First of all, that meatloaf was heavy and rich and a third bowl was obscene.

Second, and more importantly, he actually had the audacity to ask her not to attend while he himself was going to…what were the words he used… ‘mingle with these folks’.

A few moments later he did a double take at her face.

“Y’alright?”

“Actually no,” she sputtered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks.

“What’s the ma-”

“The matter is that you’ve been lecturing me on not getting mixed up with these people and you’re actually going to the damn ball!”

“Woman, I ain’t goin’ cause I wanna,” was his exasperated response.

“Same,” she quipped and crossed her arms.

“Ain’t the same.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth but she was faster:

“I tell you why,” she spoke over him. “You’re a damn hypocrite, that’s why!” she hissed. She hated how hot it was here. How stifling. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

He seemed surprised at the fervor of her reaction and slowly put down his fork.

“Now listen here…” He cleared his throat and took a moment to grab the napkin to wipe his beard.

“No! Who cares what your explanation is? You’re a hypocrite. You’ll say this and then you’ll turn around and say that!” She glared at the campfire. People still lighting fires in this heat was also obscene.

He looked at her a long moment. Eyed his meatloaf with longing and then looked at her again. She wanted to strangle him for that alone.

“I don’ like doin’ it,” he said, softer, with a timbre of appeasement as if she was a horse he was trying to calm down. It flared the fire in her hotter.

“Who said I was?! It’s my damn job!”

“Fair. But...”

“But what?” God she wished he would say something outrageous. That fork was tempting her to grab it and stick it in his hand.

He gave out a frustrated sigh and tried a different angle: “Savigne. Darlin’…”

“Oh this should be good.”

“…don’ wanna worry ‘bout ya when ‘m on a job.”

“Sounds like a you problem to me.”

“Sure,” he said patiently. “But yer my woman and-”

“Arthur Morgan,” she growled as she felt the pulse starting to beat behind her eyes, “Do you actually think that means you can tell me what to do?”

“Course not,” he scoffed. A moment later: “Kinda.” He sighed at the glare he gave her. “Yer safety is my job, ‘member?”

“This is not a treasure hunt,” she hissed. “Or living alone in a cabin. I’m going to a god damn ball as a cook.”

“This man as dangerous as them Murfrees,” he growled. “More!”

“I’m around a dangerous man all day every day!” she said with some heat.

There was a moment of silence. “The hell that mean?”

She quickly looked away.

“Savigne?”

“I was talking about the gang. I mean you. Technically.” she mumbled a while later.

He leaned back in his chair. “Was you now?” was his narrow eyed question. Given the circumstances, that save was nothing but spectacular and yet Arthur Morgan didn’t buy it. He sat there like a bloodhound who had caught a whiff and was about to put his nose down to track it.

“You know what,” she flustered and rose up. “You go on and eat your meatloaf.” She turned towards the trees.

“The hell ya goin’?”

“Going for a walk,” she yelled over her shoulder and ran off before he could sink his teeth into the problem and shake it out of her.

"God damn hypocrite," she seethed, stalking through the dark forest, working herself up. "The problem", she mumbled as she pushed branches out of the way and tripped on roots, "is men." The more she thought on it, the more apparent it seemed. At the root of all her problems: men. Infuriating, despicable, outrageous men. Mr. Rochester? Man. Murfrees? Men. Bronte? Man. Dutch? Man.

Ecco her mind whispered and she flinched at the thought, then quickly stuffed it away.

She fanned herself, feeling all hot and bothered. Her head swam and there was an odd pulse between her legs. She wished her period would finally come so she could be done with it. For weeks now she had been stuck on this ridiculous Ferris wheel, going round and round from angry to aroused to anxious to elevated.

"Men are the problem,” she muttered. “They’re not good for anything.”

An image flashed in her mind of Arthur thrusting into her, his eyes devouring her as the table under her creaked furiously.

She halted and cleared her throat. "Okay now," she mumbled, "pull yourself together, what the hell?

"The problem is men", she started again but then she remembered the feeling of his trigger finger inside her, brushing her sensitive spot and making her shiver.

She stopped, panting with confusion and a little horrified at the coiling in her gut.

"No, no, no, no," she hissed. "The problem is…"

The way he had moaned her name when she was on her knees, pleasuring him on his birthday.

She felt herself get wet and gasped with disbelief.

Suddenly she heard his running foot falls behind her.

"Savigne!"

She dived into the thicket, slowly so the bushes won't shiver and crawled around as carefully as she could.

"Ya gonna make me hunt you down?" he called, amused, and he already sounded closer. “Ain’t gonna take long, tell ya that.”

Silence. She stood stock still. The ego of this man, she thought, incensed.

"Last chance, Savigne," he drawled, closer still.

Even from here she could hear the grin in his voice and it did make the coil in her gut shiver. She listened to the crunching of his steps draw near and softened her breath. Moments later his boots appeared in her sights.

"So be it," he chuckled darkly.

He dropped down to his haunches, back turned to her and inspected the ground. This made her very uneasy and she almost jumped up to protest that it’s unfair. She hadn't taken tracks into consideration!

A moment later he rose up and walked off her field of vision. She took a silent breath of relief. She was about to move on but then thought that he was way too quiet. Maybe he was waiting for her to pop out? So she sat there, listening with utmost attention to the deep silence. Her hands closed on a thick stick and she carefully hefted it, rose just a little and threw it far to her right. The crunch of steps heading in that direction made her grin and she slowly slithered through the undergrowth in the opposite direction.

Idiot, she thought and shook her head. That was the thing about men, they always pranced around like they ruled the world but…She stopped in her tracks. Men did actually rule the world. Whatever, she thought, that’s not the point.

She emerged a while later and peeked up carefully to look behind her. Nothing. She smugly brushed her skirts and turned around with a grin on her face and almost screamed with surprise. He was standing right there, one shoulder pressed against the tree, arms crossed, hips angled away. She gawked at him then morosely turned to the direction she came from in disbelief, then turned back to him again.

“Ya know,” he drawled, eyes locking to hers, “that was kinda embarrassingly easy.”

“You cheated!” she yelped.

“That so?”

“Yeah, you tracked me! Doesn’t fucking count!”

He chuckled and bounced off the tree. “Next time,” he said lowly, “maybe don’ stomp so hard ya leave tracks.”

“You god damn…” she hissed as she marched towards him. The fact that he was utterly unfazed by her menacing approach irritated her to no end. “…smug…cocky…conceited…” He merely straightened to loom over her, rolling his shoulders, visibly amused by her fury. “…man!” she spat.

It was hard to say which one of them was more shocked when she found herself gripping the lapels of his shirt to pull him down and crushing her lips against his. He froze with surprise for a moment, then - always a man who never rebuked her advances - swung his arms around her and kissed her back just as aggressively, lips and tongue moving ferociously against hers.

“I’m going to that ball,” she hissed and grabbed his hair and jerked his head lower as she kissed him again. He grunted with the pain but followed her command, hands grasping her waist to crush her against him.

“The hell y’are,” he grunted as he walked her backwards and threw her against the tree.

She felt a shudder run through her from head to toe as her hands flew to his gun belt. “You don’t give a damn about what I want, do you?” she growled as she reached for his trousers next and almost yanked the buttons off in her haste to undo them while his hands hungrily clutched her breasts and his mouth descended on hers.

“Course I care,” he snarled but his breath hitched as she fell to her knees in front of him and immediately took him in her mouth. He flinched with surprise and couldn’t avoid the loud moan that escaped his lips. His cock stiffened in her mouth and she hummed with pleasure, gliding her lips up the shaft to take him deeper. One of his hands flew to the tree to support himself as a shiver went down his legs while the other tangled with her hair, undecided between drawing her closer and pushing her away. The decision was made for him when her nails raked the back of his thighs as she twirled her tongue around his swelling head and then proceeded to swallow him to the hilt while he moaned again and hissed a Christsakes above her. She moaned too, feeling the burn of the fire between her legs and the wetness soaking her bloomers.

She sucked harder, setting a ruthless pace as he squirmed above her and his moans grew louder than he usually allowed himself to be. “Christ!…woman…oh…jeeeesus…ah…Savigne…damn”. It was like music to her ears, especially the soft cry that he let loose every time the tip of her tongue touched under his swollen head. She felt besotted with lust, absolutely drenched in it, she felt like she could fuck him till morning and then some. Her head was swimming and her cunt was aflame. Arthur was writhing above her, stunned and reduced to a blabbering mess and she felt like she would come just by listening to the sounds he was making. The power she held over him at that moment was like fiery whiskey, going straight to her head.

She gasped with surprise and disappointment when he pushed her off and roughly grabbed her arm to pull her up. She was turned around and shoved against the tree. “Lies! You don’t fucking care,” she stammered as hands pulled up her skirt and ripped off her bloomers.

“Woman…” he growled into her ear as his fingers found her dripping folds. Her ass was pulled back harshly and she tried to steady herself, gripping the bark as he groaned and immediately pushed into her. She was so wet, he glided in smoothly despite his size. He gasped her name and swelled bigger in her with excitement.

“…would burn the world for ya,” he sighed in her ear, kissing her neck as he pulled out almost completely before the next sharp thrust that made her whimper.

This rendered her speechless for a moment and when she flustered and tried to come up with something witty, his hands pulled up her thighs, lifting her to the tip of her toes as he fucked the breath out of her lungs. She merely managed a raspy cry of ecstasy as he gently bit her neck and increased his pace. In the back of her mind there was a certain pride to have driven him this wild because even at his neediest, Arthur had never taken her rough like this. She bit into her lip to muffle herself and mewled with the pleasure, feeling every nerve in her body light up with fire. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better he angled her slightly, making her eyes roll back and her toes curl and a few more smacks later she was undone as her mind turned white with the force of her orgasm.

He whispered a curse as his motions became more vigorous and desperate and soon followed her, the pitch of his gasps rising as he emptied himself into her. Her eyelids fluttered and the sharp sensation of rapture spread through her before it slowly dulled like a forest fire that had run out of trees to burn. She listened to the drumming of her heartbeat in her ears, her head still swimming in ecstasy. He carefully lowered her back on her feet, then steadied her with a light grip on her hips as she almost toppled, her legs still shaking. His panting behind her was loud in the hushed forest.

A few moments later he asked her if she was okay and she gasped a ‘yes’ as her hands crawled up the tree to straighten herself. He pulled his trousers back up and buttoned them, still breathing hard before he turned her around to look at her face. His thumb glided over her lower lip that she had punctured with her bite and his eyes, still churning and stormy, locked on hers before he lowered his forehead on hers. His harsh exhalations plumed down her face as he pressed her against himself with his hand on her lower back.

“Savigne…” he managed between the puffs, “...ya possessed?”

“I think so,” she whispered, struggling to catch her breath, too. “Sorry.”

He scoffed, then kissed her temple. “Aint…complainin’…but…hate it when ya…run off.”

“Didn’t look…like you…hated it,” she wheezed.

He chuckled lowly and retrieved his gun belt from the ground with a grunt. She looked around, suddenly anxious if they had been far enough away from camp. The forest looked dark and empty. She couldn’t hear the camp either but that meant little as her pulse was beating in her ears. She wiped her hands over her face, moist from the humidity and the sweat and tried to push her hair back into shape. Then she gathered her torn bloomers, gave him a pointed look that earned her a shrug and a grin and stuffed them into the pocket of her skirt.

“You owe me…underwear.” she panted.

“Me?” he said, running his fingers through his wild hair. “This is all…on you.”

She groaned, now feeling abashed as she was coming down from that insane lust spike.

He chuckled at her state and took her hand, kissed her palm as he led her back. Their walk back was understandably a lot slower and calmer and went on for longer than she expected. They had managed to get pretty far with their furious chase so that was good at least. She beat her skirts to free any dust and debris. She saw the gated entrance of Shady Belle and wasn’t pleased that they had returned this way.

“You think they’ll know when they see us?”

He gave her a look. “I would.”

She groaned again, tried to tame her hair once more as he grinned wider at her discomfort.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t followed me,” she hissed, annoyed by his nonchalance.

“Course I followed,” he scoffed. “Ya ran like a wild beast. Sides…you know ya would have got lost.”

That much was true.

“Ya cookin’ somethin’ in the food or what?” he asked, the grin on his face broadening.

“Funny,” she said drily, then couldn’t help but click her tongue at his expression. He looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

He just smirked. His eyes were warm and she was somewhat taken aback to see unmistakable love in them. Of course by now, having gotten to know him as well as she did, she knew Arthur loved her. But he loved her in his own way – he never said it, nor did he show it in the usual ways people do. The expression of his affection for her was a lot more subtle, more reserved and complicated.

If she had been asked to explain it, she would have said that she knew he loved her because at times it felt supernatural how well he read her and it wasn’t hard to follow that he only read her as well as he did because he paid attention to her. Nobody paid this much attention to someone if they didn’t care enough about them.

But rarely did she see it in his gaze as obviously as she did at that moment. It set her heart aflame.

They were close to the camp now. She retrieved her hand and smacked him on the forearm. “Stop. Grinning. Like. A. Fool!” she hissed.

“Am a fool,” he shrugged, still grinning.

She clicked her tongue again in distaste and dared a glance at the gang as they turned to stroll towards their tent. They seemed to be occupied but you couldn’t trust this lot – they saw more than they let on and had way too much idle time on their hands to share the things between each other that they had missed.

He was sauntering as if he had returned from some gallant deed and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his silliness. When they arrived at the table, his third meatloaf bowl was empty.

She glanced at his face and the stupefied vexation she found there made her erupt in chortles. She clamped her hand over her mouth when he gave her a baleful glance but the chortles devolved into cackles behind her palm.

“Thought you was done with that,” John called from a distance.

“You a stray or somethin’?” Arthur barked. “Eatin’ other people’s food?”

Savigne felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes.

John just shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. “Came to look for ya…food was just sittin’ there.”

Arthur gave her another side eye as she stood there, laughing and dabbing the tears off her eyes with her sleeves. He grabbed the back of the chair and slammed it to the ground hard before he sat down to pull his whiskey in front of him.

“How come ya didn’ steal the whiskey too, ya mooch!” he yelled, his eyes hard on John.

“I got whiskey,” John said dismissively.

“Unbelievable!” Arthur hissed.

“Was getting’ cold and all,” John tried and was cut off by Arthur’s sharp gaze. “You was gone,” he tried again, flustered.

“I like it cold, why I left it ya fool!” Savigne had just gained control over her cackling and almost broke into laughter again at that blatant lie.

“Sorry Savigne,” the other man called over. “It was delicious.”

She nodded in acceptance of the compliment as Arthur’s withering gaze made him finally scurry away.

She fell into her chair, exhausted from bickering and running and fucking and laughing and this time it was him who clicked his tongue at her amusement.

“This here your fault,” he said, annoyed.

“What!? Why?”

“Yer feedin’ these sponges and now we can’t leave food out no more. Too many god damn coons about.”

She chuckled at that. “All I did was give them an extra pizza pie. Also, stop crying - that was your third bowl. I’ll make you more tomorrow,” she said, wiping the remnant of tears off her face.

He grumbled something incomprehensible as she sank on the other chair. In the distance, Javier strummed his guitar.

“I’m still going,” she said a while later.

“Guess ‘m gonna have to keep an eye on ya,” he huffed. Then: “I want lazan ya.”

She grinned at the way he said it. “Okay.”

He seemed mollified as he drank his whiskey and she sat with him, placed a hand on his and watched the Moon rise.

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