An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 6/?
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Characters: Arthur Morgan, Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Karen Jones (Red Dead Redemption), Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Mary-Beth Gaskill, Tilly Jackson
Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Arthur Morgan Lives, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Hair-pulling, Spanking, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Creampie, Cowgirl Position, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering
Summary:
Nearly ten years ago, you and Arthur Morgan couldn't stand each other.
So why is it now that you're sitting on the porch of your shared home with your hand on your swollen belly as he plays with your other children in your front yard?
While visiting your friend, you accidentally manage to go back in time and find yourself stranded on a mountain with a group of outlaws. As you make your name known in the history books for your friend to find you, you try to navigate through the sudden change in your life, all the new dangers and your blooming feelings for a certain outlaw.
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Word count: 5.8k
Tags: spoilers for rdr2, graphic depiction of violence, fem!reader, modern!reader, low honor Arthur to high honor, slow burn, time travel, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, angst, sexual harassment, smoking, drinking, period-typical sexism, canon-typical violence, Arthur has no TB
New life has been breathed into Shady Belle. Where people had been previously moping about, nursing hangovers and grieve isolated and scattered across the moldy nooks of the place, it is now buzzing with activity. The air is electrified and the Van Der Linde spirit is as high as it was back in Horseshoe and after the successful hit on the Cornwall train.
Losses have been stacking up high lately, accompanied by botched robberies and one failure after another. Hosea has drummed up everybody, organizing as many hands on deck as he possibly could. The Lemoyne National Bank is a huge target, larger than anything you’ve seen the gang aim for before and thus, it requires man- and gunpower.
The rifles that Lenny and Arthur got from robbing this place when it was still being occupied by the Lemoyne Raiders are being tossed around from one pair of hands to another until everyone is armed to their very teeth. Men are donning their finest suits, fitting for that corner of the city, meanwhile Abigail and you are holed up in her room upstairs to slip into your respective disguises.
Hosea asked the two of you to join him when he goes to light the explosives. Abigail is going to enter the warehouse with him while you’re the look-out. Adrenaline tingles at you nerve endings and you’re unable to stand still even for a second. She hisses a reprimand your way when your body refuses to still, so that she can close the buttons on the back of your dress.
It’s the same one you wore back when you robbed the bank in Valentine. Wearing it now feels vastly different, less stifling and more so like a second skin. A belt is strapped tightly around your waist that you’re going to tuck your Cattleman in and hide it under a light coat. Sporting your thick gun belt with its big and heavy holster might draw attention otherwise.
“Will ya stand still already?”, she scolds in the same exasperated tone that she reserves for Jack when he talks about wanting to become a famous gunslinger one day.
“I’m trying.”, you whine and you truly are.
But it’s like you’ve sat down on an ant hill and now hundreds of these tiny creatures are crawling around your body and up your ass. At least you won’t have to struggle with that wretched corset this time. There’s no need to adhere to any beauty standards in the factory district and no reason to shine amongst coal dust.
If anything, then you’re going to stand out with your clean clothes and clear skin, free of any filth and dirt.
“About time that we go out together, huh?”, you say, breaking the silence, because you’re feeling as if you’re going to burst otherwise.
Abigails snickers and pats the fabric on your back when she finally closes up the last button. It’s a great relief for the both of you and you immediately straighten up a little, relaxing over the fact that you can resume your squirming.
“Just don’t go thinkin’ this is going to be a regular thing now.”, she drawls with amusement lacing her words.
“Of course not.”
And you won’t expect her to. It’s evident in the twinkle in her blue eyes and the waves of excitement wafting off her that she’s thrilled to taste some action, but she dislikes the idea of risking her neck too much and too often. For if something would happen to her, nobody would watch over Jack the same way she does.
And it doesn’t matter whether John finally got his act together or not. You’ve seen him interact with the kid after his abductions and how haplessly he stumbles through each attempt to rekindle the lost years. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Would you still call him a responsible father? No way.
Abigail is a constant pillar of strength, refusing to crack under any pressure that would have most crumble in an instant. Hell, you’re quite certain that you’re one of these people even. There is simply no way that your nerves come anywhere close to hers. Where she is steel, you feel more like jelly and where her patience runs deep as a river, yours resembles more a rain puddle on the side of a road.
God knows that you would have thrown hands with John a long, long time ago.
“Are you nervous?”, she asks as she ties her hair up into a neat bun.
You quite like the way her black strands cascade down her back, but she isn’t fond of leaving them open.
“Always, but not as much as I used to be. I trust Hosea with this.”, you admit.
Picking up your revolver, you flick your wrist for the wheel to flip out and you count the bullets. You haven’t really used the gun at all these past few days, but the intense urge to check if it’s loaded doesn’t fade. It’s like whenever you used to go on a trip and you’d zip open your bag to make sure that your passport is there and hasn’t mysteriously vanished into thin air.
You checked it five seconds ago, people would say, but a lot can happen in five seconds!
“And I guess we don’t really have that much to do.”, she agrees and fixes her collar in the mirror. “Not as much as Dutch and the others anyway.”
That is true. Your job is going to be a walk in the park in comparison. Just a quick slip into the warehouse, a curt light of a match and then you’re out again. Like ghosts.
“Exactly.”, you murmur.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”, she suddenly says, instantly grabbing your attention.
Anxiety never fails to churn in your stomach whenever someone wants to talk to you about something, especially when their expressions is as serious as Abigail’s is right now. Daunting.
“Yeah, what is it?”, you respond and try to sound casual.
It’s a miracle that your voice doesn’t break while you speak, but it seems like you’re more in control of your own body than you believed yourself to be.
“So, it’s been a while since we last talked about you and Arthur.”
That’s true. Last you remember having spoken to her about him was back in Clemens Point, right after his abduction. The memory is carved into your mind as if it only happened last week or so. You recall the way the wind had caressed your cheeks and the smell of smoke from the nearby fireplace. Back then, you had opened yourself up to her, voicing your growing feelings for the outlaw for the very first time.
Swallowing a lump in your throat, you marvel over the fact that you managed to stay quiet about that topic for so long. Now that she opened up that can of worms, you feel like exploding again. All you want to do is either close the lid as quickly as possible or let it all out at once. Something about the sudden confrontation tells you it’s going to be the latter of the two.
“I just want to let you know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Something clearly happened between you two.”, she continues and you run a hand over your face, careful not to smudge the subtle brushstrokes of make-up that you worked so hard on earlier.
“You have to be a bit more specific, Abigail. A lot has happened between us.”, you point out and huff out a bitter laugh.
Her shoulders slump down and recognition flashes behind her eyes. Is it possible that your situation reminds her of her and John? Oh, you must be in some deep shit then.
“I know that you two fight a lot.”
Theatrically, you clutch the non-existent pearls around your neck. It reminds you of the beautiful necklace that you wore to the ferry and that is now lying at the bottom of the Grand Korrigan. The memory sends an ice-cold shiver down your spine, properly rattling every piece of vertebrae on its way.
“What? And here I thought we were hiding it so well.”, you gasp, sarcasm oozing from your voice.
Her lips are pressed into a thin line as she stares at you, sizing you up. No doubt she’s trying to find a hint that might reveal your true emotions that are bubbling behind the façade that you oh so meticulously built up.
“Do you still have feelings for him?”, she asks, completely ignoring your poor attempt at a joke and directly cutting to the chase.
That’s something you cherish about her. Nothing is minced with Abigail Roberts. Her and Sadie are alike in that aspect.
“I don’t want to talk about my feelings for him.”, you spit and immediately reel back. “Sorry.”
She doesn’t deserve your anger.
“I understand what you’re going through. Trust me with that.”
“Oh, I trust you entirely. Don’t you worry about that.”, you huff out and chuckle. “Sometimes I feel like you, Molly and I should start a therapy group.”
And you’d call it something along the lines of: The wreckage of the Van Der Linde men.
“Is it really that bad between you and Arthur?”, she asks, somehow surprised by your situation.
Well, what on earth did she expect? Arthur may be older than her John, but wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age.
“What does it look like? He refuses to let me in and I honestly don’t know if I want him to. Just the other night, we ran into one of his…victims. You know, those poor people that Herr Strauss keeps ripping off? Yes, well, Arthur beat her sick husband to death and now she’s selling her body on the streets.”
The words don’t seem to stop. They blurt out of you in an endless stream like an old pipe that has finally cracked under pressure and is now spewing water all over the place.
“Now you tell me, Abigail. Is that a man I should be in love with?”, you end your tirade of fury, growing increasingly more frustrated with yourself over falling for Arthur.
Recalling Mary, you wonder if she felt anything similar when she came to that conclusion as well or if she was somehow able to remain blissfully ignorant of it all. Something tells you that she was bothered by it, given how it ended between the two of them. Then again, you don’t think she ever returned the engagement ring.
And the lingering fondness for the outlaw is as clear as day. You could see it in the looks she threw his way and how her voice would soften whenever she spoke of him. It still haunts her, you can tell. Like a goddamn curse, this man, or more so a pest. You can’t quite decide.
“There are many things we shouldn’t be feeling or doing, but we can’t control what the heart wants. I know that better than anyone.”, she speaks. Calmly. “But things can get better. There’s always a chance.”
“And what did it take for John to get better?”, you ask and instantly regret it the moment the words leave your lips.
It’s a low blow that sends waves of shame searing through your veins. Abigail flinches for a brief moment, but thankfully she isn’t angry at your callousness. On the contrary, your jab seems to sober her up.
“It takes a lot for some folks to see clearly. Especially for men like John or Arthur. I ain’t saying that they’re good men, but they’re not incapable of change either.”, she argues without a hint of indignation towards you.
You expected her to hold your tactless comment against you, like you might have done, yet she shows nothing but empathy. Proof of her admirable patience as you mentioned earlier.
“I’m so sorry for what I said earlier-“, you start, but she cuts you off.
“No, don’t be. You were right in a way and I know I’m a fool for wanting what I want, but it doesn’t make it less real. Your own feelings aren’t less real just because you disagree with them.”
“Shit, Abigail.”, you breathe out.
A whirlwind of strange emotions rampages behind your ribcage, reaching from relief to have this off your chest to reluctance to fully face your feelings. She’s right with every single thing she said, yet a very small, very stubborn part of your soul simply refuses to give in. It desperately clings to your last remaining shred of false dignity.
It feels like a betrayal to embrace your love for the man who leaves nothing but destruction in his path. He didn’t blink when he collected the debt, nor did he blink when he shot up both Valentine and Rhodes to all hell. What exactly it is that draws you so much to him, is still a mystery, considering that you had no ounce of sympathy for him when you first met.
He had been nothing but an unmovable force that prevented you from escape back in Colter and a raging storm in Horseshoe that seemed almost adamant on countering you at every given opportunity. When have you started painting him in a brighter light? When his praises shone down on you like the sun after you helped getting Sean back?
Was it when his fingers were wrapped around your ankle and his care at seeped into your bones? Or perhaps was it after he went out of his way to reign your panic attack during the bank robbery in Valentine? It dawns on you that it wasn’t one singular experience or moment with the outlaw, but a slow and creeping process.
Every gentle touch, softening of his hard eyes and intimate moment had gradually contributed, including each stroke of your ire, every firm grip, every nasty drawl. You love it when he handles you with care just as much as you love it when he bares his teeth. You want him soft as much as you want him rough.
Suddenly, a knock rips you out of your thoughts and you whip around on your heels.
“Are you ladies decent?”, a raspy voice penetrates the closed door.
After Abigail utters a confirmation, John’s head peeks through the slim crack as he opens the door. His eyes flicker briefly over you before they halt on the other woman entirely. The gleam in his eyes tightens your throat and for a short moment, you wonder if you maybe put on the corset after all and forgot about it.
“Hosea sent me. We’re all ready to go.”, he says and you nod.
“We’ll be down in a second.”, Abigail answers and the man vanishes as quickly as he had arrived.
Glancing back at her over your shoulder, you notice that she’s beaming all over her face. It’s a glow similar to John’s and a hole yawns in the pit of your stomach. An unknown force tugs at your strings and it takes a while for you to identify the sinking sensation as envy. You crave to be looked at the same way as John had looked at Abigail.
Hooking her arm into yours, she rips you out of your thoughts and your body jerks awake, instantly washing away the shadows.
“Let’s go then.”, she says with a wide smile and you somehow find it within yourself to return it.
Wagons and horses are standing at the ready in front of the manor and Hosea waves at the two of you from the far front. Abigail lets go of you and subtly nods to your right.
“How about you talk to him before we leave?”, she suggests and before you can think of a smart reply, she struts off already.
Following to where she pointed at before, you spot Arthur only a couple feet away. He’s sporting the same suit he wore on the ferry, triggering a chain of images to flash before your inner eye. You feel his body beneath you as if you’re sprawled out over his lap this very moment. You remember the hardness of his muscles and his heat rolling into you.
Inhaling, you can still smell the cologne he wore that evening. Tilting your head, you wonder how the suit didn’t end up ruined by the river, but then again, he didn’t have to rip the clothes off him like you had to. Or rather, like he had to rip them off you. You catch yourself disappointed at the fact that it didn’t happen under happier circumstances where you didn’t fear for your life and swallowed gallons of filthy city water.
As if he’s sensing your gaze on him, his head turns in your direction and his eyes find yours. That single interaction is enough to scrub your nerves raw and your legs are itching with the urge to flee. Both of you remain rooted in place as if invisible chains are holding you down and keeping either of you from making the first step.
Shit.
Finally, Arthur stirs and makes his way to you in long, deliberate strides. The holster on his side droops low and your eyes follow the tilt, catching the way the fabric of his pants stretches over his thighs. As much as Josiah tried to find him a fitting match, you doubt that there are many clothes out there to fit his size.
Looking up, you note the way he keeps his head dipped and it confuses you for a brief moment until you notice how his hat is lacking. Right now, the rim would have covered a good portion of his face and you figure that this must be a reflex for him by now. He says your name as a greeting and you can’t lie: the way each syllable rolls of his tongue, leaves you wanting to hear more of it.
“Arthur.”, you clip.
A few seconds of awkward silence pass by and you shift your weight from one foot onto another. Fortunately, you decided to make some changes on your footwear as well and leaving the heels like the corset. It will be much easier to run now should it come so far, which you doubt. Hosea has worked day and night on this plan, refining every detail. It’s positively fool proof.
“Heard you’ll be security.”, Arthur murmurs and you blink at him.
Pushing your coat aside, you reveal the revolver tucked into the leather of your belt. The hard metal pokes into your side and its presence relaxes you. His eyes follow your movement and you watch them trace the delicate engravings.
“Yup.”, you say. “You know, Hosea wants to get it right.”
“Of course.”, he muses and huffs out a sincere laugh.
Nodding towards the wagon at the far front, he falls into a slow walk. Realizing that he wants to accompany you, you follow silently next to him. Your short back and forth banter has eased the tension a bit, but it’s still crackling between you like sparks hungry to light a fuse.
“Are you nervous?”, you ask after some heartbeats.
“Me? Nah, this’ll be child’s play.”
You’re not sure whether he’s putting on a tough face or if he’s genuinely calm about this. You, on the other hand, could throw up your heart with how desperately it’s trying to leap out through your throat the more you think about it. It will be a first to go out on a job without Arthur to back you up. All calmness that you felt when getting ready with Abigail has left you.
“Even without me to make sure you’re not getting into trouble?”, you ask and cock a brow.
He catches your glance with a curl of his lips.
“How do you think I survived all these years before you joined us?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.”
The two of you arrive at the wagon way sooner than you would have liked. Hosea and Abigail are already sitting in the front seat and you’re supposed to climb onto the back, hiding behind the beige canvas. There are some more dynamite sticks stored in there, in case some at the warehouse need to be replaced.
They will check the explosives before setting them off and you’re to guard the wagon aside from making sure that nobody is sticking their nose into your business. Arthur extends a hand out to you and instinctively, you accept it. Your palm is clammy from the humid swamp air and you pray that he either doesn’t notice or mind.
He helps you onto the back, but doesn’t let go right away. No, his hand remains in yours and you fight the urge to let your thumb trail over his scarred and calloused knuckles. The contact is loaded with unspoken words, just like the air surrounding you. When you meet his gaze, you almost choke on the intensity of it.
“Remember what I told you yesterday.”, he says. A statement and not a question. “Be careful.”
“You too.” That’s about all you manage to muster up.
Suddenly, he pulls away from your grasp and taking the warmth and comfort with him. You would have loved nothing more than to reach out and grab it again, holding it close to your chest to prevent him from slipping through your fingers a second time. Somehow you refrain yourself from doing just that.
Before he can turn around and march back to his horse, you quickly call out for him. He stops dead in his tracks and glances over his shoulder at you.
“Yes?”, he asks and your throat dries up.
All words die on your tongue and you’re rendered speechless. How have you not thought this far ahead? What did you even want to say?
I love you, please let’s give this a chance.
Instead, you settle with something else. A bit more pathetic. “Happy robbing.”
His face drops and bewilderment creeps into his features.
“Happy robbin’”, he simply repeats, slightly deflated and you watch him walk away.
Your hand inches towards your gun with the urge to put yourself out of this embarrassing misery and shoot yourself in the head. Closing the flaps shut, you hide away from the shame and simmer under the thick canvas. The sun beats down on it, heating up the space to a nigh unbearable temperature and you wonder how the dynamite sticks haven’t blown up yet.
---
Finally, the wagon comes to a complete stop and you quickly scramble to climb out of this sauna. Once you push your way through the flaps, you greedily gasp for air and wipe the many pearls of sweat from your face. You’re positively drenched and can bid farewell to the make-up that you put on earlier this morning.
“Abigail and I are going to head over to the warehouse now. You, stay put until we come back.”, Hosea tells you and you give him a curt nod.
They parked the wagon in an empty back alley, away and shielded from curious passersby. As you watch them disappear around the corner, you lean against the wagon and let your eyes wander over your surroundings. Puddles of something you’d rather not name are pooling in some of the pot holes and grime stretches across the brick walls.
There’s dripping to be heard somewhere in the background and you part your lips to breathe through your mouth. A sour smell has attached itself to the walls of your nostrils, but now you can detect a faint taste on your tongue as well. Wrinkling your nose, you close your mouth shut, admitting defeat.
Pushing one of the flaps aside with your finger, you peek inside at the crates filled with red sticks. You should probably feel a bit uneasy standing so close to that many explosives, but you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as them for too long now to actually care. It’s fascinating (and slightly concerning) how numb you’ve grown to a lot of things.
You recall how your stomach had turned upside down at the sight of some of the men’s unwashed union suits. They still leave you with a sense of nausea, but Miss Grimshaw made you wash off so much unspeakable filth that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Unless an intoxicated Reverend Swanson flashes everyone by the campfire again.
The sound of hasty footsteps rips you out of your thoughts and you raise both eyebrows when you spot Hosea and Abigail re-appear. Has it really been that long already? Some days, your hand still twitches towards your pockets as a reflex to grab your phone, but it has been happening less lately.
You’ve become incredibly adept at waiting with no sort of entertainment to make time pass by faster. Who could have thought that you’d be able to rid yourself of the addiction of doomscrolling for hours on end? Not you, but alas! Here you are now, content with staring at dirty specks on a wall and assigning them names and backstories.
“All good?”, you ask them as soon as they’re within earshot.
“Yes, I just got to set up the detonator.”, Hosea answers and a great weight lifts from your shoulders.
With how flawless it’s been going so far, you wouldn’t be too surprised to later hear that the men were able to simply waltz into the bank and get the money handed on a silver platter. Nobody has glanced your way yet and the humidity of the run-down warehouse hasn’t damaged the dynamite either.
“I’ll keep a look-out on the street then.”, you inform them.
“Try to not run into any trouble. I know how much of a professional you and Arthur are at that.”, Hosea calls out over his shoulder and you roll your eyes.
As long as there is no large river that you have to swim in while having several, elaborate skirts dragging you down, you will be doing just fine. Skipping over the many puddles, you make your way to the end of the alley and let your gaze sweep over the street. It’s currently working hours, so it’s not too busy yet.
Most people are in the neighboring factories and the ones that are outside don’t spare you a single glance. Everyone is engrossed in their own day-to-day life right now, either hurrying to their shift or to some other important appointment. Besides, who would want to cut into this alley that reeks of piss and shit?
Standing out here, right next to the main road, your lungs are sighing in relief and so is your nose. Though the stench has imprinted itself into the walls of your nostrils and you can still taste something sour on the back of your tongue. Running it over your dry lips, a sudden flash of red flickers in the corner of your eyes.
When you turn your head in that direction, you see nothing but an empty sidewalk. It’s swept of all life. Nobody is walking along it and so, you shrug it off, but as you shift your attention back to the street in front of you, you notice how quiet it has gotten. More so than before. You hear muffled thumping noises and buzzing of the machines inside the other buildings, but no drumming of feet or hooves.
Gone are the voices that mixed up into one jumbled stream of sound as it does so often when a lot of people at the same place have different conversations with one another. It all bleeds into a ball of incomprehensible noise. A strange sensation swells in your gut, accompanied by a sneaking suspicion that something is extremely wrong.
It reminds you of a forest that quiets down instantaneously and a deeply buried instinct kicking it. Like how animals flee moments before disaster strikes. As you struggle to come to terms with that looming, invisible threat of danger, your hand reaches to your holster. Before your fingers can even graze over the handle, something cold is pressed against your temple.
Not daring to turn your head, already knowing that it’s a gun, you freeze mid-motion. Your heart leaps up into your throat that is closing up almost entirely. If it wasn’t for Sheriff Leigh Gray and his armada of cousins that held you at gunpoint that one time, you maybe would have wondered which idiot is pressing an iron bar against the side of your face. Now you’re all to familiar with the shape.
“Hands in the air. Slowly.”, the man who’s holding the weapon hisses.
He keeps his voice low and you figure it’s to avoid alerting Abigail and Hosea in that alley. Gritting your teeth, you do exactly as he says, because who would want to end up with a bullet in their head on such a fine day? The helplessness from feeling this powerless is sickening. You might as well have waltzed into the police station and let yourself into one of the cells.
Fingers itching to do something, anything, you repeatedly clench your hands into fists. Your nails dig painfully into the calloused skin of your palms, sobering you right up. Mind clouded with fury, you figure that you should keep yourself grounded somehow. Having watched Arthur handle situations like this, you started feeling icarian.
In a way, your head may or may not have convinced itself that you would be able to mimic his strength and skill, solely from seeing it so often. You recall what happened in that O’Driscoll camp back when he got abducted by them and how you handled that whole mess. It had lacked all the competence of a seasoned outlaw and you’re still far from one.
By the time you shove the barrel on your temple away, someone else could gun you down. They’re all making it a point to stay out of your sight to mask their numbers. The sound of footsteps is the only indicator that there’s more than just this one bastard. Their shoes land on the cobblestones with quiet thuds, like war drums in the far distance announcing doom.
More red appears on the edges of your vision, making it look like an entire army is pouring onto the street from all sides. Ice cold sweat breaks out on your forehead, rolling down the sides of your face and hair line. The man hasn’t spoken again after ordering you to raise your hands and by now it feels like an eternity has passed.
You note their whispers and hushed voices from somewhere you can’t see as if they’re some kind of ghosts or phantoms summoned to haunt you. Abigail and Hosea are right there, just a few feet away and most likely oblivious to the creeping danger. Closing your eyes shut, you contemplate your options here.
You never thought that you would find yourself at this crossroad of looking either after yourself or these outlaws. You’ve always tended to measure your life above theirs with your moral superiority and so on and so forth. Exactly as Arthur had always held against you in your countless arguments. Now, suddenly, you catch yourself hesitating to save your own skin.
After all, it’s Abigail and Hosea you’re talking about. A woman, who has singlehandedly dragged you out of death’s clutches and if one would ask you right now if you think she would put herself in danger for your sake, then the answer is simple.
“Run!”, you scream from the top of your lungs, startling the man holding the gun just enough to keep him from pulling the trigger.
Vowing to make use of the split second of distraction, you swing your arm down, knocking the pistol out of his grasp and willing your legs to jump into action. Clumsily skidding over the wet cobblestones, you hold onto the brick wall and look into the alley. Abigail glances over her shoulder, bewilderment written all over her face when she meets your panicked grimace.
“The Pinkertons-“
Unfortunately, you don’t get far.
You warning gets cut off by a blast so violent, that it shakes the earth beneath your feet. Rubble and debris fly through the air and you instinctively duck. Hosea triggered the explosion and it has kicked up a thick cloud of dust that is currently rolling over the district. It approaches you at a high pace, resembling an avalanche.
Several hands grab you by your arms and shoulders, yanking you backwards so abruptly that you for a brief moment fear your shoulders are going to pop out of their sockets. Hot pain slices down your arms and spine, stroking your ire. As anger boils your blood and sears through your veins, you thrash in an attempt to break free.
One arm miraculously does slip out and you ball your hand into a fist. Punching blindly, your knuckles collide with a jaw, leaving your hand aching. People are cursing and yelling, ordering for you to finally be restrained and then something kicks you in the back of your knees. In an instant, your legs fold and you drop down onto the dirty ground.
A mix of brown and grey seeps into the skirt of your dress and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. As both arms are being twisted behind your back, you yelp from the odd angle these men are forcing your limbs into. The dust still refuses to settle, hanging in the air like a thick veil. You watch several people scurrying around, but don’t catch any faces.
Until they drag someone from out of the alley and your heart drops. Hosea is being held at gunpoint and flanked by several agents, while someone else ties a rope around your wrists. The comforting weight on the side of your hips vanishes and with dread, you realize that they’ve taken your Cattleman.
You’re being hauled back onto your feet and you wince as the motion twists your arms further to a point where you don’t even think about the shit and piss on your dress anymore. The throbbing pain in your wrists from the rope cutting into them is only distant as well.
“I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you.”, you plead, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.
The look Hosea gives you is devastatingly tender like a father gazing down at his daughter who accidentally spilled some milk.
“You tried, dear. I know you did.”, he says and your throat turns sore from the sheer effort of not weeping like a baby right now.
“And Abigail?”
“She made it out just in time thanks to you.”
You could have cried out in relief and actually begin to tremble if it wasn’t for a familiar pair of faces staring at you from the top of their noses. Both Milton and Ross are judging you silently, yet so openly that it drowns out all the noises around you.
seen a tiktok of arthur introducing his baby issac to mary during his visit in saint denis and i cant stop thinking about an alternate universe in which issac had survived and was thus taken in by the gang
and similar to the tiktok, ranch dad!reader is in the place of mary
...so if you really think about it, you and arthur are adopting one anothers sons and im personally gonna cry myself to sleep now
𓍼 “ Listen, it’s a hard life, this world, for anyone born without means. Any as judges those who find it hard, is a fool. I’m a lot of things, I’m not quite a fool. ”
cw(s): alluded to that Micah wanted to rape Karen (it doesn't happen), misogyny (if you squint), Karen saying she'd commit suicide via alcohol poisoning if reader died
“ i'm more than a drunk or an outlaw ”
She thought she could con you, but she was wrong. Then you became part of the gang, and that further muddied the waters. She avoided you, embarrassed that a slip-up let a stranger into their camp. At the very least, you're useful to them now.
She didn't start seeking you out until one night you stopped her from drinking too much. Originally she was mad, madder than Dutch when a plan goes sideways. Then she realized the eyes of that filthy rat Micah were on her. Her face became flushed from more than the alcohol. You sat by her as she slept to make sure she wasn't taken advantage of.
No one has ever really looked out for her like that. It felt different than going on a job and having the gang cover for her. It felt real.
You had no reason to help her. In fact, you had more reason to leave her there than most in camp.
You see something in her worth saving.
She decides she needs to prove herself to you.
“ see me ”
She isn't sure how to impress you, quite frankly. She doesn't know the first thing about, you so she asks around. She adapts like she's always had to.
She steals things that remind her of you and things she knows you need. She always chucks them at you and doesn't let you say thank you before she's already walking off. She rebuffs your thankfulness, although you can tell she appreciates it. Her heart is beating faster than a hummingbird any time she approaches you. She throws the things at you or sets them down near you because her hands are shaking. It's a fool's reaction, but she can't change it.
She tries to change how she looks for you. She tries to be subtle in her questioning of your preferences, but it's pretty obvious. If you tell her to knock off her nonsense about changing herself, she's floored. What do you mean you want her as herself? You see her? You actually see the woman behind the wit and gruff attitude? She'll stop trying to change how she looks, but she won't stop trying to look pretty for you. Your compliments make her feel good.
“ home ”
In her mind, she belongs to you. Not because you took her heart, but because you won her over. You're practically a saint. Well, perhaps a saint of scoundrels, but a saint nonetheless. That means she'll start to follow you. She'll snap when other members interrupt her time with you or interact with you in general. She's thrown more than a few bottles at a few heads because of it, mostly at Sean.
She makes it very clear she isn't interested in anyone else and is hesitant to even play the role of seductress when schmoozing people. She's gotten violent before. So violent that the other members tend to stay away from you now. They fear the instability of a woman like Karen. Your hands are the only ones she wants on her. The others feel so lifeless. She can't go back to feeling lifeless.
She doesn't believe you'll stay, so she doesn't dream of a future. She takes care of you now. She'll take care of you until you die. She doesn't want to think about that. If you died, she'd probably drink herself to death.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Molly O'Shea/Reader
Characters: Molly O'Shea
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Married Couple, Domestic Bliss, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Period-Typical Homophobia, Molly O'Shea Lives, Bisexual Molly O'Shea, Past Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Summary:
The locals see you and Molly as two spinsters keeping each other company. The reality is anything but.
instead of working on frou-frou foxes, i wrote this lol. charles x reader and another arthur x reader soon....still taking requests so put them in my inbox :P
It takes place after the story missions with Horley and the Marshal and you meet up at Manzanita Post to continue where you left off. It's the second part of the hanging of Tom Davies but can be read as it's own piece.
Word count: 4.7k
Tags: explicit sexual content, post-canon, semi-public sex, getting caught, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, clothed sex, age gap, it's mentioned that reader gained a bit of weight after being bust out of prison, rdo spoilers
A/N: Everyone thank @stupidgaynerd who wrote this amazing fic about Marshal Leigh Johnson! It had me buzzing with the urge to write smut the very same day I read it lmao. Picture of Marshal Davies is made by the wonderful @colterblues
Manzanita Post lies quiet as the setting sun drowns it in a rich orange that bleeds onto the green of the leaves and the earthy brown of the soil beneath your shoes. Feeling saddle sore from the ride, you almost yelp in relief as you dismount your mare. There’s a hitching post in the front yard with a Kentucky Saddler and a familiar Golden Dun Mustang.
You’ve visited this place only once when you were hired to retrieve Alfredo Montez together with Lee (and unfortunately accidentally wound up killing his brother), but you know that the owner of this property is a Norwegian feller. He’s nowhere to be found as you leave your horse with the other two and wander between the stretched pelts, benches and tools.
The squeak of a door rips you out of your thoughts and your attention steers to the big house. A familiar figure steps outside and halts at the porch, gaze snapping to their right and meeting yours. Marshal Davies stands there, shoulders dropping as if a great weight has been lifted off them as he recognizes you. You smile up at him and march over while he strolls off the porch.
“So, you’re done with whatever it was Horley needed of you?”, he asks and your body responds to his low drawl.
Only two days ago you two had been in Armadillo, confessing to something that none of you were planning to voice in the first place. The fact that he was almost hung feels somewhat surreal as if it was just a bad dream. Noting the bruises around his neck, you know better than to pin it to your wild imagination.
Some people would try to mask the mark of a noose with a hiked-up collar, but his is as neatly folded as it always is. The Marshal isn’t the type to hide the traces of battle.
“It appears so.”, you answer and recall the massacre that ensued in Blackwater.
You accompanied Mrs. LeClerk and Mr. Horley into town after there was talk about protection. You didn’t think she’d actually put a bullet into that bastard, Amos Lancing. Not that you’ll be grieving over that man any time soon, given that he was the reason that you ended up behind bars with a chain and ball around your ankle in the first place.
“I heard from folks passin’ by that it was some kind of bloody business.”, he comments, earning a glance from you.
“And what if? Will you arrest me, Marshal?” In all honesty, the thought of him tying a rope around your wrists excites you.
“No, Miss. That would never cross my mind.”, he says with a conviction that puts you immediately at ease. Not that you believe he would actually hand you over to the law, judging by his own unorthodox methods of exacting it. “As I said, I’ll just turn a good, old fashioned blind eye on it.”
“How kind of you.”, you coo, coaxing a chuckle out of him.
He nods towards the open fireplace that has been popping and crackling and he takes one of the foldable chairs, gesturing at the seat. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you sink down onto it and watch him pick up a few things from a nearby crafting table. A glass finds its way into your hands, scratched up from a long time of service and a rough washing cloth or two.
Marshal Davies is holding one of his own and a bottle of whisky in his other hand which he brings close to his face. Biting down onto the cork, he pulls it out with his teeth and it makes a satisfying ‘plop’. As you hold out the glass, he pours a generous amount of the liquor in it, making it slosh around and a drop of it escapes over the edge.
As it runs down the milky glass and onto your thumb, you scarcely notice the dampness on your skin. You only have eyes for that cork between his teeth, nestled in there like a cigarette or a cigar and you never thought you could harbor such envy for an inanimate object.
“I thought you could use a drink.”, he slurs with that thing in his mouth.
“Thanks.”, you say, snickering.
The Marshal huffs out a short laugh of his own before setting the bottle back onto the crafting table and putting the cork back on. Then he takes the seat next to you, leaning back and sprawling his legs out in front of himself. He’s wearing his hat again and the rim sits low over his face, hiding the upper half. You can only make out the edge of his black eye-patch.
“So, what will you do now? Or has Horley more work for you?”, he asks and the questions leave him as anything but idle chitchat. There’s genuine curiosity swimming in them.
“I think this is it for now. His mistress hired me for a very specific job and I’m pretty sure that we finished it in Blackwater now.”, you explain, uncertain how much you’re allowed to reveal.
No, Marshal Davies won’t stab you in the back, but you don’t know if you can or want to drop Mrs. LeClerk’s name or anyone else’s. She has asked you for discretion after all and you also don’t want to burden the Marshal with this knowledge either, in case someone starts to investigate this matter.
“That’s good, ain’t it? Means you get to go your own path again.”, he remarks and you shrug.
“I don’t know. It was nice to have a goal, something to work towards. Like with Montez.”
“I understand that.”, he murmurs and takes a sip. “But there’ll always be more bastards out there to catch. If you’re still interested to work with me.”
“Of course. I even have a bounty hunter license now, so you hiring me won’t be illegal anymore.”
He cackles, throwing his head back. “I guess I did forget to ask you about that, didn’t I? But I don’t think I can be blamed after Horley recommended you. I reckon he didn’t think to ask either.”
“You’re right. He didn’t.”
Your entire body aches from today’s work. It felt like Amos Lancing had expected you all along or at some point at least. There’s no way that all those armed men had been waiting around the corner by coincidence. Most of them weren’t even in uniform or sporting a deputy badge over their chest. Hired guns then or bounty hunters. Some had even been positioned on the rooftops.
But you held your ground well. All three of you.
“My associate suggested to start a trading company, but I don’t know about that.”, you explain.
The side of your face burns as Marshal Davies looks at you. Only two days ago, the two of you kissed. The air between you is casual, loaded as ever but casual. You removed that wall that had blocked you from approaching him, but you find yourself in a different, yet similar position. Shy. Timid even.
“That sounds like fine work.”
“I’m not much of a hunter though.”
There’s a pause in which you bring the glass up to your mouth. You’re absolutely parched and it takes about everything to not sigh in ecstasy as the liquor runs down your throat surprisingly smoothly.
“You could continue workin’ for me. You did say you got a license now.” The suggestion leaves his lips low, almost a whisper. It carries a hint of hesitancy as if he wasn’t sure that he should even voice it. Is he worried that you might reject him?
“I could if you want to have me, of course.”, you answer and his gaze burns into you.
The marshal’s pale iris gleams in the light of the flames. The blue in it acts almost like a canvas and even with that gap between your chairs, you still clearly see the fire dancing and licking at the blackened wood. With his free hand, he fishes out the revolver from his holster.
It’s polished to perfectioned, though obvious by the details that it has been used frequently over the years. The engravings aren’t as visible along the barrel and some smaller parts have been replaced, judging by the slight difference in shades. But you do so admire a man who takes care of his guns.
“If my answer to that question ever ends up being a no, I want you to take this and shoot me in the head.”, he says as grave and serious like a priest at a funeral and you clasp a hand over your mouth to mask the grin.
“Oh, Marshal.”
As the bottom of your glass becomes clearer and the red from the setting sun retreats, the fire is the only source of light out here. There’s an oil lamp behind one of the windows in the main house and you crane your neck to peer inside. It’s a kitchen from what you can tell and a shadow stirs inside it.
“I talked to Nils about stayin’ here. I weren’t sure when you’d come back.”, Marshal Davies speaks up and points with his thumb over his shoulder. “You can have that house there.”
It’s a cozy looking cabin that has an elk skull hanging over the front door. You’ve been spending so much time in your camp that you entirely forgot how it feels to lay inside a bed. The hotel room in Armadillo, as grimy and dusty as it was, had felt like pure luxury. Your muscles seem to sigh at the prospect of sleeping on a mattress again.
Mr. Cripps might wonder where you’ve gone off to tonight, but you told him that he shouldn’t expect you. Just in case things in Blackwater wouldn’t have turned out as favorable as they did.
“That’s very kind of you.”, you answer. “And Nils too, of course.”
He didn’t talk much when you were here last time to meet the Marshal, but Nils seemed all right. In fact, now that you think about it, he didn’t even acknowledge you guys and you wonder how he may have reacted after stumbling upon that severed head that Lee just tossed into a bush. Standing up, you’re surprised that your joints aren’t creaking and squeaking like unoiled hinges.
One glance and you notice that the Marshal finished his glass too by now. You wrap your fingers around it and slide it out of his grasp. He doesn’t break the eye contact and when you turn around to place the glasses next to the bottle, you can practically feel his gaze traveling along your body. In Armadillo, you both were willing to cross that certain line if it only hadn’t been for your damned injury.
It’s still hurting when you apply pressure on it, but most of the time it just itches. The prospect of perhaps continuing where you left off leaves you buzzing with excitements. Almost giddy, actually. Spinning on your heels, you reach out to lazily take his hand and hold it in yours, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles.
Callouses and scars mark his skin and your gaze trails along his sleeve, wondering how the rest of him looks like. You’ve never really seen him out of his neat suits. Shirt, vest and a jacket with that kind of cut that make any posture look straight and disciplined. Even when Montez’ men tried to hang him, his clothes sat on his body in a proper manner. He looked proper that day.
Glancing at the cabin, you wonder whether the bed in there will fit the two of you. Normally there’s only a single bed when they’re this size. A part of you hopes that that will be the case here as well. You want to be sleeping close to the Marshal tonight.
“I’m a bit tired.”, you mumble.
Your breath hitches as he brings the back of your hand up to his lips and plants a kiss on it.
“Me too, I’m afraid.”, he says in an equally low voice.
The oil lantern in that kitchen window has been snuffed out by now. Nils must have gone to bed then and there isn’t a single soul out here for miles. Marshal Davies slowly starts to stand up from his chair and takes off his hat. You don’t know when he had the time to retrieve that thing, believing it lost in Tumbleweed.
Maybe Sheriff Freeman went back and found it lying around somewhere, but you sincerely doubt that. It looks pristine and clean and not entirely brand new, but not particularly worn either. Does he just keep a bunch of those somewhere in a closet? What an amusing thought.
“Too tired for anything else?”, you ask and look at him from under your lashes.
His beard twitches as he tries to fight back a smile.
“Not yet, Miss.”
Pulling him in close, you let your hands roam over his chest and tip your head back. You don’t know where his hat went, but suddenly both of his palms are on your back, burning through the blouse and into your skin. You’re still wearing that wash skirt, not having had the time to change into the pants you usually prefer.
Though you’re happy for it now as you back up against the crafting table and feel the edge press into your rear. All the while, Marshal Davies draws closer until his body is pressed up to your breasts or perhaps it was you who shoved him close. Running your fingers through his silver hair, you run the tips along the back of his eye-patch.
“We should move this inside.”, he murmurs, painfully close to your mouth.
His mustache tickles your face and it isn’t the first time that you wonder how it would feel between your legs. Those same legs that you’re spreading right now to allow him to step into your space, which he does without second guessing.
“Perhaps we should.”
None of you move an inch towards the cabin though and instead remain rooted in place. The Marshal’s lips collide with yours with a fervor that knocks all the breath out of your lungs. It’s being squeezed out of your body through your mouth and into his as he kisses you dizzy. Teeth scrape over lips and tongues lap at one another.
His hands run down your curves, mapping your waist and hips, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts. Your own hands fly up to loosen the first couple of buttons of your blouse and deepen your cleavage. The silhouette of your chest flickers from the twitching flames and the Marshal’s eye is glued to it. This close, you can watch in real-time how his pupil dilates.
Your tongue darts out to run over your lips as you watch him push the blouse aside and reveal the now bare mounts. Your nipples stand hardened from the cool breeze caressing them and when he presses one down with his thumb, you shudder. He moves it in slow, tantalizing circles, sending mild jolts through your body.
Then his mouth is on yours again, ravishing you entirely. One hand is still cupping your breast while the other hurries down to hike up your skirt. Your own get to work as well, helping him speed things along before you grab your bloomers and push them all the way down. They pool around your ankles, standing out with their cream color in the vast darkness.
The Marshal makes it a point to avoid grazing over your injury like he accidentally did last time, shuffling more into the opposite direction. You angle your hurt leg away as well to give him more room. His crotch lies against your stomach, his clothed erection pressing into the softness of your belly. It has grown a bit ever since you got bust out of prison.
Suddenly, his hand let’s go of your chest, trailing down your ribs, beyond the hem of your blouse that is tucked away beneath the wash skirt and below the skirt itself as well. It stops between your legs, hovering above your exposed cunt that flutters and clenches around nothing in painful anticipation. The tip of his index finger pushes your sopping wet folds aside and you stifle a hiss at the contact.
It feels so rough against the damp heat and leaves your head spinning. Marshal Davies presses against your clit that has swollen up slightly from arousal and you bite down onto your lower lip. When he flicks over it, your nerve endings explode like fireworks. Rocking your hips, you seek for the friction and he groans.
“Lord have mercy.”, he grumbles under his breath, close to your ear. Then he slides two fingers in and you feel him tremble as if it’s his cock that’s in you instead. “Oh, good God.”
You want to speak as well. A thousand words are lying on your tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, spreading them and curling them up ever so slightly, but it all drowns inside your throat. All you manage to wring out are choked back moans and mewls. You lift your good leg to allow him better access and he hooks his arm under it to help keep it in the air.
As he fingers you, the bottom half of his palm keeps rubbing over your clit, stimulating it at a delicious pace. Pressure builds up inside your lower stomach and you chase it with the desperation of a woman gone mad with greed. Your wetness soaks his hand, running down to his wrist and you feel more staining the inside of your thighs.
The drops roll down your leg that is beginning to shake from the effort of holding up your weight all by itself and they seep into the bloomers that are still lying forgotten on the ground.
“Oh, Marshal.”, you cry out in pleasure and whine when his hand retreats.
A protest bubbles up in your throat that dies as he suddenly grabs you by the rear and hoists you into the air. Setting your down onto the table, he pulls you roughly towards the edge and starts unbuckling his belt. The first item to be cast away is his weapon belt and he immediately goes to work on the other one that is holding up his trousers.
The clinking and jingling of the metal feed the heat inside you and your hands join his in an attempt to unfasten his pants. They drop, joining your bloomers and you swallow a gasp at the sight of his cock. It basically springs free, bouncing heavy from its girth and length. Veins protrude along his shaft in a light blue that matches his iris. That color has always looked good on him
Holding up your skirt, your spread your legs further and allow him to get a proper view of your cunt which he knows. His breath hitches and throat bobs as he stares at it absolutely mesmerized. You don’t even remember the last time you felt this little shame in front of another lover. Something about the Marshal has you toss all humility and decency into the wind.
You grab him around the shaft and pull gently on the foreskin, revealing his flushed red tip that’s leaking pre-cum. It resembles a pearl. Your pussy weeps as you grab him by the collar and pull him close for a hungry kiss. You’ve seen him fight for his life like a man, fight for justice like a man. Now you want him to fuck like one too.
Pushing your hips slightly more over the edge, you put one palm down onto the table for support and knock over the whisky bottle with your elbow. It rolls over the wood and lands with a dull thud in the grass. Marshal Davies moves closer, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance that sucks him right in.
There’s no resistance when he enters you. It leaves you impossibly full and he isn’t even halfway in yet. The Marshal stops for a second and pulls out, though not fully. A pale, creamy ring of your wetness adorns his shaft and you squirm when he thrusts forward, deeper than before. Slowly, he fucks himself into you until he’s sheathed entirely.
Eyes fluttering shut, you lean your head back, exposing your neck for him to bury his face in. Both of you are glistening with sweat and none of you move, just letting his cock soak up your arousal for a hot minute.
“Oh, Lord have mercy.”, he repeats breathlessly and you feel him throb inside you as if his erection has a heartbeat of its own. “You feel so nice. Oh, you’re so tight, Miss.”
His words do your heat no favor. The ache between your legs grows and suddenly you’re beyond impatient. Yearning for some more friction, you wiggle with your hips. Rolling them and squirming from left to right and right to left. He groans into your skin, his mustache tickling and slightly scratching.
Then he pulls back a second time before driving his cock deep inside you, his tip ending up kissing your cervix. An invisible copper wire tightens in your lower stomach from that action and you grasp his shoulder with your free hand. Thighs trembling as your boots hang in the air, you grit your teeth and wonder how long you will be able to hold this position.
The Marshal seems to be in no hurry, though you can tell from the sweat along his hairline that he’s struggling himself. Whether it’s the effort or restraint, you can’t tell. He starts at a slow pace, undoubtedly to get used to it as well and not cum too fast. You love the intimacy of it. The sweetness. Though it’s not sweetness that you’re craving this moment.
No, sir. You want it rough and hard. You want him to rut into you on this crafting table out in the open like you’re nothing more than those wild animals out here in the woods yourself. The smell of the forest enters your nose together with your mixed sweat and the scent of sex. It works like a drug as it penetrates your mind.
“Marshal.”, you coo encouragingly beside his face.
“Miss-“, he stammers and jerks his hips forward.
It’s an abrupt motion that has stars dance across your vision. He fucks you in earnest now, deep and fast and the sounds are wet and obscene. The crafting table rocks along and the glasses that you drank out of clink together. You squeeze your thighs together, the pleasure outweighing the sharp pain in your still fresh wound that you scarcely even register it.
You had no idea that you even have a thing for pain during sex. It mingles together perfectly with the jolts shooting through your veins as his cock keeps brushing over your g-spot. Nerves set ablaze, your mouth hangs open as you moan different variants of his name. Sometimes it’s Tom, meanwhile other times it’s Marshal and on some occasions, a Marshal Davies slips in too.
They all spur him on further to a point where you genuinely begin to wonder where exactly he draws the stamina from. One arm is still hooked under your good leg, taking off some of the work much to your gratitude and the other inches closer to where your hips meet. With each thrust, his balls slap against your ass cheeks, low and heavy and full.
Wedging his hand between your bodies without having to pull away too much, his thumb finds your clit that is still sensitive from the attention he has given it earlier. The stimulation seems near mind breaking. Pleasure claws at you from the inside, flashing in hot waves with each slam of his cock. The wire inside you uncoils like lightning.
Your entire body convulses and trembles as Marshal Davies tears the orgasm out of you. It’s ruthless the way it wrecks your body like a train slamming into it. Your sopping walls clench around him so tight that you can’t imagine it must feel good in any way, yet pure bliss is edged into his callous features from it.
He moans your name in that typical low drawl of his and next thing you know, something hot fills you up. Ropes of cum paint your walls, pushing against them and for every drop that escapes, more leaks out of his cock. As he pulls out, you gaze down on the mess you two made and can’t help but acknowledge the way the sight makes you feel.
Your cunt is crying with his load. It stirs a dirty kind of arousal inside you.
“I’m so sorry.”, he breathes with a hoarse voice. “Look at you, poor thing. I’ll help you get cleaned up, Miss.”
He sounds and looks so genuinely distraught that you can’t help but chuckle. “No worries, Marshal. It looks like I returned the favor.”
His cock looks equally wrecked. The thick curls around the base cling to his soaked shaft and pearls of cum have joined the veins along it. More have drooped down onto his balls and you wet your dry lips, imagining the taste as you lick it all off him. A foreign sound rips you out of your thoughts and both of you freeze.
It doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the background noise of the forest like the rustling of leaves, swaying of branches and tiny footsteps of critters. No, it reminds you of a person, of a pair of boots stepping on pebbles and dirt. Glancing at the kitchen window where you have seen the lantern earlier, you think that it could be Nils at first. The main house lies completely dark.
“What’s that?”, you hiss in a hushed voice.
The Marshal’s eye is wide from terror and he scrambles to pull his trousers back up. You follow suit by pushing down your skirt and hopping off the table. He doesn’t concern himself with his belts and instead helps close up all the buttons of your blouse to conceal your breasts that were bouncing up and down earlier.
The fire, although it has shrunk a bit, is still burning and illuminating a pair of neat shoes. They belong to Mr. Horley, whom you see clearly now.
“Horley?”, Marshal Davies snaps and the other man looks positively startled by the sudden outrage.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.”, he says. “I forgot that you probably have some folk out for you. I didn’t consider announcing my presence.”
“It’s all right.”, you chime up, even though you don’t feel that way.
Mr. Horley opens his mouth to reply when something catches his attention. Following his gaze, you’re mortified that it’s your bloomers that have caught his eyes. They’re sprawled out on the ground next to the Marshal’s weapon belt. Both items speak louder than any words ever could and shame prickles beneath your face.
“I see now that I’ve interrupted something.”, he mutters bashfully after clearing his throat. “I only came to let you know of another business opportunity that might interest you, but that can obviously wait. When you have the time, go speak to Mr. Cripps. I’ll leave a letter with him.”
Before anyone else can utter a single word, he takes his leave. Your cheeks still burn from the whole scene and you press both palms over them, laughing nervously to yourself.
“That was something.”, you comment and watch Marshal Davies run a hand over his face.
“Sure.”, he agrees and then quietly adds more under his breath. “I think I’m too old to get caught like this.”
Grinning, you swat playfully at his arm and lean your head against his shoulder. His arm wraps around your torso and a delicious shiver runs down your spine as you feel the remnants of his cum leak out of you and down your leg. Your cunt aches from his size, but it’s a comfortable kind of pain. The same way your muscles are going to feel tomorrow. You reckon that you will welcome the soreness with open arms.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dutch van der Linde/Reader
Characters: Dutch van der Linde
Additional Tags: Pseudo-Incest, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Bratting, Brat Taming, Spanking, Over the Knee, Mildly Dubious Consent, Consensual Sex, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Multiple Sex Positions, Creampie, Praise Kink, Verbal Degradation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Age Difference, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert
Summary:
Dutch has been looking at you differently ever since you turned eighteen.
not my usual genre of work but well... lol. im working on a few different fics — namely another chapter for cowboys and angels, a molly x reader and a charles x reader. hopefully they won't take too long ^^
