#rdr1 oc

[rosesvineyard]

shitpost while im working on comms 😈

[herobbrine666]

[elyselovesjackmarstonn]

Happy birthday Jack !!!

Modern AU!

Left baby is Annie, right is Edward !

[jackmarstonn]

[rose21212]

[salohmarston]

NATURAL INSTINCT; RDR AU

SUMMARY; After years of living on the road as an outlaw, Jack is hunted down by a young man with a dangerously familiar name. Fermin Escuella. Fermin is a boy born from the dying embers of the Van der Linde gang, just as Jack was. He grows up on stories about a father he barely remembers, but he also grows up watching his mother slowly break under grief and isolation. By the time he’s an adult, he’s seeking out the son of his father's capturer, because revenge is the only inheritance he thinks Javier had left him. The twist is that Jack Marston, the man he’s supposed to kill, becomes the first person who truly understands him.

Rain had pursued us since late afternoon and at dusk finally overtook us entirely.

By nightfall the world had become mud, black trees, and cold silver water sliding endlessly from the heavens. We took shelter in the ruins of an abandoned cattle station some miles west of Armadillo - a miserable place of rotted beams and a half-collapsed roof through which the storm peered down at us like the eye of God Himself.

Fermin built the fire. He always built the fire.

There existed in him a peculiar aptitude for survival, as though hardship arranged itself politely around his hands. Even drenched to the skin and shivering faintly from the cold, he moved with aggravating competence while I struggled to coax feeling back into my fingers.

“You are staring.” he remarked without glancing at me.

“No I ain't.”

“Of course.”

I should mention here that by this point in our acquaintance, hostility between us had become so ordinary an affair that periods of peace felt almost suspicious. We possessed the sort of friendship which from a distance appeared perilously close to hatred, and perhaps sometimes was. Yet there are affections too unruly to emerge gently into the world. They come instead clothed as argument, cruelty, wounded pride, and violence. The storm intensified outside.

Rain battered the old structure with shocking determination while the fire painted Fermin in flickering gold and shadow. He had removed his coat to dry it near the flames, and his shirtsleeves remained rolled carelessly to the elbows. A bruise darkened one side of his jaw from some tavern disagreement several nights earlier.

I found myself staring at him again despite every effort not to. Perhaps in contempt this time, I'm not sure. That was becoming a problem. Fermin noticed eventually. He always noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look irritated.”

“I am irritated.”

“At me?”

“Frequently.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth then. It wasn't smug precisely, but dangerously near it.

“You should rest, Jack.”

There existed moments when his concern offended me more deeply than outright mockery. I snapped the book shut in my lap with unnecessary force.

“You are not my nursemaid.”

“No,” he answered calmly. “You are far too unpleasant for me to want to be.”

Ordinarily such exchanges amused me. That evening, however, something restless and ugly had lodged itself beneath my ribs long before the storm arrived. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps jealousy. Perhaps merely the old familiar terror of wanting another human being too much. Whatever its source, it turned venomous quickly.

“You ever stop talkin’?” I muttered.

His dark eyes lifted toward mine across the fire.

“You ever stop brooding?”

“There you are.”

“There who is?”

“The man who enjoys hearin’ himself.”

Fermin blinked once slow. Then,

“You are in one of your moods.”

How I hated him then. Or believed I did. Because he spoke the truth too plainly. Because he looked at me too directly. Because somewhere over the long cruel course of our friendship he had learned precisely where my temper lived and how easily it might be dragged into daylight.

“I'm tired of your voice,” I said.

That finally sharpened his expression slightly.

“Well, that seems difficult considering you keep following me around.”

I laughed once without humor.

“You think highly of yourself.”

“No,” he replied softly. “I think poorly of you.”

The words landed harder than intended. Silence followed. Rain hammered the roof. The fire cracked softly between us.

And there arose within me then a sudden violent urge - not merely to strike him, but to destroy something beautiful before it could abandon me of its own accord. I stood abruptly. Fermin watched carefully now.

“Jack.”

“What?”

“You are angry.”

“How observant.”

“At what?”

I wish I could say I answered nobly. Instead, I crossed the room and hit him, a clumsy desperate swing born more from feeling than intent.

Fermin staggered sideways from the impact with a curse, more startled than injured. The chair behind him crashed violently against the wall. For one suspended instant we simply stared at one another. Then he struck me back.

There existed in Fermin an honesty to violence I had never encountered elsewhere. He fought neither cleanly nor cruelly but emotionally, as though every blow emerged directly from the heart before passing through the fist. We crashed together into the old table hard enough to splinter wood beneath us.

“Jesus Christ, Jack-”

“Shut up!”

“You hit like a lady!”

“I will kill you.”

“No you won’t.”

The certainty of that enraged me further. I drove him backward again. We stumbled against the wall, boots slipping in mud tracked across the floorboards while rain thundered all around us like artillery fire.

And still- still- beneath all the anger ran something far worse. Want. God help me, want.

I remember gripping the front of his shirt.

Remember his breathing rough against my face. Remember the firelight catching gold in his eyes while both of us stood there bruised and furious and trembling with adrenaline.

“You are insane,” he whispered.

“Probably.”

“You could try talkin’ like a normal person once in your life.”

“I despise normal.”

At this he laughed unexpectedly. The sound startled us both. Breathless and disbelieving. I hated him for that too - for possessing the ability to disarm my rage simply by sounding alive.

“Jack,” he said again quietly.

And there was something in his voice then which frightened me more than fighting ever had. Gentleness. I shoved him away from me immediately.

Fermin hit the wall hard enough to grunt softly from the impact, but he did not advance again afterward. He merely stood there breathing heavily, curls fallen loose across his forehead, one sleeve half torn at the shoulder from our struggle. His blood stained cheek blended in nicely against his warm-toned flesh.

Outside the storm continued raging. Inside, the silence became unbearable. Finally he muttered:

“You done?” I wiped blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

“…For now.”

“That is reassuring.”

Neither of us moved for a long while after that. The fire burned lower. Rain softened gradually against the roof.

Then eventually Fermin crossed the room, retrieved the fallen coffee tin from beside the hearth, and poured two cups as though we had not just attempted bodily harm upon one another moments earlier. He handed me one silently and I accepted it.

Such was the nature of us.

Posting about my RDR OC...scary... lmao. Not sure what else to say about this little drabble, but if anyone is particularly interested about Fermin, I'd be willing to post more about him!!

[sillyofzaun]

Finally finished these! I'm hoping to get a few more done soon. This was so fun <3

Mateo belongs to alejandro_agripino on TT

Sullivan belongs to blackwaltz_ on TT

Awinita belongs to @tuesdrian

Hugo is mine :]

[epefanio]

I’m bad at math literally don’t ask me if the timeline makes sense I will kill myself

Micah Joel Bell

⁃ goes by his middle name of Joel instead of Micah.

⁃ Grandson of Amos Bell NOT Micah Bell III. Amos had three daughters and no sons but it would make sense at least one of the daughters would name their son following the family tradition of the first born son getting the name Micah.

⁃ Technically not Micah Bell IV as names need to be exact to be counted as a Jr. So the addition of the middle name Joel breaks that line.

⁃ Follows the naming conventions of the Bell family being named off the Twelve Minor Prophets of the Hebrew Bible. The Book of Joel coming between the Book of Hosea and the Book of Amos.

Joel 1:3

❝ Tell ye your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation. ❞

⁃ From San Francisco but took root in Saint Denis when he started his research into his granduncle.

⁃ Aspiring pamphlet writer which is why he started his search for true information about Micah Bell III. The sales of outlaw stories written by a blood relative of one of the most proficient outlaws since Van Der Linde would be through the roof.

⁃ Joel quickly catches on that his uncle was hardly the badass gentleman outlaw of the stories and was instead a racist killer who ratted out his own gang. In a last ditch effort to get something to write about he set off to Breecher’s Hope to get an interview with former outlaw John Marston.

⁃ He learns of John’s death from Jack after prying and lying about who he is. Joel then started following Jack around and taking notes of his deeds deciding he would write a tale of Jack Marston instead.

⁃ Joel is a city boy born and raised so for once Jack knows what John went through trying to teach him fishing and hunting instead of just reading books.