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“John!” Abigail's hushed whisper pulls Arthur from his attempt at sleeping. “Jack could–”
“Jack's downstairs,” John rasps. “Having a sleepover with the girls, remember?”
“Well, I still do– oh, John Marston, you dirty dog.”
Arthur's door is open halfway, and he can see lamplight spilling out of the cracked wall of John and Abigail's room across the hall. He can't see into their room from this angle, but he can hear them loud and clear. Abigail giggles quietly and Arthur hears a small slap, like she's batting John's hand away from something.
“Been thinkin’ about you,” John says. “Feel like we haven't been alone in a minute.”
“Been thinkin’ about me sweatin’ like crazy in this swamp?” Abigail deflects.
“Somethin’ kinda sexy about it,” John tries. “You always smell so good.”
Arthur knows exactly what John's talking about. The girls have been using talcum powder to help with the sweat this far into Lemoyne and Arthur has seen smears of it on the back of Abigail's neck and in the crux of her elbows. She's always been clean, cleaner than some of the others, and Arthur always smells something floral from the lye soap she uses.
Arthur can almost see them, laying side by side in that bed. Maybe John's stripped to the waist, maybe he's gotten some of the small imitation pearl buttons on Abigail's nightgown undone. Face buried in her neck, making her giggle as his hand fumbles with the hem of that nightgown so he can find where she's ticklish.
He loves her, Arthur does. He loves her a lot. He expected this to sting, to see her love slowly blossom again for John instead of him. But it doesn't. No, it just makes Arthur love her more, makes him fall in love with her soft smiles and relaxed shoulders.
John's a lucky man, and he knows it. Arthur can hear them kissing, hears Abigail's little catch-breath and John's rougher breathing as the old mattress creaks. Is John on top of her, blanketing her body with his own? Or is Abigail in charge, rolled on top of him so she can look down upon her man?
Arthur wants to watch. He wants to sneak, he wants to spy. He wants to see them, see them be private and alone. He wants to see how Abigail's cheeks flush with passion, wants to see how John's eyes darken as his heart pounds with lust. They could ignore Arthur, not even acknowledge him, and wrap themselves up in their private world while hands wander and breathing picks up. But he wants Abigail's eyes on him while John touches her. Hair unbound and eyes bright, staring Arthur down as John's dirty hands push her nightgown up and over her hips so he can touch her more intimately.
“John, I told you!” Abigail says sternly. “I've been sweatin’ all day!”
“So?” John counters. “Don't bother me.”
“John, at least let me go w– ah!” Abigail's voice cracks. She pants, a quick one-two, one-two inhale, and Arthur hears the mattress creak again.
He knows about Abigail's past, they all do. Which is why Arthur can't offer to join them, why Arthur can't hope that she'll look his way if he can prove himself a more successful man than John. He doesn't want to join them to conquer Abigail, not at all.
He wants to love her in ways that John doesn't. Not that John doesn't love her in his own way, but Arthur wants to give her his love. A different love, but just as deep and true as John's. She could sleep between them, tucked against Arthur's side while John curls up behind her. All pressed together, John and Arthur's arms crossed over her body, making sure nothing bad ever creeps into their lives ever again.
She could be a queen, kept warm at night by her two loyal dogs. A bark just as bad as their bite, keeping their woman safe and free from those who would do harm. She would want for nothing, need nothing, and her nights would be nothing except pleasure and comfort, however she would want it.
“A little higher,” Abigail grits. “Yes, jus’...oh John, just like that.”
Arthur can see her, nightgown around her waist while John's face is eagerly buried between her thighs. Or maybe she's stripped bare, lamplight illuminating the curves of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, how John's mouth shines when he comes up for air.
“Ow!” Abigail laughs quietly. “Don't bite!”
“Gotta stake my claim somehow,” John says and Arthur can almost hear the wetness in his voice.
“Stake your claim,” Abigail repeats with a snort. “Get back down there, you idiot.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Arthur's painfully hard, looking obscene where he's trapped beneath his faded blue union suit. He can't, not like this. If he can hear them so clearly, then they'd clearly hear him furiously stripping his cock at the same time they're getting a moment of privacy.
So Arthur takes a deep breath. And then another. And another. Abigail's gasping now, biting off pleased moans as she tries to stay quiet. He wants to see her hand fisted in John's long hair, wants to see her hips roll as she rides her man's mouth. Arthur wants to touch her thighs, wants to take John's place and lap at her sweetness until she cries his name. He and John, they could take turns, trading kisses when they trade places, putting on a show to see who gets her there first.
“J-John!” Abigail gasps. “Oh my God! Please, please don't stop!”
Arthur groans quietly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Abigail's cries mount, no matter how hard she tries to stay silent, and Arthur has to clutch the thin mattress beneath him with both hands to keep them off of his cock. And when Abigail cums with a pained, high-pitched gasp, Arthur throbs for her.
“Christ, John!” Abigail says quickly. “Again?!”
Again and again and again. She could relax against Arthur's chest, sigh luxuriously as he played with her breasts, and let John's mouth stay busy between her thighs. John's dark eyes could dart from Abigail's face to Arthur's, hazy and cloudy as he loses himself in her cunt. She would be indifferent to either of their ends– not caring about how John would rock against the mattress or not pay attention to where Arthur would be pressed against her lower back.
“S-sorry!” Abigail's voice pulls Arthur from his thoughts.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” John huffs. “But I would like to still have hair by the end of the night, Abigail.”
“‘s not my fault,” Abigail mumbles. “Mouth like that, you shoulda been the one in the cathouse.”
“I think I've been in your cathouse before.”
“John Marston!” Abigail groans in annoyance. “Get– get that mouth busy and shut up.”
The laughter stings. Sex can be so impersonal, done and over with before you know it, barely a few words exchanged before you part ways and never speak again. Across the hall, Abigail snickers with a stop!, clearly amused as some trick John is pulling while he's probably still knelt between her legs.
Is he tickling the backs of her knees? Make himself go cross-eyed while she laughs at him? Growl playfully while nipping at sensitive skin? John knows Abigail in ways that Arthur can only dream about. He knows where she's ticklish, knows the soft skin on her inner thighs, knows how to use his lips and tongue to make her moan his name repeatedly. And moan she does, breathy and alluring as she makes Arthur's blood pound with need.
“There's a little,” Abigail pants, “little somethin’ on your lip. Other si– John, other side. Don't use my nightie for that!”
“Why?” John chuckles. “You're the one who dripped all over my mouth.”
“You weren't complainin’.”
“Mouth was busy.”
“I will close my legs and make your ass sleep on the floor,” Abigail says, but there's no bite to her words.
If things were different, that just means that John would come to Arthur for relief. Arthur would kiss Abigail's wetness off his scarred lips, rough hand quick between John's slim thighs as he listens to John pant and moan for his wife. God help him, Arthur likes that idea. John, desperate eyes on Abigail while Arthur brings him over the edge.
Abigail, please! John whimpers in his thoughts.
“Abigail, please,” John says across the hallway. “I just need somethin’.”
“Fine!” Abigail sighs playfully, overdramatically. “If you must!”
Arthur can see her again, eyes rolling comically as she flops onto her back with her knees spread apart. A smile tugging at her kiss-swollen lips, merriment in those rolling eyes, pretending to go limp like a disinterested paramour who has better things to do.
“Fuck!” John hisses after a long pause.
“You okay?” Abigail asks.
“... almost came,” John admits, half mumbled. “‘s been awhile.”
“Hey,” Abigail says gently. “Here, let me– there we go. Shhh, just take a second. Just relax, don't worry about rush– really, John? Pretendin’ to bite my tits like you're some kinda wild animal?”
Arthur chuckles quietly at the playful noises of John pretending to bite, at how fun their sex seems to be. He can imagine John, face first in her chest, scars and stubble on her sensitive skin as she laughs above him. Maybe it feels good to John to have Abigail's body clench around him while she's wracked with laughter. Maybe sex is the only time she's vulnerable enough to laugh with him.
Maybe John is only funny when he's naked.
“You're lucky you're cute,” Abigail scolds.
“Nah, I'm ugly as sin,” John counters.
“John!”
“What?” John teases. “The beautiful Ms. Roberts and her ugly wolfman boyfriend.”
“You're wonderful, John,” Abigail says, barely a whisper. “I– oh, don't make me say it.”
“I don't make me say it you too, woman.”
Who is he kidding? Arthur doesn't belong between them. All that love? All that intimacy? That's theirs, and there are no table scraps left for Arthur. It's not Arthur's place to count the freckles under Abigail's eyes. It's not Arthur's place to steal blankets from John in the night.
Arthur has no place at all.
John moans, quiet but throaty, and it's a punch to Arthur's core. He's not worthy of Abigail, but nobody is. She should be a lady, a proper lady, in a nice house with a nice serving girl who laces her into a nice corset and a nice dress every day before she nicely walks around town with the other nice ladies, doing…whatever nice ladies do.
John shouldn't be allowed to touch her. Arthur would never be worthy to touch her. She should be on high, making John earn the simple favor of kissing her gloved hand. She should turn those sharp eyes on Arthur and laugh in his face for daring to think that he'd be allowed in her arms.
“Oh,” Abigail sighs. “That feels real nice.”
“Mmph-hnph.”
“John, get my tit out of your mouth before you try and talk.”
“S’ry.”
“Kiss me, you idiot.”
Kiss me, you idiot, Abigail smiles in Arthur's mind. Floral soap, talcum powder– Arthur could drown in the smell of her. Gunpowder, leather– John pressed against Arthur's back as he watches them kiss, as his hands wander between their bodies. Arthur kisses Abigail, John kisses Arthur. Abigail kisses John, Abigail kisses Arthur.
John's raspy moans mingle with Abigail's soft sighs, and Arthur yearns to watch. Abigail's thighs around John's waist, the muscles down John's back as he thrusts into her, how they kiss and share air when there's no need for words any longer. John's face in her throat, Abigail's lips on his ear, smirking triumphantly as she drags her nails down his sweating spine.
“Abigail,” John gasps.
“I got you,” Abigail says, promise dripping from every word. “C’mon, John. Don't be shy.”
Don't be shy, Arthur. Show me how much you want me.
Arthur hears the bed beat against the wall with every rough snap of John's skinny hips. Is John gripping the headboard, lips pulled back into a snarl while he fucks Abigail roughly? Is he holding her close, with no space between their bodies while he jackrabbits against her? Is she rubbing herself against his pelvis, eyes rolled back and teeth clenched as John knows just how to satisfy her?
“Abigail,” John moans. “Fuck, look at you.”
“John, I–”
“I don't wanna hear nothin’,” John interrupts, a hitch in his voice. “Most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I love your body, Abigail. I see you, every day, and I just wanna find someplace private where I can make you feel good. I wanna kiss you in front of the whole camp; make ‘em know that Abigail Roberts chose me.”
“Make all the guys jealous,” John continues. “Lettin’ ‘em know you're off-limits. Lettin' everyone know you're John Marston's girl.”
“Or that you're Abigail Roberts' man,” Abigail says, voice tight and breathy.
Arthur wants to find that private spot and see just how Abigail chooses John. John, hurriedly tucked under Abigail's skirt as she hisses that anybody could walk by. John's mouth against her throat, hand under her skirt, whispering filth as his fingers work to make her cum as quickly as possible.
Don't worry about me, John tells her. I'll have Arthur help me out.
Arthur would take John's fingers into his mouth, sucking the taste of Abigail off his skin while Arthur's got three fingers deep inside of him. They'd kiss, the taste of Abigail between them, and John would gasp as he came all over Arthur's hand. Arthur would suck them clean, watching as John's eyes would go even more hazy, as he'd desperately paw at Arthur's jeans.
“Abigail,” John pants. “Oh fuck–!”
John cums with a deep, satisfied rumble. Is he still jackrabbiting against her, all jerky and uncoordinated as he rides out his orgasm? Or is he close, precise; grinding against her in tight circles as she closes her eyes and rocks against him?
Knowing John, probably the uncoordinated jackrabbiting. Arthur would be slow and sweet, barely pulling out as he'd roll his hips against Abigail. Time would slow, minutes stretching on, and all Arthur would care about is the sweet satisfaction of the woman below him. Even if Abigail would try and spur him on like a slow pony, he'd chuckle, kiss her flushed cheek, and ask what her rush is.
“I always forget how sweaty you are after this,” Abigail grouses.
“It's the swamp.”
“It's drippin’ off of you!” Abigail counters. “And you're heavy.”
“So much for the afterglow.”
“Get offa me,” Abigail pushes, even as Arthur can hear her smile. “There. How's that?”
“Better,” John says.
Arthur imagines that John's on his back with Abigail at his side. He hears fumbling, followed by the strike of a match, and knows John and Abigail are probably sharing a cigarette as they catch their breath and calm back down. If she thinks John is too sweaty to cuddle afterwards, she'd definitely push him and Arthur out of bed once everything was done. John stretched out on an old bedroll on the floor, Arthur in a chair, and Abigail stretching her sore, satisfied body in a bed that could hold all 3 of them but she wants all that space for herself.
“That was…” Abigail trails off.
“...yeah,” John agrees.
“Beats sneakin’ off at night to fuck in the woods,” Abigail snorts.
“Hey, that can be fun!” John counters.
“Until the bugs start bitin’.”
“That was one time!”
“And I got bit in some very delicate spots, John!”
With a sigh, Arthur rolls to face the wall. He should sleep. He really needs to sleep. He's still painfully hard, and now all he thinks about is Abigail bare and bathed in moonlight. John as well, feral like a wolf as he arches and howls beneath Arthur as he fucks him roughly into the dirt. The three of them, washing off in a stream under that heavy moon, before they fall asleep in a tangle of limbs under the stars.
Arthur feels himself growing heavy with sleep as his blood cools. Someone's tiptoed out of the room across the hall, probably Abigail to go wash off before bed, and he hears John snoring softly. Half-awake like this, Arthur lets himself dream. He dreams of thighs that'll never be, like leaving this mess of self-serving assholes and running away with John, Abigail, and Jack. He wants them to go far away, far far away, and live together as a family somewhere where nobody will find them.
Husband and wife, with their son, and the husband's brother who lives with them. Jack, proudly telling everyone who will listen about his Uncle Arthur, coming home every day to a family that will love him endlessly. Sharing meals, sharing a home, and maybe, maybe sharing a bed.
All Arthur wants is for Abigail and John to welcome him into their love with open arms. He wants to fall headfirst into them, into their hearts, and have them find a home in Arthur's chest. He loves them both, loves them until it burns, until it threatens to rip his heart in half, but he knows it's just a dream.
Arthur is nothing, nothing except a means to an end. He's a dog, a tool, an object to disregard once he's done what was needed, what was asked of him. Abigail doesn't need him, John has nothing for him, so why would they ask him?
Still, Arthur dreams.
And maybe?
Just maybe–
Maybe they dream of him as well.