#cowboy jarthur...

[smallsies]

malevolent au where they're cowboys. thats literally it.

[izel-scribbles]

I heard you were asking for sketch requests, and this wouldn’t leave my head

Malevolent Cowboy AU, Arthur and John are on the same horse, maybe they were running from something and Arthur saddled up first, but Arthur is driving, and John is like, “Wait a minute…,” and maybe he’s just quietly nudging Arthur’s arms to adjust their path, cause Arthur is stubborn, and refuses to switch, cause he can drive a horse JUST FINE, Akke is on John’s side with much skepticism

@ananxiousgenz (hii!!,) also asked for cowboy au so here goes :3

i can't fucking draw horses im sorry

:3333

and a scene from lea and @percymawce-arts's latest installment in their cowboy au!! go read it, it's so coolll

[ananxiousgenz]

HEY YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????? JARTHUR COWBOY AU TIME!!!!!

this one also comes with a bit of info for the beginning:

@percymawce-arts and I have finally given this monster child of ours a name!! from here on out, this fic shall be known as "When the Land was Godless and Free" (a lyric from the song foreigner's god by hozier)!

the chapters we are posting are like. severely out of order. we've just been going crazy behind the scenes (we keep getting good ideas and then discussing/writing them for literal hours, it's a great time). percy basically wrote all of this and i just did some minor edits and left all caps comments screaming about how fucking GOOD this is, so any and all compliments should be directed at him <3

and some trigger warnings: this chapter contains alcohol and some suggestive themes!!

@izel-reblogs and @ellamenop (if you guys want me to stop tagging you please lmk)

“Here’s to John and Arthur! Arthur and John!” Noel shouted, stepping up onto the bar and raising his beer, some of it sloshing over the side of the cup with the motion. “Freaky-ass, sharpshooting, vigilante crime-fighting extraordinaires! Without you two, those gangsters would still be shooting up this charming little town.” He flashed a wink and a gaggle of girls seated behind John giggled. John rolled his eyes. “To John and Arthur!”

“To John and Arthur!” the bar echoed, jovial sounds of conversation and rowdy drinking soon filling the space again. John smiled into his drink, only to choke and nearly fall out of his chair when Noel clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Get ready for a lot of free drinks,” he said, hopping down to the floor. “This town’s full of generous rich folks just waiting for a chance to throw some money around.” 

John groaned. “Does that mean I have to talk to people?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’,” Noel said, all easy charm and swagger as he leaned up against the bar next to John. “Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there’s one coming up behind you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath as a young blonde woman in a pink (and startlingly revealing) dress came up to the bar beside him. “That was fast,” he whispered to Noel, who barely managed to hide a snigger.

“Hi!” the woman squealed, her pitch akin to metal nails on glass. John winced. Voice aside, her general disposition was the near equivalent to staring straight into the afternoon sun, and the neon pink of her dress didn’t help matters.

“Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?” she crooned, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder as she smiled far too brightly (the whole blind sharpshooter gig tended to work better when only one of them was blind). 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I don’t-”

“It’s on the house for you, sweetheart. I’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. So, how about that drink?” She moved in closer beside him, her hand drifting up his neck and along his jawline. John was only beginning to think of how to politely decline when he felt a looming presence over his shoulder.

“Only if you buy for all of us,” Arthur said, not unkindly. But John had been traveling with him for long enough to recognize the hint of something else beneath the politeness. Not what it was, just that it was there. The woman giggled.

“Well, of course! Anything for our dashing heroes!” John glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. His face was set in stone, watching the woman like a hawk on a rabbit as she slipped a few coins into the bartender’s hand and waited for drinks in return. He looked… tense. Like he was a piece of rope, stretched to the verge of snapping, and if that annoying woman made one wrong move, he would.

Noel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “You must be a real hit with the ladies,” he murmured into his glass, looking Arthur up and down as he did so. Arthur paid him no mind.

The sunshine woman was not the last to buy them a round of drinks, not by a long shot. Plenty of flirtatious ladies (and a few flirtatious men), thankful patrons and impressed watchmen approached them, hoping to show their gratitude by buying them a shot or a glass of whiskey. Arthur didn’t leave John’s side the whole night, quick to shut down any attempts at seduction by feigning ignorance to the intentions of anyone who approached them. But John knew better. John could see the hard set of his jaw, how he gripped his glass too tightly whenever a scantily clad lady twirled her hair around her finger, or a rambunctious young cowboy leaned too far into John’s personal space. It made John’s heart flutter wildly in his chest. 

The drinks only slowed as the saloon emptied out, leaving Noel, Arthur and John three sheets to the wind, laughing uproariously at something stupid as the morning sun came over the horizon (Oscar had retired hours before, drunker than anyone at the bar much, much faster. Arthur had squeezed his shoulder and bid him goodnight with an expression of concern that made John’s heart clench).

Noel wiped tears from his eyes and looked over John’s shoulder, out the window behind him. When he saw the beginnings of daylight creeping over the horizon, he sighed. (He watched them, Arthur and John, engaged in a quiet but passionate discussion about something he couldn’t parse. They were both flushed and leaning in too close, chuckling at every other word that passed between them, oblivious to the rising sun or the empty saloon or Noel’s hands on their arms, steering them towards their room at the inn upstairs).

John chuckled (he did not giggle, he chuckled) as Noel tossed him into their rented room, with Arthur following soon after. He tripped over a trunk near the foot of the bed on his way in, falling forward onto the mattress with a gentle oof. Arthur laughed at him much too loudly for whatever time it was. 

“Alright, you two,” Noel said, trying to hold back a laugh, “wash up and go to bed. God, I should’ve never given that toast, you’re both insufferable drunks.”

“Oh, shhhhhhh,” Arthur hushed, pulling John out of bed by his wrist. John leaned fully against Arthur in an effort to stay upright. It mostly worked. “You loooooove us,” he laughed. Noel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the fond expression off his face. “You keep telling yourselves that.” He wiped his nose and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight, you two.” Then he closed the door, and it was just them. John and Arthur, Arthur and John. 

“Okay, come on,” John said after a long stretch of silence, inelegantly turning Arthur in the direction of their shared washbasin and mirror. Arthur giggled a bit as John tried to move him forward, mumbling some drinking song under his breath that John didn’t recognize (maybe it’s a British one, John thought lamely). They tripped over each other's feet a few times, but ultimately made it to the edge of the sink without completely falling over. 

When they did, John braced his hands on either side of it with a tired sigh, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and a flush to his cheeks from the alcohol, but otherwise he seemed in decent condition. A few cuts and scrapes, some new and some old, and his braid was a little out of sorts, but nothing really concerning–

Then all the haziness of the alcohol and the late night was gone because Arthur’s full weight was at his back, his warmth permeating the fabric of John’s shirt and vest. His hot breath fanned across John’s ear and jaw, his eyes fluttering closed with the weight of inebriation. John inhaled shakily, suddenly brought back to shifting bodies and whiskey and fireworks with such vivid clarity it could have been real.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. John was drunk. Arthur was drunk, he could barely stand up straight, for fucks sake. He was just using John for support, falling asleep on his shoulder, and… 

And pressing his nose behind John’s ear, ghosting his lips over the back of his jaw. Breathing his name with a pained expression. John’s own expression matched, half lidded eyes never leaving the mirror, tense and pained and wanting, oh-so deeply, for the one thing he knew he couldn’t have.

Despite himself, John’s eyes slipped closed. His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving his body as Arthur hands came up to rest on his hips. His head tilted, granting Arthur access to more of his jaw and neck. And Arthur took it. He didn’t kiss, but he skimmed. Barely there, almost not real, deniable. Like a spirit. Like a gut feeling. Like instinct.

“John…” Arthur breathed. John felt a shiver work its way down his spine at the sound of Arthur’s voice at the base of his skull, reverberating in his head like it was meant to be there. It took every ounce of will that John had to keep the small moan building in the base of his throat from escaping.

“Arthur,” he answered, voice hoarse and quiet. He wanted to open his eyes. Wanted to see himself in the mirror with Arthur over his shoulder, arms around him, nosing at his neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to press warm kisses into his skin. Or maybe to bite. To draw blood. John had never been shown a difference between violence and love. Maybe they weren’t so different. He hoped so. He wanted… 

He wanted to see the look on Arthur’s face. Would it be like it was that day in the cabin? Shocked and a little confused but mostly needy. Yearning for something. Yearning for John. Or would it be darker? Dark like the clouds before a storm, the kind of storm that drowned you with rain and filled the air with electricity. Would it be dark like he was holding back? Like John was? 

But John didn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wanted to know. If his eyes stayed closed, he could pretend Arthur’s gentle, delicate touch wasn’t there at all. Just a taste of something more, enough to leave John wanting. Enough for him to imagine. Enough for it to stay a pleasant, alcohol induced dream. If he opened his eyes it would be real, and it would have to stop. And John did not want it to stop.

“John,” Arthur murmured, his voice just above a whisper now. “Open your eyes.” The timbre of it was deep, so much deeper than John had heard it before. How could he have possibly known? How could he know John so well in so little time? So completely? The moan John was holding on to finally slipped past his lips when Arthurs grip on his waist tightened, ever so slightly. “John,” Arthur choked. 

“I can’t,” John whispered as Arthur’s fingers moved from his hips, leaving a burning heat behind in the shape of Arthur’s palm. They trailed up and up, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt as they went, making his breath hitch. Up to his open collar, nails dragging across John’s collar bone and hollow of his throat. Until they wrapped ever so gently around his neck, the thumb coming up to guide John’s jaw this way and that. John was breathing hard, now.

“Why?” Arthur asked, pressing himself closer, still, to John. John whined.

“I…” I want to. God, I want to. Make me. “Please, Arthur, don’t make me. Please, just–”

John gasped when he felt Arthur’s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his hand flying up to grip Arthur’s hair, his shoulder, something. To hold Arthur. But he was stopped by a strong grip on his wrist, which guided his hand back down to the edge of the sink, holding it there. Pinning it. 

“John,” Arthur whispered. John’s chest was rising and falling like Akke’s after a long sprint, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s. Arthur’s thumb caressed his knuckles, white with the strength of his grip on the sink.

“Please,” they said at the same time. John’s brow furrowed, his lips hung parted in anticipation. His mind swung wildly from the present, between Arthur and the mirror with a hand around his throat, to the cabin, pressing Arthur to the wooden floor, pinning his wrists above his head. The burning momentum between them suddenly halted by John’s fear, like a landslide on the track before a train. Now the train was out of control again, brakes screeching against wheels that just wouldn’t stop, sparks flying. Sparks like fireworks. Sparks like live wires. Sparks like exploding gunpowder.

But then the warmth at his back was gone. Along with it the hand at his throat and the one  pinning his own to the sink. The teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder and the hot breath on his skin vanished, leaving only a stark coldness where they’d been before. John sighed, whether in relief or disappointment he didn’t know, and opened his eyes.

The flush on his face had migrated down his neck and chest, which was exposed now (when had Arthur done that?) and heaving. The ‘light sheen’ of sweat was beading at his temples and brow now, falling in drops down to his jaw, along the bridge of his nose. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide and his neck was bare. 

And Arthur, leaning drunkenly against the wall behind him, arms crossed, expression chilly. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was red like the first hints of daylight in the sky. But it was the hard set of his mouth and brow that made John shiver.

“We should go to bed, John,” he said, voice still raspy. A needy, sad little sound rose from John’s throat then, and John’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to force the offending sound back in. Arthur swallowed and turned, ready to head back to one of the twin beds awaiting them. Side by side and yet still miles apart. “And don’t worry.”

“It’ll all feel like a dream, tomorrow.”

[nukuome]

[parkeryangs]

Project Navigation

I've always got multiple projects and AUs in the works, so I figured it might be a good idea to make a "central" location for all these things to live :) If you're ever interested in hearing more about the things on this list, you're welcome to send me an ask anytime!

Malevolent

✦AU & FIC PROJECTS✦

Tumblr's search system can be a disaster, so if you'd like to look through all of my posts regarding a specific AU, I recommend clicking the relevant tag attached to this post. Note: A lot of these tags are empty for the moment, as they've been transferred over from my main blog!

Apocalypse AU - #malevolent apocalypse au | Spotify playlist

Band AU (Parkjarthur) - #parkjarthur band au | Spotify playlist

Camp Counselor AU - #malevolent camp counselors au

College Band AU (Miskatonic) - #college band au | YIAF Spotify playlist, TWG Spotify playlist

Fake Marriage AU - #jarthur fake marriage au

Jarthur Cowboys AU - #malevolent cowboys au | Spotify playlist

Parker/Noel Roleswap - #last thing fic

Zombie Parker AU - #zombie parker au | Spotify playlist

✦EVENT WEEKS & FANDOM PROMPTS✦

Meowlevolent Week (Mar. 5th - 11th, 2023) | Ao3

Malevoversary (Mar. 26th - Apr. 1st, 2023) | Ao3

Malevolent Big Bang (May 22nd - Oct. 1st, 2023) | Fic, Art

Malevolent Aro Week (Dec. 4th - Dec. 10th, 2023) | Ao3, Spotify playlist

WOE.BEGONE

✦AU & FIC PROJECTS✦

Mattkey Royalty AU - #mattkey royalty au

Mattkey Vampire AU - #mattkey vampire au

✦EVENT WEEKS & FANDOM PROMPTS✦

[por-queeee]

Ooooh I am SCREAMING about this still thank you again for drawing them for me Lego. They are giving me the will to live right now.

Everyone should go commission Lego, she is an art god

true canon ending to rdr2

commission for @neonxdecay / @por-queeee!!

[ghostlyblaze807]

Was thinking about this when I couldn’t sleep last night, and was curious to see what you guys would think

Songs in order: invisible string, ivy, cowboy like me, Guilty as Sin?, Dress (all by Taylor swift)

[smallsies]

howdy, i would love to talk about the fictional characters in my head so please feel free to send me asks about aus or anything while i pack!!

[ananxiousgenz]

MORE???? YOU WROTE MORE?????????

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP I SAW THIS AND IMMEDIATELY SENT THE LINK TO PERCY. I AM ILL. I AM SO FUCKING ILL.

the spice is just. mmmmmmm god. I'm not gonna give too much away bc percy and I have a blood oath going regarding this but let's just say there has been some Talk about writing spicy stuff and uh. yeah. good shit.

ALSO PARKER MENTION!!! PARKER MENTION!!! FUCK YEAH Parker and Arthur were definitely A Thing yk?? I love this whole scenario so much

"They had come so far. Worked so hard to get here. But there was the even present feeling they always had more work to do" HI yes I'd like to take "summarize the whole relationship in one sentence" for $500 please?? that's SUCH a perfect way to look at it!!!

I'm dying currently if anyone needs needs me I'll be curled up in a ball <3

Uh. Yeah.

“John,” Arthur sighs.

Arthur’s head falls gently back against the wall. His head turning to allow better access. John hums, smiling against his neck. He continues to kiss, grazing his teeth over sensitive skin. His lips brushing the scar across Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s breath hitches in his chest. John’s breath huffs hot, and fast against just under Arthur’s jaw. His arm snakes around Arthur’s lower back, pulling his closer. Pushing his thigh between Arthur’s legs.

John’s lips move higher. Arthur’s breath shivers as they shift against one another. So close, and still not close enough. Arthur’s nails dig into John’s neck with one hand, while the other makes lines down John’s back. Both wished his shirt wasn’t in the way. John’s free hand slips under the hem of Arthur’s shirt, just above his belt, and Arthur can’t stop his hips from moving. Chasing John’s pressure against him.

“Turn around,” John growls.

Arthur can’t stop his breath from coming out in short pants. This is one of the few times Arthur relishes being told what to do. The ambiguous sense of control, Arthur at his most vulnerable, making his heart beat with excitement, instead of panic. John nuzzles into his neck, briefly. Just a small beat of making sure his command was what Arthur wanted. Arthur nodded, fast little movements that sends a flutter of heat into both their bellies.

The loss of pressure as they disentangle themselves enough for Arthur to do as he was told, makes Arthur whimper. Low in his chest, just the smallest whine. Making John fight pushing him back against the wall. The chill on Arthur’s neck gives him goosebumps. Everywhere feels too hot, too tight, and too far from John. But it doesn’t last long.

Arthur twists, turning his back to John. Placing his hands firmly on the wall. Planting his feet. His palms barely find firm ground, and large warm hands are on his hips. A broad, warm chest is pressed into his back. The return of lips, and a hot breath on his neck, as John’s whole body is pushed against him. Arthur can’t help the smile edging at his lips, he sighs as John’s broad frame envelops him again.

John’s hips roll against him. Arthur tries to push back into him, but John’s hands remain firm at his hips.

“So eager,” John murmurs against Arthur’s torn ear.

“Ass,” Arthur hisses.

“Such a mouth,” John smiles.

Arthur gasps as teeth sink into his neck. He braces himself against the wall. Fresh waves of heat radiate out from the bite. Arthur’s thighs shiver, and his legs seem to spread against his will as John pulls Arthur’s hips back against him. Giving Arthur exactly what he wanted. Arthur’s eyes close slowly as the warmth from the pain settles in his crotch. Wetness staining his pants. His breathing is heavy, shuddering in his chest. He reaches back, and runs fingers through John’s hair, as John releases his neck. Kissing the bite, leaving behind slightly pink, bloody lip stains.

“Arthur,” John breathed.

Peppering the swollen mark with sweet nothings. His fingers pushed against Arthur’s stomach. Inching slowly down, under the waistband of Arthur’s pants. Arthur is smiling, so content, as the hand creeps further down. His eyelids flutter.

“Parker,” Arthur sighs.

All at once, they’re both frozen.

Everything stops.

John pulls away with a harshness that makes both of them sting in the most sensitive areas. Stepping back. John is breathing hard for all the wrong reasons.

Arthur whips around. Strands of short dirty blond hair whip out, and cling to his forehead. His hand is covering his mouth. Eyes wet with the start of tears. No longer warm, and content. Everything feels cold. He stares blindly in John’s general direction.

“I—-,” Arthur can barely manage.

“I’m sorry,” there’s barely any sound to his voice, as his hand hovers just over his mouth.

Before John can say anything, Arthur is moving to his room. Heavy, quick steps on the hardwood floor. He runs into a table in his haste. The lamp starts spinning, and barely staying upright with the momentum as he makes it to his room. He grabs his, and flings it shut, but it hits wrong on the frame with a heavy smack, and bounces slowly back open. The solid of wood rattling fades quickly.

John stands at the far end of the room. Breathing heavy as the light wobbles over him, and the walls. Finally the lamp comes to a rest, settling nearly at the edge of it’s table.

He tries to settle his breathing, his heart pounding in his ears.

Everything is silent.

Except for the soft sound of sobs coming from Arthur’s room.

John isn’t sure how long he stands there. His body feels chilled, and numb. The slow fading of his excitement just leaving him shaky, and covered in a cold sweat. His feet start to hurt as he remains rooted in his spot.

Arthur’s room is silent, and dark.

Finally, John lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he had been holding for far too long.

The motion, the deep exhale, and slow inhale, finally breaks John of his stupor. His eyes focus on Arthur’s darkened doorway. He takes slow, careful steps across the room. Trying to be quiet, but the creak of hardwood boards betrayed his every foot fall. He stops at the table, looking down at the lamp. He reaches out, and pulls on the metal beaded chain. The lamp turns off with a solid click.

John feels bolder in the dark. Less pressure to be quiet, and he takes the final few steps to enter Arthur’s room.

His eyes adjust slowly.

Soft blue light spills in from the windows. In the far corner of the room, the reflection on the floor helps highlight the shape of a person. But Arthur is still in the shadows. Sat on the floor, his knees pulled up to the chest. His head is down. He makes no movement, or registers that he knows John is in the room.

John walks over to him. Unsure of what he’s even doing. What he hopes to accomplish by closing the distance between them so soon. He stops a few steps from Arthur. Who still doesn’t move.

He leans down, and reaches out, but stops. Finger tips maybe an inch from Arthur’s hair. John pulls his hand away slowly.

With a sigh, John turns, and pushes his back against the wall. He sinks down onto the floor next to the Arthur. He stretches his feet out into the light coming from the window. Feeling like he made a mistake coming in here. But it felt just as wrong to be so far apart. John couldn’t stand the idea of still standing there, staring into Arthur’s room. Or even worse, retreating to his own room.

Their shoulders were only a few inches from touching.

But John didn’t want to make this worse.

It was bad enough it had all been doomed from the start.

John sighs, low, and deep, he really meant it as he said a low, “I’m sorry.”

The seconds turn into a minute. Then more seconds turn into more minutes.

John nearly jumps when suddenly Arthur shifts. Moving to drop his head onto John’s shoulder.

He makes no move to touch Arthur any further. He stays perfectly still.

“Me too,” Arthur whispers softly.

After another minute, John slowly lowers his head. Resting it lightly against Arthur’s.

They don’t speak the rest of the night. They stay there, long after their position grows uncomfortable. And even longer after limbs go numb. Eventually they move closer. Wrapping their arms around one another. Lacing fingers together. Letting the silence speak for them.

They had come so far. Worked so hard to get here.

But there was the ever present feeling they always had more work to do.

[izel-scribbles]

malevolent cowboy au, inspired by @percymawce-arts and @ananxiousgenz's writing!!!

[ananxiousgenz]

pssst. pssssssst. hey guys. look at what i got y'all (IT'S MORE JARTHUR COWBOY AU)

this one comes with several pieces of info you need to know first:

@percymawce-arts and I are writing this fic together!!! we have entered into writers matrimony for this fic and we are super excited about it!! I wrote the bare bones of the scene you're about to read and he added almost all of the flavor and spice (while i was laying on my bed in the family guy dead pose bc of how good he made it). make sure to go show percy some love for this too!!

this scene takes place after one where john and arthur chase after larson, but arthur refuses to shoot him, and john is more than a little pissed off about it.

and some trigger warnings: this scene contains some fighting (both verbal and physical), child abuse, religious trauma, homophobia, and some suggestive themes

and finally, i will tag @ellamenop and @izel-reblogs bc i have a feeling you will both enjoy this :)

“What,” John snarled, slamming the cabin door shut behind him, “the fuck. What was that?!”

“None of your business,” Arthur replied, ever so prim and fucking proper. He kept his back to John, maybe to hide his face, so John couldn’t read him. Maybe because he was too much of a coward to meet John’s eyes after that stunt. John didn’t care what the reason was. It was only pissing him off more.

“No. Fuck that. It's all my business.”

“I didn't fire a gun. How is that making you upset?”

“You had him right in front of you,” John rumbled, his voice as low and dangerous as thunder on the horizon. Arthur shivered. “And you let him go. You had the opportunity to kill him. To end this, all of this. And you let it slip through your fucking fingers.”

“Maybe I didn't want to kill him.”

“What the fuck does that matter? He's too goddamn dangerous to be left alive!”

“It's not that simple, John-”

“The hell it is! I’m sorry you feel conflicted or whatever it is that’s going on in that head of yours, but this isn’t about you! All you had to do was fire the fucking gun. He was right in front of you, and you didn't shoot!”

“No, I didn't!”

“Why?!”

“You want to know why?” Arthur shouted, whipping around to face John, at last. “Because I can't kill another person! Even someone as awful as Larson! I’m not like you! This isn’t easy for me, alright?!”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Arthur’s face fell. John could see the regret wash over his face like a cloud over the burning sun, but it only lasted a moment before he was collecting himself. Putting on that same mask of polite-until-you-fuck-with-me he always wore around suspects and targets. John had never had that face turned on him before. He hated it.

“So that’s what this is about,” John murmured, his tone dark. “You think it’s easy… You think I’m a monster, and you’d rather let Larson go free than be like me.”

“No, John, that’s not-”

 “Who do you think made me that way?” John snapped. Arthur’s mouth closed so fast John heard his teeth click. “It was him, Arthur. It was Larson. And thanks to you, he’s going to go and do it to another lonely, scared Native kid with nowhere else to go!” John chuckled humorlessly. “Christ, Arthur, If that’s what you thought of me, why didn’t you just say it at the start?”

Arthur threw up his hands in frustration. “That’s not what I think of you, John. Jesus, am I not allowed to have a minor moral crisis over shooting a man?!”

“He’s not just a man! He’s a gangster! A robber! A killer! You told me so yourself!”

“So are you, John.”

“Yeah, and you shot me for it,” John reminded him. 

Arthur growled and slammed his fist down on the mantle of the fireplace beside them, hard enough that John could feel the vibration travel through the floor. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I wanted to let the law deal with him! Is that so hard to understand?!”

John took a step in Arthur’s direction. “Oh yeah? The same law that ripped me away from my family and home? The same law that turned me into a monster? Too little and too much for everyone all at the same time? The same law that drove human beings off of their lands and into reservations? That killed thousands of people like me?”

“The criminal law would have placed Larson in jail. Like he deserved.”

John scoffed and crossed his arms. “You think the law cares that he deserves it, Arthur? The law is punishment for those who don’t deserve it and ignorance for those who do. There’s no justice in it.”

“What, so that means it’s your job to deal it out?”

“Yes!” John yelled. “If it means he can’t hurt anyone any longer, then yes. And vigilante justice works a hell of a lot faster than the court system will ever manage!”

“I thought you were trying to be a better man, John.”

“I was trying to be like you,” John said venomously. “My mistake.”

That was the final straw. Arthur took a step forward without warning and swung his fist as hard as he could. It made contact with John’s ribs (he could feel them shift beneath Arthur’s fist), and John made a soft oof sound as the wind was knocked out of his lungs and he was knocked into the fireplace mantle, the corner of it digging into his shoulder. 

The fight that followed was chaotic and messy in a way John had never experienced before, and when he tried to think back to it, it would only be preserved in blurry snapshots, like someone moving in the middle of a photograph. Arthur grabbed John’s braid and pulled. John clawed a deep gouge into his arm. He drew blood. Arthur twisted John’s arm. John cracked Arthur’s rib. Arthur knocked John’s legs out from under him, causing them both to go sprawling onto the floor. Arthur punched. John slapped. Arthur bit. John pinned. And then paused. And then…

In the midst of the fighting, John had ended up on top of Arthur, straddling his waist while pinning both wrists with one hand and grabbing a fistfull of Arthur’s shirt with the other. Both of them had frozen, the only movement the rapid rise and fall of their chests. Their noses were nearly touching, and John could feel Arthur’s breath fanning across his lips, staring into those dark, dark eyes. They weren’t so dark, John realized as he looked into them. They were brown, lovely and warm, with scattered flecks of gold and green nestled deep inside. Hidden gems, wide and wild with adrenaline, flicking back and forth across John’s face without any point of focus.

John’s eyes flicked over the rest of Arthur’s face. Freckles smattered across his nose and cheekbones. Loose strands of auburn hair falling messily across his forehead. The crooked corners of his nose from being broken one too many times. Smile lines beside his tired eyes. Lips like flower petals, soft and pale. Slightly parted and inhaling, exhaling. At some point, John realized he had let go of Arthur’s shirt and was cradling Arthur’s face oh-so gently as he examined it, dragging his thumb lightly over his cheekbone, caressing it. Down the bridge of his nose to his lips, his perfect lips. Arthur remained as still as stone, barely even breathing as he stared blindly back at John.

Somewhere behind the haze of the moment, John wondered subconsciously what would happen if he kissed Arthur. Because, the truth, he realized, was that deep down, in the pit of his stomach, he wanted. He wanted Arthur, in a way he had never wanted anyone else before. He wanted to be close to him, close like this. Closer than this. To be around him always, to hold him, to kiss him. 

What would happen if he took what he wanted instead of what he was told, for once?

He hesitated when he heard Arthur’s breath hitch.But then, when no resistance came, he leaned his head down ever so slightly (there was barely any bridge to gap, by that point), and then he was kissing Arthur. And it was like the world had been set ablaze.

As he pressed his lips against Arthur’s, every nerve in John’s body was alive. It felt like a jolt from a live wire, like a burst of fireworks that would light up the sky on the Fourth of July, like the sparking tang of gunpowder before the shot rang out. It felt like energy, pure and bright and hot and lighting him up from the inside. He felt Arthur’s body respond in kind, arching up to create a line of contact that started at their hands and continued all the way down to their tangled legs, making John shiver. He tasted like whiskey, sweet and sharp beneath the campfire smoke and aftershave, and John marveled at how such a strange and sinful combination could taste like it had just come down from heaven.

He kissed harder, chasing the taste. He nipped at Arthur’s lip hard enough to draw blood, adding a coppery tang to the kiss and eliciting a small moan from the back of Arthur’s throat. It only made John want more. He kissed him again, and again, and again, Arthur’s lips and tongue moving against his with a practiced skill that made John dizzy. He kissed him until his lips were swollen and his head was swimming with nothing but Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. He only pulled away when his chest was burning and there was no choice but to come up for air.

Arthur’s face was flushed, his eyes wide and twinkling. “Oh God.” His voice was hoarse. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, John.”

And an unbidden memory surfaced in John’s mind. 

He was back in boarding school, sitting for a mandatory midnight mass in the chapel, his posture ramrod straight. The priests had always been so particular about those masses. There was to be no slouching or fidgeting, and God alone could help you if you dozed off. John had been kneeing in one of the pews, focusing all of his attention on keeping his posture perfect and his eyes open and remaining somewhat alert. 

In the midst of silent prayer, one of the priests, a Father McKenna, had thrown open the doors to the chapel, and dragged another boy up before the altar by his ear. 

The boy had tears streaming down his disheveled face and his nose was red from crying, but the thing that struck John the most about him were his eyes. He just looked so… tired. Not the kind of tired that John was fighting, the kind where a seductive sleep was lingering at the corners of his vision, waiting for him to blink or close his eyes in “prayer” for a second too long. This boy looked like the kind of tired that shot through his bones and grew like rot and rust with every passing day, the kind that only shuffling off this mortal coil a bit too soon could cure.

Father McKenna said the boy had been caught ‘with’ another, with a fury in his eyes that made John wonder in the back of his mind if he had been possessed by the devil. He’d been too young to know what it meant to be ‘with’ another boy at the time, but he knew it must be evil. Father McKenna threw him down in front of the altar, and the boy- John vaguely recognized him to be a child named Alexander- just knelt with his head bowed, like he had accepted his fate before Fate came to dole it out.

Father McKenna was not pleased by this. He smacked the back of Alexander’s head. Hard. He didn’t respond. He picked up a hymnal and smacked him harder still. And still, nothing. 

The priest was trembling with barely concealed fury now, and there was a steady pit of dread opening up in John’s stomach as he began to eye the doors, the windows. Any potential escape from the devil and the punishment that awaited him.

But there was no escape, there never was. So John sat, quietly, and watched as Father McKenna began to beat Alexander.

It was horrible, but somehow John couldn’t tear his eyes away, not even as Alexander’s screams tore through his ears and began to echo off the vaulted ceilings, pleas to stop and promises to never do it again ringing in John’s mind. Not even as the boy’s blood began to stain Father McKenna’s hands and drip onto the marble stairs, as vivid and crimson as sacramental wine. Not even as two of the altar boys had to drag Alexander’s barely conscious, barely breathing body down the aisle and out to the hospital wing.

John was trembling by the end of it. He felt like he was going to throw up. He dreamed of that moment for weeks afterward, never able to sleep without witnessing another religious sacrifice, another crucifixion, another martyr behind his eyelids.

Suddenly back in the present– but not really, never fully out of the past– John scrambled back off of Arthur and pressed his back against a wall, wide-eyed and sweating in sudden, sickening fear. In another life he might have missed the feeling of Arthur beneath him, his waist between his thighs, his lips against his. But nothing could permeate that fear. Nothing would ever be bigger than the fear.

“Wha– John?” Arthur asked. There was fear in his eyes too, but it was different. It wasn’t fear of hell or Father McKenna or whatever had become of Alexander. It was fear for John. It was concern. John closed his eyes against it. “John, what’s wrong? What–,” “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just, be quiet!” John snapped. “Please, please, just–,” his voice broke. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to stave off an oncoming headache. 

“Okay…” Arthur said, quietly. Gently, so cruelly gentle. John could feel the beginnings of tears burning behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut tighter. “Okay.”

“This…” John started. He didn’t want to say it. He knew there would be no coming back from it. No more fireworks, no more whiskey on flower petal lips. Never again would he be so close to Arthur Lester if he said it. But that was the point wasn’t it? Make distance.

Take what he was told, never what he wanted.

“This was a mistake,” John said, firmly. A lie, of course. Inside, his very soul was shaking. The strings of his heart were trembling in a tragic vibrato, a song with no recipient. But he’d always been good at lying. He stood, tossing his braid over his shoulder and brushing the dust of his shirt (his wrinkled shirt, stained with a speck of Arthur’s blood). “It never happened.” He didn’t look at Arthur, because he was a coward. He was everything Arthur thought he was, so he didn’t look him in the eye when he said:

“If you ever so much as mention this, to anyone, I won’t hesitate, Arthur.”

He opened the door to the cabin, ready to step outside, leaving everything he’d never known he’d wanted behind. 

“I’m not you.”

[bearjam]

God I’ve just had a really cool jarthur concept and like here’s a terrible sketch for it:

Feel free to attempt to read my scratch. I will be expanding on this at a later date. I have a list of cowboy comics to trudge through

[parkeryangs]

gotta admit i haven't listened into malevolent in ages. cowboy jarthur are just my ocs in my mind idec

[craftgamerzz]

Just wanna draw fav racoon boi :’v

also im using a new pen? idk

[crushcandles]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s) Word Count: 15696 Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Pre-Canon, Dom/sub, Daddy Kink, Humiliation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink Summary:

Arthur comes over, still unhurried. He stands beside John, looking down at the fire. He’s got one thumb still tucked in, but the hand nearest John is hanging loose, nice and easy.  

"We were," he tells the fire, "until some good-for-nothin' brat walked in."

There’s something there, a thin tickle, a piece of bait on a string.  John doesn’t look up. In the bottom corner of his vision, Arthur’s boots shift.

[jarthur-morston]

Thought I’d post these here...