#john Marston x m reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

revolversandlace · 2 years ago

Text

The Dangers of Summer

Dutch/Arthur/John x f!Reader

Warnings & Tags: Explicit, Smut, Swearing, M/M/M/F, f!Reader, Plot? What Plot? DubCon, No Y/N, Minors DNI

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Dutch asks you to rob a homestead, unfortunately the loot isn’t what you expect.

A/N: I’m sorry I got horny and this happened. It is what it is.

AO3 Link

You’d been with the gang some weeks now, and not a day had gone past without the men trying to break you.

You weren’t even sure why they brought you into the fold, except for them to tease you with dead end goose chases or some impossible challenge even they couldn’t complete.

One day after the other, you were just as keen as the last to prove yourself fit for the gang. And just when you thought you were on a job to prove yourself, it turned out to be another waste of time.

‘Miss,’ Dutch called, beckoning you to his tent, the dramatic classical music playing softly in the background and he puffed on his fat cigar.

You marched over, as your boots crunched over the leaves.

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind him, watching your every move. You could feel his eyes boring into you. His face was impassive but his gaze held you in place. You stared back at him, throwing your hands in the air.

'What is it now, Dutch?'

'It'd pay you to show some more respect around here, Miss.'

You pursed your lips taking in a deep breath. 'I'll try my best,' you said coolly.

He nodded slowly. 'Good girl. Now I have a job for you.'

You arched an eyebrow. 'Another one? I'm getting tired of these endless jobs that don't go anywhere.'

'This one will be different.' He took off his hat and placed it on the table. His hair was disheveled, falling over his forehead and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. 'It's a homestead in south Leymone, not far from Braithwaite Manor.'

'Am I supposed to find anything there or will it be like the last one?'

Dutch laughed, a low and filled with danger. You really were beginning to think that perhaps this gang wasn't the right fit for you. But then again if you didn't want to join them maybe you shouldn't have come along with them in the first place.

'I expect there to be the usual wares. Jewellery... Cash,' Dutch waved his hand dismissively. He reached to the inside of his waistcoat, pulling out a silver pocket watch. 'If you leave now, you might make it for sundown.'

'Is that all?' You asked surprised. You felt like you should have been doing something more than stealing jewellery and money.

'That's enough for now,' Dutch said looking at you intently. 'Now gear up and let me see what you can do.'

You did as he instructed, quickly putting on your hat and grabbing your gun belt from where it hung in your tent. As you walked towards your horse, Arthur stepped in front of you, blocking the path between you and your mount.

'Finally got a job, I hear.' Arthur said, his smug smile plastered all across his face. Since being within the gang, Arthur had barely said more than four words to you, usually opting for silence and grumbles.

'Get out of my way,' you sighed, already exhausted with the men of the gang.

'Not until we talk about how you're going to repay us for saving you from those bandits.'

'You saved me? That's news to me.'

'You know we did,' Arthur snorted, placing his large hand on your shoulder and leading you towards your horse.

'Arthur, if you've got any issues, take it up with Dutch, okay?' You said, your voice tight as you shook his hand from you.

'Oh I will,' he said with a smirk, tugging at the brim of his hat as you hoisted yourself onto your horse.

You rode away without another word, wanting nothing more than to get out of there. You were sick of their constant teasing and taunting and wanted to be left alone. You didn't care much for Arthur but at least he was easy to deal with compared to the others.

You rode hard, reaching the homestead just before sundown. The sky turned to a bright orange hue, bathing the trees in a golden light as the birds began to sing their evening song.

Hitching your horse and throwing a sack over your shoulder, you checked your revolver and opened the barrel to see six rounds nestled in the metal. You flicked the gun with your wrist, closing it back up and you made your way to the house.

One by one, you checked the windows to make sure the house was empty. You heard nothing and saw even less, as you rattled the back doorknob and pushed it open.

You raised your gun and you pulled up your bandana over your nose and mouth, your skin prickling with excitement. Finally, a job where you could show your worth to the gang.

You checked the drawers, every cupboard you could see and a pair of pearl earrings and a wad of cash later, you made your way from the back room into the hallway.

Just as you were about to open the door to the next room, you heard an unmistakable clatter.

Shit.

Walking slowly towards the room that the sound came from, you lightly put one foot in front of the other, as your hand gripped tighter around the gun.

You tried to listen through the wall but couldn't tell what was happening. Was someone still there? Or was it just some noise from outside?

You took a deep breath and held it in your chest as you slowly opened the door.

What you saw however, was the last thing you expected.

'Told ya she didn't know the shortcut,' Arthur said, sitting in a chair with his foot on his knee, rolling a cigarette between his fingers.

John was sitting beside him, with a wide smile.

'I'm surprised she made it at all,' he said

'What the fuck is going on?' You said, searching both of their faces as you pulled down your bandana. 'What's this all about?' Your voice rose as your heart began to speed up in your chest.

They said nothing, as they stared at you with boyish grins on their face.

'I don't have time for this,' you said, turning away from them.

'Don't worry about her,' Arthur called after you. 'She'll come round.'

'You can say that again,' John laughed.

You stopped in your tracks, your temper rising.

'I can't believe you've done this again! Why can't you just give me a job and leave me be?' You waved your gun at them, in half your mind to shoot them where they sat. They both laughed, clearly not as threatened as you'd thought they'd be. Although if you were expecting anything from either of them by now you were mistaken.

'We're sorry darlin' we didn't mean to scare ya,' Arthur said, standing up and putting his hat back on. 'But you know how it is with us.' He smiled down at you.

'Yeah, I do. You're real shits you know that.' You said, folding your arms across your chest. 'Wait until Dutch here's of this.'

The men looked at each other smiling as you heard a laugh from behind you. Spinning round you nearly collided with Dutch as he towered over you, his black mustache twitching.

'Who's ideal do you think it was?' He said and you slowly took a step back. 'Now, missy. I've had a word with these two and they both agree. You're attitude is...'

Dutch licked his lips hungrily, staring down at you as your chest became tighter.

'Unwelcomed.' He said, his face turning to a near snarl.

You didn't know what was happening, but you didn't like it. You felt uneasy and you wanted to get out of there but you knew that would only make things worse for yourself. So instead you remained quiet, staring at Dutch.

'You need to learn your place,' Dutch growled, stepping closer to you.

You could feel his hot breath against your neck as he whispered, 'You belong to us now.'

You swallowed hard as he grabbed hold of your hair, pulling you off balance. He turned you around to face both John and Arthur, who looked at each other with excitement.

You tried to struggle from Dutch's grasp but his fingers just dug further into your scalp.

'Now we won't hurt,' Dutch said into your ear as he marched you towards the table, 'as long as you behave.'

You were scared, but not as scared as you should have been. You would have been lying if you said you weren't excited at the thought. You'd thought about the men before, although not at the same time, in the late hours when your hand would drift lower to pleasure yourself.

You didn't want to admit it but even then you were curious about the way they treated you. The way they talked to you and the way they acted around you.

Dutch let go of your hair as the back of your thighs met the edge of the table as all three men stood around you. You could feel your cheeks burning red as their eyes roamed over your body like a pack of wolves.

Arthur stepped forward and lifted you up onto the table, placing himself between your legs. He pressed his hands against your breasts, kneading them roughly.

'Now boys, take good care of her,' Dutch ordered as he pulled out a half-smoked cigar, lighting the thick end.

'Get her ready for me,' he nodded, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting down to watch the show.

You swallowed hard, as Arthur's large, rough hands worked over your body as he made his way to your shirt buttons.

'Make sure you share, Arthur,' Dutch said, leaning back as Arthur started to unbutton you.

John joined him, kissing your neck and running his tongue along your skin. You moaned at the sensation as the two pairs of hands continued to roam over you. Your cunt was throbbing, as you ran your leg up Arthur's side, whilst John continued to kiss you.

Helping Arthur shrug off your shirt, the cool breeze hit your nipples as he took one of them between his thumb and index finger, giving it a pinch.

'You like it rough girl?' He growled as you whimpered, all words caught in your throat. All you could give him was a weak nod as he applied more pressure on your nipple as your wetness grew.

'Good,' he grunted, squeezing harder on your breast. 'This is going to be fun.'

He released your breast as both he and John began to work at your trousers, unbuckling you and pulling the jeans and your boots from you as you sat on the edge of the table completely naked.

Arthur pushed you back onto the table and kissed you roughly, pushing his tongue inside your mouth as you kissed him back, feeling John's hands run over your thighs and towards your sopping wet heat.

You gasped as you felt a finger slip inside you, making you buck your hips as Arthur continued to work his tongue in your mouth.

'She's already wet, Dutch' John said, pumping his fingers into you, stretching you out as you moaned into Arthur's mouth.

Arthur pulled away from you, his lips glistening with your saliva as John continued to bury his fingers in you, curling them around deep inside of you. You continued to moan, and rock your hips.

'Think I'm gonna use that mouth some more,' Arthur growled, as he began to undo his belt.

You looked up at him with mewls falling from your lips as he pulled out his thick cock. Giving it a few pumps, he grabbed the top of your hair, and pulled your head onto his cock, and shoved it into your mouth.

You sucked hard, taking it deep as you tried to swallow it. You gagged and choked as you tried to keep up, as the other two began to laugh.

'You're going to have to learn to take it all,' Arthur grunted, as he pulled your head away giving you a second to breathe.

'I'm sure she will,' Dutch said from the chair, watching you intently.

'Open up, darlin', and try and take the whole thing,' Arthur said as you forced yourself harder onto John's fingers, the coil already beginning to tighten in your lower stomach.

You nodded, opening your mouth as Arthur shoved his cock back into your mouth with no mercy. Using his grip on you, he moved your head roughly onto him and you tried your best to breathe as your throat became fuller and fuller.

'Come on, girl,' Arthur grunted, 'take it all.'

You tried your hardest, but you couldn't. You could feel his balls tighten and his cock swell as he continued to thrust into your mouth.

You gagged and spluttered, but he didn't stop. You kept your mouth open as he used you, whilst John pushed another finger into you. Moaning onto Arthur's cock, you felt your own orgasm building.

You were desperate for release; you needed it badly. His cock was too big for your mouth, and it wouldn't stay still. It seemed determined to stretch you to breaking point. As he pounded your mouth mercilessly, his breathing picked up as his grip got tighter on your head.

You felt John remove his fingers from you, as you looked down, he pulled his cock from his trousers and shoved the thick head into your dripping cunt.

You moaned again, both your holes filled as the men ravaged you. You felt your toes curl as you arched your back, your cunt growing tighter around John's cock as he thumbed at your clit.

It was almost too much as a wave of pleasure crashed over you as you screamed onto Arthur's cock whilst John fucked you harder. You came quickly as your orgasm ripped through your body leaving you weak.

Arthur withdrew his cock from your mouth and grabbed hold of your hair, forcing you up onto your feet as you felt your legs struggling to hold you up.

'Think she's having a good time, Dutch' Arthur mused as you panted, desperate for air as the bliss tingled over your skin.

'It does appear that way,' Dutch said, nodding as he stood. You could see John stoking himself as Arthur grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you on top of him onto the table.

'I wanna see you how tight you are,' he said, his hands digging so hard into your hips you know they'd leave bruises for days.

He speared his cock into you as you mewled again, your eyes scrunched tight as Arthur fucked himself into you. You felt John's thumb circling your asshole, as he spat onto you letting the liquid drip down.

'Please,' you whined, as you felt the head of John's cock push into your other hole, the pain and pleasure melding into one.

You were full, stuffed and revelling in ecstasy as the two men fucked you.

'I can't last much longer,' John groaned, pressing his hands against your hips and rocking his hips forward as you cried out loudly.

'Don't let me interrupt you gentleman,' Dutch said, making his way over to the table removing his hat as he removed his belt.

'Why don't you come see how a real man tastes,' Dutch chuckled, stepping out of his trousers and wrapping his hand around his hard cock.

You wasted no time in obliging, wrapping your lips around him and now every single one of your holes were filled. Dutch pumped himself faster into your mouth while his hands played with your breast.

He leaned in close and whispered, 'good girl,' as he slapped your cheek.

You felt his hot cum splash across your tongue and into your mouth as you gulped it down greedily. You could hear him panting above you, as he pulled you from his cock. You felt John thrust faster into your ass, bruising you further as he grunted, his cum filling you and spilling out, dripping down onto your cunt.

Arthur wasn't far behind, as you continued to bob on his cock, the last drops of cum dripping down your chin as Dutch wiped his brow.

John pulled himself from you as you now felt empty, except for Arthur who continued to pummel you hard. The familiar feeling rose again, as you ground your hips into Arthur, as the slaps continued to fill the room.

Another orgasm erupted, as you screamed into the air, the pleasure almost unbearable as Arthur, unrelentingly chased his own as you were filled up one last time.

Arthur stopped, holding himself deep within you as you collapsed onto the table next to him panting. You rolled onto your side, looking at the mess you made and seeing the satisfied smile on each of their faces.

Covered in cum and sweat, the men dressed as you lay there on the table, legs shaking and the pain of having three men inside of you started to settle in.

'That was certainly an experience,' John smiled, picking up his clothes from the floor.

'I certainly think Miss here will behave herself from now on.' Dutch said, as the three men left the homestead leaving you there naked and beyond content.

400 notes · View notes

whoyacallinyellow · 9 months ago

Text

never again

John Marston x F! reader

Spoilers: RDR2 ch1 Content: 18+ mdni, NFSW, m/f smut, drunk sex, praise, pervert warning, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes, grammar errors I couldn’t be bothered to fix. Type: second pov / (wc - 1442) / pc: me

Summary: a night of drinking never goes unpunished

You stirred awake to a shadow looming in the tent. The soft clanking of metal, and clicking of spurs from unsteady steps made your breath hitch. Now propped up on your elbows, your heavy eyes managed to follow the man fumbling in the darkness.

Through your delirium, incoherent murmurs must have escaped you which warranted a response.

“jus’ me, hush.”

John’s whisper, soft like butter, melted your body back onto the bedroll. It only took three words from the man to bring you the security he offered, in more ways than one.

“s’alright.”

John reassured through a strain, knowing he startled you all too often— whether it was a late night drinking, or a guard shift.

Your shared tent was tucked behind the medicine wagon, close enough for John to keep an eye on you, but far enough for some privacy the man so desperately requested.

Soon enough his body was united with yours, a welcoming embrace of tobacco and whiskey that never failed to blanket you with comfort during the night.

His chest vibrated against your back as he hummed, rejoicing in the mutual comfort that he brought you. John’s hand ran down your side, calloused palms snagging on the fabric as he worked against it. Your torso trembled, anticipating his every action as he was soon consumed by a different high. His lack of rationalization from the whiskey radiated off him with a feverish heat that pulsed over you.

“c’mon sweetheart.”

The vague and needy words dissipated as quickly as they formed. Your eyes met his, a certain sadness sunk within his dull blue wells, glossed and masked over with the liquid dopamine he poured every night.

Turning to his embrace, your hands weaved through his shirt, both unclasping the buttons and beckoning him. An offer John gladly took as you positioned yourself for his body on top of yours.

With one arm propping himself over you, and the other tussling at his waist. His rehearsed movements in the dark had to be second nature by now.

The wind rippled through the fabric of the tent, momentarily welcoming in the moonlight. Allowing you to catch a glimpse of the man over you, the blue beams kissing the raw scars on his cheek.

There was no doubt John got off easy,

The wolves could have taken much more from him, but managed to be more forgiving than any BlackWater lawman could have been.

You let out an impatient protest as his hands continued to fumble, temporarily appeasing you with his lips.

His stubble dragging across your collarbone made you shutter. John’s kisses were usually coated in whiskey, only to leave you with a different high than the one he chased earlier.

“you’ve been eyeballin’ me all day, missy.”

He remarked against your skin, a slight drawl presenting itself as he freed your torso from your shirt.

You felt your cheeks heat up, both from his words, and your naked state. Despite John knowing your body just damn well as his own, everytime managed to feel like the first.

John always caught your eyes on him. Sweat beading down his forehead as he worked an axe effortlessly, it was almost as if the man was beautifully built for manual labor. You were infatuated with the way his biceps would flex while his toned muscles peeked through the shirt that clung to him with every move. He would eventually meet your indiscreet gaze with amusement, knowing very well he would be all over you at night's arrival.

Your eyes would simply linger a moment longer, despite being caught red handed. He couldn't help but to admire your boldness, a confidence hidden within you not needing to be boasted about for validation.

“Someone’s gonna hear—“

You cooed, your worries being thrown away by the hungry lips and hands that carassessed your breasts.

John grumbled, not bothered to remove his attention from your neck. Throughout his buzzed state, his hands became coordinated, grasping at and invading every part of your bare skin available to him.

How sweet he thought you were, a blank canvas only for him cast upon. A small gasp escaped your lips as you felt a small nibble on your neck. His excitement demonstrated through the smile plastered against your skin, along with a hard spot pressing against your leg.

“keep those little lips quiet, now.”

John commanded with a whisper, his rough fingertips ghosting their way across your waist to free you from your restricting garments.

His drunken staggering alone was enough to wake the others, but the man always blamed you for being too noisy.

Perhaps it was his own pride, cocky words he could not help but to boast— he reckoned it ain’t his fault he’s so good in the sheets. Hell, he can’t help how he makes you feel.

“such a good girl for me, ain’t ya?”

John murmured through a soft moan, just the thought of you made him ache, his body begging for the release you so willingly gave him.

His pants were finally kicked down and bunching up just below his knees. Before words could be spoken they were interrupted by John’s fingertips that raised to his lips, a dollop of spit being dispersed onto them.

A brash groan left his lips and graced your rosy cheeks while his hand stroked up the shaft of his cock— either unneeded preparation, or a ritual of his, you couldn’t tell.

Your torso knotted and quivered against him, impatience consuming your every move. Quiet moans escaped you as the head of his cock met your slick entrance, always proving his preparation irrelevant.

“Jesus, woman— this worked up over me?”

The man beamed with a husky chuckle, not realizing the volume of his voice until your palm smacked his chest.

More of a tease at your dismay, John couldn’t help but to always comment on it. Your wetness was a mere reminder he always took pride in.

His smug smile eventually twisted into a bitten lip as he eased himself into you, the lack of self control overrunning any wit to him he had left.

“that’s it,”

John praised gently, his jaw going lax as his length slipped further in you. A rugged hand clasped over your mouth as his hips began to thrust. His half-lidded eyes eventually meeting yours.

Your eyes held so much trust for him, trust he was never sure how he earned in the first place. How he wished he could hear the moans of his name, but instead focused on the shared pleasure you gave him. With your walls contracting and fluctuating around him, he thought it was nearly too much to handle.

“Marston! It's your shift!”

A nasally demand rang from outside the tent.

Through your ecstasy, you had no recollection of any steps approaching, and neither did John— god only knows how long the pervert was loitering outside the thin canvas.

“Christ!”

The shriek of horror that left John’s lips, you could have sworn he saw a ghost. Springing up at your feet, his pants were yanked up and manhood tucked away while you scrambled for cover.

John stormed out with a stumble, so many feelings of wrong and right flooding through and past him like the wind.

“Goddamnit— Williamson—“

He sputtered in disbelief, arms gesturing violently towards the man’s mug.

“If I didn’ know any better, I reckon you’d like hearin’ my woman.”

John barked at the man, the shock in his tone long erased by bitterness.

You hid in your palms, the embarrassment burning through your cheeks, and the airborn tension that managed to leak into the tent.

The silence John created was painful, if it wasn’t obvious enough already, the entire camp was now aware of you two.

The pause was eventually broken with a nasty hawk and spit, along with curses that ran off of John’s tongue. His pleasant night with you was quickly turning into a sober guard shift.

John trudged back through the tent flaps in defeat, retrieving his discarded gun belt at your feet with a frown plastered on his face, gently illuminated by the lantern he now held.

“never again in camp.”

The man scowled to himself, the risk of waking the others was long gone— if he had to be miserable, so did everyone else trying to sleep.

With John’s attention circling back to you, another kiss, just as needy as before, was placed on your lips, lingering for a moment before meeting his impending doom.

His boots were haphazardly pulled on with a struggle. You repeated his words, a small grin crept upon you in his state of frustration.

“never again.”

#john marston x reader #John marston headcanons #John marston #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption fandom #rdr2 x reader #rdr smut #rdr2 smut #john marston smut

301 notes · View notes

allthemeniveloved · 1 month ago

Text

It Will Come Back - Part 5

Summary: John whisks you away to Elysian Pool for the weekend to get some much-needed time away, as well as teach you a thing or two.

Tags: high honor John Marston x fem!reader, reader teases John about not being able to swim, John makes a dick joke, John Marston absolutely worships you, tooth rotting fluff, cavity inducing fluff, smut, oral (m receiving), thigh riding, choking, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, praising, author is getting a little better at writing smut

wc: 4.4k

ao3 link

The soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the canvas of the tent, casting warm, golden hues over the rumpled blankets tangled around you. The air was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of birds, a rare moment of peace in the chaotic world you’d grown accustomed to. As you stirred, your cheek brushing against the rough fabric of the cot, you became acutely aware of John’s arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His warmth radiated against your back, steady and comforting, and the faint scent of leather and pine lingered in the space around you.

You tilted your head slightly, catching sight of him still asleep, his face softened in the morning light. The lines of worry and exhaustion that usually etched his features seemed less pronounced, his breathing slow and even. For a moment, you simply lay there, taking in the rare vulnerability he allowed himself in sleep, your heart swelling with an unexpected tenderness.

As you shifted to untangle yourself, his arm tightened instinctively, pulling you closer as a sleepy murmur escaped his lips. “Stay,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep but filled with a quiet plea. It sent a warmth through you that no sunrise could rival, and with a soft sigh, you relaxed back into him.

Your fingers moved hesitantly at first, brushing lightly along the rugged lines of John’s cheek. You traced the longest one, the faint silver line running down from just under his eye to his jaw, your fingertips lingering as you marveled at how perfectly it seemed to fit him—both strong and weathered, like the man himself.

He didn’t flinch under your touch, though his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with a hint of self-consciousness. “They ain’t much to look at,” he murmured, his voice rough but tinged with vulnerability, like he was bracing for you to agree.

“Not much to look at?” you whispered, your voice filled with quiet affection as your thumb brushed over the scar on his chin. “I like them, a lot. They suit you.” you said with a smile.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as his hand came up to cover yours. “Didn’t think there was much to like about a busted-up face.”

“Well,” you said, leaning closer, your voice light but sincere, “I happen to think it’s perfect.” You kissed the scar on his jaw, lingering just enough to feel him relax, and his grin widened as he pulled you closer.

John’s hand came up to trace circles on your bare back, his calloused palm warm against your skin. “You’ve got a way of makin’ a man feel like he’s somethin’ better than he is,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re already better than you think,” you replied, leaning in to kiss him softly, letting your actions say what words couldn’t. Brushing your lips softly against his, with the warmth of the kiss bringing a quiet smile to your face. His hands rested gently on your back, holding you close as he melted in and kissed you back with an easy, unhurried affection that made your heart flutter.

As you lay tangled together in John’s cot, the soft rustle of the tent canvas blending with the distant hum of the camp, he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. His gaze was warm, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he started, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm, “we could use a break from all this… madness. Just you and me. How about we get outta here for a couple days? Fresh air, quiet nights, no Dutch breathin’ down our necks.” His voice dropped to a tender murmur as he leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You deserve a little peace, darlin’. Let me give it to you.”

You blinked up at him, his words sinking in like a warm balm against the chaos that had been your constant companion lately. A small, surprised smile tugged at your lips as you reached up, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. “You really mean it?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with a mixture of hope and disbelief. His answering grin was all the confirmation you needed, and you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that bubbled up as you nodded. “Okay, John. Let’s do it.” The thought of escaping, even if just for a little while, sent a flutter of relief through your chest as you leaned into him, your forehead brushing against his. “Thank you,” you whispered, your heart feeling a little lighter already.

John pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, his voice soft but filled with excitement. “I’ll get the horses ready—meet me by Old Boy in a bit, darlin’. Don’t keep me waitin’ too long now.”

"Where are you taking me exactly?" you asked, half-laughing at his determination.

"You'll see." he said simply, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just you and me.”

The journey to Elysian Pool was nothing short of serene, the kind of peace you hadn’t realized you craved until you were out in the open with John riding beside you. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, and the distant hum of cicadas created a calming backdrop as your horses trotted along the narrow trail. John kept the mood light, his voice easy and warm as he pointed out the occasional animal or teased you about your riding skills.

“You’re keepin’ up alright,” he said with a playful grin, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Didn’t think Dahlia had it in her to go this fast.”

You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe it’s your horse that needs to keep up, Marston.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the trees, and for the first time in days, you felt your tension start to ease.

Dahlia was a sleek, all-black Arabian mare, her glossy coat shimmering like polished obsidian under the moonlight, every muscle finely sculpted for speed and grace. Her alert, intelligent eyes and delicate, arched neck gave her an almost regal presence, and she carried herself with a quiet confidence that matched your own perfectly. Dahlia wasn’t just a horse—she was the last gift your father had given you before he passed, a spirited black Arabian with a gleam in her eye that reminded you of him. You could still hear his voice, proud and warm, as he handed you the reins for the first time: “She’s got your fire, kid. Treat her right, and she’ll take care of you.” You couldn't help but to smile at the memory.

As the sound of rushing water grew louder, John slowed his horse, gesturing toward the clearing just ahead. The sight of Elysian Pool was even more breathtaking than you expected. The waterfall cascaded down in a glittering rush, the sound of the water filling the air with a soothing rhythm that seemed to wash away every lingering worry. Mist hung in the cool air, catching the sunlight and creating a faint rainbow at the edges of the pool. The soft grass near the water’s edge was lush and inviting, a perfect spot to rest and forget, at least for a while, the chaos waiting back at camp.

John dismounted first, his boots crunching softly against the earth as he reached up to help you down. “Told ya this was worth the ride,” he said with a grin, “Figured this was better than listenin’ to Bill snore all night,” he joked, helping you down. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s beautiful, John,” you said softly, your voice almost lost in the roar of the waterfall.

He spread out the blanket on a patch of grass overlooking the water and gestured for you to sit. The moment you did, he settled beside you, leaning back on his elbows with an air of relaxed satisfaction. “We both needed this,” he said, glancing at you. “Somewhere quiet. No Dutch, no plans, no nothin’.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, the only sound between you was the roar of the falls. Then, as if to break the spell, John reached over to pluck a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers.

“You ever seen someone try to fish with just their hands?” he asked, his grin turning mischievous.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to try.”

“Oh, I’d manage just fine,” he said, leaning closer with a teasing glint in his eye. “But it’d probably scare off all the fish. Let’s just stick to relaxin’ for now.”

“Fishing with your hands, huh?” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him. “Might be a little tricky for someone who can’t even swim. What’re you gonna do if you fall in? Charm the fish into draggin’ you back to shore?” His head snapped toward you, his face a mix of amusement and mock indignation as he straightened up. “You’re real funny, you know that? Maybe I oughta toss you in first, see how well you swim with all that sass.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you nudged him with your elbow. “Face it, Marston—you’d be bored stiff without me.”

He chuckled, leaning a little closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe, but don’t let it go to your head, darlin’. I ain’t about to start sayin’ you’re always right.”

"And for the record, I'm stiff when you're around anyway so it wouldn't make much of a difference."

“John Marston!” you exclaimed, your voice filled with mock outrage as you reached out and gave his arm a light slap. He chuckled, feigning innocence as he rubbed the spot where you’d hit him. “What’d I do now?” he teased, his grin widening. You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling up between you made it impossible to keep a straight face. “You know exactly what you did,” you shot back, shaking your head at him, though the warmth in your smile betrayed your amusement.

The sun had dipped low, casting the waterfall and the clearing in a soft, golden glow as John paced a few feet ahead of you, his revolver dangling lazily from his fingers.

“You know,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I’ve been meanin’ to teach you a thing or two about shootin’.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Shooting?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Are you sure this is necessary? I think I do fine without a gun in my hand.”

“Maybe,” John replied, his tone light but edged with seriousness. “But what happens when I ain’t around to back you up?” His expression softened as he stepped closer, holding the revolver out to you. “C’mon, darlin’. Just humor me, alright?”

You’d always preferred the subtlety of slipping a wallet from a pocket or a watch from a wrist over the loud, messy chaos of a firefight. You’d always known enough about gunslinging to survive when it counted—a few well-placed shots here, a quick draw there—but it was never something you excelled at or even cared to perfect. Your aim was steady enough to hit a target if you had to, and you’d managed to bluff your way out of enough tight spots with a revolver in hand to keep trouble at bay. Quick hands and a sharp mind had kept you alive far more often than a gun ever had, though John seemed determined to change that.

With a sigh, you took the weapon, the cool metal heavy in your grip. He moved behind you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulders as he adjusted your stance. His voice was low and steady, brushing against your ear like a warm breeze. “Relax,” he murmured, his hands sliding down to guide your arms into position. “Don’t hold it too tight, but keep it firm. You wanna be in control, not the gun.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little flustered at his closeness, his steady presence both grounding and distracting at the same time. He pointed toward a rock at the far edge of the clearing, his hand brushing against yours as he helped you aim. “See that? Focus on it. Line up the sights, and when you’re ready, squeeze the trigger—don’t yank it.”

You took a deep breath and steadied yourself, squeezing the trigger as the shot rang out, echoing against the falls. The bullet missed the rock by a small margin, striking harmlessly into the dirt, and you groaned in frustration.

John chuckled softly, his hands squeezing your shoulders in encouragement. “Not bad for a first try. You’re just gettin’ the feel for it.”

After a few more attempts, with John’s patient guidance and a string of playful teases when you missed, you finally chipped the rock. You let out a triumphant laugh, spinning to face him. “I did it!”

He grinned, his pride in you unmistakable as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Told ya you could. You’re a natural, darlin’.”

You swatted at his arm playfully. “A natural, huh? You might want to hold off on the flattery until I can actually hit something without you babysitting me.”

He laughed, leaning in slightly, his tone softening. “You’re better than you think. And one day, you’re gonna see that for yourself.”

As the evening wore on, the lesson turned into an easy rhythm of shooting and playful banter. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, leaving the clearing bathed in twilight, you found yourself more confident with the weapon—and more drawn to John’s unwavering belief in you.

Eventually, you found it harder and harder to focus. His voice, low and gravelly, was meant to be instructive, but the warmth of his breath brushing your ear and the way his fingers lingered on your wrists sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned in closer, adjusting your grip, his chest brushing against your back, and it was enough to make your heart race faster than the gunfire you were supposed to be practicing. “Darlin’, keep your eyes on the target,” he murmured, his tone teasing but steady. But you couldn’t. Spinning on your heel, you dropped the revolver to your side and pulled him toward you, crashing your lips against his in a kiss filled with all the tension you couldn’t keep bottled up. For a moment, he froze, surprised, before his hands slipped around your waist, drawing you closer as he kissed you back with just as much fervor, the lesson momentarily—and blissfully—forgotten.

John’s grip on your waist tightened as the kiss deepened, his calloused hands pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. The forgotten revolver slipped from your hand, landing softly in the grass, but neither of you noticed or cared. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent your pulse racing, his usual cocky demeanor melting away into something raw and unrestrained.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, John rested his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you close. “Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve got a hell of a way of interruptin’ a lesson.”

You laughed softly, your hands still tangled in his shirt as you looked up at him, your cheeks warm from both the kiss and his teasing. “Maybe I just found something more interestin’ than shootin’ targets,” you quipped, unable to hide the grin spreading across your face.

John chuckled, his thumb brushing your cheek, his expression softening. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, though his tone carried no bite, just affection.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice quiet but full of warmth. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

His grin widened, and he leaned down to press another quick, lingering kiss to your lips before finally stepping back, though his hands never quite left your waist. “Alright,” he said, his voice lighter now, “we’ll call it a break—for now. But you’re still learnin’ how to shoot proper, whether you distract me or not.”

You smirked as you slowly and gently backed him towards the nearest tree, his words filling you with a quiet joy. “We’ll see about that, Marston.” But John Marston was always two steps ahead of you, and before you knew it, he spun you around, pressing his thigh between your legs as your back hit the tree. You couldn't stop the gasp from leaving your lips as his large hand wrapped around your throat, applying perfect pressure.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, "you're playin' with fire here." His thigh pressed tighter against your core, and warmth curled in your abdomen at the feeling of your cunt dragging across John's thigh, your folds sliding through the slick that's began pooling in your undergarments. Each roll of your hips sent sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, stoking the flames of your desire higher and higher. John's grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fought the urge to rip your clothes off and take you right then and there. But he held back, letting you set the pace, content to revel in the delicious friction of your body against his.

"Careful what ya wish for, baby," he warned, his voice rough with barely restrained lust. "Keep this up and I won't be responsible for my actions."

You just laugh, "Oh, I'm counting on it," your breathed, your hot breath sending shivers down his spine. And with that, you redoubled her efforts, grinding against him with wild abandon.

"Good girl," he adds in a low tone as you let out a choked out whine when he tightens his grip and guides your next stroke. "Good fucking girl."

"John," you cry out as you continue to grind against him, that coil tightening inside of you.

He presses sloppy open mouthed kisses to the exposed skin on your neck, all the way down to your collarbone.

"Go on, take what you need," he says hoarsely. " Use me. I know you're close. I can feel it." he urges. The hand currently squeezing your neck slips away and clamps over your mouth as you desperately chase your release. You stick your tongue out and lick the palm of his hand before taking his two middle fingers in your mouth.

"Jesus, princess, you're filthy." John lets out a loud groan in unexpected satisfaction as you eagerly suck on his fingers.

Something in his tone made that coil snap inside of you, your nails digging into his shirt as stars danced across your vision. You came hard, your thighs trembling, the only thing holding you up was his hand on your hip and his thigh between your legs.

John groaned as your release coated his thigh, the heat of your essence seeping through the denim. He could still feel you trembling above him, your body shuddering with the aftershocks of your pleasure.

"Fuck, baby," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "You made quite a mess of me."

You just smirked, eyes glinting with mischief as you slowly slid down his body, making quick work of his gun belt. "I ain't done yet, cowboy." Before John could even catch his breath, you had his cock free, your hot breath ghosting over his sensitive flesh.

"Jesus, darlin'" he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. The sight of his cock went straight to your already dripping pussy as you looked up to him with eyes that begged for permission. That was all the encouragement you needed as you grabbed the base of his cock, feeling how the veins throbbed under your touch.

He's unbelievably hard and leaking as you slowly slide your tongue around the tip of him before taking his curved head into your mouth. John takes a deep, shaky breath as you suck softly on the head of his cock, fluttering your tongue along a bead of precum he's leaking.

"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice hoarse as he tightens the grip on your hair. You take him deep, the very tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, over and over again. Your tongue fits along the curve of him, massaging him with every soft corner of your mouth, and you can't help but to notice John's breathing changes.

"You're so fucking pretty like this, darlin'. All mine."

Your thighs press together tightly to subdue the ache in your pussy. His hips move in time with your head, fucking your throat with feral grunts that has slick pooling at your entrance. Your hands move to his thighs for stability, throat burning with the stretch of him as you gag, saliva dripping out of the sides of your mouth.

He tears himself away, hand grabbing you by the throat to pull you to your feet and lock eyes with him.

"You're too good at that baby." He breathes as he forcibly twisted you around presses your chest against the tree.

"You want more? Beg for it."

You nodded frantically, "Please, John," you begged, voice high and needy. "I need you inside me. I need you to fill me up."

Without warning, John spanked you. You gasped at the sweet pain that spread across from your skin.

"That's not my name." He answered, his tone was cold and firm.

"Fuck - daddy! I'm sorry."

With a low growl, John lifted your skirt, ripping your panties away, baring you to his hungry gaze. He positioned himself at your entrance, teasing with shallow thrusts that had you keening in frustration.

"Beg for it," he demanded, his eyes blazing with lust. "Keep begging for my cock, princess."

"Please, daddy," you sobbed, hips bucking back toward him. "Please, I need it. I need you. Make me yours."

That was all John wanted to hear. It filled him with pride to hear the vulgar words fall from your lips for him, watching you plead for his cock. And with that, John slammed home, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke. You cried out, back arching deeper as he began to move, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. He quickly slid his hand around to the front of your throat, finding solace there once more as he squeezed tightly and pulled your body flush against his as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking wet. Takin' my cock so well." You could only moan in response, hands clutching his forearm for purchase as John fucked you harder and faster. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you lightheaded with need.

"That's it, princess," he growled, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "Take what I give you."

John was so close to you, so deep inside of you with his intoxicating scent filling your lungs leaving your body on fire, every nerve ending lit with pleasure as he drove into you again and again. You could feel his cock hitting deep inside, touching places you didn't even know existed.

"Please," you sobbed, hips bucking back to meet his thrusts. "Please, daddy, I need... I need..."

"I know what ya need, baby," John rasped, his hand leaving your throat to slide between your legs. He found your clit and rubbed it mercilessly, pushing you to the brink of madness.

You came with a scream in no time, with your body convulsing in John's arms as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep inside of you, groaning your name as he filled you with his seed once again.

You both stayed like that for a long moment in an attempt to catch your breaths, bodies entwined and glistening with sweat in the moonlight. And as John finally pulled out and tucked himself back in, you begin to notice just how weak your legs had become. He finds your discarded panties on the ground nearby and shoves them in his back pocket. The cool night air wrapped around you as John’s strong arms lifted you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. You were boneless, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your multiple intense orgasms. Your head rested against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his footsteps and the warmth of his body lulling you into a haze of exhaustion and comfort.

“How do you feel?” he murmured softly, his voice filled with both affection and worry. The sound of the waterfall faded behind you as he carried you back toward the tent, his hold protective and unyielding up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as your legs had given out beneath you.

"Mmhm," John couldn't help but laugh at your failure to string together a sentence.

The stars twinkled brightly overhead, their reflection rippling faintly in the still water of Elysian Pool as you and John settled on the blanket by the fire he’d built earlier. The sound of the waterfall was a constant, soothing rush in the background, blending with the gentle crackle of the fire as it cast flickering shadows across the grass. You curled up beside him, your head resting against his chest, his arm draped securely around your shoulders. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your arm, the touch grounding and filled with quiet affection.

“You know,” John murmured, his voice low and warm, “nights like this… makes me think we could have a life like this someday. Just us, somewhere peaceful, no gang, no runnin’.”

You smiled sleepily, your eyes drifting closed as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I’d like that,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the calming symphony of the night.

His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, his arm tightening slightly around you. “You deserve it, darlin’. More than anyone I know.”

The weight of his words and the warmth of his embrace lulled you into a serene haze, and as you drifted off, you felt him shift slightly, his other hand resting protectively over yours. “Sleep tight,” he whispered softly, his voice fading into the night. “I’ve got you.” And with the waterfall murmuring in the distance, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that a life outside of the gang existed.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

tag list: @photo1030

50 notes · View notes

spongeyspot · 1 year ago

Text

Poly Relationship HCs (SFW +NSFW)

(John Marston x fem!reader x Abigail Marston)

(A/N): A little longer than I anticipated. Also, I'm terrible at editing things so if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, please don't bite me. I'm just a wee baby

Content warning: fluff, small mentions of infidelity, polyamory, female reader, you/she pronouns

SFW

- The relationship itself had probably started when either John or Abigail had started to catch feelings

- It was probably Abigail considering how distant John was from her in the beginning

- Quite honestly would probably keep your relationship a secret during the very early stages.

- She saw how much you cared about her and her family, so it was only natural for her to start to fall in love. She fell in love with John pretty quickly, too, though he was a bit slower to warm up to the idea of having a family

- You, however, love Jack as if he were your own, which makes Abigail swoon even more. Plus, another parent figure to Jack (Who he also really likes) because her husband is kinda useless half the time? Jackpot!

- When she brought up adding you to their relationship, John was probably pretty okay with the idea, even a little excited, though if she told him that she had been seeing you secretly before that, he'd probably be a little pissy.

- After adding you to their family, things seemed to move a lot smoother. John warmed up to the idea a lot quicker than both of you had anticipated

- You usually act as a mediator for a lot of Abigail and John's fights, but knowing John he'd probably say some shit like "Look, even she's on my side!" and Abigail would get pissed at you too.

- Abigail LOVES to hold you by the fire. John usually has his arm around the both of you with you sitting in the middle.

- Would take turns having you sleep with them at night because their bedrolls weren't really big enough to fit one person, let alone three.

- When the gang moved to Shady Belle, things were a lot easier with lodging. John loses his mind every time he gets to cuddle the both of you at the same time. He's a sucker for physical touch, really.

- After chores are finished, the three of you are usually found sitting under a tree, Abigail cuddled into your side while you read a book, and John lays on his back beside you, his head resting on your thighs. His hat is usually covering his face, but when it isn't, you or Abigail absentmindedly play with his hair or massage his scalp.

- Abigail loves it when you spend time with Jack. It makes her heart swell to see him having so much fun.

- You tend to encourage John to spend time with him as well, which she also appreciates.

- Family game nights end with You and Jack teamed up and absolutely wrecking John at dominoes while Abigail watches

- Says something like "I let you win." with a roll of his eyes before sulking away

- Pet names!

- John calls you 'Baby', 'Darlin'', 'Dollface', and even 'Sugartits' if he wants to get slapped

- Abigail calls you 'Honey', 'Sweetie pie', 'Honey Bun', or 'Pretty Girl'.

- Both John and Abigail enjoy physical affection.

- John likes to kiss your hair and squeeze your thighs.

- Abigail loves to kiss you on the cheek and hold your hand.

-If John walks by you, he will throw out an affectionate compliment or two

- "God, you look pretty today, (Name)."

- Also probably pinches or slaps your ass on his way by

- He secretly loves it when you slap or pinch his ass too, though he'd never actually admit it.

- Abigail is a bit more sultry with it, then goes back to normal like she didn't just blatantly hit on you

- "Damn, well look at you, Pretty girl. Don't you look fine this mornin'... Coffee?"

- Also pinches and slaps your ass, but also gives it a good squeeze, and will sometimes hold her hand on your ass instead of on your hip if you stand side by side.

NSFW (MINORS DNI)

Content Warnings: oral sex (m + f recieving), mean!dom!abigail, dacryphilia if you squint, edging, masturbation, voyeurism, cucking if you squint, risky sex, brat tamer!Abigail, spanking, biting, hickeys, marking kink, Mommy kink, praise, breeding, creampies, cum eating

- John and Abigail are both switches.

- John tends to be a top when it's just the two of you, but when Abigail is also part of the fun, he's most likely on his back, letting you both use him however you please.

- His favorite is when he's laying on his back and both you and Abigail take turns sucking his cock, occasionally pulling away to kiss. It makes him rock hard. Never mind how it feels... he could cum from the sight alone... his favorite girls worshipping his cock with all their enthusiasm and love.

- Abigail is a Dom/top a lot of the time. She can also be pretty mean about it.

- Abigail edges you to the point where sometimes, you'll cry out for her, begging her to let you finish. Every time she finally lets you, you always feel like you cum so much harder than you ever had before.

- John loves to sit back and jerk off, watching the two of you in bed together.

- Abigail sometimes does the same, sitting aside whilst rubbing and fucking her pussy with her fingers as she watches John fuck you into his bedroll

- Abigail loves it when you act like a brat - She likes to leave your ass red and sore from spanking you, and often orders John to do the same when she watches.

- Abigail also probably bites you a leaves hickeys to stake her claim on you. Makes sure to put them where everyone can see.

- John does the same, but it's usually below where your clothes would cover them like your breasts, stomach, or thighs

- John LOVES biting you. He loves making you squirm

- Abigail lowkey has a Mommy kink

- Abigail likes to call you her Pillow Princess, pulling beautiful noises from you as she makes you cum multiple times in quick succession with just her hands. Sometimes even her words.

- "Look at you, sweetie pie. All pretty and spread open, just for me. Oh, I know you just came... but... How's about one more, huh? Can you do that for Mommy?"

- There have been times when it's been just the two of you, and she's shown far more vulnerability than she's used to. During those times, she's on her back, a hand covering her mouth as you work her open with your mouth and fingers.

- Please praise the hell out of her during these times. She really needs it.

- Even when Abigail is vulnerable with you, she is still in control almost 99.99% of the time.

- John and Abigail are both certified munches

-John loves when both of you are on top of him, riding both his dick and his face.

- He eats pussy like his life depends on it. Fr like it's his last meal.

- He also loves to watch you eat pussy.

- He loves to fuck you in the doggy style position while Abigail buries your face between her legs.

- John usually likes to have sex in the privacy of his tent/room, whereas Abigail likes risky sex. She likes the idea of there being a possibility you could be caught

- there have been numerous times when she's stuck her hand into the front of your skirts while you sat the the dining table during mealtimes. As far as you both knew, the other people sitting there had been oblivious.

- John knows. He always knows. He was watching the whole time.

- He was usually the one to instigate it, always letting Abigail know whenever you forwent bloomers. (he would hide them so you couldn't wear them)

-Though he'd probably never participate himself, he loves to watch you come undone on Abigail's fingers in public.

- John fantasizes about getting you pregnant too.

- He brought it up to Abigail as a joke, saying how nice it would be for Jack to have a sibling to play with.

- From that point on, John was told to cum inside you every chance he got, not stopping even after you're swollen and round with his baby.

-Abigail enjoys eating you out after John has cum inside you.

187 notes · View notes

wisteriadumster · 1 year ago

Text

Stress Reliever Theatre❥John Marston

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

JOHN MARSTON X FEMALE READER

CW➻❥ public intimacy⋆private sex⋆fingering⋆consensual groping ⋆handjob⋆orgasm both m! & f!⋆extreme making out/kissing✮if I missed anything pls lmk!✮

WC➻❥2,233➻❥this isn't well proof read so any mistakes or odd things are purely accidental

Summary➻❥You drag John Marston to a show in Saint Denis, to relieve his clear signs of stress. Surely nothing more than two people watching a show together right?

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

*✧･ﾟ:* WisteriaDumster original work.*:･ﾟ✧*

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

You’re not sure how you truly convinced John Masrton to go to Saint Denis, let alone the theater.

Yet here you are, sitting in the back row by John's request, waiting for everyone else to take their seats. His breathing was tight and heavy, large sighs leaving him often, “This show is sure to take the stress off your mind.” A hand slid onto his left shoulder, attempting a weak massage. Even in darkness you can see his blushing cheeks, “you’re too sweet on me, you know that?” His compliment forces a side smile on you,

“well you’re bad at hiding stress, I’m just helping out”.

All other whisper conversations stopped, you turned away from John and looked to the brightly lit stage. A man stepped onto the said stage, “good evening ladies and gentleman.” His red suit is extremely eye-catching, “tonight men and women of only myth will perform in front of your very eyes!” Your hand went back to your lap, the man cleared his throat. “I have sailed the seven seas to find these people only heard in the stories your children read!” Scattered laughter filled the silent crowd. A few more useless sentences and jokes were thrown into his little speech which were all the same just different words.

“I won’t keep any more of your time, please welcome the werewolf!” He bows before slipping through the curtains that matched his suit in colour.

You waited patiently before the curtains finally drew back, a thunderous drum roll made you jump. Suddenly a man with more hairs on his arm than your entire body jumped onto the stage, he let out a growl. You stared at him, not a single inch of him was hairless, well besides his face.

His beard is so long it could be made into a small towel, his hair was even longer, reaching down to his knees. John leaned close to your ear, “he reminds me of Arthur,” he jokes, making you giggle.

The Werewolf’s act was finally over, the curtains drew back, the crowd cheered over the various tricks he had done. “Are you still stressed? I hope this is helping,” You look to John, your hands gently clapping. “I mean I feel better but I could use something else.” His hand is now on your thigh, he’s nervous, it wasn’t surprising as John wasn’t much of a romantic to begin with. “What are you suggesting?” You know what he wants, but in public? You weren’t used to being intimate or even romantic in public. “We’re in the back, people came for the show, maybe we can be the next act.” His fingers begin pulling at your skirt, slowly having it scrunch up your thigh. The curtains opened again, but all your attention was on John.

Your skirt was now in your lap, his rough hand rubbing your thigh, his eyes staring at your lips, debating if he should kiss you.

Since he wouldn’t, you did. You moved in close and went for a gentle and slow kiss. He couldn’t wait, his hand leaving your thigh and going to your hair, he pulled you in close, dying for all of you he could get.

The show was merely background noise as you played with his hair, John pulling at your waist trying to get you as close as he could with the arm rests of the chair in the way.

You can't resist letting a small whimper out into John's mouth as his nails dig into your hip. "You like that?" He smirks against your lips as his hand travels down to thigh once again. This time it doesn't stay there but begins sliding up, slowly reaching to your panties.

His fingers tease with the fabric, caressing the stitching of your own work. "I like where this stress relief is going," you spoke with a gasp, eagerly impatient for his next move. He laughs before his hand finally begins to pull down your underwear, you're quick to help him.

His hand again teases you and slowly goes up your leg, you pull back from the kiss. "John Marston, when did you become such a teaser?" Your hand is playing with a button of his shirt, "when I began wondering if I should fuck you here or in the cleaning closet down the hall." His breath is hot against your ear, how did he know of the closet? Must’ve been when he was searching for a bathroom when you came to the theater. “Well while you think, can you let me be pleased before I stare at the half naked man on that stage,” your attention averts to the stage with John, only for a moment. He looks back to you and sticks two fingers in your mouth, “sure I can think about it,” his smirk is terrifying yet exhilarating.

He wraps his arm around your waist before slowly entering those two fingers. Your stomach tightens and you hold your breath as to not alert the actual enjoyers of the show. He kisses down your neck as his fingers begin to curl, every part of you was stiff as the pleasure felt impeccable.

A hand was gripping the arm rests, your knuckles were becoming light in color. His fingers are starting to gain momentum, making your game at being quiet, extremely difficult.

John notices and goes back to your face, "What if we take this to another level, make it fun." You nod to the request, his speed beginning to slow, "will I have to stay quiet?" You manage through the grit of your teeth, he thinks for a moment while his fingers slide out, "that closet is still open I'm sure." He's gentle,”let hope the walls are thick enough.” Now out of his seat standing in front of you as he helps redress you.

You were finally calm and collected, standing and pulling your skirt down. His arm wraps around your waist and guides you out into the hallway.

The hall is silent, not a sign of life. John is touching all over your body, you began to think that you might not make it to the closet.

His lips are kissing your neck, his hands groping at your ass and waist. He left you to find the closet, you peeked through into a small room of brooms and a counter. He pushed you inside and closed the door in a matter of seconds, "I can't wait." You could feel how hard he was, before turning the oil lamp on. The room was dim.

He was pushing you against the wall, his arms wrapped around you, keeping you trapped.

His nails dug into your skirt as your bodies grinded together, the intensity of his desire for you was the hottest thing you ever witnessed. His kisses were turning to bites, surely this wasn’t the John you knew, but you can’t complain because whoever this is, will be fucking you good.

His hands cup at the bottom of your ass and lifts you to the counter, "I need you so bad." His hands are already under your skirt again pulling your panties, this time pulling them off completely. He's leaning over you, aggressively kissing you, taking a moment to again wet his fingers.

He enters slow again, gradually increasing the speed, faster than when inside the actual theater. Your body almost thrusts for a moment at the sudden speed gain.

He knows what he's doing, curling his fingers at the right angle before uncurling and thrusting them back in. Whimpers and whines bounced around in the room, how did you ever manage to stay quiet in that theater? His free hand was down to the buttons of his jeans, his breath was husky and quick. He pulls from the kissing to focus on his hand, his chest rising faster than it could fall. Your body was aching as you were already climbing up to your climax, ready to give out just from his fingers alone.

You were so focused on the pleasure that everything was drowned out,yet that was short lived when his fingers left you without the delight of them. You opened your eyes and looked to him, his eyes pierced yours, he couldn't hide the smile curling at the side of his mouth.

You spit in a hand and wrapped it around his cock that you noticed just barely. A quiver left his lips suddenly at the touch.

You made sure to have every inch perfectly wet for easy entry, his head hung back.

His hand is clawing at the edge of the counter while you did quick bursts of speed. “Like that do you now?” It was exciting to see how just a simple hand job affected him so heavily.

A giggle leaves you as your hand lets go, "I'm gonna need you to do that again sometime." He laughs as well while readjusting himself, his focus back on you. His hands were tight on your thighs as he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter.

He enters slow, you gasped at the sudden feeling of being less empty. He smirked, enjoying every way you reacted to him, almost as an ego boost.

You wrap your hands in his hair, leaving him to support you, his hands wrapped around your back almost like a hug. An intimate one definitely. His pace quickens, taking no time to move his hips as well for something more than just awkward thrusting.

Your kissing out moans, a hand was now at his back for stability. It was harder to hold on as you prepared for probably the best orgasm of your life. Your nails dug into his vest, every part of you was tight as he didn’t slow or change anything, he knew better than to ruin your growing orgasm.

You had pulled from the kisses and were moaning into the base of his neck. He wasn't much quieter, plenty of groans rumbled deep from his chest. He was struggling to hold back just as much as you, it wasn't a shocker that he couldn't last long. His pace was faster, less steady but more extreme. That's when it hit, he was loud and slowed, almost stopping. The feeling of being filled to the max was just what you needed to send you over the edge. Your head hung away from him as every nerve in your body gave out. Your moans echoed throughout the closet, surely loud enough to get the attention of anyone outside in the hallway.

After the wave of pleasure washed over, your head fell onto his chest, you were both panting heavily. "Jesus that was good," John's fingers are playing with your hair. "I didn't know you were so. Skilled," you laugh, completely blown away at the fact he just did that. “Really? I don’t look good in bed?” He’s sarcastic yet it doesn’t fully seem that way, “no absolutely not.”

"We should get out of here before that show ends and a maid comes." John pulls back to grab articles of clothing off the floor. “We should do this again, some time soon.” You bite your bottom lip imagining what he could do without a time crunch. “I’ll be sure to stress myself out, just for you,” He looks up at you as he begins to slide your underwear up your legs.

He kisses up your legs and he finishes dressing you, his kisses continue, going up to your lips.

Those aggressive kisses from earlier are more: calm, simple, romantic rather than hungry, lustful, intense.

He pulls you down the counter and sets you gently on the floor, “take the lead,” he allows you to exit first, his hand smacking at an ass cheek as you push through the door. The hallway is significantly colder, the closest was almost like you had a fire set loose in it.

A man is staring at you both as you begin walking towards the exit, you turn to see John holding back a laugh. “Good day sir,” you smile before bursting into laughter, John right behind you with a loud belly laugh.

He pulled you onto his horse, “if Dutch asks let say we were trying to hunt,” he suggests getting on the horse as well. “John Marston, he would never believe a lie like that, let’s say we were simply doing a bounty.” You shake your head at the thought, “we were trying to secure a train robbery or just a job for the gang but failed.”

“Oh that’s a good one,” John begins down the street, “must be good to have some brains with you for once huh?” You wrap your hands around his waist and snuggle in close, “you want to walk back to camp?” He has a deep rumble for a laugh in his chest, shaking his head at your remark. “What kind of man are you Marston?” You observe the city and the life that passes you, “I’m a man that could go for round two on the outskirts of the city.” The horse goes from a trot to a canter. “Oh really?” You bit your lip at the thought, “I think I want to get over the lecture from Dutch for simply not following one of his plans.” And just like that you were crossing onto the bridge that led to the city.

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #john marston rdr2 #john marston fanfic #john marston fic #john marston smut #john marston

156 notes · View notes

6emo6zombie6 · 1 year ago

Text

Forbidden Territories: M!Reader x John Marston

First actual smut on here!! I hope this isn't too shabby, since it's been a while since I wrote anything unholy. Tags for gay stuff, frotting, more gay stuff, cowboys, and dicks.

18+ warning

It was now week two of being in an awkwardly distant friendship with John. The two of you weren’t the best of friends before, but you rarely complained whenever Dutch sent you out together, it was all in good spirits—until a week and a half ago, that was.

John had mindlessly wandered into your tent after dinner, slightly air-headed as he opened his mouth to ask you a question, just to notice you in your cot. Sweaty, flushed, and with your cock in hand. You jumped and instantly started tucking your hard-on back into your jeans. It had only been a split second before he turned back around and awkwardly rushed out of your tent, but he somehow managed to get a full look at you while you were jerking off.

Now, this wasn’t something new to him. He’d caught people in all kinds of awkward situations, but seeing you in such a vulnerable position made some repressed feelings come boiling back up. He even had trouble admitting to himself that he had a crush on you. It was too embarrassing, he didn’t know if anyone would even understand.

You had been embarrassed ever since John had caught you, and it was even worse knowing he got you in that situation in the first place. It had all been a series of light, accidental touches and brushing up against you over the week, and he had tipped you over the edge when he groaned in reaction to nicking his finger while sharpening a stick. Your head pieced some images together and into your tent you retreated, your jeans starting to strain.

You and John hadn’t shared a single glance or word since that, always peering at the ground when crossing each other on campgrounds and avoiding each other during meal times. The others had started to take notice after the first few days, but they weren’t worried to such an extent that they felt the need to ask either of you what was going on.

John was currently on guard duty while you and a couple of the other guys had some drinks. You weren’t drunk just yet, but you had had enough sips of whiskey to feel your confidence come back. You were already thinking up a plan on how to accidentally run into him and talk through what happened, the constant awkward silences around each other were starting to get tiring. John was a decent feller, you just wanted to be okay with him again.

Before you know it, you’re up and walking away from the campfire, your bottle of whiskey still in your hand. You walk a little bit into the patch of trees at the edge of Horseshoe overlook, peering around you to see if John was there. You eventually spotted him leaning against a tree with a rifle in his hand, he was barely visible but you could make out his silhouette against the pale moonlight. You could tell he had noticed you, but he was pretending he didn’t, hoping you were just walking by incidentally.

He could feel his heart rate start to speed up when you came closer, it was clear you were intoxicated, and just as clear that you wanted to talk. He hesitantly looked in your direction, blinking.

“Look—we need to talk about what happened-“ You were barely able to finish your sentence when John cut you off with a groan. He was glad it was dark, or you could’ve already noticed his face that had started burning up.

“Don’t start,” He sighed, absently staring at the rifle he was holding. His thoughts had already started racing.

“It’s—it’s whatever, okay? Let’s just not mention it anymore. “

“so… we—we’re good?” You mumble.

“Hm.” John nods, earning a soft smile from you. He glances at your bottle of whiskey, motioning toward it. “Care to pass that?”

You shrug and hand it to him, watching as he takes a large gulp. You stare at his Adam's apple as it bobs while he swallows the liquor. He pretends to not notice your stare while he takes a few more sips, savoring the burn of the alcohol in his throat.

He glances at your slightly red face as he hands you back the bottle, your eyes meeting for a split second until he peers off into the distance again.

“Dutch is gonna get mad at us if he catches us quarreling out here, you know?” John hinted, though he didn’t actually want you to leave. You saw right through his façade, chuckling lightly as you leaned against the tree beside him.

“Dutch’d be glad we’re talkin’ again.” You countered lightheartedly.

John gave a shrug and a hum, a silence falling over the two of you. Weirdly enough, it wasn’t awkward—more peaceful if anything. You resorted to looking at John’s hands as they gripped the rifle, your mind starting to wander like it usually did.

“would you stop staring?” John said directly, trying to sound stern. “You’re distracting me.”

Your eyes met again as you looked up in surprise.

“Oh, so now I’m distracting you?” You retorted, not even sure what you were on about. You just said the first thing that came to mind, anything to hear John reply.

“What—” John looked as confused as you did. “What does that even mean?”

“Damnit, John—I-“ You stammered, your thoughts about him threatening to spill from your mouth. He looked at you, awaiting an answer.

“I’m—you’re—oh for fuck’s sake, John.” You were starting to get frustrated with your own feelings, and John was starting to get frustrated by your inability to properly talk to him.

You shared a mutually annoyed glance, then you acted purely on impulse and stepped in front of John, one hand pinning his hip to the three behind him while the other held on to the bottle of whiskey. Your lips were on his beforeeither of you could even register what you were doing.

You had managed to break through John’s tough act, pressing up against him as his right hand planted itself on your chest. His scruffy beard rubbed up against your shaven face as your lips moved in perfect synchronicity, your eyes shutting.

John let out a soft growl as he let himself sink into your touch for a few seconds, though his hand was pushing you off before you knew it.

John glanced into your eyes, then at the ground with a guilty expression. “We can’t be doing this,” He murmured. You stayed silent as his hand, despite his protest against your situation, remained on your chest. He could feel your heart thump against his palm.

“We shouldn’t.”

“Don’t start with this shit,” You mumbled in a low tone, attempting to step to the side.

This time, John let his impulses lead him. He tossed his gun to the side as his hand found its way to your collar. A harsh tug sent you stumbling forward again, your lips catching John’s a second time as he grabbed your bottle of whiskey and tossed it in the same direction as his rifle.

His arms slung around your waist, his hands resting just above your gun belt as he pulled you flush against him. You rested your hands on his biceps, leaning against him shamelessly. Neither of you made an effort to be subtle, all the tension crashing down on you and making you melt into each other’s touch.

A soft grunt left your lips as you felt your soft bulge rub against John’s, his hands gently pulling your hips forward to create a bit more friction. There was no shame in this now, all of your doubts had seemed to have washed away in John’s grasp. Your tongues sloppy intertwined as you both tried your best hand at kissing, which neither of you seemed to have a talent for.

John let out a soft huff as he rutted his hips against yours, making it clear he was impatient. It was completely in character of him, though. You’d never seen ol’ Marston being patient with anything before.

“Let's get this over with,” He mumbled in between kisses, his heart pounding at the anticipation.

“Give it some time, will you? I’m not even hard yet.” You mumble in response, slightly annoyed at John’s inability to just enjoy the moment. “You’re always rushin’ everything.”

“You’ve been makin’ me wait for this too long already.” John blurted out in a sigh, letting you unbutton the top few buttons on his overshirt as he kept pushing his crotch against yours, making you feel how desperately quick he was getting hard.

You blushed at that comment. “goddamn, Marston—how long ‘you been keepin’ this to yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” He sighed again, looking at you to see the moonlight reflect off of your eyes.

You leaned in to continue making out with him as your hands clumsily wandered down to his crotch. Much to John’s avail, you unbuckled his gun belt first, then your own, and tossed them aside. He seemed happy with the extra straps out of the way, allowing the two of you to get closer to each other.

John was already growing hard, his shaft pressing against your thigh shamelessly.

“Damnit,” He cursed softly, not feeling you stiffen at the same pace as him. “Let me help you with that, c’mon, I’m not aimin’ to get caught.”

You nod with a soft chuckle, giving John the okay to start pawing at your crotch. His hands were rough and quick, focused only on getting what he wanted from you. You watched his needy expression as he continued to pleasure you, slowly but surely helping you get hard.

A soft moan tumbled from your lips as you felt the oh-so-familiar throb in your jeans. John shot you a grin, happy to know that you were sharing the same feeling of ecstasy.

He gave your hip a soft nudge, urging you to take a small step back so he could unbutton his pants without you in the way. He gave you a grin as he guided himself out of his jeans, proud as he noticed you blush at his size.

“What, not like you ain’t never seen one before, huh?” He teased, holding his cock in one hand as he used the other to swap your positions, now it was you pinned against the tree, John staring you down like a pervert.

He peeked behind the tree, watching the others for a second. “Go on, they all look preoccupied with Uncle’s yappin’.”

“Alright, alright.” You glanced up at John to make sure he was watching, then helped yourself out of your pants the same as him.

John gave a soft grunt at the sight, his cock twitching in synchronicity with the sound he made. You had never anticipated he would be this into doing anything with you. John never seemed excited about anything, really.

You let out a soft gasp once John moved his hips forward, his cock pressing up against yours. You felt yourself throb once again, the other man’s large hand wrapping itself around the two of you. His hand was noticeably colder than yours, making you suck a breath in through your teeth.

John kissed you as his hand started pumping both of you, swallowing the few surprised grunts and moans that you let out. Feeling another man’s dick against yours was a sensation you knew nothing about, it felt strange, but so strangely pleasurable.

His hand quickly warmed up due to your body's warmth and all the friction he was creating, making the interaction even more enjoyable. He stayed mostly quiet, only letting out a grunt or a huff when you jerked your hips. He planted his free hand beside your head to keep himself from falling over as he jerked the two of you off.

“This feels—” He gulped, stifling a moan. “This feels as good to you as It does to me, right?” He asked as if not having heard all the noises coming from you.

“I should ask you that,” You say in a low, mumbled tone.

“Then I think we’re on the same line,” John nodded to himself. His hips gently started rolling against you, and you returned the movement with ease. You were both rutting up into John’s hand now, your soft noises now harmonizing with each other. Neither of you seemed bothered by anything going on behind the trees now, all of this felt too good.

You both leaked precum, the liquids mixing together as it trickled down your cocks. This was all so wrong, so perverted, but neither of you wanted it to stop.

You got more and more desperate, your paces needing to constantly speed up to chase the perfect ecstasy that was your climax. You both got more sensitive, your faces both adorned with brows that knitted together.

As the minutes went by, you got closer and closer to your release. You felt the familiar warm, tingly sensation in your lower stomach, signaling to you that this didn’t have to keep going for much longer for you to bust your load.

John was slowly getting louder, his rough voice letting out perverse noises that you had been dreaming about for months. Your chest was heaving as you matched his speed. All the doubts you had about ever getting this close to another man, especially John, had floated away. You had never wanted anyone’s body pressed up against yours more than now, and luckily your dream was coming true.

“shit, I’m—” You bit on your tongue, stifling a rough moan. You were ready to let your eyes roll in the back of your head, letting you focus fully on what your body was feeling.

“I’m gonna cum,” You whispered.

John bit his lip as he watched your expression, his hand covering your mouth in an attempt to keep you quiet.

“Yeah,” He sighed and nodded, looking down at the mess between your bodies. “Me—me too.”

His breathing started becoming more sporadic as time went on, both of you coming closer to your release.

John gave little warning as he was the first to cum, his sticky seed spilling over the both of you as he let out a grunt. He looked at you, chewing on his lip as he kept thrusting his hips into his hand, constantly stimulating you. You moaned against his hand at the sight, the combined intensity of it all making you stumble into a climax of your own.

You panted and whined as you painted John’s hand and cock with your cum, continuing to rut your hips until you were milked dry.

John laughed softly at your eagerness, feeling the sticky substance coat him. He took his hand off of your mouth once you were no longer making any noises, only breathing heavily as you came down from your high.

He lifted his hand off the two of you as you both went soft, inspecting the few drops of cum on both of your clothes.

“I bet they won’t notice if we go down to the creek and wash this off real quick,” He murmured.

#john marston #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #john marston x reader #red dead redemption fanfiction #rdr2 smut #rdr2 #john marston smut #semi public sex #frotting #gay smut #male reader

131 notes · View notes

unmaskthewriter · 1 year ago

Text

Scars {John Marston x GN!Reader}

Summary: Unable to sleep, you begin to examine John’s scarred body.

A/N: a very short little blurb I wanted to write.

Warnings: bad memories, scars from violence, mentions of character death

Word Count: 500+

You lay in the large bed, the covers barely draped over your naked form. John lay beside you, fast asleep, his arm lazily draped along your bare hips. His breathing was calm, and steady.

The fireplace has long burned out, leaving a soft chill in the room. Through the drapes, the moonlight leaked into the room. Carefully, you turn to face John’s sleeping form. Your gaze travels his skin as your gentle fingers come to touch his bare chest, tracing over various scars and old bullet wounds now healed. Sometimes, he’d tell you the origin of a few of the scars. Having been a member of the gang for some time prior to its dissolution, you were aware of his marred cheek from the wolf attack in the Grizzlies, and the bullet wound in his upper arm from the last train robbery. Your fingers traced the different dips and grooves of each scar, almost admiring the story it would tell.

“What’re doing…?” John mumbled sleepily beside you, his eyes still closed. You didn’t mean to wake him due to your own insomnia, having since decided to distract yourself with his scars and what some would call imperfections.

“… ‘m sorry… couldn’t sleep.” You speak softly, your hand traveling upwards, past his neck to brush some loose strands of hair from his face. All of his scars, those memories — you wouldn’t be where you were without them. Sometimes, you wonder if the others were okay, even if they had gone against Arthur, John and yourself in the end. All those who died before the end came, perhaps they were the lucky ones.

Mac.

Davey.

Kieran.

Sean.

Hosea.

Lenny.

Molly.

Susan.

Arthur.

If it weren’t for Arthur and his sacrifice, you and John would have been caught by the Pinkertons, or killed.

It’s near impossible to forget the weeks and months following yours and John’s escape from Dutch van der Linde and the Pinkertons. That consistent fear of being figured out, and turned in, or somehow always feeling out of place even in towns you resided in or near before the gang’s fallout. The arm draped over your waist pulls you in closer as John buries his face in your neck.

“Coulda told me… stayed up with you.” He responded tiredly, still half asleep. His hot breath meets your neck and you shudder.

“Wasn’t worth waking you up over, love.” You whisper back. John worked hard to create a life for the both of you, a life that didn’t include gunslinging and robberies. Those days were long gone. Lazily, John places a kiss on your shoulder. As his chapped lips meet your soft skin, all worries melt away.

You try to imagine a future without John; a future where the left side of the bed is empty, and cold… a future where you are alone, barely surviving. You silently prayed the day would never come.

“I love you, John… I really do.” You speak softly, only to be met with snores. Smiling softly, you press a kiss to his temple and close your eyes, welcoming John’s warmth and comfort as you slowly fall back into dreams.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 #john marston #rdr2 spoilers #angst #fluff #red dead redemption #john marston x reader #red dead fanfic #rdr2 fanfic

106 notes · View notes

allzelemonz · 1 year ago

Text

Family Approval: Micah Bell X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘boy’, ‘son’, and ‘brother’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: M/Mentions and witnessing of a sexual encounter Warnings: Dutch and Hosea are concerned dads, John and Arthur are protective brothers, Reader is a Van der Linde-Matthews kid, being walked in on, drinking, brotherly relationships Summary: Arthur and John stumble home drunk one night and see something in the woods they never want to see again, but they really need to talk to their brother.

Arthur and John are lucky they’ve made it this far without annoying their horses, but as they reach the trees surrounding camp the beats have had enough and throw them. In their drunken states they fall like ragdolls and laugh in the dirt as the horses trot towards camp. Arthur groans as he stands and John shushes him,

“We can’t- we can’t let Dutch see.” John slurs. “You remember what he did last time we…”

Arthur laughs at the memory swimming in his inebriated brain and John has to shush him again. He doesn’t want to be stuck with laundry and dishes because his brother can’t keep his mouth shut. They stand, wobbling and having to lean on each other for support. They lose the path right away, too busy trying to stay upright to care about getting lost in the trees. Then a noise makes Arthur pull at John’s shoulder to get him to stop.

“You hear that, Marston?” He mumbles. “What’s that?”

John pulls him along, his survival sense numbing the liquor enough for him to have some rational thought. He stops short of the noise, leaning on a tree for support while he keeps Arthur upright. The sight in front of him, the noises he hears, make him wish he had drank more. Before he can stop Arthur from looking, hoping to save him from the traumatic sight, the older gunslinger looks up in horror.

Their brother, you who declined their offer of going into town several times that day, in a state that neither of them even needed to see. Your back is pressed against a tree, your head tilted as sounds fall from your mouth that makes your brothers blush. A man stands in front of you, his hand on your waist and his face hidden from view as he pays attention to the sensitive skin on your neck. Arthur finds images coming to mind, marks on your neck barely hidden by a bandana or a shirt.

For a moment the brothers smile, simply happy you’re having a good time. John steps back to leave you to it but Arthur stops him and points. John’s eyes return to you, as much as he hates to invade your privacy. But Arthur was right to point. The man lifts his head, revealing the long, light hair and the unmistakable face of Micah Bell. For a moment John is frozen in place. His brother is tucked away in the woods with Micah fucking Bell. Arthur puts a hand over his mouth, holding back vomit as he doubles over.

John notices the extent of what they’ve walked in on when his eyes fall downwards. Very clearly outlined in shadow, is Micah’s hand wrapped around… He snaps his eyes down, trying to make his mind shut up. He grabs Arthur, pulling him away and marching back to camp as quickly as his stumbles will allow.

“Did we see-?” Arthur starts.

“Shut up, Arthur.”

John pulls him to his tent with flushed cheeks and clouded head. Arthur falls onto his cot and slips into sleep before John can get to another bottle of whiskey. He thought he’d had enough for the night but after that he doesn’t think he’ll ever drink enough again. He’s not even sure what to think. How long has this been going on? Would Arthur help him kill Micah? Should he tell Dutch? Should he tell Hosea? What possessed you to do that shit with such a slimy rat?

“John.”

Dutch’s voice startles him. The tone even more. It makes him feel like some teenager, like Dutch is chastising him again.

“Late night, son?”

John taps the bottle in his hand, thoughts racing. “Yeah, Dutch. Real long night.”

“I saw Arthur got back alright.” Dutch puts his hands on his hips and John is reminded of a distinct memory of the man doing the same thing when he misbehaved as a boy. “Care to tell me why you’re married to the bottle so late?”

John sighs. “I-I ain’t sure ya wanna know all that, Dutch.”

“Son, if somethin’ happened in town-”

“Wasn’t in town…”

Dutch knits his eyebrows in confusion. “Okay?”

For a moment John thinks about telling your shared father figure, but he knows it’s not his place. Dutch is capable enough to find out if he wants to and you have the sense not to keep secrets from him or Hosea. But he will be having a long conversation with you in the morning.

“It’s nothin’ ya gotta worry about, Dutch.” John waves it off. “Just somethin’ odd we saw on the way back.”

Dutch sighs. “Alright son, you get to bed.”

He takes the bottle from John’s hand before he can protest, leaving John with his swimming thoughts. As he stumbles to his tent he catches sight of Micah leaving the trees. Anyone else would think he was out there messing with his guns or taking a piss, but John’s stomach sinks because he knows why the man has a bit of a strange walk. So he waits, his eyes fixed on the trees, because he knows you’ll come out sooner or later.

“You okay, John?”

He jumps, turning to face you. “The hell?”

“There a reason you’re staring at the trees?” You chuckle.

John screws up his face, ready to tell you off, but he takes a breath instead. “We need to talk.”

“Maybe when you’re sober.” You say, smelling the whiskey on him. “Go to bed.”

“Ya ain’t the boss a’ me.”

“Sure, John, sure.” You wave him off.

He watches you enter your tent, closing it up behind you. John isn’t going to be able to sleep with all of this in his head, but he lays down anyway. For a long while he stares up at the fabric above him as he tries to think of horses or guns or robbing trains instead of his brother fucking Micah Bell.

Arthur’s sleep is peaceful but he wakes with pain in his neck from the position he collapsed into on his cot. He groans as he stands, putting a hand to his head as the hangover hits him. Before he can blink, a cup of coffee is shoved under his nose and he takes it without much question. John watches him down it despite the heat as he nurses his own cup.

“You remember what we saw last night?” John asks.

Arthur knits his eyebrows as his thoughts swim around. He saw a man dancing on a table in the saloon, a working girl talking to a few boys outside as they left, some real pretty horses outside of the stables, a nice herd of deer he should tell Charles about--Oh.

“Yeah.” Arthur groans, rubbing his eyes as if the image is stuck in them. “I remember all right.”

“Well what are we doin’?”

“The kid up?”

“I can wake ‘em up.” John says, turning to your tent just next to Arthur’s. “He’s got a hell of a lot ta explain.”

John wastes no time once Arthur closes the tent off behind him. You wake with a start as your brother shakes you.

You sigh when you see the idiots. “What?”

“Sit up, boy.” Arthur grumbles. “This is serious.”

“It’s too early for this.” You mutter, trying to get comfortable again.

“Was it too early when you was in the woods with Micah?”

At that, you sit up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Arthur stares you down, pointing a finger at your chest. “You know damn well what we’re talkin’ about.”

“Just how drunk were you two?”

“That ain’t the point!” John yells.

“Alright, John.” Arthur pats his shoulder before turning to you. “Be happy it waddn’t Dutch or…” He chuckles. “Or Hosea.”

“Okay, okay.” You sigh. “Fine, whatever. Rather brothers than dads. I get it.”

“So what was you doin’ out there with that snake?” Arthur asks.

You cringe at the question. “I don’t think you want specifics, Arthur.”

“I’ll kill him.” John mutters, trying to push past Arthur.

“Stop it, John.” Arthur says. “We just wanna make sure it ain’t nothin’ ta worry about.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’ ta worry about!”

John manages to push past Arthur and it’s only once he’s out of your tent that you can both get his arms hooked to hold him back. This, being right next to your father figures, causes a scene from your worst nightmares.

“What the hell are you boys doin’?” Dutch yells, pulling Arthur off of John.

Hosea comes around and gently pulls you back as well. The fathers look at eachother, then at each of their sons in turn.

“Well?” Hosea asks.

John opens his mouth to speak but a look from you and Arthur keeps him quiet.

“Just a little rough housin’.” Arthur laughs. “Nothin’ ta worry about.”

“You boys are a little old for that.” Hosea chuckles. “What’d John do this time?”

“I didn’t do nothin’!”

“Hush.” Hosea says. “Arthur?”

The man shuffles on his feet, glancing at Dutch and regretting it because he gets that stern father’s stare. “We, uh, we just got a little disagreeable is all.”

“About what?” Dutch asks, that stern look fixed on his boy.

“It was stupid.” You cover for Arthur. “John’s still a little drunk is all.”

Dutch and Hosea both look at John who is very much still swaying a bit on his feet.

“That’s all?” Hosea asks gently. “Just a little brotherly banter got outta hand?”

Arthur and you nod together, John has zoned out of the conversation to clutch his now throbbing head.

“You’re sure?” Dutch glances between his sons. “Nothin I gotta worry about, boys?”

“Course not.” Arthur laughs. “We’ll get genius over here back ta bed.”

Dutch hesitates, looking between you and Arthur for a moment. He meets Hosea’s eyes and finds that look, they both know they’re sons are hiding something but they’ll let it slide for now. Arthur and you drag John the few feet to his tent and set him on his bed.

“I’ll go get Abigail.” Arthur mutters. “She can babysit ‘em.”

As Arthur disappears into camp John reaches out for your wrist.

“Why the hell are you fuckin’ Micah?” He asks, still clutching his head.

“Do you want me to be honest, John?”

“I just don’t understand it.”

You kneel down to be eye level with your brother, taking his hand in some mock sympathy. You’re going to mess with him because he’s being stupid and he woke you up early.

“Well, John, Micah is probably one of the most attractive men I’ve met and his voice is damn sexy and his di-”

“Okay, okay, Jesus!” John groans. “Stop it!”

“Stop sticking your nose in people’s business, Marston.”

“I was just tryin’ ta help.”

“I don’t need help, John.” You sigh. “Micah’s about as wrapped around my finger as Molly is Dutch’s.”

John chuckles. “He that bad?”

You nod. “You don’t have anything to worry about. You or Arthur, so just keep it to yourselves.”

“You know they’ll figure it out.” John sighs. “Dutch and Hosea.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

“Ya really want one a’ them seeing what Arthur and me saw?”

You scrunch your nose in disgust. “What exactly did you see?”

John shakes his head. “Don’t make me think about you like that, Christ.”

“Or Micah.” You mock.

John shoves your shoulder lightly. “Fuck off.”

“John Marston!”

You snicker at the sound of Abigail’s voice. “Have fun, John.”

Abigail spares you a smile as you exit the tent and she enters to give John a worse headache. He argues back but he has a smile hidden on his face as he does.

Arthur sighs, nudging your arm. “Micah nag like that?”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

He chuckles. “Ya know if he ever gets outta line, I’ll kill ‘em.”

“You really think I need your help killing him if he deserves it?”

“He does deserve it.” Arthur mutters.

“Maybe…”

“Boys?” Hosea startles you both. “Don’t you have chores ta do?”

You and Arthur both part ways under Hosea’s stare. He watches you go to different ends of camp and work just as hard as he raised you to, then he joins Dutch outside of his tent.

“What do you think is wrong with those boys?” He sighs.

Dutch taps his foot, surveying the camp. “I think our son has a sweetheart.”

“A sweetheart?” Hosea asks, following Dutch’s eyes to you. “Who?”

“I ain’t sure.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell us when he’s ready, Dutch.”

The words only do so much to reassure the outlaw. His eyes scan the camp as if he’s looking for a rat. This sort of thing makes him impatient. John and Abigail he knew about right away, but this hiding is something he can’t stand. He doesn’t have to wait long though. It’s unmistakable, the way Micah leans against a tree to talk to you. He even has a stupid grin on his face.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #micah bell #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #micah bell x reader #micah bell x male reader #x reader #x male reader

128 notes · View notes

08melancholie · 3 months ago

Text

POPULAR—FICS–THOUGHTS/ANALYSIS'—BOTS—REQS/HCS/ASKS—SHITPOSTS/OTHER

(What's bold and crossed out like this is a WIP.)

"You're my brother."

"Javier."

"Kieran Duffy."

"Guarma Micah."

"Trelawny."

"Micah's own taste." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Coated." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Untouched." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Light Banter." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Lessen your Stress." [Dutch Van der Linde/Micah Bell/Reader]

"Patch up, Cowboy." [Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan] CH 1

"Giddy up, Cowboy." [Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan] CH 2

"Honeysuckle and Whiskey." [Micah Bell/OC — MASTERLIST]

↳ "HaW related posts list."

Short Micah Imagine. [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Healing Hands." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Green Neckerchief; Red Blood." [Micah Bell/Reader.]

"Spurs and Leather." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Even lower honor Micah." [Short Imagine, Micah Bell/Reader]

"Leader, Follower." [Dutch Van Der Linde/Reader]

""On this night..."" [Micah Bell/M!Reader]

"Sentimentality and Vulnerability." [Micah Bell]

"No Privacy for the Wicked." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Loverboy." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Dance with me." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Night Shift." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Sinless; almost." [Micah Bell/M!Reader]

"The other woman." [John Marston/Reader]

"Why do I like Micah?"

"Upbringing."

"Clean-Shaven Micah."

"Micah and Dutch."

"John Marston."

"Amos and Micah's Relationship; The Letter."

"Vengeance."

Ghost Micah + Nasty Dog Micah

Ghost Micah

Breathplay Micah

Casual; MLM Micah

Bounty Hunting Sadie + Roadtrip Modern Molly

I don't smoke Micah

Post-Guarma Micah

Colter Micah

College AU Micah

Cannibal Dutch

Caretaker Micah

Pinkerton!User/Micah + Bed Chem Micah

Colter Colm

Rat!User x Micah

helping Abigail

saving Colm

caring for Colm + 1x party Colm

undead Colm

Say no to this Colm + yapping user Colm

caught Colm + Blessed are the peacemakers Colm

freaky!user Micah

vamp Colm

past relationship, exes reuniting Micah

magic josiah

colm x both gangs member!reader

undead micah + undead arthur

strange man bot

micah x medic!user

micah x pregnant!user

micah interrogation

colm x rival gang leader!user

colm break up

"Writing Micah. (ASK)"

"Love-hate relationship and initiating things. (ASK)"

"Micah: Father?; Jealous type?; Feelings? (ASK)"

Date night with Kieran + Micah bonus

"Obsessive Micah."

"Micah playing UNO."

"NSFW Alphabet — Micah."

"Lose Some; Gain Some." [Micah Bell/Reader]

"Innocent Intimacy." — Micah/Reader HCs

"Micah Bell (ASK)"

"Colm as an animal? (ASK)"

"Which modern shows would the VDL gang like? (ASK)"

"Micah teaching you to shoot (ASK)"

"Drunk oral with Micah (ANON ASK)"

"Which Pokemon would Micah have? (ASK)"

"Micah, Cleet and Joe's Relations. (ANON ASK)"

"Coat HCs [Kieran, Bill, Arthur, Charles, Dutch.]

"POV."

"My Old Micah Hate Arc On Twitter."

"Micah Scented Candle." + "Candle Unboxing."

"Missing Jovier."

"Art Collab."

'"Who did this?"'

"VanDerBells in DTI Roblox"

"Micah's Bells."

#blog directory #08melancholie

14 notes · View notes

author-morgan · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Ghost of Days Gone By Rating: M Pairing: John Marston x fem!Reader Summary: Running from the past can only get you so far —but there's a chance the past holds the keys to your future. Or in which Jim Milton shows up at Pronghorn Ranch, and you're both visited by the ghost of days gone by. AO3 link

Do you ever cry for the ghost of days gone by?

“FOUND YOU A new milkmaid,” Tom Dickens announces, leaning on the fence as he watches you milk one of the cows. Used to be that Pronghorn Ranch kept half-a-dozen milkmaids, but that was before the lot of them got ideas above their stations and went chasing fame and fortune. Didn’t much matter to you, though. Your days of infamy are passed, and despite a coffer filled with the remnants of that life, working day in and out for David Geddes was enough to keep you content. In exchange for keeping the livestock, you had three meals a day, a roof over your head, and fair wages for fair work —more than could be said for those girls who ran off a few months back.

You place another bent metal pail under the cow’s udders, continuing your morning routine. “This one ain’t gonna run off for the circus, is she?” You ask, rising from the stool and brushing off the straw and dirt clots from your shirt and pants ‘fore turning to greet the newcomer.

“Don’t think so.” You recognize the rough voice instantly —even after all these years. And if your ears are trying to deceive you, then your eyes confirm what you already know. He’s not as skinny as when you last saw him, and instead of wiry scruff, there’s a dark beard on his chin and jaw, patchy where two long scars cut 'cross his cheek —new additions. “Jim Milton, ma’am,” John Marston says, extending his hand and snapping you from a far-off place filled with distant memories. He masks his surprise better than you do, but you know the look in his dark eyes.

It's less of a handshake and more of clumsily fumbling while trying to hold on to his hand —Tom casts an odd glance, but at least you can blame the awkwardness on milk and mud-slick hands. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” you tell him, smiling through the newfound ache in your chest. “C’mere and give me a hand.” You nod in the direction of old Bessie in her stall, knowing John Marston doesn’t know the first thing about how to milk a cow. “Thank you, Tom!” You call, waving to him as he heads back to the main barn to help Abe with the horses.

But then your attention snaps back to John —no, Jim. It’s been years since you last saw John Marston —more than that, it’s been almost twenty years. He and Arthur Morgan left you to your whims in a little livestock town in the middle of nowhere California after a successful stagecoach robbery. Pronghorn Ranch is the last place you ever thought you’d see him again, but it’d been the last place you thought you would’ve ended up too. “What the hell are you doing here?” You don’t know whether to hug or slap him, so you do neither, just gawk at him like you’d seen a ghost. “Thought you was dead.”

“Heard the same about you,” he says, remembering the day some of Colm O’Driscolls’s boys said they’d put a bullet between your eyes for making off with one of their scores. John had been enough of a fool to believe them —especially when the months started to pass and your paths never crossed again.

TOM DICKENS COMES to fetch the new hand after the day’s work is almost finished —to formally introduce him to David Geddes. Afterward, John goes to your cabin, knocking on the door, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he waits. You motion him in and close the door. There’s a moment’s pause when you both stare at one another as though not quite believing the other is real, but then you surge forward, arms twining around his neck with little hesitation. John Marston stumbles back, stiff as a bonefish at first, but he quickly caves into the warmth of your embrace, arms wrapping around your waist and cheek pressed into the crown of your head.

You step back first, hands lingering on his shoulders for a fleeting moment before turning to sit in one of the rickety chairs at the table in the center of the room. “What are you doing here?” You’ve already asked him earlier, but now he can’t use the guise of working to avoid answering.

John sits next to you and shrugs, staring at the rough floorboards under his boots. “I don’t know” —seems like nothing made sense anymore, not since he shakes his head— “I thought maybe…” he fumbles for the words and knows he’s making a fool of himself. John Marston lifts his dark gaze, finally settling on a piss-poor explanation for why he’s turned up at a small ranch in West Elizabeth.

“I’m trying to do better...be better,” he finally ousts. “Got a son now.” It’s a quiet admission and it strikes something deep in your heart. “He’s still in Strawberry,” John tells you, knowing that’d be the next question —his boy was helping the doctor prep tools and clean between patients for twenty-five cents and two meals a day. A better life than he’d had for the past eight years. “Wanted to make sure this arrangement was gonna work out.”

“And his ma?” You ask, almost timidly.

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. It won’t nothing pretty that night when the Van der Linde Gang fell apart. Abigail. Susan. Arthur. “She…” John takes a deep breath, remembering how he went to Copperhead Landing to find his family, but only Jack and Tilly were waiting for him. “It was a mess,” he tells you. “Dutch came full undone. Lost a lot of people.” Left me for dead too.

You hadn’t known everyone in the Van der Linde Gang, just John Marston and Arthur Morgan from the few times you’d run into them on the road and in towns. But you remember how they both used to talk about Hosea Matthews and Dutch Van der Linde and reading about the train and bank robberies and all the murders —all seemed out of place given the two men you knew. “And Arthur?” But somehow, you already know the answer —doubt John would be here in the first place if Arthur Morgan was still around.

He just shakes his head again, not wanting to talk about that night on the mountain, about what Arthur did for him in the end. And how it feels like he’s wasted his life since then —chasing gold in the Yukon, still on the run at every turn, unable to raise his boy right on his own. “Never thought I’d see you again,” John says, the rasp in his voice turning to a crack.

You nudge his side lightly, offering a fleeting smile to cut through the suffocating despair. “We always did have a habit of finding each other.” Even as ghosts, John thinks though he doesn’t say as such.

“So, what happened to you?” He asks, not about to let you come away from this conversation unscathed. “How’d you end up here?” A ranch in the middle of nowhere West Elizabeth won’t where he expected to find you, either.

It’s both a long story and a short one. “Left it all behind.” Living like a criminal wouldn’t carry you through life much further, especially not with the law and the Pinkertons rounding up the last of the outlaws. Was a surprisingly easy choice to make after you met the man who’d eventually call you his wife. “Got married.” The memory is enough to make you smile in earnest. You glimpse John, his dark gaze focused only on you, lips slightly parted to take a slow breath as he realizes.

“Had a little homestead further east.” It was a small two-room cabin in the woods, warm and welcoming. A home. “Quiet life. A good life,” you muse. But it didn’t last long enough. “Then I got a visit from Colm’s boys,” you tell him, still not understanding how they found you that far east. “Came to settle a debt from a score I stole off ‘em.” There’s a certain apathy in how you say it —cold and matter of fact, as though to say such is life. You stare out the window on the opposite wall, eyes nigh devoid of emotion as you recall that night. “Buried them and my husband six feet deep,” you tell John, and he grips your hand —the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into your palm.

“Guess I had it comin’, in the end.” You’d long been afeared that your sins would return to visit. They had, and the cost was almost more than you could bear. In the days and months afterward, it seemed your punishment from the Almighty was to keep living and try to make amends for past misdeeds. “Don’t get to have good things happen to you after the things I did.” John doesn’t say anything, just nods —it’s a sentiment he knows well enough.

Ain’t much more either of you can say. Life hadn’t been kind since you last saw one another, but fate or some high power must have a warped sense of humor to lead you back to one another after all these years. Sighing, you slip your hand free of John’s and reach for him, fingers following the new scars on his cheek and jaw —the one cutting across his thin, cracked lips too. “How’d you get these?”

His dark gaze flits across your face, and he lets out a trembling breath when you pull back your hand. “Wolves tried to make a meal out of me,” he answers —won’t a pleasant week between getting shot in Blackwater and mauled by wolves in the Grizzlies.

“Too rotten for ‘em?” You ask, teasing. “That why they spat you back out?” And John laughs, lips twisting into a ragged smile as he leans into you, resting his forehead against yours.

AFTER A FEW days of adjusting to the routine, John heads back into Strawberry on a late Sunday morning to fetch his son. Mister and Misses Geddes assured him there’d be a place for his boy on the ranch, and so long as he did his share, he’d even earn a few coins to fill his own coffer. If nothing else, Jack Marston would have a score of people to help look after him and teach him a thing or two about animal husbandry.

You’re starting a fire in the kitchen stove when you hear the wagon jostling to a stop and horses whinnying. Setting a pot of water on the burner, you turn to the door, wading into the cool spring evening air —equally excited and nervous to meet John’s son. The boy sitting next to him in the wagon seat climbs down with a book tucked underarm and glances around the ranch —to the big house and barns, the horses in the corral, and the ranch hands enjoying their day of rest on the porch with a bottle of whiskey.

He looks like his father, that’s for certain, but you imagine he must have his mother’s eyes. “Jack?” You greet softly, knowing John told the others his boy’s name was Lancelot.

The boy looks surprised that anyone would know him in this part of the country —especially given who his new persona is supposed to be. There’s a question budding in his bright eyes. “She’s a real good friend of mine from long time ago,” John explains before you can properly introduce yourself, wearing a little smile as he steps around his boy to grip your shoulder, a silent thank you almost for being so understanding —accepting of his sudden appearance back in your life. Jack’s gaze flits between you and John. Even he knows it’s been a long while since his pa’s looked this happy.

You step closer and extend a hand toward the boy, and he gives a timid but firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack,” you say with a smile, but then your attention shifts to John. “How about you boys stay with me?” You suggest, pointing over your shoulder to the women’s cabin —empty for the past few months save for you. “Be easier to keep an eye on him that way.” It’s better than staying in the stuffy bunks with the other ranch hands and one he won’t pass up. After living on the road for so long, it’d do Jack good to have a motherly figure back in his life.

Jack starts to the cabin with his bag, and you fall back to keep stride with John, nudging his side with your elbow. “Least we know he won’t turn out like you.” There’s a hint of laughter in the way you say it, a twinkle in your eye, too.

“What’s that supposed to mean, missy?” John asks, knowing good and well what it is you mean, and he's unable to hide his own amusement. But you don’t say anything else —just smile for him.

IT’S A SLOW life. Routine and almost boring compared to always running, always having to have one eye trained over his shoulder, but to be a decent man working for his keep every day is enough to keep John Marston happy for now, especially knowing what it means to his boy. It’s the first time Jack’s ever known the same place for more than a few weeks or months at a time —first time he’s had a whole bed to call his own too. Despite the hard work, day in and day out, the ranch starts to feel like a home —like maybe he’s found his calling in life. Or at least Jim Milton’s calling.

The rooster crows at the break of dawn, but you’re already awake with a pot of coffee brewing and bacon in a frying pan. It’s the scent of the bacon that draws both John and Jack from their bunks and to the table. Taking breakfast and supper together every day is bittersweet —makes you think of what could’ve been had Colm’s boys never found you, but there’s no point dwelling on the past like that. John won’t ever be the man you buried, and Jack won’t ever be your boy, but for the time being, you’re content with this mismatched family. “Mornin’ boys,” you greet, cracking half-a-dozen eggs into the leftover bacon fat. “Coffee’s ready.”

John mumbles his appreciation as he pours himself and you a cup before sitting at the table with the most recent copy of The Blackwater Ledger.

It’s a quiet life, too. Until shouts and gunshots break out in the night — until flames rise from the barns to lick at the night sky. John’s out of bed before you, pulling on his boots and starting to the door. You peer out the window above your bed, recognizing the men and their horses. The Laramie Boys. They’ve already set the cattle loose and the barn ablaze —another attempt to drive David Geddes off the land to make way for Abel Atherton. “Stay here with Jack,” John tells you.

But you’re already throwing open the lid of an old trunk tucked away in the corner, pulling out a worn Lancaster repeater and bandolier of ammunition from a life you meant to leave behind for good. “You forget who I am, John Marston?” You ask, pressing a round into the loading gate. “Been dealing with this lot longer than you have” —you cock the handle of the rifle, starting toward the door, pushing past him— “and I’m tired of this bullshit.”

Hanging Dog Ranch isn’t a long ride, but on a moonless and starless night, it feels like it’s miles and miles away. The shadow of the windmill rises from the landscape, almost blending into the backdrop of tall trees. Lanterns pock the stables and tents —and in one of the corrals is David Geddes’s stolen cattle. The Laramie Boys were there, all right. John lifts a hand, a silent gesture for everyone to stop and dismount. You’d go in on foot from here. He directs Tom to the windmill —a good vantage point to keep an eye on anyone and do away with any of them who try to flee— and Abe to the opposite side, near the ranch house.

You crouch behind one of the boulders next to John. He watches as you pull the rifle off your shoulder and reload it, cocking the handle —ready to go. John Marston knows you can handle yourself, knows your skills with a gun are on par with his, if not a little slower, but he doesn’t want to chance you getting hurt. Not when you and Jack are all the good he’s got left in this world. “Ain’t letting you just walk in there,” he says.

Had you been younger and more ill-tempered, you would have argued with him, but now there’s no point in it —one way or another, this whole feud would end tonight. “I’ll flank the backside then,” you tell him. Between the four of you, the whole place would be surrounded. You turn to cut through the grass and the tree line, but he grips your forearm ‘fore you can head off. He means to say something, but all he can do is offer a curt nod and let you go.

Once the first shot rings out in the night, you move in. Part of you thinks after putting up your guns for so long, it should be harder —killing folk— but it’s just as easy now as it had been when you first met John Marston on the road. You ram the butt of the rifle into the back of a man’s head, and it doesn’t take much to pull the trigger when he goes to his knees, dazed. All that’s around you are corpses. The rest must be holed up in the barn or around the front. You sidle your way along the back of the barn, then stick an arm through one of the barn windows at the back and wave it ‘round, but no one shoots.

The barn is quiet —seems empty, too, but you know it ain’t. Crouching behind a stack of hay bales, you reload your rifle to finish the job. Couldn’t be but a handful of them left after that. But one of them is the gang’s leader. Caleb Hensley. A vile man who didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. Dried straw crunches underfoot, the sound coming from the loft above. “Can’t hide forever!” You shout, tracing the footfalls above. There’s a lull in the gunfire outside when you step out from behind on the wooden posts, thinking you’d have the leader of the Laramie Boys cornered for an easy shot, but there’s no one there.

Caleb Hensley steps out from one of the stables and swings a rough-cut piece of lumber. It’s a narrow miss, and you pull the trigger before he can strike again, but the shot goes wide, and he’s on you again. “Always thought you were a real hard woman, didn’t you?” He mocks, wrestling the rifle from your grasp. You duck around him, making for the discarded gun, but Caleb Hensley kicks the rifle away and grabs you by the hair, hauling you back up.

Off me! You aren’t sure if you shout it or if it’s just a scream in your head. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns, twisting your arm behind your back. You can feel the bite of cold and sharp metal against your neck. “Hate to slice such a pretty neck.” It’s an acrid whisper as he runs his nose along your shoulder, inhaling a mix of smoke and flowers.

John pushes open the doors to the barn, his gun drawn, but he lowers his revolver when he sees you —and the glint of the knife pressed against your throat. “Let her go,” he says —cool and collected.

Caleb Hensley twists your arm tighter, a new rage building in his gut. “Won’t give me the courtesy, but you’ll fuck some piss-poor farmhand?!” It’s a venomous sneer, but the accusation doesn't get to you the way he thinks it will, not when your fingers brush against the hilt of the throwing knife tucked into the back of your bandolier. John sees the shift in your breathing, the slight nod of your head as though telling him to get ready.

Breaking one arm free of his hold, you drive the knife straight back into Caleb Hensley’s thigh, deep as it’ll go. The sudden shock is enough for his grip to slacken and for you to slip free entirely. “Bitch!” He shouts, unholstering his pistol, but John’s there before he can fire a single round —and it’s over with the blast of a shotgun.

John tosses down the sawed-off shotgun and turns to you, half-blocking the mess of blood, bone, and brains splattered across the dirt and hay. “You alright?” he asks.

“M’fine,” you answer. But there’s a slow red flower blossoming on the white linen of your nightdress. He reaches for you, hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head to the side. “Shit,” John breathes, pressing his hand against the cut and the slick warmth of blood —it spans from the base of your neck and across a collarbone to the edge of your sternum. It’s not deep, at least, and it doesn’t hurt —or maybe the pain hasn’t settled in yet.

The ride back to Pronghorn is quicker and John dismounts his black bay Thoroughbred and turns to you, still astride your speckled Appaloosa —he scarcely lets your feet touch the muddy ground before sweeping you up in his arms, carrying you from the hitching posts and back to the cabin. “M’legs still work, Marston,” you mutter into the crook of his neck, and he shakes his head at your stubbornness. There’s even a hint of laughter in his deep sigh too. All these years and a moment like this makes it seem as though nothing’s changed.

“Jack!” He calls out, nearing the steps of the cabin, and his boy opens the door. Jack stumbles away, his eyes wide and full of fear as he looks between you and his pa. John eases you down onto the bed and glances over his shoulder. “Bring the wash basin, son,” he says, and Jack does, fumbling over his own feet.

“I’m alright, Jack,” you assure the boy with a feeble smile when he places the basin bedside. You can see the color fade from his round face when he looks at you and the blood soaking through your night dress —it reminds him too much of the day he lost his ma. “Just a bad scratch.” John huffs as he wrings out the wet cloth. It’s not exactly a lie, but it ain’t the truth either. He tilts your head to the side gently and starts wiping away the drying blood on your neck.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed at the tinge of color on his cheeks as he silently asks permission to help you undress —poor timing to suddenly become a chivalrous man. With a grimace, you shrug out of the shift and quickly bunch up the stained cotton to keep your modesty intact. John’s gaze flits between the cut and your face, trying too see if he might be able to decipher the far-off look in your eyes, but then he presses too hard, and you wince. “Sorry,” he mutters, redoubling his focus. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a taut line —and he misses your hazy smile.

"Need to bandage it,” he says, voice dropping to a low rasp. You nod, turning to face away from him before offering up your shift to make crude dressings —he'll buy you a new one. The feel of his rough fingertips against your skin sends a chill down your spine and sets your heart to racing again.

John ties the strip of cloth off at your shoulder and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he offers one of his shirts in place of your ruined night dress —a faded black flannel with colored patches at the elbows. He holds it up for you to slip your arms into, and you quickly do up the buttons, turning so you can face him.

“Thank you.” It’s a tired whisper, and John doesn’t say anything in turn, only kisses the back of your hand before returning to his bunk on the other side of the cabin.

THE WAGON’S PULLED up to the front of the barn, loaded with crates and other sundries to be sold at the market in Strawberry and along the path there. Most times, Jack goes with John to make the deliveries and pick up new supplies, but this time the boy is headed toward the stables instead of the wagon seat. He and Duncan Geddes had been getting along quite well, especially when it came to helping work and train the foals.

You lean against the split-rail fence of one of the corrals, watching Jack Marston longe a nine-month-old filly named Llamrei, after one of King Arthur’s horses —Mrs. Geddes had even been kind enough to let Jack name the new foal. “Not goin’ with your pa?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Thought I’d stay and help with the horses, ma’am,” Jack answers, then he clicks his tongue to help Llamrei keep her gait.

“If you think you’ll be okay,” you start, “I’ve got a few errands to run in town myself.” It’s been a month or two since you made the trip to Strawberry, and your list has steadily grown to include fabric, sewing needles, and a new kettle for coffee.

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” the boy assures you. Nodding, you head to the main barn, where John and Abe are finishing loading everything.

Coin purse tucked away, you climb into the wagon seat next to John. “Afraid you’ll have to suffer me today, Jim Milton,” you say, adjusting the brim of your sunhat and brushing down the creases of your canvas skirt. The corner of his lips twists into a smile as he takes hold of the reins and gives them a quick snap, setting the horses in motion toward the road and down the path to Strawberry.

It's good to get away from Pronghorn for a little while. Strawberry ain’t much, but it has everything simple folk could ever need for a good life. John pulls the wagon in front of the depot and waves you off to tend to your errands while he unloads everything and picks up the post.

You leave the general store with a ream of calico fabric tucked underarm and a small basket stuffed with linen and wool cabbage, new thread, and fresh sewing needles. It was almost time for autumn to set in, and wouldn’t be much longer 'fore the hands started bringing their coats and thicker denim to be patched up for the colder seasons.

John’s securing the last crate into the wagon from the post office and tying down the waxed canvas tarp, but you’re looking westward through the tall pines. “Those clouds don’t look good.” The sky’s gone dark since arriving in the early afternoon —smell of rain's on the wind too. He looks up, too, frowning. “Roads go right hell ‘round here in a storm,” you tell him. “We’ll break an axle tryin’ to beat it back.” Last thing you needed was a stuck wagon and ruined supplies, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught in a squall like the one brewing.

All Trackers can offer is a warm meal, but the innkeeper, Bartholomew Bogue, points you and John to the Welcome Center just up the road; they usually had a room or two to spare when the rest of town was booked. The fringes of the storm have already arrived as rain and howling wind. You start through the muddy street after John, holding down your hat to keep the wind from ferrying it away. “Room for the night, please.” He slides a dollar bill across the desk to the concierge, who quickly hands over a room key and motions toward the stairs by the door.

The room is simply furnished —a single four-poster bed caddy cornered, a dresser and vanity, and a table next to a cast iron heater. It’s warm and dry and almost more inviting than your cabin at Pronghorn. You drop your hat on the table and lay your shawl out to dry near the heater. “I’ll take the floor,” John offers —an attempt to be a gentleman— toeing off his muddy boots near the balcony door and setting his gun belt on the dresser.

It's a ridiculous suggestion. “Bed’s big enough for us both,” you counter, stepping behind the dressing screen, stripping off your wet outer clothes and corset. Wouldn’t be right to have him sleeping on the floor on a night like this —cold and wet. He doesn’t argue, and you’re glad for it. You slip between the sheets and quilted blanket, watching as John goes to add another log or two to the heater. And the bed dips with his added weight when he lays beside you. “G’night, John,” you tell him, turning onto your side.

“Night darlin’,” he echoes, reaching over to dim the oil lantern on the end table.

The steady rain turns into a deluge permeated by the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. It’s a jagged bolt that seems like it cuts through the window and a deafening clap that first wakes you in the middle of the night. You stare up at the ceiling, a knot rising in your throat as your heart starts to pound. John’s still asleep —dark hair falling in front of his face—and it makes you feel a fool for acting like this. After all these years, a storm can still send you into a panic. You roll onto your side and stare out the window, but the shift in the mattress and tug of the blankets is enough to stir John Marston. “What’s wrong?” His voice is a grating rasp.

You run your hands over your face, wiping away budding tears before they fall, shaking your head. “Can’t sleep,” you tell him, fighting the tremble in your voice. “The storm.” It’s a poor explanation, but John has mind enough to piece together why the thunder and lightning have you acting like this. Was on a night like this Colm’s boys came for you. Was on a night like this, you had to bury Bo and watch your home burn.

John sits up, reaches out, and wraps an arm around your waist, then pulls you back to him —closer now than you had been before the storm picked up. You settle back down, head resting on his pillow, noses almost touching, and breaths mingling.

“Spent years hopin’ we’d run into each other again,” he admits. You first ran into John Marston on the road. He and Arthur Morgan were planning to rob the same stagecoach you’d been scoping out for well over a fortnight. A fake limp, crocodile tears, and a little womanly charm stopped the driver easily enough —all according to your plan. That was until two hotheaded outlaws came kicking up dust and firing their revolvers into the air shouting about it being a holdup. At least they had half a mind to share the take when it was all over.

And somehow, after that, you and John found yourselves running into each other —at saloons, on the road, planning a heist or two. Arthur always told him he was a fool for not bringing you back to camp. Given your talents, the three of you probably could’ve walked into the New York City Assay Office or the Philadelphia Mint and made off with enough gold to buy a small country or two.

It was a good few years, but then John and his gang wandered off too far, and you’d decided it was time to hang up the illicit lifestyle ‘fore the law finally caught up with you. “Be lyin’ if I said I didn’t miss you a little too,” you tell him, eyes tracing the scars on his cheek and across his nose.

“Only a little?” John teases, hand moving from your waist to cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing a line beneath your bottom lip and over your jaw. That gets you to smile for him, even if it’s fleeting, and he’ll count it as a small victory.

“What was he like?” Curiosity gets the better of him —all he knows is it must’ve been someone special to handle you. You close your eyes, picturing the small cabin tucked away in the eastern mountains after a new dusting of snow —can still see Bo splitting wood to bring in for the stove and hearth. But it’s been so long, and now you can scarcely recall the color of his eyes. John almost regrets asking when he sees the new tears welling in your eyes, but then you smile and reach to fiddle with the ends of his hair.

“Good. Honest. Kind. Hard-working.” Bo had been a logger, a working man from a decent family, had even built his house with his own two hands. A stark contrast to how you had lived for all of them years —always on the move, robbing people, and killing folk. “Didn’t deserve him, I know that.” You didn’t deserve Bo after the life you’d led. And John knows he hadn’t deserved Abigail, either. Not really. But maybe, just maybe, you deserved each other and the chance to atone for past sins together. “John,” you whisper his name, and he can hear all your heartache, despair, and longing —it damn near breaks his heart and scares the hell out of him, too.

He acts without warning and without permission, settling his scarred lips on yours —something he’s wanted to do for years and something he should’ve done sooner. His kiss is achingly slow and painfully tender. And you sigh into his mouth, hand sliding from his chest to the back of his neck. It tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when he draws you closer, hand straying from the curve of your back to rest against your neck —his thumb finding the proof of your racing heart. John groans softly against your mouth, and it brings you both to part, breathless. “Sorry,” he mutters, resting his thumb against your lips. It’s the same one he’d stroked across your pulse.

You part your lips, just slightly, not enough to take his thumb into your mouth but enough to suggest. “You’ve always been a bad liar, John Marston.” And he kisses you again, his thumb sweeping up until his hand is cradling your cheek, then further still until his fingers are threaded into your hair. It’s not soft as his first kiss, nor as gentle —it’s keen and desperate, an attempt to chase away the years of loneliness and yearning. You graze your teeth across the flesh of his lower lip, catching it at the edges, and the sound that rumbles from him is sharp-edged, not unlike a warning. But you aren’t willing to retreat. There won’t be any running this time.

John pulls you close until his chest is pressed tight against yours, and the hem of your linen shift is rucked up at the waist, a leg lazily draped over his hips —and the thunder rolls.

The old bed frame groans under your combined weights when you both start shifting, fumbling with the ties and buttons of both your underclothes —a wordless understanding that you both want, no need, this. He’s quick with the buttons of his faded scarlet union suit, ridding himself of it as you shrug off the plain linen shift, letting the thin nightdress fall to the floor next to the bed.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, tugging you into his lap as he starts pressing a short line of kisses across your clavicle, following the path of a new scar —thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts and tracing sweeping lines across your ribs. His hands wander around your body. From your thighs, hips, waist, whatever he can reach —like he needs to touch you to stay grounded in this life.

“John,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him against you. His lips twitch against your warm skin, halfway between a smile and smirk as his nose trails along your neck and over the swells of your breasts, leaving warm kisses here and there. The gentle shift of your hips pulls a low rumble from his throat. Nestled between your thighs, you can feel his cock twitch.

The rough pads of his fingers trail from your sternum, across your belly, and lower still, slow enough to give you time to object if you wanted, but you don’t. You press your face into the crook of his neck, fighting to regain your breath when he parts the seam of your cunt. He pushes two fingers in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a prayer. John slides them deep enough to stretch you good, to let his palm grind against your clit —then he moves them, slow and gentle at first, then quicker when you start to sing like one of those pretty songbirds in the early morning mist.

He bites his lower lip, curling and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm. Then repeats the same motion, this time achingly slowly, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his scarred knuckles. But impatience wins out this time, and you let out a low keening sound as John pulls his hand away, palm giving one last squeeze to your hip —leaving a slick dampness behind.

Reaching between you, John takes hold of his cock, stroking himself thrice over with his slick hand, and when he pushes in, he does so slowly —impossibly gentle, too. Your legs quiver and tremble from strain and desire as John finally eases your body against his. He trembles —it’s heaven— and he gasps like the sound is wrenched out of him against his will, eyes closing tightly, and distress written over his face as his hands fumble over your body, finally settling an open palm to your back when your hips meet his —tight and flush.

Your hands grip his shoulders, palm pressing into one of the scars there. One day you’ll ask him about that one and the one on his thigh and bicep too. Some you know the story of —the wolves, a more crooked nose from defending you in a bar fight, the silvery line on his calf from getting tangled up in barbed wire cutting through grazing land running from the law.

John doesn’t move, not yet, and you don’t either. There’s something about this moment, being like this. His dark eyes gleam as he looks up at you with something akin to adoration. But the mounting heat in your belly is too much to fight against, and you rock your hips against him, and it shatters him. You sigh, soft and sweet between pants and heaves of breath. All you can focus on is his face —flushed cheeks, mouth drawing out impious noises mixed between grunts and moans, a slight quiver in his bottom lip. You cup John’s face in your hands and kiss the curse from his lips.

A calloused hand slides over your ribs, stomach, and up to your breast, kneading it gently as he rubs slow, teasing circles around a taut nipple. You gasp his name, clinging to him, moving in unison as John lowers his mouth to your neck —soft lips skimming your pulse, moving to suckle a sensitive patch beneath your ear.

You ache and burn, and it's one of the most beautiful feelings you've ever felt —like maybe you should have stayed with him all those years ago. John’s grip on your hips tightens, almost holding you still as his hips thrust up into you. The warmth. The rhythm. It’s almost too much for him to bear, and John Marston isn’t willing to let this moment fade so quickly. “Darlin’,” he chokes, and then it’s a breathy groan that sounds like your name.

He rolls to the side, taking you with him, and nestles himself between your thighs again. John rasps atop you, groaning, moaning in pleasure as your cunt takes his cock deeper with each thrust. His cock twitches. His lips shape your name. You warm every inch of him, and the aches in his bones from the last months of work thaw with relief with each movement. It’s soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it. John is coming apart inside you, and your name is the one on his lips. You smile and turn your head, catching him off guard in a kiss, legs parting wider and drawing up his sides to pull him deeper.

Clinging to John, you think there’s nothing in the world you'd trade this moment for. Everything else means nothing compared to the weight of his arms around you, the feel of his cock buried deep inside you. His hand shackles one of your ankles, then runs up the length of your calf, over your thigh, and your stomach bunches up in knots as his fingers drift back to your calf, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg up around his waist.

“John, please,” you plead softly, and he will deny you nothing, if only for selfish reasons. He fully relents to the passion and desire —letting himself love and be loved. His thrusts are deep and slow, yet quick all at once, and you find your eyes already stinging with a sheened wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. John’s breathing intensifies, his lips finding yours. He needs your kiss, has gone too long without, and gladly swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make —savoring his hot skin pressed against yours. You feel everything. Each ridge and vein, the weight of his swollen cock striking the place which unravels you.

His hand slides down between your breasts, across your stomach, and still further until he reaches where you’re joined —his thumb pressing against your clit, starting to rub slow, uneven circles. You tense at the jolt of euphoria, walls clamping around his cock. John bares his teeth, almost growling as his thrusts became faster, desperate. There will be no coming back this time. A grounding touch of his lips at your ear, a hoarse —nigh silent— plea for you to relinquish into his touch. His arm slides around your waist, lifting you against him, bodies flush and trembling.

Before long, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change to short, sharp gasps and your body tensing under his hands, back arching, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and back. Fingers digging into his flesh as you cry out his name on a great, sobbing breath. Seeing you undone like this is enough to finish him off. He pulls his throbbing cock from your heat, and you almost protest at the empty feeling, but John shushes you with his lips as he presses himself tight against you —cock twitching, coating your stomach with his sticky seed.

John settles, bracing his weight above you on bent arms. Wearing a hazy smile, you reach up, tracing his brow and the scar cutting through it, and urge him to rest atop you completely. He gives in, pillowing his head on your breast, listening as the frantic beat of your heart returns to normal. His own slowing in sync as you trace constellations across his shoulders, finding new scars and old ones, too. It feels like he should say something —a quip about being grateful for the storm, but you’re both content in silence, only listening to the thunder roll on outside.

TIME IS A fickle thing, and before long, John Marston’s been a ranch hand for David Geddes for over a year. After supper one evening, just after Jack’s settling into his bunk, John asks you to ride with him —to the wildflower meadows and burbling creek just down the way. Twilight drops her curtain of orange and red, fading to indigo in the distance and pinned in place by the Moon and stars.

John glances at you and feels that warm tingle rise in his chest again whenever he sees you —whenever his fingers brush against yours while doing a chore, whenever you tuck your head under his chin at night, whenever your lips touch his cheek for a chaste kiss. He didn’t think it would be possible to feel this way again…and yet. He leans forward in Rachel’s saddle, arms crossed atop the horn.

“I, uhh–” he’s thought about how to say it all day, rehearsed it in his head since the crack of dawn, but now the words evade him. Always did have a way with words, you think, smiling as you dismount your Appaloosa and bend to pick one of the wild bluebonnets. “Been thinkin’ bout maybe gettin’ a place of my own,” he finally admits.

It’s the first time you’ve heard the idea, even if you’ve noticed how he lingers with the newspapers when they come in —looking over the parcels of land for sale around the state and across the Montana River. “Have you?”

“Yeah” —he nods, as though assuring himself, too— “near Blackwater, maybe. Or down in New Austin.” But saying that’s the easy part. “Was–” his voice trails off and takes off his hat, scratching the back of his neck nervously “–was wondering if you wanted to come with me and Jack?” John asks. “If it works out,” he quickly adds. Won’t like he had many dollars to his name, after all. There’s still a bounty on his head, too, even if no one’s come looking to collect on it in a good while.

You go oddly quiet, and John sees the hitch in your breathing and the tears gathering in your eyes as you think about having a life like that again —like the one Colm O’Driscoll stole from you so many years ago. He slides from Rachel’s saddle and looks at you, surrounded by the golden light of a setting sun and violet wildflowers —a dream. “Will you come?” He asks again, doing well to hide the tremble in his voice, the fear of rejection.

But it’s the way John looks at you, eyes dusted with love, that does you in —the same way he looks at every new sunrise and sunset—body relaxed, mind at ease. You’re the spring flowers blooming and the snow falling, the gentle rain that pitter-patters against the roof. He looks at you the way you would look at the simple things in life so often forgotten but reminding him why the world is beautiful —why life is truly worth living again. “Only if you’ll have me.” You tell him, stepping to him, heart pounding.

Seems a silly thought to him to entertain —of course, he’ll have you. You’re probably the only person in the world who’d still have him, especially knowing the life he used to live. John reaches for you, his rough, warm hands settling on either side of your neck, thumbs affectionately running across your jaw. “Course I will, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning toward you —a kiss to your forehead, nose, cheek, a delicate peck to your lips, lasting just long enough for the scuff of his beard to start tickling.

And that’s when you know this is another chance for a simple, good life and that wherever John Marston is, is the only place that’ll ever feel like home.

[RDR2 taglist: @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hc-geralt-23 / @Idkjj04 / @ksziggy / @little-honeypie / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @overratedsun / @qhbr2013 / @xiakahazou ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my RDR2 taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#John Marston #John Marston x Reader #Jim Milton #Jim Milton x Reader #He's also #Rip Van Winkle #Red Dead Redemption 2 Fanfiction #Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 #my writing #still lowkey irked they just gave John a slightly-off Arthur model for the epilogue tbh at least give him his greasy hair #me: partially colorblind #also me: trying to make gifs again #song inspo for this was ghost of days gone by - alter bridge & loud and heavy - cody jinks #also a little bit of the thunder rolls by the king himself #went absolutely apeshit for this greasy bastard #fuckin 13 page monstrosity and 8k words later

97 notes · View notes

sednonamoris · 1 year ago

Text

oil on troubled water

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: Tensions are high between John and Arthur. Will collaborating on a train robbery bring them closer or tear them farther apart?

Warnings: Even more emotional constipation, strong language, canon-typical violence, gun violence

Word count: 2,828

A/N: Pouring Forth Oil nation rise up - hopefully worth the wait!! Tysm to everyone who enjoys this story 🥰

Series masterlist • AO3

—

There’s a train due through Scarlett Meadows in a few days. Overburdened and underprotected, Mary-Beth insists it’s the perfect target. More than that, John has a plan to rob it. A good plan, one that will force the train to stop with a commandeered oil wagon parked dead over the tracks and allow you to hit it in the dark vulnerability of night .

It’s all he’s been able to talk about for a week.

You just need another man.

“That is… kind of brilliant,” Arthur admits when he hears. He’s fresh back from Strawberry with Micah not far behind. “Uh, for you, I mean,” he quickly amends, maybe remembering that he and John are supposed to be at odds. Tensions have been high since his return. “I think that’s the first time you ever had one of them!”

“Shut up,” John snaps.

But Arthur is on a roll now, that mean, brotherly gleam in his eye. “You might be the first bastard to ever have half his brains eaten by a wolf and end up more intelligent.”

John shoots you a look, one of those see didn’t I tell you he’d be like this glares you’ve been getting since you were kids. Arthur rolls his eyes towards you in much the same can’t he take a joke for once way. It takes everything in you not to groan aloud. You and John are good, now. At least there’s a truce. But the two of them? They’ve been bickering from the moment Arthur swung down from his saddle after nearly two weeks away. You’re lucky they’re being this civil, really.

Doesn’t mean they’re being cooperative.

You fold your arms and sigh. “We doin’ this thing or what?”

They glance over at each other, then you. The payday gleam in their eyes says it all.

—

Arthur volunteers to snag most of the supplies: guns, ammunition, dynamite. He can’t resist adding on that Abigail has asked him to head into town, anyhow, after he takes Jack fishing. Neither of you miss the way John’s jaw clenches. That leaves the oil wagon between you and him. He claims to have a plan for that, too.

“All them wagons come and go from that big oil field near Valentine,” John says. “I reckon between the two of us we can snag one on its way out.”

“Actually,” you say, “I think I can do you one better.”

His brows raise with interest when you explain that one of the drivers, Norris, always pauses his route in town to grab a drink. It’ll be far easier to rush the unattended wagon there than contend with all that security Heartland Oil Co. spends half its fortune hiring. When he asks how you know all this you just shrug.

“Spent a whole week in town, you didn’t think I’d notice a big damn oil wagon parked outside the saloon every other day?”

There’s a jab waiting on the barbed tip of his tongue about the way he heard it, you were sloshed six ways to Sunday the whole time you were there. You tilt your head at him when it never comes. He looks away.

It’s strange, this fragility between you.

“So, when’s he due in next?” he asks.

“Today,” you say, then jerk your head towards the horses. “Ready when you are, Cowboy.”

—

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to nick the wagon. The saloon doors haven’t even stopped swinging after Norris before the two of you scramble into the driver’s seat and urge the team of Shires away. With John sitting shotgun the few ambitious idiots that chase after you are quick to regret it. The sheriff never even manages to mount his horse before you’re halfway out of town, and then you’re good as gone. Blood and brains paint the dirt road leading away from Valentine and toward Old Trail Rise, where John says you’ll be able to stash it.

A mile or so out you drop your masks and slow your pace. It becomes a far more relaxing journey after that. The sky is blue and the clouds are white and the grass that covers the prairieland that slowly gives way to rolling hills is so very green. The breeze fanning your face is warmed by afternoon sun, and being away from camp always has a way of making you feel free. Like you could wheel with the wind or run across the plain or softly sigh through the stony creekbed if you tried.

Beside you, John squints up toward the sky. His face scrunches at the nose, obscuring sunspots and freckles you’ve long since mapped in your mind. His scars pull the skin funny, but his eyes still manage to crinkle. They’re clear and bright in the sunshine and you can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s a secret one, filled with all the things you’re too yellow to say. Filled with the way you’ve memorized the sharp features that relax into fond familiarity when he turns his head back to look at you. Guilt wipes it away and you turn too-fast to the road in front of you. In your peripheral, you can see that the fondness never quite leaves his eyes. You don’t quite know what to make of it.

“Keep left up here,” he says after a moment. “It’s not far past this fork, off the right and into those trees.”

Your mouth is a little dry. “Sure.”

Arthur and Charles are waiting there near the skeleton of an old shack. There’s just enough room beside it for the wagon to pull in out of view. Nearby, Taima grazes untethered beside Moonshine and Old Boy and that big bay paint Arthur’s still riding after Ambarino. He’s calling it ‘Blaze’. Or maybe ‘Ember’? Something to do with fire, because he fancies himself clever after walking away from the Adlers’ burning homestead with a horse in hand.

“Gentleman,” you tip your hat.

Charles nods back, and Arthur puts his hands on his hips. “Took you long enough.”

“Not all of us spent an easy morning fishin’,” you say.

You expect another friendly jab back, but Arthur frowns. “Not so easy,” he says. “Pinkertons found us down by the river.”

Your eyes go wide. “Shit, Arthur! Is Jack alright?”

“Fine,” he says, sparing the briefest glance at the conflict across John’s face. “A little shook up is all. They offered my freedom for Dutch. Said they killed Mac— or left him for dead, it’s all the same.”

“Jesus, are we still sure hittin’ this train is the right thing?”

Charles’ mouth draws into a grim line. “We should think about moving camp.”

“Come on!” John says. “When are we gonna get a sure thing like this on a train anytime soon? Camp can’t move without money.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue the point further when a rustling in the brush stops the lot of you. Everyone’s hands go to the guns at their belts, but the figure who emerges through the trees is just Sean. He’s sat astride Ennis, crooked smile on his face and hands raised in mock surrender. The horse’s single blue eye is filled with just as much mischief as its owner.

“Don’t tell me now,” he tuts. “You old-timers are rolling over at the first sign of trouble?”

“What the hell is he doing here?” John asks, hackles raised.

It’s mostly directed at Arthur, who frowns up at the menace in question. “Thought I told you not to come along.”

Sean grins. “And I told you this is a young man’s game! The moment your one let slip there was a train in the works I knew you’d be needin’ guns, and mine’s the fastest around. It’s a job for a man in his prime. Youthful vigor, I say, and the lot of yous have run clean out ‘o that.”

John’s face is pinched in annoyance, and Charles rolls his eyes. You fold your arms and sigh.

“Mary-Beth needs to stop hangin’ around you,” Arthur gripes, but he doesn’t refuse him again.

By now you’ve all realized it’s pointless; he’s coming with.

Sean lets out a triumphant laugh when he sees he’s worn everyone down, and then launches into a monologue about being cut out of the action after his absence and finally getting out with the big cheeses to prove his far superior worth.

It’s a long wait until nightfall.

—

Sean never does shut up. Not through a one-sided shooting contest with Arthur or the conversation you try to have with Charles about potential camp locations or the nap John takes, slumped against your shoulder until the light falls. Even on the wagon ride to the tracks it’s incessant. He complains about Karen. He calls everyone old. He pokes at the tension between Arthur and John with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite. He dubs you Sukky, Angry, Spooky, and Scar-Face, respectively, for refusing to hear one more story about his da.

You’re glad he survived Blackwater and the bounty hunters that caught up with him afterwards, really, but he sometimes he makes it hard to remember why.

Arriving at the tracks is a welcome relief.

Arthur calls out everyone’s moonlit marching orders: Charles will take care of the engineer, you and John will secure the passenger cars and start taking valuables, and Sean will handle the baggage car while Arthur runs point. It all sounds simple enough, so you’re sure something will go wrong, but all there is to do is stick to the plan and try not to get shot.

Once the wagon is in position and the horses are set loose, you fix your bandana to your face and head into the treeline to wait.

Arthur hangs back. When Seans asks what he’s going to do he flashes a grim reaper smile. “I’m gonna make sure she slows.”

“It’s do or die wit’ you, isn’t it?” Sean laughs. “I love it!”

You can feel the same manic laughter bubbling in the back of your throat. John’s eyes are flint sharp and bright. Even Charles isn’t immune to the feeling just before a big job like this; the electric air just before a lightning strike.

The train thunders down the tracks from around the bend. The ground shakes with it. Arthur climbs atop the wagon and stands tall, bandana up and gun at the ready. Tonight’s moon hides behind cloud cover, as though it knows your business and is lending you the shadows. There is only one light to break through the darkness, and it comes from the headlamp of the train. The moment it lights upon Arthur and the oil the brakes scream desperately. The train whistle cries out in alarm. Your heart hammers in your throat as it comes to a halt just a few feet away from him with a shower of sparks and the sound of scraping metal.

The conductor jumps out of the train in outrage.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?!”

Charles emerges from treeline and shadow to hit him on the back of the head. He drops, dead weight.

Nothing good.

You step up to the passenger car, gun in hand, and smile.

—

Everything goes to plan, to your great joy and surprise.

Until it doesn’t.

Just when you’ve gathered all the valuables you can carry and you’re ready to disembark with the law none the wiser, two riders shine lamplight bright from the treeline.

“Oh, fuck,” Sean says.

“Ah, there’s only two,” Arthur claps his shoulder before settling behind a crate, gun at the ready. “We’re fightin’.”

You’re quick to get into a defensive position with John and Charles, but the whole thing gives you a bad feeling.

The men ride closer, lanterns held up to get a better view of the situation. They tell you to get off the train with your hands in the air.

Arthur tells them to go to hell.

By the time the first shot is fired there are more of them than you bargained for. A lot more.

It’s a hell of a firefight. They come first from the right, then the left, then from behind, until you can’t help but hit one no matter where you fire. Someone went through the trouble of hiring a goddamn army to protect this train. The fact that they only showed up now leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It feels alarmingly like a setup.

“I thought you said there’d be no guards ‘til the state line!” you shout at John over the gunfire.

“There wasn’t s’posed to be!” he shouts back.

You share a brief glance and know that he’s thinking the same thing. He didn’t exactly keep quiet about the job, but why should that matter? Who the hell would’ve talked?

The minute it looks like there’s a window you whistle for the horses and make your break for it, galloping blindly behind Arthur through the countryside. Moonshine grunts with exertion but keeps pace, ever eager. You slip him the reins to fire off a few shots behind you, nailing the handful of lawmen that were able to follow.

Soon there’s only the sound of panting horses and thundering hoofbeats and the creak of saddle leather and Sean’s breathy, wild laughter.

He’s beaming when you finally pull up. “That was fun, real fun! I can see why they call yous the professionals of the outfit.”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, but it comes off half-winded and far more fond than you’re sure he intended.

He tosses everyone their share, a nice bit of cash, and you hand him the sack full of valuables to fence. He mentioned something about a dealer near Rhodes he was going to see. This far South, you figure he might as well head a little farther before making his way back to camp.

There’s a moment where everyone just catches their breath before John speaks up. “Was that a setup? Law turned up real fast.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Arthur’s brow is pinched with worry. “I’m startin’ to get nervous.”

“You think they followed us from Blackwater?” Charles asks.

Arthur frowns. “Maybe. They found me already near Horseshoe, but… I think this lot was just locals.”

You shake your head, but say nothing. You want it to be locals, certainly. But you don’t think that’s what they were. If you didn’t know the place was crawling with law you’d head back to check some of the bodies to make certain. For now you just agree to accompany John over to Emerald Ranch to see about a lead while everyone else splits off with a final warning - mostly to Sean - to be careful about being tailed.

“Hey, Arthur,” John says just before he rides off.

“Yeah?”

“When you get back to camp,” he trails off, then shakes his head, determined. “Just— Take care of Abigail, will you? Make sure she’s… alright. After what happened with Jack and them Pinkertons, I mean.”

Arthur’s posture softens. He smiles, quiet and small, like he’s trying not to spook him. “Sure, John. Sure. I will.”

“Good. Thank you.”

They nod at each other, and all of the sudden it feels like you’re intruding on this moment between brothers. All of the sudden it feels like you can breathe.

—

You and John wind your way carefully toward Emerald Ranch, only making camp when dawn starts to break rose gold across the horizon. The few hours of sleep that you grab are restful, likely because the past several hours haven’t been.

When you wake it’s to the sound of John whistling, happy and tuneless. He sits beside the fire with a cup of coffee - freshly brewed by the smell - and a distant smile on his face. It grows wide and present when he notices your open eyes.

“Mornin’, Ghost!”

“It’s too early for you to be this goddamn happy,” you grouse, like it isn’t entirely infectious. You can’t even hide the smile on your face that starts to mirror his.

“Oh, come on,” he grins and hands you a cup of coffee. You huddle it close to your chest. “I got a pocket full of cash, a good lead on some more, my best friend, and a beautiful morning. A man don’t need much more’n that.”

“Shut up,” you laugh.

“I’m serious!” he says, but he’s laughing, too. “I know we got Pinkertons to worry about and all that, but I feel good, you know? Like a weight’s been lifted or somethin’.”

“I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with you and Arthur making nice last night,” you shoot a pointed look at him over your mug.

“No. Maybe. Shut up,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Just let me be happy.”

“Fine. Tell me about this lead, then.”

His eyes light right back up as he launches into an explanation about the local livestock market. You’ve never been so happy to hear about sheep.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #ch. 19 #fran writes

43 notes · View notes

scarfacemarston · 1 year ago

Note

Can you do c-d-m for charles? I luv ur writing btw 😘

Thank you! : ) Prompt here. If anyone sends a request, please check the Charles x reader tag to see if the letter has already been completed. Arthur Morgan x Charles (Charthur) tag has been added by request. C - Cuddling (do they like to cuddle? And how would they do it?) Charles loves to cuddle. He had a lovely mother growing up who used to cuddle him growing up while his father remained distant. While some of his friends were physically affectionate, it was not the norm for him. Cuddling required him to become close to him and while he was open to it, it was simply never a priority. Then he fell in love and simple romantic gestures like a hand holding, or a more intimate hug suddenly became more normal for him, causing him to remember his past. Of course, this was now towards a romantic partner and nothing to do with his mother. With that, he tried to discreetly experiment on what he liked and what you responded to, h however, he sleeps on his stomach so he had to consciously fight against that urge………and was not always successful. Yes, he is absolutely the big spoon, but don’t under estimate the power of hte little spoon! It is sometimes slightly awkward maneuavering, but he absolutely loves being the little spoon. THe only problem is he sometimes gets overheated and is trapped under you. He also likes to drape his arm on top of your waist like you’d hold a teddy bear. He’s a light sleeper or else you’d be trapped like you sometimes trap him.

D - Domestic (do they want to settle down? How good are they at cooking and cleaning) Charles never really thought domesticity was for him. He wasn’t against domesticity. He loved tribal culture and what family meant in many Native American tribes, it was completely different from how his father viewed domesticity. However, he grew up rather isolated and wandered for many years of his life, never truly belonging anywhere until he met the Van der Lindes. While on the run, what purpose would there be dreaming of domesticity? The most he would do is pick up someone at the saloon or visit a sex worker. Joining his gang was the first sense of stability that he had in ages until it all fell apart. Yet it wasn’t until he reunited with John Marston in 1907 that he truly began to think about domesticity. It was helping John fix his life that made him realize how the life he wanted to live would look like. Building a house with his own hands and tools, laughter and camaraderie, taking turns cooking ---charles was the best cook by far with John being so-so and Uncle being awful. It was listening to John sometimes half drunken lamenting Abigail leaving him that made him realize how much a good romantic partner can change a man. He knew before on the surface level, but watching John? He really knew. When Abigail came back with Jack, Charles felt the most at peace than he ever had in his life. It was watching Abigail greet John with a kiss on the cheek, or the way she served them breakfast, her gentle chiding of him to eat more. It was watching Jack grow, awkwardness and all. It was watching John try to bond with his son, John and Abigail rocking on the poarch together that realized that was all he wanted. The Marstons and Uncle were crushed when Charles left. Him leaving left a big hole in their heart, but they understood that Charles was more independent and wanted something to call his own. So yes, he absolutely wants domesticity and everything that comes with it. He doesn’t really view tasks as masculine or feminine. He will do half of everything as long as his partner does the same. As I said, he's a decent cook and has always been pretty tidy. He hopes to build a family the same as the Marstons. That would be perfect to him.

M: Mornings (How are mornings spent with them?) Charles loves and hates mornings. He HATES actually being woken up by someone. If you have breakfast for him, then MAYBE he’ll roll out of bed faster. However, he enjoys them if he gets to pick the time to wake up. He loves the quiet of the morning. Some days he’s up before the sun is fully out. Other times, it’s ‘late’ as 9 for him. Some mornings he loves to forage or hunt before the forest is fully awake. Sometimes he has a better chance of catching certain types of animals. It’s the quiet and the crisp air. Other mornings, he likes to lounge in a blanket pile in t he middle of the bed, a blanket cocoon if you will. Yes, you as his partner might be in the middle of cocoon as well. Sometimes it’s a good morning, other times it’s spent quietly cuddling or talking about the day’s events.

#rdr 2 #charles smith #charles smith x reader #red dead redemption 2 #charles smith x female reader #charles smith x male reader #charles smith x gender neutral reader #van der linde gang #charthur #arthur morgan

51 notes · View notes

sweetjuniperandboiledsatan · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 29 – Further Questions of Female Suffrage

Full story here: Not a Doctor, Not an Angel Either Rating: M Pairing: John Marston x F!Reader; Javier Escuella x F!Reader Word count: 39,387 Chapters: 29/41 Warnings: Sexual content, mention of alcohol and cigarettes, blood, violence

In the past few weeks you've spent with Sadie, she had told you repeatedly that you wouldn't truly learn unless you've seen action, and each time she brought it up, you easily dismissed the notion, thinking it might have just been her own version of tough love. You've never given it much thought, really—until now.

You found yourself a couple of miles away from Shady Belle, taking cover behind a boulder, its rough texture pressing against your fingers. The midday sun blazed overhead as Sadie cautiously surveyed the clearing ahead. She informed you casually that there may be about a dozen or more Lemoyne Raiders that had set up a camp there.

You fumbled with your Colt revolver, your hands slightly trembling with apprehension. "I've never shot anyone, Sadie," you muttered as you tried to wrap your head around the reality of the situation. "I've never killed anyone. I don't think I ever can!"

You have desperately tried to explain to her that target practice and taking down the occasional deer were already more than enough, considering before all these, the mere recoil of a gun would send you staggering backward. Now that you could manage to hit a bottle or two out of five in a row, you'd like to believe your lessons were already over, and she had taught you everything you could possibly learn.

Today, however, Sadie had a point to make – as far as she was concerned, lessons weren't over yet.

"Listen, darlin'," Sadie said reassuringly, "I get that this ain't what you signed up for, but sometimes, life deals us a hand we never expected. We ain't lookin' for trouble, but if it comes our way, we need to be ready."

You stole a glance at your Colt, its metal glinting brightly in the sun. You felt your heart pounding relentlessly. The thought of aiming your weapon at another human being sent shivers down your spine, but then you firmly reminded yourself why you were here in the first place.

The only reason why you asked for this crazy woman's help was so you could stop feeling sorry for yourself. You've been so weak and helpless all this time. Perhaps knowing how to fight back could've made all the difference that day your father was killed, or when the Braithwaites took Jack or even the last time you went face to face with your father's murderer.

"You're gonna be just fine. I got your back," she said, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. Her eyes remained fixed on the makeshift tents ahead.

Drawing in a shaky breath, you whispered more to yourself than anyone else, "Alright. Fuck. FUCK. Let's do this."

Sadie's plan was straightforward (at least to her, anyway). Given the odds you faced, your best bet would be to approach the camp quietly. Sadie would take the offensive, eliminating any stragglers on the outskirts, as you provided cover. As you get closer, you were to stay low, keep an eye out for any Raiders, and keep covering fire as she maneuvered.

"You see any one of 'em, you point and shoot," Sadie instructed. There was no room for hesitation. She reminded you – just aim, shoot, and keep her alive.

As the two of you braced yourself for the attack, you heard the bushes behind you rustle, causing your heart to leap into your throat. You swivelled around, Colt at the ready.

"Woah, woah, woah, easy there, partner!" Javier whispered. You've shot him once accidentally, and he had no intention whatsoever of going through that again. Arthur was with him. The pair approached you and Sadie, and now, all four of you were huddled together in a rather humorous display of caution.

Arthur leaned in, whispering just loud enough for the group, "We were out fishing and saw you ladies headin' this way. Armed like that, sure didn't seem like a goddamned Sunday picnic you were planning on." Arthur said.

"So what's the plan?" Javier chimed in enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together.

Sadie shook her head at the audacity but instantly realised that a significant advantage had just presented itself. She leaned in closer to you, "Seems like we've got ourselves an impromptu raiding party, darlin'. The more, the merrier, I s'pose. I don't want you getting killed on your first rodeo, and with these two around, we'll have some extra insurance."

She looked at your faces and decisively directed, "Javier, you're with me. Arthur, you're with [Y/N]."

With that settled, you and Arthur swiftly moved to a huge tree, giving you a vantage point over the Lemoyne Raiders' camp. The heat was stifling, but the intensity of the upcoming confrontation made the air feel even heavier. The tree was a little further from the action, but it provided enough cover for both of you.

Arthur readied his revolvers. Every so often, his gaze flitted to you, but you purposely averted your eyes. You clutched your weapon tighter, your palms slick with sweat.

"What? We still ain't talking?"

Taking a moment, you replied, "Just make sure I don't end up dead, Mr. Morgan, and we can call it even."

A faint smirk played on his lips, but his eyes remained serious. "Don't you worry none, I ain't gonna let that happen," he whispered, his voice steady. You found his seemingly calm demeanour, like he'd been through this dance a million times before, both comforting and slightly disconcerting.

Sadie made the first move, expertly dispatching two unsuspecting Raiders who had ventured dangerously close to her spot (most probably to take a piss). Gunshots broke immediately after, the acrid scent of the gunpowder filling the air. That was your signal. Arthur and Javier followed suit, making every bullet count as they maneuvered through the Raiders' camp.

For you, however, time seemed to stand still as the sounds of the battle overwhelmed you – the pop and crack of firearms and the desperate cries of each Raider they've successfully taken down. 'Move! Damn it, move! Just point and shoot, that's all!' But no matter how much you berated yourself, your feet remained rooted to the ground.

Arthur was already a few paces ahead. He turned around to check if you were right behind him. His eyes widened with concern when he noticed you weren't advancing.

"Move, [Y/N], now!" he urged you in desperation, momentarily letting his guard down.

Then you saw it. As your partner grew increasingly distracted by your inaction, he had failed to notice a Raider creeping up, his weapon raised. He had Arthur dead to rights. Without thinking, instincts taking over, you aimed your Colt and fired – pop! Pop! The bullets hit the Raider just as he was about to pull the trigger on Arthur. The man fell, a surprised expression on his face as he crumpled to the ground.

Arthur looked at you, stunned. "Nice shot!" He called out, a sense of relief and admiration in his voice. "Now get over here!"

The fight continued around you, and there was no time to dwell on the life you had just taken. With each subsequent shot and move you made, you found your rhythm, your reactions sharpening as the minutes passed. Arthur, meanwhile, never strayed too far from your side. He fought fiercely, but every so often, his eyes would search for you amidst the chaos, making sure you were safe.

The hideout was slowly cleared, and as the last Raider fell, a tense silence settled over your surroundings. You looked at your companions. Their faces were smeared with dirt and sweat, a few scratches and bruises here and there, but alive, nonetheless.

Sadie clapped you on the back, "You did good out there."

As you prepared for the journey home, the adrenaline from the fight began to ebb away, and you felt a sharp, persistent pain on the side of your abdomen. You had dismissed it at first, but the pain and discomfort only grew more pronounced.

"Hey, you alright?" Javier asked, noticing the discomfort you were in. Reluctantly, you lifted your shirt, revealing its source. Your face drained of colour as you saw the dark stain on the clothing, the vivid red of fresh blood.

Sadie's eyes widened with alarm, and Arthur was quick to approach. "Dammit." He muttered under his breath.

"It looks like it just grazed you," Sadie observed – she was right. The wound appeared to be superficial, most likely a bullet grazing your side rather than penetrating deeply – a stroke of luck, you thought, realising that should you have stood inches away from your spot earlier, you would've been pretty much dead by now.

Still, you knew that even seemingly minor wounds could turn serious if left untreated. With trembling hands, you pressed a cloth against the wound, applying gentle pressure to slow the bleeding. The pain was sharp.

Javier watched with concern. "You're gonna be alright," he assured you. "It's not too bad. We need to get you home and patch you up."

Back at the camp, the four of you made quite the sight. With your arm draped over Javier's shoulders for support, you leaned heavily on him while Sadie took the lead, guiding your unsteady steps toward your tent. Arthur followed close from behind. The commotion drew the attention of several gang members, who watched in curious concern. Dutch and Hosea stood from their seats on the veranda, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"It's fine. I can do this." You tried to convince them. But they were having none of it.

Sadie gave you a stern look, her eyes unyielding. "You ain't in any condition to be actin' tough," she stated matter-of-factly.

Javier gently cut you off. "Stop being stubborn." He helped you inside, carefully setting you down on the bedroll. The dim interior was a stark contrast to the dying light outside. His eyes constantly darted from your face to the injury on your side. You began to instruct him, but your voice came out weaker than you had anticipated.

"Javier... get my bag," you whispered, grimacing from the pain.

He quickly did as he was told. As he started cleaning the wound, he looked up, his dark eyes searching yours for assurance. He tried to be gentle, but his uncertainty was evident.

"Easy there," you whispered, wincing slightly when he accidentally pressed a bit too close to the wound.

Javier's eyes widened in alarm. "Lo siento," he whispered apologetically. "I'm trying to be careful, but..."

"It's okay. Just listen, and I'll tell you what to do." Despite the pain, you gave him a small, reassuring smile.

Outside the tent, you could hear the faint murmurs of Sadie and Arthur's conversation, occasionally glancing inside to see how you were doing.

"Ain't' too bad for your first time, huh." Arthur quipped, peeking into the tent and handing you a flask of whiskey. You took a swig, the fiery liquid providing temporarily relief as it dulled the biting sting of your injury. You exhaled deeply, savouring the brief reprieve as Javier diligently tended to your wound.

"What the hell happened?!" John's voice was agitated, jolting you from your moment of respite, as he pushed past Arthur and Sadie to get a look at you. His eyes locked onto the wound, then Javier's hands, covered in your blood. His face contorted in anger and worry, and his eyes met yours for a brief moment. but it felt more like an eternity.

You did tell him last night you’d talk today, but you purposefully went out with Sadie (although at that point, you were oblivious to what she had planned all along) using it as a convenient excuse to avoid him.

"We got her, John," Arthur assured him, indicating that now might not be the best time for too many questions.

***

#john marston #john marston x you #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #sadie adler #john marston x reader #red dead redemption #javier escuella #javier escuella x reader #rdr

33 notes · View notes

wisteriadumster · 1 year ago

Text

Meadows ❥ John Masrton

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

John Marston x Female Reader

CW➻❥ drinking★smoking★unprotected sex★oral m! receiving★creampie★if I missed anything lmk!➻❥

WC➻❥1,525➻❥This isn't well proof read so any mistakes or odd things are purely accidental.

Summary➻❥ Somehow John managed to think of a cute little date, a drink in a flower meadow. With liquor down your system and some growing attraction, one thing led to another. Who knew a cute Pinterest date could evolve into you riding John Marston like a horse. Even after sex he needs more of you.

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

*✧･ﾟ:* WisteriaDumster original work.*:･ﾟ✧*

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

"This is awfully romantic of you," the words spill out as you watch John set down a tattered blanket. "I wouldn't say that, I just, had a fun idea." He turns back to his horse, "and besides we're just drinking, does drinking have to be romantic?"

He pulls two bottles of bourbon out, you laugh. "You're telling me that being in a flower meadow with a blanket set out doesn't scream romance?" The scoff in your voice is apparent.

His hand helps you sit on the scratchy cover.

"Why did you even agree to do this with me?" He hands you a freshly open bottle of bourbon. "I don't know, a nice escape, a haven, or something stupid," you shrug before taking a hard swig.

"So this was stupid idea?"

"Surprisingly no, the offer is much appreciated." You roll your eyes, he smiles as his bottle touches his lips.

A thought crosses your mind again, it had come when he first asked you, Abigail.

This time you finally decided to ask.

"Won't Abigail be upset?"

He smiles, "we're not together are we?" Another sip of his bourbon goes down.

You set your own bottle in the grass, and start to crawl over towards John. "So that means I can do this right?" Your faces are close, you sit on your ankles and feet, right before cupping his face and pull him in for a kiss.

He doesn't deny it and cups yours, pushing you down to lay against the blanket.

His kisses were sloppy and persistent, like he had been wanting this longer than you have.

His body finally on top yours, his leg swinging over your hip, covering the bright sun rays.

His hands are practically glued to you as his elbows hold his body, his thumbs caressing your cheeks so delicately but so rough because of his calluses.

Your hands aren't much different, well maybe not glued to his cheek, but still glued.

They unbuttoned his vest, trying to pry for his shirt underneath, to reach the goal of his bare chest.

You go back to his cheeks and with pushing you manage to make him roll over, bringing you back on top.

The kisses are paused as you both unbutton restricting clothing.

He admires your breasts as the last button pops from its place, you are unfazed and finish the last button of his own shirt.

You go back for more kissing, unable to leave the taste of leftover liquor and tobacco.

His hands cup your breasts over your underwear, teasing to pull it down.

You let a soft moan go into his lips, you feel his whole body shudder, telling you how horny he truly was.

"I need you," John whispers as you pull back to pull down your undershirt. "Well have me then," you scoot down his legs.

You place your pointer and middle fingers down at the top of his chest, slowly they come down to the buttons of his jeans.

"Should I, or would that be unholy," you tease.

"Never claimed to be a Saint." He removes his gun belt and slides it off, your hands opening up his jeans. The sight of red fabric and more buttons greets you, his hard cock throbbing to be out.

You glide your hand up and down, an unexpected groan leaving him from the sudden touch.

While you continue to tease him, he lights a cigarette and takes a hard drag.

You finally start to unbutton, his cock springing out.

You stare at the size, surprised that he managed to have all that.

You don't waste time letting some spit come out and onto his tip.

Groans and smoke leave his lips as you suck, every time your head bobbed to the top you'd swirl and twist your tongue around his head which would almost release a whimper from John every time.

"Don't stop whatever you're doing," but you do, "I have better qualities than just that."

You get off his legs and remove your skirt and lingering underwear.

Taking the cigarette from him and as it sits in your mouth, you get on top, cowgirl style.

You tried not to react but couldn't hold it, the cigarette falling from your mouth as you gasp, a cloud of smoke following behind.

John is quick to grab the cigarette and finish it off before flicking it into the grass.

His attention directs back to you as your hands go on his ribs, his grabbing your hips.

Slowly you begin to go up and down, taking the pace calmly, adjusting to his size moving inside of you.

The palms of your hands dig into his for support as the speed increases.

Much like your lack of not reacting you can't be quiet, but there's no one around for miles.

After adjusting he starts to move his own hips, doing his best to move them in a circle, something he learned was a real winner, and it definitely was.

Somehow you were managing to get faster and faster, your moans getting louder and louder turning into awfully horny screaming.

John isn't quiet either, groans and grunts are leaving him as you wrap around his cock tightly.

"Oh god I think I'm gonna cum," you manage out as your nails start to dig into his shoulders.

You leaned down, your tits smacking his chest if they managed enough speed.

A hand left your hip as John pushes your head down, kissing you again.

The kiss is hard to keep with lots of noise coming out, you stay for as long as your body could handle it.

You go back up, your palms pushing into his ribs again as your head hangs back. The sun is bright, not a cloud in sight, you look back to John, he's not gonna make it much longer than you will.

And just like that your climax hits, the loudest and longest moan leaves your chest, every nerve in your body gives out, your body falling onto his chest. John grips your hips even tighter and continues to fuck you, thrusting even harder through your climax.

Just as your high is ending the sudden feeling of being filled takes you, much like you his groan is loud. "Holy fuck," He lifts his head up to look down, only for it fall back down.

You move your head from his shoulder and neck and kiss him.

His cock twitched inside you still, "I've never enjoyed being a sinner more than right now." He lets out and you roll off him, you look at him, the sun making his sweaty body look extra delicious.

"That was probably the best sex I've ever had." Your chest is rising up and down fast, your pants are quiet somehow.

"I need a drink, Jesus," he sits up, and looks around at the mess of the blanket: clothes everywhere, a new cigarette burn, a spilt bottle of precious bourbon, and two extremely satisfied people.

John leans over to your bottle that sat nicely in the grass. He takes a swig and looks to you, he raises the bottle and puts it near you, basically asking if you'd like any.

You sit up and grab the bottle, as you finish the last of the alcohol, John stares and admires every bit of your body.

"Instead of sitting there looking like a pretty little lady, would you mind help cleaning up?"

He laughs and takes the empty bottle from you, "I don't know, I'm quite tired from that run you had on me, might need assistance." Your eyes roll before he can even finish his sentence.

You kneel in between his legs and stare down, "I've done nothing and you're hard again?" He laughs out the smoke from his newly lit cigarette, "next time." The sheer disappointment and just utter shock hits him like a brick. You roll some fingers up and around his cock for a few minutes, his body quivering, still trying to recover from his previous cumming.

Before anything can advance you tuck away his dick, slowly turning limp.

"Did you really just do that?" Disbelief covers his face, "I really just did." You finish buttoning his red undercover, smoke comes into your direction, "asshole."

You finish buttoning his jeans and stand up, "you can do your own shirt and vest." You walk over and steal the cigarette from him once again.

Finally John's fully dressed, this time dressing you. His eyes can't leave your cleavage as he buttons it up with your blouse.

"Can you hurry we've got to go,"

"Let me enjoy this one last time." John finishes and fixes your collar, "who said this would be the last time?" You tease with a look that sends John over the moon. "Oh you keep me hungry, I may need a bite again tonight," he moves in and kisses your neck, little bites send several sensations throughout your body.

You slide back and look down, "we can't, seriously."

The ride back was quiet: small talk about the gang, bits of flirting thrown in.

Oh you couldn't wait for what he held in for tonight.

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆:*.☾ ·☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───────

#fanfic #fanfiction #writing #john marston #smut #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #john marston smut #john marston fic #john marston fanfic #john marston rdr2

96 notes · View notes