#: “ Whistling Winter Winds. ❄️” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lay-z · 1 month ago

Text

❄️ Day 7 – Make do

Synopsis: Stuck in a safe house on a mission in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve, you and your alpha teammates are in dire need of some comfort.

Pairing: alpha!TF-141 x fem!omega!Reader Warnings/Info: No smut. | Omegaverse; military!Reader; a/b/o dynamics; emotional support (dog) omega; fluff; suggestive content; flirting; teammates to lovers/mates; eventual poly!relationship; eventual romance; typical omega/alpha behaviour

Word count: 2.5k

↳ back to ��🏼 Masterlist ☃️

Location: [Redacted]

EST. remng. time until exfil: 8 hrs. 4 min. 37 sec.

The wind is howling outside the shabby safe house, whistling through the creaks and cracks of withered floorboards while the rain keeps pouring down in ice buckets, fat drops pounding against the leaky windows.

You fear the seemingly ancient hut might cave in like an unstable card house with each violent gust of wind.

It’s definitely not cosy and anything but how you’d imagine to spend your holidays this year, but alas – you’re in the military, freshly recruited by a secret special ops task force just a handful of weeks ago, and neither war nor terrorism take a break, so you won’t, either. And you’re still trying to proof yourself to them, to those rugged, dominant and battle-hardened alpha soldiers.

Still, you’ve been away from a proper nest for nearly a month now and it’s starting to make you terribly anxious. You cannot possibly be of any use for your assigned alphas like this, not if you can’t even take care of yourself properly, and it’s showing.

Sometimes, the novelty of this arrangement catches up to you, makes you question your whole being and purpose. Especially, when you struggle to approach certain members of the squad to even offer your help and do your job. However, Captain Price had informed you in the beginning that you’re their first assigned emotional support omega, that some of his soldiers have never even been in close proximity to one before. He never told you who, but you already have a good hunch.

You don’t want them to know about your inner turmoil, though; don’t want them to think of you as some spoiled, prissy omega when you’re definitely still a soldier, as capable of the same war atrocities as they are – even if your nature gets in the way sometimes.

So, you do what you do best, grit your teeth, keep your demeanour neutral and make your usual rounds, seeing if anyone is in need of your support, though you’re ready for their usual declination – which is something that stings even worse than your own unmet need for comfort.

Nuzzling the cold tip of your nose into the thick collar of your winter combat jacket, you peel yourself away from the raggedy cot in the guest bedroom, boot-clad feet dragging along the creaking floorboards as you square your shoulders despite your own discomfort and walk down the short hallway into the dimly lit, sparsely furnished open living room.

And your nose immediately wrinkles at the concoction of sour, agitated alpha scents, cigar smoke, gun oil and musty wood. It’s bad enough to make your eyes water, but you swiftly blink away the gloss in your eyes, determined not to let them know how bad this is.

“Gentlemen,” you speak your greeting into the room, clearing your dry throat awkwardly as you assess the situation while the men barely seem to acknowledge you.

Captain Price is standing by a cracked window, puffing on a stubby cigar while staring outside into the semi-darkness, watching the storm, his broad shoulders tense and spine rigid.

Gaz is reading a worn softback book, sitting in the corner of the shabby couch where the old standard lamp flickers every couple of seconds, his dark brows drawn together in concentration, though his eyes barely move.

Soap is slumped in the only upholstered armchair, the battered cushions looking like they’ve seen better days; long legs stretched out in front of him, his bulky arms resting on each armrest while his head is tilted back, eyes flickering behind closed eyelids.

And the Lieutenant, Ghost, is sitting at the wobbly table on an equally wobbly chair in the darkest corner of the room, sharpening and cleaning his ballistic knives, the heavy scent of restlessness accumulated in his spot, though, as usual, his expression is hidden behind his skull mask, an air of indifference carefully crafted around his self while his own nature betrays him.

Their behaviour is making your stomach twist into knots and you swallow down a soft whine as your inner omega starts trembling with anxiety.

Then, Soap speaks up, his gruff, roguish voice breaking the tense silence, “Ye busy, sweetheart?”

You blink dumbly, eyes flickering around the room, unsure if he’s truly talking to you or–

But Soap lifts his head then, a boyish grin on his lips as his bright cerulean eyes lock with your, nearly making you squeak in surprise.

“C’mere, Corporal.” He says, lifting his bare right hand and curling his index finger, beckoning you over playfully before patting his thick thighs. It’s not an order, but the sudden interaction between you and the Sergeant has the other alphas perk up one way or another.

Price glances over his shoulder, blowing out a thick plume of smoke around the cigar between his lips. Gaz looks up from the pages of his book, one eyebrow raised curiously, his warm brown eyes flickering between Price, Soap and you while Ghost stops polishing one of his knives briefly before proceeding again.

It’s the first time one of them has made the conscious decision to ask for your presence, disregarding the brief and rare sniffs all of them have taken of your comforting omega scent in between action and battles.

Almost unconsciously, you give a stiff nod before approaching him while he sits up straighter in the armchair, moving his legs and angling his knees to give you more space.

“How–uhm–How do you… want me, Sergeant?” You ask tentatively, oblivious to the double-meaning of your innocent question, struggling to keep up your professionalism as you rock back and forth on your heels, heart pounding in your throat.

Soap’s formerly tired, half-lidded eyes light up with mirth as he drinks in your uncertainty, and deep down, he feels so bad for himself for denying himself and you this comfort that you and the rest of the squad so desperately need – all on orders from Price; the admonition from several weeks ago still ringing in the young Sergeant’s ears.

“Don’t overwhelm her, lads. She’s precious tha’ one, a bloody fine soldier, and we wanna keep her around with us.”

But the Captain forgot that this is literally your job, that this is why you’re here with them in the first place, and gods damn, Soap needs a whiff of your scent, of something else but his or his pack mates acrid stench – something more like candied apples, cinnamon and fresh wildflowers – something more like you, sweet, sweet omega.

Soap holds his right hand out to you and waits for you to reach out as well, before he grasps your smaller, cold hand swiftly, pulling you onto his lap while he keeps you steady with his left, manhandling you until you’re sitting perched up oh so prettily on his broad lap.

Your lashes flitter briskly, bright doe-eyes flickering nervously as you drink in his features this up close and Soap is preening internally at the reaction you’re showing him, so surprised and almost innocent despite your occupation.

“Ye like sitting here with me, aye, sweetheart? Not too much for ye, innit?” He queries nicely, loud enough for the others, especially Price, to hear, while the corners of his eyes crinkle with giddiness.

You scan the room discreetly, vigilant eyes moving left and right, like prey looking out for predators, unsure if this might be some kind of test perhaps, to see if you’re a good omega, able to do what you’re supposed to. Looking back into Soap’s pretty eyes, you give a slow nod, “Yes and no, sir.”

“Aye… thought so.” Soap chuckles gruffly, pulling you closer against his buff chest, eager to have your warmth and scent seep through his clothes, mark his skin and calm his restless soul.

Gaz can’t take it anymore, can’t even continue pretending to be preoccupied with this stupid book in his hands. Not when you’re sitting on Soap’s lap like that, whispering and giggling with him like you’ve never done anything else before. It had already been hard enough, acting as if you weren’t there since you joined the team, when all Gaz wants to do is bury his face in your neck, nuzzle your soft skin, cuddle you close and have your soothing purrs reverberate against his chest.

He didn’t have a chance to hear them yet, but he’s sure you would make the cutest sounds and noises.

His jaw ticks when a whiff of your saccharine scent wafts over to him while he’s still seated on the shabby couch, just a few metres away from you. Perhaps, he could just snatch you right out of Soap’s hold–

The low rumble of Price’s chiding alpha growl makes Gaz bristle, eyes widening imperceptibly as he ducks his head slightly, because how did the old geezer even sense that he was becoming jealous… and possessive.

Suddenly, Soap calls out, “Oi, Garrick? Ye want a turn?”

Gaz perks up; closing the book at once, though he looks over at the Captain for guidance and permission, because he sure as hell won’t disobey a direct order like Soap did when the latter had asked for your comfort.

Meanwhile, Price’s annoyance is still simmering below the surface, vein throbbing rhythmically in his neck as he listens and watches how the Scottish Sergeant is acting with you, all gentle and playful, practically putty in your presence.

The room reeks less of agitation and discomfort now, their aggressive alpha pheromones now dulled and whitewashed by your strong, syrupy omega scent, melodic giggles and dainty demeanour, and Price has to admit, Soap does seem to be in higher spirits now.

So, he meets Gaz’ pleading eyes with a firm nod, and watches the younger alpha scramble to his feet, opening his arms invitingly, while Price keeps his distance, chewing on the glimmering cigar stump to ease his own restlessness.

“Hand her over, MacTavish,” Gaz huffs, long fingers wiggling in anticipation, “You wanna stay with me a bit, hm, sunshine? Aye, ‘course you do–” He coos at you, leaning in a little and getting a first real nose full of your intoxicating scent at this proximity. His pupils dilate at once, making Soap chuckle as he loosens his arms around you reluctantly.

You answer with equal eagerness, eyes twinkling happily as you slip into Gaz’ strong arms, chirping, “Yes, sure!”

You end up sandwiched between Soap and Gaz on the small couch, cooped up in two different pairs of strong, bulky arms while both young alphas gush over you, courting for your attention as they nuzzle, kiss and lick your neck, your hair, any patch of exposed skin they can reach. You don’t mind them scent marking you for the first time, don’t mind the way they’re getting excited as you feel their big bulges strain against the rough fabric of their combat trousers whenever you’re switched back and forth in their embraces.

Just once do you need to correct Soap’s behaviour by pinching the nape of his neck, when he bucks his hips up against your clothed core, rubbing his growing arousal against you briefly. But Gaz chides him, too, and that’s that before you continue coddling them as much as they do you.

Ghost is usually great at blending out his surroundings while simultaneously being hyper-aware of them, but you’re slowly and surely starting to get under his scarred, pale skin, carefully chipping away at his resolve with each tentative offer of your assistance to him and his packmates, always looking mighty eager to please and serve.

Fucking hell.

It's sickening, really, how your enticing omega scent seeps even through the barrier of black cloth covering his nose.

He’s never allowed himself to smell something so sweet, let alone be in close proximity with someone like you.

When Price had submitted the application for an emotional support omega for the 141 to the brass, Ghost had nearly lost it and, in a semblance of panic, threatened with both resignation and applying to transfer to another task force, anything that would put space between himself and any omega, not trusting himself to be around something precious and fragile like that.

And then you showed up one day, pretty as a peach, ripe as one, too, and Ghost reluctantly accepted your presence with a grumble, enforcing Price’s order not to get too close to you, though, that’s easier said than done, he’d learned fairly quickly.

Now, Ghost can barely keep himself from staring at the couch, where both Soap and Gaz are seemingly having the time of their lives – basking in the attention of their own little omega. He’s never seen the two alpha Sergeant’s act so bloody… corny.

And yet, the Lieutenant can’t help and wonder how it must feel like to hold you, to feel your weight on his lap and feel your hair tickle his nose when he leans in to–

“I know what I said about her,” Price clasps his heavy hand on Ghost’s shoulder, bringing him back to reality, “– but perhaps you shouldn’t keep restraining yourself like that, Simon,” The Captain mutters, “It ain’t healthy.”

“An’ what about you, sir?” Ghost counters, not looking up as he finishes up polishing his last knife for the third time.

Price huffs in amusement, fishing another cigar from one of his breast pockets.

“Don’t ya worry about me, lad.”

When Soap pulls back from your kiss-swollen lips at once, you whine softly, chasing after his pretty mouth, already utterly spoiled bit the little bit of attention you’d gotten from the young Sergeants, until the expression on his handsome face makes you pause and snap out of your contented daze.

“Ye ready for a turn, Lt.? Think ye can handle it?” Soap snickers while Gaz scoots to the other end of the couch, clearing his throat loudly, looking at anything but the behemoth of an alpha in his black combat uniform, now standing in front of the couch.

Your eyes go comically big as you tilt your head back against Soap’s broad shoulder to gaze up at the stoic Lieutenant; the cloth of his skull mask now tucked up to the bridge of his crooked nose, revealing dirty blonde stubble and several thick silvery scars along his exposed neck and the lower half of his face while his onyx eyes stare down at you with unmatched intensity.

“I dunno, Johnny,” Ghost gruffs out, tongue darting out to lick his chapped bottom lip, “Think yer pretty bird can handle me?”

664 notes · View notes

yeehawpurgatory · 2 years ago

Text

Luck and Warmth

❄️🌨Seasons Greetings!🏔🌬This is my RDR secret winter exhange gift for @danger-r-98-5 I hope you enjoy this!

🎄Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to everyone 🤍💚❤️

I took inspiration from prompt #2: aka one kisses the other in the spur of the moment after a job gone bad, and momentarily freaks out until?…;)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Summary: Arthur and John occupy each other’s spaces in a small cabin while out on a job—a job that doesn’t pan out the way either thought it would. They spend their time together, eating, sleeping, talking, and keeping warm. When their job goes wrong, they deal with it together too. Even when that involves free falling into a river for John, and giving into his feelings for Arthur.

Words: 5k+

@rdrevents

A cold wind comes down from Mount Shann, rustling trees and howling just outside; the two of them are held up in a small cabin just north of Strawberry. The windows are bare and the wood is soft in some places, but it’s finer living than Arthur and John had seen in the past few days.

Finer, and real intimate.

John’s standing in the corner closest to the fireplace. Naked as a jaybird, with the pride of a stray dog, he washes his body with a rag and water straight from the boiling pot, poured into a bucket which had surely seen better days. Arthur doesn’t bother teasing him about the predicament; John has a hard enough time bathing when it wasn’t ball shriveling-ly cold outside.

It’s one of the only noises in the cabin—water ringing out of a rag, dipped into a bucket, squeezed, over and over; that, and the gusts of wind hitting the cabin. Howling outside. Water, wind, the crackling fire, and Marston’s off-tuned humming oh Susanna as he washes. A raspy sound, like a steam whistle through scrap metal pipes. A broken, damaged whistling sound. Arthur chuckles at the comparison he’s drawn.

“Somethin’ funny?” John barks with no bite.

“Not really, no.” Arthur says as he hides his amusement from the younger man.

Trelawny heard from a friend— who’d heard from their friend no doubt— something about a gaggle of boys down this way, robbing whoever they ran into on these roads. A small gang of about five or so men, mostly cow-milkers and shit-shovellers, all deciding to give the outlaw life a try. They were coming up from Strawberry in a few days supposedly. If the tip was good, then these boys carried with them weeks worth of loot they’d managed to steal.

With the camp well stocked, well prepared, and well fed, Arthur prepared for what was supposed to be a long solo trip; well in his territory. Only, Marston was sent along with him at the last second.

Hosea said it was a well needed trip for the two, that it could be a bonding experience of sorts. Of course he’d only said it whilst feigning ignorance. Arthur was sure Hosea conspired with Dutch to send both of them off to ‘mend their relationship.’ He’d caught them talking to each other as he packed, eyeing him and Marston all the while. This was an easy job, but nonetheless, they’d shoved John at him. Again. Probably in hopes that the two of them would rid themselves of the last bit of animosity they felt towards each other.

Dutch had all but said it when he’d waved them off, “and don’t come back until you like eachother again!”

A cold breeze sweeps the cabin. From the corner of his eye, John flinches. “Shit! It’s cold!”

Arthur makes it a point to stare down at his lap. He’s perched on an old wooden chair cleaning his Schofield in front of the fire. John is awfully close to him, in this tight cabin they share.

He swallows roughly when Marston cusses and stomps around bare-assed, now in his eyeline; the young man is oblivious to the funny feeling that starts to pool in Arthur’s gut, and travels lower than he’d like. Arthur clears his throat.

He could make a joke. Or a snide comment. Something to cut the tension which only really exists in his own mind; but Arthur bites his tongue.

Thing is, something about their relationship had in fact changed. Though thankfully, no one else had noticed.

He can pinpoint the moment something had shifted in his interactions with the younger man. Shoulders heavy from burying two of their flock, eyelids drooping shut and threatening to freeze over; things had changed back in the hellish cold of Colter. There was something…something Arthur can’t explain, which took him over after they’d found John bleeding and starving and damn-near frozen to death.

That ‘something’ ached his chest every time he wound up in that cabin weeks ago, changing Marston’s bandages and spooning him watery broth. While he watched his friend fight off feverish infection, face held together by nothing but thin stitching thread.

That sight of John is burned into his brain. In front of his eyes.

Maybe it was seeing John close to his possible end, knowing death could come for any of them on that mountain, and knowing what it felt like to bury his friends in the snow— Arthur desperately wants to forget that feeling.

Whatever took hold of him right now—for whatever reason, had him feeling some things Arthur used to hope and pray would go away. Feelings which plagued him as a youth, in the back of his mind, that despite the love surrounding him, he tried to bury deep within himself. Feelings which arose for Marston of all folk. It started some odd years ago.

At first he thought he was sick, then he thought he was crazy; unfortunately, he was infatuated.

“Throw another log in the fire would ya’? I’m freezing my jewels off!”

Arthur’s lip quirked up. He tossed another splintered log into the old fireplace.

“Need anythin’ else, your highness?” Arthur teased and turned to John, who was thankfully fully dressed now. Wearing some old thick trousers that had once belonged to Dutch, with a shirt and black coat over Arthurs own spare union suit. His scarf and gloves were set out to dry on the table by the fire.

“Could use some food since ya’ offered.” He hauled the washbucket outside, dumping the dirty water as Arthur stabbed a hunk of meat on a knife and stuck it over the open flames.

________________________________________________________

A while later they sat on their bedrolls eating their dinner consisting of a chunk of meat straight off the knife, a can of warmed beans they passed back and forth, and a stale bread roll each.

Arthur had last hunted three days ago. The provisions bag had gone down considerably, they ate more than usual to keep warm, and for something to do to avoid too many moments of silence. Though, to credit them both, there hadn’t been a real tiff, or awkward moment between the two men this whole trip.

John could even say they’d managed a few good conversations here and there. Arthur bit back his clever comments, and John held back a good amount of stupid questions, and as easy as that they were acting like old— if not distant —friends again.

“You want the bourbon or the gin?” Arthur asked after cleaning up and sitting down. The older man was bundled in his blue winter coat, wrapping it around his broad shoulders like it was a blanket. It was too damn cold to forgo boots and gloves in the evening, so he wore those too.

“Hand me the gin.”

Arthur scrunched his face in disgust and passed the half-finished gin bottle John was working his way through. He sipped it while he contemplated.

When they’d left camp Arthur was miles away in his own head like he often seemed to be. At first John thought it was just because of him, his presence alone could piss the older man off.

Or, it used to.

Morgan was acting funny these past few weeks. Since the gang had left Colter, John noticed. Not funny bad, just…different. Friendlier . Like he was suddenly fond of John as he once had been; as fond as he were before John decided enough was enough, and ran off on his own. The worst of the animosity had run its course, John reckoned, because Morgan was acting downright soft with him these days. Thank God for this change, for whatever caused it.

John had long grown tired of being hated by someone like Arthur. Someone he couldn’t deny he felt…strongly for. He ain’t one to label his emotions, preferring instead to let them come and go easy, like an unwanted visitor. What he felt for Arthur though, it couldn’t be ignored if he tried; and tried he had for too damn long.

“Nasty thing.” The older man sipped on his own bourbon. A few drops slipped down his chin and trailed down his neck. John watched as the liquid disappeared down into Morgan's shirt. His mouth watered.

“That’s why you only need a few mouthfuls.” John took a swig and swallowed it with an exaggerated sigh. Hopefully swallowing down any indecent thoughts.

John has suspicions about Morgan’s newfound fondness. Namely that it had something to do with Blackwater, when John sided with Arthur and Hosea’s judgement over Dutch’s. Or maybe it started when Morgan found him nearly dead in the snow. Maybe that gave Arthur a scare? Maybe it shocked him enough to make the older man forget his anger? To let it fizzle out, even?

Lord knows it shocked him in its own way. John was sure Arthur hated him; the last thing he thought he’d see on the brink of death was Morgan showing up out of thin air and saving his ass. It weren’t even the first time, neither.

“Few more days.” John broke the easy silence and took another swig.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t sort of sad for the end of this job. This was the most time they spent together since before John left. It was oddly domestic, their little routine. Taking turns cooking and hauling fresh water from nearby, tending to the fire, drinking, talking, just shooting the shit like the old days. He’s going to miss this when they get back to camp, the quiet domesticity of sharing a space with Arthur alone.

“Few more days indeed.” Arthur answered him. John swore he sounded somber; he blamed the drink. “I’m goin’ hunting tomorrow. Might see if I can catch something nice for us.” He takes a big mouthful of bourbon.

Despite the cold Arthur’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. It’s hard not to stare at the swirl of chest hair peeking though. It’s downright impossible for John not to notice the way fabric stretches and moves over Morgan’s muscled arms too. If he stared any longer he’d start drooling. Wouldn’t that be something?

“Bout’ damn time. I’m awful sick of rabbit.” They’ve been eating rabbit at least twice a day for a few days now. John chuckled and took another swig. A pleasant heaviness had set into his limbs, he blinked slower.

“You got a special request for me then? Seeing as it’s my job to find em’, hunt em’ and cook em, there oughta be somethin’ for you to do then?”

Arthur’s ribbing was playful, gentle. John was still technically on the mend. His face was still raw in the worst parts, his arm and leg ache in the cold the way old wounds do. He sat around just as much here as he did in Horseshoe.

“There is. Listenin’ to your big mouth and eating your shit cookin’.”

Slow in his movement thanks to the drink, John couldn’t dodge the damp balled up sock thrown right at his head. Instead, he threw his damp drawers in retaliation.

“Mars—ah! You son of a bitch!” Arthur squaked. John outright laughed at the sound.

He threw a spoon next; John dodged and threw the sock back.

Arthur swerved and tossed an empty can; John chucked a horsebrush.

Arthur picked up a tin cup; there wasn’t anything close enough for John to grab.

“Okay, okay!” John holds up his waving arms in surrender. Arthur eyes him considerably. Then slowly places the tin cup down as John lowers his arms.

Nobody moves, and John lets loose the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you…” he sighs.

Arthur’s still got his blue eyes watching John’s every move.

The second he drops his guard John lunges forward—he tackles Morgan.

“That ain’t fair!” Arthur’s coat slips off. He fights against John’s arms wrapped around his middle, vying for leverage of sorts.

“Ain’t nothin’ fair in life Morgan!”

The two of them fall to the ground. They wrestle like boys for a moment. All messy limbs and wriggling, in seconds they’re cussing up a storm and huffing between their fit of growing laughter. Arthur gets the upper-hand and throws his weight around, pinning a wriggling John under him. They haven't done this in forever—scraping and wrestling just for the fun of it. John had missed this more than he thought; though eventually enough was enough. If Arthur didn’t stop moving and get off, John would have a big, stiff, problem.

Legs tired from kicking and arms pinned above his head, with a heaving chest and a toothy grin, John barks out, “YIELD!”

Arthur eases off him with a heavy groan, rolling onto his back just beside John. They’re both breathing heavily, chests rising up and down, the sound of their panting fills the cabin. John turns his head to look at Arthur. The older man was already looking at him, his lips pulled into a lazy smile. John hadn’t seen Morgan so content in a while.

He looked damn-good too, with his hair dishevelled and shirt bunched up in odd places, a hazy relaxed look on his face.

“Shit…” Morgan breathed out, still smiling. He pulled himself upright with a groan, arm feeling the ground around him for the bourbon. He took a long, slow sip, swallowing with a sigh. “Y’fight dirty,” he slurs. Taking another sip.

John scoffs. “Damn right. Never stopped fightin’ dirty…” he trailed off. John reaches around for his own bottle and gulps down a shot when he’s sat upright.

They drink some more together. When the world around John starts to spin he closes his eyes and lays back.

When he opens them next he’s carefully laid out onto his bedroll closest to the fire, his coat laid over him like a blanket. There’s a weight against his back, light snoring in his ears, and the familiar warmth only another person could give.

They’ve taken to sleeping like this for warmth in the chilly nights in the cabin, settling beside each other, that is. At first it scared him, the idea of being so physically close to the other man again, but all that went away when John had woken up in the morning; refreshed like he couldn’t believe, and happier than he’d felt in a long while.

It’s the closest they’ve been in years, and John relished in every second of it.

______________________________________________________

A few more good days passed and it was finally time.

Arthur spotted a group of misfits matching Trelawny’s description of the gang they were after. Young looking, green looking. These kids wouldn’t be much of a fight. With John and him shooting, they’d be up and outta there in minutes. It’s that easy.

They were still too close to Strawberry. It’s one thing outriding a bunch of kids, but the law was another issue entirely. Arthur shook his head and pocketed his binoculars. It wasn’t worth it to shoot too soon and risk drawing lawmen or armed townsfolk their way.

They’ll have to trail them then. Be patient, that is.

Arthur led the way, the two men following a good distance from the small gang as they rode off path.

They just had to bide their time. It was going just fine.

Until it wasn’t.

“Arthur.”

John’s tone was urgent as he whispered. “Arthur, behind us, careful.”

Between scouting for the gang between the trees and keeping a good distance away, Arthur paid no mind to the clopping of horses behind them. He took one glance over the shoulder and cussed. Why now?

Bounty Hunters.

He glances at John. The younger man held the reign with just one hand, the other hovered over his holstered Cattleman.

“Just keep yer’ head down, they might be here for them boys,” he tells John. Wouldn’t that be lucky? Even if they weren’t here for him or Marston, Arthur is certain they’ll be recognized. Him at least. He has Micah’s little shootout to thank for that; dammit—Arthur thought he’d been careful not to be seen around.

If luck is in fact on their side, then these men would ride onward, past the pair and keep going.

Unfortunately for them, the riders don’t pass by. One of the Bounty Hunters rode up close to them.

“Afternoon sirs,” the Bounty Hunter tips his hat. Another one rides up beside John. “You boys seen or heard anything strange about?” His tone is even and his expression is nearly friendly. His farce is betrayed by the pistol in his hand and the men who start to surround them.

He looks at John. His jaw is clenched shut and his hand hovers.

“Can’t say we have, sorry.” Arthur tries to keep his voice low, his demeanour normal, but his fingers twitch of their own accord.

The man nearest to Marston shifted in his saddle, trying and failing to discreetly look at John’s face. Something like urgency flashes in the man’s eyes.

Arthur’s hand inches slowly to his own holstered weapon.

“Jesus, what happened to you?”

John stares angrily at the Bounty Hunter before spitting out his response, “wolves.”

“Speaking of, this area’s full of those bastards. And we ain’t seen nothing strange ‘round these parts.” Arthur spoke slowly, leisurely. Or attempted to. “So why don’t you boys check the main road might be that—”

A split second later—a pistol aimed right at Arthur’s face. He had no time to move, to think and—

BANG!!!

Blood spattered all over Arthur. His ears rang, and for a horrible moment, he thought he’d been hit.

Another shot rang out. By now Arthur’s head caught up with what was happening.

John had drawn and shot both men dead just then—and now they were running for their lives.

Goddamn gang of hoodlums couldn’t know just how lucky they were right now.

_________________________________________________

“Leave em’ here, we’ll run up this way!”

John listened to him, he smacked his horse on the ass and watched it ride off. He followed Arthur up a steep pathway. The two braced on one another as they climbed uneven terrain and slippery rocks. It was Arthur who’d been out and about, he knew this area better and so he led.

“Should we split up?” John asked between breaths. His lungs were burning. After a few days of sitting pretty and smoking until his chest hurt, this was the last thing he needed.

“No—keep runnin’!”

Arthur grabbed his arm and yanked him forward—forcing John to keep up even as his vision began to blur and spots danced in front of his eyes. His bad leg buckled.

“Shit!”

John blinked heavily, trying to see clearly. When he did, his eyes widened.

Arthur had led them to the edge of a hill overlooking a rapid river. The sight of the water made John dizzy instantly. He looked at Arthur, who looked at him, still clasping the fabric of his coat.

“John we—I think we gotta jump.”

He stares at Arthur in pure bewilderment.

NO! He can’t! Arthur knows he can’t—John would take his chances running off on foot, or one on one with all those Bounty Hunters. Or lawmen. Or wolves. Or the noose—again. Just not this.

“John.” Arthur urges, voice stern, serious. Absolute. “We ain’t that high up.”

“I—I can’t. You know a—”

The shouting of men is too close for comfort.

“Can’t we just shoot em?” John grimaces at the helplessness in his voice. At the shaking—the raw fear in his tone.

Suddenly the rapids from below echo in his ears, making his head hurt. They weren’t that high up, but it’s not the height alone that scares him. Cold air be damned, John was sweating.

“Marston…” Arthur isn’t angry, but oddly sympathetic. “You know how big a group these bastards travel in. We can’t risk drawing more out, if we haven't already.”

John’s mouth opens to protest, but once again, he can’t find the words. “Fuck.” His knees feel weak, he feels shaky, stiff, how’s he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to jump?

“Arthur, I…I can’t do it.”

The voices were so close, John was expecting them to show up any second. Fuck! What else could he do? Surrender?

“John.” Arthur’s mouth is set rigid in a tense line.

“A-Arthur.” John can feel his lip curl down and begin to tremble, his eyes are already filled to the brim. Damn his weakness, damn his stupid fear. Fuck.

Arthur’s hand trails lower, and lower, until he’s clasping John’s hand in an iron grip. John chokes at the resolve in the older man’s eyes. The protectiveness.

This is the man he trusts the most.

“If you won’t do it, then I won’t.” Arthur sounds completely sure of it. “They’ll shoot on sight Johnny, I ain’t leaving you here to face that alone.”

The words take John’s breath away. If anyone would follow John to an untimely demise, despite there being a way out just a few feet away, it would be Arthur; It’s only right that John do the same. Nevermind he’s so scared he might puke or pass out.

He shakes his head, the silence is enough of an answer. He squeezes back, keeping Arthur’s hand in a vice grip. He hopes his shaking isn’t that bad.

“Here!” A man’s voice rang out, then Bounty Hunters were swarming around them. “Stop—!”

The two men break into a run.

They gain momentum. John is still holding Arthur’s hand when they jump off the ledge. There’s shots flying around them—but all John can hear is the sound of his own screaming and the wind whipping past his ears as he falls.

Still, Arthur hasn’t let him go.

______________________________________________________

One two three…one two three…one two three…

“C’mon, please, please…” He couldn’t pretend the wetness in his eyes was anything else but tears. John was limp, too damn pale, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

Arthur held John’s hand for as long as he could. He still held it tight when they hit the water in a breath stealing impact. Immediately, the cold water had shocked him; all it did for John was make him panic and flail. He tried. Lord. He did. Arthur tried to pull himself and John toward solid ground, but he couldn’t keep them both up, and also fight the rapids threatening to pull them in.

It was a Goddamn rock in the end. John had hit a rock, hard. Then he went slack. His hand slipped from Arthur’s and he was gone. Disappearing under water and making Arthur’s blood run cold.

…two three…One two three…One two three…one two—

“Not like this, Marston, come on!...” He will wake up. He will. He had too.

One more round of pushing on John’s chest—and his eyes finally fly open. Thank the Lord.

John gagged and coughed, violent spasms wracked his body. Arthur turned him on his side. Bouts of water came up, spilling out his cracked-slashed lips. He wretched, ugly vomiting, and gasping for breath. It was the loveliest sound Arthur had ever heard. Thank. God.

Arthur tugged John upright, gathered him into his arms, trying to hide just how much he was shaking. He held a breathless John close, running his hands up and down the younger man’s arms and muttering soothing words as soft as he could manage. “It’s okay John. Breathe boy, you got it, easy, easy, yer’ okay John.”

He shushed John when he whimpered. Shushed him and held his hand again and squeezed. John squeezed back.

“M’right here, I gotcha.”

John clenches a fistful of Arthur’s soaking coat, pulling himself up with a cracked groan. The younger man leans on him, and for a moment they just breathe together. Then, John’s shoulders begin to tremble, and Arthur stills.

“Marston?” John shakes his head. He hiccups, a breathy, wheezy, gasping noise. Was he crying? Was he hurt anywhere?

“God.. damn!”

The fool was laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” His laugh is one of disbelief. “Can’t believe I just…” he gasps. “And you—God!...”

His heart pounded hard within his chest. Now that John was conscious, safe, in his arms, Arthur’s fear subsided. Absurd excitement took over.

He was crazy…—

—he really jumped.

John was crazy too, he jumped alongside Arthur. The two of them were crazy, lucky fools together.

Oh but he survived, they both did. Oh Thank God. He pulls away just enough to cup John’s face and take a good look at him. His eyes were droopy, body tired from more than just heaving water. That, and he had a nasty looking bruise on his forehead.

He trusts him. John trusted him enough to do this—to face his biggest fear. Arthur’s heart swells. Before he knows it, he’s peppering kisses all over John’s face.

One on his nose, one atop his slashed cheek, one pressed softly on his bruised forehead, on his chin, the other cheek…

Good God. He felt…he felt alive. Giddy in a way he’s only ever felt when he’s narrowly avoided death or capture. They did it!...

He kisses John right on his lips.

Then, Arthur freezes. Ice cold dread fills his gut. Oh Lord…did he just? His stomach flipped...Oh no…

“Uh-Arthur?” The younger man’s lips are parted slightly, eyes wide in surprise. John doesn’t sound horrified—or disgusted; but the utter confusion in his voice makes Arthur want to tuck tail and bolt. He can’t, he’s still the only thing keeping Marston upright, but the urge to run is there. It’s there and it’s strong. He closes his eyes to avoid staring at John. Oh you moron Morgan…

…Arthur jumps when a gentle, calloused, wet hand trails up his throat, and around the back of his neck. Fingers tangled in his dripping hair, and John pulls himself, tilts his head up, and kisses Arthur right back.

When they part, Arthur doesn’t speak. He can’t. His throat is too tight, constricted; but John sounds just fine now.

“C’mere…” John kisses him again—and this time Arthur dips his head down, leaning into the kiss. He’s waited so long for this, to want and be wanted back—it was heavenly. A soft groan escapes his mouth. It’s embarrassing, his eagerness that is, but John smiles against his lips.

When they pull apart next it’s with a gasp from both. He stares at John’s face, at his lopsided grin and his cloudy grey eyes. This time Arthur has some words.

“Yer’ bleedin’.”

John must’ve hit his arm, there’s a small patch of blood near his shoulder.

“And yer’ freezin’.” John says with a goofy smile.

______________________________________________________

It’s too big a risk getting a room in town.

Their horses beat them to the cabin.

The second they’re inside Arthur eases John in front of the fireplace. John’s hands stay clenched in Arthur’s soaking blue coat as he tugs at it. Morgan gets the idea and loses it, untucking his shirt and shucking his suspenders. By the time he’s naked the fire’s good and going. John is so fucking cold he can’t rightly appreciate the scene unfolding before his very eyes.

Arthur’s hands are shaking just as much as his own as the two work on getting John out of his soaking clothes. When it’s done and he’s just as bare as Arthur, he grabs a blanket. John throws it over the other man’s shoulders, and rubs his arms up and down.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Warmin’ you. Trying too, I mean.”

Arthur smiled at him. He grabbed an old dry shirt and used it to dry John’s hair in return. His fingers felt so good on John’s scalp, even with the barrier of fabric it was like a massage. John’s rhythm faltered as Arthur worked away the knots from his scalp to his neck. He dried him, and draped him in a blanket next to the fire.

John sighs at the heat coming off in waves, he sticks his hands and feet as close as they could get to the fire. Warming fingers and toes through in seconds.

“Let me take a look at you.” Arthur’s drawl matched the fire somehow, red and hot. Warmth grew in his gut and spread through his body, making him feel good and heavy. Though, it could also be the tiredness setting into his bones.

John freed his arm from beneath the blanket. Arthur surveyed the cut. With tender hands he cleaned and wrapped it, gentle assurances slipping past his lips. Not that it was needed, the cut was a shallow thing; but John wouldn’t trade Arthur taking his time with him, being soft with him for anything. Absolutely nothing.

“C’mere.” He says when Arthur finally stops fussing about. John lifts the large blanket up. It’s big enough for two men as big as themselves to sit side by side, both wrapped up; so long as they sit real close.

The last of the coldness dissipates. They leaned on each other. Warm and tight-knit. Arthur’s got his face hidden in his hair; John’s got his face hidden in the crook of Morgan’s neck. John might call this cozy, if the wind would just ease up a bit.

He can’t possibly know what the other man is thinking, but John knows one thing. He’s never been happier a job fell through.

“I thought.” He pays attention when Arthur lifts his head and clears his throat to speak. “I thought you was gonna hit me or start cryin’.”

“Almost did.” John chuckles. Arthur loosened the arm he had wrapped around his waist, making John bristle.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to-uh…I shoulda’ asked if you were fine with…”

“Fine with…jumping off a God-damn cliff into running water?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. It takes John a few seconds to catch up.

“Oh!...Oh Arthur you—you ain’t gotta ask me.” John swallowed thickly, hoping he weren’t about to humiliate himself or say something strange. “You can…M’telling you now, for future, you can kiss me anytime you want. I…I want you to.”

John had never been good with words, but he hoped he was getting through to Arthur right now.

The older man was shy in a way John had never experienced being. Too quick to get back into his shell, and retreat into himself and never speak his mind. So John would take the lead then.

“Arthur. I want you, you want me back?” Quick and to the point.

Under the glow of the fire and a spare oil lamp, John watched as the older man began to blush. It was a glorious sight.

Arthur wrapped his arms around him and tugged. They changed positions, John straddled in his lap, Arthur holding his narrow waist, running large warm hands up and down his torso. Just taking his time looking and feeling; John did the same. His own hands traced over Arthur’s big arms, his shoulder, up his neck and to his handsome face. He’s still in disbelief that this is actually happening. How did he get so lucky?

He had an inch over Arthur, held up on his lap like this. John gazed at him; blue eyes clouded over with something fonder. Nearly loving, and all for him. It was his turn to show some love back. He kisses Arthur softly.

One right on his crown and in his hair. One on his scarred nose, his chin. On one cheek, on the other; then John paused. His hands cupped Arthur’s face on either side. Just to be a little shit, John asks again;

“You want me?”

Arthur groaned. His hands ran up John’s arms, one large palm cradled the back of John’s damp hair.

“God yes…” he breathes. A small smile tugs at John’s lips. Arthur’s baby blues are aimed at his mouth, breath shaking as he inches forward. They’re so close they breathe the same air; their lips hovering over each other.

“...Good. I’ve wanted you longer than I can remember.”

“Fuck-Johnny !...” It’s that declaration from John which has Arthur picking him up and laying him flat on top of a bedroll.

Arthur looks at him with something so soft and sweet in his eyes, John’s heart swells. He’s never been happier than he is now, laying flat, trying to keep still while Arthur presses slow, gentle kisses on every part of his body. His arms, his stomach, his chest…The older man is on top of him now, looking down at John with utter adoration. His gaze is so intense it’s near unbearable. For the second time that day, John is wordless.

He’s not cold anymore, not in the slightest. Nothing could ruin this moment for him. For them.

A loud rumbling catches them both off guard. The sound fills the cabin, but they both know where it came from. They look each other straight in the eyes before they burst out laughing. Arthur falls on the ground beside him, shaking in a fit of giggles.

“Jesus Marston! You act like I’m starvin’ you!”

“You did! I ain’t eaten today!” John’s only half embarrassed that his stomach ruined the moment. “Wait, where you goin’?”

Arthur shakes his head and chuckles a few more times. He grabs a bag and rummages through it, pulling out one soft looking apple.

“You want this?” When John scoffs Arthur smirks. “If not, I got some rabbit meat.”

“Oh fuck off.”

They eat a less than delectable meal of rabbit, cold canned corn and the last of their bread. The wind still enters the cabin from the bare windows, but the two of them manage to stay warm all the same. Their bedrolls are pushed together close to the fire, and they share the large blanket still warm with their body heat alone.

When both men doze off, they’re wrapped in each other's arms, both holding the other tight as they can in their sleep.

This trip wasn’t what it was supposed to be, but they're both grateful as shit it went the way it had. Though it went unvoiced and unacknowledged, the last of any hard feelings had long fizzled out; in its place was something funny, or rather, strangely good.

Something soft and fond, and oh so very warm.

#rdrsecretwinterexchange #RDRSWE2022 #fanfiction #arthur morgan #john marston #morston #john marston x arthur morgan #my writing

46 notes · View notes