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nevadancitizen · 3 months ago

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-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by.

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening.

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular.

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it.

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls.

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total.

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking.

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says.

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand.

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly.

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow.

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try.

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out.

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen.

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes.

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment. “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says.

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen.

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers.

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says.

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away.

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around.

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip.

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says.

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.”

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

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outlawruben · 1 year ago

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Something I find interesting in the RDR2 community is that EVERYONE (mostly manly men/12 year old boys, who play rdr2 on low honor) open their ears to listen to the actors when they hint at character theories like the “What’s wrong with Dutch” theories, or the “Is John really Jack’s father” theories, but AS SOON as Ben Davis & Curzon Dobell are like: “Dutch and Hosea are soulmates” or Noshir Dalal fully supporting Charthur, y’all don’t wanna hear it. That’s my ¢20

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #dutch x hosea #vandermatthews #charles x arthur #charthur #rdr2 #rdr2 fandom

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hihomeghere · 2 months ago

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Right Person, Wrong Time / John Marston x reader

Summary : You and John have constantly been at each other's throats until you left the gang after he chose Abigail over you. When you return you find him gone, leaving Abigail and Jack. You create a relationship with Abigail and Jack, but what will happen when John returns? Warnings/tags : Hate fucking, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it), swearing, slapping, choking, hair pulling, biting breasts, unrequited loveish, John being an awful parent, slight Abigail x John, reader x John, reader becomes a parent figure it Jack, angst, no happy ending Word count : 2.5k

You supposed fate had it out for you. To dangle John in front of you like it did. Two scrappy street kids raised alongside each other. Like two starving dogs fighting for scraps, you were always at each other's throats. Arthur could hardly stand one of you at a time, but the two of you together had him damn near tearing his hair out.

The old guard had hoped that once the two of you got older, things wouldn’t be so volatile around camp. But the churning hormones inside the two of you only poured gasoline on the fire that was you and John.

Dutch and Hosea quickly learned that the two of you couldn’t be trusted to work a job together. That job ended in your first wanted poster going up in Armadillo. John tore one down and kept putting it up around camp, much to everyone’s disapproval.

Hosea said it was because the two of you were too alike. Forced out on your own, fighting to survive in a dog eat dog world. Stuck in this rivalry that you had created. Dutch had seen it before anyone else had, the smoldering fire inside you that yearned for John’s spark.

But then Abigail came along. You hated her. Hated her pretty eyes, soft lips, more than anything you hated how John couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. She was just a working girl, you had seen hundreds of working girls come and go but she… she stayed. She stayed and for some reason John couldn’t stay away from her.

Always sitting next to her around the campfire, looking at her with that stupid lovesick look. It made you sick. So instead of facing the fact that stupid John Marston was in love with someone who wasn’t you, you ran.

You packed in the dead of night, like a coward, and ran off. It was harder on your own and as much as you hated to admit it, you missed the gang. More than anything you missed John. But you were stubborn, you wanted to prove to yourself that you didn’t need them, didn’t need him.

It was fate when Arthur found you running a con on some rich folk. Asked you to come back, just for ‘one night’. You went back with him, knowing that this ‘one night’ would turn into many nights. Dutch and Hosea welcomed you back with open arms, something you hadn’t been expecting after being gone so long. Although your loyalty had never been with the gang, it was always with John.

Although John was gone, like two ships passing in the night. Had run off about a week earlier from what Arthur had said. Leaving Abigail and his son. His son.

A tiny boy with brown hair and eyes, barely a year old. Poor Abigail, the girl was a wreck. Dealing with her son and his piece of shit father.

You don’t know why you attached yourself to them, stepping in and acting as a second parent to Jack. Perhaps you felt like you owed it to them, that you had harbored so much hate in you over a foolish man. A foolish man that had everything he could want and threw it away. Deep down you knew that it was for a more selfish reason. You felt close to John in some awful way when you were around Abigail and Jack. You saw so much of John in him, in his gummy smile. When he would laugh, deep in his belly.

The little boy had captured your heart, just like his father.

You knew that Abigail knew, knew the feelings you harbored for the father of her son. You supposed that everyone knew why you ran off. Ironic that you returned when the prodigal son had left.

“I don’t hold it against you.” She said one day, breaking the silence between the two of you as you did your chores.

“Pardon?” You asked, looking up at her.

“John.” She said simply, her blunt words made your mouth run dry. “I don’t hold it against you. If that’s why you’re- you’re bein’ so kind. I don’t need charity.” She pursed her lips, hanging up a shirt on the line.

“It ain’t charity I-“ You worked your jaw as you looked down, “I care for your son. I care for Jack. Hell I- I consider you a friend. Unless I’m oversteppin’?” You raised your eyes to meet her icy gaze.

“I’d like to be your friend.” She said, although her gaze didn’t soften.

And then one day the bastard returned. You didn’t know who was more mad, you or Arthur. He reached him before you did, slamming him up against a nearby tree.

“You yellow bellied-“

“The hell you doin’!”

“Boys!” Dutch’s voice cut through their growls, striding over to all three of you. Your jaw was clenched so hard your teeth ached as you stared John down. As much as you hated to admit it, part of you was glad to see him. His hair was longer than the last time you had seen him. His dark raven locks down to his shoulders. Your stomach twisted as his eyes landed on you. You turned, stalking away from the men as Dutch began a speech to ‘calm’ the men down.

Abigail was seething, bouncing Jack in her arms as she paced.

“Want me to take him so you can kick his ass?” You asked, glaring at him over your shoulder.

“Please.” She huffed, handing him off as she stormed over to him. A small bit of satisfaction filling you as her open palm connected to his cheek. You turned your gaze back to Jack, reminding your traitorous heart what really mattered.

You knew it was only a matter of time before John cornered you. The sun had set and you were getting ready for bed when he stopped by your tent.

“You’re back.” His gravely voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“So are you.” You huffed, keeping your back to him as you set your guns down.

“Why’d you come back?” His words sent liquid fire through your veins.

“Why’d you leave?” You hissed, spinning around to face him. He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “How could you?”

“Don’t give me that.” He scoffed, looking away from him.

“Excuse me? You have a family John.”

“And you didn’t?” He growled, his teeth bared like a wild dog. “You just packed up your shit and walked out on us, on all of us.”

“You don’t get to be mad over this.” You seethed, pointing your finger in his face. “We are not the same.”

“Oh sweetheart we’re the same kind of screwed up.” He sneered, holding his arms out.

“No we ain’t.” You shoved him backwards, “I was here when it mattered. When your son said his first word, when he walked for the first time. I was there.”

“Oh congratulations, parent of the damn year.”

“You ran cause you got scared, you damn coward.” You hissed, your emotions bubbling to the surface.

“And what’s your excuse hm? We all know why you ran.” His words made your blood run cold.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know everything about you.” He said closing the distance between the two of you. “I know you ran cause you couldn’t stand not havin’ me.” You clenched your jaw, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work John.” He caught your wrist as you turned.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” He pulled you closer, an iron grip of your wrist. His dark eyes boring into yours.

“You’re wrong.” You hissed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Really?” He asked, his voice raising in volume. He surged forward, crashing his lips against yours. It took you a minute to respond, your heart and head at war. Your palms pushed against his chest as he stumbled backwards. His lips parted as he stared down at you. You surged forward, pulling him towards you by his collar. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance.

You parted, your lips swollen as you tore at his clothes. He got the memo quickly, undoing his gun belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clang. Halfway undressed he pounced on you like a man possessed. His hands were everywhere and yet your body craved more, more, more.

Your hands threaded through his hair. Grabbing a chunk near the nape of his neck as you pulled his head back. His eyes caught yours in the low light of the lantern, his teeth glinting as his lips pulled back in a wolfish grin.

“Your bark is a helluva lot worse than your bite.” He huffed, holding your hips in a near bruising grip. You clenched your jaw, liquid fire rushing through your veins. “Tell me you don’t want this, don’t want me.” He taunted, panting as you tighten your grip on his hair.

“You’re a piece of shit.” You spat.

“And what does that make you, sweetheart?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. You tugged at the base of his skull, a low groan leaving his lips as he laughed. He walked you backwards, your calves hitting your cot.

“Fuck you.” You hissed, feeling his hot breath waft across your face.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” His mouth was back on yours, his fingers moved with precision as he unbuttoned your shirt. He roughly grabbed your breast, swallowing the low whine he pulled from you. He pushed you down onto your cot, slotting himself between your legs. He made quick work of undressing you, muttering to himself. “All hot and bothered- you think you’re so damn special don’t you?” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“Like you ain’t much better golden boy.” You growled, tugging at his union suit, hoping he’d get the message. He did, pulling his arms out and kicking the fabric off as you finished undressing.

You had pictured this exchange happening differently in your head more times than you wanted to admit. In your mind, your first time with John was slow. Each of you would take time to worship each other's bodies. Mapping out each scar and blemish, committing them to memory. Soft kisses trailed along your skin, words of affection passing between your lips.

As he kicked off his union suit, his cock sprang up against his stomach. The tip red and weeping between his legs. His hand closed around your ankle, yanking you down the cot, closer to him. His hand cupped your mound, his finger trailing down your slit. You hated to give him the satisfaction as he found you slick with desire. He ducked his head, biting at your breast. You gasped as he ran his tongue over the teeth marks before wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“Act like such a damn brat,” He said, pulling off with a loud pop, “Now look at ya, just drippin for me.” Your face burned as he ran his finger through your folds. Your open palm connected with his cheek. His head snapping away from you, your own hand stinging as you pulled back. He let out a low chuckle, hanging his head. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pushing them up against your chest. Folding you in half as he lined himself up with your entrance. He drove into you, knocking the air out of your lungs with a squeak.

“Goddamn you’re tight.” He hissed in pain and pleasure as you raked your nails down his back. He ruts into you like some animal, his lips parted and swollen as he huffed. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle any traitorous moans. The dark patch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your clit. Your whole body felt ablaze as he pounded relentlessly into you. The sound of skin on skin echoing through the small tent. His heavy balls hitting your ass with each thrust. Your cunt ached as he carved out a space for himself inside you, reaching places you didn’t think possible.

Blood roared in your ears as you’re dragged closer and closer to the edge of pleasure. Your eyes rolling back into your head as your body is propelled up the cot with each thrust. His hand closed around your throat, squeezing slightly and you’re gone.

Wave after wave wash over you as you writhe under him. Mewling as your legs shook on either side of his shoulders, your head felt fuzzy as his hips stuttered.

“Shit don’t-“ He bit his lip, “I can’t-“ He pulled out of you, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. He slammed back into you, his chest sticking to your back with sweat as he laid over you. His arms on either side of your head as he held himself up.

“Fuck John!” You cried out, biting down on your lip. Your body was ablaze as his hand pressed your face into the cot.

“God damn-“ He groaned through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips stuttered. Pouring himself into you as he collapsed on top of you.

Both of your breaths filled the air, your chest heaving as he rolled off of you. He left you empty and leaking onto your cot, although that was the least of your worries.

You just fucked John, well technically he fucked you. But Abigail… Abigail and Jack. God if she found out you’d never be able to earn her trust back. John let out a long sigh, running his hand over his face. A smirk tugging on his lips as he looked over at you.

You felt sick to your stomach as you felt his cum drip out of you. You got up, grabbing his clothes and throwing them at him. He caught them and held them against his chest, his brows furrowing as he looked up at you.

“The hell are you doing darlin’?” He asked.

“Don’t call me that.” You huffed, stepping into your bloomers. “This- this was a mistake. You know it, I know it, shit you have a family, John. Abigail, Jack-“

“Is that what this is about?” He scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he sat on the edge of the cot. “They’re in the past.”

“No!” You snapped, “They’re right here in this fucking camp! Waiting for you.”

“Who knows if the boy is even mine-“ He started, throwing up his hand.

“Oh don’t pull that horseshit, we all know he’s your son.” You scoffed, buttoning up your shirt. “God I’m a fool.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Guilt settling over you like a blanket. “Get out.”

“What?” He asked, his eyes finding yours.

“This was a mistake.” You said shaking your head, “You may not have any loyalty but I do. I- This never happened.” His jaw clenched, anger burning in his eyes as he roughly dressed himself. He stopped next to you, staring you down.

“So this is it?” He scoffed, shaking his head as you didn’t respond. Your arms crossed as you hung your head in shame. “Unbelievable.” He muttered as he stormed past you, knocking his shoulder against yours as he left your tent.

You sat down on the edge of your cot, putting your head in your hands. Hating yourself for being so damn weak, hating yourself for enjoying it, hating yourself for your undeniable feelings for him.

What had you done?

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #john marston #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #abigail marston #abigail roberts #jack marston #john marston x reader #john marston smut #hihomeghere #angst #rdr2 john #rdr2 x reader

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twola · 7 months ago

Text

Passerine : Chapter 3

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

One step forward, two steps back.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Hi - I know it’s been over a year since I’ve updated this. Passerine is a love letter to trauma and the thereafter. It’s heavy. It’s hard to write. But thank you all for holding on to this. I promise it won’t be another year before I post chapters 4, 5, and 6 to finish it out.

Note: I play fast and loose with the passage of time as compared to the canon game.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Abigail pulls the canvas around the tent’s opening closed behind her. She sighs as she arranges the fabric to preserve the privacy that you so desperately need.

Wiping the back of her palm across her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to stave off a headache.

“Mama!”

She jolts, steadying herself as her five-year-old son barrels into her legs, whipping his arms around her skirts.

“Jack…-Jack,” Abigail reels slightly as she places her hand on his head as he snuggles into her thigh. She pushes gently and he unwinds his small arms from around her. He steps half a step back and she stoops down on one knee to look him in the eye.

She tucks some of his hair behind his ears, her hands cupping his small cheeks, losing the last bit of baby fat from them as the boy grows in fits.

“Can you be a good boy fer me and go find Uncle Hosea? I think he has a new book fer you.”

His eyes flash in excitement as he nods, and Abigail gives him a wry grin as he tries to wriggle away, not letting go of him until she places a kiss on his forehead. When she takes her hand from his shoulders, he darts away across the camp, calling after Hosea.

Bless him, he’s like a grandfather to Jack. Between him and Arthur, sometimes, sometimes, she can almost forget how terrible of a father John is.

Speaking of which, she finds him staring at her from across the camp, elbows at his knees as he sits in front of the fireplace. She glares back at him before turning away, huffing in a moment of agitation.

She pulls back the tent's canvas slightly, confirming to herself that yes, you are asleep.

Frowning, she lets the canvas go and walks over toward the lakeshore behind where Arthur had set his tent wagon up, crossing her arms over her chest as the red-painted sunset reflected off of the still waters of Flat Iron.

When she had asked you when was the last time you bled, she expected sputtering, anxious eyes and having to come up with a way to tell Arthur that he’d gotten a child upon you.

Instead, your flushed face turned almost white as you shot to your feet and immediately stumbled away from the wash bin and toward the treeline.

Abigail dropped laundry she had been working on back into the tub and hitched her skirt to run after you, catching up only as you doubled over, leaning against a tree as you choked up bile onto the ground.

You had burst into tears in between wet, gasping breaths, your stomach heaving dry when there was nothing left to expel. Abigail rubbed your upper back soothingly as she pulled your hair back from over your shoulder.

“C’mon now, it’s gonna be okay. Arthur’s- he’s the best of the men, he’ll take care of you.” She cooed softly, her hand working in slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You sob aloud, which unseats her. “It’s…it’s….”

You could barely get the words out.

Abigail’s circles slow, “Is… it not his?”

You collapsed to your knees as sobs racked your body, wet coughs echoing through the woods.

Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon trying to console you, able to pry details between your fits of dry heaving and sobs. She narrows her eyes against the red sun in the distance, her shoulders finally letting down from how tightly they’ve been wound all afternoon.

The truth was much worse than she had been expecting.

She had managed to coax you away from the trees and usher you quietly into Arthur’s tent, where she immediately pulled the canvas shut before turning back to you and pushing you down gently into the cot, taking your boots off one at a time and placing them on the ground next to the cot.

In hushed whimpers, you told her about what had happened those months ago when the gang was still at Horseshoe. Her brow furrowed in shock as she brushed your hair off of your forehead, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbing it across your damp brow.

The truth, as terrible as it was, was not unfamiliar to Abigail. A whore by fifteen, she had seen her share of women forced against their will. A customer gone too far, a rat of a man waiting to catch one of the girls alone, not wanting to pay for services.

She herself had experiences with it.

But you, as you regaled the terrible details in hiccuping breaths, you had never been part of that world, and when the O’Driscoll forced you down on that bed, the act of sex had never been weaponized against you until that moment.

She had finally calmed you down enough that you drifted off to sleep, not more than an hour ago.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Abigail glances back toward where the horses are hitched, Arthur’s mare still missing amongst them.

She lets out a long, mournful breath. As many times as she had tried to assure you that if you were with child it was likely Arthur’s… all you could dwell on was that man who bound and gagged you and had you on the old bed in that dingy cabin.

You had cried yourself to sleep, and Abigail now has to figure out what to do going forward. Obviously, she thinks as she brushes the loose hair at the nape of her neck that escaped her bun, she needs to figure this out with Arthur. No matter what the decision was. She needed to talk to him before she made a trip to Saint Denis to collect the needed items.

A pang of memory flashes in her mind - the horrified look on John’s face when she told him she was with child. How it was months before he had her in his bed again. Only once, when she was swollen with child, did he lay with her - now years ago.

The sound of hoofbeats draws her from the fugue of her thoughts. She turns partway around to see Arthur ride into the camp atop his mare, weighed down with a whitetail deer strapped across the horse’s rump. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Abigail sighs and moves towards where Arthur dismounts, following him silently as he shoulders the deer carcass and slings it over Pearson’s table.

He scoots over toward the tub of soapy water to wash the blood from his skin.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks up, shaking his hands from the wash bin, “Miss Roberts,” he drawls with a smile on his face.

Abigail does not return his smile.

“She was raped?”

Arthur stares at Abigail from under the rim of his hat, clenching his jaw, “How-”

“She told me.” Abigail sighs, leaning against the tree a bit away from the camp that she had led him to.

“She alrigh’? What happened for her to tell you?” Arthur mumbles, glancing back at the camp looking for you, but you are nowhere to be found.

“Arthur. I think she’s with child.” Abigail states in a hushed tone, and Arthur’s eyes dart wildly back to her.

“Child?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Abigail retorts, her patience frayed and finally worn out.

Arthur’s jaw clenches before he opens his mouth again, “It’s mine.” He mumbles, almost too soft to hear, eyes shooting down to the ground.

Much like how you refused to listen to Abigail’s pleading and reassurance as she tried to convince you of the same, Abigail brushes aside Arthur’s comment.

“Did he… did he spend in her?” Abigail rubs her eyes with the back of her palm, exhausted as dusk was closing in on the camp.

“I have,” Arthur says quietly, continuing to look at the ground.

“I know you have, idiot. But th’ first thing she thought is that this baby belongs to some dead O’Driscoll that raped her.”

Arthur’s jaw sets, unable to hide the snarl from his tone. “Ain’t no way it's his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for a couple a’ months. And I don’t always-”

“Yes, Arthur, I get that.” Abigail interjects with exasperation, “The question is - does she?”

The outlaw’s gaze flicks upward, landing on Abigail for a moment, before he turns his head to the side, looking over the western horizon at Flat Iron Lake.

“Look - I don’t know what y’all want to do. I don’t know what she wants to do. But…” She trails off, her gaze also looking out to the lake, “I can give her things to make it end.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Abigail dusts off her skirt as she begins to step away, “But Arthur…”

He finally can make eye contact as she looks back at him.

“She’s gotta make up her mind - quick.”

The dinginess - the sour smell of off-food and dirty men permeated the air. The kind of stink that simple cleaning would never get rid of.

Your head is killing you as you blink away the pain, but you find yourself biting down on a foul piece of fabric tied around your mouth. You try to pull it down, but find that your wrists are bound behind your back.

The door opens and the feeling of dread in your chest explodes into a blazing fire of fear.

“There’s my little girl.”

His greasy, dark hair is slicked back away from his disheveled beard, and he smiles that toothy, nauseating grin at you.

The O’Driscoll pulls up your chemise from your thighs up and over your belly, baring your bottom half to him. You try to clench your thighs together, but as he leans over you, you do not find that he forces your legs apart.

But you cannot fight him as his rough and dirty hand spreads out over your belly.

“Pretty miss - gonna be all big and swollen with my child.”

Your eyes shoot open, your fingers closing tightly around the blanket that you’ve pulled around yourself. You have to bite your lip to stop from screaming aloud.

Dusk’s shadows permeate through the canvas of Arthur’s tent, and you realize you’ve spent most of the afternoon sleeping. You push yourself up in the cot, breathing out heavily.

You pass your hand over your stomach. As soon as Abigail asked you the last time you bled, the cavern inside you opened up. You hadn’t bled since before the house in Cumberland. The nausea, the vomiting. God, you’ve been so tired too.

Shit, was it true? Could there be a child there, under the softness of your belly? Would you grow round and hard there beneath your fingertips?

Not only was there a pit in your stomach, but you felt like your chest had been cracked open - you’re drowning in yourself - why can’t you escape that O’Driscoll and what he did?

You curl up smaller in Arthur’s cot, pulling the blanket over you, trying to hide from the world.

Usually, it’s before a job that he reaches for a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves and hone his senses before roaring into a situation with guns blazing.

That’s not the situation he finds himself in now.

Arthur finds himself pacing in the wooded area outside of camp, smoking hurriedly as his palm clenches in agitation. He throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot, turning his face upward and exhaling a plume of smoke with a sound that could be described as a sigh.

The lantern lights of the camp start to glow in the distance. He hasn’t worked up the courage to rejoin the group since stalking out to the woods and smoking half a pack of damn cigarettes.

Flat Iron Lake is still in the distance, a few ships passing between Saint Denis and Blackwater illuminate the dark waters.

Arthur grabs his hat off his head with one head and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of the other. He closes his eyes, letting another long breath out.

Arthur swears he can hear a child’s laughter. It ain’t Jack though. Another young boy - with tawny hair and freckles dusting his cheeks.

“Papa!”

A young boy who darts toward him as he slides off of his saddle.

The smile of a dark-haired girl leaning in the doorframe.

Fishing rods and toy horses and bedtime stories when he came around. A cup of coffee and pleasant conversation with a girl he shared a night with so long ago…

And two wooden crosses. Silence. Not even the birds sang that day he came upon the little house off the road.

Arthur continues to pace, cursing under his breath. He goes to reach for yet another cigarette when he stops, swallowing, and grits his teeth.

How goddamn selfish of him to wallow in his own miserable past when you need him. The pit in his stomach reopens as he remembers the sight of you in that cabin. Bound, gagged, and violated.

And now his dumb ass has gone and gotten you pregnant. Foisted this upon you when you were still so vulnerable and hurting and god damnit - he told you he wasn’t a good person. This absolutely proves it.

There’s no lantern light on in his tent, he can see through the woods, and he’s stayed out long enough. Lord only knows Abigail is going to come find him and smack him the way she’s hit John - but he wouldn’t be any less deserving.

With yet another long, burdened breath, he heads back toward his tent.

Arthur Morgan moves as quietly as he can through the canvas, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness has fallen upon the camp, and he’s thankful that he can reach the oil lantern on the table with just enough moonlight for him to light it low. A yellow-orange glow emits from it, illuminating the tent.

You’re sitting in his cot, in the darkness, and in the light, he can see the sheen of tears down your cheeks. Your hair is falling out of the bun it’s half tied into. Fuck, he’s the goddamn scum of the earth.

“Darlin’,” his voice cracks with uncertainty.

You shiver, the threadbare blanket pulled over your shoulders as you sit in the cot. Arthur holds the rim of his hat in his hands, fidgeting with it restlessly as he cannot meet your eyes.

“Abigail seems to think…”

“Abigail’s right.” You mumble, monotone while staring into space.

Arthur chews his lip, “This is my fault.”

“Ain’t your fault an O’Driscoll-”

“I got you pregnant,” Arthur interjects, moving to sit on the small stool across from the cot.

“You don’t know it’s yours.” You snap back with a vicious snarl in your voice and he nearly recoils as if shot. This he did not expect.

Neither it seems, did you. Your eyes widen when you finally meet his, and hold his gaze for but a moment before your brow crinkles and you shove your face into your knees as you draw them up to your chest.

You hiccup a sob, “What if this baby looks l-like ‘im? What if the baby has them cold dark eyes starin’ at me like when when he-”

“Shh,” Arthur hushes you, preventing you from speaking aloud your terrible truth. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his embrace, “That ain’t gonna happen.”

You wriggle uncomfortably in his arms, trying to pull away. Arthur lets go of you, but his hands move to cup your cheeks and force you to look at him.

“No matter what, I’m gonna be here for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes are only able to hold his stare for but so long before you look downward. Arthur lets go of your face and you take the opportunity to scoot further away from him in the cot, unable to look him in the eyes.

You’ve pulled your knees to your chest and hidden your face in them, ashamed of the tears that spill down your cheeks again.

“I had a son.”

Arthur’s voice is not loud, not strong, not solid. You slowly raise your head, sniffling, to find him sitting with his elbows on his thighs and head hung low, staring at the dirt below his feet.

“…had?”

He nods, still not looking at you, “He ‘nd his mother were killed, long time ago. Robbery.”

You remain quiet, your gaze down to the ground also.

“I wasn’t there.”

You wrap your arms tighter around your legs.

“Wasn’t there for any of it. Wasn’t there when he was born, barely there as he grew up, wasn’t there when he ‘nd his mother needed my protection.”

Arthur rubs tiredly over his eyes, his thigh bouncing slightly with something you recognize as agitation, anxiety.

Fear.

It is several moments before he looks up at you again, swallowing before the low timbres of his voice fill the tent again.

“If you want this baby - I’ll be here. For all of it.”

You curl up on Arthur’s cot and try to sleep. At your obvious discomfort, he maintains a distance between you, pulling a chair in from outside and posting himself in it, pulling his hat over his head to try to get some sleep.

Just before dawn, the pit in your stomach threatens to open up, and you toss the blanket from your body and pad outside, hurrying toward the treeline for what has become your normal. You’re able to make it a few trees back before you have to stop and hunch over to empty your stomach.

You wetly cough between heaving breaths, and it is not but a few minutes later that you feel his fingers grab into your hair, pulling it up as you vomit into the leaves below.

You lean into the tree harder as you spit up the last of the bile in your belly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stumble slightly when you try to stand up, and Arthur’s hands find your waist quickly to maintain your upright position.

“C’mon there, sweetheart, let’s lay you down again.”

You don’t answer him, instead allowing him to guide you back to his tent as the first vestiges of the dawn overtake the sky. You let him help you lay down, you let him pull the blanket over your body. Exhausted, you finally fall asleep.

You awaken several hours later, when a hand presses to your forehead, checking for a temperature. Your eyes flutter open to see Abigail leaning over you, and you scramble to get up as she moves to the end of the cot to sit opposite of you.

Abigail takes your hand in your lap after a few terse moments. “Y’ wanna get rid of it? I can make that happen, but we gotta do it sooner than later.”

You look up at her, unable to stop the sheen of tears from glazing over your eyes. Tears escape and trail down your cheeks as your gaze moves from Abigail, sitting on the cot with you, across the small tent to Arthur, sitting on an old chair with his elbows on his knees.

Behind those blue eyes of his is a maelstrom, one you know he’s trying to hide from you. Arthur’s whispered voice echoes in your mind as he tells you the sorry tale of his own fatherhood. His loss, the indescribable hole in his heart full of regret and sorrow. Arthur’s gaze moves from you down to the ground.

You close your eyes as another wave of tears slides down your face, sighing loudly as you try to gather what little composure you have left.

Finally, you look back to the woman gently rubbing your hand.

“Seen you hanging all over Arthur,” Grimshaw eyed your waist critically, “It’s his, ain’t it?”

There comes a time that you can’t hide it anymore - the swell of your belly just under your skirts. You’re sure the girls know - you’ve seen their eyes flit on your figure.

You continue to stare at the setting sun over the lake. Part of you wishes you had the wherewithal to respond, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.

Susan had clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Idiots. The both of you.”

You avoid people. Get your chores done quickly. Don’t complain about not getting jobs. Arthur moved everything of yours into his tent, more permanently letting down the canvas sides.

From that very first day that you cowered in his cot away from his touch, Arthur had given you a wide berth since you pushed him away - hesitant, sleeping on either a chair or laying his bedroll on the ground.

You awaken many days before dawn, silently padding out to the wooded area south of the camp, far enough away that the rest of the folks couldn’t hear your retching. Several times in the beginning, Arthur follows you, and you angrily shoo him away before he stops tagging along behind you.

Over the weeks, your belly hardens, your breasts swell. You have to let out the waist of your skirt, and there is no hiding anything when the height of the summer finds Clemens - it’s so miserably hot that layers to hide your growing body must be shed or you’d sweat to death.

You’ve seen Dutch eye you. You’ve seen him argue with Arthur. You’ve seen Grimshaw join the fray. Hosea has been dropping ginger tea off to you in the morning with a gentle, knowing smile - it tasted terrible, but after the first few bracing sips, it did settle your stomach.

“Mind if I join y’ for a smoke?”

From the grassy spot you sit upon, you look up to find the widow Adler looking down at you. She’s shed her skirts and blouses in favor of work pants. Arthur had dragged her away from Pearson hollering some kind of awful and they returned with her much less agitated. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, the scar above her eyebrow much more noticeable when she wasn’t wearing a hat.

You nod, looking back to the water, and the spurs of Sadie’s boots jingling as she pulls a matchbook from her trouser’s pocket.

“You know me, I ain’t gonna pussy foot about you. I know you ain’t gettin’ fat because of Pearson’s cookin’.” Sadie lights the cigarette between her teeth, continuing to talk through the process.

You remain silent, sitting there on the shoreline, arms looped around your knees, your skirts hiding your frame - your belly, swelling with child.

The match sizzles when she chucks it into the lake and takes a drag.

“Y’got a look about you that you ain't happy bout it.”

You frown, placing your forehead against your knees. “No,” you mumble into the fabric of your skirt.

She lets out a plume of smoke. Silence settles between you before you work up the courage to speak again.

“When they came to your ranch… did they… did-” you swallow, stuttering as your voice cracks.

Sadie drops the cigarette, mashing it into the ground under her boot.

“Yeah.”

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, sighing before your voice cracks again, “I… when we just got to Horseshoe - there was a house I was scopin’ a-and then… then an O’D-driscoll-” you start to sniffle as your vision clouds with tears.

Sadie does not meet your gaze, simply closing her eyes and breathing out her nose.

“And you're thinkin’ it's his.”

You nod, the tears slipping down your face. What a miserable excuse for an outlaw you are, weeping like a frail woman in front of someone who endured the same trauma.

She lets out a long, thoughtful breath, heavy with the weight of familiarity, “I know, better than most, that you ain't gonna listen to anyone, but y’know it's probably Arthur’s.”

You swallow, about to retort something back at her when she turns on her heel, her spurs jingling.

“You and he weren’t exactly subtle with what you were up to.” Her hand brushes your shoulder before she walks back toward the camp. You remain still, looking out over the lake with your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Best if you start lookin’ forward instead of lookin’ back. You’re only gonna find pain there.”

You look back toward her.

“Are you lookin’ forward?”

Sadie Adler turns halfway to look at you, her jaw set and eyes hard.

“No.”

You dream of blood. Of the overpowering richness and stifling warmth in the stale air of the tent. Of movement, people, murmuring voices, and hushed tones.

You dream of pain. You dream of being torn apart from the inside. You dream of screams, nearly inhumane, echoing in the tent.

You dream of Susan Grimshaw dabbing a damp rag over your head, a soft, pitying look on her face.

You dream of the women of camp surrounding you - of Abigail and Sadie, Tilly and Mary Beth. Karen, even Molly. Sadness, forlornness in their eyes.

Abigail holds a whimpering newborn in her arms, swaddled in a blanket.

The bundle is placed in your arms, and as you draw back the linen, the child’s features are revealed. Instead of Arthur’s dark honeyed hair and blue eyes, the babe has dark, dark hair and near-black eyes that blink up at you. Dark, cruel eyes that are nothing like your own.

Nothing like Arthur’s.

You rocket up in the cot, gasping, holding a hand to your breast to calm your racing heart. Your movement has awakened the other person in the tent, and Arthur shoots up from his bedroll on the ground, his head darting this way and that, looking for potential danger before realizing that you had been plagued by a nightmare.

“Sweetheart-” Arthur reaches toward your face to wipe the tears from your cheeks but you flinch and draw back further so that he cannot touch you.

“I just… I…” your voice stutters in the night, “P-Please don’t touch me.”

His hand retracts from between you, “Course, darlin’.”

You gather the thin blanket around you closer, refusing to make eye contact with the man who has crawled closer to the cot from where his bedroll lay spread out on the ground. “Why are you doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” Arthur says quietly as he pushes himself up, from his knees to sit at the very end of the cot, opposite where you have curled yourself.

“This.” You gesticulate to the distance between you, then to his bedroll on the floor, “You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground. You’re far too high up in this gang to be doin’ that.”

“You’re pregnant. I c’n sleep anywhere, don’t need a bed.” Arthur says, running his thumb over his bruised knuckles, also not making eye contact with you.

“I ain’t pregnant with-” You begin, clenching your fists in the blanket, your voice faltering.

“You are. Don’t start with this - you remember how many times we was stupid.” Arthur looks up, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in a look of irritation before sighing, running his palm down his face against the exhaustion creeping in on him, “Look, sweetheart. I don’t know why you keep thinkin’ the baby’s his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for months.”

You turn your head away from him, setting your jaw. He doesn’t understand, how would he ever understand?

Arthur lets out a breath and moves from the floor up to sit at the opposite end of his old cot.

“But what if he is? What if this baby’s daddy is that O-”

“My daddy wasn't nothin’ but the man that made me.” He interjects, “Hosea and Dutch raised me more than my actual father did.”

You glance at the mugshot placed on the wagon in the corner of the tent. Lyle Morgan stares at you, with unrepentant eyes, as if he were mocking you from the grave.

“If…if-” You stutter, your eyes watering over again as you draw your knees awkwardly to your chest, your belly getting in the way, The strap of your chemise slips down your shoulder, “If this baby is born and y’ see it’s h-his-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur’s voice raises a bit, and as he realizes it, he slides closer to you on the cot, and grasps one of your hands in his own, his large, calloused hand engulfing yours, “I’m gonna be this child’s pa. Me. I’m gonna be that for the babe, and I’m gonna be that for you.”

You don’t fight his touch. Your eyes water over as you tightly close them, “I don’t know why you’d want another man’s-”

His thumb tenderly swipes your cheek, dashing the tears cascading from your eyes, “Cause I want you, sweetheart. ‘Nd anythin’ you create, it’s gonna be from you, and I want that too.”

You can’t hold back the sob from your throat as you crumble forward in the cot, Arthur winds his arms around you. You breathe in the musk of him - of leather and tobacco and safety.

And in the dim silence of the night, you allow it, burying yourself into his embrace, crying into his collarbone, your swollen belly pressed against his ribcage.

#red dead redemption 2 #twolafic #arthur morgan smut #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #passerine

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nthspecialll · 20 days ago

Note

What do you think the boys would be like as older brothers to little sisters?

Canonly Javier is a very loving older brother, that much is canon as we hear him talk about his sister. He seems to miss her a lot. I believe that he would love to teach a younger sister to fish and other things either he or she might enjoy.

Dutch... I am a little conflicted about, because on one hand Dutch as we know it isn't that attentive to people around him unless he gains from it. However, there might be a special connection if they share blood, we know that he is still in contact with his family, so he might have this sense of glory over it. He would however expect a certian level of class from the sister as she would be an extention of him in both good and bad.

Hosea: Sweet man, absolutely sweet man. With his age the younger sister will likely also be up in the ages, so just watching out for her, helping her where it is needed, take her into town and just hang out.

Charles: If you know Noshir's headcanon for Charles family history... You know it ain't good. Charles is a very loyal man to his family, robbing for his dad despite not liking it and searching for his mother far after she got taken, however it never ended well and then when all strings were loose he went lose as well, killing and murdering. If he had another sister who lived, he might not have gotten so violent, he might not have gotten violent at all. It is the same ponder as "would Jack have gone after Ross had the Marston girl lived," they both did it because they had no one and had lost everything, but if Charles had a sister he would have had someone. So yeah, very sweet and caring, possibly protective.

John: I am a bit conflicted on this as well. Because we see how close Marston is with Abigail and Jack later once he has accepted them, however that love and cares largely also came from him maturing, and in 1899 he is not mature, he is seeking that respect he is too young to gain. He would probably he a bit absent, too focused on his own life and his own achievements.

Arthur: He still has loyality towards his dad despite him possibly not being the best guy and having died so long ago, so his relation to family is strong. You are likely going to see a very protective man, however, he does believe in genderroles, so likely he will be slightly pushing them onto a possible sister. So yes, he will take them out on trips, but it will be "appropriate" ones.

Lenny: He is more driven by revenge than family. His mother isn't dead, she was likely still in his life before Lenny went and killed his fathers killers. I imagine that he would love her, absolutely, but he is doing his own thing. So yes, very sweet with her, but he wouldn't be held back by her.

Sean: He would probably teach her everything he knew about ireland, teach her about their father's history, what happened to him and so on. They have a culture and a history and I imagine he wants her to have that as well, especially since she would have been less around their father than he.

Bill: A little sister might actually have saved him. All he wants is to be appriciated and validated, a sister could have done this and if she does, all the affection that Bill has to Dutch would go to her. He got a taste of it and he wants more.

Micah: Micah is more loyal to values than family, we see how it went with Amos. So he would keep her around to do chores as long as she didn't disagree with him.

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brothermoth · 10 months ago

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Something about the way Lenny and Dutch's conversations go. The real lived experience of someone who at 19 has born the brunt of American bigotry and come out an intelligent and well spoken young man...vs Dutch "fake activist" Van der Linde who never puts his money where his mouth is. Lenny is arguably a parallel to Jack (becoming an outlaw after avenging his father's murder, despite parents having greater dreams for him) and his death really plays a great role in the whole story. People who should have lived better. The cycle of revenge, of violence claiming bright young kids.

Still, its Lenny who calls out the flaws in Dutch's thinking. He isn't afraid to ask questions, to hold intellectual conversation with the man he looks up to. I think that's also why Hosea likes him so much, because he's what Hosea wishes Arthur and John could be. Thinkers. They aren't stupid by any means, but neither pushed against Dutch until it was too late. They were enablers, same as Hosea. I think the deaths of Lenny and Hosea, the thinkers, is a much deeper start to the downfall of the gang. Metaphorically, it's the loss of rational mindedness. The wise youth and wise elder.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #lenny summers

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ashs-cardboard-box · 3 months ago

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"Come back to me"

~ Hosea Matthews/Dutch Van Der Linde/Male!Reader (Arthur, John, Tilly, Lenny, Abigail, Jack mention) ~ Fluff, lost/found family (Day 1) ~ Romantic ~ 4.5k words NOT CANON TO THE RDR2 STORYLINE. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking back, it had to have been at least fifteen years since you last saw your family. You wondered if they thought you ran off. If you cracked under the pressure of being against the law; of the reality that your life wouldn’t be even remotely close to normal. The majority of you hoped they could forgive you, even if it wasn’t directly your fault. Fifteen years seems like such a long time ago now, but every day felt agonizing for you. Every morning you woke up longing for them again, hoping that somehow, in the big wide world, you’d somehow stumble upon them all again. In the first few years, you hadn’t seen their names in the newspapers, so you stopped looking as hope dwindled.

That one fateful day felt just like any other. The foggy morning of August twenty-third, eighteen-eighty-four. Your beautiful baby girl, Tilly, had crawled up into your tent that night after a particularly nasty nightmare about… you didn’t remember really. Your exhausted brain barely registered the six-year-old girl curled up against your side, snoring worse than Arthur had when he was a boy. Tilly was the most recent “adoptee” of the gang. Supposedly found sobbing her little heart out on the steps of a place of..dubious morals. One of your husbands– not legally, but it was the thought that counted– Dutch, had said she was crying for her mama, but that thought just made your heart clench and you asked him not to divulge further. All you knew was that, just like the boys before her, she needed a home. You had so much love to give and became as much of a father to her as you could, alongside Dutch and Hosea, of course.

Preceding her, was a scruffy boy named John. Oh, how that boy would get into trouble at every twist and turn. It all got a bit fuzzy, remembering exactly how old your kids were when they were taken in, but you knew he was twelve now. Lord knows he wouldn’t stop bragging about how he’ll be a teenager soon.

And, of course, you couldn’t forget Arthur, your eldest. Definitely less of a hassle than John, but put those two together and it’d take all Dutch, Hosea, and you had just to pull them away from each other…again. You were more of a father to Arthur than the other two kids, as he’d known you longer. He was, as much as you hate to admit it, the practice child. He was well into his teens when the ever blossoming gang had found him, right after his father was killed. You could hardly remember all of the times you fought. You and Dutch were just starting to enter your thirties, whilst Hosea was already in his forties. If it weren’t for them, you would’ve left him to starve. You were so…bitter. But now? Now, you get emotional at just the idea of one of your babies getting hurt. You nearly had a heart attack after Arthur’s breakup with…Molly? Missy? You couldn’t remember now.

Managing to worm yourself around the small girl in your bed, you rise to your feet with a lazy yawn. The sun was barely beginning to rise, making the fog seem more dense than it realistically was. Pulling your quilt up over Tilly’s shoulders, you tuck her back in, not wanting to wake her so soon, as you lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Due to the lack of proper resources, everyone had to share a tent. You with your husbands, Dutch and Hosea, and all three kids together in another tent. At first, that thought worried you, terrified they were going to torment one another, but you were soon reassured by the discovery that, when tired enough, they all leave each other alone. Glancing over towards the other two cots, pushed together to make it easier to fit two grown men, a smile crosses your lips as you watch Hosea and Dutch sleep so peacefully. You could hardly resist yourself, sneaking over just to kiss their foreheads as well. Your hand gently pushes Dutch’s hair out of his face, earning a slight scrunch of his nose in his sleep. You usually hated being up so early, but your internal clock refused to let you fall back asleep. Sneaking out of the tent, you internally wince at the feeling of the dewy grass between your toes, immediately locking onto your boots that you’d left by the tent entrance last night. Picking one up, you tip it upside down, repeatedly patting the sole to dump out any hidden scorpions. Satisfied with its emptiness, you slip it on, your union suit pant leg bunching up at the bottom, only to do the same with your second boot. It was like a ritual at this point. Wake up, cautiously get up; careful of anyone in your bed, check up on everyone before debating with your husbands to see who’s making breakfast. Though, Dutch is usually left out..especially after he somehow melted the only pot you had.

Making your way into the kid’s tent, you push the flap open quietly and poke your head in. John was halfway off his bed, somehow turned all the way around with his head dangling off the foot of it, making his face all pink. Arthur had fallen asleep with a book draped over his face, no doubt some Evelyn Miller book Dutch had been yapping about. Slowly, you creep inside, right up to John’s cot. Cramming three beds into one tent was difficult, but you all made it work. It was awkward at first, but putting Tilly between both boys seemed to quell the arguments for the most part. Gently, you pick the boy up from the edge of his bed, readjusting him entirely to lay normally for once, his head resting on his pillow. Reaching down to grab his, disgustingly dirty, wool blanket off the floor and, extremely reluctantly, covering him back up as John curls up happily beneath it. He never let you wash the damn thing, even if you desperately needed to. You could only imagine the horrors that lay inside the fibers. Turning around, you round Tilly’s cot over to Arthur on the opposite side of the tent. Grabbing the book by both the top and bottom, curling your fingers underneath the open pages to prevent them from closing right on Arthur’s face, you lift it up off of him and close it, setting it just beside him instead. Little did you know, as soon as you woke up that morning, you were already being watched by bounty hunters. You, Dutch, Hosea, and young Arthur managed to scrounge up a couple hundred dollar bounties just from petty thievery..except for that one bank robbery somewhere in the newly formed state of Kansas. Greedy bastard, you recall, but that was as far as your memory went, it all blurred so easily since it went by so fast.

You remember leaving the boys and shuffling a bit away from camp to take a leak, but you didn’t even get your buttons undone before you’re ambushed. Someone with a gun to your back, holding you up against him with a hand over your mouth. Someone else making the demands.

Something about wanting you to turn in your family to collect the money from the law? You could hardly focus, the first thing that left your mouth was “me, not them”. Inexperienced, they accepted that…and your myriad of violent threats and expletives as they all but kidnapped you without much of a trace due to the lack of struggle.

It was hard to comprehend how long fifteen years was in retrospect. Everything was changing now. Eighteen-ninety-nine. One year before a whole new century. The years beyond your capture were nothing whatsoever. Endless roaming, searching, running from the law. Ironic. You were originally doubtful to become an outlaw, but after fleeing from your cell, you’d been wanted ever since.

You were doubtful you’d ever make it back home. Afraid that Dutch and Hosea were just distant memories now. You wondered if your kids ever made it past that day. Hopelessness plagued you everywhere you went. At least, that’s how you felt, until you stupidly tripped over someone’s extended leg as they sat on the Valentine train station steps.

“Sorry.” You mumble gruffly, pulled out of your thoughts as you finally pull your gaze from the mud beneath your boots and over to the person you’d so rudely stepped on. It was some rugged looking man, but he seemed familiar somehow. Sandy blonde hair, barely hidden by a hat you can’t seem to properly place. Face covered by a scruffy stubble, sharp features. The man looked surprised to see you, if not oddly elated.

“Y/N?” The man questions, completely disregarding the incident of you tripping on him as he rises to his feet, standing in front of you. He had a few inches on you, that’s for sure. “Do I know you?” You inquire. He seemed a bit dejected at that, but he doesn’t let it deter him. The corner of his mouth turns upwards in a lopsided grin of hardly contained excitement.

Reaching up quickly, he pulls off his hat, holding it to his chest. There’s practically stars in his eyes, fully expecting you to remember who he is. “You kinda look like my son, Arthur...” You mumble, idly scratching at your jaw with a sideways glance towards the train tracks just a few feet away.

Turning back up towards the man, his expression is unreadable. A mixture of sorrow, utter joy, and shock paints his face, whatever that feeling would be called, you weren’t sure. “You still think I’m your son..?” Arthur questions, almost honored that you still thought of him that way.

He never thought he’d see you again after you just vanished. He wanted to be angry with you, to demand answers as to what the hell happened to make you just get up and leave, but he was just relieved you were alive. So much had happened, he didn’t know where to start!

“Arthur?” You echo as your eyes widen. Surely not. This guy is just making a fool out of you, but the longer you stare at him, the more that fuzzy image of that twenty-one year old Arthur returns to your memory. The chip in his tooth, the scar on his chin, the little divot in the tip of his nose…you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Your first reaction is to hug your son as tightly as you possibly can, subsequently squishing his hat between both of your chests. He was alive! Your son was alive! He looked so much older now, it was hard to believe. The burden of the knowledge that you’d missed out on a good chunk of his life was almost unbearable. You didn’t even want to imagine if everyone else was still alive.

To feel Arthur’s arm around you, albeit slightly hesitant and much more tense, it was like a weight was just ripped right off your chest. You could feel Arthur’s heartbeat against your throat as you rested your chin atop his left shoulder, pounding almost as fast as your own.

But he’s the first to pull away, as a young-looking black man approaches him, waving a letter at him with a quirked eyebrow, clearly stunned to see Arthur hugging some strange old man. “Lenny.” Arthur clears his throat, patting you on the shoulder with one hand, setting his hat back atop his head with the other as he turns to face this Lenny fella.

“You ‘member Dutch and Hosea talkin’ ‘bout that old lover they had a ways back?” Lenny nods, shock and amusement crossing his features. Arthur gestures vaguely towards you that Lenny’s eyes follow.

“You’re Y/N?” He questions, to which you nod, extending your right hand to be shaken. Lenny quickly switches the letters from his right hand to his left to shake your hand properly. It’s firm and polite, clearly holding immense respect for you, despite being near strangers.

But, you can hardly grapple with the idea of meeting someone new as your mind circles back to what Arthur had said. “Dutch and Hosea?” You prompt curiously, almost worried, earning an amused chuckle from both men.

“Yeah? Who else?” Lenny asks, releasing your hand and handing the letters off to Arthur. You don’t bother to ask. “I meant- they’re still.. y’know.. alive, I guess…” You clarify awkwardly, glancing towards your son, watching Arthur rifle through the letters in hand.

“I don’t think even they could kill one another, much less something else entirely.” Arthur remarks, sidestepping to allow Lenny to walk past, headed for a large wagon just behind the train station.

This was the most excited you’d felt..ever, really. You can’t help the grin that overtakes your face. Your lips parting to ask another question, but Arthur beats you to it as he makes eye contact with you again.

“Yes, John ‘n lil’ Tilly are alive too. Yes, We’ll take you to ‘em.”

You nod eagerly, like a schoolboy being given the sweetest candy he could ever ask for. Only, this was his family finally being returned to him. You felt like you couldn’t get back to your horse quick enough. Nearly running into people as you quickly walked back to it, your eyes zeroing in on it hitched at the rundown saloon.

Ignoring the insults hurled your way for pushing people out of your path, you force yourself to calm down long enough to mount your horse, not wanting to startle it. Pulling the reins up off the hitch rail, pushing your boot into the stirrup and slinging your bodyweight up to the other side of your saddle.

Pressing your heels into its flanks as you pull the reins to the right, forcing your horse to turn around, riding right back up to Arthur and that new boy, Lenny. He seems young, must’ve been tagging along with Arthur, you guess.

Riding alongside the wagon on the right side, you have to force yourself to maintain focus on the obstacles ahead and not stare at your son as he drives the wagon. It’s hard to believe. He’d grown up so much, you thought you’d end up finding his grave some day without being given a chance to say goodbye. The idea sends a shiver down your spine and bile rising in your throat.

The ride back to where your family had gathered felt like an eternity. Fifteen additional years just to make it back. The sun was already beginning to set, the shadows elongated on the ground. You were antsy on your saddle, you barely noticed when you finally came to a stop, with Arthur telling Lenny to run on ahead and warn the gang and to leave him to situate the wagon.

Watching Arthur guide you into a small clearing between the trees, the wheels on the wagon creaking in the mud. You can hear several voices just ahead, some louder than others, you can pick up two very distinct voices, more frantic than the rest. You barely make it four feet into the camp before you dismount your horse, trusting Arthur to take care of it. Your eyes locking onto the distinct features of your husbands, right next to Lenny.

They seem much older now. Dutch took your advice and finally grew out his mustache, Hosea’s blonde hair had gone gray. Much older than you remembered, but you hardly cared. You were sure you looked older and more worn as well. Your feet carry you through the grass before you knew what was going on.

In an instant, you’re standing in front of Dutch and Hosea. Hosea’s shaking hands reach out to cup your cheeks. The touch is so familiar, yet so foreign. It makes your eyes water as you lean into his touch. “Darlin’?” Dutch chokes out, taking your hands into his own. His thumbs feeling over your bony knuckles, the skin getting tougher there over the years. You were never very violent before, but you were forced to after being on the run for so long. All Dutch wanted to do was protect you, but he’d never, ever admit that.

“Is that really you? What- Where have you been..?” He prompts, his brow furrowing. Letting go of your hand, he gently pulls one of Hosea’s hands off of your cheek, replacing it with his own.

“It’s..a long story…” You chuckle sheepishly as your tears begin to fall against your will. How long had it been since you’d felt like this? So full, so complete, so happy?

Straightening up, you press a kiss to Hosea’s lips, earning a slight gasp, before he leans into you. His bony thumb swiping against your cheekbone, against the wet track left in its place. “I missed you, sweetheart…” You whisper as you break the kiss. Hosea presses his forehead against your own, not wanting to pull away from you whatsoever.

But, not wanting to leave out your other husband, you press a kiss to Dutch’s lips next. He’s much more rough. Moving his hands down and grasping at your shirt tightly. He hates feeling so vulnerable, he always has, but he can’t hold back after seeing you again.

Hardly even registering Hosea as he shifts to stand behind you, hugging you close. Your mind flickered to a stray thought about people getting confused seeing their gang leaders embracing some strange man, but none of them have the courage to speak up at the moment, letting the trio have their moment.

Parting with an inhale, Dutch rests his head against your shoulder. Your hands moving down to rest on his hips, holding him close as you lean back against Hosea. “Where were you..?” Hosea repeats Dutch’s question, much, much quieter this time. His face nestled in your neck, feeling like he couldn’t get enough of you. They felt damn near tears themselves, selfishly clinging to you entirely. Sandwiching you between both of their bodies, absorbing their oh-so-familiar body heat.

“Bounty hunters.” You confess in a mumble. It sounded so silly out loud. Fifteen years of loneliness all because of money? But, Dutch and Hosea seemed to understand completely. Dutch’s hold tightens on your torso and Hosea pulls you further back against his chest, as if closer were any more possible without any gaps between them. “I- I thought y’all died or got arrested or somethin’..”

“No, darlin’. We ain’t dead.” Dutch chuckles, pressing a kiss to your pulsepoint, as if worshiping your very lifeforce. “We’re thriving.” He boasts as he lifts his head, a grin crossing his face. Though his remark ears him a scolding tug on the ear from Hosea behind you. “But–” He adds, glaring at Dutch as if warning him not to say anything further about the gang. “We still missed you, sweetpea. It’s been hard without you.”

“R-Right.. Of course.” Dutch agrees with a nod. Sniffling as he leans down and presses another peck to your lips. “Of course we missed you.”

You felt simultaneously overwhelmed, yet so happy. You felt like you could ramble on and on and on about how much you missed your husbands, how lucky you were to be back with them, how you hated what happened, but you’re pulled out of your thoughts by Arthur walking right up to you, another man in tow.

“Ah, John, my boy!” Dutch grins, removing his hands from you as he walks right up to John, setting a hand on his shoulder, he guides him right up to you as Hosea lazily drapes an arm over your shoulders, holding you close.

John looks so much more different than his twelve year old self. Scars adore the right side of his face, breaking up his coarse beard hair. His hair is longer now, but still as greasy as ever. Mentally, you roll your eyes, wishing you’d forced him to wash more as a boy.

“Pa..?” John asks quietly, chuckling as he shrugs off Dutch’s hand and steps past Arthur, pulling you into a tight hug. Usually, he’s never this affectionate, but he couldn’t lie to himself and say he didn’t miss you. You barely have enough time to compose yourself from your first breakdown before even more tears come spilling down your cheeks.

Wrapping your arms around John tightly, your fingers clasping around the back of his shirt. “Johnny…” You breathe, clinging to your son as if he were going to slip away again. He was a man now, and that thought filled you with guilt. You weren’t there. Your kids grew up without you. You missed their first robberies. You missed teaching them to shoot. You missed teaching them to read and write. You missed Tilly’s–

“Where’s Tilly..?” The words leave your mouth before you could stop them. John gently lets go of you, following the many eyes darting across camp in search of the young woman. “She’s prolly doin’ laundry.” Arthur mutters under his breath, craning his neck to look at the opposite side of camp.

“Tilly Jackson!” Dutch bellows. You nearly jump out of your skin, not at all expecting your husband to just shout for someone. But, Hosea’s arm curled around your waist grounds you again.

You watch as Tilly scurries from, what you can assume is her tent, upon hearing the gang leader call for her. Her hands politely smoothing out her dress, her eyes flicking around in confusion until they finally meet your own watery ones.

“B-Baby girl…” You choke out, opening your arms for a hug as you offer a wobbly smile. She looks like a proper woman now. She’s practically giddy to hug you back, holding you tightly. You missed her entire life. She was only a girl when you left. You felt sick to your stomach as that mindset continues to spiral with each hug from your family.

“You- You remember me… don’t you?” You mumble, pulling back reluctantly to peer into her eyes, almost begging her to have remembered you. To your surprise, she nods, a smile on her face.

“I remember you, Y/N! Dutch and Hosea talk ‘bout you all the time. Even if I didn’t, it’d be hard not to know you!” She laughs, her hands moving up to rest on your biceps, to which you copy her movement, reluctant to part. A tightlipped, solemn grin spreads across your lips, right before it falters.

“I’m so sorry, Tilly..” You sob. Removing your hands from your daughter’s arms, they move up to wipe away the tears relentlessly streaming down your face. You felt guilt. You should’ve fought harder to stay with your family, rather than abandoning them without a trace. Though, you could feel a warmth in your chest from the smile on everyone’s faces.

Hosea pulls you close again, wrapping you in a gentle hug as you rest your head on his chest. He presses a loving kiss to your forehead, just as Dutch gets the hint and shuffles back over, pulling both you and Hosea into another tight hug.

No words need to be shared, just pure love. Heart-to-heart. Ignoring most of everyone else in the gang for now. You only remembered your close family, and the new boy you met.. Lemmy, you think? Something like that.

“You two raised them so well.” You whisper your praise into Hosea’s chest. His breathing was much more wheezy than you would’ve liked, but there wasn’t much you could do other than love on your husbands as much as you possibly could.

“They remembered you.” Hosea whispers into your hair, and you feel Dutch’s chest vibrate against your back as he hums with agreement. “You taught them first.” Dutch adds, soothingly rubbing his hands up and down your sides. Down to your hips, up to your ribs, and back down again.

“John Marston!” A woman barks, causing you to falter for a moment. Sniffling as you pull away from Hosea just enough to wipe your eyes again. Watching as John huffs and turns to stare at the woman, un-amusement plastered on his features.

The woman pauses in her step for a moment, a small boy in tow, as she spots you in the middle of a cuddle pile between the gang leaders. “Y/N.” Dutch clarifies briefly, causing a spark of recognition to flash in her gaze. Forgetting about her lecture to John, she approaches you instead.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from these two.” She confesses, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. “My name’s Abigail. I’m John’s wife.” Abigail introduces. Dutch and Hosea relieve you from their hug long enough for you to offer her your hand to shake, to which she accepts. Though, you’re more curious about the boy behind her, clinging to his mother’s dress.

“Oh! That’s our son, Jack.” She explains calmly, letting go of your hand and gently coaxing her son out from behind her to meet you. A friendly smile flashes across your features as you squat down to meet Jack’s eyes. Though, as Abigail’s words register in your head, your eyes widen as you look up towards John, then to Dutch and Hosea once again.

“We have a grandson..?” You gasp, earning a chuckle and a nod. Technically, Jack wasn’t your grandson by blood, but to you, John was your boy, and that meant Jack was your family too. Looking back towards the boy, you can practically pick out John’s features in him. Their noses are the same, rounder cheeks like John had as a kid, sharper chin.

“Hey, kiddo. My name is Y/N” You greet politely. “Hi.” Jack mumbles. You didn’t expect the boy to know who you were, but you felt so happy, yet so god damn old, seeing Jack standing shyly in front of you.

Shifting slightly on your knees, you dig into the pocket of your pants, pulling out two quarters. “Here.” You offer, holding them out for Jack, to which he excitedly holds both of his little hands out for your gift.

“Go wild, kid.” You chuckle with a quiet sniffle, not exactly wanting to show that you’d been weeping like a baby. “Thanks!” Jack beams, almost immediately running off from Abigail, yammering about how much candy he’s gonna buy.

Standing back up, your knees pop with the effort, definitely getting too damn old for the outlaw shit. You weren’t sure when Tilly, John, and Arthur left, you guessed they had things to do other than watch their father figures be all sweet on one another. Almost instantly, you feel Dutch and Hosea’s arms wrap back around you. Hosea in front of you, with Dutch’s chest against your back. You melt into the hug completely, just wanting to relax a bit after an eventful day.

“Why don’t you let us catch you up?” Hosea suggests, tilting his head slightly to look into your eyes. “Just like old times, over some fine whiskey.. Maybe get some food in you.” Dutch’s contribution seemed less like a suggestion, more like a demand to make sure you weren’t going hungry on his watch.

“I’d like that.” You accept, relaxing into your husbands’ warmth between their bodies as the sun finally sets. Holding one another beneath the stars, keeping each other safe, knowing nothing could happen to any of you ever again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Return to masterlist

#rdr2 x male reader #dutch van der linde x male reader #hosea matthews x male reader #rdr2 fanfic #Dutch Van Der Linde #Dutch Van Der Linde x reader #Hosea Matthews x reader

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