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lacrymatoryao3 · 4 months

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Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 7: New Year’s Eve, 1899 and Day, 1900

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To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

4,410 Words (AO3 Link)

“Gettin’ real good at that.” Arthur said sitting on an old barrel, watching Arthur Francisco blow the bottles apart off the nails hammered into the beaten and pellet scarred section of fence. Now and again he would pull out his pistol, taking a shot from his hip to impress the boy despite his fingers starting to go numb even in gloves after a couple of hours in the cold.

Ana had given Arthur Francisco some instruction. He was better for his age than he imagined most boys were. Like his mother his focus was incredible. His stance was solid, his feet apart to match his shoulders and his left foot slightly ahead of his right with its knee facing the targets. He had a decent grip on the rifle, the stock at his dominant shoulder but far enough so it wouldn’t strike his collarbone. He knew not to hold his finger on the trigger unless he was ready to fire. He aligned the barrel with the eyesight and checked it with the attached scope. Arthur made some minor corrections with him over the past week. He had gotten comfortable enough rather quickly.

Arthur remembered an instance when his father tried to teach him to shoot. It didn’t go well. In fact, none of the memories he had of Lyle Morgan were positive except when he died. It wasn’t long after his mother was buried, Lyle trying to give him some semblance of survival kills. He wasn’t going to live forever, after all. A fact Arthur began to savor at one point. In the end, like any time he tried to be a parent, it ended with his hand striking the back of Arthur’s head and the young boy shedding hidden tears after. The only thing he learned from the miserable son of a bitch was using violence to stay alive.

Then he met Dutch and Hosea. It was the first time men had shown him any sort of care, rather than tolerance. The marksmanship he came to depend upon came from their patience. They didn’t lambaste him when he didn’t hit the target, they didn’t lay a hand on him when he needed more instruction, they just kept at it until he was good to handle it on his own.

He had made a promise to himself when Isaac was born and he saw the baby for the first time. He was going to be the opposite of what his father was to him. He tried to balance his two lives, one with the family that had accepted him and gave him love he didn’t have after his mother was gone, and the one consequence thrust upon him to build until it was torn away from him at the cost of two innocent people’s lives.

Looking back, he wasn’t the father he could have been. He’d show up every three months or so, stay a week, and ride back off leaving Eliza to fend for herself with whatever support he could give to her. Though he was always happy to see him, Isaac barely knew him and Arthur didn’t learn enough about him either. Somehow, for some twisted reason, he was given the chance to try again. He could be the father he pledged to be the first time, without the responsibilities of a gang to distract him.

He didn’t know this one either… At all. He didn’t get the glimpses of him as he grew. Arthur Francisco had no idea about him in return, or the fact Arthur was the father he asked about. It had never come up for anyone. Arthur and Ana hadn’t spoken about if or when or how to tell him, and his namesake never said anything. As it stood, this man that suddenly appeared in his life was just a friend of his mother’s from a long time ago. Arthur wondered if he had some sort of inkling. It wasn’t impossible to put the pieces together. They had the same first name, the same color of eyes… Whatever he thought, he was keeping it to himself.

Ana had only given her son a small ration of ammunition to practice with. It was even smaller on New Year’s Eve. There was a schedule they had to follow. Once it had ran out they started walking back to the nice, warm house where Arthur talked the boy through how to use gun oil. Arthur Francisco got most of it on the rag and as a result on the rifle, but his hands were still coated in the greasy fluid when it it got put away. It took him several tries to wash it off.

“What you thinkin’ about huntin’ anyway?” Arthur asked, holding his hands over the stove to take the chill out of them.

“I’m not sure yet,” Arthur Francisco said, “I’d like to at least get a deer. If I’m lucky maybe an elk or moose someday.”

“Ever hunted them before?”

“I’ve tracked them. Couldn’t shoot them. Only animals I’ve killed have been rabbits and turkeys.”

Arthur Francisco began to explain the movements of several deer in the area. He knew exactly where they grazed depending on the season and snow cover. He learned one herds schedule so well he looked at the clock in the kitchen and told Arthur where they were. He also knew the general territories of the elk and moose in the mountains up north according to the roving hunters and trappers who would come and go from Canada. The boy was on his way to being an expert hunter, something Arthur never felt he’d been. He improved a bit after Charles showed him the methods he used. He never was able to master a bow and arrows until then, though he had to admit he still preferred a gun. Either way he hoped he’d be a little bit useful. He had taken down plenty of deer, a few elk, a couple of moose, and other animals in his time. Pearson never went without meat, at least. Arthur used the opportunity to tell the story of the one thing he was proud of: killing that massive and nasty, scarred and half blind grizzly bear above O’Creagh’s run awhile after he and Hosea practically ran from it.

As the time ticked by Ana had finally appeared from upstairs, carrying a the overnight bag she packed for Arthur Francisco. She had been running around the house all day. She cleaned the house top to bottom, mopped the floors with cinnamon and water, made everyone bathe, she put a candle on a white plate surrounded by grains and spices to burn out and buried the waxy remains. On the stove for dinner she had a stew with salted codfish and olives. In the oven was two pans of Mexican styled cornbread, one for them and the other for the Liang family who Arthur Francisco was going to spend the night with since Mrs. O’Hogan was expected to give birth any day.

They finished dinner with a spoonful of lentils. Something that apparently a token of good luck for the coming year. After cleaning up Arthur and Ana accompanied Arthur Francisco to the inn, along with the corn bread. As soon as they went back to the house, Ana disappeared upstairs again to get ready for the party.

She envied men at times. The ordeal getting dressed for any formal occasion was less time consuming for them. They didn’t have the expectation to be as beautiful as possible. Just her hair was a time consuming process. She split the layers in half, braiding the top much like she normally did but more elaborately and higher onto her head. She left the bottom loose and flowing, allowing it to curl in its natural profusion. To think other women envied her for that thick mop she had to care for. She wasn’t a whore anymore, and hadn’t been for over 16 years. If it wasn’t so socially unacceptable she would have cut at least half of it off years and years ago once she had escaped.

One thing it had taught her was how to do her face up without making it too obvious she had product on. She massaged her face, neck, and chest with a soothing cream that was intended to keep her complexion youthful and even… well, as possible. She was getting old and there was only so much she could do about it. When it dried and absorbed she covered it with a fine powder that she had to mix with cocoa and cinnamon to match her skin tone. She covered her eyelids with a subtle dusting of charcoal, then wetted a tiny brush from one of her son’s old paint sets to apply a darker line along her eyelashes. She added some blush to her cheeks and stained her lips with a waxy rouge.

Ana removed her robe and stepped toward the clothing laid out on her neatly made bed. Her stockings and the Combination – an assemblage of the top of a thin strapped chemise sewn to the drawers which made the waist less clumsy – was a heavy knit wool for the cold weather. She slid the low heeled pumps that matched the color of her dress onto her feet, then put on her corset. It was much more rigid and slightly tighter than her normal one, partially for vanity and making the gown’s bodice fit better. She covered it with a ruffled front camisole. The idea was it would keep the dress from being too tight around the breasts, but it really only seemed to give the illusion that they were bigger than they really were. One petticoat was heavy, lined with glazed cotton quilted into black satin. The second petticoat was much finer, a sheer underskirt to cover a back padding that supported the dress’s train… or make her ass bigger, she didn’t really question American fashion anymore.

“You almost done there, Anie?” She heard Arthur’s voice on the other side of her door after a soft knock. Perfect timing.

She opened the door and motioned him inside, “Good! Can you help me with the back of this?”

Arthur had seen women in various states of undress. Whether it was the women in camp, the working girls in whatever town he was in, he’d seen her in a lot less layers than she had on. Yet, he still couldn’t be casual about it. It still felt indecent of him to be there. He obliged, of course, standing behind Ana and focusing of fastening the back buttons of her gown’s bodice and only that. He turned away from her to let her put on the skirt, a shy attempt at maintaining her modesty around him.

Ana shook her head, muffling her laugh with a smirk. She put on her gloves and a set of pearl jewelry she received as a wedding gift before ending the charade, “Well? I think you can look at me now.”

She didn’t look like the same woman. She was regal in her champagne yellow gown with irises draping down the fabric in delicate golden silk threads. The train made her appear smaller, delicate, the most feminine she had ever looked. Her rigid stance still dripped with the same wild pride she had since he met her.

Arthur smiled, one of the few genuine ones he could recall over the last few years, “Almost don’t recognize you. Didn’t think you could seem dainty.”

“Oh, I could still take you down if I needed to.” She replied keenly.

It made him laugh. The girl he knew was still in there. Just waiting for the moment to resurface.

Ana folded her jacket over her arm, a closely matching black opera coat overlaid with yellow lace and lined with black fur. Arthur held the door open for her, “I have no doubts you could.”

The Grange hall was a nondescript structure, built like an oversized double shotgun house. It could have been easily passed by, even with the sign hanging from the porch roof that wasn’t readable until they were right in front of it. The entryway had a strong scent of oak from the wall panels. Arthur underestimated the population of the town. People came flooding into the hall with them in droves to the point it started to make him nervous.

A young man who was a member of the Grange fellowship took their coats. They entered the main meeting hall to join the throng of people. It certainly wasn’t a high class affair like the ball that wretch Bronte held in Saint Denis. It was much looser, less focus on formalities and more on the locals having fun. What people wore ranged from simple evening wear they could afford, to just what they put on when going to church on Sundays. On the stage was a volunteer brass band. It was immediate that they weren’t professionals, but while they didn’t play well it was enough to dance to without being grating.

Lounging at the end of one of the benches that spanned the walls underneath the windows was a man. He was about as tall and built similar to Arthur, though clearly several years older. His face was much more weathered, with a default expression of solemnity and seriousness. His heavy horseshoe shaped mustache and eyebrows where an ashen white, as was most of his hair except his long muttonchops and ends swept behind his ears that reached his shoulders which still retained traces of auburn. He seemed to be studying everyone who crossed the gaze of his oddly piercing dull gray-green eyes. The simpleness of his wool blue-black suit stuck out or the occasion, until Arthur noticed the overly polished brass six pointed star sheriff badge pinned to his chest.

Ana approached nonchalantly him, “Good evening, Sheriff! Even working on a night like this?”

Seeing her, his eyes lit up and he stood to greet her, “Ah! Mrs. Gardener! It’s good to see you! You look lovely as you always do!”

Something about how they talked didn’t sit well with Arthur. He couldn’t entirely place why, but there was a twinge in his chest. Maybe the fact he was the Sheriff that caused it, or how suddenly warm he became to her. He quietly reminded himself, regardless of what once was, she was no longer his. It didn’t stop the simmering instinct to get her away from him, protect her from whatever he was eyeing her for.

Ana motioned to Arthur to join them, delicately leading him by the arm, “Sheriff Strange, this is Mr. Arthur Callahan. He’s been staying and working with me for a few months now. Arthur, this is Sam Strange, Cain Valley’s sheriff. Mr. O’Hogan told you about him if you were interested in maybe helping with some bounties or whatever else.”

“Sir.” Arthur acknowledged gruffly.

The Sheriff looked him over, “You look tough enough. Could use more strong men in these parts. Especially once the thaw starts. With the lower states pushing back against ‘em, we’ve been getting a lot of gentlemen hoping to cause mischief like they used to. If Mrs. Gardener can give you the time, stop by the station.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged before they moved on to the banquet table in front of the stage. The centerpiece was a large crystal bowl of spiced punched that had cherries and orange slices floating in it. Behind it were bottles of rather cheap wine and champagne and carefully arranged glasses. On plates to the side were dainty snack foods like crackers and cheese, small fruit tartlets, and different kinds of finger sandwiches. Ana poured Arthur and herself some wine. She identified the eligible women in attendance. Many of them she knew and she narrowed them down to an acceptable age.

“Have you seen anyone you think you’d like?” Ana asked innocently.

Arthur had forgotten about Ana’s plans on finding him a woman, “Can’t say I’ve been paying much attention.”

Ana started subtly pointing out she settled upon, “The really tall blond lady over there in the pink dress? That’s Ingrid Svensson. Her sister Astrid is the school teacher, because of that she’s not permitted to attend events like this. Astrid is 25, Ingrid is 27… Over on the other end, the two women chatting in the corner in red and green? One is Nina Weimann. She’s also 27. Her father is the barber. The other one, her friend, is Zofia Grabowski. She’s 28, came here from Poland to marry a miner. He apparently died before she arrived and she wandered up here. She works as a milk maid and a laundress… The woman next to Sheriff Strange is his daughter, Louise. She’s 30 and her surname is still technically Covey. She was married for a while, but moved to Nevada for a year and got a divorce… Just walking in, in that bright purple is Margot Lambert. She’s a bit more closer to your age, 33. Her grandfather was a French trapper to staked a mine claim here. Even after it dried up they remained. They’re good people. Run the bank now. Just… Pick out whoever you like and I’ll introduce you. Or all them, we can make a circuit.”

Arthur followed her gesture. There was nothing about any of the women, not that they weren’t attractive and he was sure they were nice, that piqued his interest.

“What makes you think I’m keen in any of them?” He muttered.

Ana playfully poked his back, “Oh come on, Arthur.”

Arthur jumped away from her and laughed, “Why you so determined to get rid of me?”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you!” She defended, “But you need someone. My god, when was the last time you even bedded anyone?”

His eyes widened in surprise at the question, sputtering out in reply, “When was the last time you did?!”

Ana swallowed down the last of her wine and poured another, “Too goddamn long, that’s when.”

Arthur sat down on one of the long benches as Ana joined the Contra group dance. Just watching it overstimulated him. For one so fast paced he’d have made a complete clown of himself if he had tried. Ana stuck out, a jewel among them in her rich dress. Her skirts billowing about as she glided from one partner to another. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, striking a match with the sole of his shoe. He took a few hard puffs. Jealousy reared itself in his emotions again, especially with the men who became her momentary partner. Being unable to quell it was further frustrating him. What the hell did he want? Even more, what the hell did she want?

Ana had much more to drink by the time she rejoined him. Her face was rosier with the amount of alcohol in her blood, her eyes sparkling, and a wide smile on her face. She dropped beside him heavily and joyfully wrapped her arms around him.

“Don’t sit there with such a sour face!” She teasingly chided, “You used to know how to have fun! Come on, the next dance we have!”

She led him hand in hand to the floor. Her steps weren’t as graceful as they were at the beginning of the party. Arthur himself had a bit to drink, but he didn’t indulge as heavily as Ana did. He had to be on his best behavior, after all.

When the waltz began Ana had brought herself closer to him than the usual. She led at first, a comical sight for a woman whose head only reached his chest. Once he was refamiliar with the movements she let him. She sighed and laid her head on him. In her deep brown eyes was a deep affection that was always in the background of her gaze towards him. Something that came to the surface once her inhibitions were thoroughly suppressed. He hadn’t seen it in so long. It was pure and unconditional, unashamed and not awkward or close to ashamed like he had with Mary the last few times she and Arthur had crossed paths.

He didn’t know how deep it went for her. How safe she felt with his arm around her, his hand resting on her back. It was the same when they were young, like his presence was where she felt the most right and where she belonged. If she could tell him, she would. Instead she simply savored the brief moment, rather than the endless ideas of what could have been.

The champagne began being passed around as it grew closer to midnight. The band stopped when another member of the Grange came onto the stage. With his watch in hand he began announcing the minutes to midnight. Once 10 seconds were left the crowd joined in, counting down from 9 until the new year finally arrived.

It was 1900. A new century. Everyone was cheering. The church bell began to toll in celebration and the band played Auld Lang Syne with some singing loudly along and other throwing small pieces of food or coins at the door to the entry hall, a superstition to prevent hunger or poverty in the coming months. There was another tradition Ana had wanted to fulfill, one that caught Arthur off guard. She turned to him, standing as tall as she could and kissed him on his cheek.

It lingered on him on the way home. He didn’t understand the messages she was sending him. One moment she was trying to find him a bride… The next she was pressed against him and she had her lips on his face. He was considerably less drunk than Ana was, who spend the time gushing about their shared memories, but he was enough for the contradictions to annoy him.

Ana felt his mood shift. His energy was always so strong when his mood changed, comparable to the air when a sudden storm rolled in. Another thing her son had in common with him. It sucked the mirth inside her, replacing it with cold and anxiety. She waited until they were inside where it was warm to confront him about it.

“What’s bothering you now, Arthur?”

“It’s just…” Arthur grunted, pausing and slamming his fist on the capped post at the bottom of the bannister, “What you want from me, Ana?”

She blinked, his image swayed in her foggy vision, “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Bullshit!” He barked, “You get all nice and cozy to me, then you act like you don’t want me!”

Knowing him, how easily he felt rejected, made what he said painfully sear through her. Her instincts to hide weakness made her straighten, to fight the regretful tears starting to string her eyes, “It’s… It’s not that I don’t want you.”

That only further agitated him, “THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!”

“BECAUSE I WILL NEVER BE MARY!” Ana shouted back. She covered her face. The dam had burst and she couldn’t allow him to see it. She softened her voice, “I accepted, ten years ago, that you would never love me the same level as I loved you.”

She started to laugh at how ludicrous she sounded, “That’s it! The truest form of love I can show you is a path where you can actually enjoy life. It doesn’t matter if it involves me. I’ve had a good life, I want the same thing for you.”

No matter what she said the result was still the same. While Arthur’s anger was gone, the self loathing that haunted him filled every fiber of him. He just stared at her, remorse etching the lines in his face deeper. He reached out to her, “Anie…”

“No. I just can’t…” She stumbled passed him up the stairs.

He heard the door slam. He just stood there. He’d rather she had just called him names, confirmed what he already knew about himself. What did happen made him feel worse. Something clicked as his silent chastisement paralyzed him. He didn’t know what it was, but it was enough for him to follow. Ana was probably undressed by now, in her nightwear. He just hoped he didn’t totally miss the chance to make something right. He hesitated at her door. From the other side were her muffled sobs.

He didn’t knock. Ana didn’t react to him entering and softly closing the door behind him. He sat next to her on the bed, only able to muster a weak “Ana…”.

“Will you at least try?” She said weakly, staring at him with red and watery eyes, “For me? For our child?”

Arthur rested his palms of Ana’s cheeks, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears that stained her face, “Yeah. I can try.”

He pulled down the blankets of her bed. She wearily obeyed, allowing him to help her lay down and tuck her in, “But, for now, you need to rest. You had a lot to drink tonight.”

He lowered the flame in the kerosene lamp on the side table to a dim glow. Once he was satisfied that she would be okay, he got up. Before he could get too far away from her, Ana grabbed his wrist.

“Please don’t leave me…”

Her hold on him was strong, desperate. Ana knew it shouldn’t be. She was the one who left him. She was no more worthy of it than any common whore. In her state, she just couldn’t be alone, away from him.

Arthur couldn’t say no, not with her despondent mood and woeful expression of heartbreak. He nodded. He did, however, instruct her to let him undress. She closed her eyes as he quietly stripped himself of his confining clothing, making sure his union suit didn’t show too much. The innocence of it aside, he did have some apprehensions sharing a bed with her. He hadn’t done anything of the sort in years, to the point he couldn’t really remember exactly when. Still, he crawled in on the empty side next to her. He put his arm around her, where she instinctively rested her head and hand on his chest.

“Since the party didn’t seem to go well,” Ana whispered as sleep came, “Do you want help finding Mary? I’m still willing.”

Arthur pulled her closer, covering her more, “You don’t need to worry about her no more.”

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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squidproquoclarice · 2 years

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Yeehawgust Day 31: Git Along Little Dogies

August 1890

Rainbow Junction, Nebraska

Bessie understood losing a child, or at least, she did in some sense. She and Hosea had lost some babies, one of them achingly close to being born, and every time, she’d cried. With George, there was an actual grave. One she still thought about, even near twenty years later. Pieces of her heart and soul carved out and stitched together only with the most deliberate care, leaving the scar all the same.

But even she didn’t fully know what it was like. What she’d lost had been mostly the dreams, the hopes, the potential. Arthur…he’d lost a child fully in the world, named and known and to judge from helping raise her sister’s kids years ago, one who’d already very much started to show a clear personality and self at four. No, technically three. Arthur had last seen him alive at three. Dreams and potential, yes, but so much heartbreaking reality as well.

Three months now since he’d come back and said he found them buried, and soon enough he once again smiled and laughed and did all the usual things within their small family, but she saw that emptiness in his eyes when he thought nobody was looking. Knew that I’m fine facade for the act it was.

Something else there too, something bleak and hard that unsettled her, but if he wouldn’t talk about his boy and the woman who’d borne him, he wasn’t going to talk about whatever happened afterwards. She knew Arthur so well now after almost thirteen years, learned his moods and tempers and kindnesses, but he’d gone somewhere she couldn’t follow.

He’d always tended to ride off for a while to be by himself, even before he’d been making trips to see Isaac, but now sometimes those trips ended with him coming back drunk or else in the local jail for getting into a bare-knuckle brawl. Things that would have felt like youthful idiotic high spirits in a man with energy and temper in abundance now felt like something so different.

Dutch said Arthur just needed work. Bessie frankly thought Dutch was full of shit on that point, but wouldn’t say so. She could see he was so impatient for Arthur to just come back to himself. As usual, trying to nudge things along, make them into the reality he wanted, and he probably meant well by it, but it was like trying to force a man who’d been gutshot onto his horse and demanding he go holler Git along you little dogies at the cattle and round them all up, claiming it was just for his own good.

She found him out in the barn, on the heap of feed sacks they’d put in to start to prepare for winter. A book opened and placed facedown on his chest, and him instead staring up at the ceiling as if it had something profound written on it.

She took a deep breath, and knew this would probably either help or shatter him completely, but she couldn’t just stand by helplessly and wait. Or shove more work at him like Dutch. Or shove more books at him like Hosea. Or cluck and fuss over him like Susan.

Arthur heard the whimper from the puppy she was carrying and sat up, though he put the book aside. Still a man who valued reading enough to not carelessly throw a book to the floor and risk damaging it. Sat there, looking at her and said, “Found another wayward critter, huh?” An edge of rueful humor to it, the self-deprecation so familiar to her.

“Yeah, in town. This one was the runt. Man was threatening to drown him, if you can believe it.” True enough. Though it had been in a weirdly joking way that she knew wasn’t serious, but which she couldn’t find funny all the same.

“I can believe it. World’s a shitty place, Bessie. My pa threatened to drown me plenty of times.” Said with an offhanded humor, but she couldn’t find it funny either. The puppy snuffled, wiggled, cuddling closer to her. “Figured maybe you wouldn’t mind a late birthday present.”

His brows knit together in confusion. “You and Hosea got me that nice shaving kit.”

“Now, Arthur. I took the poor boy on and we all know who’s best with animals in this family, and don’t think I don’t see you petting everyone’s dogs and cats given half a chance. So please just play along with me here.”

Also not untrue. But hopefully he wouldn’t see what lay beneath all that. The notion she’d had, looking at that poor last remaining puppy, that what Arthur truly needed was someone who needed him, someone to give some love to, someone to give him some happiness back. Yes, Boadicea did some of that, but people always had a more complicated dynamic with their horses, given the dependency of a working relationship involved. Dogs and cats? It could be much simpler.

He sat back a bit, shoulders easing, and she saw the faint twitch of a smile. One of those moments he’d managed to forget the pain, to let it recede, and she thanked God for that. She’d made the right call here. “You got me there, I suppose.”

“Besides, it’s been a while since we had a dog. What, five years?”

“Seven. We lost Midnight seven years back.” A gleam of humor entered his eyes. “It’s fine, we got little Johnny as a pet instead. Now, he shits where he ought, but he still ain’t gotten the hang of not yapping all the time, though.”

“Arthur.” She couldn’t help but chuckle all the same. “Here. Besides, don’t I owe you for beating me at dominos this winter? I always said we needed something to mark the occasion should you ever manage it.”

He was smart enough to know some of what she was doing, but thankfully, he seemed to believe it was just her being a soft touch, and both of them knowing he was every bit as much of one when it came to animals. She handed over the dog, his fur the color of a newly-minted penny, and watched him cradle the puppy close to his chest. Already half in love, by the look of him, and laughing at the dog’s boundless energy. “OK, there, Copper. Yeah, you’re a good boy.”

“Copper?”

“Coloring. And hell, we got enough lawmen sniffing out our trail at times–might be nice to have a friendly copper around for once.”

Copper seemed to agree, licking Arthur’s face. She felt a spark of hope at that.

#yeehawgust #yeehawgust 2022 #rdr2 #bessie matthews #arthur morgan #copper the dog #cw: child loss #thanks for another year of yeehawgust y'all

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hellonoblesky · 2 months

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I’m normal about the cowboys I’m normal about the cowboys I’m normal about the cowboys I’m normal about the cowboys (Dutch wasn’t there to bury Hosea) (Dutch wasn’t there to bury Hosea) (Dutch wasn’t there to bury Hosea)

#turtledove yells into the abyss

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mykneeshurt · 11 months

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Mister Morgan - Chapter 7

Arthur Morgan x F!reader

All warnings are on the title page

Chapter eight

“I don’t know why I bother wit you Dutch Van Der Linde! I seen you lookin at er!” Molly shrieked at the top of her lungs. That voice of hers was enough to pull you from your deep slumber. Rolling over in the cot your head thumped with every movement, a wave of nausea gripped your stomach. With a hoarse groan you emptied the remaining bile from your stomach onto the grass below. “Will you shut the fuck up!” You groaned from the tent rolling back over to bury your face into the pillow.

It had been two days since your run in with the O’Driscolls, luckily you only ended up with a concussion. Arthur was racing Dutch back from Rhodes when he heard your screams, he shot the O’Driscoll on top of you before you passed out. He put you on his horse and brought you back to camp, where he and the girls took turns looking after you.

You stayed in Arthur’s tent while he slept on a make shift bed outside, when he wasn’t off galavanting, which was quite often. To keep your mind occupied you studied his belongings on his table; a picture of his mother and father, a newspaper clipping from his first bank robbery, an orchid, a picture of him, Duch and Hosea when they were younger and lastly a picture of his old dog. The sentimental fool.

The tent flap burst open bringing with it a subtle evening glow and a chuckle from Arthur. “They wake you?”

Without moving your head from the pillow you mumbled “Arthur I can’t take no more of their bickering. My head is killin’ me.” Arthur walked over and sat next to you on the cot, “here, drink this, Hosea whipped it up for you.” Arthur produced a bottle of gensing elixir while he helped you sit up straight. “Damn darlin’ that’s quite a shiner you got there.”

“Yes. Thank you Arthur” you huffed as you rolled your eyes and took the liquid from his hand.

As you chugged the vile medicine you caught Arthur examining you in the corner of your eye. “Arthur, I’m fine. I’ve dealt with worse” you huffed, “what I can’t deal with is their incessant arguin’” you said just loud enough for them to hear. You felt claustrophobic being confined to this tent for so long, you needed to get out, even if it was to help old Grimshaw with the chores.

Something shiny caught your eye, “Arthur? What the hell is that?” You laughed, flicking the Deputy Badge that adorned his chest. Arthur let out a snort and rubbed the back of his neck “We’ll, I’m one of the Deputy Sheriffs of Rhodes mi’lady.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dutch?”

“Yeah, wants us to get in with the Gray boys. They got gold apparently..”

You rolled your eyes. He continued to fill you in about the last two days, how he, Dutch, Bill and another Deputy raided a local moonshine distillery in the swamp. How he and Hosea went into Rhodes to re-sell the moonshine, as Catherine Braithwaite knew it was hers when they went to sell it back to them.

“Sorry what?” You cackled mid way through that story “your name is now ‘Fenton’ the idiot brother of ‘Melvin’. Not far wrong on the idiot part is he” you winked at him. Arthur chuckled “yeah not my finest moment I will admit. Bunch of Lemoyne raiders found us, caused havoc in the saloon.”

“Chrissakes Arthur. That ain’t bein’ exactly low key.” He lowered his gaze with a grimace. “I know I know. I tried tellin Dutch but he ain’ listening. Even Hosea hasn’t been too sure bout all this.” You felt him tense up, you reached out and placed your hand on his knee with a gentle squeeze. “Talk to me Arthur.”

He let out a sigh. “I just … I don’t know what Dutch is playin’ at. I keep tellin’ him this don’t feel right n he just dismisses me. Really don’t feel right.”

You took his hand in yours and stroked the top of it “I don’t know what’s goin’ through his head, but you need to keep yours on straight Arthur. Who else is gonna save me from O’Driscolls” you said as you playfully shoved into his shoulder. “Go on, get outta here ‘fore people start talking.” You gave Arthur a small kiss on his cheek before he left.

Over the next few days you slowly started to get back into the swing of things, chores, arguing with Pearson and even a small hunting trip with Charles. It felt so good to be out of that tent and into the fresh air. Micah was back to his normal shit eating self, constantly making comments under his breath about you and making his dislike of you very obvious.

It all came to a head one evening as the sun descended over Flat Iron Lake. Micah was sat at the table beer in hand, you walked past after helping clear away the dinner and knew by the look on his face he was going to start. “Aw well look, if it ain’t the O’Driscoll whore. Surprised you ain’t rat us out yet.”

You stopped in your tracks and let out a sigh, you’d had enough. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up Micah.”

His eyes widened in shock or annoyance you weren’t quite sure. “Who the fuck you talkin’ to? You’re dead weight O’Driscoll.”

You felt your blood pressure rising, your chest became tight and knuckles turned white from your shaking fists. “I ain’t a damn O’Driscoll Micah! When you gonna get that through your thick skull?!”

He jumped up from his chair and came towards you trying to be intimidating. You were both in each other’s faces, the gang had started to notice what was going on and we’re coming over. “You got a a lotta nerve O’Driscoll.” Micah yelled as he grabbed your arm. You saw red. In one sudden movement you whipped your hunting knife from its holster to his neck.

You saw red. In one sudden movement you whipped your hunting knife from its holster to his neck. The blue steel pressed firmly against his neck, the skin turned red from the pressure. You’re not sure what stopped you from plunging the knife deep into his neck, nothing would have given you more pleasure. “Give me a fuckin’ reason.” You spat. Your eyes narrowed, waiting for another retort from him. You could feel his pulse thrash against the edge of your knife. Tempting you drive the it deep into his neck. He broke out into a shit eating smirk ‘Now Morgan, why don’t you keep your woman on a leash.”

You felt a firm grip on your waist and another on your hand holding the knife. You’re not sure when Arthur had even returned to camp. “Darlin’” he firmly whispered. The camp had gone deathly silent, all eyes were on you. You responded to Arthur’s firm touch and slowly dropped the knife from his neck, not breaking away from Micah’s gaze.

Arthur guided you by your waist to a more secluded spot by the lake. You sat down on a boulder in silence and stared out across the water. Your heart hadn’t stopped pounding against your ribs as you let out a few deep breaths. Your jaw clenched as you gritted your teeth in a silent rage.

After what felt like an eternity you managed to look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly.” He huffed “what the hell was that?”

You sucked your teeth, “Had enough of the comments from him Arthur. Thinks he can get away with anythin’ without no consequences. I’ll kill him, don’t think I won’t.”

Arthur slipped his arm around you “I don’t doubt that for a second. But yah know, Dutch don’t quite like murder in camp.”

You managed to let out a small giggle as you relaxed into Arthur. He smelt of gunpowder, a smell you never thought you’d like, but he wore it so well. “I won’t put up with Arthur, had years of the O’Driscolls walkin’ all over me. I ain’t taking shit from him.”

Arthur gently kissed your forehead “I know sweetheart, I know.”

“Don’t even know why Dutch puts up with him. Ain nothin’ but a snake.”

“Micah saved Dutch’s life once. He respects him, even if he is a pissant.”

“I guess” you sighed “what’s happening with these two families? Ain’t seen you all day.”

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh, he filled you in on the eventful day.

He, Javier and John went to the Braithwaite’s to steal some prize horses which were meant to be around $5000 a head. But, of course it wasn’t their lucky day. Couple hundred each for them at most.

“I could have come along Arthur, I know my horses, would have saved you the hassle” you remarked.

“Didn’t wanna put you out, besides you’ve only just recovered” he said while he rested his head agonist yours.

“I can help Arthur, I ain’t afraid of gettin’ my hands dirty. Besides I’m a better long range shot than you.” You giggled.

“So you keep sayin’. Fine come with Me and Sean tomorrow. We’re gonna torch the Gray’s tobacco fields.”

“I’m in.”

———

Surprised how well this reads lmao

#red dead redemption two #rdr2 #rdr 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption arthur

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whichstoodonrockyshores · 1 year

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Sadie rdr :] ?

Sexuality Headcanon:

Bisexual, with a slight lean towards women. She was with quite a few before falling in love and marrying Jake.

Gender Headcanon:

Cis Woman

A ship I have with said character:

Sadie/Jake. They seemed perfect for each other, and just hearing Sadie talk about how happy Jake made her before his death makes me sad. I wish they could have lived their happy lives together forever.

Sadie/Abigail/John. This one is mostly my wishful thinking of a universe where Sadie is around after American Venom, but I think it’s sweet.

Sadie/Arthur/Charles. Refer to Charles’ answers.

Sadie/Molly. I imagine these two became friends after Molly had a loud fight with Dutch, ending in Molly hiding away just outside of camp. Sadie followed her because she was worried (not that she’d say that) and sat down with her to cheer Molly up. After a few months of friendship and a lot of encouragement to leave Dutch sniveling in the dirt, they get together.

A BROTP I have with said character:

Sadie & Hosea. This is all just headcanons speaking, but I think speaking to someone who also lost their spouse could help Sadie with her own grief. Hosea offers his advice and while it doesn’t fix everything, it helps her get through each agonizing day without Jake.

A NOTP I have with said character:

I can’t think of a single Sadie ship I hate. Other than Dutch but I just hate Dutch

A random headcanon:

While in Colter, Sadie was very close to running back to her burnt home. Even if she would freeze in the cold, she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was get Jake’s body and bury him properly. Death wasn’t much of a concern of hers anymore.

General Opinion over said character:

Sadie’s great, and I love her. I see a shocking amount of hate for her on Reddit and such, but most of that is just clear misogyny or a misunderstanding of what grieving can look like. Another character in desperate need of a hug.

#death mention #suicidal thoughts tw #headcanons #sadie adler #ask games

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clareguilty · 3 years

Text

Arthur Morgan/reader, desperate sex

Here is my second fic for kinktober! The next should be up on Wdnesday <3

Arthur Morgan/fem!reader | desperate sex, dominant Arthur Mentions of death and injury, mild angst. I made the cowboy cry. Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2000

“Who goes there?” a gruff voice demanded as you rode up the trail to camp.

“It’s just me, Bill,” you called back, tipping your tattered hat.

“What the hell?!” He blinked and rubbed his eyes like he couldn’t believe you were right in front of him. “You’re alive?”

You grinned, opening your arms wide. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

He watched dumbfounded as you rode the rest of the way up to Horseshoe Overlook. You had been gone more than a few days, and your worst fear was that the gang would have packed up and left. The job had gone terribly -- so terribly you had been stranded and lost with no way back -- which was a good reason for the gang to move on to somewhere where the law didn’t know their faces.

But everything was exactly the same. People milled about, scrubbing or packing or chopping. Dutch’s gramophone played on, louder than a dynamite blast and seemingly never ending.

“What in god’s name?” Hosea took one look at you, bruised and battered and covered in every inch of wilderness you had hiked through trying to get back to camp.

“Glad to see y’all are still here.” You groaned in pain as you slid out of the saddle, smacking your ‘borrowed’ horse on the rump and pointing her back to the road. “Go on, girl. Find your way back home.”

The horse slowly headed back the way it came. Hosea was staring at you.

“I know,” you frowned. “I look terrible.”

“No,” Hosea waved his hand, shaking his head. “It’s not that -- though you do look like shit. We thought you were dead. We mourned you.”

It was your turn to look taken aback. “Dead? You gave up on me that quick?”

“Sweetheart.” He gripped your arm as if he was still trying to convince himself you were real. “You fell off a bridge. Those rapids… the rocks…” he trailed off.

You grimaced. “It certainly wasn’t my best performance.”

“There wasn’t any time to go back and look for you, but we weren’t even sure we would have found a body.” He looked ashamed. “We failed you.”

“No,” you took his hands in yours, squeezing. “You did what you had to do. I couldn’t bear it if you had lost someone trying to come back for me.”

Sean was walking by, bottle in hand. He did a double take when he saw you standing there, glanced at his bottle, and then back at you. “You mean Dutch gave that long fancy speech for nothing? You had better not die again.”

You laughed and shot him a wink. “I don’t plan on it.”

Sean seemed satisfied with that response. “Your man’s been a right mess since we lost you. Hopefully he quits moping around all the time now.”

“Arthur?” you glanced around. “Is he alright? Where is he?”

Sean shrugged. “Probably the same place he’s been for a week now.”

You turned to Hosea, desperate. “Where?”

“He’s been at his wagon mostly. I didn’t want him going out in the state he’s been in.”

His words only made you more worried. You had finally made it back to camp. All you had been able to think about -- the only thing on your mind as you clawed your way out that ravine and stumbled through the woods -- was that you had to get back to him. You couldn’t leave him. “Is he hurt? Did something happen?”

Hosea didn’t get the chance to answer. Whispers of your arrival back at camp must have spread fast, because Mary-Beth was dragging Arthur by the arm to where you and Hosea were standing.

“Arthur.” You were running -- as fast as you could move with all your injuries and exhaustion. He finally saw you, freezing in place and staring in disbelief.

You slammed into his chest, flinging your arms around him.

He hesitated before returning your embrace, leaning in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. The two of you stood there for a long while as you sniffled into his chest. Arthur held you tightly, as if you would disappear if he let go.

“Isn’t this sweet,” a familiar booming voice rang out. “Glad to see you alive and well, dear.” You didn’t even turn to look at Dutch. Not when Arthur was clinging to you.

The ground disappeared beneath your feet and you found yourself hoisted over Arthur’s shoulder. The crowd that had gathered around the two of you dispersed as he stalked across camp. The world flipped right side up again as Arthur sat you on his horse, swinging into the saddle behind you and taking off at a full gallop.

You made it to Valentine in record time. The ride was harsh and agitated your injuries, but you didn’t mind with Arthur at your back. He helped you down to the ground and practically carried you inside the hotel, slamming the door open. “A room for me and my wife, please,” he demanded.

The hotel clerk handed over the key. You clung to Arthur the whole way up the stairs, nuzzling against him and just glad to be near him again.

The lock clicked behind you and Arthur… changed. His embrace became more insistent. His eyes darkened. The edge of the bed hit the backs of your knees and Arthur laid you down. It was gentle, but he pressed you into the bed, climbing over you. “Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“It’s not too bad-” you tried to play it off.

He cut you off. “Where. Are. You. Hurt.”

It was terrifying, but thrilling. You shivered under his intense gaze. “My hip,” you grabbed one of his hands and gently lay his palm over your hip. “Makes walking and riding hard.”

He nodded. Clearly waiting for you to continue. “My back is pretty messed up, and my shoulder.”

He noticed the rips and tears in your shirt. All the places you had scraped or torn. His hands went to the buttons, lifting you carefully so he could get you out of the sleeves.

Your trousers were next, slowly pulled down over your hips. When you winced in pain, Arthur stopped to kiss you, cradling your face in his hands.

He stripped you down. His expression was pained as he took in the full extent of your injuries. You had fallen off of the rail bridge and gotten swept into the freezing rapids. The current slammed you into the rocks and swept you down the ravine before you washed up on the bank of the river. From there, it had been a grueling process of making your way out of the ravine and through the woods.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you reassured him. Glancing down, you got a good look at just what he saw. “It does look pretty bad, though,” you frowned.

Arthur’s expression was hard to read. You wondered if he was disgusted by you. It would take a long time to heal, and you knew he might not want to look at you while you were so beat up and battered.

He nearly collapsed on top of you. Luckily, he knew to brace his weight. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breaths ragged.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he gasped. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

You reached up to run your fingers through his hair. “I’m still here,” you promised. “Busted and bruised to hell, but I’m not gone yet, honey.”

He kissed his way along his jaw until he found your lips. It was perfect. You had missed him so much, so worried you would never make it back to him. But now you were here in his arms and kissing him.

“I love you,” you said as soon as you caught your breath.

“I love you so much, darling.” He hovered his hands just above your skin, too scared to touch you.

You placed your hands over his and guided it to where you weren’t scraped or bruised. “Touch me,” you begged.

He sighed as soon as he felt your skin against his palms, as if he just needed to know you were really there.

“I need you,” you tried to pull him against you, attempting to slot your hips together. “Please, Arthur.”

He hesitated. You could see the desire in his eyes, how badly he needed you, needed to feel you. But he didn’t want to hurt me. You would have to convince him.

“Arthur,” you grabbed the waistband of his pants. “I fell off a bridge and climbed out of a ravine and walked across half the damn state. I want you to fuck me, and I don’t care if it hurts.”

He seemed dazed, but lust clearly won out as you tried to slide your hand under his shirt. He was undressed in seconds, kissing his way over your neck and unable to keep his hands off you.

The pain was bearable, and you were too distracted with the warmth of Arthur’s skin under your hands. You couldn’t get enough of him, so glad to be near to him after all of those cold nights in the wild.

He was impatient, desperate. He wanted all of you at once, and he didn’t know where to start. Now that you had given permission, he wasn’t afraid to take what he needed. And take he did. He sucked a mark into your collarbone before kissing down to your chest. You gasped as his lips found your breasts, teeth scraping along the skin.

“Please,” you rocked your hips.

He got the message, gently pressing your thighs apart so he could stroke your clit. It felt so good. The stretch when he slipped two fingers inside made you cry out. You sighed and pulled him closer, winding your fingers in his hair as he pulled moans and gasps from your lips.

“That’s it,” he said. “Good girl. I wanna hear you.” He doubled his efforts, determined to make you come around his fingers.

You pulled him up for a searing kiss, biting his lip as you came. “Fuck me,” you breathed.

He was just as needy, cock hard and aching against your hips. He grabbed your less injured leg and hooked it around his hip, dragging his cock against your slit. The teasing was going to drive you mad, but luckily he was just as impatient. He sank into you with one slow motion.

He hissed a curse against your skin, lost in the feeling of you around his cock. “God, darling. Need you so bad.”

He didn’t even try to start slow, setting a quick, frantic pace as soon as he began to move. His fingers dug into the bruises on your skin, but you didn’t mind the pain. It only reminded you that Arthur was there, that you had made it home to him.

You were so close, clinging to each other so desperately. You couldn’t imagine what Arthur had been through the past several days. He had truly believed you were gone, he had been in mourning. While you were focused on not getting eaten by wildlife, he was grieving your death.

It made sense why he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, why he sighed so deeply every time his hips met yours. The way he drank the taste of your lips as if he could never get his fill. You gave him everything you could.

The two of you went three rounds that night, fighting through your exhaustion in a desire to be close to one another. You fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms, curled together on the rickety hotel bed.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off you. “The sight of you falling off that bridge, the way you just disappeared. It’s kept me awake every night.”

You can see it. The dark circles under his eyes, how haggard and underfed he looks. You can only imagine how broken up he must have been.

“Not tonight,” you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You have me here, safe and sound.”

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #smut #kinktober 2021 #lemons

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ttuesday · 3 years

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Hiiiiii hru doing? I love your blog sm u stg I check it everyday keep up the amazing (you even inspired me to start writing for rdr)

Anyways Can I request how would the VDL boys act if say the O'Driscolls or lamyone raiders kidnapped their S/O who already has some past trauma?

Arthur

Arthur thought you would’ve been back by now. Usually whenever you go into town to buy supplies, you’re back in camp within the hour. He could sense something was off but it was when Kieran mentioned seeing O’Driscoll’s in the area did he realize what had happened.

On the inside, he’s very scared. You could be dead by now and that terrifies him. Arthur wastes no time, shouting across to Dutch that you’ve been taken as he runs to his horse.

After a quick shootout, he finds you locked in a small room. Thankfully they didn’t have much time to harm you but nonetheless Arthur fussed over you, checking you over and over again for any injuries.

He pulls you in for a tight hug, burying his head in your hair as he mutters “Everything’s alright, I got you now and that’s all that matters”.

Dutch

When you didn’t return to camp, Dutch knew something was wrong. This isn’t the first time Colm has taken someone Dutch cares about, so he got a sort of hunch that they had grabbed you.

Within 5 minutes of initially getting this hunch, he gathers up some of the other fellers and they ride off to the O’Driscoll’s last known location.

Dutch doesn’t think about the worst case scenario. He forbids himself from even considering that possibility, mainly because he knows he’ll break down if he thinks of it.

After finally freeing you, Dutch tells you to ride with him. He brings you on a scenic route as the other fellers head straight back to camp. With remorse in his eyes, Dutch sighs “This shouldn’t have happened, I… I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you”.

Charles

Charles didn’t think too much about it when you weren’t back at your usual time. He knows you’re adventurous and that you like exploring so he thought that maybe you got side-tracked doing that.

But when Kieran mentioned it to him that O’Driscoll’s were nearby, Charles saw red. He was angry that he wasn’t there to protect you and that this had happened to you of all people.

He only takes a small handful of people with him on this rescue mission. John offered to go as an extra gun and Arthur wanted to go in the hopes of calming down Charles on the way there.

When Charles sees that you’re alive and thankfully not badly injured, all that anger turns to relief. “I won’t ever let this happen again,” he promises as he holds you close “I can’t let this happen again”.

Micah

Micah was subtly waiting for you to come back from the supplies run. He always acts like he doesn’t care but secretly he pays attention to stuff like this, especially when you’re involved.

When he overheard Kieran say he saw O’Driscoll’s... well shit, it’s a miracle Micah didn’t kill Kieran right there and then. He was furious that this had happened, blaming whoever he could (besides himself).

Micah didn’t care if the others followed him out to the O’Driscoll’s camp. He was in such a rage, the only thing he was focused on was killing anyone wearing green and finding you.

Micah’s still angry when he finds you. He breaths a sigh of relief but he instantly starts to berate you for not being careful enough. “You ain’t leaving my sight for a month after this, y’hear?” he scolds. Micah cares, he just doesn’t know how to show it.

Bill

It takes Bill a few seconds to comprehend what’s after happening. He hears Kieran telling him about the O’Driscoll’s being around but his brain doesn’t want to admit that you’ve been taken.

He’s scared shitless and if anything bad happens to you then Bill won’t be able to forgive himself. He yells at the others to hurry up as he quickly runs to Brown Jack.

As they shoot any O’Driscoll they see, Bill can feel his hands slightly tremble as he fears for the worst. You mean so much to him, if something happens to you, he doesn’t know how he’ll cope.

Bill doesn’t let you go when he finds you. “You ever go on another supply run, you come get me,” he says “hell, you even leave camp for a peaceful piss you best come get me”. Yep, he’s appointed himself to be your new bodyguard.

John

John was laid back when you mentioned you were doing a supply run by yourself. He knows you’re capable and good with a gun so he didn’t worry about it.

But when he realized O’Driscoll’s had taken you, he hated himself for being so relaxed about it. He hates that that might be the last conversation he ever has with you.

John wastes no time mounting his horse and galloping off. Some of the other fellers follow him but they can’t keep up with his speed.

After killing every O’Driscoll in sight and finding you, John feels his knees go weak as all of his anxiety fades away. “You really scared me for a second” he tries to smile though you can see a gleam in his eyes.

Javier

Javier is so goddamn determined to get you. Kieran hadn’t even finished his sentence about seeing the O’Driscoll’s and Javier was already sprinting towards the horses.

He doesn’t care how far he has to go to get you back, he’s willing to do it. It doesn’t matter how many O’Driscoll’s he has to fight or how many miles he has to gallop, Javier is determined..

Javier doesn’t wait around for the others to come with him. He prefers to do this alone and it’s easier for him to take a stealth approach this way too.

You didn’t even realize all the O’Driscoll’s were dead. Javier simply pushed the door open and told you that you’re safe now. “How about we spend the night away from camp, hm?” he asks, subtly looking you over to make sure you weren’t hurt “I don’t want you to get overwhelmed back at camp”.

Hosea

Hosea’s been through a lot in his life and at a certain point, he starts to pick up when something isn’t right.

He wasn’t sure about you going on a supplies run alone in the first place so when he heard about O’Driscoll’s being seen, it didn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

He gathers up some of the fellers and head off. Hosea knows what he’s doing and he knows the best plan possible so if Dutch tries to take control of the situation, Hosea immediately cuts him off.

After a brief shootout, Hosea finds you and quickly runs over to you. He asks if you’re alright before asking Arthur to go get you some water. “Are you ok? You’re very strong for getting through this, you know that? So strong”.

Sean

Sean has a lot of emotions. He’s angry that this has happened, scared, nervous and he’s pumped full of adrenaline.

You know Sean’s come to rescue you from the amount of shouting outside. He makes sure every O’Driscoll knows he’s there for you and continuous tells them they shouldn’t have messed with you or ‘Deadeye MacGuire’.

When Sean finally gets to you, he flings his arms around you and doesn’t let go. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should’ve been there, I should’ve…” yeah Sean goes on for a while, listing off all the things he should have done differently.

Even when y’all are heading back to camp, Sean makes sure you ride with him so he can keep his arms around you. He doesn’t want to let you go for a long, long time.

#yo I fucking love that my blog has helped inspire you to write for rdr ;-;#that’s one of the best things I’ve heard in a long time omg #I wanna give y’all hugs #<333 #writings #headcanons #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #charles smith #micah bell #javier escuella #bill williamson #hosea matthews #john marston #sean MacGuire

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honey-sweeeet · 2 years

Text

lamentation; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03)

cw; major character death

arthur mourns the loss of a very dear loved one

word count: 2.3k

Warm and muggy wind, heavy air and miserable rain. It was so damp, constantly. The ground was so soft it had sunk so easily under the wagon wheels as you rolled into the area. Sadie and Charles had cleared this place of the previous inhabitants, and you were lucky enough that the locals were terrified of the place. Night folk were not something to be messed with, but Sadie and Charles had driven them off nevertheless. You hated Strauss, but had to admit you were grateful he could think of somewhere to lie low a while. Until the men got back. You had helped Sadie run the place as best as either of you could on short notice, and Charles had been nothing short of solid help.

They had been gone for weeks now. How long would it take for the men to return? Hosea wasn’t here to give his wisdom, and you missed his company. He was pretty much your father after all this time, and you knew Arthur felt the exact same way about him.

Little Lenny had been buried beside him. You hated to call a funeral ‘lovely,’ but the union of the people around those two graves was heartbreaking. With Dutch and Arthur in Guarma and John in Sisika Penitentiary after the botched robbery in Saint Denis, you were the most senior member the gang had. It seemed fitting that you were the one to lower Hosea into his grave, and all you thought as you did so was that when Arthur returned, you knew you would bring him here alone to say goodbye properly.

You weren’t sure how he would take it. He was a man you had known since adolescence, just like John. You three were Dutch and Hosea’s earliest family, the children they chose. They were your mentors from almost childhood so it was obvious you’d see them a family. You were family. You are family. And you had lowered your father into his grave all the same. Little Lenny laid still beside him. ‘‘Blessed be those, who hunger and strive for righteousness,’’ Intoned Swanson, reciting a passage Hosea had quoted to you in your early days, and Arthur seemed to like as well. You knew it off by heart. ‘‘And blessed be those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,’’ He finished, waiting for you to stand from lowering Hosea. Charles placed a hand on your shoulder as all eyes laid on you. It was up to you to fill in the grave slowly as Abigail held onto Jack and pretended not to cry behind you. You rode Arthur’s horse back to camp after that. It seemed fitting somehow. A piece of Arthur was there with you and Hosea when you needed it.

You hated to say funerals were ‘lovely,’ but the whole thing was a beautiful way to be laid to rest.

That had been over a week ago now, after you had robbed the morgue with Sadie and Charles. There were days where you would wake in the Lakay shacks and think that this would be the end of your life. Between the people who were with you, there were less than ten people who would be able to defend themselves if it came to it. Tilly and Karen, Abigail perhaps. Susan, Sadie, Charles and Yourself. Pearson maybe, Uncle and Strauss not so much. Besides lacking the manpower, it was also the gun-power that doomed you in a gunfight. You feared there wasn’t enough to defend yourselves from the Night Folk, least of all the Pinkertons.

Some part of you wondered what would actually happen if they never came back. Charles told you how he had given the others a window to escape on a boat to god knows where. What if they never returned? Clearly you all couldn’t live in Lakay forever, there would come a time where one by one you would either die off or cut loose. One by one you would drift without resistance until there was no body left around. One by one the Night Folk would pick you off, or a fever would take you, or you would starve slowly, or a wandering alligator would catch you unawares. It was a cruel world, and you had no plans. They were looking to you frequently. You were taking Dutch’s place while they were absent.

Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

It had rained again overnight. You knew the ground was already sodden and waterlogged as usual before you had even stepped outside the cabin. Your temporary repairs had to suffice, even if they were pitiful to say the least. It was early morning, and you were sat stoic in the chair at the back of the cabin. Sadie had walked out with a repeater for her lookout duty. Karen and Mary-Beth traipsed around the front room of the pitiful shack until Grimshaw would inevitably pick them up for work. Pearson and Abigail were outside cleaning fish. Beside you, Jack was curled up on his bedroll. In front of you, Charles sat with his legs folded while he braided his hair back. ‘‘You’ve been skittish for days,’’ He commented. ‘‘That’s normal, though.’’ How could you even begin to defend your recent mental absence? ‘‘You’ve been so disconnected. How much have you slept since Saint Denis?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, Charles. I can’t think past the most simple things. It’s just one thing at a time before I shut down. People are asking me to make plans for them and I can barely look after myself any more.’’ ‘‘Nobody is expecting you to work miracles, you know.’’ ‘‘I miss Hosea.’’ ‘‘He was a great man, and I know he was like a father to you. He deserved a better life than the one he had.’’ ‘‘He made the most of it though, didn’t he?’’ ‘‘I can’t pretend to know him any better than you knew him, he was closer to you than anyone else. But I believe that man did everything he could, and did right by all the people he could in his life.’’

There was shouting outside, and your mind was divided. Part of you knew it was the inevitable danger catching up with your band of murderers and thieves. Part of you hoped that it was the men returning.

Part of you was correct.

Arthur stood in the mud, being held by Abigail and Pearson. They rushed him inside and Grimshaw handed him a metal bowl of stew. He came and sat by you, the first to return. His nice shirt had been ruined and salt stained and muddied, ripped and charred and bloodied. He seemed slightly sunburnt, although it was hard to tell beneath the full beard he had grown in the weeks he had been away. The voices surrounding him were loud, but slowly they died down after some panic had been placated within the rest of the gang. ‘‘You need a change of clothes,’’ You said, ushering him away to his possessions a while after he was finally left alone. ‘‘You’re telling me,’’ He mumbled, dropping his random weaponry to the ground. He ran water from a basin over his face, through his hair. Swapped his clothes into normal attire. You chose instead to clean up his guns, if they even were his. ‘'I think you’re in need of a shave, too,” you commented, watching him slide on his work boots. ‘‘Wouldn’t hurt,’’ He said, moving to sit in a nearby chair. You sorted through his trunk of things, trying to find his razor.

He was quiet in his seat as you knelt between his legs to reach up and shave his beard away. ‘‘Hosea and Lenny?’’ He finally broke the silence. ‘‘We buried them a while back. I’ll take you there in the morning.’’ ‘‘What was it like?’’ ‘‘Swanson read that passage he loved so much. Me and Charles filled in the graves,’’ You shifted, moving to trim at his jawline easier. ‘‘Side by side. Not going to be bothered by anyone. I wanted to take him back to where his Bessie is, but we all knew that wasn’t going to happen.’’ ‘‘He was a better father than either of ours ever were – or could dream to be.’’ ‘‘I wish you’d have been there to say goodbye with us all.’’ ‘‘Me too, but it still means something no matter who hears it, or how late it is.’’

That same night had been an ambush, as through the day the rest of the men had returned, Dutch and Bill being the last ones to show up around nightfall. Arthur was told to go with Charles through Murfree country come morning time, but he told Dutch there was some unfinished business to attend to. Dutch said he couldn’t bring himself to go see it. You could understand that at least. Wasn’t really something pleasant to put yourself through, anyway. It was already a dice roll of how Arthur would take it, would he be able to process a loss so significant? You’d hate to see him just shut down and lose what little faith he already had in himself.

‘‘It’s just around here,’’ You said, breaking the silence of your horses hooves. Neither of you had slept much last night, and it was adding to the sombre spirits in camp.

People had been moving corpses well into the morning.

‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’ Softer, after Arthur’s lack of replies. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ was all he said in return. You both dismounted into the soft ground. It was far enough out of the swamp that the alligators wouldn’t dig at them, but it was far away from the city and the road to prevent travelers from just stumbling onto them. It was pretty when the light filtered through the leaves above them. You left the horses hitched a few meters away.

‘‘Nice place.’’ ‘‘Nice as we could do,’’ you replied. ‘‘I hate to say it’s ‘lovely,’ but its a nice spot for them both.’’

You stood back and let him make his own peace with it. ‘‘Hosea, I- I’m sorry I weren’t able to do more. We shouldn’t have fixed that bank. I wish you were still here. I hope I was a good enough son to you. My real father was terrible, you know that. But I, uh. You were the father I hoped for. And I’m sorry I could not do more to save you.’’ He stood there, holding his hat and looking down at the shallow graves. ‘‘Lenny. Dear Lenny. You were a good kid. Such a good kid. I’m so sorry you got caught up in this as well. We trusted each other with our lives and I could not do more to save you despite the faith you had in me.’’ ‘‘Arthur, none of it were your fault,’’ ‘‘Well it sure feels like it,’’ He said, sitting down beside you in the grass. ‘‘That I made it out and they didn’t? That makes it all feel like my fault.’’ After a while he pulled out his journal to sketch the place, write down his own obituary for them. ‘‘The others will move on so easily,’’ He said a while later. ‘‘I wish I could get over this like the others. I wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.’’ ‘‘Arthur,’’ You began, sitting up properly shoulder to shoulder with him. ‘‘The fact that the others will move on so easily is a testament to how much they meant to you, and you to them.’’ ‘‘I can love them without hurting, though. Surely it can be that way again?’’ ‘‘Sometimes loving someone is hurting so deeply for them. You of all people should know this. Love and grief work in different ways. Your grief makes you feel guilty, and your love reminds you of what you once had. When he first died, I felt nothing. It shames me to admit it, Arthur. But I was so empty. I didn’t even cry. I thought it must make me so horrible, so heartless. I thought it meant I had never loved him, but I knew I did. I realised it was my grief working in different ways, Arthur.’’ ‘‘I’d like to think you’re right,’’ He replied, after a small pause for contemplation.

Just as the sun was reaching mid afternoon in the sky, you both decided it was time to leave. Neither of you said goodbye again, it had already been said a long, long time ago. It broke your heart to see Arthur cry as he stood by his horse, but you knew it was best to let him grieve. He looked so unable to mount his horse and walk away. ‘‘I can’t.’’ He said, one hand on his saddle with tears brimming in his eyes. You moved around your horse to his in an attempt to comfort him. ‘‘If I ride off, it will be too final. I can’t do it. I can’t,’’ he pleaded with you. ‘‘Arthur, you’re torturing yourself here.’’ You rested your head on his shoulder as he lowered his head to his saddle and cried. Truly cried. ‘‘I know.’’ He said. ‘‘Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted,’’ you quoted, reaching to wrap your arms around his middle. ‘‘For they will be comforted,’’ he echoed. He placed a hand on your head and righted himself until he would swing his foot into the stirrup and mount his horse.

You two walked the horses away slowly, eventually rejoining the main road.

#angst #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #emotional hurt #hurt/comfort #arthur crying breaks my heart #van der linde gang #post chapter 5: guarma

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fanfiction-inc · 3 years

Note

Can you do a NS/FW HC about Arthur being told what to do by his usually submissive female S/O? Like him being really surprised but also turned the hell on? (Sorry if this is very specific!)

Thank you so much for requesting, my dear!

((A.N: As a general disclaimer, this is NS/FW, and everything in this HC that is NS/FW will be under the cut.))

Arthur had been gone for many nights since the last stagecoach heist, being persuaded by Dutch to go along and rob the carriage with him since the passengers were "high in the aristocratic hierarchy".

He had promised he would be back that night, but it's been three days, and you were worried sick about the man.

What if he had been injured?

What if the Pinkertons caught up to him?

So when he came strolling in, that grin on his face and at his mentors side, you were pissed.

He acted like he hadn't promised you that he would be back that night, like he didn't worry you to death.

He acted like a man who had the best three nights of his life.

But the moment he caught your gaze, arms crossed over your chest and jaw set, he knew he was in trouble.

Big trouble.

"Go be with ya woman. I'll let Hosea know how things went." Dutch excused him from their conversation, giving a tip of his hat to you.

You were not amused one bit by such, only glaring in turn at the man who made Arthur come along in the first place.

Arthur comes up with an uneasy smile, hand coming to take your own, reeling back when you jerk your hand away.

"Three nights. Three nights, Arthur Morgan." You hissed. "Three nights I thought ya were dead!"

"I wasn't dead-" He started, trying to explain his absence.

"Clearly." You huffed.

When you turn your back to him, he follows with concern.

Did he really hurt you that badly?

Did he make you worry to the point of anger?

"(Your name)." He tries, watching you when you angrily remove the dress overlaying your corset and bloomers.

"What?" You snapped in turn, turning to him as he takes a step forward.

"How can I make it up t'ya?" He questioned softly, his gruff tone soft when he takes hold of your arms in his big hands.

He watched when you looked angrily into those puppy dog eyes, watched how your cheeks adorned color.

It was hard to place if it was because of the gaze he gave you or the anger in your chest.

He just wanted to make you happy, make you see that he wasn't leaving any time soon... but you weren't in the mood for that.

You were gonna put Arthur Morgan in his place.

The tension slowly melted from your muscles as you stand before him, gaze slowly softening but a clear strain between calm and tense still evident.

Then he saw the gears turning behind your eyes, saw your mind working.

He was in for one hell of a shock.

"I want you on your knees, Arthur Morgan."

Now this startles him.

His blue eyes stare at you in absolute shock.

Was his woman really asking him for something like that? And in such a tone that left his stomach fluttering with butterflies?

When you raise a brow expectantly, he swallows hard, moving down with a soft huff and sitting before you on his knees.

Those same blue eyes stay connected with yours, watching you.

Savoring how you looked at him in a way he hasn't seen before.

Your gaze was almost.. Hungry. Like a predator circling their prey.

He recognized that the demand wasn't shaky on your tongue, this not exactly being what he expected with you.

He knew that you were usually the one to softly be told to lay or be on his lap.

That you were usually so...submissive.

He would be damned if he said it out loud right now, but Arthur liked this new side to you.

And the tent in his trousers gave away just how badly.

"Want me to take these here bloomers off..." He pauses, considering something new that he could bring to the table. "Ma'am?"

He watched how you shivered at such a title.

"Yes, nice and slow." You mumbled in turn, hearing the audible noise he gives out when his fingers hook in the waistband.

"Makin' me make it a show then, yeah?" He questioned, hot breath fanning over you as he slowly dragged them down your legs.

"One we both'll like. Now hush and let that mouth of yours do the talkin' somewhere else." You retort, fingers slowly coming to tangle in his hair.

He savored the feeling, knowing it all too well when you shared kisses behind the tents or on runs.

He knew it when you sat together, relaxing during winter days or hot summer nights. How your fingers would play there when you were lost in a book or being lulled to sleep by his voice.

But most of all, he knew it in moments like these when you laid sprawled out on the bed, at the mercy of his tongue.

His eyes flutter and darken when your grip tightened, bringing his face closer to where you need him.

His beard lightly scratched at your inner thighs, lazy, open mouthed kisses trailing up further and further.

Arthur is only able to deliver another kiss before another tug sends him closer, tongue darting out to lick a long stripe up your folds.

"Oh- Fuck." Your own curse brings a soft chuckle from his lips, then he refocused on the task at hand.

His eyes flicker up to your own when he takes your bundle of nerves between his lips, suckling and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

How your face contorted with pleasure when he brings your legs over his shoulders and probes with his tongue.

How your soft noises begin to fill the air, making his pants strain further.

He's infatuated with you, especially when your control over him doesn't slip despite the pleasure being given.

A groan leaves his lips when you pull him by the hair after a few moments, making him face you.

His beard and lips were decorated with your slick, pupils lust blown and half-lidded.

His hair was a mess when you removed your fingers from the locks, trailing down to cup his cheek.

You've never seen him so disheveled before, so...used.

And yet he cracked a smile, delivering a kiss against your palm that remained slick and sticky against your skin.

"I jus' wanted a look at ya." You whispered into the air, the man's smile shifting to a smirk when you leaned forward.

"Is that all, darlin'? Not because y'want an apology kiss?" He murmured against the skin of your palm, moving up to give that kiss he talked about.

He was testing how far your new demeanor was going, seeing if it would slip after a few minutes of eating you out.

"That's ma'am to you, boy." You corrected, watching him shiver at the new name. He then gasped when you grabbed his chin, making him stop and stare when you kept him in place.

He wasn't getting control so easily tonight.

"If I recall correctly, Mr. Morgan, you're not done." He shivered once more at the near purr in your tone, licking his lips at the idea of being between your thighs again.

"Yes ma'am." He replied with a soft hint of need.

He's brought back down, eagerness in his being as he worships your core.

Quick licks at the bundle of nerves that grew more sensitive with each passing moment towards climax.

His suckling and the rumble of his groan against your skin at the flavor that coats his tongue and runs down his chin.

He's like a man dying of thirst, just wanting the levee to break and the waters to rush.

He watches when you bite down on your lip, attempting to silence yourself when that edge comes closer, when his hair is held in a white knuckled grip.

That's when he brings down the final nail in the coffin, leaving you to tremor and shake.

The moment is lost in a blur, his lips connected around your bundle and fingers buried deep, hitting that spot that makes you jelly.

He works you through your high, aiding in bringing you what you wanted until you're letting him go and pulling away.

You were far too over sensitive for him to continue, and he didn't want to push you too far.

As you pant, he rises up over you, stealing that kiss that he wanted earlier on, making sure you taste yourself on his lips.

It was almost like a 'thank you' from his part, for seeing a power shift that he hadn't thought would happen.

At least not quite like this.

"Do ya accept m'apology, darlin'?" He questioned softly. Huskily. "Or should I keep callin' ya ma'am?"

You give a soft laugh at his question.

"I s'pose so...boy." You breathed out in a pant, his eyes brimming with need when the term is used again.

Arthur wasn't a man to usually beg for things that he needed. Not at all.

But he still needed to be taken care of, to release the tension in his pants.

"Ma'am, please." He begged softly, grinding himself down against your hip, hand coming up to cup your cheek.

He watched the consideration in your gaze, then the resolve that followed when your hand came to cup him.

Then there was a shift, and his heart sank.

"I don't think you deserve that tonight, Mr. Morgan. Y'really upset me." You then separate from him, standing.

He watched with a gaze that damn near screamed need in the purest of forms, ready to reach out and beg.

He never begged before.

"Ma'am, please, m'beggin' ya." He damn near choked on the words as they left his lips.

This wasn't his forte by any means, being the one left yearning for more.

At least he was fair with his teasing, giving in when you begged.

He watched when you're unstringing your corset, how it fell and left you completely bare to him.

Then he sees you sigh, hears the soft sound before your voice even reaches him.

"Dammit, I can't stay mad at ya when you're lookin' at me like that."

He groaned when you cupped him once more through his trousers, giving a jerk through them.

"Thank you, ma'am." His tone is strained as he says such, feeling your bare skin around his shaft when you release him from his pants.

From there, he's left to your mercy.

Slow when you want it, faster if he asked nicely.

Stopping when he's too close and finally giving him what he needs when he's looking at you with those eyes that scream every desire the man had.

Maybe he should mess up more often if this is gonna be the result.

RDR2 TAG LIST:

@lise-soontobemarried | @imtootiredforreddit | @morgans-cowbaby | @btsloversaregreat | @sokkasdarling

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #ns/fw hc #ns/fw ask #lovely anon #thank you anon #anon ask

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squidproquoclarice · 2 years

Text

Yeehawgust Day 5: Vegas Lights

June 1896

Las Vegas Verdes, California

I’m getting too old for this shit. It felt like every year, Hosea found himself thinking that more and more. Too old for the life he was living, too old to be on the run all the time. Being a rogue and a robber and a rambler and a rover had been appealing enough when he was seventeen, when he was twenty-five and aiming at fleecing the world, even thirty-five with teaching Arthur more tricks of the trade. For a man of fifty-one…he was tired.

Even more tired now with that aching absence at his side and beside him at night and in his heart. Bessie. It never should have been her. She was the strong one. She could have found some way to carry on…as opposed to him, crawling into a whiskey bottle for the better part of a year, and so much had happened in that time.

Dutch bringing home person after person until he felt like he barely knew who was in the gang anymore. John taking up with young Abigail, and then her pregnancy, and John’s frenzied denials. Arthur turning angry at it, fierce and unrelenting in his judgment, because he’d been there, even if John didn’t know it and Arthur would never tell, and Arthur was judging his own failure as much as John’s. And when Arthur was in a temper it would blow over and he’d be back to his usual self, but this was different. This was cold and hard and relentless as winter ice, and Hosea knew in his heart it wouldn’t just blow over. Something would have to give, and he wasn’t sure whether it was Arthur or John, and who’d be ground to dust between the two of them.

Dutch wouldn’t force the issue. Said it was theirs to work out, and he wouldn’t be some moralizing preacher trying to force them into proper society. Given the rotating cast of always-young women in Dutch’s bed, Hosea had to admit he could hardly take a stand without being a hypocrite. He’d tried, but if those two boys–men–had one single damn thing in common, it was their sheer dogged stubbornness.

If he’d been younger…if Bessie had been there…Bessie would know how to fix it. She’d have talked to Arthur about it, talked about Eliza and Isaac in a way that Hosea never could, with the way Arthur had made it clear years ago he never wanted to talk about them. She’d have talked to John and made sense of it in some way that made it more than some duty, like Arthur kept demanding, that only got his back up more and made him balk. Of himself, Dutch, Susan, and Bessie, Bessie had always been the one who could talk to their two sons.

But Bessie wasn’t here. She was buried in a pretty grove of trees back in Montana, and the best of him with her. Now he looked at their family–an actual gang now, not so much a family, and a gang with a one-year-old boy besides, what the hell–and wondered where it had all gone off the rails. And whether there was any putting it back, but he suspected not. There was an inevitability to it. Things got bigger and louder and more waves got made with the law and the newspapers, and there was no way to unring that bell. The train was not only off the rails, it was sailing through the air, and the only thing left was to see how long it took to plummet and crash.

June always put him in a shitty mood. Bessie’s birthday was coming up, and here he was, thinking all sorts of dark and fatalistic things, assuming sinister ends. Though he found it harder and harder to believe Dutch’s promises of some grand utopia where they’d live in peace. Perhaps for the others. For him…there was no paradise.

The thoughts of a man biding his time, he supposed, waiting for it to be over. Though as he glanced up towards the stars, their light achingly beautiful and bright over this meadow, he knew she was up there where a woman like her belonged, and he never would be. The lights he would see after dying would be of another, entirely different sort, he feared, and a much hotter one at that.

Are you there? For a moment, one star seemed to wink, as if answering him. He felt his throat go tight, his eyes burning with tears, love and loss and longing all turning within him. You always was a guiding star, my dear, right? Nothing’s the same without you. And I’m lost without you. We all are.

#yeehawgust #yeehawgust 2022 #rdr2 #hosea matthews #bessie matthews #writing #fic from the parking lot

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12timetraveler · 3 years

Note

What about some vandermatthews cuddles? If you dont write character x character, how about some hosea x reader cuddles where hosea gets some wonderful reassurance that reader loves him and is never gonna leave him??? Love your work 💜💜💜

How about Vandermatthews x reader cuddles? 😘

I will sometimes do character x character but I do love me a reader insert so XD

Did my best to keep this GN but if I slipped up I apologize.

A fic where literally nothing happens and that's the goddamn point.

~~~~~~~~~~

Very rarely did the three of you get to have a lazy day, especially not all at the same time. On occasion you and Hosea managed to slip away for a quiet ride together. Sometimes you managed to get Dutch to rest his head in your lap while you read him some Miller. Every now and then Hosea managed to get Dutch out of camp for some fishing. But to have all three of you able to relax together was almost unheard of these days.

The moment you saw the opportunity, the three of you were on your horses and trotting out of camp, Dutch calling to Susan to look after things. You were desperate to get away before someone needed something of any of you.

And that’s how you found yourself nestled between your two partners, laying on a blanket on a hillside, basking in the pleasant early-fall sunshine and the cool fall breeze. The buffalo grass underneath you added extra cushion, softer than your usual bedroll.

Dutch lay on his back, hat resting over his eyes, one arm bent up to pillow his head, and the other arm stretched out to pillow yours. His hand scratched Hosea’s scalp lightly, creating a soothing scritching sound. You were rolled partially onto your side, leaning against Dutch with one arm resting on his chest. Hosea was curled up against your side, spooning you. His arm rested lightly on your stomach, occasionally running up and down your abdomen or giving you a light, affectionate pat.

“Don’t fall asleep, Old Girl,” Dutch mumbled.

“Me? I can practically hear you snoring,” Hosea huffed.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing for either of you to doze off,” you remarked. You were always after them about how little sleep they got.

“But then we’re missing out on time with you,” Hosea cooed, kissing the back of your neck lazily.

“I think sleeping in a heap counts as spending time together,” You chuckled, turning your head to meet Hosea’s gaze and stealing a quick kiss.

“Sleep is nothing compared to spending time with you,” Dutch sighed, still sounding far too tired. “I’d never sleep again if only I could spend more time with you both like this.”

“You big sap,” you teased, leaning over and kissing Dutch’s cheek. He hummed contently. The three of you fell quiet once more, just soaking up the sun. As dramatic as Dutch’s words had been, you had to agree. You’d do just about anything to be with your two sweethearts like this every day.

You rolled over onto your stomach, wedged tightly between the two men, and let out a content sigh. Both men automatically reached over and began stroking and patting your back, sending goosebumps across your arms and up your spine.

Hosea tensed beside you, and the silence was broken as a rough cough rasped through his lungs. He sat up, turning away and coughing into his hand. You and Dutch propped yourselves up, watching him carefully for any signs that this might be more than just a standard coughing fit. After a moment his coughing subsided, and he sighed, laying back down on the blanket next to you.

“I don’t know why you both even bother with me,” He sighed. “Old and sickly and hardly worth anything these days.”

“Hey,” you frowned, propping yourself up and leaning over him, placing your hands on the ground on either side of his shoulders. “Don’t say that?” You scolded, leaning down and kissing his forehead. “Just cause you’re sick doesn’t mean you should just be tossed aside.” You leaned your head down against his. “You’re ours, you hear? Until Bessie decides to take you back, you belong to us. So stop with this self-deprecating bullshit.”

“Better listen to them, Hosea,” Dutch chuckled. “You know how stubborn they can get,”

Hosea’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight against him, and rolling over so he was pinning you down to the blanket. He nuzzled his face against your cheek and neck, making you giggle.

“What would I do without you, dearest?” He sighed. You just hummed, not having an answer, and scooted over so that Hosea was now squished between you and Dutch. It was Dutch’s turn to spoon Hosea while you buried your face in Hosea’s chest.

“They’re right, you know,” Dutch murmured against Hosea’s back. “Illness be damned, you’re one of the most valuable and important people in my life. I always know, with you by my side, we can conquer anything.”

You began lightly stroking Hosea’s cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into your touch.

“Thank you,” He finally said. “I wasn’t saying all that to look for praise. I was just griping.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna fight you on that.” You murmured.

“Understood,” Hosea chuckled, pulling you tighter against his chest. You felt Dutch tighten his grip on Hosea’s waist, pulling him closer, and you scooted with so that you could stay cuddled up against them.

Within minutes, soft snores were leaving Dutch’s lips. You glanced up at Hosea, and the two of you exchanged amused grins.

“So much for staying awake,” Hose rumbled lowly. You huffed quietly in amusement.

“It’s not a bad idea though,” You sighed.

“I suppose a small nap wouldn’t hurt,” Hosea agreed, suppressing a yawn. The lazy afternoon, the cool fall air, the warm sun, it was the perfect combination for a nap with your sweethearts.

#vandermatthews #Vandermatthews/Reader #gn reader #hosea/dutch/reader #rdr2 drabbles

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redeadepression · 3 years

Text

Men, Not Books | John Marston x Abigail Roberts Marston

~~~~

Relationships: John Marston x Abigail Roberts Marston Characters: John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston Words: 6037 Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Past Prostitution Warnings: Heavy angst, mentions of past child abuse

Summery: Abigail can read John like an open book. But on this particular night there is something in his eyes that she can't understand and it scares her.

~ Basically just an excuse to get all my feels about John being emotionally fragile but never showing it, out on paper. This story is separate to all of my other John/Abi works. I consider the characters in this story to probably be as close to canon as I've ever written. So enjoy!

The fact that John is so ‘expressive’ was inspired by this post and I would like to thank this post for bringing John’s erratic stride to my attention.

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Abigail Roberts could not read.

It was a well-known fact that was established early on in her time with the Van der Linde gang.

Letters and symbols bounced around the page in front of her eyes and no amount of tutelage had ever improved her grasp.

She had learned to live with it. Deciding that she didn’t need to know what the words said as long as she could look through the pictures.

The books that had pictures anyway.

She often borrowed books from Hosea. Flipping through them and spending ages staring at the pages despite not understanding them. It was a nice distraction from the goings on of the camp.

Abigail sighed languidly, leaning back against the wall atop her bed at Shady Belle. The jagged hole in the wall behind her snatching at the hair of her bun and causing her to growl in protest.

She placed the book she had been looking at on the bed beside her and twisted awkwardly to untangle herself from the broken wood. Sighing in exasperation as she removed the ribbon holding her hair in place and let it fall around her shoulders.

She raked her fingers through is carefully, trying to remove the knots without needing to get up and find a brush.

Jack was sleeping peacefully on the floor beside her and she’d prefer not to disturb him if she could help it.

She felt her ears prick as footsteps on the stairs caught her attention. Heavy boots that she knew belonged to one of the three men sleeping in the top story of the old house alongside her.

She knew it was John from the sound of his footsteps. Spurs jiggling as he stepped hard against the floor without care for anyone that might be sleeping below.

Dutch had a strong gait and Arthur was a bulky man that found it hard to be quiet. But no one else walked quite like John. The way he put his hips into his stride. Feet landing purposefully but barely picking up again as his heel scraped each stair with his step.

For a fleeting moment she thought about feigning sleep. Not really in the mood to speak with him and unable to put her finger on why.

She decided against it. Instead brushing out the crinkles in her nightshirt before pulling her hair back into a loose pony tail and waiting patiently for John’s heavy steps to make their way passed her. The old door creaking as he pushed it opened, stepping inside and catching her eye as she looked to him with disinterest.

He stared at her for a second, seeming shocked to find her there.

Abigail frowned at the look on his face. He should not have been surprised to find her in bed at this hour.

Something was wrong.

She opened her mouth to speak and was alarmed when he started to move towards her. Stepping carefully over Jack and settling himself on the edge of the bed in front of her.

He stared at the hem of her nightshirt, not making eye contact as Abigail pushed herself into her knees and inched towards him.

Frightened.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, concern in her tone at the look in his eyes.

He was silent. Her anxiety increasing exponentially with every second of silence.

John slowly reached out, taking her hand in his and resting them together in her lap without speaking. Abigail swallowed audibly, her frayed nerves screaming for him to talk.

“John?” She asked eventually, urgent. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He answered with a small shrug, exhaling shakily as he continued to stare at the loose threads on the hem of her shirt.

The furrow of Abigail’s brows deepened as she squeezed his hand tightly in hers and waited for him to say more. Her heartrate dropping slightly as she let go of her breath.

No one was dead at least.

She realised as she looked him up and down. John was a man of few words. He was straightforward when it came to giving bad news. Short and to the point. No dancing around the truth if he knew it to be absolutely correct.

Still, she was concerned.

It wasn’t like him to want to be this close to her. Usually, he could barely stand the sight of her. It was only recently that he had moved herself and Jack back into his living quarters and even then, they hardly said a word to one another.

“What’s wrong?” She asked again, softer. Her free hand coming up to tenderly push the messy hair out of his face. He didn’t flinch away as she expected him to. Her tender touch rousing something inside him as he leaned toward it with enthusiasm.

She let her hand fall to his forehead, subconsciously feeling for a fever as he rested against her palm.

Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well.

He wasn’t usually one to show his vulnerability if he could help it. But he did have a certain childish quality to him when he’d been struck down by sickness.

He didn’t feel any warmer than normal.

Slowly she removed her touch and let her hand fall back to her lap. Surprised when John leant forwards. Resting his forehead on her shoulder and sighing deeply as he closed his eyes.

Abigail wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t embraced her in months. Not that she’d have let him if he’d tried. She was still pissed off about being treated like a burden.

“John?” She asked in quiet exasperation as he changed his position to nuzzle at her neck. “What is this?” She asked, tone gentle as he paused his ministrations and she felt him sigh deeply against her pulse point.

“I don’t know.” He whispered, his free hand slowly slipping around her waist as he inched closer once more. “I don’t know…” He repeated softly, eyelashes fluttering against her jawline as he inhaled sharply.

He let go of her hand suddenly and she felt it brush past her cheek before it joined his other hand, locking her into a hug just below her chest. He buried his face in her shoulder abruptly, eyes closed against the fabric.

John sniffed softly, a sound she had heard a thousand times before but never truly in this context. She licked her lips, tongue sucking silently on her teeth before she dared to glance to her side.

She couldn’t see much of John from her angle. A dirty mop of black hair obscured her vision. Hiding his face from her and rendering her useless at understanding what exactly was going through his mind.

Abigail may not be able to read literature, but she could read John like the back of her hand. He had always been an open book to her. Showing what he was thinking plainly on his face without ever having to speak. Keeping his emotions locked up deep inside despite the situation. Fearing if people found out that he felt things, he would be labelled weak.

But that had never stopped her from understanding. The way his eyes sparkled when he knew he was about to best someone or the way his lips quirked ever so lightly when he thought someone was being an idiot. A simple scrunch of the nose telling her his real feelings on the food he was consuming.

She could read his mood from across the camp if she had to. Knowing full well exactly how he was going to respond at any given moment by the different ways he cocked his brows.

But this was unique. Something was off and it scared her that she couldn’t read him immediately when he’d entered the room. The look in his eyes was close to fear. Hence her strong reaction to his silence.

She’d seen true fear in him once before. As he’d been searching for Jack at Clemen’s Point. He had told her he was sure it was fine. The panic in his eyes screaming to her that he didn’t believe that. The way his lips had been a thin line before he’d told her that they would find him. Eyes flicking ever so briefly out over the miles of lake they were camped next to.

The small swallow that he had thought he’d concealed. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed ever so slightly as he’d taken a moment to breathe.

The shake in his exhale.

She had known from the second she’d seen his face that he believed the boy was dead.

Drowned or taken by coyotes.

He had never needed to speak a word to strike such white-hot terror into her heart.

Abigail was brought back to reality abruptly as John’s hand curled in her shirt. His knuckles scraping lightly against the small of her back as he pulled the fabric taught. Unmoving otherwise and causing another thorn of worry to settle in the pit of her stomach.

It hadn’t been fear that she’d seen in his eyes. But something close to fear.

Perhaps sadness. She mused as she moved her hands to stroke lightly up and down his sides.

He shifted under her touch, breath hitching momentarily before he managed to return to a normal rhythm.

Abigail smiled to herself, knowing he could not see. She knew that sound well, although it had been a long time since she had heard it.

John always had some measure of sadness in his eyes. It was the first thing she’d noticed about him when they’d met. The way he looked at her, with wide, expressive eyes filled with sadness. He reminded her of a kicked pup.

At the time she’d found it endearing.

But she had soon learned where all that sadness had stemmed from. Mostly filled in by other camp members and a little from John himself after a few drinks. He’d had it rough, same as her. But he never could quite shake the sorrow that was tied to abusive childhood like she’d managed to. It followed him into adulthood and lorded over every happy moment of his life.

He never spoke of it. Never intentionally brought attention to the way he felt.

He had his feelings under lock and key. Not even the drink could fully open him up to his grief.

Abigail’s hands wandered slowly up his sides and around to his back. Petting him softly with delicate strokes up and down his spine and around his shoulder blades.

She felt him loosen under her touch. Not realising how ridged he had previously been as she felt him start to sink lower. Melting against her like a candy on a hot day.

“You okay?” She asked, deciding to try one more time to gently prod it out of him. She felt him shrug once more and she resigned herself to never knowing what had gotten into him. Leaning her head against his head perched on her shoulder, as she heard him whisper his response.

“Lodnhly.” He mumbled, barely a word as she frowned, trying to understand what he’d said.

“What?” She asked candidly, hands pausing as she felt him sigh heavily under them. This time speaking a little louder as he answered.

“Just… Lonely.” He said quietly, sounding strained by the admission.

“Oh…” Abigail breathed softly. Unsure what to do with the information she had so desperately wanted. John didn’t seem like the kind of man to feel lonesome. Despite his sad eyes he spent most of his time laughing by the fire with the other men in camp. Always heavy on the drink as he stumbled back to his bedroll at some ungodly hour.

She felt John begin to tense again in her arms and felt she needed to say something more. Opening her mouth to speak but closing it again after a while when she realised that for the first time in a long while, he had stumped her.

She’d truly had no idea what he’d been feeling and if she’d had to guess, she would have even put constipated several spaces above lonely.

John let go of her shirt abruptly, pulling away and breaking out of her arms with ease as he shuffled slightly away so they were completely separate once more. Head bowed as he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and waited for her to speak.

He had never opened himself up to her like that in his life. Never opened up to anyone like that at all, and he knew that she was acutely aware of that fact.

He twisted his hands against the mattress, feeling shame bubbling up inside of him as Abigail continued to stay silent. He’d considered that she might not know what to say and he’d been prepared to reassure her that she didn’t need to say anything. Nothing she could say would make him feel better anyway.

But in the moment he felt sick at the thought of her not replying. Both sitting there in silence until one of them plucked up the courage to leave the situation. He needed her to speak. He was desperate for her to say something.

Anything.

His heart raced.

Just speak.

He silently begged her, heart in his throat.

“Why?” Abigail asked clumsily, making him exhale the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

She watched nervously as he tensed at the question. Seeming to relax a little after a moment. His hands fisting in the bedsheets loosened while her own wrang nervously in her lap.

“I don’t know.” He answered dishonestly. Feeling a lump in his throat that impeded his ability to speak evenly. He had his reasons for the way he felt. But she would never understand them.

Abigail nodded, more to herself than John as he was not looking at her. His long hair still obscuring his face from his place in front of her.

She certainly knew what it was like to feel lonely in life. She felt it more often than not before she’d joined the gang. But since finding them it was few and far between. She still had her bad days, where she felt as though she didn’t fit in. Watching from across the camp as the other women giggled and gossiped. It irritated her to know she would never truly be one of them. She wasn’t a contributing member of the gang. Not in the same way they were. Sure she could cook, sew and occasionally she was asked to do the laundry. But she didn’t run cons or scout out for intel like they did. She wasn’t one of them. She was just John’s wife.

“Well…” Abigail said slowly, unsure if relating to John’s plight would help or hinder their conversation. “I know a thing or two about feeling that way.”

John sniffed softly, not saying anything as he slowly lifted his head to look at her for the first time since he had entered the room.

Abigail held back a gasp. Unable to stop the shock from registered on her face as her eyes flicked over his tear-stained cheeks. She hadn’t realised he’d been crying. For all the times she’d given him a once over and knew exactly what he was feeling, she couldn’t believe she’d been so slack as to miss something as significant as this when it was right in front of her.

She tore her eyes away from him, hand grabbing at the shoulder of her shirt as she pulled it taught and inspected the place where he’d laid his head. The fabric was damp and she was stunned by the realisation. He had been so silent. Showing emotion she had never seen in him right by her face without her even noticing.

She felt sick at the thought. Wondering now if perhaps she had seen him this vulnerable in the past and didn’t recognise it.

Arthur had once told her that John never cried.

Something she found hard to believe. Everyone cried. It was a fact of life. But as the years rolled on and her time with John stretched farther than any other significant relationship she’d ever had she had started to wonder if Arthur was right.

‘If he did, you would never know about it’.

Arthur had stated cryptically.

The words mulling over in Abigail’s mind for years to come. Every time she was sure this would be the moment John finally broke his stoic exterior she was once again proven wrong.

The words echoed in her mind now as she looked over the usually aloof man before her. The pain in his tired eyes spread bare for her to see.

Only her.

She realised as she inched towards him once more. Her hand finding his thigh and squeezing it gently as he collapsed against her rather suddenly. He laid against her chest, his shoulder resting just under her bosom. He rubbed his cheek against her breasts before burying his face in them. His arms crossing over his own chest as hers wrapped around his shoulders to hold him tight against her.

“John…” She whispered breathily. Burning behind her eyes making her blink rapidly as she struggled to hold back her own tears.

He didn’t respond, his uneven breathing the only sign that there was even anything wrong.

A disinterested onlooker would think him asleep in his wife’s embrace.

She supposed that is what he wanted.

“It’s alright…” She cooed, unable to form any other words as her mind raced around this new development.

How many times in the past had he silently wept without her knowledge? Even now, sharing the same room; they didn’t share a bed. John refused, letting her have the mattress while he broke his back on the hardwood floor.

She couldn’t tell if he was still crying. The silence in the room was deafening despite the people flittering through the halls downstairs and the lively party happening at the fire outside. Every now and then John would take a laboured breath and she would run a hand through his hair, stroking him as if she were calming an animal.

Abigail was always a mess when she cried. Loud, wracking sobs that tore at her throat and ripped her breath from her lungs. There wasn’t a hankie large enough to contain the fluids that ran down her face as she howled. Everyone knew when Abigail was crying. There wasn’t a sole within 50ft the didn’t feel her pain as well.

But John…

“Hey?” She asked quietly, her voice broken despite managing to compose herself against her own tears. “Hey?” She asked again, gently tugging at John’s hair until he finally pulled his face away from her chest and looked up at her with red rimmed eyes. “It’s okay.” She assured, cupping his cheek with her hand and using her thumb to swipe away fresh tears.

She leaned down slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to before gently placing a chaste kiss on his cracked lips. He didn’t kiss back, feeling too overwhelmed to respond as she pulled away and smiled at him sadly.

She didn’t take it to heart. She hadn’t really intended anything but comfort with her kiss, but she also understood her own tendency to turn things sexual when she was uncomfortable. Kissing away pain instead of talking it out. Fucking to avoid an awkward conversation.

It was a short-coming of her own that she knew she needed to fix. He needed more from her right now than sex.

John stared at her with heavy lidded eyes. Blinking tiredly before settling himself back against her chest. This time just resting his cheek against her breast and staring at the wall in front of him as he tried to sort out what he was feeling.

“Fuck.” He whispered, voice croaky. He trembled slightly as he pushed himself away from her. Breaking out of her arms again and sitting up on his own once more. His hands finding his face as he rested it in his palms. “Fuck…” He exhaled shakily. Unable to form a coherent thought as the reality of exposing himself to her came crashing down on him.

He had needed the comfort.

Had needed to be held.

There was a large part of him that wished he was still being held. Not wanting to give up the warmth. The all-encompassing sense of calm he felt in her arms.

The safety.

But he had already shown too much of himself and right now he felt a suffocating need to run. To lock up whatever it was that he was feeling and get the fuck away from anyone that had seen him unmasked.

Abigail could sense his impending departure. Feeling it necessary to say something meaningful and assuring him that she didn’t judge him for his emotions.

“Anyway…” John said softly, swallowing hard as he pulled his face from his hands and wiped the tears from his chin with his palm. “I should…” He mumbled, trailing off as he gestured at his bedroll across the room.

“Stay.” Abigail said suddenly, her hand shooting out to hold him in place as he made to stand. He looked at her quizzically. Eyes flicking between her and his bed. His tongue swiped hesitantly over his dry lips as he thought. Weighing the options in front of him and landing at a decision with ease.

“Okay…” He said timidly. Averting his eyes and staring at their joined hands. Maybe just this once he could ignore the screaming in the back of his mind and let himself be soothed.

John wondered absently if she could read his mind. He never had understood how she managed to know just what he was thinking at any given time. Always ready with a counter to his argument or a consoling word on a subject he hadn’t even broached yet.

He was in awe of her ability to understand just what he needed. Irritated at the fact that mostly she ignored it. Knowing full well he wanted to be left alone but following him around regardless and nagging him to no end.

But comforted by the fact that she seemed to care enough to put in the effort of knowing him.

He could not really say the same of anyone else. His own Father had neglected him for years before the old bastard had gotten himself killed. The women at the orphanage he had been moved to shortly after that had been no kinder. Dismissive and noncommittal when it came to calming his anxieties. Lying to his face and repeating the same mantra of ‘You’ll find a family soon’.

After that he had been alone again. Escaping the orphanage and scavenging to survive. He had found out quickly what exactly happened to whiny little street kids that couldn’t hide their sorrows.

Abigail slid herself back against wall of the room, wincing at the feel of her ponytail catching on the broken wood once more. She ignored it, pulling John’s hand as she moved and encouraging him to join her. He followed without thinking about it. Too busy in his past to analyse what was happening in front of his eyes.

Abigail pulled her hair from the wall sharply, deciding it might be nicer to lie down. She slipped herself down and underneath the covers. Waiting for a long second before pulling him to her when she realised he wasn’t going to move on his own accord. His glazed over eyes told her he was stuck somewhere in the past and what he needed from her right now was silence so he could find his way back.

She moved the covers out of the way as he moved to lie against her side. One strong arm being slung over her belly as he nuzzled into her shoulder. She smiled sadly, holding out her arm so he could rest on it. His head fitting snuggly into the crook of her arm as she brushed her soft fingers against his wet cheek.

John remembered his first week with the gang vividly. He had been quietly terrified of these huge brawny men that had rescued him from certain death. Knowing too well at the age of 12 that sometimes people helped you not because they were good people but because you could be of use to them.

He had wondered what they wanted with a scrawny thing like himself. Too small and weak to fight and too big and pigheaded to be worth feeding if he could not be of real use.

Dutch had instilled in him early on that his place in the gang was conditional. He’d never said the words outright, but John had gotten the hint fast when he’s refused to do a ‘women’s chore’ and been very passively threatened with eviction.

‘Well son, I’m just not sure there’ll be enough food for you here if the men don’t have clean clothes by sundown. You may have to find other arrangements that better suit your leisurely lifestyle.’

The words had played over and over in his head for the last 15 years. Every time he found himself feeling that something was unfair. He had remembered those words and the way Dutch had spoken them. Something about that sentence not sitting right with him even now. The gentle reminder that he was expendable.

It Stung.

It had kept him quiet for almost as long as he could remember now. Even as a fully fledged adult that had earned his place in the gang by sheer effort and determination. Behind every compliment or kind word he could feel that lingering threat that if he did not continue to live up to Dutch’s standards he would be out before he could blink.

John inhaled sharply, feeling a sting in the corner of his eyes and closing them against it. He had been warned early on to hide his weakness. His little body sometimes unable to contain the big emotions that came from living in a word that didn’t want him.

He hadn’t needed to be told twice. Just the look in the eyes of the other men as he laid himself bare was enough to shut himself off from ever speaking about his misery again. Bessie had tried to console him but he had been too wary of her intensions to let her.

Terrified that she was just an agent of Dutch. Tasked with finding out his deepest concerns and reporting back to him with how and why John should be punished or evicted.

He regretted that a lot now. Knowing the kind of person she had turned out to be. So kind and full of affection.

He wished now, day in and day out that he had someone he could confide in. Someone that wouldn’t look at him with pity or contempt but the kind of compassion and understanding that Bessie had offered and he had shirked.

He had never pegged Abigail to be that person. Always assuming from her icy demeanour that she would be as cold as the other men. Disgusted even by his lack of self-control.

This wasn’t the first time he’d come to her, pleading for reassurance. But he doubted she knew that as she moved her hand softly from his cheek to drag her sharp nails over his scalp. Making him shiver.

He had tried a few times before. Most recently when they’d been settled at Horseshoe overlook. His insecurities niggling at him after seeing the fresh scars on his face for the first time. Anxiety nipping at the back of his mind until the gentle mumbles of self-doubt and loathing turned to angry shouting that he couldn’t ignore any longer.

He had gone to her in her lean-to. Sitting beside her without speaking and giving her a chance to ask since she alleged to know him so well.

She had not.

Arguing with him instead about his involvement with Jack. As if he needed another reminder of his dubious paternity at such a fragile time in his life.

He silently hoped that the kid wasn’t his anyway. It was the one kindness he could wish on the boy. To not grow up to be the spitting image of his own disgusting face.

He had felt such hatred for her in that moment. Either she didn’t know him as well as she claimed to or she did and she’d ignored his silent pleas for comfort.

He wasn’t sure what was worse.

He had silenced her with a rough kiss that quickly turned into heated touching. Their bodies closer than they had been in months. Arousal getting the best of them both as they rutted together urgently before Abigail had come to her senses and gently pushed him away. Staring into his expressive eyes for a long while before taking his hand and leading him away from all the prying eyes and making him feel better in the only way she really knew how.

The best sex John had ever had, lasting approximately two minutes and finishing as unceremoniously as it had begun in the scrub just shy of Pearson’s wagon.

They hadn’t spoken of it again. Straightening their clothes and parting ways with uneven breaths and ruffled hair.

He hadn’t tried to speak to her about his insecurities again after that. Feeling somewhat consoled by the fact that she’d still found him attractive enough to fuck.

Not that he was sure that meant too much in the grand scheme of things considering her past. She had spent a lot nights with a lot of men considerably uglier than John.

But it comforted him none the less.

John opened his eyes slowly, looking up to her and catching her eyeing him before she looked away quickly. Staring at the ceiling as she petted him distractedly.

“You can come to me you know?” She asked quietly, not looking away from the ceiling as she spoke. He wondered if that was because she felt the need to give him privacy in his response or because she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He tensed his jaw as he thought. Gritting his teeth together tightly before finally responding.

“Hmm.” He hummed in a noncommittal way. His response able to be taken as either a yay or nay depending on the other person’s perspective.

“When you’re… lonely… I mean.” Abigail hesitated, still staring above her with neutral features.

John didn’t reply, knowing full well that she was wrong but unable to voice that in the moment. Afraid of losing his place by her side as he closed his eyes again and breathed in her sumptuous scent.

He hadn’t intended to come to her in the first place. Walking quickly away from the fire; his back against some playful ribbing from the other men. He couldn’t even remember what it had been about. The teasing hadn’t been what had bothered him anyway. It was the way that Arthur had looked at him when he had opened his mouth to speak that had tripped him up. Made him choke on his words and look like a fumbling idiot in front of the others before he exited the conversation in an effort save what was left of his dignity.

They used to be so damn close.

Closer to brothers than friends. A relationship John cherished above all others he had experienced in his life.

Until he had left and fucked it all up.

He’d known Arthur would be pissed off at him. But to be honest he’d never imagined that he would still be filled with such animosity toward him a whole two years later.

Arthur loathed him. Barely tolerated his presence for years now. It was only just recently that he felt maybe they were starting to reconcile.

But then the other man had looked to him with such disdain. A piercing glare that radiated revulsion that stemmed from his very core.

He’d never really regained his friendship with anyone in the gang and he’d struggled to get to know the newer members.

His saving grace was his relationship with Abigail but even that had been in tatters for longer than it had ever been good.

He was so isolated.

Alone.

In a living space that consisted of over twenty people. Most nights he felt as though he may as well be sitting at an empty fire pit by his lonesome.

Sipping turning in to swigging as he relied on alcohol to dull the pain and loosen his tongue. Making him funny. Turning the miserable cynic that he was into a desirable companion.

John had stared back at Arthur after he had spoken. The other men already beginning to chuckle at his expense while his brother simply smirked at the fractured look on his face. Content with the fact he had made John Marston look as stupid as he always liked to say he was.

It was such a small gesture. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was always light and airy.

John couldn’t take it anymore. His heart breaking as he walked away from the fire to find a place to hide.

He had assumed Abigail would be asleep due to the late hour. Planning to sneak in and out of their room without detection. Grabbing some whiskey from his private stash and taking it somewhere more secluded to reflect on why exactly he felt the way he did.

But he had been wrong. Walking straight in and making eye contact with her before he could retreat. She’d known something was wrong immediately, he could tell. So he’d swallowed his pride and taken the opportunity to try one last time to help her understand him fully. That one small part of himself that she didn’t already just know like she seemed to with all the rest of him.

He wasn’t sure exactly if he was successful or not. Perhaps her understanding and comfort was conditional as everything seemed to be in this world.

Maybe when they awoke in the morning, she would physically push him away as she had so many times before.

Or perhaps he was the one that would push her.

Embarrassment settling in and causing him to withdraw without a word before she awakened. Never speaking of his vulnerability again. At least until the next time unkind words seeped their way into his heart. Blackening it a little bit with every stab.

Abigail let her eyes flutter closed. Her hand falling to rest gently against John’s temple as she took a deep calming breath. He subconsciously followed her lead, his own breathing evening out as he matched her pace. Feeling the rise and fall of her belly under his arm.

He felt calm.

Peaceful.

He realised as he lamented the fact that it would end eventually.

Never one to enjoy a moment as it was happening. Always looking to the future and bemoaning the fact that it would end.

He’d missed her. He had realised it months ago. The bickering before Blackwater had been suffocating to not just the two of them but Jack and the other gang members as well.

But when he’d been up on that mountain, freezing half to death and in more pain than he’d imagined possible he’d longed for her. Wanting nothing more than to be rescued and returned to her arms but knowing deep down that even if he was rescued, he would be returned to the cold embrace of a lonely bed.

Maybe now things would be different.

He dared to hope. Squeezing her waist with a trembling hand as he nuzzled closer to her. Abigail returning the hug without contention.

“I love you.” John finally managed to speak. The words grinding against his throat as he fought to force them out.

Abigail startled as he spoke, turning to him and frowning in question as if she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

Their noses rubbed together lightly as she looked into his eyes. A smile spreading across her gorgeous features as she read the look in his eyes.

“I love you too, you silly man.” She whispered, leaning in once more to kiss him softly. This time he kissed back, hand curling in her nightshirt as things began to get heated.

End.

~~~

I hope you guys liked this one! I would love to hear if you did. There's not many John/Abi shippers out there anymore so it's always amazing to hear from the people that take the time to read my works of them. ❤

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