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holyratrimony · 1 year

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Summer Love at Bighorn Ranch

Pairing: John Marston x Fem!Reader

Summary: After his divorce from Abigail, John Marston is a mess. A series of rash decisions lead to John purchasing a rundown piece of land called Bighorn Ranch. As the ranch grows, so does the need for extra hands. When you show up, ready for your new job, John is immediately taken with you. When you get caught in a thunderstorm and show up on his doorstep, soaking wet, will he be able to keep his feelings to himself, or will he confess everything?

Word count: 9.7k (how does this keep happening?)

Warnings: minors dni, 18+ only, I’ll kick you in the knees I s2g, do not read this, dry humping, premature ejaculation, coming in pants, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, creampie, older man/younger woman

A/N: This takes place during the 90s, John’s in his forties, R is like mid-20s, Jack is like 10 in this, hedgehogs are not rodents but John doesn’t need to know that, also R wears John’s clothes at one point (as someone who's plus size I think John would own pretty baggy clothes), John is mega horny in this (in like a very pathetic way), how’d angst get in here? (it's just a lil bit), John thinks he is in charge but R has him wrapped around her finger, no physical descriptions of reader, no use of y/n, not beta read

To say John wasn’t doing well would be an understatement. After the divorce with Abigail, he’d hit a bit of a midlife crisis. The first step was moving out and subsequently crashing in Dutch and Hosea’s guest room. The two older men were patient with him, lending him some much-needed emotional support as he processed his feelings. After about a month, one drastic haircut, and a new earring, John finally was ready to move out to a place of his own.

He’d decided to return to his roots, taking out a rather large loan and purchasing a run-down ranch on a large piece of land in the middle of nowhere called Bighorn Ranch. The land was green and vast with a mix of plains and forests. It only took three days of him trying to lay the foundations for the house alone before giving in and calling Charles and Javier for help. The two men had come to his aid quickly, and with three hands they were able to get the ranch house built within just a few months. Then the barn, stables, and coup went up, followed by a half dozen small cabins about a mile from the main house. Both Javier and Charles opted to live in the cabins despite John’s protests, stating that they wanted to give him his space in the house. Ranching made sense to John. It was something he was good at. Whether it was keeping up with all the chores or breaking in the wild mare Charles found wandering the plains. As the ranch grew, so did the need for more hands. Javier had been tasked with taking the truck into the nearby towns, the closest being 30 minutes away, and hanging up help-wanted posters. The new ranchers would live on the property in the remaining cabins and would be responsible for a mix of construction, maintenance, and handling of the animals. Within a few weeks, four new hands had joined the ranch. The hands were set to arrive on a sunny spring afternoon. John was waiting on the porch with Charles and Javier, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. His hair was still growing back since the regrettable impulse cut, the ends reaching his ears. His beard was short, little more than stubble. The scars he’d gotten from a neighborhood dog when he was growing up cut through the dark hairs. He’d kept the small gold hoop in his ear despite the light teasing from Charles and Javier. The three men were discussing the horse show that was coming up next month when the sound of a car cut them off. The red and white Dodge Ram 2500 rumbled up the dirt drive, kicking up a small cloud behind it. The truck pulled up in front of the house, stopping next to John’s teal and silver Ford F-150. Three men in their twenties piled out of the truck, each sending a friendly smile and wave toward the older ranchers. John, Charles, and Javier made their way down the porch steps, John stubbing out his cigarette on the railing. The new hands introduced themselves, apparently all childhood friends which explained why they arrived together, shaking hands and giving names. After introductions, John showed the men around the main part of the ranch. Showing them the stables, the coup, and the different paddocks for the sheep, goats, and cows took up the better part of an hour. As they headed back towards the house John let them know that that was probably enough for right now. Once they were on the porch he explained the basic amenities in each cabin. They’d have electricity, a small kitchen, a bathroom, a bed, and a landline. John handed them each a slip of paper with the number for his line, letting them know that if they needed Charles or Javier they’d be living right next door. Charles offered to take the boys down to the cabins and Javier offered to join, citing that he needed to change out of his dusty work clothes. The boys hopped in their truck and followed after Javier and Charles, the cloud of dust slowly getting further and further away. John took a seat on one of the chairs on the porch, looking down over the property. There was still one new hand that was supposed to be arriving, likely within the next hour. John pulled another cigarette from his pocket, cupping his hand around his lighter as he flicked it, protecting the flame from the wind. Heady smoke filled his lungs as he leaned back. The three boys seemed nice. All were well-mannered and friendly. One of them, Riley, John thought his name was, said he’d worked at the MacFarlane’s ranch for a few years, dealing mainly with the horses. The other two mentioned they’d worked doing construction for the last few years. Apparently, they wanted more exciting work and while the MacFarlane’s didn’t have any more jobs available, they knew Bighorn was hiring and sent the boys in John’s direction. Javier had handled the applications, of which there were few. He was typically in charge of the business end of things despite the ranch belonging to John. Javier had a charm and refinement that was perfect for dealing with people and local businesses that John seemed to lack. John’s mind began to drift, as it often did when he was alone, to Abigail and Jack. He had Jack for a few days each month. The last time Jack came to visit, John had shown him how to ride. The two of them didn’t talk a whole lot but the time they spent together always felt special. Jack had a room in the ranch house, filled with his medieval fantasy books, a couple of his toys, and a small gaming setup with a sega genesis and little box tv. Jack had tried to teach John how to play Sonic but John was hopeless. His fingers were too big for the little buttons and he just couldn’t get the hang of moving that damn rodent around. He missed Jack, every damn day. Abigail too, but that was getting easier. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tires on the dirt road. A grey and blue Chevy Silverado pulled up the drive. John stood up, a slight groan leaving his lips. He was only in his forties but his years of hard living seemed to be catching up to him. He moved down the steps, his eyes trained on his boots until the sound of a car door slamming shut had him looking up. John’s heart stopped. Or he couldn’t breathe. Or he died. He wasn’t sure. All he could tell was that the woman in front of him was like a dream. The late afternoon sun shone on your form, bathing you in a golden glow. Your eyes were covered by sunglasses, a black shirt adored your torso while your legs were covered by a pair of blue jeans, and a pair of brown work boots on your feet. Your smile was easygoing as you raised a hand in greeting. Your voice was kind and warm as you greeted him. “Hi! I’m one of the new ranch hands. Are you Javier?” John let out a laugh at that, trying to compose himself. “No, no, I’m John. John Marston. I uhh… I own Bighorn.” He was trying not to let his eyes drag over your body but he couldn’t help himself. “Jav-Javier’s in charge of the business side of things, you’ll meet him later.” “Nice to meet you, Sir,” A spike of heat seemed to pierce through John at the title. The smile etched on your face was radiant as you gave him your name. God, you were pretty. John cleared his throat as he attempted to avoid looking directly at you. “The other hands got here bout an hour ago. They’re down at the cabins right now. Ya wanna join them or do ya wanna tour of the ranch?” His hand rubbed the back of his neck almost sheepishly. He couldn’t help but wishing you’d take the tour. Selfishly hoping to get some one on one time with you before introducing you to the other men. He finally mustered the courage to look up at your face. Your smile seemed almost shy as you replied, stepping towards him slightly, “I think I’d like to see the ranch, Sir.” He was fucked. ~~~~~~ Having extra hands on the farm proved to be endlessly helpful as spring turned to summer. The animals that had been born only a few weeks after you and the boys arrived were growing bigger and bigger. The four of you also helped John and Charles bring some of the horses to a show in one of the neighboring towns, bringing in a pretty sum of cash. John was beginning to feel a little more at peace. The loans for the ranch were beginning to get smaller and smaller as he paid them off. The stress on his shoulders seemed to be lessening as the weeks went by. His self-deprecating thoughts being replaced with thoughts of you. To say John was enamored would be putting it lightly. To start with you were a good worker. Often working longer hours than necessary, going until you felt the job was complete. At the end of the day, you’d slump onto the steps of the porch, your shirt sticking to your chest, your skin glowing, a blissed-out smile on your face. John would come out and offer you a beer. There would normally be only five minutes where you were alone before the rest of the men joined the two of you. John tried not to resent it, knowing he had no claim over you, but god he wished he did. John found himself staring at you as you moved around the ranch. Whether you were carrying bales of hay to the stables, pounding in nails on the fence you were fixing, or helping break one of the new horses. John would let his gaze drag up and down your body before catching himself. He would reprimand himself. Reminding himself that you were a. Almost twenty years his junior, b. Likey dating one of the younger hands (a thought that had made him prone to snapping at the young men without much prompting), and c. wouldn’t want a broken man like him. He’d scold himself, telling himself he was a pervert for looking at you like that, for wanting to take you, claim you. But he couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts from creeping in late at night. When his rough hands fisted his cock and he’d think about you on your knees for him, your lips and tongue running up and down his length as you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. Or how you’d feel wrapped around him. What you’d sound like as he took you from every position imaginable. How you’d react if he pinched your nipples, if he spanked you. Despite being alone in that big house he’d bite his fist as he came, moaning out your name as the drag of his hand became too much. When the lust had passed and his cock softened, cum drying on his stomach, and reality set in, he’d mutter to himself, “You’re a fool, Marston.” The sentiment never seemed to stick because he’d see you bend over in that pair of jeans the next morning and would be stuck fighting the arousal that seemed to surge through him for the rest of the day. He was jacking off like a teenager, seemingly unable to control himself. When he spoke to you he’d stumble over his words, never being able to fully articulate his thoughts before getting lost in your eyes or your smile. Charles and Javier had picked up on his infatuation. Relentlessly teasing him when it was just the three of them. There was one day you were going to run errands in town. You’d stopped by the house to ask if the men needed anything else picked up while you were there. The day was already blazing hot despite it only being midmorning and you’d opted for a sundress. The fabric was light and airy around your thighs, the neckline cutting down to show more of your chest than was strictly necessary. John, Charles, and Javier had been in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, when you knocked, letting yourself in through the front door. “Hello?” Your sweet voice echoed through the house. “In the kitchen,” Charles called back. When you entered the kitchen it took everything in John not to drop the mug he’d just grabbed from the cabinet. The flush on his cheeks was immediate. He could feel his jeans getting tighter as he took in your form. He could feel his mouth hanging open slightly. He was only drawn out of his trance by Charles’ gentle elbow in his side. Luckily it seemed like you missed the small interaction. “Mornin’ y’all.” you nodded to Charles and Javier before turning to John. “I’m heading into town and was wondering if there’s anything you need me to pick up, Sir.” John could barely manage to shake his head. “T-that’s very nice of you but I think we’re all set sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. You nodded as you slipped your sunglasses onto your face. “Alright, I’ll see y’all, later.” You shot a dazzling smile towards the men as you turned, exiting the kitchen. John was able to stew in his slight mortification until the sound of the front door shutting echoed through the house. As the latch clicked John felt his friend's knowing gazes on him. Charles was the first to speak. “I’m not gonna lie to you, that was hard to watch. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?” The teasing lilt to his voice almost had John hiding his face in embarrassment. Javier clasped a hand on John’s shoulder, giving him what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, brother.” John let out a long groan, debating adding a bit of whiskey to his morning coffee. He was gonna need it if he had to put up with these two for the rest of the day. That night he came in the shower, fantasizing about fucking you dumb as you bent over in that pretty little dress for him. Then again later in his bed at the idea of your legs wrapped around his head, calling him sir as he ate you out until you cried. ~~~~~~ The storm that overtook the skies a few weeks later came out of nowhere. The dark and heavy purple clouds seemingly materialized out of the clear blue sky. Lightning and thunder breaking up the peaceful feeling of the ranch. John was in the house when the rain began to fall. The drops pounding against the roof creating an unrelenting din. He walked away from the window he was looking out to the phone in the hallway. He should probably call Charles and Javier. They’d taken the truck into town and were probably still at the mechanic seeing as the owner was an old friend. He dialed the number for the garage but was only met with static. One of the phone lines must have been knocked down in the storm. He’d have to check around the property whenever Charles and Javier returned with the truck, likely tomorrow at the earliest. John’s mind flashed to you, as it often did. He hoped you were back at your cabin, safe from the torrential rains. You’d been up at the ranch this morning but probably headed back with the boys earlier in the afternoon. He was pulled out of his thoughts by a frantic pounding, different from that of the raindrops. Someone was knocking on the door. He crossed the room, hand twisting the door open to reveal your drenched form. You were dripping wet. Your jeans were several shades darker than they had been earlier, your white t-shirt was essentially translucent. John tried to not stare at the black outline of your bra showing through the shirt or at the way the fabric clung to your skin, showing off your form perfectly. His gaze was brought back to your lips as you spoke. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, Sir. I-I was with the horses when the storm started and the thunder spooked some of them. I had to round them up.” He shook his head at your words. “Come on inside darlin’, you must be freezing.” You nodded, stepping in off the porch and onto the mat inside the doorway as he stepped back, making room for you, letting the door shut behind you. “Let me go grab you a towel.” He grabbed his favorite towel from the bathroom, trying to ignore the little voice in his head that was unhelpfully pointing out that the soft fabric would soon be running over your body. As John came back out into the hallway he took in your form once again. You looked miserable and cold, trembling slightly. He handed you the towel, ignoring the spike of heat he felt as your hands brushed his. “Do you have your truck?” His raspy voice was gentler than usual. You shook your head. “Wanted to enjoy the walk this morning,” you chuckled slightly. “Well, I think that means you’re gonna be stuck here for a bit. The phones are down, the boys are at the cabins, and Charles and Javier are in town with the truck. ‘N I’m not risking you walkin’ back in this weather.” You nodded again, a small smile gracing your features at his concern. John was still trying his best not to stare at your chest, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hide the growing outline of his cock for much longer. “You’re welcome to the shower if ya’d like. And I’ll bring you a change of clothes too.” As you toed off your boots you let out a sweet “thank you”. John showed you to the bathroom, before running to his room to grab a shirt and sweatpants. He placed them on the shelf in the bathroom before turning back to you. “The extra room is yours for tonight. If you need anythin’ just holler.” Your voice stopped him on the way out of the room. “Thank you, Sir. You’re very kind.” He chuckled lightly, “I’m just tryna help. ‘N you can jus call me John, sweetheart.” Your smile broadened a bit, “Well, thank you, John.” He nodded, barely finding the strength to close the door behind him. God, that was worse. His name falling from your lush lips. His mind grabbed onto the sound, playing with it, twisting it until he was imagining you calling it out from underneath him. As the latch clicked shut he leaned back onto the hallway walls, pressing the heel of his palm into his growing erection. “Get it together, Marston,” he muttered. He moved to the kitchen, trying to forget the shape of your body, the way the tops of your tits were visible through the wet fabric. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the cupboards, pouring himself a generous amount. He quickly drank the amber liquid, hardly registering the burn in the back of his throat. He poured another glass, just taking a sip from it this time. He could hear the water from the showerhead, even in the kitchen, and was trying to not get distracted by the thought of your body in the shower. He wished he could walk in there, wrapping his arms around you as you rinsed the day off. He’d trail soft kisses over your neck as he lathered soap over your form. He could imagine the noises you’d make as he kneaded your shoulders, the little groans that would leave your perfect lips. He shook his head, he needed to distract himself. His eyes caught on the clock across the room, it was getting late, and the both of you would probably be hungry soon. He opened the fridge and glanced over the contents. The mostly empty shelves seemed to glare back at him. He dropped his head into his hands, frustrated at himself. You were in his home and he couldn’t even make you a proper meal. He was so distracted by his perceived downfall that he didn’t hear the shower turning off, nor the click of the bathroom door and the footsteps that followed. “Sir?” Your gentle voice pulled his eyes up. You were standing in the entrance to the kitchen, his shirt hanging off your shoulders, his sweatpants hugging your hips. His gaze dragged up and down your body. You weren’t wearing a bra. Your nipples were hardened from the cold, the outline of them visible through the worn material. His voice was gruffer than usual as he forced it out around the lump in his throat, making his eyes meet yours. “I thought I told you to call me John, darlin’.” You nodded sweetly. “Alright, John.” His name sounded so sweet on your lips. He needed some sort of distraction. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from the counter, raising it for you to look at. “D’ya want a glass?” “I’d very much like that, thank you.” “How was your shower,” His full focus was on pouring a glass for you and topping off his own. Looking at you was almost too much. “It was really nice. Your water pressure is amazing!” your exclamation had John stiffening in his jeans once again. The idea of you in the shower, groaning as the water hit your shoulders, running in rivulets down your chest. He put the bottle back on the counter a little harder than he meant to, turning around to hand you your glass. The amber liquid on his tongue was a necessity for this situation. “I’d uh, I’d offer ya dinner but ‘m not much of a cook.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck at the admission, his cheeks tinted red. He was a grown man and the majority of his meals came frozen or from a can. “I could make something for us,” your voice was kind, soothing almost. John shook his head almost immediately. “I’m not gonna make you do that darlin’. Don’t want you to have to take care of my ass.” “I really don’t mind it, John. Plus I’d like to eat at some point.” Your tone was lighthearted as you grinned at him. After a little more back and forth he conceded, allowing you to take over the kitchen. You shooed him out of the room, telling him it’d be ready soon. John settled in the living room, flipping on the tv to try and drown out the thoughts of you. He couldn’t seem to stop. The whiskey wasn’t doing much to help. He’d occasionally flip between channels, but nothing was quite able to grab his attention. The idea of you in his house, in his kitchen, in his clothes was so domestic. The idea of walking up behind you while you cooked, wrapping his arms around you, kissing your neck, it was intoxicating to him. But he couldn’t lie and say his thoughts were completely innocent. Images of you in various compromising positions kept flashing through his mind, now accompanied by the sound of you whining his name. About half an hour later you emerged from the kitchen with two steaming plates of spaghetti, setting them down on the dining room table. When John walked over to join you the smell hit him. It was heavenly. How you’d pulled together something like this out of the pathetic ingredients he had available was incredible. As the two of you ate dinner you made idle conversation. John had talked to you a few times since you came to the ranch but he could never seem to hold a conversation. Too overwhelmed by your presence when you were close to him. Now he didn’t have much of a choice. He learned a little bit more about your life before you came to work at Bighorn. When you’d both finished eating, John offered to clean the dishes. You didn’t argue, letting him gather the dirty plates. “It's still pretty early so if you want to put on a movie while I clean up, you're more than welcome to.” You agreed and he told you where to find the tape collection. As he washed the plates in the kitchen he scolded himself. You’re too old for her, Marston. Pretty young things like her aren't interested in broken men. You’re an old fool. Once the dishes were cleaned he took a moment to lean against the counter, holding his head in his hands. He had to get it together. As far as he should be concerned you're just his employee and he should treat you as such. Seeing as he’d finished his whiskey before you had brought out dinner, he grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. He called your name towards the living room, asking if you wanted one too. You shouted back a yes. He uncapped the two beers and walked back to the living room. You were curled up on the right side of the couch, your legs tucked up off the floor, a blanket from the chest near the window wrapped around you. You looked warm and comfortable. John pointedly ignored the pang of affection that shot through his chest as he handed you your beer. The couch was small but he still tried to give you space. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But even with his hip pressed against the arm of the couch, your legs still brushed against his thigh. He had to keep his breath steady as he could feel the warmth from your body. He recognized the movie you picked as Jurassic Park, one of Jack’s favorites. You were only at the part where the scientists were on their way to the island. “‘S a good choice,” he gestured at the tv. “The movie I mean.” “It’s one of my favorites!” God your smile was cute. He wanted to make you smile all the time. As the movie continued, the two of you sat in comfortable silence. However, John was very aware of your presence next to him. Of the press of your legs against his. In trying to ignore the heat in his stomach and the feeling of you right next to him, he was staring very hard at the tv. When Ellie jumped off the ride to go look at the stegosaurus, you shifted towards him, moving your legs to the other side of you, your torso almost pressing into his side. “I still can’t believe how real it looks! It's crazy!” The excitement in your voice made a smile form on John’s face. Subconsciously, he moved his arm to the back of the couch, giving you room to move in, to lean against him if you so desired. He didn’t even register he had done it until he felt your body press against his, tucking yourself under his arm. He couldn’t stop the small hitch in his breath at the realization that you were willingly cuddling up to him. He was sure you could probably hear his heartbeat from your new position. He tried to keep his eyes on the movie but it was hopeless, his gaze focused intently on you. When you raised your head to look at him he wasn’t quick enough. You’d caught him. He was caught off guard by your hand pressing into his chest as you pushed yourself up. You were still close to him, but you were now upright, your chest turned towards him. Your gaze was calculating as your tongue traced along your bottom lip. He couldn’t help but stare at the movement. The indecision seemed to leave your eyes as you noticed what he was staring at. You leaned towards him slightly. “John,” your voice was soft as he finally was able to drag his gaze to meet yours. Your eyes were dark, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Kiss me.” His brain stopped. Or his heart stopped. He wasn’t sure. Maybe both. All he could manage was a small nod. His hand moved to grasp the nape of your neck, bringing your lips to his. The kiss was passionate, a mess of tongues and lips, of gasping breaths. John ignored every part of his brain that was telling him to stop. That you were too young for him, that you were his employee, all of the reasons that he shouldn’t let this happen. The feeling of you drowned out everything else. When he nibbled on your bottom lip, you let out a small moan. The sound sent blood rushing to his cock. All he wanted to do was draw those noises out of you. To hear every little sound you’d make in the throes of pleasure. Your kisses were as greedy as his, seemingly trying to savor every second of your embrace. He was able to pull himself away for a moment, pressing his forehead to yours as his hands came to cradle your head in his large hands. “Darlin’,” his voice was rougher than usual. “Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want an ol’ man like me?” The glare you gave him was more chiding than actually frustrated. “First of all, you're not old. Second, I’ve wanted this since I started working here. Wanted you since that first day.” Your confession sent a shiver through John. “Really,” he couldn’t stop the slightly desperate tone that laced his voice. You nodded, smiling at him. “How could I not?” Your answer was simple but it sent a swirl of affection and mild pride through him. He moved a hand to your waist, you seemed to take it as an invitation to move onto his lap. Swinging your body so your legs rested on either side of his thighs. In this position, John allowed his hands to roam over your body. Tracing up your back, trailing down your sides, he let them come to rest on your ass, grabbing the flesh and pulling you against him slightly. The movement caused your hips to press against his hardness. You gasped loudly. His first reaction was worry that he’d done something wrong, but that thought left his mind when you rolled your hips against his again. He was painfully hard, his cock pressing against the confines of his jeans. He could feel the small wet spot forming in his underwear, his tip leaking precum. Each move of your hips felt like heaven. The feeling of you, in his lap, wearing his clothes, making those desperate little sounds as you ground yourself against him, was better than any of the fantasies he’d had. He was meeting your movements, thrusting up. The feeling was overwhelming, and when you attached your lips to his neck he keened. He let his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, just trailing them along the soft skin of your hips at first. When you didn’t make any move to stop him, he began to trace higher and higher. Fingertips brushing over your sides, your ribs, and then your tits. God, they were so soft. He let his hands pinch your nipples experimentally. You had to move your mouth from his neck when you let out a high-pitched moan. “Do that again,” your voice was tantalizingly desperate. “Please, John.” He complied, unable to deny you anything you asked for. His fingers twisted and pulled at your sensitive buds, rewarding him with your gasps and breathy moans. He pushed you back slightly in his lap, moving you so you were sat upright. He looked up at you as he brought his face to your chest, wrapping his lips around one nipple while continuing his ministrations on the other. The look on your face was the prettiest thing John had ever seen. Your lips were parted, your eyes squeezed shut from the pleasure, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you held on. You’d paused your hips when he moved you, allowing his pleasure to subside. When your eyes opened, your pupils were blown wide and lust practically dripping from your gaze, he couldn’t help himself from thrusting his hips to yours. His hands moved back to your waist, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolled his hips again, the pressure from your body providing him the slightest bit of relief. He’d been able to calm himself for a little bit, but with his hips humping against you and the look in your eyes, he was driving himself toward the edge again. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t bother to be embarrassed about the needy moans leaving his mouth. It was almost without warning that he felt the pleasure in him swell as his balls drew up. The stimulation of your warm body rubbing against him sending him over the edge. His cock pulsed in his jeans, releasing spurt after spurt of hot cum. He came with a harsh gasp followed by an embarrassing whine of your name, his hands clutching you tightly as he kept humping you, drawing out the sensations. When his high began to subside he was overtaken with embarrassment. He’d finally gotten a chance with you and he’d cum in his pants like a goddamn teenager. Your voice was small. “Um…John. Did you…did you just cum.” All he could do was nod as he buried his head in your shoulder, unable to fully look at you. Your hands buried into his hair, holding him sweetly. “It’s okay, John. It happens.” He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye. He’d ruined his chance. “I-I’m so sorry.” he managed to get out. You let out a soft coo as your hands moved to cradle his face. “You’ve got nothing’ to be sorry for. I promise.” He tilted his head up, his gaze meeting yours. There was nothing in your eyes to indicate disgust or displeasure, just kindness. He nodded dumbly as he took you in. “Wanted this to be good for you, sweetheart. Been thinking of this for ages and I fucked it up.” You shook your head. “What makes you think you won’t be able to make it up to me?” your smile was teasing as you tilted his chin upwards. Hope sparked in his chest at your words. “Like right now?” desperation leaked into his voice. You nodded sweetly. “If that’s okay with you.” John couldn’t stop his overenthusiastic nod. “Well in that case I think I owe you somethin’” He shifted you off his lap, allowing you to stand. “My bedrooms, the door on your right, down that hallway there. I'll be there in just a moment.” As he stood you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, bringing your lips to his once again. You then leaned in, allowing your lips to brush the shell of his ear. “You better, or I’ll be left with no choice but to take care of myself,” you pushed away from him, a sly grin on your face as you shot him a wink and started in the direction of his room. John watched you leave, letting his eyes drag over your form, his thoughts notably absent of the guilt that would plague him whenever he’d looked at you before. When you were out of sight, he went into the bathroom, quickly cleaning himself up. As he walked towards his room he felt what could only be described as butterflies in his stomach. You were far too good for him, in every single way, but you were here, you wanted to be with him, to have him touch you. He couldn’t help the dopey smile that broke out across his face. He pushed open the bedroom door to find you standing in the middle of the room, seemingly taking in your surroundings. At the sound of his footsteps, you turned to face him. “You ready to make it up to me, Mr. Marston?” Your teasing voice was cut off as he closed the space between the two of you and pulled your body into his. His lips crashed into yours, his hand coming to rest on your jaw. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, almost asking permission, which you granted. You tasted like the whiskey from earlier. He began to walk you backward, your steps hesitant until the backs of your legs hit the edge of his bed and you fell onto your back. You looked so beautiful below him. You scooted yourself toward the headboard as he dropped his knees onto the mattress. He moved up until he was settled between your legs, his body pressed to the bed as his hands came to rest on your thighs. “I wanna taste you darlin’,” his fingers brushed against the exposed bit of skin that was visible between your shirt and the band of your sweatpants. “Would that be alright with you?” When he lifted his eyes to meet yours, your pupils had swallowed your irises. Your gaze was heavy with lust, your teeth sunk into your lower lip as you nodded. “Please, John. Need you.” His hands hooked over the band of your sweatpants, pulling them down over the tops of your thighs. He couldn’t look away as more and more of you was revealed. As soon as the sweatpants had slipped off your feet, his mouth met your inner thigh. His hands moved to the insides of your knees, gently pushing you apart for him. He traded between kisses and gentle nips as his mouth trailed over the sensitive skin. “Take off your shirt for me sweetheart.” his voice was low, filled with desire. You quickly obeyed, tossing the fabric to the floor and settling back against the bed. John couldn’t believe that he was here, between your thighs. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d thought about this, in this same bed as he fucked his hand. And now it was happening, it was real. He felt his cock jump slightly, blood beginning to return to it. You were whimpering under him, clearly frustrated at the lack of attention being paid to your dripping cunt. He could see the small wet patch forming on the cotton that covered you and his mouth watered. He couldn’t resist dragging a finger over your clothed slit as his mouth continued along your thigh. You let out a high-pitched moan when his finger ghosted over your clit. God, he wanted to draw more of those noises from your sweet lips. “Don’t be impatient now, sweetheart. I’m gonna take my time with you.” His voice was even raspier than usual, dripping with lust. You thrust your hips slightly at his words, trying to get more from him. He pressed your hips back to the bed with one hand, holding you still, tutting his tongue at you. He dragged his mouth higher, his lips pressing against the cotton of your panties. He smirked slightly before grabbing the hem of them between his teeth and dragging them down your hips. When you were rid of them, he couldn’t help but take you in. “John,” your voice was sweet with want. With need. His hands moved back to your inner knees, pushing your legs apart for him. Your cunt glistened with slick, the insides of your thighs shining with it as well. He couldn’t wait to taste you. He was laying between your legs again, his face only inches from your heat. This was better than anything he’d imagined. You were a dream and he wanted to show you how much he wanted this, wanted you. You let out the most intoxicating noise when he licked a broad stripe over your entrance, his nose bumping your clit. Your hands, which had been gripping the sheets at your sides, moved to his hair, tangling your fingers in the dark locks. You were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He wanted to drink you in, the taste of you like heaven on his tongue. He wanted to drag it out. To tease you with soft licks, turn you into a begging mess. But that would take patience and John Marston was not a patient man. He buried his face in your pussy. His tongue laving over you as his nose rubbed against your clit. If he were to die right now, he’d die a happy man. His hands dug into your hips as he dragged you closer to his mouth. He was trying to memorize everything that made you moan, made you tug on his hair, or try to grind your hips against his mouth. The moan you let out when he wrapped his lips around your clit was absolutely sinful. “Johnnn,” your breath was labored, making it hard to form full sentences. “P-please,” you begged. “Please what, darlin’? What d’ya need?” His voice was teasing as his gaze met your lust-darkened eyes. “Please finger me, please. I need it, please, please, John.” He would’ve liked to tease you more but he was quickly realizing that he couldn’t resist doing anything you asked of him. “How could I say no when you sound so sweet beggin’ for me.” He brought his mouth back to your clit as one of his fingers traced lightly over your slit. You were so goddamn wet, the mix of your slick and his spit shining in the low light of the room. You shivered when he pushed a finger in, just to the first knuckle. He felt you clench at the invasion, making him let out a soft groan. He pushed his finger fully inside you, crooking it up to press against your walls. You let out a loud whiny moan at the sensation. He continued slowly dragging his digit in and out, brushing against your g-spot each time. He wanted to draw this out, show you how good he could make you feel. His mouth continued the assault on your clit, as he finally gave in and added another finger, much to your delight. Your hips rocked against his hand with each thrust, your back arching when he would slowly brush over that sensitive spot. He could feel you getting wetter, your breaths becoming shorter, the words leaving your lips barely discernible. “J-John, I-I’m gonna cum,” he could barely hear you as you wrapped your thighs around his head, your hand yanking on his hair, pulling him closer to you, trying to reach your peak. He sped up slightly, not enough to disrupt your pleasure, but just enough to have you gasping loudly. John felt you clench around his fingers, once, twice, and then you came. Looking back on it, he wished he could’ve seen your face, but he was so lost in lapping up the rush of slick from you. He could do this for hours, knelt between your legs, eating you out until you were exhausted or until he had his fill, whichever came first. He only pulled off of you when you tugged his hair trying to push him off as your thighs fell back to the mattress. He looked up at you, taking in your disheveled face. Your lips were slightly swollen from your teeth biting into them, your eyes were dark, your chest rising and falling rapidly with your breath. “Sorry darlin’, ya just taste so good. Couldn’t help myself.” He was grinning like an idiot. You returned his smile as you muttered, “you’re damn good at that.” “That mean I make it up to ya?” You nodded, “Doesn’t mean we’re done here though.” John’s cock jumped at that. Eating you out had turned him on more than he’d care to admit, his cock had become hard and heavy, pressed against the mattress. “Thank god for that,” his raspy voice was only slightly teasing. A small smile broke out across your face as you shook your head at him, your hands pulling him up to you. He knew you could taste yourself on his tongue, the thought driving him slightly crazy. He’d propped himself up, his arms on either side of you, keeping mind to not let his whole weight rest on you. You pulled back, the look in your eye intrigued him. You looked like you had a plan. Before he could register what was happening, you’d flipped him over, sitting on top of him, your body on display. You leaned forward slightly, your finger trailing along the buttons of his shirt. “I think you’re wearing far too much clothing.” John could only bring himself to nod, as he took in your form. He was in awe. Your fingers began to work on his buttons, undoing them one by one. As more of his chest was revealed you brought your mouth to gently kiss across his skin. He could feel his mouth hanging open slightly, his heart pounding as you showed him a gentleness he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Your touches were light and adoring. As more of him was revealed to you, compliments and sweet words spilled from your lips. Your lips trailed across the scars that littered his chest, murmuring, “you’re so beautiful, John.” He felt like he was being worshiped. Like you were treating him like something to be treasured. When your fingers undid the last button of his shirt, you helped him slip it off of his shoulders, tossing the fabric to the floor to join the other discarded garments. Your hands traced along his chest, running through the smattering of hair across his pecs. Your hands drifted down further, your fingers dragging lightly through the dark hair of his happy trail. They came to rest on the waistband of his jeans, tucking underneath the fabric slightly, your nails teasing the sensitive skin. Your eyes were dark as you looked up at him, asking for permission. He nodded, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. You made quick work of the button and zipper, your fingers once again hooking over the sides as you pulled his jeans and boxers down in one go. His cock sprang up from the fabric, leaking and red, the head practically dripping precum. John knew his dick wasn’t something to scoff at but he still felt self-conscious. That was until he raised his eyes to your face. “Oh, John,” your words were soft, you seemed transfixed, your hand coming up to wrap around him, your fingers only barely able to touch around his girth. He couldn’t help the hiss that escaped him at the pressure. Your hands were light, tracing along the vein that ran up his length, ghosting over the head, your thumb swept at the slit, catching a drop of precum. He was captivated as you brought your thumb to your lips, your tongue darting out to taste it. He couldn’t take this slow teasing, he couldn’t wait any longer, he needed to be inside of you. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you before flipping the two of you once again. God, you were so beautiful. His naked body pressing against yours. His hand reached up to trace your jaw, fingers coming to a rest on your chin, tilting your head to look at him. “Are you sure you want this?” As much as he dreamt of you, as much as he wanted this, he needed to know you felt the same. That this wasn’t something one-sided. Your hands reached around him, settling on the back of his neck, the smile you gave him was sweet, the lust in your eyes seeming to give way to something softer, something he’d dare call adoring. “John, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’ve been the one pursuing you all night. I know what I want. I know I want you.” He couldn’t formulate a response aside from bringing his lips to yours. The kiss was sweet at first but quickly sank back into something laced with sinful intents. He only pulled back to reach into the drawer of his nightstand, his hands tracing over the contents, searching for a condom. “John,” your voice was smaller than it had been a minute ago. “I-I’m clean. Got tested a bit ago. I, uh, I’m also on the pill.” His gaze was unable to leave your face as he tried to make sense of the words. His brain short-circuiting. When he didn’t respond, you continued, “S-so, I mean if you’re clean, we- I’m okay if we don’t use one.” He nodded, slowly at first, then with barely contained enthusiasm. “God, woman. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered as his lips met yours once again. The kiss was chaste, cut short by both of your eagerness. John moved back, kneeling between your legs, one hand languidly stroking his cock as he looked down at you. He used his other hand to help scoot you forward, tipping your hips up slightly as your legs wrapped around his waist. He ran his tip over your entrance, tapping it against your clit. A shudder ran through your body as you let out a frustrated groan. He did it again, relishing in the way you squirmed as he refused to give you what you so desperately needed. “John,” your voice was clipped, stern. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to leave and go finished myself off…alone.” He got the message, letting his tip stop at your dripping entrance before pushing in slowly. The heat and the tightness that met him was almost overwhelming. He had to stop himself from pushing in all the way in one go. He tried to go slowly, an inch at a time, but the way you were wrapped around his length was too much. Before he could stop himself, his hips thrust forward, entering you to the hilt, his balls pressed against your ass. He managed to let out a strangled, “sorry,” as he rested inside you, unmoving. You had gasped at the sudden movement, but now with him still, pressing incessantly into your g-spot, you were beginning to gyrate your hips, encouraging him to begin to move. His hands had come to rest beside your head, holding his body over yours as he slowly brought his hips back before thrusting into you. You moaned loudly as his body met yours. The pace he started was slow, purposeful. One of his hands moved to cup your jaw, bringing your lips to meet his in an almost loving kiss. He was holding back, not wanting to speed up for fear of hurting you. You seemed to not care as you pulled your lips back from him. Your gaze met his, it was hard and determined. “I’m not a doll, John. I'm not gonna break.” You brought your lips to his ear, the brush of them sending shivers down his spine as you whispered, “been waiting for this for months. Fuck me like you mean it.” You barely had time to draw back before he began to pound into you, his pace unrelenting. The moans leaving your mouth were heavenly, intoxicating. He wanted more. He moved his lips to your throat, biting and sucking the delicate skin. The whine you let out when he nipped you particularly hard had him grinning against your neck. He brought a hand up to your tits, tweaking your nipples like he did earlier on the couch, teasing you. He felt you grip down on him whenever he pulled or pinched especially hard. He was panting, both from the physical excretion as well as the overwhelming pleasure. He could hear how wet you were with each thrust, the noises your body made driving him to thrust a little harder. “You were fuckin’ made for me, sweetheart,” he growled out between breaths. As heat coiled in his stomach, he kept remembering what you had said. How you wanted him to cum inside of you, how you’d wanted him for months. He needed to see it when it happened. Needed to see what you’d look like stuffed full of his cum. His thrusts slowed as he shifted off your neck, his hand leaving your chest as he sat up. He removed your legs from his waist and instead lifted them until they rested on his shoulders. When he leaned back down again, his hands came to rest on either side of your head, essentially folding you in half. He gave a hard thrust into you. The new angle made him sink deeper, his cock brushing against your g-spot with each stroke. Even though you felt tight before, now every move he made had you squeezing him. He knew he couldn’t possibly last much longer but he had to make you cum before he did. Had to give you a reason to do this again. You were letting out a steady stream of curses each time he pounded into you. Your hands gripping the sheets, bunching them tightly in your fists. Your eyes were black with lust and your mouth hung open, sweat shone on your forehead and chest. You looked like a fucking angel. John couldn’t help the praise that dripped from his lips. “You’re such a good girl for me, ain’tcha. Taking me so fuckin’ well.” He moved one of his hands to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. “Wanted you since I first saw ya. Wanted to take ya right on the porch.” “John,” you let out a breathy whine. He kept going, “that day you came over in that stupid sundress. Looked so sweet in it. All dolled up. Wanted to bend you over. Wanted to fuck you until you were screaming my name.” He gave a particularly hard thrust, emphasizing his words. “W-wore it for you,” you managed to get out around harsh moans. He could barely think through the fog of pleasure that permeated his brain. “That’s my girl,” he grunted. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his chest flushed red, sweat beading on his skin. He was so fucking close, for the second time that night. You’d made a mess of him. “Fuck,” your body seemed to be almost shaking with pleasure. “J-John, I’m gonna cum. P-please don’t stop, feels so good.” He kept his pace and seconds later you were clamping down on him like a vice. Your body shook with the waves of pleasure that washed over you. The sensation of you squeezing around him sent him right to the brink of his orgasm. His thrusts became sloppy as he chased his high, his balls drawing up, his pants becoming harsher. “C-cum inside me, John. please,” your worn voice all but begged as your eyes met his. Those words were the final push that threw him over the edge. He thrust once, twice, three more times before spilling inside you. His vision was overtaken by white. He rocked into you as the waves overtook him. He could feel the tingling sensation in his fingertips, in his toes. When he seemingly came back into himself, the sight that greeted him was heavenly. You were spread below him, chest still heaving, bottom lip swollen from kisses and bites. Your hands which had been gripping the sheets now ran up and down his sides, helping bring him back down from the mind-blowing orgasm. He lowered your legs from his shoulders, pulling out of you with a soft grunt. He couldn’t help but watch as his seed leaked from your hole. His fingers moved without thought to stuff his spend back inside you. He only stopped when you let out a slightly pained moan, igniting a feeling of worry in his chest. “I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt ya.” You smiled and chuckled weakly, “s’okay, just sensitive right now.” He wanted to press a gentle kiss to your temple but couldn’t muster up the courage. He stood up from the bed with a small groan. “I’ll be right back sweetheart, gonna clean up.” He stumbled off towards the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and wiping himself down before tossing it into the hamper. He grabbed another cloth, making sure the water wasn’t too hot or too cold before he wrung it out and returned to the bedroom. You were in the same position as you’d been when he left, but now your legs were closed. He knelt before you on the bed. “You okay with me cleanin’ you up?” you nodded sweetly, your eyes closing as he gently swiped the rag over you. When he was done, he tossed the rag to the side, letting it join the pile of clothes already on the floor. He didn’t want your time together to end, but he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable either and the doubts were beginning to creep in on the edge of his mind. “You, uh, you don’t have to sleep here, with me, if you don’t want,” he started, staring at his hands. “The other room’s still free if you'd like.” When he brought his gaze to yours he was met with something he could only describe as affection. “I’m not going anywhere if that’s alright with you,” your voice was kind as you smiled at him. “Now come to bed, I’m getting cold here all alone.” He couldn’t contain the grin that broke out on his face. He laid down on his back, his arm outstretched, inviting you in. You curled right into his side, your head coming to rest on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you in return, holding you close. Despite just being inside you, the gentle cuddling had him blushing harder than he had all night. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight, under a sky of dark clouds, and the steady pounding of rain on the roof, you were his and he was yours. And that was good enough.

I know this was super long for a one-shot smut fic but if you made it all the way through, I hope you enjoyed it! This was my first time writing smut from a man's perspective so I'm sorry if anything was weird. I just love John Marston very much <3 Comments/criticisms are always welcome! Crossposted on AO3 @holyratrimony <3333

Taglist: @cowboydisaster

This fic was inspired by this post by @butchdutch

#john marston #john marston x reader #john marston x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #modern au #rdr2

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sillygraham · 5 months

Text

Peace ✷

pairing ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ john marston x gn ! reader

warnings ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ no dialogue , angst...sorry , hurt/(no) comfort , abigail and john r not a thing in this , not proof read

a/n ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ i think I've seen a fic like this before but...i dont really remember? still in my head j am givinf them credits if i actually did read something like this,,, might've been a caption on a joiver art i saw idk . anyway i rly need to stop making everything angsty,,,

I will help you swim / I'm gonna help you swim

You knew you weren't going to see him again. Watching him from where you sat at the campfire, the gang was falling apart and you were planning your way to leave. Such little people left and your heart hurts whenever you see the condition Arthur is in.

Always having to deal with hearing Dutch say they just need one more score — but you know it's over. This is it.

John walks over to you and sits down next to you. You give him a smile and he returns it. The two of you sit in silence as the remainder in the members do the same.

Hearing Micah and Dutch whisper about something you move to grab Johns hand. Now your fingers interlocked, you look at him and he's staring at you too.

You truly don't want to just abandon him but you can't stay and asking him to leave with you seems unreasonable to do. Thinking to yourself, you decide to maybe share one last tender moment with him before your leave.

You get up and tug his arm and he gets the message; standing up as well. Then you lead him as far as you can from the camp, to a lake. He stares at you; confused but you squeeze his hand and he understands.

Releasing his hand the two of you slip out of your clothes and only have your undergarments. Stepping into the water, you reach your hand out for him to grab and he does.

You ease him in and instruct him to keep calm and let himself float. Promising you won't let him sink.

You stare at him as you keep him a float. Simply admiring him as his long hair makes it look like he has a halo — like he's an angel from the heavens above. He looks so peaceful but you know he's fearing of suddenly drowning and the fact he put his trust in you to keep him living makes your heart skip a beat.

The only sound the two of you hear being the rustling of trees, water splashing, and your humming. Feeling your eyes well up with tears, you close your eyes, trying your best to savor this moment.

It's so peaceful...you wish to stay like this as you open your eyes again and notice he's opened his too. He takes note of your teary eyes and his face twists with concern. You give him a smile of reassurance but it didn't help.

Yet he didn't say anything, just appreciating the silence as well — he never thought water would be this calming for him. You lean down and place a kiss on his forehead and he smiles.

You hear him mutter an 'I love you'...

That's all you hear, before everything sounds silent now. You try to respond but all you can get out is a small noise.

He doesn't mind, he knows you love him as well and wouldn't leave him.

And you do love him...you treasure him and everything about him. Ever since you met him, sure he was a piece of work but that was why you loved him.

So it leaves him confused and hurt when he can't seem to find you at the camp the next morning. He was hoping to ask if the two of you could go to the lake again but he can't find you.

He notices a piece of paper in your tent and he picks it up to read.

He feels his world crumbling as he reads it.

My Dearest, John,

I'm sorry for leaving you. I love you, I truly do, I just couldn't bring myself to ask you to leave with me. I don't know where I am going, think I'm just gonna wonder until I find where I can stay. I know it seems like a bad idea, but it's all I could think to do. The gangs falling apart — Dutch as gone mad. Please get out of there as well. I hope you can forgive me if our paths decide to cross again and god I hope they do. I'll miss you dearly, John

Love, [Name].

He couldn't believe it. You left without telling him? He would've said yes if you'd asked him. Why didn't you ask him? Did anyone else know about this? Were you safe? He prayed you were safe. Please be safe.

The day couldn't get anymore worse then this. You left without a word and his heart is broken. He's not sure if he could handle more.

But more he had to handle. Everything is falling apart, he has to leave. And that he does when he gets left for dead by Dutch. When he's forced to pick a side and Arthur makes him leave, to get away from this life, to go find you. He keeps Arthurs words in mind, after getting to a safer area, he sets off to find you.

He will find you — somehow; he needs to.

a/n 2 ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ lolol sry this is short . i think idk...i was listening to twin sized mattress and needed to write this ! hope u enjoyed ur read see u next time ^3^ mwah mwah

#john marston #john marston x reader #gn reader #gn!reader #john marston x gn reader #sillygraham #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #fem reader #fem!reader #male reader #male!reader #masc reader #masc!reader #john marston x female reader #john marston x male reader

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cowboymarston · 7 months

Text

John Marston -

Strangers, Survival & Tempation

Undead Nightmare John.

Female reader, no Y/N or oc name used.

CW : Sex, lots of of unprotected sex. Cunnilingus, blow job, fingering, more unprotected sex, finishing inside.

Word count : 4029

You were surrounded by zombies, each one getting closer and closer. Your gun was out of bullets.

You screamed for help, but you knew this was the end since you were in the middle of nowhere, during a zombie apocalypse no less.

Your scream gets interrupted by gunshots, before you can even register what has happened, all the zombies lie headless on the ground.

"Miss? We need to get out of here, right now! More of them are coming." Your saviour shouted from on top of his horse.

His horse looked weird.. almost as if it was on fire.

You didn't question it as you grab his hand and fling yourself onto the horse. You wrap your arms around the man as he starts riding away fast.

"Thank you, mister uhh.." You mutter.

"Marston. John Marston. I'm taking you to my ranch, it's not safe here."

After about 15 minutes you two reach his ranch, Beecher's Hope he called it.John led you into the house, it had a nice country charm to it.

The windows and backdoor were barred up.

"Well, this is it in all its glory. Make yourself at home, you can stay here until it's safe again." He smiled at you as he walked to the fireplace and started lighting it.

"Thank you, for saving me..and bringing me here. I'd be dead without you mister Marston."

"It's no trouble." He said as he pulled out a flask from his pocket and offering it to you. "You look like you need it."

"Thanks, I do need it." You say, grabbing the flask and taking a long sip.

John sat down at the table and pulled out a deck of cards. "Do you know how to play black jack?" He asked, shuffling the cards.You nodded and joined him at the table.

"Well, if you're gonna be staying here, we might as well enjoy ourselves." He said, flipping over the top card of the deck. "Okay, hit or stay?"

The two of you laughed and joked throughout the night, talking about anything and everything.

The sun started to rise and John groaned as he stretched his arms out. "Damn, we must've been playing for hours." He chuckled.

You rub your eyes sleepily.

"We should probably get some sleep now. You can sleep in my bed, I'll take the couch" He suggested.

"No, John I couldn't possibly-"

"I insist. Please." He interrupted you.

You eventually give in and open the door to his bedroom. "Goodnight mister Marston., and thank you again:"

"Goodnight, and please, call me John." He smiles as he walks to the living room couch and lays down.

You walk into his bedroom and close the door behind you.

As the hours flew by, you woke up to your stomach growling. You realized you hadn't eaten anything in days.

You groan as you get up slowly, you heard footsteps from the kitchen as you approached it. John was already up.

John was over by the stove, making what smelled like grits.

"Good morning, how are you feeling?" He said as he noticed you walking in.

"Hungry." You say groggily.

"Yeah, I figured. Go sit down, I'll bring you something." John chuckled as he stirred whatever was in the pot.

You slowly walked to the dining area and slumped onto a chair. You noticed the table was already set.

A few moments later John walks over with the pot and sets it on the table.

He took your bowl and piled grits onto it. He set the plate in front of you, took grits for himself and sat down.

You couldn't resist devouring the entire bowl in a spawn of a few minutes, you were starving.

John looked at you, noticing that your plate was empty.

"That good?" He chuckled.

Suddenly, he froze as he stared out of the window between the blanks.

"Did you hear that?" He whispered.

"No, what did you hear?" You whispered back.

"I heard something outside, it sounded like a zombie."

You both sat there in silence as you listened to the rustling outside.

John motioned for you to follow him as he stood up from the table, grabbing the rifle that was leaning against the wall.

You grab your newly loaded gun too and you two make your way to the front door.

John opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. You could see the sun wasn't up yet, and a heavy fog made it impossible to see much.

Then, you heard something behind you.

You turned around in terror, seeing a figure right behind you. His face was covered in wounds and dirt, his clothes torn and stained with blood.

He smelled rotten. He looked at you and bared his teeth as he growled. He grabs you, making you scream.

John turned around as he heard your scream, aiming his rifle at the figure.

He pulled the trigger, and a single shot pierced the zombies skull.

The zombie released you from its grip as it dropped to the floor, leaving a puddle of blood on the porch.

"Are you alright? He didn't get you, did he?" John asked frantically, checking you for bites and scratches.

"I'm okay.. Thank you." You say, panting as you collapse onto your knees.

"C'mon, let's go back inside." John helped you up and led you back into the house, closing the door behind him.

It took you a moment to catch your composure as you sat down on the couch. John sat down on the chair next to you, he looked tired.

"That was too close.." He noticed you were also exhausted.

He stood up and grabbed a blanket from the cabinet placing it over you. He started walking into the kitchen.

"I'm gonna make myself coffee, you want some?" He asked.

"I'd love some, thanks John."

John nods and goes into the kitchen, a few minutes later he comes back with two cups of coffee.

He hands the other one to you. "Just be aware, I didn't have any sugar."

"That's fine." You take the cup from him and take a sip of your coffee.

John hummed as he placed his cup on the coffee table.

"Are you okay, missy?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Alive atleast. Are you okay? You look really tired, John."

"Yeah.. It's been a tough couple weeks, I won't lie. Haven't really been able to sleep."

"You should take a nap, I'll keep watch, okay?" You offered.

John nodded and walked towards his bedroom.

As he walked off, you could hear him talking to himself softly as he climbed into bed and turned off the light.

You spent the next two hours keeping watch, but nothing happened.

Until you hear a loud bang outside.

You jumped as the noise startled you.

To your surprise, John didn't wake up to it.

You could feel the hairs on your back stand up as you listened closely for other sounds. Nothing.

You go out onto the porch, with your gun in hand. You heard a faint moaning sound from the distance.

It seemed to get closer and closer.

A zombie emerged from the fog, it shambled its way towards you as it moaned again.

As more zombies emerge, you shout for John with all your might but he doesn't wake up.

You couldn't see well in the fog, but you knew they were getting closer. You start to back away towards the door.

You shoot the zombie closest to you and shout for John again.

As you shot the zombie, another one emerged from the fog.

The noise of the gunshot combined with your shouting immediately woke John up.

He jumped up from his bed, only wearing a union suit, with the upper half pulled down and wrapped around his waist.

He grabbed the rifle and ran to your aid as the zombies approached you. You watched in fright as John shot all of the zombies.

He turned to you with a worried look on his face, he was about to say something before you interrupted him.

"Look out!" You shouted as a zombie approached John from behind. You shot it in the head and it fell down.

More zombies approached you both as you and John kept firing at them. You noticed that the fog was starting to dissipate, as light illuminated your way.

The light made it easier for you to see the zombies, making it possible for you to finish off the rest of them.

After several minutes of shooting, all of the zombies were destroyed.

You and John panted.

"Well, that definitely woke me up!" John chuckled. He still looked exhausted.

"I'm gonna make more coffee." He said as you two walked inside. You finally noticed he was only wearing a union suit, which made you blush.

John walked into the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. You watched him do this out of the corner of your eyes, feeling oddly attracted to him.

His muscles flexed as he lifted the cup to his lips, which only made your attraction grow as you watched him.

He didn't notice your gaze even when he walked back into the living room and sat down on the chair.

You could feel your cheeks turning red as your gaze wandered below his waist, the way the union suit was wrapped around him left a little bit of his happy trail peeking out.

This caused you to stare for longer than considered polite.

John stopped drinking, you stop staring quickly. He had noticed you staring at this stomach.

"What?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

He shifted in his seat as he looked down at his body, making everything even more visible to you.

"Nothing!" You said.

John looked at you, and he noticed that you were blushing. He looked a bit confused but he didn't mention it.

He then sighed and put his coffee cup down. "I'm gonna get dressed." He said and stood up.

Your gaze wandered to his thighs and his... bulge? Your face turned even redder.

John noticed that you were staring. He cleared his throat as he walked out of the living room and over to the bedroom,

grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet. You watched as he put them in, your eyes remaining in the same spot.

You felt your face getting hotter and hotter, as it felt impossible to look away from his quite huge bulge.

You finally manage to look away as he steps out of the bedroom.

"You alright? You're really quiet. " He asked, tilting his head.

"I was just uh... dissociating." You lie.

John raised an eyebrow as he looked at you.

"Are you sure? I thought you were looking at something." He looked down at himself again.

"Do I have something on me, like a stain or something?" He then asked.

You could still see his bulge as he sat back down on the chair.

"Huh? No, no." You shook your head.

John looked over at you, his face filled with confusion.

But he soon let out a laugh, "I'm just joking with you! I think I know what you were staring at." He said with a wink.

You heard the floorboards creak as he slowly moved his foot, causing his bulge to move slightly.

The action made your face burn as you tried to avoid looking.

The heat was almost unbearable, and you started to wonder what it would feel like to touch him there, what he would feel like inside you.

"I wasn't looking at anything, like I said, I was dissociating."

"Oh, come on, now." John said, his eyebrows raised.

"I noticed your eyes looking down there." He looked over at your face as he spoke, seeing that you were still burning from embarrassment.

"I like you looking there." He said as he moved his foot, causing his bulge to become even more noticeable.

You let out a low, quiet growl at his response.

John looked down at your body as you let out that growl.

He looked back up at you, seeing that you were staring at his body.

He smirked, "Like what you see?" he asked, moving his foot in a way that made his bulge bounce slightly.

He then looked down at himself. He pulled his shirt up slightly, showing off his fit body, muscles and happy trail.

John smiled, "I think you love what you're seeing."

He could see you gazing at his body, looking at every inch as your eyes traced each muscle and curve.

Your eyes met his as you stared at him.

"Do you like this?" he asked, biting his lip.

"Do you.. like this?" You unbutton your shirt and slide it off, leaving you in your bra and jeans.

John's eyes widened slightly as he took in your beautiful figure.

He remained speechless, not able to process what was happening in that moment.

His eyes traced every curve, muscle, and detail as he took in your body.

Then, he cleared his throat and nodded.

"Yes." He said after a moment. "I... I love what I'm seeing."

You slowly got up from the couch, slid off your jeans and got on his lap, straddling him.

You could feel his bulge pressing against you as he looked down at you.

You could see the heat in his eyes, as he took in your gorgeous body.

You know you didn't have to do that," he whispered, biting his lip.

"I wanted to.. I want you." You whisper in his ear as you rub yourself against him.

His breathing became heavier as he watched you rub yourself against.

His hands gripped the armrests tightly as he tried to keep control over himself.

The heat between you increased dramatically as you both started getting aroused by one another.

"Jesus Christ... Fuck..." he whispered under his breath.

You kiss him as you keep moving. He moaned into the kiss, feeling his desire grow as he felt you pressed against him.

He felt himself getting even harder as he continued to kiss you.

You unbutton his shirt slowly, sliding it off. Your fingers traces his chest and all the way down to his happy trail.

He groaned softly as he broke away from the kiss, panting heavily as he stared up at you.

"Please.." he begged quietly, reaching out for you. He wanted nothing more than to have you right now.

His hands sneaked behind your back and he unclasped your bra.

His eyes widened as he saw your breasts, his mouth falling slightly open in surprise.

He could feel his body shaking as he watched you. "Fuck..." he whispered, reaching out to touch them gently.

You moan softly as you feel his mouth wrap around your left nipple.

He began sucking hungrily on it, flicking his tongue across it as he did so. His hand reached up and cupped your other breast, squeezing it gently as he suckled on it.

You pulled his jeans down just enough to free his cock, you spat onto your hand and gave his cock a few strokes.

You pushed your panties to the side and aligned his cock with your entrance. He groaned as you slid down on his cock.

His hands gripped your hips tightly as he felt you wrap yourself around him, taking him fully inside you.

He felt his body tense as he felt how tight you were around him. He couldn't believe how much he wanted you right now.

You rest against his chest, moaning in pleasure and pain from how big he is. His cock was filling you up so well.

As you rested against him, he wrapped an arm around you and held you close to him.

"Oh god... You're so fucking perfect, so tight" he said breathlessly, looking deep into your eyes as he thrust slowly but firmly inside of you.

"You're so big.." You groaned against his neck.

He chuckled softly.

"Is that a complaint?" he asked teasingly, beginning to pick up speed as he fucked you.

You moan against his neck, gripping his shoulders as he fucks you.

He moaned too, kissing along your jawline as he picked up pace.

"Good girl..." *he murmured, continuing to pound away.

He could feel you tighten around him as you kept moaning, his own release building up as he continued to fuck you.

He could no longer hold off, his own orgasm crashing through him as he pounded away inside of you, his cum spilling into you as his body trembled.

"Oh my.." You say, panting.

He smiled weakly."Yeah? Was that okay?" he teased playfully, still buried deep within you.

His voice was shaky from exhaustion, but he didn't want to stop yet. Not until he knew you were satisfied too.

"Fuck.."

He gave you a hard and fast thrust, going as deep as he could.

"Oh yes, John!" You scream out in pleasure at the unexpected thrust.

He laughed happily, grabbing your hips tightly as he began slamming himself into you even harder than before.

"That's what I thought.." he growled huskily, burying himself completely inside of you once more.

He was determined to make sure you got everything you needed tonight.

He could feel you clenching around him as he fucked you, your body responding perfectly to his every move.

It made him even more turned on, his pace never slowing down.

His hands tightened their grip on your waist as he slammed himself deeper inside of you, moaning loudly with each movement.

The sound alone sent shivers through you, making you squirm on top of him.

"Ahh..fuck!" He groaned.

He kept up his intense pace, feeling like he could go on forever with this.

Your moans of pleasure were the best reward he could ever ask for.

"That's it...take it.." He felt you tighten around him as he continued to pound you.

His breathing became heavier as well, sweat dripping down his face.

His entire being seemed focused on just getting you to climax.

He finally gave one final powerful thrust, holding it there as he let out a loud moan.

He filled you with his warm seed, not stopping even when he was done.

You moan loudly as you orgasm, your walls clenching around his cock.

He pulled out of you then rolled you onto your stomach on the chair.

He entered you from behind, pounding away at you as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

"Like this?" You nod in response as he continued to fuck you, playing with your clit as he held onto you tightly.

He could feel you starting to tense up, just before he felt you orgasm on his cock and fingers.

He groaned loudly, pushing himself deeper into you as he felt you clenching around him again. He followed shortly after.

"Good girl..." He kissed your neck softly as he finished filling you up with his cum again.

"That was so good.." You groaned. He chuckled.

"Yeah? You liked it?" He asked teasingly, pulling out of you slowly.

"I think I should clean you up.." He winked playfully.

He got onto his knees in front of the chairs and spread your cheeks.

Running his tongue across your slit gently, causing goosebumps all over your skin.

You grab onto the chair and moan. He smiled, kissing your inner thigh.

He stuck his tongue out, licking you slowly as he pushed your legs further apart.

He kissed your clit gently, running his tongue over the sensitive bud.

"Don't stop.." You moaned out.

He kept going, alternating between sucking on your clit and flicking his tongue over it.

Your breathing became heavy as you started moaning louder. As you got closer to the edge, he sped up.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly as you felt your orgasm approach.

You groaned as you came again, your body trembling. He didn't stop until you were completely spent.

"Such a good girl," he whispered softly in your ear before pulling away from you and standing up.

He slapped your ass and groaned as he watched it jiggle.

You slowly slid off the chair, getting on your trembling knees in front of him.

You take his cock into your hand and give it a few strokes before getting closer to it and taking it into your mouth.

He groaned, his hips jerking forward as your lips wrapped around his cock.

His hands ran through your hair, gently guiding you up and down his shaft.

"That's it baby.." He whispered.

After several minutes of this, he pulled himself out of your mouth.

"This can wait, I need you." He pushed you onto the cow pelt on the floor.

He hovered over you, slowly kissing his way down your neck, tracing your body with his eyes.

Your body was now pressed up against his as his hand moved up your thigh.

You could see the lust in his eyes as he lowered his head towards your chest.

He kissed your chest gently, kissing his way to your nipple. You let out a soft moan as his mouth and hands began to explore your body.

His hands moved lower and lower, as he looked up at your face with lust.

You could feel your heart racing as John kissed his way back up.

His lips met your neck again, sending shivers down your spine.

"Oh, god," you whispered, breathing heavily.

You felt a wave of pleasure go through your body as John slipped a finger inside you, trying to push his cum back into you.

You felt your legs tense up, and your body slowly tensed.

John moved his free hand over your chest, and gently massaged your nipple with his fingers.

He moved his finger slowly, getting you used to the feeling before adding another.

He moaned as he felt your wetness around his fingers.

He kissed your neck, whispering in your ear. "I'm gonna make you cum so hard," his words make you moan.

His fingers leave your nipple as he rests that hand on your hip for support.

His fingers curve and his thumb rubs your clit. He felt his cock growing hard again as he pleasured you.

He added a third finger, curving them as he fucked you slowly, thrusting them in and out of you.

Your body tenses and you let out a small cry as John's fingers hit that spot.

You begin to move your hips in rhythm with his fingers, pushing back against him.

As he thrusted his fingers in and out of you, he leaned down and bit your shoulder softly, enjoying how much it made you squirm.

He continued kissing your neck, sucking on your skin softly. You let out a soft moan, your hips rocking against his hand.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

You moaned loudly, unable to hold back anymore. You felt yourself getting closer, your hips bucking against his hand wildly.

"Yessss.. come for me baby.." His voice deepened as he moved his fingers faster inside you, feeling you get closer.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, squeezing him as your body tensed up.

You let out a loud moan as you came, juices flowing from you onto his hand.

He grunted as he kept fingering you until you calmed down.

He pulled his fingers out slowly and sucked them clean.

He kissed your neck and teased you with his cock, as positioned himself at your entrance once more.

He slowly pushed in, feeling every muscle tighten around him as he did.

"Oh fuck.." He cried out happily, burying his face in your neck as he began to thrust.

He picked up your legs and placed them on his shoulders as he pounded into you, moaning with every thrust.

He reached between your legs, rubbing your clit with his thumb lightly.

"Oh yes!" You moaned.

He kept going, still rubbing his thumb against your clit while thrusting hard enough to make you breathless.

His grip tightened around your thighs as he neared his climax.

"I'm so close baby..." He panted, looking deep into your eyes as he thrusted even deeper inside you, wanting to watch you come undone.

You moaned loudly, feeling the waves of pleasure crash down on you as he continued to fuck you.

You screamed his name over and over again, your voice hoarse from all the shouting.

His thrusts became even harder and faster as he felt you getting closer.

You let out a scream as he hit your g-spot perfectly, bringing you to one of the most intense orgasms of your life.

He let out a growl as he reached his orgasm, his semen filling you up as his thrusts slowed down.

Your walls squeezed tightly around him, milking him for all he was worth.

He groaned deeply, burying his face in your breasts again, biting one nipple roughly this time.

He let go of your nipple and collapsed on top of you. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching every few seconds.

After a few minutes of rest he finally pulls out.

"Let's take this to the bedroom" he says, picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom.

Kicking the door closed behind you, he lays down gently and places you on top of him.

"Ride me baby," he growls.

#john marston smut #john marston x reader #john marston #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption #John Marston x female reader #van der linde gang x reader #red dead fanfiction #red dead smut

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mushrubes · 6 months

Text

Another?

Masterlist | Red dead redemption masterlist |

Requested : no

Based on character ai { Hosea Matthews by @/addynot }

Pairing : father! Hosea Matthews x child! reader, John Marston x matthews! reader

Pronouns : you/yours

Type : platonic / familial + fluff

Word count : 1.4k

Warnings : Swear words, familial, best friends in love, slightly ooc <3

Have a great day !! <3

——————————–

You stood still as Hosea cleaned the blood from your nose. He looked genuinely angry this time. You had a habit of getting into fights at school, but after this last one — your father seemed to be at his wit’s end. “I can’t believe you. I’ve tried so hard to get you an education and you go off and get into trouble.” He mumbled to himself, his hands gentle as he cleaned off your bruised face. He was extremely disappointed in you. "Pa, I'm sorry! It was deserved!" You defended, rolling your eyes. “I doubt that,” he argued. “You’ve told me before that every time you get into these things it’s ‘deserved’.” Hosea sighed. “Tell me. What happened this time?” he questioned. "O'driscolls. Two of them. Cornered me and they punched John after calling you and Uncle Dutch murderers so threw a punch at them and then the three of us started fighting." You explained.

Hosea rolls his eyes. “You know, you really shouldn’t go around throwing punches every time someone insults the gang.” He sighs again. “If I’m being honest… I’m almost scared to ask what happened to the O’Driscolls. How’s John?” he asked, the disappointment and concern evident. "They were threatening to get their guns out, and me punching them is too far? yeah, bullshit." You mumbled under your breath. "I think John's okay. I got him to go to Miss Grimshaw when we got back - he'll most likely have a black eye tomorrow." You sighed. “You don’t have to curse, kid. I understand the situation but what you failed to remember is that you’re only 16. You can’t go around throwing punches just because someone insults you.” Hosea sighs. “And as much as I don’t really like the O’Driscolls, I don’t think you should’ve punched them. That’s a good way to get yourself killed.” he shook his head.

Hosea sighs — a look of sadness and disappointment flashes through his face. “I know, love… I know. But, that doesn’t change anything; It’s still very dangerous to try and start fights with them. One day, you might end up picking the wrong fight…” He lets out another deep sigh. “You’re a smart kid. I just don’t want you to… do something stupid.” his voice softened, eyes full of love and concern for you, only wanting the best. "Whatever." you rolled your eyes, scoffing at him. “I’m serious, love. I don’t need to lose you the same way I lost your mother. I’m all you got right now, and it’s tough parenting a child in the gang. If anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.” Hosea paused, thinking. “Can I trust that you won’t get into another fight? Just while you’re at school?” he pleaded, wanting some sort of confirmation. "Yeah, sure." You huffed, getting up.

Hosea breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sweetheart. Just… please try to stay out of trouble. You’re the only child I’ll ever have, and I don’t want you to go the same way your mother did.” He looks at you, his face softening. “Just… just give me a hug, would you?” Your face softened and you gave in, hugging him tightly. You didn't even notice your tears staining his shirt. Hosea hugs you back tightly, holding his emotions back as tears begin to fall down his cheeks. “You’re… you’re the closest thing I’ll ever get to seeing your mother again.” He whispers quietly. “Don’t do that to me again, okay?” He holds you close, not wanting to let go. “I love you darling.” he caressed your head gently. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Pa. I love you too." You whispered, wiping your tears. “I know, sweetheart. Just… just don’t do something like that again, okay?” Hosea holds you close for what feels like forever, not wanting to let go. Eventually — and reluctantly — he does. “Now go on, get washed up and get to bed. It’s late.” he said.

"Okay. Goodnight, Pa. I love you." you responded, kissing his cheek gently. “Love you too, sweetheart. Goodnight.” With that, Hosea shuts the door behind you — leaving you alone to get cleaned up and head to bed. You made your way to the bathroom, brushing your teeth and getting changed. You get changed into something comfortable, ready to go to bed. As you start brushing your teeth, you begin to remember everything that happened earlier as well as the promise you made to Hosea — not to get into any more fights. This was probably one of the last times he was ever going to be easy on you, you thought to yourself. He genuinely didn’t want you to get hurt. You smiled softly when you walked back into your shared bedroom, seeing John sitting on his bed "Hey loser." you called lovingly, making him look up in your direction. “Shut up, runt.” John replied back lovingly with a smile on his face.

“How did your talk with father go?” John had a cut on his eye, it was swollen and red — but it wasn’t too bad. He looked completely exhausted. "Usual lecturing. How's your face doing?" you asked, gently cupping his cheek, frowning at the cut. “Same as always, numb to the pain,” John chuckled, leaning in to give you a kiss on your cheek. This was always your relationship with John. You teased and bickered a lot, but you both cared for each other deeply. He sighs. “I just… can’t believe you punched those bastards. What if they did get their guns out?” he pondered, concern evident in his voice and on his face. "Was worth it. They punched you and insulted my dad and Dutch." You shrugged, not even hesitating, meaning every single word. “Still not worth it.” John argued — but you could tell he wasn’t being serious, he was just worried about you. “Hosea was worried you were gonna get yourself killed. He was on the verge of tears talking to you.” John pauses for a second to think.

“Just… try not to do this again… okay, love?” he asked. "They're lucky I didn't kill them for hurting you." You commented, sitting next to him on his bed. “I know… but they weren’t worth the effort,” John chuckled weakly. “Now, come here.” He motioned for you to cuddle up with him on his bed. “I’m too tired to keep arguing.” he chuckled. You smiled softly, cuddling up to him, head on his chest. John’s body was warm. It always felt safe and cosy whenever you cuddled up to him like this — his large frame was comfortable to rest against. He wraps his arm around you, holding you close as he kisses your forehead. He was so big and handsome, and it made you feel safe in his arms. "Hey John?" you called quietly, turning the light out so it was dark. “Yeah, love?” He looked down at you. You could see his eyelids were slightly heavy — he was half asleep. “What’s up?” He asked softly. "Y'know I'd do anything for you, right?" you whispered, nuzzling into him.

John smiles at you, feeling slightly amused by your words. “I have no doubt,” he chuckled. “What’s your point?” He pulled you closer to him, feeling completely comfortable with you by his side. "I love you. I know we're teenagers but…" You trailed off, a lovesick smile on your face. John looks at you, his dark eyes filled with love for you. “I love you too, darlin',” he whispers back — his soft voice echoing softly through the room. “I know we’re just teenagers… but I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you in it.” He pulls you even closer to him, his hand brushing through your hair. “We’re gonna get through this… okay? I promise.” he assured, pressing kisses to your forehead and cheeks. "me and you forever?" you questioned, intertwining your hands. “Me and you forever, my love. No matter what that means or where that takes us.” His words were sweet, he meant every one of them. John had done so much for you, he was so much more than your best friend — he was the person who you trusted and loved more than anyone in this world. He was, truly, your soulmate.

Maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

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scarfacemarston · 7 months

Note

For ur prompt; John & A? 🤭

Prompt here. Sure thing, my dear! Affection (how do they show affection to their s/o) It partially changes through his life. He's not embarrassed to show his love, especially in rdr 1. However, he still prefers to show it in private. He'll put a protective arm around your shoulder or waist, occasionally caresses your hand if you're walking or sitting together. If he's feeling really romantic, he'll kiss your hand with a little shy grin. Sometimes it's the little things like he notices your leather (harness?) on your gun is looking worn down, he'll fix it for you and not expect a thank you. Or if he thinks your knives look dull, he'll sharpen them for you. Occasionally, he'll leave you little gifts like if he heard you talk about a flower you liked, he'd lay it by your bed side when he finds it. This man also canonically loves to cuddle. He's not the best with words - it's lower on the five love languages list, but he can be very poetic about how you make him feel alive, loved, and worthy. Or telling you you're handsome/beautiful.

#rdr 2 #john marston x reader #john marston x male reader #john marston x female reader #john marston x gender neutral reader #van der linde gang #red dead redemption 2 #rdr 1 #john marston x abigail roberts

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shittybundaskenyer · 2 years

Text

✹ ▬ 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'

rating: Explicit

pairing: John Marston x F!Reader

summary: Reader's and John's goodbyes and almosts during the years after a bank robbery gone south with Arthur and Hosea.

warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff in the end, a bunch of almosts, john being an idiot, a little violence bc this starts with a robbery, blood and injuries, a bunch of feelings, explicit sexual content, touch-starved john and reader, sexual tension, idiots in love, this being my first john fic ever and me turning it into a 12k+ words long monster.

word count: 12726

a/n: okay, this thing got out of hand so quickly because i just couldn’t stop writing it and adding more and more moments between john and reader, so forgive me for the ridiculous word count and the endless storms. the fic was inspired by endre ady and a poem of his with the same title. also this became a bit more reader-centric than i first intended but ah well... thank you so much for your kind words, you’re the sweetest @farcrying!! <33

MASTERLIST | ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

New Austin is a land of deep colors: the burning red of the soil and the sun, and the darkest blue of a stormy sky, the bottom of the San Luis River. The air ripples between, hot and humid during the late afternoon hours and it makes sweat tickle down the nape of your neck. You’re nervous. You’ve been on small robberies before, but not like this. Not with three almost completely stranger men, all tall and intimidating, armed to the teeth and so much better in doing things like these than you.

The man beside you—his name is John , you remind yourself—, grumbles as your wagon turns towards the backwater little town you’ve come to call your home in the past weeks. He stares at you, squints his eyes to look your face over. You’re painted white with face powder, your lips purpled by smashed berries. The look of a girl with blackened lungs, a living corpse. You’re the distraction today. All dolled-up and fragile-looking, stripped of your trusty rifle and the comforting weight of a gun belt, and squeezed into a dress one size too small. You have a revolver strapped high on your thigh though, hidden by ruffled skirts, but that’s the only weapon you’ve got.

You've known these people for a few weeks now, since they settled near the spot you usually pitched your camp at. A caravan of misfits, outlaws and conmen, like a circus made of criminals. But they were nice. Almost kind. Even more so when you met with one of them down at the saloon and asked him what they knew about the bank. The very bank you was planning on robbing today.

Arthur was the man's name, and he introduced you to the others. Hosea really liked the idea right from the start, and in turn you really liked him. He was a nice feller, a great actor. Of course he wanted a job that needed fancy outfits and fake sickness and a good doctor.

Plannin' all this out… You're like a daughter to me already!

But now you all but sigh as John turns towards the others, knocking his knee with yours, making the metal of the gun dig into your flesh. The wagon groans as you pass a pair of rails, the wood of them eaten away by time and the unforgiving dusty desert wind. The town’s nearing silhouette ripples in the heat. A mirage of civilization, one main street with crumbling buildings and a few homes scattered around. The only building standing tall and proud is the bank you’re planning on robbing, made of dark bricks and double windows covered with ornate steel bars.

You're nervous.

You've seen robberies, you've stolen from rich folk, but this is on a whole another level. A bank is a tough job. Way above the petty thieving ways you've followed.

You're lucky these men seem like professionals. Especially Hosea, who's now scolding John for not looking dapper enough.

"John, you're the husband of a lady from a rich family. You shouldn't look like a greasy mutt!"

John scratches his head and messes up his hair even more. The pomade he tried to slick it down with already worn off from all the touching and scratching. It looks like you're not the only one who's nervous.

"Christ alive, you children never learn!"

Hosea gives up on him and turns back to Arthur who's the only one not dressed up as a buffoon, riding along your wagon. Your mare trots beside his horse, as you've planned.

"You should get off at the edge of town and walk from there, Hosea's gonna go with the wagon," Arthur looks at you, and then John, who answers him with another dramatic sigh. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and tries to loosen it up a little. "You know the signs."

Arthur rides off.

You do as he said, get off the wagon at the edge of town and walk along the busy main street. The bank stands out of the many faces of the buildings like a sore thumb. It looks cold, sturdy.

John offers his arm for you and you curl your own around his, following him on the side of the road, watching a woman putting up new wares in the window of a general store.

John squeezes your arm when he spots Hosea not too far away, standing casually and having a smoke at his painted wagon, playing the good doctor.

You walk around for a little longer, play the sweethearts until you're sick of it. But as much as John didn't want to do it, he's actually really good at this. So good you find yourself calming down in the presence of him.

But then your time is up.

Hosea looks at you from the other side of the street, and you can just see the mischievous glint in his eyes as he nods. That’s your signal. The place is perfect, still busy with people runnin’ about, reading the papers and shopping vegetables for dinner. You take one step, two, a bit unsteady, and by three you’re falling.

A fake death can look so real.

John's stunned for a second, and then worried in the next. You fall onto the cobbled main street before he can catch you. The collision is loud, looks like it hurts a great deal but your skirts pillow the most of your fall. The air hisses out of you, but it’s all part of the act, it’s all like how you’ve planned before with Hosea.

You can hear John as he falls on his knees beside you, and the main street freezes around you. There’s no more of the happy chit-chatting of women, no discussions of a long ended war by the elder men. Only a whimper, a quiet, desperate sound that comes from the man at your side, so uncharacteristic of him—a sound of pain.

“No, no, no, darlin’,” hands are on you, at your shoulder and at the arch of your wrist. It’s John, you realize, from the callouses on his palm and fingers, callouses that can only form by living the life of a gunslinger. Yours are similar, albeit softer. “Hey, sweetheart, hey, don’t do this to me,” he sputters, and there’s a wet noise mingling into his raspy words.

You lay still, gulping in the shallowest breaths as more people notice the commotion. John's good at this. Really good.

He cradles your nape in one large palm, strokes the back of your head with the barest movement of his thumb so no one can see. It says 'doin' good', all the while he plays the part of a desperate husband, whimpering like a dog that got kicked in the gut.

"Help, for chrissakes!" he shouts, fake sobs wrecking his voice. It's so pretty, the way he can mold the words like a lover. You would never have guessed he was a good actor. Arthur seemed more like the type, but John… John was a hotheaded feral animal, never thinking, only doing his thing and getting in trouble. Or you thought he was like that. And now, now a woman is crying somewhere in the street. “Help my wife!”

“Get out of my way, I’m a doctor!” It’s Hosea and you hear the soles of his boots as they collide with the cobblestones of the main street. They’re nice shoes, made from expensive leather. Arthur told you before this job that Hosea keeps an entire wardrobe of outfits just for his scams. You adore him for it.

John’s shaking against you, faking sobs and cursing like a sailor. But he’s gentle as he holds you, grabs one of your wrists and taps on the skin with his finger. Three times. Arthur’s in. You have five more minutes before it starts to get messy.

“Let me help her,” Hosea’s voice comes from a lot closer now, and you hear him kneel beside you, nudging your arm with his knee as he takes your hand from John’s grip. He doesn’t lay you down, still cradles your head like a mother holds a babe. You never thought a man like him could be this gentle. “Don’t worry err.. Mister…?”

“Milton,” John answers, voice shaking.

“Don’t worry Mister Milton, she’s gonna be just fine,” Hosea moves you with the help of John, turns you on your side and places your hands beside you on the ground. You can feel your skirt soaking up the mud, you can smell the horses and the grease folk use for the wheels of their carriages. But the scent of gun oil and sweat and horse hair comes from beside you, from John, who’s so close now you can feel his breath on your powdered cheek.

“What’s wrong with her Doctor?”

You take another shallow breath, concealed by your corset, while Hosea checks your pulse at the arch of your wrist. He tsks, takes off his gloves and tries again, even more displeased than before. John sounds panicked when he asks again:

“What’s wrong with my wife?”

“Calm down, Mister Milton,” Hosea’s tone is all seriousness. He taps twice on the back of your palm and places your hand back onto the dirty cobblestones. Two more minutes. Another shallow breath. “And please, make room around us!”

John’s gone from beside you and you hear him shouting at people to kindly go to hell when they stand frozen to the spot for one second too long.

“Git the hell outta here Mister, I ain’t jokin’!”

The small crowd gathered around you scatters like frightened chickens.

Hosea’s hand is against your pulse, two fingers tapping once. You breathe. One minute.

“Can you help her, Doc?” John kneels again, grabs your hand and squeezes it. Hell is gonna get loose in town and you have to act quickly.

“I’m tryin’ Mister,” Hosea leans down to you, shielding your body a little as he pulls up the fabric of your skirt where the six-shooter lies strapped to your thigh. “You know what to do,” he whispers to you now, and then he’s jumping to his feet.

The door of the bank on the other side of the street swings open, glass shaking as it knocks against the hard brick wall of the building. Arthur’s there, face masked by his bandana and shoulders heavy with saddlebags of riches, his gloved hands full with loaded guns.

A scream rings down the main street, and then there’s the first shot.

It’s the sheriff.

You’re on your feet before your brain can process the change in position. You grab your revolver and let yourself be dragged by your hand so you get behind cover, and the commotion around you is enough for you to duck down before you are in the sights of the deputies. John’s beside you, panting and already shooting at the sheriff and his two men who stumbled out of the nearby saloon, lunch and poker party ruined.

“Shoot!” John shouts at you and you do as he says, cock your gun and aim at the foot of the sheriff from behind the wagon you use as shelter. The bullet tears through his shin, and comes out on the other side, spurting red. The man falls to his ass, cursing you ‘goddamned fuckin’ outlaws’.

“Riders are comin’,” Hosea slides behind cover beside you, reloads his pistol while John keeps the deputies occupied and off the trail of Arthur who is running at full speed towards the secluded spot at the edge of town where he’s left your horses.

“What riders?” John hisses, presses his back against the wagon beside you, your shoulders knocking together. “I ain’t plannin' on bein’ pinned down behind this damn wagon,” he looks at Hosea and flicks back the cylinder of his six-shooter.

“Five lawmen on horseback,” Hosea says, taking a deep breath in the process and shooting again. John grumbles something you can’t understand from the ringing of gunshots, but you’re sure it’s a rather lengthy curse.

“And when did ya wanna warn us about them?” you turn to Hosea, brows knitted together and hands trembling from the recoil. The chambers are empty. Again. This is gonna turn real bad.

“Now?”

“Hosea!” John scolds him and grabs your hand, pushes five cartridges into your palm. “Only shoot when your aim is true,” he says to you, then turns back to take out one deputy, and then the other, shooting him in the shoulder and making blood pool under him on the cobblestones.

“We have to run,” you fist the collar of Hosea’s vest and kick John in the ankle, making them turn towards the way you’re looking, towards the men riding closer and closer from the direction of the sheriff’s office.

“Fuckin’ hell,” John mutters and he grabs your hand, makes you follow him behind the wagons and firewood stacked high on the edge of the street. You run as fast as you can, ducking behind the buildings and firing from there. John shoots near one of the horses, makes its ridder fly as the mare bucks and runs away. The man falls onto the ground, his gun clinking on the cobblestones somewhere else in the street.

Hosea’s behind you, covering your rear.

You shoot a lawman off from his horse, hit another in the side. Only two of them remain, your bullets almost out.

John’s there, and it’s pure luck that he can knock down one lawman with a bullet to a shoulder and hit the last one straight in the head.

Christ, it’s messy. Too messy.

But there’s no time to idle around and think about the consequences. Hosea takes the lead this time, pulling you along with him.

“Go to Arthur, I’ll cover y—”

The words catch in John’s throat behind you, turn into a painful yelp and you whip around, freezing as you notice the man holding down John with a knife to his neck. It’s the one who’s fallen off his horse.

You don’t think. You can’t. Not when John looks at you with all the trust in the world. You’ve never seen such vibrant grey eyes. They’re the colors of the earth, brown-grey and muddy green and a heavily clouded sky, ever changing.

They know you’re good.

You aim.

And you shoot.

Blood and brain splatters over the ground, and the man behind John falls, his head open and oozing red as the last breath is taken from him.

John lands on his knees, clutching a hand to his side. A crimson patch is forming on his back, low enough to make you worry.

“Ugly bastard stabbed me,” he wheezes and takes your hand as you rush to him, helping him onto his feet. You spot Arthur from the corner of your eye, with the reins of your mare in his hand, galloping towards Hosea.

You whistle for your horse and she comes running, stopping just in front of you. You mutter her 'good girl' and help John into the saddle, then swing yourself up to sit in front of him.

“C’mon!” Arthur shouts towards you and you urge the horse into a trot, and then a canter. John’s hands snake around your middle.

Hosea rides behind Arthur, so you part ways at the edge of town to lose the law when they come lookin’ for tracks.

“Two days!” Hosea shouts, his figure shrinking in the distance as you squeeze your mare’s sides, galloping faster until the desert road blurs around you.

Your camp is far enough in the wilds to not be suspicious, so that’s where you settle for the upcoming two days.

John’s nice coat and white shirt is nothing more than bloody rags when you dismount. He’s pale like the moon up above, lips dry and eyes glazed. You hope it’s just the blood loss and not something worse. You hope that bastard didn’t nick his kidney or something. Flesh wounds you can mend, but nothin’ more.

“Sorry for sourin’ the mood,” he smiles at you as you sling his arm around your shoulders, make him sit on a rickety chair next to your tent.

“Robberies shouldn’t be fun,” you shake your head and peel his jacket off, ask with a hand at the collar of his shirt if it’s okay to take it off too. John just nods, fists his hand in the fabric of his pants.

“I remember you sayin’ it’s like a party,” he smirks at you, eyes half-lidded and you sigh.

“I had so much whiskey in me I thought Arthur was the bartender.”

You push down his suspenders, mindful of his back and unbutton his shirt. John’s sweaty chest heaves as your hand accidentally passes over the wound.

“I’m sorry, Jesus, sorry!”

John shakes his head and lets you work the clothing off of his shoulders, and then you try to peel it away from his back where it’s sticky with blood and got halfway stuffed into the wound as you rode. You know it hurts.

John hisses in pain. "Jus' keep talkin'."

"I can't talk when I'm nervous," you bring your canteen from your saddlebag, pour the water over his back until you can see the injury clearly. You lay your hand on his back, just beside the wound and gently press down. There's no blood under his skin, that's a good sign.

"I think you're gonna be alright," you reassure him, still looking at the torn flesh, crimson and puffed red.

You could push your thumb inside, make him scream with pain, squeeze the blood out like nectar from a ripe peach, but you don't. Not like this, not when it's serious. You gently skim your finger around the wound instead, catch the drops of dark crimson that seep out. It's a clean stab, but a deep one.

"It's gonna hurt pretty bad."

You reach for the moonshine you've found in your bag and you feel him shiver. You put your free hand on his back, just beside his spine, drawing a soothing circle with your thumb before you pour the strong liquid over the wound. John's body shakes as he tries to stifle a cry of pain. He is strong, like always. Quiet. Only a small whimper slips past his lips, barely audible, and you caress the line of his spine while you clean the gash.

The stench of blood and moonshine is strong in the air, but John still smells like the outdoors, like pine trees and wet earth and gunsmoke and sweat. You try not to get distracted by it.

"You shouldda offered some of that thing to me before you started torturin' me, missy, " he doesn't move but he still distracts you with his words. You want to believe the nickname is only the effect of the blood loss and the stench of alcohol that's so strong it even makes your head spin.

"If you wanna keep your throat intact I don't recommend it."

"It’s that bad?"

You bring out your kit of needle and thread from your tent, a nice little wooden box with carved flowers on it And you sit down behind John.

"Arthur gave it to me," you start, knowing well that the first few stitches are the worst, so you keep him distracted while you prepare the needle with the moonshine—you can't risk lighting a fire, not after all this—and you slip the thread through it. "He said it's from the Reverend. Nasty strong stuff."

You lay one palm on the small of his back and try to push the edges of the wound together.

"Then why did he give it to you?"

John hisses as you start to work, but he endures it well enough, clearly not being stitched up for the first time.

"We was in the saloon and he was drunk," you shrug, even though he can't see.

Four more stitches and it's gonna be done.

You stroke his back in the process, trace a circle around a faint mole that's close to his spine. John lets out a long sigh. It sounds like he's been holding it back for hours, but only a few minutes passed since you started. His hand moves, reaches behind himself to lay his palm on your knee.

"Thank you," he whispers, voice barely loud enough to hear over the howling coyotes and the warm evening wind.

You just slide your fingers over the line of his spine, up to his shoulder-blades, where you could feel his heart beating under if there would be lesser muscle and bone guarding it.

“It’s gonna leave one big scar,” you finish the last stitch.

“‘S not like I would see it,” you can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. He pulls back his hand, brushes back his sweaty hair with it instead. "And it's not like I wasn't ugly before."

You punch him in the shoulder and he's so surprised he almost falls off the chair.

"What?!"

"Nothin'." You wash down and pack up your tools, and then stand before him with a toothy grin on your face. "It's a defense mechanism. It detects stupidity and chooses violence."

John shakes his head, tries to laugh even with the stab of pain in his back.

"'Course, missy."

The two days you spend with John make you realize how bitter is the time when you're alone.

The second night you sit beside him, gulping down the finest whiskey you snatched from a drunk man when you were still in town. The air is cold this time, freshened up by the storm that passed in the afternoon, but John's shoulder is warm against yours, so warm it makes the heat of the alcohol in your belly feel like nothin'.

You traded stories since the sun dipped under the horizon, but the hour is late now and you've both gone quiet, maybe afraid of the morning, the revealing light of the sun. This… Whatever this is between you, it's fated to die.

This—This quiet companionship… John smoking peacefully beside you while you treat the wounds of your soul with whiskey. Looking up at the clouds and wondering what are you gonna buy from the money you took from the bank.

Maybe a house. A home.

Maybe a rifle.

You don't know yet. Not with your mind hazy and your hand tingling with the touch of John's own.

You look at him and he puts out his cigarette in the grass, still wet from the earlier rain. His eyes, a trap made of silver-painted grass. A mirror.

His hand slides over yours on the whiskey bottle and he takes it from you, takes a gulp from it and sets it down on the ground nearby.

"I was not finished," you whisper, your tongue slow. John just smiles.

"You're gonna miss the sunrise if you faint," he says quietly, so much more collected even though he drank the same amount as you if not more.

"I'm gonna throw up sooner than black out," you groan, slumping against his shoulder and it makes him hiss in pain. "Shit, sorry!"

"'S okay," he shakes his head and lets you lay your face into the crook of his neck.

"Will ya come back one day?"

The question is unexpected for him, and he has to look down at you for a second before he can answer. Like he's really thinking about it.

There's no answer in the end, just the press of his temple against the top of your head, quiet treasures of the night, and the sunrise purpling the edge of the landscape like a deep bruise.

Arthur arrives before noon, in the early hours when the desert sun is not so cruel. He brings John's mare with him, its saddlebags stuffed full of your cut from the bank robbery. John gives it to you, silent all the while.

It's a quiet goodbye. A brief one.

You want to hug him at least or somethin'. You don't. You just nod to them when he mounts up, and he nods back, earth-colored eyes glinting golden in the sun.

You stand at the edge of your camp and watch them ride away until the dust settles around you.

Someone is in your camp.

You've almost jumped up from your bedroll when you heard the intruder galloping towards your temporary home. You grab your rifle and don't bother with dressing up. If someone wants to kill you they're not gonna care if you are in your bloomers or not.

But it's no stranger.

It's John.

You lower your gun and slide your finger off above the trigger.

John's hair is messy, his face drenched in sweat and grime. He looks like a deer chased through a forest with hunters on its tail.

"What's wrong?" You ask, your voice rough from sleep. John has a small purse in his hand and he pushes it into your palm, grabbing your fingers and closing them around the leather pouch.

"Take this."

The purse feels heavy.

"John, what happened?"

He lets out a long exhale, his eyes searching around the prairie. There's no sign of other people for miles. Only the coyotes howl and the moon witnesses your conversation. She's a silent listener, painting the dark locks of John's hair silver around the edges where the light shines through.

"Someone recognized us in town. The law found our camp. Ya know we’re wanted men," he sounds tired. So tired it frightens you.

"Then where are ya goin'?"

"It doesn’t matter," he releases your hand and starts walking back to his horse, but you grab his wrist and make him stop. His expression makes you think your touch burns like a wildfire born from lightning.

"What if I wanted to join you?"

“You don’t need us,” he shakes his head, turns his palm so he can caress your wrist with his thumb. He doesn’t say we don’t need you. That I don’t need you…

“What do ya mean?”

“You’ve been alrigh’ on your own. You’re better off without us.”

Your hands fall apart.

He checks the straps on his saddle and slings the reins over the horse's neck. The purse feels so heavy it makes your wrist ache. A phantom pain of almosts.

“John?”

“Run while ya can, darlin’. We ain’t good for anyone.”

“But what if I don’t wanna leave?”

“I’ll tell ya somethin’,” he says as he puts his foot in the stirrup and waits, just for a second, thinking, before he mounts up. “We was gonna buy some land down here. Settle down like normal people. Herd cattle or somethin’. But we didn’t. Dutch says we can’t. This ain’t normal lives we’re living.”

"Wait," you try to make him stay, to make him explain all this, but he's already turning his horse towards the road and you know it's over.

“Take that money an' go buy a square of land.”

He's prey, being hunted by the iron teeth and claws of the law. He rides away.

You pour what's inside the leather pouch onto your bedroll when you return to your tent. Pearls. Gold and ruby. Stolen treasures of the desert night.

A long time passes. You get a loan from the bank you’ve robbed years ago. No one knows your face around here, no one knows you still keep a six-shooter holstered under your skirt. You make cheese and butter at home, pick herbs nearby to season them. It’s peaceful, in an almost boring way. Lonely. No one wants a rancher girl with a debt on her shoulders.

You don’t mind that much. You was always free spirited, born for the wind to claw at your face and for the ground to shake under the horse you ride. But now you got flowers in your hair, the smell of thyme and rosemary permanently etched into your hands. Cows with kind, big brown eyes that look at you dumbly while you walk by, and skirts and ribbons and a garden full of wildflowers and—

And it’s miserable, actually.

But this one morning, this strange, gentle morning someone visits.

It's John.

It's been what? How many years? Three? Four?

It doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s got the look of a kicked mutt, bruised around one eye, knuckles torn and bleeding crimson. He left the gang almost a year ago and he’s been chased by the law, hunted down for days until he could finally slip away in the dead of one stormy night—

And he rode straight here.

He stands in front of you in your kitchen, leaning against the table and trying to say something, trying to ask for your forgiveness, trying to tell you the truth. But he can’t. He’s not strong enough and you can't stand it longer. The look in his eyes. The hurt in his voice when he whispers a quiet sorry.

You want to push your hand through your own ribs and rip your heart out. You want a fountain of blood. You want to have what the color red means. Not this. Not the look in his eyes.

You go for his neck instead, curl your palm around his nape and bury your fingers in his matted hair, pull on the locks until he hisses out a sound—until he yields.

Yes.

There's a brief pause as you look up at him and the light in his eye changes. Behind dark lashes, something growls. Something feral, something akin to a caged monster. There's one inside you, too. A deer-corpse with the hairy wings of a moth, shot to hell by that fluttery feeling in your chest.

You tug on his hair harder, make him bend down his neck and that's it. John grabs you by the hips and pushes you back against the cabinet, makes the plates and silverware clink together in the drawers. There's pain, but not from the collision. His hands are gripping you so hard it's gonna bruise purple like the sky above the desert as a cold evening approaches.

John scolds you with his stare, with the force of his touch, with the way he tries to intimidate you with his height, but he's quiet, seems always so quiet when there are feelings swimming around the place. You want to punch him. To slap him.

Dear Christ, to kiss him.

His forehead meets yours and the tip of your nose touches the bridge of his. This thing feels more powerful than a kiss. It feels like a war between sky and earth, feels like pain, like happiness. You want to feel him against you for the rest of your life; you want to tell him to leave and never come back.

John's mouth opens, but there's no sound coming out, only a silent exhale. Maybe a piece of his soul was in there, inside that small gulp of air that now you take as your own.

He pushes closer, wedges himself right between your legs, and the fabric of your skirt brushes the top of your knee, bunched up in his fist. You want this, so goddamn much it burns inside your gut, makes the hand in his hair tremble and your eyelashes to flutter. John's body is hot against yours, so hot it feels like lightning has struck you and you're the wildfire spreading to blooming meadows and thick forests.

Your thoughts are a mess and the fingers on your other hand live their own life, coming up to his throat and pressing down. Gently, just under a thumb, the pressure acting as a warning. Nothin' more, you keep repeating inside your head, yet the only thought you're turning back to in every second is the fucking urge to kiss.

His mouth, his neck, his eyelids. The dip in his back next to a long-healed silvery scar.

You don't move. You won't ruin these few seconds of almosts . These bare minutes of belonging .

"Darlin' I—" his voice breaks. You shush him with your fingers on his neck.

Why the endearment? Why the sweetness? Why pretend when you both know this is only another goodbye?

His nose nudges yours again, but you don't kiss, not in the end. Only breathe, for a few blessed seconds, until the urge to cry overwhelms you. John steps back and pulls your hands away, like your touch could melt his flesh.

Lightning striking cattle. His eyes a stormy night sky.

He steps away and turns towards the door.

Summer turns, once, twice, three times. Sometime during the frosty May of 1899 a storm brews far off East in the distance. Dark, fat clouds flash with lightning, and the wind they carry is cold, cold like snow up in the mountains.

The papers scream murder the next day. Familiar faces glare at you from crudely inked wanted posters, promising thousands of dollars for the hunters who can kill or capture the infamous Van der Linde gang members.

Folks just call it the Blackwater massacre.

You think about John. His deep eyes and the kindness in his raspy voice. The wound you mended on his back. That evening when you almost kissed him. There's a reason he's not on the posters, a gravely dark reason that whispers death in the back of your mind.

You feel sad for a man, for maybe a love, that was never yours.

It's July of 1906. A humid, hot summer that's plagued by violent storms, but rain is scarce. Wildfires are born where lightning strikes, but the clouds won't weep for what's lost. It killed a dozen of cattle at your neighbors' last week, fried them to the bone and left only a heap of melted flesh for the vultures to pick on.

The sky is angry this afternoon, too.

Stormclouds roll down from the mountains, with water-heavy bellies and deep rumbles of thunder. The wind turns merciless, tugs at the clothing you hung out to dry and the tall weeping willows around the ranch.

You run out.

The air is heavy with the approaching scent of rain and ozone, so thick you can almost taste it on your tongue. The booming thunder reminds you of gunfire, a battle fought in the heavens. One small drop of water lands on the bridge of your nose, then another above the collar of your dress, sliding down in a lukewarm kiss.

You quickly pull the clothes from the line you hung them on before. They're almost completely dry even though you barely washed them like an hour ago. You glance over the fence, just behind the two trees that surround your house, and through the chaotic swirl of weeping willow branches you spot your two horses, already standing at the little shed you've built for them to hide from the sun and the storm.

You hoist the pile of fabrics over one shoulder while you go and check on the barn, locking up the heavy doors so the chickens won't scatter when lightning hits a bit too close.

The rain only starts pouring when you step up onto the porch. It comes like a train, hissing and rumbling and pattering over dry, hard ground and dead grass. Sings a beautiful symphony of water as it hits the tin roof above you, makes the breath hitch in your throat when lightning strikes out in the prairie.

It's fierce. It's beautiful.

In another flash of light you notice a figure, masked by the rain and the dust it kicked up. A person you realize, a man, riding towards your home to probably seek refuge from the storm, digging his heels into the flanks of his horse.

It's a big horse, taller than your own ones and dark, so dark, like the clouds swirling above you. It snorts unpleasantly as its owner slows it to a halt, pulls its head up with wild eyes, half white, half brown.

The man dismounts and the clink of his spurs dissolves into the cacophony of water and wind.

"Sorry to bother you, missy," he greets you, face still obscured by his hat but Jesus Christ, that goddamn voice. You think you got a heatstroke for a moment, or that you're completely gone mad by living on your own for too long. You're gone in the head. Brain dead. "It's good to see ya."

And then he says your name.

Your goddamn name.

So sweet and quiet and raspy that something inside you breaks and falls into a million pieces. There's no way it can be mended now, no hope for a heart fallen apart one too many times.

The pile of clothes slips from your hands.

He pulls off his hat, lets the rain soak his hair and his face, slide into his beard and down his neck.

John Marston.

And he brought the rain with him.

He just stands there, with the reins clutched tight in his hand, looking at you like you're the sun, and waits. You can't answer. Not when he's blurring in front of you like a dissolving mirage in the desert out at noon.

It's the tears, you realize, welling up in the corners of your eyes until you have to hastily wipe them away with the back of your palm.

John is back.

He's alive.

His hair is cut short, only longer at his temples, sticking to his skin with sweat and the rain. Maybe he tries to cover up the nasty scars that cut deep into his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the arch of his brow. He looks tired. So tired and pale that for a second you think you're seeing a corpse. A reanimated, cruel ghost of a man you thought you once loved. Maybe still do.

Your eyes finally meet and you can't look away. Those gorgeous eyes. Little pools of glass, windows you can see through, down right to his heart. You don't know if he's crying or only the rainwater tickles down his face.

“Hitch your horse back at the shed,” you don’t know how you force the words out, but your voice is wet. John just watches you for a second more and then goes for the shed, his mare nickering beside him as she notices the other horses.

You pick up the washed clothes from the ground, trying to dust them off even though you know you’ll have to wash them again. Flecks of mud paint the linen like a hundred tiny flies lured in by petals of daisies.

The house is dark inside, you have to light a kerosene lamp so you won’t trip around the small cabinet you keep your clothes in. There’s a basket next to it, already half-full with the jeans you wore the other days for riding, heavy with dust and horse hair and sweat. You drop the pile from your hand on top of them and lean against the wall, suddenly too overwhelmed to breathe properly.

He’s alive. He’s here. You can hear him talking to the horses outside even as the wind howls.

And then he’s pushing the door open, just standing there, drenched to the bone and backlit by the lightning flashing outside. A ghost. A memory.

You straighten yourself, try to look not insane while he walks closer and places his rifle against one leg of your dining table. His hat and bag is next, landing on the surface of the hard wood, dripping lukewarm water all around your crocheted table-cloth.

“I’m sorry for—” he starts but doesn’t finish the sentence. He brings a palm to his face and drags it over the scarred line of his jaw. “I don’t even know.”

The words are trapped in your throat. You want to say so much and so little, you want to tell him you waited for him for a lifetime, you want to tell him you hate him, you want to kiss him, you want to kick him, you want to—

“‘S been a… a long time.”

John hangs his head.

“Yeah.” He takes a step closer, afraid of you like a stag is afraid of a hunter’s footsteps. “You look… good.”

You just nod. You can’t find your voice. It’s like the presence of him sucked all the life out of you. You can’t even hear the storm anymore, it’s muffled by the blood rumbling in your ears and tingling in your fingertips. John takes one more step and first you think he wants to hug you or somethin’. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, in front of you with his hands all around him, like he doesn’t know where to put them or what to do with them.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask and step away from the wall.

“I—I was… I just… I wanted to see you,” he stammers, fidgets with the leather of his suspenders.

Something shakes inside you. Something violent and sweet, something you thought you’ve lost years ago.

“It’s been years,” you whisper, not so angry. Just sad.

“I know.”

“That night when you came back… Do ya remember?” It lives vividly in your mind still, the way he felt against you. He nods, already defeated. He takes another step but you push him away, make him stumble for a second.

“I—”

“Why did ya left? Why did ya came here in the first place?” you push him again, try to grab his arm but he’s quicker. He regrets leaving you like that since it happened. But he had to make things right with Abigail, he had to go back and settle things with the others. He was never made for love. Never like he wanted to.

You bend him, mold him. Shape him into something he thought was long gone. He’s a boy again, with a dead mother and a dying father, arms coated with bruises and blood, and he’s what, eight years old? Maybe nine? There’s a knife in his hand, the blade bloody and dull. Tears sting his eyes as the weapon falls to the ground, clatters loudly on the pavement behind the dusty saloon his father used to go to play cards in.

Arthur always told him that he was the damn lucky one, but the truth is, John never was. Luck is not like this. It can’t be. It can’t taste like sweetened iron, can’t smell like copper, can’t bruise on his skin and inside his soul. You hate him, and he deserves it.

The wound on his back flares up like a torch dipped in kerosene, like the presence of you would make it hurt as much as he hurt you. Pain explodes and crawls up his side, a deep, internal pain that can’t be soothed with tinctures and tonics. He’s panicking, he knows he does, but he can’t let you close. You’ll get burned just like everyone; like his family, his gang, Bessy, Hosea, Arthur… Christ. He’s no luck, newer was.

More like a curse.

You reach for him again but he grabs your hand before your fingers could touch his shoulder. John’s grip burns like a deadly fever, like anger personified. You get scorched as he yanks it away. You end up stumbling backwards to the table, your hip colliding with it and a broken gasp hisses out from your throat.

John steps closer. He’s a cornered animal, a lone wolf, a wounded predator and he almost snarls . Tears shine in his eyes when the lightning illuminates the scars on his face, making them look deep—deep like dried out riverbeds littered with gaping, dead fish. You grip the table’s edge and look him in the eye.

You know that look. Knew it even before, when he left you with your skirt bunched up and the scent of him sitting deep in your lungs.

“John,” you whisper, almost too quiet to hear above the storm outside and inside his heart. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, hasty, but you saw already. “Were you married?”

His gaze trails to the ground and fresh tears bubble out. He was never a weak man. Never a coward, But this… This whole thing with his son, his wi—Abigail… With you… There are things that can break diamond.

“Not in front of God,” he mutters, his anger suddenly evaporating from his voice. Your hand meets his shoulder and your thumb digs in.

“What have you done?” your voice is quiet. Cold. Strange coming from your own mouth. John’s lips pull into a snarl. He looks like a wolf missing a leg. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away, but he doesn’t release it. Just holds it there, in an awkward imitation of how dancing a waltz would look like.

“I—I’m… Arthur… Hosea, everyone—They’re fucking dead, because of me,” the words spill from him, dripping with anger and venom and pain. His voice breaks as he continues, “Arthur died saving my ass, trying to make me into a father but I couldn’t grow up to the task... I… I let them go. Abigail and Jack and I— I’m sorry,” you see tears. Fresh, bitter tears that bubble out from one corner of his eye, then another. You’ve never seen him cry before this day. Even when in pain. “Sorry. I won’t talk about this right now. I can’t.”

“I—I’m sorry John.”

“No, no. You’re—You’re the only one I have left. I just wanted to make sure…” He releases you and wipes his eyes with the back of his palm again.

“Make sure of what?”

“That I didn’t ruin you too.”

You look at him for a few seconds too long and he thinks it's rejection but Jesus, it's not.

You go for his neck, hugging him to yourself like a long lost lover. He doesn’t return the gesture, not at first, stunned by the warmth of you.

But then you feel his hands around your waist, on the arch of your spine. He buries his face into your shoulder, breathes in, shaking like the weeping willows outside. You embrace him and you stroke his spine, feel over the muscles of his back through his shirt. You stand like that for what feels like hours, but it lasts for only a minute.

And then John turns towards you, eyes barely open and shining wet.

“Thank you,” he whispers, lips almost touching the line of your jaw. You slide a hand upwards, up into his hair that’s strangely short for him.

And then he’s right there.

A small kiss, just at the corner of your mouth, nothing more, nothing less.

It’s enough. Something inside you explodes. Something bloody and wet and sickly sweet. Something that may be beating restlessly inside your ribcage. A flock of frightened, buzzing night butterflies.

John tries to pull away, already shy, but you don’t let him.

It’s a real kiss this time.

Slow, careful, barely feeling real.

But it deepens. And John groans into your mouth. You’re gone from that, burned alive, struck by lightning, shot in the heart. You open up for him, let him kiss you like he always wanted to, like you always wanted to. With teeth and bites and messy sounds, with something you can’t put into words. John’s nose knocks against yours, then gets squished against your cheek, and you can feel the scar splitting his lips.

You stumble against the table again, with John pressed flush against you, your hand slipping under his shirt, over skin that the rainwater turned cold. It’s quickly warming up under your touch, with John sighing into your kiss and his hands sliding down your body towards the skirt of your dress, gripping the fabric so hard you think it may tear.

Not that you would care.

John’s kissing you.

The storm could tear your house apart and you wouldn’t care if he would keep kissing you through it.

And then there’s more. You feel him against your hip as you try to unbutton his shirt, the hot hardness of him, insistent and unmistakable. He wants you so much he’s already hard by kissing you for barely a few minutes.

“John?” you pull back a little, foreheads still touching and your hands still gripping the seam of his shirt.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice broken. You shake your head and nuzzle his nose.

“Just—I think we should—” you’re breathless when you think about what you’re proposing. But Christ alive, do you want it more than anythin’. Want him, mind, soul, and scarred body. Want him close, as close as possible. Inside.

“I’m sorry I’ll… I’ll stop, jus’... I—”

“No. No, it’s not that I—” you gasp, feel John’s hands on your chest where he unbuttons your shirt, so damn eager his fingers shake. You gently lay your own palms over his and take his hand, pulling him towards the small space you separated from the rest of the house to use as a bedroom. John trips in his rifle as he follows you and you just smile at him, all teeth and shining eyes. “I heard a bed is real nice for these kinda things we’re doin’.”

Knocking down your boots, you sink into the mattress and messy quilts laying unmade on your bed, and you pull John with you, make him settle between your opened legs. He’s heavy against you, a comforting weight, and you take your time kissing him again because it’s just too good to stop.

You’re stripped of your shirt while you’re occupied, but you don’t care. Not when his calloused palms frame one and then two of your breasts, gentle in their curiosity. John licks into your mouth and you answer him with a growl when his thumb starts to trace little circles on one nipple.

He parts from you, trails his lips around your jaw and the hollow of your throat instead, until he reaches your collarbones. There’s a sigh you can’t hold back. Your blood boils, bubbles away into every limb and muscle and skin, igniting little sparks of pleasure like a match struck against the sole of a worn leather boot.

One of his hands slides lower, tries to inch up the fabric of your skirt, but you stop him, make him look into your eyes with a hand on his chin. John’s eyes are half-lidded, dark pools of something sticky. Something deep and warm. Want, lust, maybe love.

“Wanna stop?”

“No, jus’... Jus' take it off, please,” your voice sounds like it comes from miles away, breathless and quiet, but it makes something inside John’s gaze catch on fire. He only pulls back enough so he can take the garment off, admiring every inch of naked skin that’s revealed. “Bloomers too,” you whisper, with the blood scorching your face, rational thoughts long gone.

John makes a noise, something akin to a wounded animal’s whimper, or a growl, you can’t decide which is more similar. And then you feel his hands, hot and strong and now steady on the naked skin of your hips, fiddling with the ruffled waist of your bloomers and then inching them down your thighs.

You’re completely naked and John Marston is in your bed.

John, with his hair messed up and his eyes wild, with his shirt buttoned open all the way to the dark trail of hair that disappears under his pants. His body tells the story all in itself. The scars and remnants of gunshots, closed cuts and stab wounds, scattered around his skin like a myriad of stars. A constellation of endured pain and survival. And lower on his back, just above his hips you know there's a silvery line, an injury you stitched together yourself. If you think hard enough you can still smell the moonshine and the blood. And that earthy smell… Forest during a rain, the soaked soil that mixes with horse hair and sweat.

That never changed.

So you open your thighs and pull him back over yourself, and you kiss him, kiss him, kiss him until you’re out of breath and his cock is too much of a hard press against the inside of your thigh to ignore anymore.

He pulls back, just enough so your foreheads still brush, and he touches a finger, and then another over your kiss-swollen lips, all dark and full of blood. You go silent as he skims them over your mouth, feather soft. You open up for him after a few seconds and he's a bit surprised when you lick one thick digit.

Something flickers in his eyes again, something wild and searing hot.

Hellfire.

He reaches down, down between your bodies and slides that thick middle finger through your folds and you're wet enough to make it easy . Your breath hitches and something inside your ribcage trembles, maybe a thousand flickering fireflies.

You gasp.

John's finger pushes inside and it's only good for reminding you that this is not enough. Even though sparks crawl up your belly when he gently starts a rhythm, it's not enough. So you reach for his wrist and pull his hand away, place it near the dip where your thigh meets your hip.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispers, his voice kind, but you shake your head and grip his hair tighter to direct his mouth closer to yours. Yes, kiss me. Kiss me, please.

"Couldn't hurt me even if ya wanted to," you nudge him with your nose.

John takes the hint and presses his lips to your waiting mouth, lets you open him up and curl your tongue around his. It's messy, it's hasty, it feels like devouring. You wrench a quiet groan from his throat and then pull away, tugging on his gun belt all the while.

He rushes for your fingers to take over, but you still manage to unclasp it before he can clumsily try to help you. The belt falls to the bed but stays just close enough for him to grab his revolver if anything happens. It's the outlaw life, you guess, the constant feeling of being hunted. Of being prey and a predator at once.

"John," you whisper, honey sweetening your voice when you say that one syllable while you tug down his suspenders, make him open his pants with such a haste your hands knock together between your bodies. "I don't wanna wait."

His shirt is gone.

You do wait for his answer though, stroke the fine hairs on his belly until he kisses you again, until his pants slide low enough that he can tug his cock free. You can't see, but you can feel him, hot and heavy against the crease of your thigh.

"Ya sure?" There's a brief pause while he waits for your answer, even though he's right there, just an inch away from where you want him. You nod and slide your hands to his hips, to urge him on. He pulls back, sits on his haunches and pries your legs open even more.

You suck in a hasty breath.

Christ, he's so pretty like this. All dark eyes and strong hands and sun-kissed chest and kiss-swollen, scarred lips.

John spits in his palm, stroking it over his cock, trying to ease his way. You curl one leg around his thigh, urging him on and it's enough.

He takes himself in hand and pushes inside, his cock catching on the seam of your opening for a second, and you whine, not used to the intrusion after being on your own for such a long time. It's a slow, torturous slide that makes the muscles in your stomach clench and your eyes to squeeze shut. You're so tight he can barely move, hisses like a feral cat someone stepped on.

You pull him over yourself, close, closer, until there's no more space, only flesh and skin and pearling sweat.

It hurts. Hurts like a knife to the guts, like a burning iron, but it's okay. John is crumbling to pieces in front of you and you get to watch, you get to feel. Pain, arousal, want. Pure, deep want of a long lost lover. He slides deeper, making the settling ache flare up again, making your heart jump up to your throat. You swallow back a tear and grab his hand, the one he can't seem to place anywhere, and you guide it down, down to your belly to make him press on it. Yes. That's it. That's where you know he can maybe feel himself inside you.

Pieces of a flesh puzzle.

John groans into your hair as you urge him on with your other hand and his fingers travel lower, where he parts your folds with his cock, to trace a small circle with his thumb. But there's no haste. Or not until you have him all the way inside.

You're a shallow grave, blooming with the prettiest summer wildflowers, a soft patch of soil where he can sink into the earth. He's buried alive, burned. No, scorched. Every bruised part of him you touch is searing hot, buzzing like lightning inside a fat-bellied stormcloud. You press down, carve half-crescents into the flesh with your nails. John's answering growl is as feral as a starving wolf's.

It's done. His hips are pressed snugly to your own, legs already trembling. Christ alive.

The pain subsides as you get used to the stretch of him, the way his body fits to yours. It's been so goddamn long since you've wanted this, you've dreamed about this countless times when the gang was still up and running around here. And then after, when you were still circling around each other like mosquitos around a light with stomachs full of blood.

John leans down to you, lips already parting and you open up for him immediately—how could you not? The kiss is slow first, almost chaste. A gentle press of scarred, soft flesh. It's maddening. You open up for him so soon, so eager, and he can't refuse. He licks into your mouth, tongue hot and teeth insistent. There's no need for a god when a kiss like this exists.

And just like that, with his lips muffling your noises, his hips move. A slow, hard push and pull, a tide. You whimper as he sinks back into you, curl your hands around his nape and into his hair. John's quiet groan clinks against your teeth and his dark lashes fan over his cheeks as he gets lost in the act for a moment, in the sinful depth of your own body. There's no pain anymore. Only heat and pressure and flickering embers of pleasure.

"John," you whisper as you pull away from the kiss, smoothing back his hair from his face. "John—"

He pushes away your hands. You think it's rejection, something that's forbidden. But it's not, Jesus, it's not. He weaves his fingers between yours on the threadbare blankets, squeezes them in a reassuring manner. You turn to look at them: palms aligned, thumbs hooked together. His life-line on yours.

"What's it, darlin'?" his voice is raspier than ever, like he had been chainsmoking a dozen packs of cigarettes. It makes your toes twitch.

You shake your head a little, strain your neck so you can kiss him again. John's making all these beautiful noises, grunts and sighs as he finds a rhythm and fucking smiles when you finally move to meet his thrusts. A small cry gets trapped in your throat as John's hands release yours and find home around your thighs, between your legs.

Something inside you blooms. Lungs and stomach and everything else—flowers are spurting out, petals made of blood. Your ribcage lifts and sinks, the pressure just growing under and you whine when John speeds up a little, making you jolt. Your mouths slide against each other, not able to kiss anymore, too occupied with breathing, yet you manage to catch the scar at the corner of his lips.

"I always wanted this," he murmurs in the softest voice you've ever heard him speak.

The confession comes like a train and tears you to pieces, slices you up on the rails. How dare he? How dare he say it like this? Like there was no one else. Like ever. Like it was never a complicated thing. But it is. Loving John Marston is everything but simple, yet you can't stop.

You reach up to his hair and yank on it. John growls like a dog caught by the neck. His hips falter and he stops, still nestled deep with a hand already on your stomach and just wandering lower and lower.

"Don't say it like that," you say quietly and the air's punched out of your lungs at a sudden, hard thrust. John's not dealing with your shit right now. Not when he has you like he dreamed about so many times during the years.

"What? That I missed you?" His words are surprisingly collected, even though he's pushing into you again, his stomach trembling and hands grabbing a bit too hard on your hips. You hope it bruises. You hope you can touch the skin there later and feel the ache of his grip, a confirmation that he was here. That he was not another dream or mirage the heat made you imagine. "That I'm so goddamn happy being with ya?"

He is?

He… You—

"Happy?" you're a bit drunk on the feel of him so you can only hiss out one weak question between your teeth before another hard thrust has you gasping.

"So goddamn happy I wanna scream," he whispers, leans down to press his forehead to yours. His pelvis grinds against your mound, making sparks buzz away, into your legs, your stomach, your heart. You look up at him, watch how his lashes frame his eyes, all dark pupils and barely anything else. Black lakewater denied by the moon's light. But there's something in there. Something slow and sluggish, something red that crawls out until you can taste it in the air.

Is this love?

You don't know, not really. You only feel. So much, so many different things at once it makes you lightheaded. You always thought love was made-up. That peach pink, fuzzy kind of love. You thought it had to be bloody. Red and purple and yellow like fading bruises. Not soft, not gentle, not kind—yet when John brushes away the hair from your face and kisses you again… It's exactly like that. Fuzzy, bruising, the deepest shade of reddish-pink. His eyes and lips are gentle, the kiss sweet but you think your hip bruises under his hand, and your insides burn as you clench around his cock.

Bitter and sickly sweet.

"You're gonna be the death of me," you murmur onto his lips, between his teeth. You can almost hear the impact of them as they clink. John grinds into you harder and the world tips sideways a little.

"Wanted to tell you the— The same thing."

He releases your hip, finally, skims his hand downwards, between your legs to gather your wetness that spilled past his cock, trails it up to your clit and strokes the sensitive flesh. He's so close to you, his palm barely fits between your bodies, but he makes do with the small room anyway, wrenching desperate little sounds from your throat. It's easy like this, with your heart already in your mouth, the confessions wanting to spill out, barely contained by your teeth.

You hate him.

You love him.

Everything. The pretty shade of his eyes. The messy hair. The narrow hips and the broad shoulders. The voice. The strength, the gentleness, the way he looks at you. Shit.

You love him so much it starts to ache, somewhere deep inside you. It's the brain, the spinal cord.

The heart.

John kisses your thoughts away, feeding you only fire and sunlight and something that tastes like lightning would. Or the whole goddamn universe. Your body starts to shake, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, cooling on your skin like the sweat between your breasts. His tongue flicks over yours, and then it's gone and you can't will your eyes to open, not before you feel him again, on the thin skin of your sternum, kissing a bruise into existence.

It's gonna be wine red, the color of desire. Of love.

His fingers between your legs quickly figure you out and he pulls back a little to watch, but you don't let him. It's the best part, the embrace, and you're doing your damn best to hold him like no one ever did. John's trembling in your arms, but he can't stop, not with you barely hanging at the edge of bliss. Always the selfless bastard, always .

You want to hit him.

But you don't. You only hug him to yourself tighter, until his movement falters, until he has to gasp in a breath.

"S-Stay," you barely manage to speak but it's enough. John snakes his arm around your shoulders, holds your head in the palm of his hand and frames the backs of your thighs with his.

The tears spill out.

John's middle- and forefinger presses down on your clit. Your lips open on a silent scream, something you would be embarrassed about if he didn't kiss away the edge of it. But he does, 'course he does. John swallows your sounds, the curses and the endearments as the pressure becomes too much.

There's a coppery taste in your mouth, not your blood, and there's pain in your belly, the ache of a teetering peak. John reassures you, once more, with the prettiest soft voice you've ever heard in your whole life:

"C'mon, darlin'," he touches his forehead to yours again, digs his fingers into your hair and the others into the meat of your folds. “Lemme feel ya.”

You come apart with shaking limbs and a small, broken whimper.

Your blood buzzes in your ear like rain that causes a flood, like static inside a stormcloud. Pleasure spreads through you like how lightning spills into the veins of an inky blue sky. John murmurs your name, brings you down from the clouds with various whispers of sweetheart and darlin'.

He's still moving inside you, chasing an end that's too near to ignore. You're so tight around him it almost hurts, still fluttering like hundreds of flesh-winged butterflies, and the noises slipping through the static in your ears are wet . Sloppy. Pure sin.

Jesus.

Christ.

"Alright?" he asks, out of breath and red in the cheeks but still with a little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. There's a fleck of blood on his chin. He's so damn pretty like this you want to spill a few tears again. You want to punch him. To kiss him.

This—

This bastard!

You love him so much.

So you nod and pull him in again, catch his lips in the most perfect kiss you can muster. John outright moans into your mouth and lets you sink your fingers into his hair, lets you claw at his nape, lets you tear his goddamn heart through his throat.

Yes, he can give it to you. Just like this.

The rhythm of his hips falter and you cry out from the overstimulation. He's at his end, twitching inside you with his stomach shaking and his hands trembling.

One hard thrust, two, and then you're empty, his seed spilling over your belly and the crease in your thigh.

John sounds like he's drowning. Like he's been stabbed in a lung. He collapses halfway over you like a corpse, unmoving and shivering, not caring about the mess he made of you. You bring your palms around his face, make him nestle into the crook of your neck. He's crying, you realize, soundless little sobs that jerk one, two, three tears from his eyes.

And then it's over.

Glossy dark eyes stare at you. And inside them, there is his whole soul, his heart laid bare.

"I was sweet on you since you picked me up at that saloon with Arthur and Hosea," you whisper, the words somehow flowing easier than before. Like water from a roof. "I still am."

Something in John's gaze shifts. A glint of joy. He moves until he's eye-to-eye with you, foreheads touching. You watch how his eyelashes shine wet in the low light. John nudges your nose, your mouth, makes you open up for a slow, gentle kiss. There's no more fight in it, no more fire.

Just honey. Slow, sticky. Like nectar.

Like love.

“Good,” he rasps, his voice strained. It sounds like he had been shouting for hours. He pushes the stray strands of hair from your temple and curls his other arm around you, fingers splaying out over your belly, still wet. “‘Cause otherwise this would be a little embarrassing.”

You don't reply, not at first. You just turn towards him and cradle his face in your palms, mapping out his scars with your thumbs and your gaze. John's still as a corpse in your hands, watching you watching him, but his fingers move on your waist, one gentle circle, and then two.

"I thought you was dead," you whisper and knock your forehead against his. John's exhale is more like a shudder and his breath trembles when he reaches up for your wrist, guiding it over his chest. He places it above his heart, where you can feel it pumping blood under flesh and a cage of bone. The rhythm calms, slows as the remnant aftershocks of your coupling disappear.

"I'm here," he whispers, so soft it barely counts as speaking. "I'm not gonna disappear. Not again."

It almost sounds like a confession.

Your heart aches with the gentle flicker of hope. You've been alone for so long, this whole thing feels like a dream, a mirage constructed by the humid air and the unforgiving sun: the rain, the thunder, the deep rumble of his voice, the line of his body sliding along your own.

Hills and valleys meeting the clouds.

You clutch his hair in one fist and grab his hand with the other, curling your fingers around him like a poisonous vine choking a rose bush. John's mouth dips to your throat, his lips sweet on your skin as they settle just above your pulse. He leaves a gentle peck there, and it's something so little yet so important. It's like a stamp on a letter written by a dead lover. Like a handwritten note saying 'I will. I will.'

"Will you stay?" You find yourself asking, quiet, afraid of the answer. What if he says no? What if this is nothing? What if there is another lie?

John just reaches forward and cradles your nape, lays your head on his shoulder. It's a sweet embrace, something that has no end, nor beginning. His voice comes from under your ear, a careful whisper.

"Only if you want me to."

That's all it takes for the tears to bubble out. You don't know why you're crying, you only feel the bitter honey of relief. All these years, all this blood, and now there's a sliver of hope that glints in his gaze like the North-star on the coldest winter nights.

The color of his eyes—tones of the earth, a soft grave you willingly fall into when he presses close again, seeking one gentle kiss that lasts for one second and an eternity.

"'Course I do," you whisper onto his lips and you let your hand wander, over the dark hair on his strong chest and then over the muscles of his back. Lower, under his ribs there's a scar you can feel, the one where you left your mark on him. Not by making the wound, but by mending it.

"That’s when I knew..." he murmurs with a hint of a smile in his voice. You draw one circle, then two around the different texture.

“Knew what?”

“That you’re special, darlin’,” it’s all too sweet, the kindness in his voice. You never thought that John Marston would be a sweetheart under all that grime and blood and violence.

But he is, Christ, he is.

You let go of him and focus your hands on his face instead, tracing the deep lines of scars where his beard doesn't grow anymore. Then, the line that breaks the arch of his brow, just missing the eye. His eyelashes flutter, then fan over his cheeks for a moment. He’s enjoying your touch there, the curious fingers and the soft puffs of air that lift a few hairs off of his face when you exhale, so close to him it barely counts as an inch of distance.

You kiss him again, softly.

John reaches behind himself and manages to grab a piece of clothing—his shirt that’s still wet from the rain—and he cleans up the mess on your stomach, makes you shiver with its cold touch, then drags it over himself too, and tosses it to the floor.

You listen how he breathes in slowly, how his heart beats at the rhythm of the quieting storm outside. He pulls you close, closer than ever and keeps you there until the clouds disappear and the sun peeks over the horizon. Golden light floods your home. You comb your fingers through his hair all the while, caress his nape and the back of his head. You think he falls asleep for a moment, curled up like a newborn babe, just barely free of the womb.

He’s reborn today, cradled by your arms.

But he breaks the silence in the end, with a quiet huff and a light squeeze on your arm. He sits up, leans against the headboard and rummages through the heap of clothes at the edge of the bed until he can fish out a cigarette and a match from his pocket.

“I thought you was gone,” he says, wit the cigarette dangling from between his lips. He strikes the match against your bedside table and lights it, takes a long drag.

“Well, I thought you was dead, so I we’re even,” you smile at him and let him put the cigarette between your lips.

“I don’t mean it like that… I thought… I guess I was hoping you got together with a nice feller, got married or somethin’.”

“Hoped?” You’re confused.

He takes back the cigarette.

“You deserve a good feller,” he explains, like it’s a fact brighter than the sun. But you don’t understand, not when that good feller sits just barely a few inches from you. That good feller you can still feel between your legs. Inside your heart.

“Turns out I have one right here,” you snatch the cigarette from his hand and mock him as you get out of bed, still bare as the scorched prairie. John watches you, a bit sheepish even though you made love barely half an hour ago. “A bastard with a thick skull and the kindest heart.”

He hangs his head, smiling, and then follows you, jumping up from the bed and holding you down with one arm before you can slip out of his grasp. You put his cigarette back between his lips and enjoy the scratch of the soft, dark hair of his chest scraping along your back.

He takes a long drag and then passes the cigarette back to you.

“Will you let me stay then?” his mouth brushes your ear as he speaks, all mischief and honey.

“‘Course I will, ya stupid man,” you reach for his hand, the one around your stomach and lay your palm above the back of his. You turn towards him as much as you can, put out the cigarette beside him on the small table next to your bed, and give a kiss on his cheek, just above the scars. John closes his eyes, like he still can’t believe that you’re here. “But only if you help shoveling shit in the barn every mornin’.”

A genuine laugh is your reward for that remark, and then a kiss, a real one, with tongue and teeth and a need that burns and flickers like the flames inside every burning star.

“That work’s gonna suit me, don’t ya worry missy.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #john marston x reader #john marston x female reader #john marston x reader fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction

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12welveinched · 4 months

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Y'all literally write fanfics like you're men. How is it that in your own fantasy world, you're not getting pleasure from it? With every reader x character, it's you pleasuring the character. Women write fanfics like how men view porn.

You're so feminist that even in your own fantasies, you think that you are ugly and that this character would never want you. So unless they're degrading, using, and beating you. That's the only true way you think that they could ever desire you.

I'm not even going to get started on the of-age-reader x underage characters because if I need to tell you why that's wrong, you need to be put on a watch list.

#eddie munson x reader #sukuna x reader #yuuji itadori x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #arthur morgan x reader #levi ackerman x reader #billy hargrove x reader #tony stark x reader #leon kennedy x reader #john marston x reader #jjk x reader #f!reader #steve harrington x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barns x reader #geto suguru x reader

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6emo6zombie6 · 5 months

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RDR2 relationship/sexual headcanons -- F!reader

(Arthur, John, Dutch)

I've been seeing these a lot, and it would be fun to share my own. So, here you go! Warning for NSFW stuff though ;) I might make more of these in the future but I'm out of ideas for other characters at the moment.

__________________________________________________________

Arthur:

Absolute sweetheart, will do anything for you.

Can’t stand to see you crying. Usually, he’s reserved, but around you, he’ll coo softly and hold you in his arms.

“Shh… hey, I’m here. You’re safe.”

Always shares his food when he’s around you. And if there is no food, he’ll share his cigarettes.

He won’t admit it but loves it when you pick flowers for him. Usually, he keeps them in an empty whiskey bottle beside his bed.

Will ask you to help him pomade his hair, though you both know it’s because he likes getting scalp massages.

He’ll somehow always find a way to escort you.

“I’ll walk with you to your horse” “Need me to come with you?” “You sure you’re okay goin’ on your own?”

Not a fan of holding hands, though he’ll have his arm over your shoulders or around your waist most of the time.

Looooovessss hugging you from the back.

Not opposed to you grabbing his ass once in a while.

Loves forehead kisses, whether it is receiving or giving them.

~~~~~

Not rough in bed—rather thorough. He won’t break the bed or have it slamming against the wall, but he spends a while preparing you. Foreplay lasts an hour minimum until he decides you can take every inch of him.

Will overstimulate himself if it means you’ll cum.

Not loud, but he takes pride in hearing you moan his name.

If he doesn’t have the energy to have full-blown sex, he’ll sit you on his lap and finger you until you’re trembling.

Not the biggest fan of receiving head, since it makes talking practically impossible for you, and he hates silent sex.

Enjoys handjobs while making out, though usually he’ll only accept one if he’s drunk.

Constant compliments.

Lap sex??? To Arthur, there is nothing better than holding you close while you bounce on his cock.

John:

Not all too touchy, but he’ll stare at you like you’re an angel 24/7.

Likes it when you hug his side, especially if you're shorter than him so he can tuck you under his arm.

Will randomly polish your shoes or your saddle.

Never forgets to give you a kiss when he leaves camp.

Usually confused when you’re upset or angry, but he’ll try his best to talk you through it.

Very protective of you, especially around other men. He's constantly worried that you might get hurt.

Stubborn as a bull, though he means well. The two of you always seem to be making up for arguments.

Always the big spoon.

Never skips out on a night of drinking with you.

Lets you sit on his lap, though usually only when he’s tipsy.

~~~~~~

Obsessed with hearing you plead. He’ll make you beg for absolutely anything.

If you’ve misbehaved in any way, he’ll punish you with abstinence.

On the other hand, he praises you for everything you do right.

“Yeah, that’s it, good girl.” “atta girl…” “You’re doing so well.”

Always on top. Probably because his ego is a little fragile.

Likes to switch between quick sex and passionate sex every once in a while. One day he’ll be ramming into you for twenty minutes, while the other he’ll spend the same time just getting you undressed.

Dacryphiliac—he loves watching you cry for all the right reasons.

“You look so pretty like that, sweetheart.” “Look at you, such a mess for me.”

Only loud when you are.

Very courageous in bed, but he gets shy the next morning when the majority of the gang starts teasing him for the marks on his neck or the foul noises they heard coming from his tent.

Dutch:

(This one is for the girls with daddy issues, bear with me.)

Almost exclusively calls you pet names, never your actual name.

Stuff like “Sweetheart”, “sugar”, “My girl”,,, etc.

He’ll make sure everyone knows you’re his, usually introducing you as his girlfriend right away.

Likes picking out your clothes for you.

Tells you about the books he reads whenever he can.

The absolute master at calming you down. Whenever he sees that you’re upset, he’ll take you to his tent and sit you on his lap, then he’ll calmly talk things over with you until you’re calm again.

Yeah, loves having you on his lap.

Enjoys braiding your hair or pinning it into a bun.

Loves hugging you from behind when you’re doing your chores or talking with other gang members.

Will bathe you whenever he gets the chance.

~~~~~~

Rarely ever takes his clothes off, but forces you to be completely naked all the time. It adds an extra layer to the power dynamic that the two of you have In bed.

Bends you over his lap and spanks you whenever he feels you pay too little attention to him.

Also loves fingering you on his lap, though it’s more to tease than to make you cum.

Will go absolutely crazy if you sit on his lap and grin your ass into his bulge. It doesn’t even matter if anyone’s around because he’ll just excuse himself and drag you into his tent.

He wants everyone to know how good he makes you feel. If you’re not moaning his name or whining under his touch for everyone to hear, he’s not interested.

He expects you to follow every order that he gives you. You’re not getting his touch if you disobey.

You calling him “sir” makes him instantly grow hard.

Always leaving scratches and hickeys on you for other people to notice.

Enjoys lightly choking you when making out, just to show what could happen if you were to misbehave.

#arthur morgan #john marston #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 smut #red dead redemption 2 smut #rdr2 headcanons #Dutch van der linde #rdr2 fanfic #Dutch van der line x reader #john marston x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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softrozene · 1 year

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Short and Feisty Female S/O that Likes to Cuddle

Ladymogar asked: Aaaye I’m always so happy to see new writing blogs in fandoms I love ❤️ could I get hcs for Arthur, Charles, John, and/or Sean for having a smol s/o? Like short and fiesty but also into cuddly times? Thanks doll, I’ve really enjoyed your writing so far!

rdr2 masterlist

I adored this request and had to do all the characters suggested AND I added Javier because he is delicious. I would say the reader in this is under 5’5” (165.1 cm) as that is what is considered short where I am from but it’s different everywhere! Anyway, I’m glad you enjoy my writings, Hon!

I did go off this link when I think of the characters’ heights!

Originally published on March 31, 2020

Arthur, Charlies, Javier, John, Sean x Female Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff

Arthur Morgan-

Honestly, for him, I think he would be so fucking smitten with you

You would literally be everything he wanted in a partner

Small (or well smaller than what he would’ve imagined) but so much cuter and god the fire in you? To die for

He can 100% see himself risking it all for you and going to settle down to have a family with you- but that’s the future for him

The present with the gang around he would be hard to read

Or that’s how he likes to imagine himself

The second you stroll up to him and have to crane your neck to look up is the second his heart melts and that gentle giant comes out (maybe for a second but everyone in the gang definitely saw it)

Your feisty side originally made him assume that you weren’t the touchy-feely type

So when you first cuddled with him he was probably as stiff as a board and awkward but with you coaxing him into more cuddles which he always accepted he has realized how much he loves them

Poor boy is definitely touch-starved so he would never ever deny your cuddles no matter what time of day it is or who is present (Though he may get flustered)

It would become one of his favorite things to do with you

Charles Smith-

Omg for Charles since he was a loner before the group and since the group has mostly taller people he would be astounded by your height at first

I feel like he would be on edge the whole time and make sure that he never ever harms you

That would probably be his number 1 fear in the relationship (Poor babe is scared he’ll crush you with his pinky or something)

It would take him a while to get used to being in a relationship with someone as small as you but thanks to your feisty side it makes him feel more comfortable eventually

It definitely eases him that you are not as fragile as you look (though let’s be honest he probably would adore how fragile you look since he would take on the protector role in the relationship)

He knows you are fully capable of protecting yourself though

This boy is touch-starved to but he has boundaries

He would set certain times or have cuddles only restricted to nights and away from prying eyes

He tries to compromise with you but really he believes that intimate moments should remain in private and once you do get to the cuddle session he will be absolute putty in your hands (Or you will be. It probably all depends on his mood)

Javier Escuella-

This gorgeous man would never say anything about your attitude or height… in English of course

In Spanish, he’ll be teasing you relentlessly and you’ll be dying to find out what he’s saying

Your feisty attitude with this just makes him happy (and a tad impressed if you get mad enough to try and hit him)

No one else is allowed to comment about your height beside him- You both make sure of that

He would flirt with you constantly and without shame

And that’s how you would eventually get together

When he finds out you are a cuddler?

He’ll embrace and relish in it

He’s a romantic through and through so he won’t care where, when, and who is present he will always encourage and initiate the cuddles too

Though because he is a romance it could lead somewhere else and that’s when whoever present needs to speak up is

If you are outside the camp with him expect him to expect you to remain by his side or on his arm

He just likes the fact he can proudly show you off but if it ain’t your thing he won’t force it

Is absolute favorite time with you is when the two of you are cuddling, you in his lap, and he has the guitar on your lap strumming away as he sings softly into your ear

John Marston-

He would be the one that wouldn’t care at first

It just doesn’t catch his attention and I feel like he would try to avoid you since your small stature and feisty nature reminds him of Abigail

Though once he does give in and you two become friends he’ll start to appreciate your stature and nature

He won’t comment on your height but he will purposely place things out of your reach to watch you struggle for it or so he could be “smooth” and help you (Yes imagine the cliché thing where the guy goes right behind the girl and they touch hands or something lmao- that would be John if he likes you)

Once he is confident that you aren’t like Abigail and you won’t get mad at him for teasing or initiating contact with you he’ll become more confident

I feel like he would be the first to try to cuddle and so when you let him he would just be awestruck

He doesn’t care too much about PDA around the gang but every once in a while he’ll pull you onto his lap and honestly if you let him or encourage him- he’ll probably marry you on the spot

John will appreciate you wanting to cuddle him but sometimes he’ll have his moods where he’ll need to be alone for a while

Don’t worry though because he will come back and feel bad for rejecting a cuddle and he’ll try to make it up to you

Sean Macguire-

Would be the one to immediately say something about your height the first time you show up in the gang

He has no shame in teasing you, flirting with you, constantly picking on you

When he genuinely likes someone he’ll seem like a bit of a jerk but the cuteness of it is undeniable

Everyone in the gang will know why he acts like that and eventually you will too

However, because of your feisty nature, the beginning of the friendship and relationship would be both of your personalities clashing

He would 100% enjoy this though where you may get annoyed beyond relief

He is the one who would pick you up and carry you around camp to either piss you off or show off your smaller stature

1000000% Would be the one to use your head as an armrest and be all smug bout it

I think in general that Sean with a very short s/o would be a hilarious relationship

He could have his romantic moments but there will be absolutely no witnesses to show this

Unless he goes to Arthur, Hosea, or Dutch for help on how to charm you (That is the only time those three will have not lost faith in Sean’s romantic life)

As for cuddling, this boy lives for it

However, his hormones also live for it so the cute cuddles can and probably will turn into something else rather fast

Again he has no shame so he would try and cuddle (and do more tbh) with the gang present

#softrozene writes #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #arthur morgan x reader #charles smith x reader #javier escuella x reader #john marston x reader #sean macguire x reader #female reader #fluff #rdr2 headcanons

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devnmon · 2 months

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red dead redemption 2 masterlist

Arthur Morgan

Snuggles at Horseshoe Overlook

Braids

too sweet.

[new!] sfw/nsfw dating honey boy arthur morgan hcs

John Marston

Birdwatching

[new!] sfw/nsfw dating golden boy marston hcs

Sadie Adler

Blind.

[new!] sfw/nsfw dating sadie adler hcs

Dutch Van Der Linde

Reason on the Common Tongue (of you lovin’ me)

all works coming soon xx

#devnmonwrites #devnmon writes #ryesff #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #sadie adler x reader #sadie adler x female reader #john marston x reader #john marston x fem reader #arthur morgan x fem reader #sadie adler x fem reader #dividers by cafekitsune #softcowboi on pinterest for john/arthur photos #sadie pic from itsdoritoz on pinterest #john marston fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic

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moeitsu · 25 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A well deserved hunt with Charles, met with an unexpected surprise back at camp... Ao3 Wattpad Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10 Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

CH 5 - My Heart Beats On As Warmly Now

“What began as a journey had become a retreat into the unknown. We were backing into the abyss; so worried our sins would follow us we didn’t bother watching where we walked. And behind us was a cliff.” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883

Arthur’s anger dissolved with the storm, replaced by a heavy sense of regret as he trudged back to camp that evening. All he wanted was to drown his shame in a few bottles of liquor, away from prying eyes, away from the disappointment he felt in himself. He hadn’t intended for Kate to see that side of him, not yet at least. And certainly not against a sickly innocent man. He let his anger and frustrations get the better of him. Like he switched on auto-pilot and let the outlaw in him take control. He worried now that Kate might actually leave, and he blamed himself for that.

Swiftly, he made his way to the crate of beer bottles behind the chuck wagon, grabbing a few before retreating to his tent. He craved solitude, a respite from the demands of camp life, from the weight of his own mistakes.

Seated on his cot, a beer wedged between his legs, Arthur opened his journal, the one constant in his life since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. It was his confidant, his sanctuary in a world of chaos. John always gave him shit for it growing up, calling him a pansy and constantly trying to snoop in his personal entries.

Despite being in a gang for most of his life, he still felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people he would truly open up to. So his journal became that person. It was the one thing that did not judge him, ever. But even as he poured his thoughts onto the page, he longed for a human connection, someone to truly understand him.

Hosea and Dutch had been like parents to him, raising him from a young age in the ways of the outlaw. They had their flaws, but they had also shown him kindness and guidance when he needed it most. He always saw Hosea as his father, he would consider Dutch his father too, although he was more like an older brother at times. Hosea was probably the only person who truly knew Arthur, and saw the things he wished not to speak about. Neither parent was perfect by any means, and Arthur could recognize that. But even as an adult, there is still a child inside that longs for the comfort of a father.

It was that fatherly instinct that drove Hosea to Arthurs tent that night.

“Evening Arthur,” he greeted, holding open the tent flap, “may I come in?”

He put down his journal and nodded. Gesturing for Hosea to join him on his cot.

“I noticed Kate didn’t ride back with you, is she okay out in this storm?” He inquired.

Arthur smiled with a slight shake of his head, that's Hosea for you. Always worried about others, here he was checking on his son but was more concerned about the lady he left behind.

“I’m sure she’s fine, saw her heading into Valentine,” he answered, taking a sip of his beer. He handed one of the full bottles to Hosea as the older gentleman sat down.

“I take it things didn't go well then,” he said with a hint of sympathy.

Arthur sighed, “when do they ever.”

As they sat together in the dim light, the rain drumming softly on the canvas roof, Arthur felt a sense of comfort in Hosea’s presence. He didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to justify his actions. Hosea simply listened, offering silent support.

“I don’t know why I do it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man was sick and weak, I should've just given him a warning.” Arthur concluded with a shake of his head.

Hosea sighed knowingly. “I think you can blame your fathers for that son,” taking a sip to clear his throat, “Dutch and I did what we thought was best at the time and well, you were quite impressionable when you were young. We used that to our advantage to turn you into a grade A outlaw.” He said gently with honesty.

Arthur chuckled at the memories of his youth, before John came along he was the golden child. He used to love it when Dutch would teach him how to pick locks, or when Hosea taught him a whole book of curse words. Had he not been the son of outlaws, his life would’ve looked very differently.

“We’ll always be thieves,” he mused with a hint of nostalgia, “only difference now is that the world don't want us no more.”

Hosea nodded, silently agreeing, “We're doomed just like every other creature on this rock Arthur,” he remarked with a wry smile. “I just wish I had acquired that wisdom at less of a price.”

After a moment of contemplative silence, Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with regret. "I just wish I’d done things differently," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. His remorse mixed with his actions at the Downes ranch, and for every mistake he’s made in the past that led him here.

Hosea laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding. "We can't change the past, son," he said gently. "All we can do is learn from it and strive to do better in the future."

Arthur nodded, the weight of Hosea's words settling over him like a blanket of reassurance. "I don't want to be the kind of man who hurts others for no good reason," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I want to be better, for Kate, for everyone."

Hosea squeezed Arthur's shoulder affectionately before rising to his feet. “She’ll come around, son.” He offered a parting reminder, “underneath it all, you have a good heart.”

Before he disappeared into the night, Hosea turned back with a final piece of news. “By the way, your brother wants to speak with you about using that oil cart you found to rob the train tomorrow night.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “He ain’t my brother,” he muttered disdainfully.

Hosea chuckled. “Well, you two sure argue like brothers. G’night, Arthur.”

He tipped his head to the old man as he left, “night Pa.”

Arthur laid back on his cot, tucking his journal into his satchel when something small and round fell out and made a soft pitter on the ground. When he looked down he saw the peach pit, the one Kate gave him on her first night. He reached to pick up the small seed. His thumb ran over its hard wrinkles.

He held it tight to his chest, and silently promised he would make things right with Kate. If he ever saw her again.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, reveling in the freshness that lingered after the storm had passed in the night. The scent of newly sprouted grass and moist earth filled her senses, while dew-kissed leaves sparkled under the gentle caress of the rising sun. A light breeze danced around her, carrying the promise of spring on its wings. It felt like the start of something new as if the world itself was awakening alongside her. It was the perfect day for a ride.

She met Charles in the early morning, exactly where he said he’d be. Waiting for her to begin their journey into the wild lands in hopes of finding a fresh hunt. They were a few hours into their journey now, heading north into Ambarino to hunt cow elk. Just one 200 pound elk is enough to feed the entire camp for a month. Maybe more. It was a day's ride there and back, short enough to keep the meat fresh in time.

With a satisfied sigh, Kate exhaled the tension from her shoulders, “this is exactly what I needed Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled warmly, guiding his horse closer to hers. "Thanks for joining me, Kate," he replied, his own gratitude evident in his tone.

With her face tilted to the sun, she savored the moment. Allowing Lorena to guide her. A silent trust shared between them, that her mare will take her where she needs to go. “You know, I always thought you preferred hunting alone. I never see anyone go with you.” Kate remarked, eyes still closed in bliss.

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur and I have gone together a few times, but other than that, I don't seek much company from the others," he admitted, his words tinged with honesty. It was clear that while he valued his fellow gang members, solitude was his preferred companion in the wild.

“That why you’re always so quiet?” She inquired, innocently.

Charles chuckled softly. "If the choice is folks thinking I'm dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowing I'm dumb because I sound like them, I think I'd rather keep them wondering," he explained with a grin. The confidence in his voice a testament to his strength.

Kate chuckled, her eyes reflecting understanding. "I get that. Sometimes it's better to keep people guessing," she replied. Under her breath she added, “I know some of those men can be pretty dumb,” loud enough for Charles to hear.

Charles exclaimed in frustration, “tell me about it! All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?”

Kate pondered for a moment, she still didn't know what happened all those weeks ago that drove the gang of outlaws here. It was the one piece of information they didn’t talk about around her. Perhaps Charles would share the missing pieces. “What happened to everyone to cause you to run?” Her tone colored with genuine curiosity.

As Charles recounted the events of that fateful day, Kate couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for what they must have been through. The gang did not like to talk about Blackwater, and the consequences must have been devastating.

"It was a fucking execution," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "We thought it would a simple job robbing a ferry, carrying payroll. But there were civilians too." Kate could already imagine where this led. $5000 for his head alone, the words echoed in her mind.

“We raised a lot of hell that day, and things got out of control. Next thing we know, the Pinkertons are on us along with the law. And everyone just starts shooting. I don't know which one of us shot first but that's all it took. There were passengers caught in the crossfire.” He shook his head with disappointment. She couldn't imagine the terror those innocent people must have felt as they found themselves caught in the chaos.

“Dutch he,” Charles hesitated, “he killed a young girl. Just to get the law off him. And no one batted an eye.” His voice heavy with emotion. Her stomach churned at the thought of such senseless violence. “We lost three good people, and John barely made it out alive.”

He turned, facing her, "I don't kill for fun Kate; I kill when I need to," he urged, his tone pleading. It was clear that he was grappling with the moral implications of their actions, and Kate couldn't help but admire his integrity in the face of such darkness. One so hauntingly familiar.

“Arthur came out different after Blackwater,” he added with a sigh.

“Being an outlaw can’t be easy,” Kate added, trying to lighten the mood. She understood the hardships and turmoil that came with senseless violence.

Charles huffed and shook his head at the memory, “easy certainly wasn't in the job description.”

As they rode on, the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all running from something far greater than the law. A feeling she was not immune to.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Their hunt had been successful, tracking and swiftly killing a massive elk. They settled in for a fire and camped near a lake for the night. Enjoying fresh fish for dinner. In the morning they tied their game to the back of Taima, and began their journey back to camp. Kate’s spirit felt lightened in a way, the two of them spent most of the night sharing stories. And she realized she and Charles had a lot in common. A gentle reminder that she is not entirely alone in her struggles.

The ride home went by quickly, and with the sun tickling the horizon, they arrived at the great plains of New Hanover, and eventually, the familiar overlook.

As they rode into camp, the air was thick with urgency, Miss Grimshaw's voice cutting through the chaos. "Alright girls, everything into the wagons, now!" she barked, her tone sharp.

Charles swiftly brought their kill to the chuck wagon, while Kate hurriedly dismounted and rushed to join the flurry of activity. The girls worked frantically, packing crates with blankets and clothing, fear etched on their faces.

"What's happening?" Kate asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Mary-Beth paused in her task, her expression grim. "Arthur and John got into trouble with the law in Valentine," she explained, her hands moving quickly. "Dutch says we need to leave, fast."

A surge of panic swept over Kate at the thought of Arthur and John in danger. "Did they get caught?" she asked, her heart pounding.

Mary-Beth shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, sympathy in her eyes. "But we have to go."

As Kate’s mind began to spiral with the worst outcomes imaginable, a voice rose above the commotion. Speaking of the man himself.

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Charles!" he called out, his tone urgent. "Find Arthur at Dewberry Creek, we need a new hideout." Charles turned on his heel with a nod, mounting Taima and taking off back down the trail they came in on only a moment ago.

With his words she felt a sudden sense of relief, Arthur is okay. Their last conversation weighed heavy on her heart. And she would be damned if that was the last time they spoke.

Dutch's voice commanded attention once more. "When they give us the all clear, we move out! Let's get to work, people!" he shouted.

Mary-Beth and Tilly went back to their work and left Kate alone with her thoughts. She returned to her belongings, packing quickly. But her moment of respite was short-lived as a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Well hello Kate,” Micah said with disdain and arrogance.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Micah,” Kate retorted, her patience wearing thin.

Micah advanced, his eyes blazing with hostility. "Funny how you show up right when trouble finds us," he taunted.

Kate scoffed, the idea completely absurd, “you idiots robbed a fucking train, did you seriously expect a welcome home party?” She shot back, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Micah's gaze narrowed. "We were set up in Valentine, someone ratted us out," he growled, his words dripping with bitterness.

“I was just hunting with Charles,” she explained, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice, she refused to play his game.

Micah approached with malice, his fist twitched at his side, ready to pull his pistol any moment. "Well Charles ain't here now,” he gestured around the camp, “and we think it was you," he hissed, the accusation cutting through the chaos.

Realization dawned on her that he was setting her up, but the reason why was still unclear. “And when Charles comes back he can testify to that,” she spat, turning to continue her packing.

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace. In one swift motion, he raised his pistol. Before Kate could react, the butt of the gun connected with her temple, sending a searing pain shooting through her skull. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she stumbled backward, the world spinning dizzily around her. Darkness threatened to engulf her.

As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah loomed over her, a twisted smirk playing across his lips, “we’ll be long gone by the time they come back princess.”

With a sickening thud, Kate's head hit the ground, the impact reverberating through her skull. As the world faded into blackness, she felt herself being pulled into an abyss of darkness. The last sound echoing in her ears was the distant whinny of Lorena, a mournful cry that seemed to fade into the void.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The commotion of the camp kept her drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour. She heard Abigail's voice call out to Kate in concern, and Micah snapped back warning her to keep her distance. She also realized her wrists had been bound along with her ankles, with Micah standing guard over her like a dog. Like she could run away in this state anyways.

The darkness began to creep in again, and in a moment she awoke and Micah was gone. It was almost dark and she was in a different spot now, away from the center of camp and behind the tree line. That fucking bastard tried to leave me here. She thought with bitterness.

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through the camp, but Kate's mind was still swimming in a fog of confusion. Wagons rattled as they hurriedly departed the overlook, leaving Kate struggling to make sense of the commotion. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees, squinting through the haze.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Arthur's horse appeared, Belle’s white coat gleaming amidst the darkness. With a surge of relief, Kate locked eyes with Arthur, who rushed over to her side, his expression etched with concern.

Her consciousness flickered like a dim candle in the wind as she slowly regained awareness. The throbbing pain in her head was a harsh reminder of what had just transpired. Blinking away the haze, her vision blurry.

"Kate? Are you alright?" Arthur's voice cut through the fog, filled with concern as he took in the sight of her bound wrists and ankles. Swiftly dismounting Belle and pulling a knife from his belt to cut her free.

Her head throbbed as she recounted what happened and she felt sick in the stomach. She couldn’t stay with them anymore, not after this. Micah was a real problem, and if what Charles told her about Blackwater is true, then Dutch is likely the same.

“I’m okay,” she answered wearily, “Micah set me up,” a hint of fear mixed with rage creeped into her voice. Arthur helped her rise to her feet, just as the last wagons were leaving the overlook. Without missing a beat she turned to find her horse.

Arthur was slightly taken aback, unsure if she was still upset with him from the nights before, all while trying to make sense as to why Micah had set her up.

“I-I’m sorry Kate,” he pleaded, “I shoulda been here,” his voice was laced with remorse. His strides quickened as he closed the distance between them. Kate's heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but she knew she couldn't stay.

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, “but I have to leave.” She decided in the moment, ripping the bandaid clean off. She longed to stay with Arthur and the gang, but she no longer wanted part in this trouble. “Goodbye Arthur,” she bid him a solemn farewell.

“Kate,” he called out, desperation filling the air. He wanted to stop her, to grab her and beg her to explain what happened with Micah. But the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, she had made up her mind. So all he could do was stand and watch as she rode off.

She clutched at Lorena’s reins, taking off in the same direction as the wagons, intending to ride past them and make her way to Rhodes, hopefully putting enough distance between them so she could get her bearings and be on the move again. Her heart raced with adrenaline and disappointment. Things could not have taken a turn for the worst.

She used the darkness to her advantage, slipping away from the wagons as they took a path down following the railroad tracks, while Kate veered off towards the twin stacks. As she climbed altitude she watched the wagons below, specifically watching Arthur take off behind them, his mare flying through the train of carts and horses like a butterfly dancing between flowers.

She paused for a moment, letting herself consider that perhaps she wasn't just running away out of fear, but something else as well. She thought about the girls, and Charles, who had just become a dear friend after their hunting trip. She thought about Abigail, who must be clutching little Jack close to her heart at this moment, praying John will see his family out of this alive. Her last conversation with Arthur still ate at her heart, so many words went unspoken that she wished she had said that night.

Memories of her past came back in waves along with the painful throb of where she had been hit with Micah’s gun. Her fear, mixed with her disappointment and anger. A reminder of her own weakness.

Yet, she decided long ago that she would never live in that kind of world again, where the weak would rather guilt the strong than become strong themselves. This world doesn’t care what the weak want. This world eats the weak. Therefore, she became strong.

The sudden sound of gun fire dragged her from her thoughts, she rode farther up the slope looking for the source of the noise. She saw in the distance the tiny images of wagons and horses, and a group of raiders descending to their location..

Gripping the reins with such ferocity, Lorena reared on her hind legs as Kate spun her around and took off back down the slope. She would not let death sink its venomous teeth into the belly of another.

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