istayniche

[istayniche]

J U N E T E E N T H

DAYTON OH. 6-19-25.

a fine day to be black!!!

my Granny was honored at this event (she had no clue)

my cousin, accepting the award on her behalf

she was trying not to cry 🥹

good turnout, good times.

[istayniche]

Potential wattpad cover for my vampire au fanfic

Idk should I even bother posting on wattpad? i just redownloaded it for the first time in years and im confused af. im being so fr

what do y'all think?

[istayniche]

PRIDE

Dayton, Ohio. 6-7-25

A reminder to get outside this summer, support your local queer communities, fight the fascists and stay unabashedly true to who you are!!!

We are living in dark times. Don't let these lame ass MAGA nazi weirdos steal your shine!

Be brave. Be bold.

Happy Pride! 💖🌈

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

! FINAL CHAPTER !

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, fluff, happy endings

Chapter Summary: Life carries on.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 32

Words: 1,789

May 23rd, 1901

Been a while since I opened this old thing. Near eighteen months, I reckon. Couldn't bring myself to write after... well, after everything that happened with the gang. Too many ghosts in these pages, too many memories that felt like knives turning in old wounds. But Odette says a man ought to record the good times same as the bad, and I suppose she's right about that. She's right about most things.

Where do I even start?

Me and Odette got married two months back. March 15th, to be exact. Wasn't nothing fancy by most folks' standards, but it was perfect for us. The whole neighborhood turned out. Every soul who'd helped us in the fight against Dutch and his madness. Reverend Thomas officiated the ceremony in his church. Old Henry from the bakery made a cake that could've fed half of Saint Denis. At the reception, Mr. Terrence Jackson poured drinks so strong, Odette had to remind him it was a wedding, not a parlor house.

John and Cécile stood up with us. John as my best man, though he grumbled about wearing a proper suit the whole time. Cécile looked prettier than a spring morning in that yellow dress she'd sewn herself. John actually teared up—the fool. Course, he denies it to this day, claims it was just incense in his eyes. But I saw what I saw, and that boy was crying like a baby.

Odette wore a fine dress of white silk with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. Caught the moonlight like captured stars. When she walked toward me, I swear I forgot how to breathe. Still the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on, more so now that she's mine and I'm hers, proper and legal.

We danced until near dawn, the whole neighborhood celebrating like we'd won some great victory. Which, I suppose, we had.

Odette says the work never stops, and she's right about that too. La Rose Noire's still thriving, but we've had to make some changes. Renovated the whole back section to accommodate the newborns. All the poor souls Dutch left behind when his madness finally caught up with him. Young folks who don't know what's happening to them, scared and hungry and lost. Just like I was, not so long ago.

It's hard work, teaching them control. Teaching them that they don't have to be monsters, that there's another way. Some days I look at their faces, pale and confused, and I see myself in that cellar.

But there's satisfaction in it too. Watching them learn to hunt proper, to feed without killing. Seeing the moment when they realize they ain't damned, just different. Last week, a girl named Marie, couldn't be more than nineteen, managed her first clean hunt. Took down a wild boar without losing herself to the hunger and was able to store the blood for herself. The pride on her face when she came back to the saloon, blood on her chin but her eyes clear and human... well, it reminded me why we do this work.

John and Cécile are doing real good. Better than good, if I'm being honest. That French girl's got more business sense in her little finger than John's got in his whole body. She's turned her father's old haberdashery into something special. A proper boutique selling both men's and women's clothing. Fancy stuff, the kind of garments that make Saint Denis society folk feel important.

Never thought I'd see the day John Marston gave a damn about fabrics, but there he is, learning the difference between silk and satin like his life depends on it. Cécile's got him wrapped around her finger, and he don't seem to mind one bit. There's purpose in his eyes now, something I ain't seen since before Abigail and Jack... well, since ever, really.

I keep waiting for that fool to ask her to marry him proper. They're living together above the shop, happy as two people can be, but John's still dragging his feet about making it official. Probably scared she'll say no, though anyone with eyes can see that girl's crazy about him. Maybe I'll have to knock some sense into him soon.

Course, it ain't all sunshine and roses. There's others out there. Newborns we couldn't reach in time, ones who learned all the wrong lessons from Dutch and the Count. They're scattered all across the South now.

Odette says we can only solve what's right in front of us. So that's exactly what I'll do.

Arthur paused in his writing, flexing his fingers around the pencil. The porch boards creaked beneath his chair. Their cabin sat on the outskirts of Saint Denis, far enough from the city's noise to hear the bayou's night songs but close enough to reach La Rose Noire when needed.

He turned to a fresh page and began sketching Odette in her wedding dress, the way she'd looked walking down that aisle, tiny purple flowers in her hair. The curve of her smile, the way her eyes had shone with tears of joy. Beautiful as the day he'd met her, though that seemed like a lifetime ago now.

The screen door creaked behind him, and Arthur looked up to see Odette stepping onto the porch. She carried a bottle in her hands, his evening meal, prepared just the way he liked it. Ox blood mixed with oregano, bourbon, and a dash of honey. 

"Still writing?"

"Just finishing up."

Arthur accepted the bottle gratefully, taking a long pull. The blood was warm, perfectly seasoned. "You spoil me, you know that?"

"Someone has to." She pecked his temple. "I got something else for you. Something special."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, then shook his head "I told you, didn't have to—"

"Oh, hush. You really think I was gonna let your birthday come and go without gettin' you anything?" Odette grinned.

"I ain't never gave a damn about my birthday."

"Course you'd say that. John and Cécile and I, we've been working on something special for you. Something we've been planning for weeks now." She stood, extending her hand. "Come on. Close your eyes."

"Odette—"

"Trust me."

Arthur set down his pencil and bottle, allowing her to pull him to his feet. Her hands were warm against his face as she covered his eyes.

"No peeking," she warned, guiding him down the porch steps.

Arthur let himself be led, his enhanced senses picking up the familiar scents of their property. Wildflowers and the rich earth of the bayou, the distant smoke from Saint Denis. Beneath his feet, he felt the transition from grass to stone. A freshly laid path he didn't remember being there before.

"How long you been planning this?" he asked.

"Long enough. Watch your step here."

They walked for what felt like several minutes, though Arthur's sense of direction told him they were heading toward the back of their property, near the tree line where the bayou began in earnest. He could hear the soft splash of water against cypress roots, the distant call of a night heron.

"Alright," Odette said finally, her hands still covering his eyes. "You ready?"

"Been ready."

She lifted her hands away.

Before him stood a gazebo, elegant and simple, covered in climbing roses and jasmine that filled the air with their perfume. The structure was built with sturdy lumber, with a bench inside that faced toward Saint Denis. From here, he could see the city's lights twinkling in the distance like fallen stars.

But it wasn't the gazebo that stole his breath.

To the left and right of the structure stood stone pillars, carved with meticulous care. Headstones, he realized. Real graves, proper graves, each one bearing a name carved in beautiful script.

Hosea Matthews - A Father to Us All

Lenny Summers - Too Young, Too Bright

Sean MacGuire - Loud in Life, Quiet in Death

Karen Jones - Fierce Heart, Gentle Soul

Abigail Roberts - Beloved Mother

Jack Marston - Innocent Lost

Molly O'Shea - She Loved Too Much

Susan Grimshaw - The Mother We Needed

Pearson - Fed Our Bodies and Souls

Uncle - Slumbered in Life, Peaceful in Death

Each grave was decorated with fresh flowers, the kind that grew natural in the bayou. Lilies and irises, morning glories and sweet peas. Simple and beautiful, just like the people they honored.

Arthur's vision blurred and he blinked, realizing he was crying. When was the last time he'd shed tears? Not since he buried them, when he'd first understood what he'd become.

"How did you..."

"John and Cécile helped with everything," Odette said softly. "The transporting was... difficult. But they're here now. All of them. Safe."

Arthur walked slowly among the graves, reading each name, each carefully chosen epitaph. His family. His real family, the one that had mattered more than blood or law. They were here, in this peaceful place, where he could visit them without fear of grave robbers or weather or time itself wearing away their memory.

"The gazebo," he managed to say.

"So you can sit with them. Talk to them. Remember the good times." Odette moved to stand beside him, her hand finding his. "I know you've been making that long ride out to the old burial site. Figured you might like having them closer."

Arthur turned to look at her, this woman who'd saved him in every way a person could be saved.

"Odette, I..." He swallowed hard, the words inadequate. "This is... I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. This is what family does."

Family. That's what they were now. Him and Odette, John and Cécile, all the lost souls they'd gathered at La Rose Noire. A different kind of family than the one he'd lost, but family all the same.

The sun was setting behind them, painting the bayou in an expanse of golds and pinks. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz band played at one of the river boats, the music drifting across the water. The air smelled of flowers and earth and the promise of rain.

Arthur pulled Odette close, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like home, safety, like all the good things he'd never thought he deserved.

"I love you," he whispered against her temple. "More than I got words for."

"I love you too." Her arms tightened around him. "Always."

They stood there as the light faded, surrounded by the graves of the past and the promise of tomorrow. In the distance, Saint Denis glittered like a jewel, full of life and possibility. And here, in this quiet corner of the world she'd carved out for him, Arthur Morgan finally understood what peace felt like.

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn, smut, NSFW!

Chapter Summary: John waits impatiently for the group to return. Celebrations ensue. Arthur and Odette have other plans.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 31

Words: 7,331

John Marston paced the length of the saloon's worn wooden floor, stopping only to glance at the doors before continuing his circuit. His fingers drummed against his thigh, itching for something to do besides sitting on his ass waiting. He'd never been good at waiting.

"They'll be back soon enough," a man, Odette's neighbor, Mr. Terrence Jackson, said from behind the bar as he wiped it down. The locals had agreed to help run the saloon while Odette and the rest of them handled the Count.

John hadn't seen anything like it before. The whole town had rallied around Odette. The community had defended her with their lives, and they weren't they empty shells of soldiers that Dutch had created. No, they helped out of geniune respect, admiration. Thirty years of her good will had seemingly paid off. Mr. Jackson smiled a wistful smile at John. "Miss Odette always comes back."

John nodded but didn't stop pacing. What did he know? He hadn't seen what John had seen. The Count wasn't some ordinary vampire. He was ancient, strong. John had felt the man's presence in his nightmares, had felt him even standing yards away when they were taking on Dutch and his men, like meandering too close to a lightning strike.

He paused at the window, staring out at the darkness. The minutes crawled by like hours.

He'd spent his whole life running. From responsibility, from family, from love. Now here he was, desperate for Cécile to return, afraid she might not.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Wasn't this how he'd made Abigail and Jack feel? Starin' out at the stars wishing they'd bring him back, make their family whole again?

"Another drink?"

John shook his head. "Need to keep my wits."

What a change from just months ago, when he'd been drowning himself in whiskey, trying to forget Abigail's face, Jack's laugh. The pain was still there, would always be there, but it had changed, somehow. Dulled around the edges. John felt he could breathe around it now.

"You look like you're attending your own funeral," Mrs. Fontaine called from a corner table, the dark, dried blood of vampires still smeared across her cheek. "Lighten up. Those three can handle themselves."

John shot him a glare that silenced any further commentary. These people didn't understand what was at stake.

The grief still lived in him, a cold, hard thing. But each day with Cécile, each moment spent planning, fighting, surviving, it all helped. He wasn't healing, exactly. Some wounds never healed. But he was learning to live with it.

John checked his pocket watch. Three hours since they'd left. Too long. His mind conjured images of Cécile broken, of Arthur fallen, of Odette under the Count's control once more.

"They're coming back," he muttered to himself. "They're coming back."

An old woman at a nearby table, Madame Rousseau, looked up from her cards. "You know, dear, my mama always said, 'worry is like paying a debt you don't owe.'"

"Your mama never met the people I know," John snapped.

He thought of Cécile, of her sharp tongue and sharper wit. The way she fought. The way she danced through danger like autumn leaves in a storm. The softness of her lips against his. For the first time since losing Abigail and Jack, he'd found something, someone, worth staying for.

The doors swung open. John's hand went to his gun before his mind registered who stood in the doorway.

Cécile, her pink-tinted hair wild around her face, clothes torn and bloodied, but standing tall. Alive.

Relief flooded through him, so powerful it nearly took his knees out.

"Cécile," he breathed, crossing the room in long strides.

She met his gaze, a smile breaking across her face. "Mon cher," she said with exhaustion and triumph.

"What happened? The Count—"

"Dead." She stepped fully into the light, revealing a cut across her cheek that was already healing. "Burned to ash."

John felt the pressure lift from his shoulders. "Arthur? Odette?"

Cécile's smile turned mischievous. "Ils prennent leur temps." She smirked. "They are taking their time."

Before John could ask what she meant, she closed the distance between them, her hands finding his face. Her touch was full of warmth and her eyes burned.

"I thought you were—that maybe—" he stutterd.

"I know what you thought," she interrupted. "Don't think too much, John, or you'll hurt yourself."

Then she kissed him and John forgot everything else. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him as if he could somehow keep her there forever.

As they kissed, the saloon erupted into jesting cheers, banging empty mugs on wooden tables and clinking their glasses. John knew they were teasing, but he didn't care.

"Don't ever make me wait like that again," he murmured against her lips.

Cécile laughed, the sound bright in the dim room. "Are you giving me orders now?"

"Would you listen if I did?"

"Non." She traced his scar with one finger. "But I might consider a request."

John pressed his forehead against hers, breathing her in. "Then I'm requesting."

She smiled, her face like the sun in his hands.

"For you, I will try."

The back alley behind La Rose Noire stretched in shadow, cobblestones slick with evening mist. Odette and Arthur approached the rear entrance.

The Count's ashes still clung to Arthur's shirt, a fine gray dust that caught the gaslight filtering through the saloon's windows. Odette could smell the remnants of fire and death on him, mixed with his own scent of liquor and gunpowder that quickened her pulse.

She fished the back door key from her coat pocket. Her fingers trembled slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The fight was over. The Count was dead. And Arthur...

Arthur stood close behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath on her neck. When she fumbled with the lock, his hand covered hers, steadying her grip.

"Easy," he said.

The simple touch sent electricity up her arm. Two hundred and forty-nine years of existence, and she'd never felt anything quite like this, this desperate, clawing need that had been building between them for months.

The lock clicked open. Odette pushed the door inward, stepping into the narrow hallway that led to the main saloon. Noise drifted from the front room: laughter and cheers, glasses tapping on tables, music, dancing.

Arthur followed her inside, closing the door behind him. In the dim hallway, lit only by a single oil lamp, his eyes found hers.

"They're celebrating," Odette said.

"Good for them," Arthur replied, stepping closer.

The space between them evaporated. Arthur's hands found her waist and Odette's carefully maintained composure cracked like ice in spring. She rose on her toes, her mouth finding his in a sealed kiss.

Arthur groaned against her lips, his hands sliding up her back to weave through her hair. The kiss deepened, became something fierce and consuming. Odette could taste the salt of sweat on his skin, could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest.

"Upstairs," she gasped against his mouth.

They moved through the hallway like dancers learning new steps, all stumbling, urgent, hands roaming even as they tried to navigate the narrow space. Arthur's mouth found her neck, pressing hot kisses to the sensitive skin there.

At the base of the stairs, Arthur pressed her to the wall, caging her in. His hands held her face as he kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense. The hard length of him pressed against her hip and she could smell his arousal mixing with her own.

"Odette," he murmured against her mouth.

She answered by nipping at his lower lip, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt, working them open with fingers that shook slightly from want.

They made it up the stairs in a tangle of limbs and stolen kisses, Arthur's hands never leaving her body, the curves of her waist, the swell of her hips. By the time they reached her bedroom door, Odette's coat had been discarded somewhere on the landing, and Arthur's shirt hung open, revealing the scarred plane of his chest.

Inside her room, moonlight streamed through the curtains. Arthur kicked the door closed behind them.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Arthur's chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes dark with desire. Odette could see the question there, the careful restraint he was holding onto by a thread.

She reached for the fastenings of her dress, her fingers slowly working at the buttons. Arthur watched, hypnotized, as the fabric parted to reveal the chemise beneath, then the smooth brown skin of her shoulders and arms.

"Christ," Arthur breathed.

The dress fell, leaving her in just her chemise and stockings. Arthur's eyes traveled over her like she was some grand monument dipped in gold and built to the heavens.

She moved to him then, her hands pushing his shirt from his shoulders. The garment fell to the floor, forgotten. Her palms pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the heat of his skin.

Arthur's hands settled on her hips, his thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of her chemise. He sent sparks of pleasure through her, and she leaned into him, her mouth finding the hollow of his throat.

"Odette," he said. A warning and a plea.

She looked up at him through her lashes. "What do you want, Arthur?"

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping in his cheek. "You know what I want."

"Tell me," she whispered, her hands moving to the buckle of his gun belt.

The leather fell away with a soft thud. Arthur's hands found her face.

"I want you," he said simply. "All of you. However you'll have me."

She smiled, pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Arthur's control snapped. He kissed her fiercely, his hands roaming her body with newfound urgency. Odette melted into him, her own hands working at the fastenings of his pants.

When her fingers brushed against the hard length of him through the fabric, Arthur moaned into her mouth, hips jerking forward. She worked his pants open, her hand slipping inside to wrap around his cock. Arthur's breath hissed between his teeth at the contact, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.

Odette stroked him slowly, marveling at the weight and heat of him in her palm. He was thick and hard, leaking at the tip. The knowledge that she had done this to him, that she could reduce this strong, dangerous man to a mess of trembling need, sent a thrill through her.

Arthur's hands found the hem of her chemise, pulling it up and over her head in one swift motion. The fabric joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor, leaving her bare except for her stockings.

For a moment, Arthur simply looked at her. Odette felt beautiful under his stare, powerful.

"You're perfect."

Before she could respond, he was kissing her again, hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. The sensation sent jolts of pleasure straight to her core, and she arched into him with a soft moan.

Arthur's mouth left hers to trail down her throat, pausing to suck gently at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. Odette's hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worked his way lower.

When his mouth closed over her nipple, Odette cried out. Arthur's tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing gently before he sucked hard enough to make her see stars.

"Arthur," she gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

He hummed against her skin. His free hand kneaded her other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until she was writhing.

Odette's hands moved to his shoulders, then down his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin. When she reached the waistband of his pants, she pushed them down, freeing him completely. She wrapped her hand around him again, stroking from base to tip with slow, careful movements.

And when she couldn't take any more teasing, she pushed gently at his shoulders, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. Arthur looked up at her with questioning eyes, but Odette simply smiled and sank to her knees before him.

The sight of her there, naked and beautiful and willing, made Arthur's cock twitch with anticipation. Odette's hands settled on his thighs, light and possessive.

"Odette..."

She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. Arthur's hands fisted in the bedsheets, a strangled groan escaping his lips.

Odette took her time, exploring him with her lips and tongue, studying what made him gasp, what made his hips jerk and his fingers twitch. She traced the prominent vein that ran along his length, swirled her tongue around the sensitive head, pressed soft kisses to the base.

Arthur's control was hanging by a thread. Every touch of her mouth sent fire racing through his veins, every soft sound she made vibrated through him like a tuning fork.

When Odette finally took him fully into her mouth, Arthur's vision went white around the edges. The wet heat of her mouth, the gentle suction, the way her tongue worked against him, it was almost too much to bear.

"Fuck," he gasped, one hand moving to tangle in her hair. "Odette, that's—Christ."

She hummed around him, the vibration making him jerk. Her hands settled on his hips, holding him steady as she worked him deeper into her mouth.

Arthur watched, transfixed, as she took him inch by inch, her lips stretched around his girth. The sight was almost as overwhelming as the sensation, and he had to fight not to thrust forward, not to lose himself completely.

Odette seemed to sense his struggle. She pulled back slightly, her tonguing the head of his cock before she took him deep again. The rhythm she set was slow as molasses, designed to drive him out of his mind.

"Odette," Arthur whined, his fingers tightening in her hair. "I can't—"

She pulled back, releasing him with a soft pop. Her lips were swollen, glistening with saliva and his arousal, and the sight made Arthur's cock throb.

"Not yet," she said. "I'm not done with you."

Arthur's laugh was strained, breathless. "You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

Odette smiled, her hand wrapping around the base of his cock as she leaned forward again. "What a way to go."

This time, she took him deeper, her throat working around him as she swallowed. Arthur's hips thrust slightly, and he felt her hands tighten on his hips, holding him in place.

The control she had over him, the way she could reduce him to a puddle with just her mouth, was intoxicating. Arthur had never felt anything like it, had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her.

"Odette," he gasped, breaking. "Please."

She looked up at him, eyes dark with desire, and Arthur felt something shift between them. The careful control she'd been maintaining cracked, and he could see the same desperate need in her eyes that he felt burning inside him.

Without breaking eye contact, Arthur's hand tightened in her hair, guiding her movements. Odette's eyes fluttered closed, a soft moan vibrating around his cock as she submitted to his control.

The change was electric. Arthur set the pace now, his hips moving in shallow thrusts as Odette's mouth worked around him. She was perfect, pliant, taking everything he gave her with eager acceptance.

Odette's hands moved to his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she held on. The slight pain only added to Arthur's pleasure, grounding him even as he felt himself spiraling toward the edge.

He could feel his orgasm building, a tight coil of heat in his belly that threatened to snap at any moment. But he didn't want this to end, didn't want to lose the exquisite torture of her mouth around him.

"Look at me."

Her eyes opened, meeting his as he continued to move within her mouth. The sight of her there, lips stretched around his cock, eyes dark with trust, nearly undid him completely.

Arthur grew more urgent, his control slipping as pleasure overwhelmed him. Odette took it all, her throat working around him, her tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of his cock.

"Fuck, Odette," Arthur gasped, his hips stuttering. "I'm gonna—"

She hummed around him, the vibration sending him careening toward the edge. Arthur's grip tightened in her hair, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his release.

It hit like lightning. White-hot pleasure that tore through him with devastating force. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he spilled himself into Odette's willing mouth.

She swallowed around him as he pulsed between her lips. The sensation prolonged his orgasm, drawing it out until Arthur was shaking with the intensity of it.

Finally, he collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Odette released him gently, pressing soft kisses to his thighs as he came down from his high.

"Christ," he shook his head in disbelief. "That was..."

Odette crawled up his body, settling beside him on the bed. Her hand rested on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Arthur lay sprawled across Odette's bed, his chest still heaving as the aftershocks of his release rippled through him. The taste of her name lingered on his lips, and he could still feel the ghost of her mouth around him, warm, wet, perfect. His cock twitched weakly against his thigh, already beginning to stir again despite having just emptied himself down her throat.

Christ almighty.

He'd heard the other men in camp talk about such things, their crude boasts around the fire when they thought he wasn't listening. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the reality of it.

Arthur's hand moved to cover his eyes, a shaky laugh escaping him. "Jesus, Odette. I ain't never—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

She was watching him with that satisfied smile on her mouth. Her lips were still swollen from what she'd done to him, glistening slightly in the moonlight that streamed through her bedroom window. The sight sent another jolt of arousal straight to his groin.

"Never what?" she asked softly, carrying that musical Creole accent that made his stomach flip.

Heat crept up his neck. Here he was, a grown man of thirty-six years, blushing like a schoolboy. "Never had a woman do that before," he admitted, embarrassment and lingering pleasure evident in his voice.

She looked surprised at that. Tender. She moved closer to him on the bed, pressing against his side. The warmth of her skin against his melted him, relaxed the muscles in his arms and chest.

"Never?" she whispered, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his sternum.

Arthur shook his head, not trusting his voice. The women he'd been with before, Eliza, Mary, the occasional working girl in various towns, it had always been quick, functional. A release of tension. This... this was something that reached into his chest and squeezed his heart until he thought it might burst.

Odette's hand stilled, right over his heart. "Then I'm honored to be your first."

The vulnerability he saw in her eyes took his breath away. This woman who could kill a man with a thought, who had survived centuries of horror and abuse, she was looking at him like he was something precious. Something worth treasuring.

Arthur's hand came up to caress her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Odette," he started, but she shook her head.

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't say anything you might regret come morning."

Did she think this was just lust? Just the heat of the moment after their victory over the Count, their bodies seeking comfort in the aftermath of violence and terror? The thought struck Arthur, settling heavily in him. He could feel the doubt radiating from her through his gift, that familiar fear of abandonment, of being used and discarded like she had been so many times before.

Arthur sat up abruptly, the movement sudden enough to make the old bed frame creak beneath them. His hands came up, calloused palms gentle against the silk of her cheeks. Her eyes were wide, open.

"Look at me," he said firmly. When her eyes met his, he continued, "I ain't gonna regret nothing about tonight. About you. Ever."

Before she could respond, he was kissing her, pouring everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips against hers.

She tasted like him, he realized. The musky, salt-bitter flavor of his release still lingered in her mouth, and the knowledge that she had swallowed him down, taken him into herself so completely, made his cock pulse with renewed interest.

Arthur pulled back, his breathing already growing heavy again. The recovery time that would have taken him an hour or more as a human had been reduced to mere minutes. Another gift of the venom that had changed him, he supposed.

"My turn."

Odette's eyes widened. "Arthur, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted, his hands already moving to her shoulders, pressing her back against the pillows. "Christ, Odette, I need to."

She looked uncertain, and Arthur realized that maybe she wasn't used to being on the receiving end. The thought made a fierceness, a protectiveness rise in him. How many men had taken from her without giving back? How many had used her body for their own pleasure without a thought for hers?

"Please," he said softly, his lips brushing against her throat. "Let me taste you."

The shiver that ran through her was answer enough. Arthur began his descent slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. He took one dark nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. Odette rolled into his touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips. The sound went straight to his cock, which was now fully hard again and pressing insistently against his belly.

He lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between gentle licks and firmer nips of his teeth, until Odette was squirming beneath him, her fingers wrapped in his hair. Only then did he continue his journey downward.

Her stomach was soft beneath his lips, unmarked by the scars that decorated his own body. He traced the curve of her hip with his tongue, then moved to her inner thigh, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there.

"Arthur," Odette moaned.

He looked up at her from between her legs, taking in the sight of her spread out before him like a feast. Her dark curls were already damp with arousal, and the musky scent of her desire filled his nose, making his mouth water.

"You're beautiful," he said, reverent. "So damn beautiful."

Arthur pressed a soft kiss to her mound, then another to her inner thigh. Odette's hips shifted restlessly, seeking more contact, but he held her still with gentle hands.

"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Let me take my time with you."

He started with soft, teasing licks along her slit, tasting her essence on his tongue. She was sweet and musky, and Arthur groaned at the taste, cock throbbing at his thigh.

Odette's breathing grew more ragged as he explored her with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every fold and crease with careful attention. When he finally parted her with his fingers and delved deeper into her heat, she cried out, her hips bucking against his face.

Arthur's hands moved to her thighs, holding her open as he feasted on her. He found the small bundle of nerves at the top of her sex and circled it with his tongue, drawing another cry from her lips.

Arthur couldn't get enough of her taste, couldn't stop himself from licking and sucking and exploring every inch of her flesh. Her arousal coated his chin, his lips, and he reveled in it.

"Arthur, please," Odette whimpered, her hands fisting in the bedsheets.

He looked up at her, his lips glistening with her essence. "Please what, darlin'?"

"Don't stop," she breathed. "Please don't stop."

Arthur smiled, then sealed his lips around her clit and sucked. Odette's back arched, a keening cry escaping her throat. Her thighs trembled around his head, and Arthur could feel her getting closer to the edge.

He slipped a finger into her, feeling her walls clench around him. She was so tight, so wet, and the thought of being in her made his cock leak.

He added a second finger and curled inside her, pushing deeper, searching for that spot that would send her over the edge. When he found it, Odette's whole body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat.

"Arthur," she gasped.

He worked that spot relentlessly, his tongue flicking against her clit as his fingers thrusted. Odette's breathing became erratic, her hips moving over his face as she built towards her release.

When it hit her, it was like watching a dam burst. Her whole body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Arthur didn't stop, didn't let up, drawing out her orgasm until she was sobbing with the intensity of it.

Finally, she pushed weakly at his head, too sensitive to take any more. Arthur pressed one last, gentle kiss to her swollen flesh before crawling up her body to gather her in his arms.

Odette was trembling, her breathing still uneven as she settled. Arthur held her close, pressing soft kisses to her temple as she recovered.

Even as he wiped them both down with a cloth, he could taste her on his lips, could still feel the ghostly sensation of her coming apart beneath his mouth. It was a memory he would treasure for the rest of his days, however many he had left.

Arthur held Odette close as her trembling subsided, her breath still coming in soft pants against his chest. When she moved, settling more comfortably in his arms, his erection pressed insistently against her thigh.

Odette's eyes fluttered open, meeting his eyes with a lazy smile. "Already?" she murmured, her voice still husky from her release.

"Can't help it," he admitted roughly. "You do things to me, woman."

Before Arthur could react, she was pushing him onto his back, straddling his hips. The sight of her above him: hair wild, skin flushed, breasts swaying slightly with her movement, made his cock throb with renewed urgency.

Arthur's hands found her hips automatically, but she caught his wrists, pinning them to the mattress beside his head. The display of strength shouldn't have surprised him. She was a vampire, after all, but the casual way she overpowered him made his heartbeat quicken.

She began to move then, sliding her slick heat along the length of his cock without taking him inside. Wet warmth coated him, her swollen lips parting around his shaft as she rocked back and forth. Arthur's hips thrusted, seeking more contact, but her grip on his wrists tightened.

"Patience," she breathed, continuing her torturous rhythm.

Arthur groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. Every slide of her pussy along his cock sent sparks of pleasure through him, building a pressure that threatened to drive him mad. He could feel her arousal wetting him, could smell the heady scent of their combined desire filling the air.

"Odette," he gasped, "please—"

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Please what?" She mimicked his tone.

"Need to be inside you," he managed. "Christ, I need—"

His words cut off in a sharp intake of breath as she finally positioned herself over him, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She sank down slowly, taking him inch by torturous inch, her walls stretching to accommodate his girth.

The sensation was overwhelming as tight, wet heat enveloped him, drawing him deeper into her body. Arthur's eyes rolled back, a guttural moan escaping his throat as she settled fully on him, taking every inch he had to give.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hands flexing against her grip. "You feel so good."

Odette released his wrists, bracing her hands on his chest as she began to move. She started slow, lifting herself almost completely off him before sinking back down, each movement controlled. Arthur's hands found her hips again, but he let her set the pace, content to watch her take her pleasure.

She was magnificent like this. Powerful, in control, using him for her own satisfaction. Her nails dug into his chest as she rode him, leaving red crescents in his skin that healed almost instantly. The slight pain only added to his arousal, making his cock stretch inside her.

Arthur's grip on her hips tightened as she began to move faster, her breasts swishing with each thrust. The sight was hypnotic, and he found himself mesmerized by it, and the way her face contorted with pleasure.

She leaned forward suddenly, her teeth grazing his neck, and Arthur's whole body jerked. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves through his nervous system. When she bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but with enough pressure to make him gasp, he thrusted up into her harder.

"Jesus," he groaned, his hands sliding up to grip her back.

Odette's response was to bite harder, her nails raking down his chest in parallel lines that burned and healed in the same breath. The pain mixed with pleasure in a way that made Arthur's vision blur, his cock throbbing inside her with each scratch of her nails.

Arthur found he loved it. Loved the way she took what she wanted from him, loved the evidence of her passion written across his skin. He pulled her closer, encouraging her rougher play, reveling in the way she seemed to lose herself in their coupling.

When she shifted her angle, taking him deeper, Arthur felt the head of his cock press against something firm and yielding inside her. Odette's gasp told him she felt it too, that deep, intimate contact that made them both freeze for a moment.

Her cervix nudged the tip of his cock, could feel the way her body stretched to accommodate him at this depth. Intimate beyond words, a connection that seemed to reach into his very soul.

With a growl, he flipped them, pinning Odette beneath him as he settled between her spread thighs. The change in position drove him even deeper, and they both cried out at the sensation.

He began to move then, angling his thrusts to hit that same deep spot inside her with each stroke. Odette's nails dug into his shoulders, scratching a path down his back as he fucked her.

"Right there," she gasped. "Don't stop, Arthur, don't—"

Her words dissolved into incoherent moans as he maintained his rhythm, each thrust calculated to drive her higher. Arthur could feel her walls fluttering around him, could sense her building toward another climax.

A strange sensation pricked at the center of his forehead, like electricity crackling along his nerves. The venom in his veins surged, and Arthur felt his fangs elongate. The feeling was startling, but before he could worry about it, he caught sight of Odette's face.

Her own fangs had emerged, gleaming white, and the sight was so unexpectedly erotic that Arthur slammed his cock to the hilt inside her, forcing deep moans from the both of them. She looked wild, dangerous, beautiful in a way that could make him forget his own name.

"It's normal," she gasped, seeming to sense his confusion. "When vampires... when we're together like this... the venom responds."

Arthur could feel the truth of her words in the connection between them. This was natural, instinctive, as much a part of their nature as the need for blood. The urge to taste her, to have her taste him, was overwhelming.

"I need—" he started, but couldn't finish the thought.

"I know," Odette whispered, tilting her head to expose the elegant line of her throat. "Take what you need."

Arthur lowered his head, his fangs piercing the soft skin of her neck. The first taste of her blood on his tongue was pure lightning, sending shockwaves through his entire system.

It was nothing like animal blood or human blood. This was vampiric essence, pure life force, and it sang in his veins like the jazz music ringing out the saloon below them. She was layered with centuries of experience and emotion, and Arthur found himself drinking deeper, lost in the taste of her.

Odette's moan vibrated against his lips as he fed, gripping his cock in response to the bite. The sensation of her blood flowing into him while he moved inside her was intimate beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

Then he felt her fangs pierce his shoulder, completing the circuit.

A psychedelic rush hit him, sending his consciousness spinning into a kaleidoscope of sensation and emotion. Arthur could see colors that had no names, could feel Odette's thoughts brushing against his own like gentle hands.

Arthur, she echoed in his mind, clear as if she'd spoken aloud. Can you hear me?

The shock of it nearly made him pull away, but her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close.

How—?

The bond, she explained. It's connecting our minds.

Arthur could feel the truth of it in the way their thoughts seemed to flow together, in the way he could sense her mind as clearly as his own. The sensation was terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.

He continued to move his cock inside her, each thrust sending new waves of sensation through their shared connection. Arthur could feel what she felt, the stretch and fullness, the building pressure, the way his cock hit that perfect spot in her with each stroke. At the same time, she was experiencing his pleasure, the tight grip of her around him, the taste of her blood on his tongue.

The intricate feedback loop built their shared arousal to impossible heights. Arthur's fingers left trails of light under Odette's skin where his hands touched her, golden threads that pulsed with each heartbeat. When he looked down at himself, he could see similar patterns where her fingers gripped his shoulders, silver lines that seemed to connect them on a level deeper than flesh.

Beautiful, she whispered in his mind, and Arthur realized she was seeing the same phenomenon.

The colors intensified as their coupling grew more frantic, more desperate. Auras of light surrounded them both, and the very air crackled with little fireworks of energy. It was like making love inside a lightning storm, every sensation amplified beyond human comprehension.

His thrusts became more urgent as he chased the building pressure inside. Through their bond, he could feel Odette climbing toward her own peak, her pleasure rolling back into his until he couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

But in that moment of ultimate connection, Arthur saw something that stole his breath. Impossibly deep behind Odette's eyes shone an iridescent light that bent and collapsed in on itself into spiralling fractals. Yes, behind her dark irises was something that glowed pure with crystalline starlight.

Something in your eye…

He spoke into her mind.

Her soul. He was looking directly at her soul.

I see yours, too, she responded.

They were connected in a way that transcended flesh, bound together by blood and pleasure.

When her climax finally hit, it crashed through both of them like a tidal wave. Arthur felt her flutter and convulse around him as it ripped through her body, triggering his own release. He came with a deep moan into her neck, cock twitching as he emptied himself in hot spurts.

It took several minutes of labor for breaths before he finally pulled out of her warmth. He reached and grabbed the nearest scrap of his clothing and helped her clean up their mess and blood. Once they were as clean as they could get short of a bath, he slumped back into the bed, tangling himself in Odette 's limbs.

Arthur's vision was still washed with impossible colors as he pulled Odette closer against his chest. Candlelight flickered in patterns breathed and pulsed, making shadows that moved like living things across the walls. When he blinked, trails of golden light followed his eyelashes, and the very air shimmered with residual energy from their blood exchange.

"Jesus," he murmured. "Is it always like that?"

Odette's laugh was soft against his shoulder, her breath warm on his skin. "Anytime we swap blood, it's like that."

She reached for a flask on the nightstand, her movements leaving faint traces of silver light in the air. Arthur watched as she unscrewed the cap and took a sip of bourbon before passing it to him. The metal felt strangely warm against his lips, and the whiskey burned with flavors he'd never noticed before, honey and wheat.

"The walls," Arthur said, staring at the far corner where the wallpaper undulated like water. "They're moving."

"Vampire blood is psychoactive," Odette explained, settling more comfortably against him. "Especially when it's shared between two of our kind. The venom heightens everything. Sight, sound, touch, emotion." She danced across his chest with her fingertips, each touch leaving brief sparks of sensation. "It's the venom's way of encouraging bonds between vampires."

Arthur took another sip from the flask. "How long does it last?"

"Two, three hours. Depends on how much blood was exchanged." She tilted her head. Her eyes still held that otherworldly gleam, pupils dilated wide and dark. "You took quite a bit from me."

"Sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize. I wanted you to."

He passed her the flask again, then reached for his cigarettes tucked away in the pocket of his forgotten pants. His fingers felt clumsy, oversensitive, and the simple act of striking a match sent cascades of orange sparks across his vision. When he lit the cigarette, the smoke curled upward in spirals that formed shapes. Faces, silhouettes given motion and form.

"This… bond," Arthur said, taking a drag and passing the cigarette to Odette. "That thing where I could hear your thoughts. Is that permanent?"

Odette considered this, exhaling smoke that danced in impossible patterns. "It can be. Depends on how strong the connection becomes, how often it's reinforced." She met his eyes. "Do you want it to be?"

Arthur found himself eyeing her face in the low light, the way shadows played across her cheekbones, the curve of her lips around the cigarette. When she'd bitten him, when their blood had mingled, he'd felt a recognition, like coming home to a place he'd never been.

"I ain't sure I understand what it means," he admitted. "All of this. The venom, the bond, what we just did. It's like nothing I ever experienced."

"What do you want to know?"

Arthur took the cigarette back, his fingers brushing hers. Even that simple touch sent little shockwaves into his hand, and he could swear he saw threads of light connecting their skin. "Everything. The colors I'm seeing, the way I could feel what you were feeling."

He thought of the little light he saw behind her eyes that flashed when he peered into them. The one she claimed to have seen in him, too.

Her soul.

The word should have sounded ridiculous, but Arthur found he believed it completely. That light, it burned with ancient fire and infinite depth. It had been beautiful and terrible and utterly real.

"Is that normal? For vampires, I mean?"

"No." Odette was thoughtful. "That level of connection... it's rare. Most vampires can share blood without forming a true bond."

Arthur absorbed this, watching the smoke from their shared cigarette form intricate patterns as it rose. The walls continued their gentle breathing motion, and music drifting up from the saloon below, piano and horns blasting ripples of golden sound waves through the air.

"These… psy-cho-ac-tive... effects as you called 'em," he said, and she giggled. He chuckled with her. "They're stronger because of the bond?"

"Partly. But also because you're still new to this." Odette shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Your venom is still adapting, still learning. It absorbs information, patterns, memories."

Arthur frowned, trying to process this through the haze of lingering euphoria. "Memories?"

"Fragments. Impressions. Nothing clear, usually, but..." She hesitated. "You might see flashes of things I've experienced. Places I've been, people I've known. It's part of how vampire knowledge is passed. My memories mix with yours until you can't tell which is which."

The thought should have been disturbing. Arthur found it oddly comforting. To carry pieces of her with him, to know her in a way that went beyond words or touch. He reached for the flask again, the bourbon helping to ground him as the visual distortions continued their slow dance around the room.

"Dutch said," Arthur began, then stopped. The mention of his former mentor felt wrong here, in this sacred space they'd created. But the words had already started, and he found he needed to finish them. "He said that love don't last. Not for people like us. Like me."

Odette was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. "What do you think?"

Arthur looked at her. Her hair, and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Her eyes still held traces of that impossible inner light. He thought about how her thoughts had soothed his mind, the absolute rightness of being inside her as their blood mingled.

"I think Dutch was wrong about a lot of things," he said finally.

He took another drag from their cigarette. The smoke tasted like her now, like the blood they'd shared. Around them, the room continued its gentle breathing, walls expanding and contracting like the inside of some great living thing.

"With you, I feel… complete," he said, surprising himself with the honesty. "Like I been walking around with a piece missing my whole life, and I just found it."

Silence kept the words in the air. But when Odette smiled, that real soft and wondering smile, he knew he'd said the right thing.

"I feel it too," she whispered. "This thing between us." She reached up to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

Arthur caught her hand, pressing it flat against his cheek. Through their skin-to-skin contact, he could feel echoes of her emotions: warmth, affection, love as deep and profound as the sea of stars across the night sky.

"I ain't a good man, Odette. I done things—"

"We've all done things." Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "Can't change what you've done. It's what choose to do now."

Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. The psychedelic effects were beginning to fade, the walls settling back into stillness, the trails of light growing dimmer. But the connection between them remained.

When he opened his eyes again, Odette was looking at him, her thumb trailing along the scar on his chin.

"I love you," he said, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. "I know it's crazy, but—"

"Arthur." She said gently. "I love you too."

"You do?"

"I do." She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Completely. Utterly." She said in between kisses.

Yes, Arthur was certain he loved this woman. Down to his bones, through every scar and sin, he knew it. It was a truth more solid than the ground beneath them.

For the first time since the bite that changed him, hope for the future bloomed inside him, delicate as a grass shoot breaking winter soil, yet stubborn as a beating heart.

Chapter 32

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn

Chapter Summary: Odette frees herself from the Count once and for all.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 30

Words: 1,855

Freedom wept tears of joy as it burned through Odette's system like a forest fire, melting away the final remaining tendrils of the Count's control. In its place surged a power she'd never felt before. It was pure, untainted by fear or memory. She stood tall, proud in the face of the Count.

Arthur was struggling, pinned against the wall by the Count's strength. Blood streaked his face, but his eyes still burned bright. The sight of him fighting for her, for himself, for a chance at something better, ignited something fierce within Odette.

"Let him go, Ulysse."

The Count turned to her, his gaunt face splitting into a terrible smile. "There she is. My beautiful creation, finally showing her teeth."

"I ain't your anything," Odette replied, stepping forward. Cécile moved beside her. The girl's presence was a reminder of everything they were fighting for. 

The Count released Arthur, who dropped to his knees, gasping. In an instant, the mausoleum around them warped and shifted. The stained glass windows multiplied, reflecting distorted images of the Count. His laughter echoed from everywhere at once.

"You're still in my world," he hissed. "My Mindscape. Here, I am God."

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, staggering to Odette's side. He spit blood onto the marble floor.

Odette reached for Arthur's hand, her fingers intertwining with his. The connection steadied her, anchored her to reality even as the Count's illusions swirled around them. She could sense the change in Arthur when he activated his gift; a subtle shift in his energy, his breathing becoming more measured, eyes more focused.

The Count snarled, lunging at them with a newfound speed. Odette moved without thinking, pulling Arthur aside as Cécile darted in the opposite direction. They separated, forcing the Count to divide his attention.

"Clever," the Count laughed, his form splitting into three identical versions, each pursuing one of them.

Odette faced her opponent and the centuries between them. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about reclaiming everything he had stolen from her.

"Remember what I taught you," she called to Cécile, who was dodging her own version of the Count with remarkable agility. "Focus on what's real!"

Arthur was doing just that, using his fear sense to distinguish the true Count from his illusions. He struck left, his silver blade slicing through empty air as the Count vanished and reappeared behind him.

The Count hissed, lunging at Arthur with renewed fury. But Arthur was ready, anticipating the attack through his gift. He ducked under the Count's grasp, driving his shoulder into the vampire's midsection and sending him stumbling back toward Odette.

This was the opening she needed.

Odette concentrated, feeling the blood in the Count's body respond to her call. She never had the strength to hold someone as powerful as the Count for long, but in this moment, with Arthur beside her and Cécile watching, she found reserves of strength she didn't know she possessed.

The Count froze mid-step, his limbs locking as Odette's power took hold.

"Unhand me," he spat, fighting against her control.

"No, I don't think I will."

She forced him to his knees, feeling his blood respond to her will. The illusions around them flickered and faded as the Count's concentration broke. The three versions of him merged back into one, kneeling before them in the center of the mausoleum. Odette's arms trembled with the effort of holding the Count in place.

Arthur, having lost his silver blade in the scuffle long ago, moved quickly, finding nearby items to fashion a torch as he approached the Count. Cécile circled around, ready to intervene if the Count broke free.

"You think this ends with me?" the Count laughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he fought against Odette's hold. "You will become me. Your control will slip and you'll remember the taste of murder and you'll never go back. The venom will turn you. All of you. It's only a matter of time."

"No, Ulysse. The venom doesn't change who you are. Just magnifies what already is. And what you are is a void that can never be filled. Never be loved. And you will not pull me down with you again."

She tightened her grip on his blood, feeling the dark satisfaction of having her tormentor at her mercy. His laughter had faltered, replaced by a guttural choke as she twisted her hand, forcing his back to straighten. Her other hand gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. "You should have known this was coming. That one day, I would outgrow you."

Arthur struck a match against the rough stone wall. The small flame danced between his fingers as he touched it to the oil-soaked rag wrapped around a broken chair leg. The makeshift torch caught fire quickly.

In the flickering light, Odette was there. She wore a mask of concentration, arms outstretched, fingers curled into claws. The Count cowered on his knees, held down by invisible threads of his own blood under Odette's command. His pale skin had gone ashen, his once-imperious eyes now white with disbelief.

"You cannot," the Count sputtered, "I-I am eternal. I am—"

The Count's body jerked violently as he struggled against Odette's hold. Arthur could feel the ancient vampire's emotions bleeding into his mind through his fear sense, now, flowing easy like a river in the springtime. Rage, bitterness, pride, and beneath it all… fear.

"He's scared," Arthur turned to Odette. "Scared of dyin' just like any other man."

Odette's eyes never left the Count as blood trickled from her nose with the effort of holding him.

Arthur extended the flaming torch toward her. "I reckon it's only right that you finish it."

Their fingers brushed as she took the torch, and in that brief contact, Arthur felt it, his gift untamed. He could sense a whole range of emotions, not just the primal ones like fear, anger or lust. Odette's determination, her pain, her hope for what might come after. It was like discovering a new set of colors he'd never known existed before.

He stepped back, giving her space for what needed to be done.

The Count's eyes widened as Odette approached, torch held high.

"You would not dare!"

The Count's composure finally shattered. The vampire's fear was wild now. Raw, primitive terror flooding through Arthur's gift. Fear of oblivion, of true death after centuries of existence. The fear of judgment for countless atrocities.

"Please," the Count whispered. "Odette, my child—"

She thrust the torch forward. The flames caught the Count's elaborate coat, spreading quickly across the ancient fabric. The vampire's scream echoed through the mausoleum as fire engulfed him. A sound of pure anguish, glorious and unrelenting.

Arthur stood beside Odette as the Count writhed, unable to drop and roll or flee from the flames that consumed him. The fire reflected in the stained-glass windows, and prismatic silhouettes flitted across the stone floor.

Cécile moved to Odette's other side. She spat at the burning figure for good measure.

The Count's screams grew weaker as the fire burned hotter, reducing him to a puddle of blood and flesh. Arthur could feel his fear fading, replaced by resignation. Perhaps, even relief. Arthur figured after centuries of darkness, even monsters might long for an end.

He reached for Odette's hand again, entwining his fingers with hers. She squeezed back, her grip strong in spite of the trembling that ran through her body. Without a word, she laid her head against his shoulder, her eyes never leaving the burning figure before them.

They stood together, hand in hand, as the Count's form collapsed into embers and ash.

The silence that followed was profound. No more screams. No more whispers in their minds. Just the quiet crackling of dying flames and the sound of their own breathing.

The air stank of burnt flesh and old stone. For the first time in months, Arthur's mind was clear. The Count's fear had vanished from his senses, leaving only a hollow space where that terrible presence had been.

He looked down at himself. Blood spattered his shirt and vest. Some his own, some belonging to the Count, some from wounds he couldn't even remember receiving in the frantic battle. His hands trembled slightly, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

Then his eyes found Odette.

Her chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths when she looked up at him. Blood streaked her face like war paint, and her dress was torn at the shoulder. The torch had burned down to almost nothing in her hand before she dropped it, letting the stub smolder on the stone floor.

Arthur had seen beauty before. Sunsets over the Dakota River. Wild horses running free across the plains. The first snowfall blanketing a mountain meadow. But nothing compared to the sight of Odette in that moment. Fierce. Triumphant. Finally free.

He studied her face, committing every detail to memory. The curve of her full lips. The arch of her cheekbones. The small scar near her left eyebrow. The way her dark eyes caught the remaining firelight, turning them to liquid gold.

She looked up at him then, too. Her gaze traveled over his face with the same intensity he'd given her, as if she too was memorizing him, storing away the image for safekeeping.

The distance between them seemed both vast and insignificant. He could hear Cécile walking off somewhere behind them, but she might as well have been miles away.

The French woman was right.

He and Odette, they'd been circling each other for months now, drawing close only to pull away again. Always finding reasons why they couldn't, shouldn't.

But the Count was dead. Dutch was dead. The path forward was uncertain but full of possibility.

Arthur reached up, his thumb gently wiping a streak of blood from her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath his touch as she leaned into it.

That was all it took. All the hesitation, all the careful distance he'd maintained, it crumbled like leaves in the wind.

"Arthur," she whispered.

Arthur pulled her close, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her face. Their lips met with the force of a storm breaking. She tasted of blood and smoke and herbs.

Her arms wound around his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer still. Arthur deepened the kiss, pouring everything he had into it. His admiration, his desire, his gratitude for her strength, his promise to stand beside her.

The world went small, became just the two of them. The feel of her body pressed against his. The light sound she made in the back of her throat. The way her lips moved against his, soft and wanton and perfect.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Arthur kept his forehead pressed to hers. His hands framed her face, thumbs tracing the line of her jaw. For a moment, all they could do was stand there staring at each other, lost.

"Kiss me again," she said.

How could he not oblige?

Chapter 31

[istayniche]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

! COMPLETED !

Masterpost

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Words: 94,857

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn, angst, death, grief, smut, fluffy ending, warning: SA! mentioned, warning: character death, warning: child death

Arthur urged his reluctant mount forward, following the tracks. Vision warbled. Fever blurred and spun the world around him. But beneath the fever, something else burned, hot as a skillet.

Outrage.

That woman had attacked him, bitten him, had done something to him. Forced her blood in his mouth and given him some kind of disease that made his skin feel too tight and his senses too sharp.

I'll find you, he thought to himself as his teeth clenched against a wave of nausea. I'll get answers, and then I'll kill you.

Dutch is gone. Arthur’s body is changing. The hunger won’t stop. And everyday, more people are going missing.

Something bad is happening in Saint Denis.

AO3 LINK

This story is a stand alone, but is the first installment in my Red Dead AU anthology series, Red Dead But It's... where I will be exploring different themes through characters of Red Dead.

Find your chapters here 👇🏾

Act 1

Chapters 1 - 10

Act 2

Chapters 11 - 25

Act 3

Chapters 26 - 32

[istayniche]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Act 3

Chapters 26 - 32

MASTERPOST HERE

Chapter 26

Odette, Arthur, and John work hard to bring Cécile back to the land of the living. Arthur makes a promise he hopes he can keep.

Chapter 27

The people of Saint Denis have chosen their monarch of the city's underbelly.

Chapter 28

Cécile convinces John to turn back to safety. Odette asks a request of Arthur.

Chapter 29

Arthur, Cécile, and Odette face the Count.

Chapter 30

Odette frees herself from the Count once and for all.

Chapter 31

John waits impatiently for the group to return. Celebrations ensue. Arthur and Odette have other plans.

Chapter 32

Life carries on.

[istayniche]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Act 2

Chapters 11 - 25

MASTERPOST HERE

Chapter 11

Nightmares of the monster that turned her plague Odette's sleep. Arthur improves with his gift, but still struggles with his cravings. In the quiet hours, his thoughts of her spiral into a mess of wanting.

Chapter 12

Sparks catch between Odette and Arthur. John Marston returns, demanding answers.

Chapter 13

Odette worries Arthur won't be able to handle his cravings. Arthur recovers.

Chapter 14

Cécile sees an opportunity to talk with John. Arthur and John both share strange dreams.

Chapter 15

Odette and Arthur follow a trail of clues that ends with an unexpected development in Arthur's gift.

Chapter 16

John and Cécile face danger together. Things are awkward between Arthur and Odette.

Chapter 17

Things heat up between John and Cécile. Arthur is witness to the nightmares lurking in Odette's mind.

Chapter 18

John discovers Micah's involvement in Dutch's plans. Cécile is incensed John didn't speak up sooner. Another old face turns up again. Arthur struggles to do what needs to be done.

Chapter 19

John undergoes strange visions induced by vampire blood. Arthur and Odette work out their differences over Bill.

Chapter 20

John and Arthur bond over lady troubles. Cécile moves alone to find answers about Dutch.

Chapter 21

Cécile informs the group about the Count and Dutch's plan. Odette suggests the rest of them leave town while she faces the Count alone. Arthur and the others will hear none of it.

Chapter 22

Arthur makes a careless mistake.  When Cécile pays the price, John can't hide his anger.

Chapter 23

Dutch proposes that Cécile try and see things from his perspective.

Chapter 24

John, Odette, and Arthur attempt to rescue Cécile.

Chapter 25

Odette tries her best to hold everyone together.

[istayniche]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Act 1

Chapters 1 - 10

MASTERPOST HERE

Chapter 1

Dutch is gone. Arthur’s body is changing. The hunger won’t stop. And everyday, more people are going missing. Something bad is happening in Saint Denis.

Chapter 2

Cécile must find answers after what those men did to her. Arthur questions what Dutch has gotten himself into on his search for the missing leader.

Chapter 3

The French woman begins to change. Arthur is witness to a profound horror he never thought possible.

Chapter 4

Arthur awakes with a fever that won't quit and a strange, disturbing hunger.

Chapter 5

Odette had enough to worry about without two feral newborns running loose in Saint Denis. Arthur gets more i what he bargained for when seeking a cure for his ailment.

Chapter 6

Odette tries to get answers about the French woman who bit Arthur. Arthur undergoes a painful transformation as his gestational period ends.

Chapter 7

Odette makes a deal with Cécile. Tragedy strikes Arthur.

Chapter 8

Arthur makes his way back to La Rose Noire a changed man.

Chapter 9

Arthur turns to Odette for answers. Odette lays out the ground rules for her two newborns. Cécile can feel the tension sprouting, despite their stubborn denials.

Chapter 10

Time passes. Arthur tries to reconcile with his grief. A familiar face joins the fold once again.

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn, angst

Chapter Summary: Arthur, Cécile, and Odette face the Count.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 29

Words: 2,764

Moonlight filtered through the twisted cypress branches, making silhouettes that creeped across the weathered stone façade. The old behind Ascension Church reeked. The sickly-sweet odor of decay that reminded him of battlefields after the rain. That familiar scent of endings that no amount of perfume or prayers could disguise.

Arthur Morgan stood motionless, watching the silver light play across the ancient crypt, wondering what secrets, or horrors, waited within those silent walls. He studied the blackened stained-glass windows, each depicting scenes of torment that seemed to writhe in the darkness. The grand doors hung slightly ajar, inviting them in.

Cécile swore under her breath. "I can... feel him. In my head."

Arthur clutched his revolver and pistol tightly in each hand. His fingers had a gentle tremor, and he cursed himself for it. He'd faced down gangs, lawmen, and beasts of all kinds, but something about this place, about facing the Count, stole the warmth from his bones like winter air on a low fire.

"Stay close." Odette told them both.

They entered the mausoleum together, the doors creaking shut behind them. Inside, rows of pews lined the central aisle, but they weren't empty. Each held bleached bones arranged with meticulous care, as if an entire congregation had died mid-sermon and been stripped to their skeletons.

Arthur tried to swallow the absolute dread that rose in his throat as they crept through the stronghold. His fear sense picked up scattered terrors. Odette's memories of abuse, Cécile's trauma, and the Count, too, vast and ancient, lurking at the edges of his perception.

The main chamber opened before them, illuminated by hundreds of candles that flickered light across marble floors. And there, lounging on what could only be described as a throne made of melted gold and bone, sat Count Ulysse Voyer.

"Arthur Morgan. What a delight you've been to watch."

The Count's words clung to the walls of the chamber like frost to a windowpane, each syllable sending icy tendrils down Arthur's spine. He appeared ageless, skin pale as milk, black veins visible beneath the surface like dark rivers frozen in time. His aristocratic features were carved from marble. His eyes, though. Those eyes had watched empires rise and fall, had seen countless men like Arthur come and go. Mayflies in the summer dusk.

Arthur raised his gun. "Dutch is dead. It's over."

"Over?" The Count laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber. "My dear boy, we've only just begun our acquaintance."

He stood with fluid grace, straightening the cuffs of his antiquated coat. "You know, I've been watching you since the moment Odette took you in. Such a fascinating specimen. So full of guilt and loyalty. So desperate for redemption."

Arthur's finger tightened on the trigger, attempting to shoot, but the gun jammed. Arthur cycled through the revolver's house of bullets, but found nothing out of order. He'd tested this gun dozens of times, had no problem using it an hour ago when Dutch's men were raining on them like a summer storm, so what the hell happened to it? The Count continued, unhurried, unbothered.

"You think she's yours, don't you?" The Count's gaze flicked to Odette. "How quaint."

Heat rushed up Arthur's neck. "She ain't nobody's."

"Oh, but she is. And she knows it." The Count smiled, revealing teeth too sharp, too numerous. The creature could only stare hungrily at Odette, almost ignoring Arthur and Cécile entirely until he spoke again. "She's been mine for centuries. Everything she is, everything she knows, I shaped it all. The blood in her veins still sings to me."

"She ain't nobody's!" Arthur repeated, taking a step forward, attempting to shoot his other gun, and watching with confusion as it clicked uselessly.

"Arthur." Odette spoke through his building rage. "Don't. This isn't real. He's messing with your mind, making you think the guns aren't working. He just wants you to lose control."

The Count's smile widened. "Smart girl. You always were my favorite creation."

The Count moved with urgent speed, a blur of motion that sent Arthur crashing into the pews. Bones scattered across the floor as he struggled to his feet, firing off a shot that the Count dodged effortlessly.

Cécile attacked from the side, her blade flashing, but the Count caught her wrist and flung her across the room like she weighed nothing.

Arthur focused, reaching out with his fear sense, trying to find a weakness, any weakness. But tapping into the Count's mind was like sinking into a vat of steaming hot pitch. Centuries of malice, of calculated cruelty and sadistic pleasure flooded into Arthur's consciousness. It was so dark, so full of suffering and pain that it threw him off his game, sending him staggering backward.

"Is that all you have?" the Count taunted. "Trying to see into my mind?" He laughed, "like watching a kitten fight an alligator. My dear Odette, your sad children need much more training and discipline. What have you been teaching them?"

Odette moved then, her hands outstretched as she called upon her blood manipulation. The Count's movements stuttered as she forced his blood to thicken, to slow. She had him.

"You don't even know where you are, my love. You've gotten sloppy since you ran away. We can fix that."

The threat of his voice continue to ring in Arthur's ears as the Count laughed. The sound itself seemed to twist reality around them. The chamber warped, the walls bleeding into floors, candles melting upward instead of down. Arthur felt his own blood rebelling against him, hot and painful in his veins.

"The Mindscape is my domain," the Count said, his voice coming from everywhere at once. "Did you think your little parlor tricks would work here?"

Arthur watched in horror as Odette's concentration faltered. He could sense Odette's fear now, too, raw and primal. The terror of a woman facing the monster who had stolen centuries of her life. As reality shifted around them, her hands shook terribly, and the Count's laughter grew to a roar.

Odette faltered, crumpled, her hands clamped over her ears.

Dread washed over Arthur as Odette fell to her knees, her hands pressed against her temples, face contorted in agony. The woman who'd stood tall against Dutch's men, who'd faced down hoardes of newborns without flinching, now shook and trembled like a cornered animal. Her golden-brown skin had gone ashen, with dark eyes of pure terror.

"Odette!" Arthur lunged forward, desperate to reach her.

His boots hit the marble floor, legs pumping, but the distance between them stretched impossibly. Each step carried him nowhere, like running through a nightmare. The Count's laughter reverberated through the chamber.

"Don't fight it, my dear," the Count crooned to Odette. "Remember how peaceful it is to surrender."

"Get outta her head, you ugly son of a bitch!" Arthur roared, emptying his revolver toward the Count. The bullets hung suspended in midair before dissolving into black smoke.

Cécile darted past him, her blade flashing as she attempted to reach Odette from another angle. "Odette! Look at me!"

The Count flicked his wrist casually. The floor beneath Cécile rippled like water, sending her stumbling into a wall that hadn't been there seconds before. When she tried to stand, the shadows around her thickened, wrapping around her limbs.

"Such amusing little pets you've collected," the Count said to Odette, who had gone still, her eyes vacant. "They truly believe they can challenge me in my own domain."

A chill settled in his gut as Odette slowly stood. Her movements were wrong. Too easy and quick. Her head tilted as her gaze locked onto Arthur.

"She's quite fond of you, cowboy," the Count said, circling behind Odette, his fingers trailing along her shoulders. "I can feel every thought, every desire she's tried to hide."

"Fight him, Odette!" Arthur called out. "You're stronger than this bastard!"

The Count laughed. "She thinks you're so noble, Arthur Morgan. A man trying to outrun his sins. She imagines your hands on her skin, wonders what your stubble would feel like against her neck." He leaned closer to Odette's ear. "Shall we show him how well I know your body, my love?"

Arthur's rage boiled over. He charged forward, and this time the floor didn't shift away. But before he could reach them, Odette's hand shot out. Arthur felt his blood thicken, slowing his movement as every vessel in his body constricted painfully.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The Count smiled. "Her gift truly is remarkable. The things we could accomplish together if she'd only accept her place."

Arthur struggled against the invisible grip, fighting to move as his own blood betrayed him. Through gritted teeth, he managed, "She ain't... yours... to control no more."

The Count's smile vanished. "Kill him."

Odette shot forward with vampiric speed. Her fist connected with Arthur's jaw, sending him crashing into a stone pillar that crumbled on impact. He barely rolled away before her boot came down where his head had been.

"Arthur!" Cécile shouted, finally breaking free of the shadows. She sprinted toward them.

Arthur ducked another of Odette's strikes. He knew he could match her strength but hesitated to fight back with full force.

"She's wondering if you'll keep your promise, Arthur," the Count called out. "If you'll kill her rather than let me use her. Such an endearing request."

Arthur dodged a kick that would have crushed his ribs. "You ain't gotta worry 'bout that," he told Odette, hoping some part of her could hear him. "'Cause I'm gonna kill him instead."

His fear sense flared, giving him a glimpse of Odette's terror buried beneath the Count's control. Her raging horror at being trapped in her own body, forced to attack those she cared for. Arthur used the momentary connection to predict her movements, narrowly avoiding a strike that would have torn out his throat.

"She's tired of running," the Count continued, reading Odette's thoughts with cruel precision. "Centuries of loneliness, of looking over her shoulder. She almost gave in, Arthur, the night you kissed her. Almost let herself believe she deserved goodness."

Arthur's distraction cost him. Odette's hand closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground. Her grip was iron, eyes vacant. Still, Arthur refused to strike with full force.

"Come on, cowboy," the Count taunted. "Fight back. Show us what that outlaw spirit is worth."

Cécile attacked from behind, attempting to grab Odette's arm, to connect and force a memory exchange. Odette released Arthur and spun with unnatural speed, catching Cécile's wrist. Blood welled between them as Odette manipulated it to form razor-sharp tendrils that slashed across Cécile's chest.

Arthur's fear sense surged again, this time picking up on the Count's anticipation. He was enjoying this too much. Playing with them.

"What will it be, Arthur Morgan? Will you let her kill your young friend? Or will you honor Odette's wish and end her suffering?" The Count smirked. "She's begging for it, you know. Screaming inside her own mind."

Arthur staggered to his feet, blood leaking from a dozen wounds that were already starting to heal. Odette stood between him and Cécile, her hands raised, blood hovering in crimson strands around her fingers.

"I know you can hear me, Odette," Arthur said, low and steady and boiling with hatred for the Count. "And I ain't giving up on you."

Her consciousness swam in a sea of black, limbs paralyzed by memories she'd spent centuries trying to bury. The Count's voice sauntered through Odette's mind, familiar and toxic, pulling her back to that night in Saint-Domingue when her humanity had been ripped away. His hands on her throat. The sickening crack of her bones. The copper taste of his blood forced down her throat.

"Do you remember how you begged, my sweet?" The Count resonated through her skull. "How prettily you wept?"

She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. The Mindscape had her trapped in an endless loop of her own trauma, forcing her to relive each violation, each degradation, each moment of helplessness from two centuries of captivity.

Distantly, as if through murky water, she heard Arthur's roar of rage.

"Get the hell away from her!"

A sickening thud. The sound of flesh hitting stone. Arthur was fighting for her, and she was trapped, useless, inside her own head.

"You think she wants you?" The Count's voice echoed, dripping with amusement. "Shall I tell you what she truly thinks of you, cowboy? How she pities your childish devotion? How she laughs at your fumbling attempts at affection?"

Another crash. Arthur's grunt of pain.

"She sees you as a stray dog. Loyal, predictable, useful for a time. She's had dozens like you over the centuries. Men who thought themselves special. None of them were."

The Count's laughter filled the chamber. "She fears your hunger more than she desires your touch. She knows what lurks beneath that paper-thin control of yours."

Odette struggled against the invisible bonds holding her mind captive. Lies. All lies. But she couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't reach Arthur to tell him the truth.

Through the haze of her imprisonment, Odette felt small hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her. Cécile's voice, distant but desperate.

"Odette! Réveille-toi! Wake up!"

The girl's touch was an anchor, pulling her briefly toward the surface of consciousness before the Count's control dragged her back under. Odette fought, clawing toward Cécile's voice, but the centuries pressed in on her from everywhere at once.

"She's hiding so much from you, Arthur," the Count continued, his voice silky with malice. "Ask her about New Hanover in 1757. Ask her about all the men she's loved and buried. Ask her about the children she's killed."

A terrible crash. Arthur's cry of pain. The Count was winning.

"Odette!" Cécile's voice again, more urgent. "Listen to me. He's killing Arthur. You must fight!"

Odette tried to respond, but her lips wouldn't move. She was drowning in her own memories: the Count's face looming over her, his hands around her throat, his voice in her ear: Mine. Always mine.

Through the fog of her mind, she felt Cécile's hands on her face, the girl's fingertips pressing against her temples. A desperate gamble.

"Pardonne-moi," (Forgive me,) Cécile whispered.

Light burst into her world.

Memories flooded through Odette's mind. Not her own this time, but Cécile's. Bright, vivid, overwhelming. Cécile was using her gift, pushing her own memories into Odette's consciousness, breaking through the Count's hold with sheer force of will.

Odette saw herself through Cécile's eyes that first night. Tall, regal, frightening in her power, gentle in her guidance. She felt Cécile's awe, her gratitude, her growing affection.

The images shifted, faster now. Arthur at the bar, his eyes following Odette when he thought she wasn't looking. The way he smiled when she entered a room. His fierce protectiveness, his unwavering loyalty. Genuine care.

More memories cascaded through her. The working girls at La Rose Noire, laughing as Odette taught them to read by candlelight. The neighbors who brought her flowers on her birthday. John and Cécile, finding comfort in each other's arms, made possible by the sanctuary Odette had created.

A community. A family. Built by her hands over decades.

The Count's voice distanced, his hold weakening as Cécile's memories washed over her like a cleansing rain. This was who she truly was. Not the broken creature he'd created, but the woman she'd fought to become despite him.

"Reviens à nous," (Come back to us,) Cécile pleaded, her arms wrapping around Odette's rigid form.

Something cracked within her mind. A fracture in the Count's control. She seized it, pushing against his influence with renewed strength. Her fingers twitched. Her lips parted.

I am not yours, her inner voice spoke, hoarse but growing stronger. I never was.

The Count's howl of rage reverberated through the chamber as Odette's eyes snapped open, gold and burning with fury. Cécile's arms were around her, the girl's face streaked with tears and blood.

"You did it," Cécile breathed, hugging her tighter.

Odette's gaze found Arthur across the chamber, pinned against the wall by the Count. He raked a claw across Arthur's neck, leaving a deep and jagged wound. The veins around the wound turned black and began to sizzle with corrupted blood. Arthur's eyes went wild with pain as he struggled against the Count's grip.

"He's too strong," Cécile whispered. "Arthur can't—"

"He can," Odette said, rising to her feet. Power surged through her veins as she stretched out her hand, feeling the blood in the Count's body respond to her call. "'Cause I'll be right there with him."

Chapter 30

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn, fluff

Chapter Summary: Cécile convinces John to turn back to safety. Odette asks a request of Arthur.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 28

Words: 2,046

Dutch's body slump to the ground before bursting into a misty cloud of blood. A strange emptiness filled Cécile where satisfaction should have been. She had imagined this moment differently. Perhaps with trumpets or a cheering crowd. Instead, there was only the hollow, wet smack of his remains hitting the floorboards and Arthur's ragged breathing.

She wiped blood from her face, not sure if it belonged to her or one of Dutch's men. It didn't matter. What mattered was that they had won. Or so she thought.

A whisper sliced through her skull.

"Come to me. You know where I will be."

The words weren't spoken aloud. They reverberated inside her head, each syllable pulsing behind her eyes.

"Merde," she pressed her palms against her temples. "You hear that?"

Arthur nodded grimly, his face pale beneath the blood spatter. Odette had a look that Cécile hadn't seen before. Terrible recognition.

"The Count," Odette whispered. "He's done hiding."

John staggered toward them, clutching his side where one of Dutch's men had slashed him. Blood seeped between his fingers, staining his shirt dark crimson.

"What the hell was that?"

Cécile moved to his side, steadying him as he swayed. "Mon Dieu, you are bleeding like stuck pig."

"I'm fine," John insisted, though his face had gone ashen. "If that voice is who I think it is, I'm coming with you."

Odette shook her head firmly. "You're going back to the saloon."

"Like hell I am," John straightened, winced.

Cécile could see the stubborn set of his eyes, the same expression he wore whenever he thought he was right about something. Usually, she found it endearing. Now, it made her want to slap him.

"You can't even stand straight," she said. "Tu es fou si tu penses que je te laisse venir avec nous." (You're crazy if you think I'll let you come with us.)

"I don't need to stand to shoot," John countered.

Arthur sighed heavily. "John—"

"Don't 'John' me," he snapped. "I've earned my place in this fight."

Cécile felt her patience evaporate. She grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Écoute-moi, roi des cons! (Listen to me, king of idiots!) You think this is about proving something? About earning your place?"

He flinched at her intensity.

"This Count, he is… not like Dutch," she continued. "He is ancient. More powerful than anything we face before. If you come with us—" She broke off, the words sticking in her throat.

Dutch's memories filled her thoughts. Flashes of the Count's true form, a darkness that swallowed up light like prey. The thought of John, a strong fighter but a mere human, facing that vile creature, threatened fearful tears to spill over.

"Not safe for you," she said finally, softer. 

John's face was a complicated flurry of pain, frustration, concern. "And what about you? You think I'm just gonna sit back while you walk into danger?"

"I am a vampire," she tapped her chest. "Hard to kill. You?" She poked at his wounded side gently, making him wince. "Not so much."

"She's right," Odette interjected. "I need someone at the saloon. If we fail," She handed him the master key from her pocket, "it's yours."

John looked between them, his resistance dissolving. Cécile knew he wasn't convinced, but he was weakening. She pressed her advantage, standing on tiptoe to press her forehead against his.

"S’te plaît," she whispered. "Please. I cannot fight if I worry for you."

It was manipulative, perhaps, but not untrue. The thought of John dying, truly dying, with no coming back, scared her more than facing the Count.

He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her face. "Fine," he conceded grudgingly. "But if you ain't back by dawn—"

"We will be," she interrupted, not wanting to hear what desperate plan he might concoct.

Cécile rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. A brief, sweet kiss. A promise, not a goodbye.

"Go," she pulled away. "Fix yourself up."

John caught her hand before she could step back. "Be careful," he said.

"Toujours," she replied with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. "Always."

She watched as he reluctantly turned away, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the night. Only when he was out of sight did she allow her smile to fade.

Cécile watched John's silhouette disappear into the darkness, his shoulders hunched against the pain of his wound. The rosiness in her cheeks remained even after he was long gone.

She hadn't expected to care this much. Not for an American, not for anyone. Yet here she was, holding back tears at the thought of him bleeding alone in the night.

"He'll be fine," Arthur broke her reverie. "That boy's survived worse scrapes than this."

Cécile turned to find that knowing glint in his eyes. She straightened her spine.

"I know this," she replied, lifting her chin. "John Marston is like a cockroach. Impossible to kill."

Arthur's mouth curled upward. "Funny, I don't recall you looking at him like he's a cockroach just now." He mimicked her, batting his eyelashes dramatically. "S’te plaît, John. I cannot fight if I worry for you."

Heat crept up Cécile's neck. "Ferme ta gueule de plouc." (Shut your redneck mouth.)

Odette snorted softly, loading fresh bullets into her gun. "Leave the girl alone, Arthur."

But Arthur wasn't finished. He leaned against a nearby tree, crossing his arms with exaggerated casualness. "What? I ain't doin' nothin. Just amazed that John Marston was actually able to make a woman blush." He shook his head in mock disbelief. "It really must be the end times."

Cécile squinted at him. "You have much room to talk, oui? The way you sniff after Miss Odette like lost puppy, hoping for scraps of attention."

Arthur's smugness faltered. "I don't—that ain't—"

"Oh?" Cécile cocked her head. "When you see her, your eyes go like this." She demonstrated, opening her eyes comically wide. "And when she speaks, you nod like a broken doll." She bobbed her head up and down rapidly.

Arthur's face flushed a deep red. "Now, wait damn a minute—"

"And the way you stare at her when she is not looking. You think I haven't seen?" Cécile continued mercilessly. "Like a beggar at the bakery window."

"Shut your damn mouth already," Arthur said low, but the effect was ruined by his evident embarrassment.

Odette cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in checking her satchel. A smile played at the corners of her lips despite her attempt at seriousness.

Cécile felt a small surge of victory. "Next time you want to tease about my affairs, remember I see all, Monsieur Morgan. Tout." She tapped her temple.

Arthur said nothing, running a hand through his hair and avoiding Odette's gaze. Cécile almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"We should move," Odette said. "The Count won't wait while we stand here doing fuck all."

Cécile nodded, sobering at the mention of their true enemy. She followed as Odette led them toward the door, but couldn't resist one parting shot.

"Besides," she said quietly to Arthur as they stepped into the night, "at least John and I admit what we feel. You two act like children pulling pigtails."

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, defeated. Cécile patted his arm sympathetically.

She smiled, quickening her pace to catch up with Odette. Behind her, she heard Arthur's heavy sigh.

The night air felt electric against her skin, charged with the promise of violence to come. But for this brief moment, teasing Arthur had provided a welcome distraction from the darkness that awaited them. She would hold onto that lightness for as long as she could.

Odette led the way as they followed the narrow trail behind the church. The night hung heavy with thick mist and death stench.

"You're sure he's here?" Arthur asked.

She didn't turn. "I'm sure."

The old mausoleum loomed ahead, its stone facade eaten away by time and moss. Moonlight caught on the crumbling angels that guarded its entrance, their faces worn smooth by rain and years. Odette paused, studying the building with eyes that could have seen it rise from the ground a century ago.

The structure had once been proud, a testament to wealth and status even in death. Now it stood forgotten, claimed by the bayou like so many other attempts at permanence. A fitting place for what they sought. Death never truly abandoned its dominion, merely allowed the living their illusions of victory.

"Come to me, my love."

The slithering whisper seeped into their minds. Both Cécile and Arthur smacked their hands against their ears, but Odette knew that would not be enough to block him out.

"That voice..." Cécile fell silent when Odette raised a hand.

"Don't feed into the fear. He wants us to hear him," Odette said. "He wants us to doubt. To question. That's how he works. He gets inside your head and twists everything around until you don't know which way is up. He's stronger than Dutch. Smarter. Older." She turned to face them both, her dark eyes shimmering in the night. "Trust nothing but what you feel. In your hearts."

Arthur nodded, checking his silver-loaded weapons one last time. The metal caught the moonlight, gleaming dully against his palm. For just a second or two, Odette felt her breath trapped behind her ribs like a caged sparrow.

"Cécile, would you give us a minute?"

The younger vampire looked between them thoughtfully before her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Of course," she replied, moving a few paces away, observing the old structure with intense scrutiny. Odette knew she would still be eavesdropping. She let the girl have her fun.

Odette had grown fond of watching Cécile tease Arthur. The way his ears turned red, how he'd stumble over words when caught off guard. It was endearing, seeing this supposedly gruff outlaw getting all flustered by a girl half his size. But there was no time for such amusements now.

She turned to Arthur.

"I need to ask something of you."

Arthur holstered his gun, giving her his full attention. "Anything."

Odette found it difficult to meet his eyes, but forced herself to look up at him. "If he gets control of me… If… If you see that I'm not myself anymore… I need you to kill me."

Arthur chuckled in a huff, shaking his head. "That's funny."

"I've never been more serious, Arthur." She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat on him. "He's been in my head for centuries. He knows every corner of my mind. If he takes control again—"

"No." Arthur shook his head more firmly. "I ain't doin' that. We'll find another way."

"There is no other way." She poked his chest. "If Dutch had been strong enough to take hold of your mind, to make you hurt John or Cécile or me, wouldn't you want me to stop you before that happened?"

Arthur flinched at the mention of Dutch, the wound still fresh.

"Through me, he can use my gift," she continued. "He can snap every neck in a heartbeat. Pull you apart limb from limb just to watch it grow back, then pull you apart again. You. Cécile. John." She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. "I can't be his weapon again. I won't."

Arthur was silent.

"Please," she whispered.

Finally, he nodded, a single, reluctant movement. "Alright," he didn't look her in the eye. "But it won't come to that."

"Thank you." Odette's hand moved to his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her touch, alive in a way she hadn't felt in centuries.

Arthur leaned into her touch, his hand coming up to stroke her arm. For a moment, they stood, suspended in time.

Odette stepped back, unhanding him before he could lean in, before she could give in to the desire that had been building between them for months. She couldn't afford anymore attachment. Not now. Not with her mind and their lives hanging in the balance.

"We should go," she said, more sure than she actually felt. "He's waiting."

Chapter 29

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, vampire!Dutch, vampire!Javier, vampire!Micah, horror, slow burn, warning: SA! mentioned, warning: violence

Chapter Summary: The people of Saint Denis have chosen their monarch of the city's underbelly.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 27

Words: 5,110

Addison Fontaine had been a midwife in Saint Denis since she was fifteen. For forty-three years, she'd brought nearly half the neighborhood into this world with her own hands.

Now she stood at her second-story window, her husband's rifle steady in weathered hands. Six years now since Mr. Fontaine's heart failed him and Addy was left to run things on her own.

When she was beset with grief, her neighbor at the end of the street, Miss Odette Dubois and a few of her girls, volunteered to take over her duties for six whole weeks, free of charge. She'd even implemented that hand washing technique, and Mrs. Fontaine noticed a significant drop in the deaths of newborns in the years since. Miss Odette had tried to explain the science, but Mrs. Fontaine understood the results better than anything. Clean hands made healthier babies.

So when Miss Odette came to her door three nights ago, speaking of monsters and asking for help, Addy didn't hesitate.

The moon caught on something metallic as Dutch's men slunk through the shadows below. She eyed them as they passed through the scope of her rifle.

Terrence Jackson wiped glasses behind the counter of his small tavern, The Lucky Duck. Miss Odette had been good to him when no other establishment would serve him drinks, let alone sell him a business, on the grounds of his colored status. Miss Odette, well, she'd loaned him the money for the Duck fifteen years ago.

Tonight, he'd repay that debt.

He nodded to the three men positioned at his windows, their rifles loaded with silver-tipped bullets that Miss Odette's cowboy had crafted. When the first of Dutch's pale-faced followers appeared at the corner, Terrence gave the signal.

"Now."

Marie LeBeau's grandmother had taught her about monsters long before Miss Odette confirmed they were real.

As she crouched in the alley, torch in hand, she remembered Granny's words: "Evil walks in the night, child. But fire speaks a language all devils understand."

When the pale men with the cruel eyes ran past, Marie touched her flame to the oil-soaked wood. The alley erupted in a wall of fire, and the screams of monsters.

Reverend Thomas had never believed in vampires until three nights ago when Miss Odette showed him what she truly was.

The fear had passed quickly.

After forty years of ministry, he knew true evil when he saw it, and it wasn't the woman who'd almost single handedly funded his church's soup kitchen for the last thirty-two years.

He supposed he never really questioned how she's always looked so young.

From the church bell tower, he watched Dutch's men scatter like rats as bullets rained down from a dozen windows. He clutched his silver cross and whispered a prayer for the souls about to meet judgment.

Then he aimed his rifle and fired.

Madame Rousseau had been one of Odette's first girls, back when La Rose Noire was just a small parlor house. Now sixty-three, she was too old for clients.

But not too old for revenge.

Her granddaughter had been one of the young women who didn't survive Dutch's search parties of men that had claimed the French woman, Cécile.

The Madame hobbled to the end of the street on a bad hip and poured the last of the lamp oil across the cobblestones. When three of Dutch's men came running from the gunfire, she struck a match and dropped it.

"For Josephine," she whispered as the flames leapt up.

Young Thomas Chen, only fourteen but already working his father's butcher stand, was the fastest runner in the neighborhood. He'd been watching from the rooftops, counting Dutch's men as Miss Odette had instructed.

She'd always bring his father perfect carcasses for fair prices, unlike some of the white hillbillies that rolled through town, arguing and threatening and scamming his family and his people up and down the market square.

When he saw them retreating, he sprinted across the slate tiles, leaping between buildings to light the signal fires. One by one, the beacons blazed to life, guiding Odette's people to close the trap.

Dutch van der Linde stood in the middle of the street, his fine coat catching the firelight as chaos unraveled around him. His face fell from confidence to disbelief as bullets tore through his followers and flames blocked their escape routes.

"Fall back!" he shouted, his voice weaved with the gift of his venom, his charm.

But there was nowhere to fall back to. Every street, every alley, every escape route blazed with fire or echoed with gunshots. The people of Saint Denis: shopkeepers, dock workers, prostitutes, laborers, suffragettes, street preachers, the children of former slaves, and even some of the lawmen had united against him.

They'd chosen their preferred monster to rule the underbelly of Saint Denis. The scum of this swamp city had coagulated to her and were now threatening to pull him under.

For the first time since his turning all those months ago, Dutch van der Linde felt fear.

Odette moved like a river through her own saloon, the familiar scent of bourbon and perfume now tainted with blood and gunpowder. She armed herself plainly, with the same silver blades she'd trained Arthur and Cécile with all those months ago. Odette loaded her pistol with the care of a mother dressing a child. She took slow, calming breaths.

The plan was working. Dutch's forces were scattered, trapped between the fires and Odette's neighborhood militia. Now came the hard part.

"They're falling back to the church," Arthur said, checking his revolver one last time. Silver gleamed in the chambers. "Just like you said they would."

Odette nodded. "The Count will be near there, hiding somewhere. He always did like to keep his distance from anything resembling a real fight."

The four of them moved as one unit through the back door of La Rose Noire. John led with his shotgun, Cécile at his side with twin silver daggers. Arthur and Odette brought up the rear, covering their flanks.

The night air was crisp with the early chill of autumn. Screams echoed through the narrow streets as Dutch's freshly turned vampires, mad with hunger and fear, tried to break through the fire barricades. She could smell them. Their panic, their ravenous need permeating like the stench of death. These poor souls hadn't asked for this existence, thrust into immortality without guidance or control. Unlike her fledglings, Dutch abandoned his newborns to the madness of their first hunger, caring nothing for the terror they spread or the lives they destroyed.

Precisely what the Count would have done.

"There," Cécile whispered, pointing to a group of pale figures stumbling toward them.

Odette recognized the vacant look in their eyes. Newborns, barely hours old, their humanity still clinging to them while the venom settled in their veins. Once, she might have pitied them. Tonight, she had no mercy to spare.

"Stay close," she murmured. With a flick of her hands, she reached out with her gift, seizing control of the blood in the nearest vampire's body.

The creature froze, then screamed as Odette twisted her hand. Its blood boiled from within, rupturing veins, cooking it from the inside out. As it collapsed, Arthur moved past her, firing two silver bullets, one into the chest, then forehead of another.

They fought in perfect timing.

Odette thought of the rag bands that sometimes formed by the many musicians that floated into her saloon. Odette would watch in pure awe at their ability to pass tunes back and forth between their instruments. As she worked with Arthur, back to back, the thought had crossed her mind that this must be what those rag players felt like, the ones who'd never met each other before but connected through the language of music. It felt like she and Arthur had been partners for decades rather than a few months.

When Arthur ducked, Odette was already there, firing off rounds, then slashing with her silver blade. When she stepped back, he moved forward, never leaving her exposed.

"Behind you!" John shouted, and Odette spun to see a vampire lunging for her throat.

Cécile was faster, her dagger finding the creature's eye with deadly precision. "These ones are fresh," she said. "They fight like children."

"Dutch is turning them faster than they can learn control," Odette replied, feeling sweat bead on her forehead. "He's desperate."

They pressed forward, cutting through the confused mass of newly turned vampires. Some still wore the clothes they'd died in. Odette tried not to look at their faces. They were just pawns in Dutch's game.

A familiar figure emerged from the smoke ahead. Javier Escuella. He had a handsome face, but it was cold. Bitter. Unlike the most of the others, his eyes were clear, unmarbled.

"Arthur Morgan," he called. "You should have stayed dead."

He lunged.

The air rippled around him as he moved. But Arthur was ready, dodging and dealing a blow straight to the man's nose as he passed, using his opponent's momentum against them like a man who'd learned his lessons well. Pride beamed beneath Odette's fear.

They crashed together in a blur of limbs, their supernatural strength making the ground beneath them tremble. The collision echoed through the smoke-filled street like thunder.

Odette pivoted, driving her silver dagger through the heart of a snarling newborn. The creature burst in a shower of gore that painted her dress crimson. 

Across the street, Arthur and Javier circled each other like wolves. Lightning crackled between Javier's fingers, illuminating the hollows of his gaunt face. Arthur's shoulders rose and fell with steady breaths, his blue eyes tracking every twitch of Javier's muscles.

Javier struck first.

A whip of electricity lashed through the air. Arthur barely dodged, rolling as the cobblestones shattered where he'd stood. Odette saw the moment Arthur's gift activated; his pupils dilated, sensing Javier's fear like blood in water.

"Reading my mind, hermano?"Javier sneered, summoning another bolt. "What do you see?"

Arthur didn't answer. He lunged, but Javier was faster. Electricity arced, catching Arthur square in the chest. He convulsed, teeth bared in a silent scream as the current seared through him. The stench of burnt flesh mingled with gunpowder.

Odette turned toward them, ready to step in, but a newborn slammed into her from the side, fangs snapping at her throat. She barely registered slamming her palm into its chest with her blood-weaving gift. It burst like overripe fruit.

When she looked back, Arthur was on his feet again, swaying but standing. Blood dripped from his nose. Javier's confidence wavered, just for a heartbeat, but Arthur sensed it. He moved.

Their collision sent shockwaves through the ground. Javier's lightning scorched the air, wild and uncontrolled as Arthur drove a fist into his ribs. Bone cracked. Javier grabbed Arthur's throat. Electricity surged, lighting up Arthur's veins beneath his skin like live wires.

Arthur roared, slamming his forehead into Javier's nose. Blood sprayed. They separated, both panting, both bleeding.

Javier wiped his mouth, grinning. "What happened to you, Arthur? You shacked up with a new lady and, what, forgot who raised you? What happened to loyalty? "

Arthur spat blood.

"Dutch killed my family. I'm loyal to them."

Lightning gathered in Javier's palms again, brighter this time, hotter. Odette felt the static raise the hairs on her arms even from yards away. Arthur braced—

A hail of gunfire.

Odette whirled as a fresh wave of newborns poured from an alley. She lost sight of Arthur and Javier in the chaos, the fight swallowed by smoke and screams.

Her dagger found another heart. Another body burst.

Odette pushed forward, cutting down three more of Dutch's followers who tried to block her path. The church loomed ahead, its stained glass windows glowing with unnatural light.

The Count was waiting somewhere, his presence a cold hand around her throat.

Cécile's fingers tightened around the silver blade as she stalked through the smoke-filled corridor. The sounds of fighting echoed throughout the building. Gunshots, screams, the sickening crunch of bodies hitting walls. But her focus remained singular.

Micah.

Somewhere in this chaos was the rat-faced creature who had stolen her humanity.

John moved beside her with careful, determined steps. His presence anchored her, kept her from spiraling into the darkest corners of her mind where memories lurked.

"Tu es là," she whispered, spotting a shadow darting around the corner. (There you are.)

A bullet whizzed past her ear, embedding itself in the wall behind them.

John yanked her behind a overturned table, both of them pressing their backs against the wooden shield.

"Well, well, well." The voice slithered through the air like oil on water. "If it ain't the French whore."

Micah Bell emerged from the shadows, twirling his revolver. His pale face stretched into an unnatural grin, fangs gleaming in the dim light. The sight of him sent ice through Cécile's bones. Those same cold eyes that had raked over her while he took what he wanted, watched her while his men did the same, that had delighted in her pleading and suffering.

"Fuck you," she snarled, the knife trembling in her hand.

"We both know you've got a sweeter mouth than that, sugar." Micah's eyes flicked to John. "Your new toy ain't much of an improvement on me or Dutch."

John lunged forward, but Cécile caught his arm. "He wants you angry," she murmured.

Micah circled them. "I guess you always did like the whorin' type, Marton." Blue eyes found hers. "Dutch wanted someone pretty. And he was happy I found you." He laughed, the sound grating against Cécile's ears. "Should've seen her, Marston. All proper in her fancy dress. Thought she was too good for the likes of us."

"Shut your goddamn mouth!"

"Or what?"

Micah's eyes focused on John with sudden intensity.

John doubled over, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He clutched his head, knees buckling beneath him.

"John!"

Cécile reached for him, but he was already on the ground, writhing.

"Hurts, don't it?" Micah crouched down, just out of reach. "I been blessed, Marston. Dutch said so. I can make every nerve in your body scream. Every old wound, every broken bone, light up like the Fourth of July."

John's face contorted in agony, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes met Cécile's, determination fighting through the pain. Cécile went running straight for Micah, who quickly focused his power on her, too.

Fire crawled through her fingertips, out her nose and eyes, like a thousand little ants. She squirmed and let out a pained scream as she fell to her knees.

"We all had a turn with her. She fought it at first," Micah gleamed, circling closer. "But I think she liked it, deep down."

Cécile felt something snap inside her. Pure, seething fury, white-hot.

She lunged at Micah again, but he flexed his hand and the fiery pain pulsated underneath her skin, buckling her legs and sending her crashing into a stack of crates.

Micah chuckled as he tutted at her.

John's hand inched toward his fallen gun, every movement a battle against Micah's gift. His fingertips brushed the handle.

"You are different, though. All the other ones died. 'Cept you. Why is that, huh?" Micah said, his back to John as he stroked a finger down Cécile's cheek. She flinched away from him, unable to meet his eye as she caught her breath. "Dutch sent me to find you after you ran from us. He thought you had potential. I think he was right about tha—"

The gunshot exploded through the room. Micah staggered, the bullet tearing through his shoulder. His concentration dissolved, the wave of pain receding from Cécile.

She didn't waste her moment.

She launched herself at Micah, silver blade flashing. They crashed to the floor, her weight pinning him down. The first stab punctured his chest, the silver burning his flesh. He howled, clawing at her face.

She screamed and stabbed him again. And again.

Another stab. Blood splattered across her face, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

The blade rose and fell, each strike punctuated by a broken French curse. His face, his chest, his throat, she struck anywhere the silver could reach. His screams turned to gurgles, then silence, but still she continued. Blood soaked through her sleeves, hot and sticky against her skin, yet Cécile couldn't stop.

Memories of this man at the center of all her pain fueled each savage thrust of the blade.

"Va te faire foutre!" (Fuck you!) she hissed through clenched teeth, driving the silver deeper into his flesh.

The metallic scent of vampire blood filled her nostrils, intoxicating and revolting all at once. Even as Micah's body went limp beneath her, and her arm mechanically raised the knife again, muscles remembering every moment of agony he had inflicted upon her.

"Va te faire foutre, va te faire foutre, va te faire foutre..." (Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…) she sobbed, the knife sinking into flesh that soon rained blood and entrails upon her as it burst.

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her away.

"Cécile. Cécile, stop. He's gone."

John broke through the haze. The knife slipped from her bloodied fingers, clattering to the floor. She stared at what remained of Micah Bell. A mangled mass of flesh and bone in a pool of dark blood.

Her body shook with sobs. Enough terror and rage pouring out of her to last several lifetimes. John turned her away from the corpse, pulling her against his chest. His heartbeat pounded against her ear, steady and alive.

"It's over," he murmured into her hair. "I got you. It's alright."

Cécile clutched at his shirt, leaving bloody handprints on the fabric. John held her tighter, rocking her gently, as if trying to keep her from falling apart. After a moment, he gently tilted her chin up, his eyes meeting hers.

"We ain't done yet," he said softly. "Dutch is still out there. We need to finish this."

Cécile took a shuddering breath, steadying herself. She nodded, wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand.

"For Abigail," she said. "For Jack."

"For all of us," John agreed, helping her to her feet.

As they moved toward the door, Cécile cast one final glance at Micah's remains. The nightmare that had begun that night in the mountains was one step closer to ending. In John's arms, with her mind her own again.

Content.

Arthur sunk his blade deep in Javier's chest just moments before he could send another wave of lightning to scorch his chest. As the magic in him died and the life force whiddled away, Javier choked as blood filled his mouth. He gave a lasting glance to Arthur before he burst into a heap.

Arthur could only wipe his eyes, shake off the excess flesh, and keep pushing forward.

Dutch's voice floated down from above. The sound pulled at something deep inside him. That damn memory of loyalty that had once been his entire world. He looked up to see Dutch standing on the church balcony, his silhouette framed against the stained glass window behind him.

"I did this for you, boys," Dutch called down, arms spread wide like a preacher before his congregation.

Beside Arthur, John tensed, ready to charge forward. "That piece of shit—"

Cécile grabbed John's arm, yanking him back as another wave of Dutch's followers swarmed through the church doors. "Non! We must deal with these first!" Her blade flashed in the dim light as she pointed it toward the fray of oncoming lackeys.

Arthur stood frozen, watching Dutch's smug smile spread across his face.

"You always did let a woman soften you up, Morgan."

Dutch's words carried over the sounds of fighting below. "Hey, remember when you was just a youngin? Couldn't have been but eleven or twelve. Every time a stray pussycat came around, you wanted feed it and bring it back to the camp and take care of it."

Arthur's grip tightened on his gun. Odette was somewhere behind him, helping to hold back the wave of Dutch's men. He wanted to turn, to make sure she was safe, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Dutch as he moved closer.

"And I'd say, 'it's your responsibility, son. If it dies, it's on you.'" Dutch continued, his voice dripping with mock sentiment. "Inevitably, we'd move camps and nature does what she does and you'd find 'em and bury 'em and come cryin' to me askin' what you could've done different. And what did I always tell you?"

The memory crushed Arthur's ribs like a rusted bear trap. Those damn cats. Dutch would watch him get attached, knowing full well they'd be leaving soon.

Arthur looked away. "You'd say: 'If it couldn't keep up with us, it wasn't meant to be.'"

Dutch's laughter echoed through the church, bouncing off stone walls. "That's right, son. You understood eventually. You stopped picking up every stray cat you saw on the street. And you learned the truth. That you ain't no hero, and you can't save 'em."

Dutch leaned forward, resting his hands on the balcony rail. "Now, how you didn't apply that to the women in your life, I can't figure. Did the same thing, take in stray after stray. You never really did learn your lesson."

Arthur picked up on the fears of those around him. John's fear of losing Cécile, Cécile's fear of being controlled again, Odette's fear of the Count finding her. All of it crashed into him at once, rippling with his own fears until he could barely breathe. He needed to focus.

"What valuable lesson was I supposed to learn, Dutch?" Arthur called back.

Dutch could only give a heartless smirk.

"That love doesn't last for people like us, Arthur. Never has, never will." He gestured to the chaos below. "So why don't you give up little John and the Frenchie and that Creole whore of yours who runs the saloon? We can take them out and rule this place together, you and me, like we're supposed to. What do you say, son?"

A cold clarity cut through Arthur like the sharp morning air in early spring, when the sun was shining, but you could still see your breath in the air, and the dew glittered on the leaves underfoot, somewhere between ice and water. Yes, that fresh, new air of spring after a long winter. Cold, pristine clarity.

John. Cécile. Odette. He would not fail them.

His fangs extended fully, his nails hardened into claws. He could feel the venom pumping through his veins ringing in response, making him stronger, quicker, deadlier.

"I ain't your son. And you ain't my father. You never were."

Dutch's smile faltered for the first time. "Now, Arthur—"

But Arthur was already moving, launching himself up toward the balcony. He hung from the edge before hoisting himself over the railing, crashing into Dutch, sending them both tumbling across the wooden floor. Arthur's hands found Dutch's throat, squeezing with all the rage of a man who'd spent a lifetime being manipulated.

Dutch's eyes widened, then lit up with a fierce anger. With a strength that matched Arthur's own, he threw Arthur off, sending him crashing into a pew below.

Arthur hit the ground hard, stone crumbling beneath him. He rolled to his feet, ignoring the pain as his body healed itself. He looked up to see Dutch standing again, dusting off his coat with exaggerated care.

"So, that's how it's gonna be, Arthur?" He asked, dangerously soft. "After everything I've done for you?"

Arthur charged again. This time, Dutch was ready. The fight became a whirl of fists connecting with bone-crushing force, fangs slashing at throats, bodies crashing through wooden pews and stone columns. With each blow, Arthur felt himself letting go of the last threads of loyalty that had bound him to Dutch for so long. With each drop of blood spilled, he felt freer, clearer.

Dutch fought with the desperation of a man who'd always gotten his way.

When Dutch van der Linde stood tall on the church balcony, he felt the power of the night coursing through his veins. The chaos below, his men fighting, dying. It meant nothing. This was merely the sacrifice required for the world he'd envisioned. A kingdom where the strong ruled and the weak served their purpose as sustenance.

Arthur had lunged at him, had fought him set with determination Dutch hadn't seen since the aftermath of Blackwater.

The boy had grown teeth.

"You disappoint me, son," Dutch called out in between their bouts of violence. "I gave you everything. Taught you to read. Gave you purpose when you was nothing but a skinny, worthless kid with a chip on his shoulder."

Arthur didn't respond, just kept advancing on him, silver blade pulled from his belt and gleaming in hand.

Dutch lunged. His fist connected with Arthur's jaw, sending him staggering backward. But the boy recovered quickly, too quickly. Dutch hadn't anticipated how strong Arthur had become.

"You've been feeding well, haven't you?" Dutch observed, tasting blood in his mouth from a split lip. "I can smell it on you."

"We only feed on animals. It's Odette's way. Ain't fed on a human in months. Not since I first turned."

Dutch stilled.

Months? Feeding on just animals? No. No… It was a lie, surely. The Count had said… Well, the Count had said a lot of things. That animal blood would never satisfy the appetite. But did human blood ever really satisfy it? He could only ever remember being hungry, then more and more hungry.

Dutch shook his head. No, it couldn't be true. The Count was more than a thousand years old. He knew what he was talking about.

"It will never be enough, son. You'll come around eventually to accepting what we are."

"You're wrong." Arthur wiped blood from his chin. "I ain't like you."

A laugh, deep, hollow. "We're exactly alike, Arthur. You just ain't admitted it to yourself yet."

Dutch lunged, their collision sending tremors through the chapel walls like the wrath of God Himself. His fingers closed around Arthur's neck. He squeezed that thick, defiant throat that still dared to speak against him, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. He flung the younger man like a ragdoll, savoring the way Arthur's body carved through the rows of hand-crafted pews. Splinters of polished oak rained down like communion wafers, the sacred space desecrated by the violence of fathers and sons.

"Remember Mary? God, I remember her. Can't forget a face like that." Dutch taunted, watching Arthur pull himself up. "Remember how she left you? Called you an outlaw, a killer? She knew what you really was."

"You killed my family. Our gang. Butchered them like animals and left 'em to rot." Arthur said, cold and circling Dutch with unyielding focus.

Dutch feinted left, then struck from the right, his nails raking across Arthur's cheek, leaving dark red lines in their wake. "You think you could've saved 'em from me if you'd been there? You couldn't even save yourself."

Arthur didn't rise to the bait, didn't show the reckless anger Dutch expected. This wasn't the Arthur who'd followed him blindly for twenty years. What had he become since the venom took hold of him?

Dutch felt the first real twinge of uncertainty. The Count had promised him power beyond measure. Had promised him Arthur would falter at the crucial moment. Why wasn't he? Now seemed as crucial a moment as any.

"That saloon whore of yours," Dutch said, watching Arthur's eyes. "Odette. You think she cares about you? The Count, he told me everything about her. Two hundred years she's been his."

There. A flicker in Arthur's eyes. A flare of his nose.

"She ain't nothing but death for you, boy," Dutch pressed harder, sensing weakness. "The Count, he knows. He's seen it. He owns her, through and through. Runs through her mind every night like a stallion in an open field. She just can't seem to block him out. Let him go."

Dutch knew he'd found his opening.

"You really think you, Arthur Morgan, some worthless outlaw, can come between two hundred years of history? You really think you can stop a creature that's got you beat by, what, a millennium and then some? You, Arthur goddamn Morgan, really think you can stop a god?"

Dutch's laugh echoed off the church's high ceiling.

Arthur moved with sudden, explosive speed. Dutch barely managed to dodge the silver blade that whistled past his ear. He stumbled backward, catching himself on a broken pew.

"You was always slow, Dutch," Arthur said, cold, flat. "Slow to see what was right in front of you. Slow to realize when you was being used."

Rage erupted in Dutch's chest. "And you always were an ungrateful, low-down little street rat who'd be dead in a gutter if it weren't for me! I gave you everything!"

"You gave me chains and called it freedom!"

They crashed together again. Dutch's fangs snapped inches from Arthur's throat. Arthur's knee drove into Dutch's stomach, doubling him over.

The fight carried them through the church, smashing through altars and statues and old structures. Glass from shattered windows rained down in multi-colored shards around them.

Dutch felt his strength waning. The ritual wasn't complete. The Count's promised power not fully realized.

Arthur slammed Dutch against the wall, pinning him there. For a moment, Dutch saw the boy he'd raised. Loyal, strong, capable of terrible violence and terrible love.

"You ain't got it in you to kill me," Dutch coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Not after everything."

But something had changed in the boy's eyes. The uncertainty that had always been there when Dutch pushed too far, asked for too much, it was gone. In its place was something icy and final.

Dutch could see it now. Arthur had finally seen through him, seen the hollow man beneath the grand speeches and promises.

Dutch wheezed, "Go on then, son. I'm ready to see my Annabelle again."

"You ain't seein' her where you're goin'." Arthur gripped the handle of his silver blade.

The knife slid between Dutch's ribs, finding his heart with terrible precision. Dutch gasped, feeling fire spread through his chest.

Not proud. Not the blaze of glory he'd imagined for himself. His body began to crumble, liquifying from the inside out.

"Arthur..." Dutch choked out as the silver poison sunk into him.

With his last breath, Dutch van der Linde cursed the name of the son who'd finally outgrown him.

Chapter 28

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn, smut

Chapter Summary: Odette, Arthur, and John work hard to bring Cécile back to the land of the living. Arthur makes a promise he hopes he can keep.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 26

Words: 3,753

Three pairs of boots sank into the muddy swamp floor, each step requiring twice the effort to extract themselves. Odette wiped the sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt in its wake. Three days of this hell. Grudging through murky waters, avoiding alligators, and John carrying a near-catatonic Cécile in his arms like she was made of glass.

"You know what I miss most about Paris?"Odette said, continuing her stream of conversation as they navigated a particularly dense patch of cypress knees. "The bakeries. You'd wake up and the whole street smelled like fresh bread."

She glanced back at Cécile, whose vacant eyes stared up at the canopy of trees. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed her face.

"I've never been to Paris," Arthur offered from ahead, machete in hand, clearing their path. "Always wanted to see it, though."

John adjusted his hold on Cécile. "I ain't never left the States. Don't see the point."

"The point, Mr. Marston," Odette replied, "is that not everything worth seeing is in your backyard."

Their banter continued like this. At time, it was forced, desperate at others. Anything to reach Cécile wherever she was trapped inside her mind. Arthur told stories about the gang's better days. John, after much prodding, shared tales of Jack learning to fish. Odette sang lullabies her mother had taught her centuries ago.

On the second night, Odette noticed the tears had stopped flowing from Cécile's eyes. A small victory, perhaps, but she'd take it.

"You really think she can hear us?"John asked that night as they sat around a small fire.

Odette stared into the flames. "I don't know. But I've seen magic like Dutch's charm before. The Count has… similar attributes. You feel trapped inside yourself. But there is a chance she hears us, and so it can't hurt to act as if she can."

At some point, Arthur's hand found hers in the darkness. She allowed it to stay there.

By the third day, exhaustion had settled into their bones. When the lights of Saint Denis finally appeared through the trees, Odette nearly wept with relief.

"Almost there, chérie," she whispered to Cécile. "Just hold on."

La Rose Noire stood like a sanctuary against the approaching night. They entered through the back, avoiding the curious eyes of patrons. Odette led them up the narrow stairs to Cécile's rented room, where they gently laid her on the bed. Her hair, dyed flaming red yet still blonde at the roots, spread out over her pillow, her empty stare fixed to the ceiling.

"Now what?"John was a restless wind in the small room as he paced, stirring up the dust motes that danced in the fading light. "How long 'til she's herself again? Dutch could be preparing that ritual right now."

Odette wiped the swamp mud from her hands with a damp cloth. "Patience, John. Breaking a charm this powerful takes time."

"We don't have time!"

"You watch your tone," Arthur warned.

"Don't tell me what to do," John snapped. "If it was Odette lying there, you'd be just as—"

"Oh, hush!"Odette stepped between them. "Fighting won't help her. The charm will break when her mind is ready to fight it. Pushing too hard could damage her permanently."

John huffed, and Odette could see the tendons in his neck standing out, taut as a bowstring. "There must be something we can do."

"We've done it," She said more gently. "We brought her home. Now we wait."

Arthur moved to the window, scanning the street below. "Dutch knows where we are. We should post guards."

Odette nodded. "I'll have my people watch the perimeter. No one gets in without—"

A small gasp from the bed cut her off.

Odette whirled around. Cécile's back had arched slightly off the mattress, her fingers clutching at the sheets. Her eyes, previously empty pools, now darted around the room.

"Cécile?"Odette rushed to her side, taking her hand.

The younger vampire's lips parted, barely a whisper. "Où suis-je?" (Where am I?)

John hovered closer to the bed. "Cécile?"

Odette held her breath as Cécile's eyes finally focused. First on her, then on John. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by something darker. Fear.

"Non, non," Cécile whispered, her body beginning to tremble. "Il arrive. Il sait." (He's coming. He knows.)

"What's she saying?" John pressed.

Odette gripped Cécile's shoulders. "Who's coming, Cécile? Dutch?"

Cécile's tears formed at the corners of her eyes. "Le comte. Il a vu. Il sait où nous sommes. Il arrive." (The Count. He saw. He knows where we are. He's coming.)

Cécile blinked rapidly as the room came into focus. The familiar scent of tobacco, perfume, and whiskey from La Rose Noire's rooms washed over her.

"What happened? What did you see?" Odette rubbed soothing motions on her shoulders.

Cécile shut her eyes, the memories rushing in like a tide swallowing the shore. The visions twisted through her mind, Dutch's face, too close, his breath on her neck, the wedding dress scratching against her skin.

Further, ice-white clawed fingers and whispers in her head. Laughter. Mockery. A tall, slender figure with eyes so yellow, they glowed like stars across the night sky. It opened its mouth full of black teeth, unhinged its jaw and swallowed her whole.

Then, a void, as the Count feasted on her fears.

Cécile took calming, stabilizing breaths before continuing.

"I heard you," she said, looking at each of them. "Your voices. They were... like a rope in dark water. Something to grab."

She pulled her knees to her chest. "C'était horrible. Dutch, he showed me things. Made me see them. His memories." She shuddered. "When he drank my blood, I saw what he did." Cécile's fingers traced the faded bite marks on her arm, tears in her eyes.

"How did you break free?" Odette asked. "Dutch's charm is powerful."

Cécile's lips curved into a small smile. "I heard you. All of you. Talking to me. Singing. Even your stupid arguments about which horses are better." She glanced at Arthur and John. "I heard your laughter. It was... an anchor."

She looked down at her hands. "I thought of my mother. Her perfume. The way she brushed my hair before bed. How everything changed when she died. How I wanted to wear the fancy dresses she had, to feel close to her again."

Tears pricked at her eyes. "Et puis, suddenly, I could smell this room. My room. Home." She looked up at them. "And I followed that smell back."

John cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He stepped closer, still maintaining a careful distance.

"Well," he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Good thing you're back." He crossed his arms, trying to look casual. "Was gettin' tired of carryin' you around."

Cécile raised an eyebrow. "Vraiment? Is that why you carried me the whole way back? Why you would not let Arthur or Odette take a turn?"

John's face flushed. "Just didn't want Morgan droppin' you is all—"

"And why you keep talking to me about stars and horses and your silly American jokes?" She tilted her head. "For three days, John Marston. You did not stop talking."

"Someone had to keep you company," he muttered, looking everywhere but at her.

"Tu étais inquiet," she said softly. (You were worried.)

"I don't know what that means," John replied.

"It means you are terrible liar," Cécile said, her lips curving into a small smile.

John scoffed, but the relief in his eyes betrayed him. "Just glad you're back to your irritatin' self."

Odette handed her a bottle of gator blood they'd collected on their hike through the bayou. "You need to rest. We'll talk more later."

Cécile nodded, chugging the bottle hastily. As the others moved to leave, she caught John's sleeve. "Merci," she whispered. "For not letting go."

John hesitated, then gave a curt nod before quickly following Arthur out the door. The scarlet hue on his cheeks had spread, reached his neck and the tips of his ears.

Arthur lingered just outside the doorway of Odette's private quarters, watching her silhouette against the glow of candlelight. She'd left the curtains open, allowing the moonlight to spill across the floor in silver puddles. The way the light caught her skin, deep as honey, gripped him with an ache inside. A feeling he hadn't known since Mary, maybe not even then.

She hadn't noticed him yet. Her fingers traced patterns on the glass, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Saint Denis. Arthur took the time to study her, the proud line of her spine, the curve of her neck, the way those black curls fell loose around her shoulders.

"You gonna stand there all night?" Odette asked without turning.

"Didn't want to disturb your thinkin'."

"Too late for that." She turned and the whites in of her eyes caught the light just so. "Come in."

He did as she asked, crossing the threshold into her sanctuary. The room smelled of her; herbs and flowers and bourbon and incense. Books lined the walls, trinkets from centuries past scattered across shelves. A life lived longer than most could imagine.

"You ready for tomorrow?" he asked, leaning against her desk.

Odette laughed, a sound without humor. "Ready to face the monster who's hunted me for two centuries? The one who violated me, turned me, controlled my mind?" She shook her head as she fetched a cigarette from her case. "No one's ever ready for that."

Arthur produced a match from his pocket and struck it for her as she fumbled for one herself. She muttered a thanks as she torched the end of her cigarette, her eyes hooked on his. "We got a plan. Got the weapons. John and Cécile know what to do."

"A plan." She sighed the word. "Dutch had plans too, didn't he?"

The mention of Dutch's name still sent a jolt through Arthur. "That's different."

"How so?" She moved closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. "If… When the time comes, can you kill him?"

Arthur swallowed hard. The question had haunted him for weeks. "I have to."

"That's not what I asked."

Two pairs of eyes linked together, stares tightly interwoven like the threads of a rope.

"Yes. I can kill him. I will."

Odette scanned his face, searching for the truth. Finding no deception, she nodded once. "Good."

She turned back toward the window, and Arthur found himself moving toward her without conscious thought. He stopped just behind her, close enough to touch but not daring to.

"What about you?" he asked softly. "Can you face the Count again?"

Her shoulders tensed. "I have no choice." A whisper. "He's in my head, Arthur. Every night. Every dream. I can feel him getting closer."

Arthur's hands hovered over her shoulders before finally daring to settle there. She didn't pull away. "Tomorrow, we end it. All of it."

She leaned back against his chest, just slightly. The tension in her shoulders melted away under his touch. "And then what?"

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't thought beyond tomorrow, beyond the fight. "I don't know."

"Honest, at least." She turned in his arms. Her eyes, dark as a new moon, were pleading as she looked at him. "Don't die, Morgan."

"Ain't plannin' on it."

"No one plans on dying." Her fingers traced the scar on his neck where Cécile had bitten him. "Promise me."

"Odette—"

"Promise me."

That subtle break in her words caught Arthur's ear.

"I've lost too many people in two hundred years. I can't—"

Arthur caught her hand, pressing it against his chest. "I promise."

The silence between them seemed to stretch on forever. Arthur could sense her fear, filling the space and poking at his gift's awareness. Not just fear of the Count, but of this, of them. Of what might happen if they both actually survived tomorrow.

"I ain't good at this," he admitted. "Never have been. But I know that whatever happens tomorrow, I want to be standin' with you when it's over."

She smiled and Arthur felt his world pulse around her like a sunflower to the sun. "Then do I as I say. Don't die."

He'd face a thousand Counts, a hundred Dutches, a million vampire lackeys just to see that smile again.

He made a cross over his heart, "I promise."

The night clung thick as molasses, the bayou exhaling heat even as the last of the sunset bled out behind the trees. John wore a path into the wooden floor outside Cécile’s room, the planks groaning under his boots like they were tired of holding him up. The scent of lavender and lye soap seeped under the door. She’d bathed, then. Scrubbed the stink of Dutch away.

His knuckles hovered an inch from the door. He clenched his fist, lowered it.

He was still standing there like a fool when the door creaked open on its own.

Cécile leaned against the frame, hair damp, the dye they'd used now faded to a soft, bruised pink. She’d changed into one of Odette’s spare dresses, the sleeves too short for her wrists. She looked small. And that pissed him off more than anything.

"Come in," she said.

John swallowed. Stepped inside.

The room smelled like her. Like the fancy French soaps she hoarded, like the wild mint leaves she chewed with her blood meals. She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers fussing with the frayed hem of the quilt.

He didn’t sit. Couldn’t.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

She did.

Piece by piece, she laid it out. Dutch’s memories, the slaughter of the camp, the orders he’d given his men to find and turn women, until he found one pretty enough, pliant enough, to force into that cursed white dress.

John’s vision went red at the edges. His hands shook. He wanted to put them through a wall. Wanted to put them around Dutch’s throat.

"Je t’aime quand tu es en colère," (I love it when you're angry,) Cécile murmured, watching him. A smirk tugged at her mouth. "You look like a devil."

"Don’t." It came out rough, sawtoothed. "I don't need your teasin' right now."

She sobered. Nodded once.

John dragged a hand down his face. The anger burned too hot, too fast. He had to choke it back before it choked him. "I’m sorry. I just—" He exhaled hard. "When I saw you in that dress, standing up there with him…"

The words stuck. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit how his chest had caved in when he’d seen her, hollow-eyed, trapped in Dutch’s grip like a doll.

Cécile’s fingers stilled on the quilt. "I saw Abigail," she said softly. "In his memories. And Jack."

John flinched.

"I know I am not them," she continued softly like she was stepping over broken glass. "I know you still carry them. If you want… if you want to forget that I kissed you, I understand. It was foolish, I—"

John crossed the room, cradled her face in his hands and kissed her hard, swallowing the rest of her words. She gasped against his mouth, fingers scrabbling at his shirtfront, then fisting tight.

Her lips were warm. Alive.

She kissed him back with equal fervor, her mouth opening under his, desperate and hungry. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and John felt something crack open that had been locked tight since he'd knelt beside those graves.

He broke away just long enough to breathe, to press his forehead against hers. "Cécile, I—" The words stuck in his throat like barbed wire.

"I care about you." The admission tore out of him raw and unpolished. "More than I should. More than I got any right to." His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, still damp from her bath. "I can't lose you too. I won't."

Her eyes searched his face, green as bottle glass. "I care about you too." She pulled him down for another kiss, softer this time, but no less desperate. "Je ne veux pas te perdre non plus." (I don't want to lose you either.)

They moved together without speaking, a clumsy dance toward the narrow bed. John's hands found the buttons of her borrowed dress, fingers fumbling with the small pearl fastenings. Cécile's laugh was breathless against his neck as she helped him, her own hands working at his shirt.

"Patience," she murmured, but there was no patience in the way she tugged his shirt over his head, nails scraping lightly down his chest.

The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a thin chemise that barely reached her thighs. She was beautiful, all pale skin and sharp angles, the bite marks on her arm nearly healed to silver scars.

She reached for him, fingers tracing the constellation of scars across his torso. "You have been hurt many times," she said softly.

"Comes with the territory. You ain't exactly unmarked yourself."

Her hand stilled over a particularly ugly scar near his ribs, a knife wound from a job gone wrong years back. "We are both broken things, non?"

"Maybe." He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. "Don't make us any less."

She smiled then, small and sad and beautiful, and pulled him down onto the bed with her.

The mattress creaked under their combined weight. John settled beside her, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her properly. The light painted her skin gold, caught the pink in her hair. She was watching him too, those green eyes taking in every detail like she was trying to memorize him.

"You are beautiful," she whispered, fingers trailing down his arm.

John felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I ain't—"

She silenced him with a kiss, her tongue sliding against his. Her hands roamed his body with increasing boldness, mapping the terrain of muscle and scar tissue. When her fingers found the waistband of his pants, John groaned into her mouth.

"You sure about this?" he asked, even as his own hands found the hem of her chemise.

"Oui." The word was barely a breath. "Are you?"

Instead of answering, he kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into the connection of their mouths. His hands slipped under the thin fabric, finding the soft skin of her waist, the curve of her ribs. She arched into his touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

They undressed each other slowly, reverently, each piece of clothing another barrier removed. When John's fingers found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, Cécile gasped, her back arching off the bed.

"John," she breathed.

He kissed his way down her throat, tasting salt and soap. Her pulse fluttered under his lips. When he reached the swell of her breast, she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him close.

The world narrowed to this, the taste of her skin, the sound of her breathing, the way she moved beneath him like water. John had been with women before. Why did this feel so different? Urgent and tender all at once, like they were trying to pour a lifetime into a single night.

When he finally settled between her thighs, she was warm and wet for him. He entered her slowly, watching her face. Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parting on a soft moan.

"Mon Dieu," (My God,) she whispered.

They moved together, bodies finding their own language. John buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent, trying to memorize every sensation. The tight and perfect way she felt around him. The little sounds she made when he hit just the right spot. The way her nails dug into his shoulders when the pleasure built too high.

Cécile's breathing grew ragged, her movements more urgent. John could feel her climbing, could see it in the flush that spread across her chest, the way her head fell back against the pillow.

She suddenly jerked her head away, eyes horrified. Her fangs had elongated, gleaming white. "Non, non, je suis désolée—" (No, no, I'm sorry—)

"Hey." John cupped her face, stilling her frantic apologies. "It's alright."

"Ce n'est pas bien." (It's not alright.) Tears gathered in her eyes. "I almost—"

"But you didn't." He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, anywhere he could reach. "I'm fine."

She shook her head, fangs still visible. The sight should have terrified him. Instead, it only made him want her more. "I cannot control it when I am... when we are..."

"Then we'll figure it out." He was still inside her, could feel her body trembling around him. "Together."

Slowly, carefully, he began to move again. Cécile's eyes widened, then fluttered closed as pleasure overtook fear.

They found their rhythm again, slower this time, more careful. John watched her face constantly, ready to stop at the first sign of danger. But Cécile seemed to have found her control, her breathing steady even as her body responded to his touch.

When she came, it was with a soft cry that sounded like his name. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper, and John followed her over the edge with a groan that seemed to come from his very soul.

They lay tangled together afterward, sweat cooling on their skin. Cécile's head rested on John's chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his ribs. Her fangs had fully retracted, her breathing was even. Calm.

John brushed a strand of pink hair from her face. "You didn't hurt me."

"I could have." Her voice was small, vulnerable. "The hunger, it is strongest when I feel... intense emotions."

"Good thing I'm always so perfectly calm and reasonable then."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. But seriousness would not let the moment last. "John, if we do this again, if we... I need you to understand the risk. I cannot have human blood. If I do, I might not be able to stop."

"I understand." He pulled her closer, feeling the steady beat of her heart against him. "And I still want you anyway."

Outside, the bayou sang its night song of cricket chirps and frog bellows. Inside, they held each other like the world might end in a day.

Maybe it would.

But for now, they had this.

Chapter 27

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, horror, slow burn,

Chapter Summary: Odette tries her best to hold everyone together.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 25

Words: 1,607

The run down shack that once passed for a saloon was too loud, too crowded, too much. Cécile sat stiffly in a chair by the fire, her wedding dress still pristine despite the chaos of the night. Her green eyes were vacant and unblinking. Dutch’s command had rooted her in place, and no amount of shaking or pleading from John seemed to break through.

John was pacing. “We gotta do somethin’! We can’t just sit here and let her—” He cut himself off.

Arthur, leaning against the bar, snapped back, "you think I ain’t tryin’ to figure this out?”

“Figure it out faster, dammit!” John barked. “You’re the one who’s supposed to know all this vampire crap! You and Odette! So do somethin’!”

Odette stood by the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The room was suffocating like early morning smog. She could feel the panic radiating off John, the guilt simmering beneath Arthur’s anger. And Cécile? Cécile was a void, empty thing. Gone was the vibrant, tarte-tongued girl she’d come to care for like a sister.

She couldn’t think like this. Not with the noise of their bickering. The stench of fear.

“Shut it, both of you!”

Both men turned to her, but she didn’t meet their eyes. “John, sit with her. Talk to her. Keep her grounded here, with us, and not in her head with Dutch."

John hesitated, but he didn’t argue. He moved to Cécile’s side, pulling up a chair and sitting close. He spoke softer now, awkward, as he began.

“Hey, Cécile. It’s me. John. You remember me, right? I’m the idiot who can’t keep his mouth shut. The one you’re always teasin’."

Ugly memories, centuries of mental torment, crawled up Odette's spine like winter frost. She needed air, needed space.

She slipped out the back door, the cool night air hitting her sweat soaked skin like a balm. She leaned against the wall, pulling a cigarette from her pocket and lighting it with trembling hands. The smoke filled her lungs, but it did little to calm the storm inside her.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she let them fall unchecked. She’d failed Cécile. She’d failed them all. And now that poor girl was trapped, her mind held captive by a man who wanted to make her his doll, dressing her up in white, dying her hair.

Odette took a long drag from her cigarette, her mind racing. She’d been under the Count’s control before. She knew how it felt, how it twisted your thoughts, your will. But she’d broken free. She’d fought her way out. Maybe Cécile could too. She had to.

But how? How could they help her? How could they reach her when she was so far gone?

Odette’s thoughts spiraled, her frustration mounting. She needed a plan, a solution, but her mind was jumbled up in fear and doubt. She’d faced the Count before, but this was different. This wasn’t just about her anymore. It was about all of them.

She stubbed out her cigarette, her hands still shaking. She swept the tears from her face, sighing into her palms. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not when they needed her. She took another deep breath, forcing herself to focus. There had to be a way. 

For now, she just needed a moment. Just one minute to breathe, to gather herself. Then she’d go back inside. She’d face it all. She’d find a way to fix this.

Odette went back in and motioned for Arthur to follow her, leading him to another room where they could speak in private. Once the door was closed, she faced him, her face felt like carved stone.

“We need to help break Dutch’s hold on her. But it’s not going to be easy. She’s… she’s trapped in her own mind. I've been through something similar. You can hear everything, see everything, but you can’t move. You can’t speak. You’re just… stuck.”

"So how do we get her out?”

Odette shook her head. “She has to do it herself. We can’t force her. But we can try to reach her. Keep her connected to us. If she can hear us, if she can remember who she is, she might be able to fight her way out.”

“Alright. We’ll keep talkin’ to her. But what if that ain’t enough? What if Dutch’s hold is too strong?”

Odette did her best to keep her composure. She didn't want to think about that.

“Then we’ll find another way. But for now, this is all we can do."

She left him there, stepping back into the main room. John was still talking in hushed tones to Cécile.

“You remember that time you called me a ‘stupid cowboy’? I ain’t never gonna live that down, am I? You’re always gonna be there, remindin’ me how much of an idiot I am. And you know what? I’m okay with that. ‘Cause you’re always gonna be there, right? You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Odette simply uttered a prayer under her breath and allowed herself the smallest dash of hope that Cécile would find her way back.

Hours passed.

Arthur sat at the bar of the rundown building, his elbows resting on the scratched wooden surface. The mirror behind the counter reflected a man he barely recognized anymore. The scar on his neck where Cécile had bitten him were pink against his pale skin. The man staring back at him wasn’t the outlaw he’d been, nor the protector he’d tried to be.

Behind him, in the other room, he could hear John trying to reach Cécile. She sat motionless, still under Dutch’s command. Arthur didn’t need to turn around to see the desperation in John. He’d seen it before, in the mirror, in the graves of the gang, in the blood-soaked campsite where he’d found Abigail and Jack. It was the look of a man who’d lost too much and wasn’t sure he could stomach losing any more.

Odette slid onto the stool beside him, her movements smooth and silent. She didn’t speak at first, just sat there, close enough that their arms brushed. Arthur stared at his reflection, the lines in his face deeper than he remembered, the shadows under his eyes darker.

“You still want to save him, don’t you?” she finally asked softly.

Arthur closed his eyes. The question hung in the air between them. He didn’t answer right away. The truth was complicated, tangled up in memories of a man who’d been more than a leader, more than a father. Dutch had been a force, a hurricane that swept them all up in his wake, promising freedom, glory, redemption. Arthur had believed in him, once. Maybe a part of him still did.

“I didn’t think I’d struggle this much. Killing Dutch,” Arthur admitted. He opened his eyes, meeting Odette’s gaze in the mirror. “I thought it’d be easy. John was right. Everything that’s ever gone right and wrong in my life, it all goes back to Dutch. Time and time again, I let him come in and steamroll through all our plans, all our money… If I can’t do it, if I can’t kill him, what does that make me?”

Odette reached up, her fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead. Her touch was gentle as she cupped his cheek. “It makes you human,” she said simply.

Human. Was he still that? After everything he’d done, everything he’d become? He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the look in her eyes stopped him. There was no judgment there, no pity. Just understanding. Tenderness.

She leaned in then, and her mouth met his in a slow, gentle kiss. It wasn't like the one they'd shared before, frantic and desperate. This was dangerous, maybe, but soft, too. Arthur felt himself leaning into it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

The warmth of her lips against his sent a current through him, awakening something he'd thought long dead. Her scent enveloped him, honey and whiskey, and for a second, he forgot where he was, who he was. There was only this, only her, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. He deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her, knowing he shouldn't, knowing he couldn't stop himself even if he tried. But just as he started to lose himself in it, she pulled away, her breath warm against his lips.

The absence of her mouth against his left him hollow. Yearning. His fingers caresses the nape of her neck, twirling in dark curls that felt like silk against his calloused skin. His thumb stroked the curve of her jaw.

How long had it been since someone had looked at him with warmth instead of fear? Since he'd allowed himself to want something beyond survival?

Arthur stayed still, his forehead resting against Odette’s, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Arthur could feel his ability, his sixth sense, pressing at the forefront of his mind, beckoning him to look further, deeper at the flood of desires flowing from her but he resisted. He never wanted to impose himself on her again, in any way. He wanted nothing more than this, her enthusiatic participation.

He didn’t know what his life would look like without Dutch. Maybe he never would. But for the first time, Arthur was eager to find out, to turn the page on gang life and just… live. Or come as close to living as he could, given what he was now.

Outside, coyotes howled, with voices rising in a mournful chorus.

Chapter 26

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, vampire!Dutch, horror, slow burn, death, grief

Chapter Summary: John, Odette, and Arthur attempt to rescue Cécile.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 24

Words: 1,973

John's hands gripped his shotgun with the same urgency he would a runaway horse. The swamps hissed and moaned around them as they tracked through mud that sucked at their boots with each step. Three days of hunting, following whispers and trails of blood. Three days since Cécile had been taken.

"They're close," Arthur murmured, his head tilted he caught a scent. "Guards posted at the perimeter."

Odette nodded, her own senses alert. "Blood. Fresh. They've fed recently."

John didn't need vampire senses to know they were approaching something unholy. The old plantation house loomed ahead, its white columns stained yellow by unnatural lantern light. Windows flickered. Shadows twisted in ways that made his stomach clench.

"I don't give a damn how many there are," John checked his silver bullets one last time. "I'm getting her out."

John hadn't planned on caring for anyone after Abigail and Jack. Hadn't wanted to. Especially not someone as irritating as Cécile. But the woman had wormed her way past his defenses with her smart mouth.

She'd appeared in his life like a storm. Unwanted, uncontrollable, leaving destruction in her wake. Yet somewhere between her broken English insults and the way she moved like liquid silver in a fight, he'd found himself watching for her, waiting for her caustic remarks that somehow made the hollow ache inside him feel less painful.

It terrified him more than any vampire could. Caring meant losing. A lesson written in the blood of his wife and son.

Odette moved ahead, silent as shadow herself. "There's a side entrance through the servant's quarters. Less guards."

They slipped through the overgrown gardens, past statues with hollow eyes that seemed to follow their movements. John's palms were sweaty against his gun, unnerved by the looming stone figures. Memories of Abigail's smile flickered like a dying lantern in his mind with each step.

Music drifted from within, a warped version of a wedding march played on an out-of-tune piano, each discordant note scraping against his already frayed nerves like nails on slate.

"What the hell is going on?" John whispered.

Arthur shrugged, "Dutch always did love to put on a good show."

The side door opened to a narrow hallway. Two guards stood with their backs to them, necks marked with fresh vampire bites. Thralls, not fully turned. Sweating through their clothes like the devil himself was breathing down their necks. John watched as Odette closed her eyes in deep concentration, hands reaching out, and the men crumpled silently to the floor, blood vessels in their brains bursting.

They moved deeper into the house, following the music. John's heart hammered against his ribs. The hallway opened to a grand staircase, and below, a ballroom filled with vampires and human thralls alike. The crowd parted just enough for John to see the altar.

Cécile stood there in a white dress that glowed ghostly in the lamplight. Her hair was dyed a deep red that still stained the back of her neck. Her face was wet with hateful tears. Javier and Micah stood in suits as Dutch's esteemed groomsmen. Beside her, Dutch grinned like a shark, dressed in a black suit, sliding a ring toward her finger.

John didn't think. Didn't plan. He just moved.

"Now!" he shouted, vaulting over the railing. Arthur and Odette followed, guns drawn as they landed amid screams and hisses.

"Cécile!" John called out, shooting a vampire that lunged for him. The silver bullet found its mark, and the creature crumbled to a pile of blood and guts.

For a moment, her eyes cleared. Recognition flashed across her face as she looked at John. "John?" A smile rose up her face like the morning sun. She took a step toward him, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. John reached for her, his heart in his throat.

"Get back here!" Dutch commanded with an otherworldly authority.

John watched in horror as Cécile's eyes clouded over. Her body stiffened, then turned and walked mechanically back toward Dutch.

Dutch smiled, placing an arm around her shoulders as she returned to his side. He looked exactly as John remembered him, except for the eyes. They shimmered with an unholy light when he moved a certain way. The charisma that had once drawn men to follow him now felt like cold fingers pressing into John's mind.

"John Marston, Arthur," Dutch greeted them, as casual as if they'd met for drinks at a saloon. "I'm glad you could make it to my wedding day."

John raised his gun, aiming directly at Dutch's head. "You let her go."

Dutch laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally through the ballroom. "Or what, son? You'll shoot me? Go ahead. Show your lady love what kind of man you really are. If I'm gone, she'll still be standin' there, stuck like that forever."

Arthur fixed his own gun on Dutch. "This ain't you, Dutch. This is the Count. He's messin' with your mind."

"The Count gave me clarity, Arthur. Something you never understood." Dutch's fingers stroked Cécile's dyed hair possessively. The sight of it, him touching her and her standing there with those dead eyes and the wrong color hair, it made John all kinds of sick with an outrage he couldn't quite grasp the magnitude of.

"I offered her a choice, you know. Be my queen or watch you all burn. Do you wanna know what she chose?"

Cécile stood unnaturally still, tears still falling from vacant eyes like raindrops down a window. Her spirit, the fire that had drawn John to her, seemed extinguished, leaving behind only this hollow, empty shell. John's trigger finger itch with a violence he hadn't felt since the night he'd found out about Abigail and Jack. He'd failed to protect them; he wouldn't fail her too.

"She ain't choosing nothing with you," John spat.

Dutch's smile widened. "Don't be so sure of that, boy. Maybe she finally saw what I could offer her. Power. Purpose. A kingdom." He gestured around the room. "Look around you. This is just the beginning."

Arthur's world funneled to a single point. Dutch standing before them, possessed hands gripping Cécile's arm while she stared ahead with marbled eyes. The plantation house's grand hall, once a symbol of Southern opulence built by the wearied hands of slaves, now served as the stage for Dutch's twisted ceremony.

"Let her go," Arthur aimed his gun directly at Dutch's head.

Dutch's lips curled into that familiar smile. The one that had once meant safety and belonging to Arthur. Now, he just looked crazed, like a wild coyote with his back against a tree.

"You ain't gonna kill me, boy." Dutch carried that presumptuous tone, like they were just two old friends catching up. "We both know that."

Dutch locked eyes with Arthur, flashing that hypnotic stare, and he felt something trying to push at the front door of his mind.

Arthur's finger trembled on the trigger. Images flashed behind his eyes. Dutch teaching him to read by firelight, Dutch's hand on his shoulder after his first successful robbery, Dutch's laughter ringing through camp. The memories peeled apart from him, layer by layer. Twenty years of loyalty and love, twisted into something he couldn't recognize anymore.

His hesitation lasted only seconds, but it felt like years. Their history had caved in a hole in him so grand, he wasn't sure exactly how much of him would remain after all was said and done. The man before him wore Dutch's face, spoke with Dutch's voice, but something essential had rotted away inside him, leaving only this empty vessel with a monster's appetite.

John, however, didn't share his sentimentality. The crack of his revolver split between them as he fired.

But Dutch was fast. With inhuman speed, he moved quick enough to avoid the bullet's path. He cranked his head toward John, scowling.

"You always were impatient, John."

The room erupted into chaos. Arthur lurched as Dutch's followers poured in from the adjoining rooms. He crashed into Dutch with the force of a freight train, sending them both colliding through an ornate table. Dutch's laughter bubbled up as they rolled across the floor, grappling for control.

"I made you what you are!" Dutch snarled, his face inches from Arthur's. "Everything you know, I taught you!"

Arthur headbutted him, feeling Dutch's nose crunch under the impact.

Dutch's eyes flashed gold, that permanent ring of bloodlust that came from an exclusive diet of human blood. He hurled Arthur across the room. Arthur crashed through a bookshelf, splinters and leather-bound volumes raining down around him. The impact would have killed a human, but Arthur was on his feet in seconds, wiping blood from his mouth.

Through the melee, he caught glimpses of the others. Odette moving like water between Javier and Micah, her hands commanding their blood to betray them. John had reached Cécile, was shaking her by the shoulders, his voice raw as he tried to break through Dutch's charm.

"Cécile! Look at me, goddammit!"

Her eyes remained glassy, unfocused. Dutch's command was an iron chain to her will.

The smell hit Arthur's nostrils before he saw it. Smoke. In the chaos, an overturned lantern had caught the heavy velvet curtains. Fire reached up the walls, spreading with a carnivorous speed. No one seemed to notice or care as the battle raged on.

Dutch came at him again, quick and precise. Arthur blocked a punch that would have shattered his chest, countering with a strike of his own. His fist met Dutch's jaw, sending the older vampire staggering back.

"The gang, our family! You killed them! I know it was you!" Arthur advanced on Dutch, landing blows as he spoke. "Hosea! Abigail! Jack! They trusted you!"

Dutch's eyes emptied. "They were weak. We ain't weak, Arthur. We're gods among insects."

The flames roared higher, consuming the room's eastern wall. The heat pressed against Arthur's skin, a reminder of one of their few remaining weaknesses.

"We need to go!" Odette's voice cut through the din. Javier had gotten the idea quicker and ran, dragging a nearly unconscious Micah who was bleeding from a wound in his side. "The whole place is going up!"

Arthur nodded. "John! Get Cécile outta here!"

John had given up on breaking Dutch's spell and instead had his arm around Cécile's waist, heaving her over his shoulder and doing his best to keep his balance as he made his way toward the door. Her arms dangled flatly behind his back.

Arthur turned back to Dutch, only to find empty space where he'd stood. Through the smoke and flames, he caught a glimpse of Dutch's coat disappearing through a side door.

"Arthur!" Odette snapped him back. "We have to go. Now!"

The ceiling beams groaned ominously above them. Arthur cast one last look at where Dutch had vanished, then turned and ran for the exit. They burst through the front doors just as the roof collapsed behind them, sending a plume of embers and smoke into the night sky.

They didn't stop running until they reached the tree line, where they turned to watch the plantation house burn. The grand structure that had once housed so much human suffering was now being cleansed by fire. There was a certain justice to it. A near beautiful thing, Arthur thought.

Cécile still stared blankly ahead, trapped in Dutch's command. John hadn't set her down from her spot atop his shoulder.

Odette stood beside him, her face illuminated by the distant flames. "He'll be back. The ritual isn't complete."

Arthur knew a change had dug it's roots into his mind. A crystallization of fundamental truth inside him.

The Dutch he'd known, the man who'd raised him, was truly gone. What remained was a devil wearing his face.

"Next time," Arthur said, watching the flames consume the site of Dutch's dark wedding, "I won't hesitate."

Chapter 25

[istayniche]

my bf made this after he finished his first full playthrough 🥹😩❤️