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sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins · 4 years

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* Sean’s childhood

A lot of this is headcanon based, I’ll state here the story of Sean’s childhood that he told and what’s on the r/dr2 wiki. I’ll also link Sean’s wiki & his dad’s wiki so feel free to browse them if you want !

Here is his story in Sean’s words

Sean was born on March 17th, 1876 in Donegal, Ireland to Darragh MacGuire. His mother is unknown / never mentioned.

In my own headcanon, Sean doesn’t remember much of his mother. Just that she had to be around at some point. His father never talked about her too much; when he did, they were good things. Sean’s mother died when he was very young.

Sean only was in Ireland for a short period of his life, but he remembers it well. Sometimes he exaggerates it, acting as if he knew all of Ireland like the back of his hand. He remembers Ireland, but he was in America for a longer time.

Sean’s first-ever steal was from a store, slipping some jewelry into his pockets. He was seven then, seeing what he could get away with. He didn’t have the best influence of friends either, usually befriending kids who had bad intentions.

Sean never went to school. It was intended that Sean’s mother was going to teach him, but it wasn’t easy while his dad was a wanted man. Sean’s father even intended for him to go to school when they went to America, that new start, but it never happened due to many circumstances.

When Sean was born, Darragh was more cautious with his actions. he still was a big activist, through and through. Sean formed a lot of his opinions from him, his father never holding back any of these opinions from his son.

The reason why Darragh fled to America was when he was tracked down in a farmhouse (their temporary home at that moment) in Clifden. Luckily, Darragh managed to evade this and fled to America.

Sean was eight years old when they arrived in America. The year was 1884 when he arrived.

As Sean states, “We never got that new start.” In my opinion, I headcanon that Darragh tried to live a peaceful life when in America. Try not to draw too much attention to himself. Here, he felt like he may live a better life despite the hatred towards Irish in this time period.

Here they often moved, but stayed around the Boston area. His father picked up all sorts of odd jobs. But sometimes they had to steal to make a living, as Darragh didn’t have the money for necessities sometimes. This led to Sean getting a job of his own. When he was twelve, he worked at a stable.

Sean’s job at the stables only lasted a few months, as Sean was fired after he was found sleeping on the job.

From stealing at times, Sean did get a knack of stealing. This would be something he would partake in later down the road.

Sean didn’t have the best childhood, but he would say others had it way worse than him. He had a father that loved him, someone who looked out for him, wanted the best for him, just never could get that for him. But when he was younger, in America, he often would get into fights. In one area he lived in, kids often tested him. They wanted to see if he was all bark and no bite. In one of these instances, he was jumped, robbed of whatever money he had on him. It was his paycheck for that week. He tried to explain all of this to his boss, but he didn’t have any of it. He practically shoved the boy out the door, yelling for him to go home.

Sean only knows a few words in Gaelic. He’s not fluent but does try to play off that he knows a ton of it. it doesn’t come out that often, that he knows a bit of Gaelic. But he started to learn right before his father’s death. Then, he was taught writing and reading too. Darragh decided that if he wasn’t going to be able to find a school for Sean, he was going to teach him himself. But It didn’t last long for that to happen because, in a few months, his father would be killed.

In 1889, Darragh MacGuire was shot in his bed. This occurred a few rooms away from Sean’s bedroom. Sean was thirteen years old when his father passed. After that incident, Sean was placed in reform school after being seen stealing a week after his father’s death.

In reform school, Sean would often avoid his lessons and teachings. This was a really bad time in his life. He didn’t want to be there, he wanted to be with his father. Ireland, even, since that was the only other place he was familiar with. Those were where his family was. Avoiding these lessons didn’t help either with his reading and writing skill, never learning it until some of the gang members tried to teach him. At this time, Sean was likely suffering from depression. He didn’t make any friends, very little. When asked about this, he tries to bush it off. Laugh at it. He doesn’t like to think about it.

History picks up on Sean MacGuire when he was 19, in 1895. He’s been out of reform school for over a year at this point. He didn’t hold up any job, using stealing as a way to survive. It was one of his talents, something he knew ever since he was younger. He didn’t think he would fit anywhere else and he surely didn’t want to work at a hard labor job.

At age 19, this was when he met Dutch Van der Linde and Hosea Matthews. Through them, he would find a new family. People who accept him and wouldn’t just toss him around like he was nothing. He may be made fun of in the gang, but he knows he has a place there. He finds comfort in being with the gang. If you caught him at a good moment, he would say that the gang was one of the most memorable parts of his life. Something he would never throw away. He was given a chance.

In 1895, Sean was starving, desperate for something. Walking into a saloon, scouting out the patrons was the best thing he could do. Immediately his eyes were set on a pair of men, one of them had a big watch. Something that if Sean was able to get his hands on, he would be set. At least for a week or two if he spent his money right. He followed the two out of the bar after keeping a close eye on them the whole night; for an hour or so. Down an alleyway, he followed them. He brought out his gun and aimed it at them, stating that his intention. They just laughed at him, Dutch and Hosea. After this, Sean tried to shoot at them, but nothing came out. He didn’t realize until then that they robbed the bullets of his gun when he was chatting with them earlier that night. At that moment, Sean thought he was going to die. He just threatened these two, tried to kill them, and nothing ever came close to what he was expecting. Another unexpected thing happened was when the two offered to get him some food. After that, they offered a place in their gang, alongside Arthur and others. It was an offer Sean couldn’t refuse. If these two kept their word, then he was going to be eating well for the rest of his days.

❝ Screw the lot of them, I say. Whole world can go to hell for all I care. The only thing that matters, is the tiny number of people who aren’t liars and cheats. Well... most of them are, liars and cheats. B-But only on the outside! Not inside. If you know what I mean... ❞

#( 𝑨 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 ; headcanon (( Sean ))#( 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 ; Sean )#tw: death mention #tw: starving mention #( hi... love me pls )#( saved )#( reference )#( references )

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tiredcowpoke · 4 years

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TITLE: Broken Glass PAIRING: None, though some camp dynamics are talked about. REQUEST: Anon asked: Can you do “Lucky shot” from your prompt list with John Marston? BLURB: “He’s seventeen, Arthur,” Hosea replied around a sigh, “Can’t you two just get along? Haven’t seen you two do anythin’ together in months and now you’re fightin’ in the woods.” WARNINGS: Shooting, arguments, violence, angst, some hints toward a major thing that happened in Arthur’s past but isn’t explicitly stated, John’s poor coping with disappointment and anger. NOTES: There wasn’t an explicit request for who was in this fic outside of John so I just ran with it, but I hope this is cool with you anon! A lot of this is my own headcanons about pre-game stuff, so idk how much the timeline adds up to ages but idk.

“Lucky shot.”

“I think you’re playin’ around with me.”

“No I ain’t!”

“Well then how ‘bout you line up the shot properly like I know you can do and stop wastin’ my time.”

Immediately there was a huff that escaped the younger of the two, John scowling at Arthur from where the other had moved to situate himself against a tree. The pistol in his hand was a familiar weight, one he had gotten used to under the guidance of Hosea’s hand and Dutch’s instruction. The two of them had almost been rotating off in teaching him how to shoot, Arthur mostly keeping his distance. He would leave camp for extended periods of time before wandering back in, guarded about where he had been.

John had just shrugged it off at first. Whatever, wasn’t his problem. However, something had changed recently, even Dutch and Hosea seemed a little slowed down by it. Perhaps more so Hosea, John picking up on him having a little less patience for his attitude during reading, not he wanted to do the damn thing in the first place. They were thieves, not any sort of reading folk, but Dutch constantly tested and the proved that wrong. Arthur read and wrote quite a bit, too, and did it a lot.

Not recently, however, John not wanting to admit to catching the shift in behaviour but it was damn well hard not to when he was so withdrawn and moody. Hadn’t been this bad since that Mary, but John didn’t know too much about all that. Just yet, as he’d been warned. The teenager had just shrugged it off at the time, and John wasn’t all that much older currently when it seemed Arthur was going through something again. Yet, there hadn’t been any talk about what it was. Hosea knew, John could read it on his face and the way he tried talking with him, but John didn’t know.

In a way it pissed him off, but he had a hard time explaining why.

He had a hard time explaining to himself and Arthur why he was doing this currently, too. John watched him with a tight brow, Arthur returning his gaze unwavering--John knew the look, it was the “keep testin’ me, Marston, and you’ll regret it” look. He got it often, but at least it was something other than the way Arthur seemed to look through people a couple weeks ago.

Raising his arm up, John turned toward the empty beer bottles they had set up along a broken log not too far out from camp. He knew he was testing his luck, standing wrong and Arthur’s reaction was almost immediate.

“Legs apart, you’ll throw your shoulder. Ain’t Dutch and Hosea been teachin’ you?”

“I dunno, maybe they ain’t,” John returned, “Not like you’re here to even know.”

“This ain’t your first time, so how ‘bout you cut the bullshit and tell me what we’re actually doin’ out here?”

“Shootin’,” John replied, “You blind or somethin’?”

“John, if you don’t start--”

Turning his head, John fired off a shot toward the bottles, the bullet hitting true like it had been doing recently, the bottle bursting into broken glass. He kept going, shooting the other and the next. Dutch had mentioned once that he was becoming a natural, would up there with Arthur in no time. He had just shrugged at the time, not sure how to take it. Wouldn’t impress the bastard, anyway. He used to care, used to bring him food when he was sick or too moody to sit with the other people in camp, used to take him riding. Arthur was his brother, much as John had a hard time admitting to that at points. John knew how to get under Arthur’s skin and he knew how to do the same for him, but something was just off lately and nobody was saying or doing anything about it.

He had gotten close to leaving with Mary, and people were ready to let him until that didn’t happen. John had wondered about that then, asked Dutch a couple times on why he was letting him but couldn’t get a solid answer from him that made sense. However, that didn’t happen and he knew Arthur was sad for a while but he seemed to be coming back around, but was leaving again for weeks at the time. Something happened, and now he was back but he wasn’t. Not really. He was quiet, got pissed off easily and John had avoided him for a while after he almost chewed his head off for bothering him.

Was probably just gonna leave again, the way he was acting. Didn’t want to be there, be a part of them.

John, all the while, had kept firing off shots. Some hit bottles, some did not. He kept going until he could hear the click of empty chambers before a hand reached out and pulled the gun from his hand harshly, Arthur grumbling something under his breath as he walked out in front of him. John’s frustration and anger flared, his hands clenching.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped, Arthur turning to give him a glare.

“Me? You’re the one forcin’ me out here to take you shootin’ when you ain’t cooperatin’ and actin’ like I’m burdenin’ you.”

“No, ain’t that,” John stated, “You been a miserable bastard lately. Won’t do nothin’ accept lay around. Why?”

“That’s none your concern, Marston.”

“It is! You’re draggin’ everybody down with you, fightin’ all who’s tryin’ to help you. Hosea’s worried, Dutch’ll start insistin’--”

“You don’t know a thing you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” Arthur snapped, “Ain’t your concern.”

“Why’d you come back?” John asked, tilting his head, “Actin’ like nobody matters to you no more. You’re probably just gonna leave again.”

“Christ, where’d you get that idea from?”

“I ain’t stupid, I seen how you changed lately,” John remarked bitterly, “You hate it here so much, how ‘bout you just leave? They was gonna let you before with Mary.”

“Marston, none of that concerns you so how ‘bout you stop talkin’?”

“How ‘bout you stop bein’ a rotten bastard? Give my gun back.”

“No,” Arthur stated, tucking it into his own gun belt as John’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt, “You’re angry and you’re bein’ reckless, though I ain’t got a clue on why you is.”

“Because you don’t care no more, so why should I care?”

“John, for Christ’s sake…”

John, not really caring for his response, charged forward and slammed himself into Arthur and sent him tumbling back a couple steps. More struggle to get his gun back followed, John having tackled, kicked, and punched Arthur a couple times during his stay with them. Arthur had a couple years on him, and was bigger than the scraggly teen that he was. John constantly ended up on his ass, and that was exactly the outcome this time. With some force, Arthur finally hooked an arm across his chest and sent him falling back onto the ground. John let out a short grunt, the pain in his back keeping him sitting for a moment as Arthur glared down at him, John’s gun still sitting in his holster. Mocking him.

“Damn it, you done?” he growled, “You like gettin’ your ass kicked, John?”

“Shut up,” John snapped, gathering himself up to a stand, “Keep the damn thing.”

“The hell’s goin’ on out here?” Hosea’s voice came surprisingly quick behind the scuffle, stepping out from around a gathering of trees.

“Arthur’s takin’ his anger out on everybody,” John snapped, “Don’t care ‘bout nobody but himself.”

“How old are you? Five?” Arthur snapped back, stepping toward him.

“Enough!” Hosea snapped, “Camp’s turned into a damn stage and everybody’s actin’ a fool. What’s goin’ on here?”

“John wanted me to teach him how to shoot but now he’s goin’ on ‘bout how I don’t care ‘bout anybody no more. Carryin’ on like a damn child.”

“He’s seventeen, Arthur,” Hosea replied around a sigh, “Can’t you two just get along, haven’t seen you two do anythin’ together in months and now you’re fightin’ in the woods.”

“Least it’s somethin’,” John muttered, Arthur’s expression unreadable but Hosea took John’s arm and pulled him along to let him cool down. He stumbled along a couple steps back into camp, Dutch watching on with a raised eyebrow but didn’t seem to want to get involved at the moment.

“Arthur’s goin’ through a time right now,” Hosea stated, “Lost someone very important to him, he don’t need you shoutin’ at him over how he’s handlin’ that.”

“Whatever,” John muttered, shaking his head before wrenching his arm from Hosea’s grasp, “Let me go.”

“Let him, Hosea,” Dutch called out, “John, go do somethin’ to calm down.”

He didn’t need to be told once, John storming off toward his tent while fighting a tightness in his throat and the aching in his back from being tossed onto the ground. John didn’t want to admit it, but that was the most he’d heard or seen from Arthur in a while. Play fighting and sometimes not, it was common between them. Or it was.

John missed him, and knowing he lost someone but having no idea who? Well, he had no idea how to take any of that.

#my writing.#john marston #arthur morgan #hosea matthews #red dead fanfic

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