#she’s gotta go wherever she can just to live. Jack really pitied that when really meeting her

[camping-with-monsters]

“There there, now…”

Man pictured with her is the Jack of All Trades (who actually belongs to @methum-mint! He was made specifically for this story!), a supposed legendary individual with many stories to his name. Stories of slaying giants, climbing great heights to the clouds, surviving cracking his head open, leaping over open flames, bringing the winter when it refused to arrive on time… they get passed around like the plague. Oddly enough, whenever he’s asked of such feats of strength, he never confirms anything. Usually passes it by with a smirk, or even a glare if he’d rather remain unbothered. However, he’s never really denied these claims to his fame either! It’s all up in the air, really.

Seems for now, he’s been caught in the crossfire of Einin’s harrowing battle with life (and more than just her’s) and death. He can’t help but pity her misfortune. But hey, if slaying giants is on his record, how much different could a giant goose monster that wants to eat this supposedly unassuming woman really be?

[clareguilty]

No Matter Any Weather, We’re Together

John Marston/Abigail Marston - Pure Domestic Fluff Word Count: ~2100 Rating: M | No Warnings

How did he used to do it? Gone for days or weeks on end away from the gang, living rougher and wilder than he did now. These days, even a night or two away from Beecher's Hope made his heart ache. All those years on the run, now John could hardly bear to be away from home. He’d never imagined it would be like this. Never imagined he would make it this far. The relief washes over him the second he spots the house. He had never once felt like that when riding into camp.

Abigail is flying down the porch steps before he can even hitch his horse. He swings out of the saddle and straight into her arms. She wasn't usually like this.

"Something happen?" he asks, eyes scanning the horizon. Things had been quiet, but John knows from experience that quiet times could be dangerous too.

"Just missed you. That's all." Abigail squeezes him once more before letting go. "Jack, take the horse in for your father," she ordered.

Jack doesn't complain, but he frowns and kicks the dirt. John reaches out and drags him in for a quick hug, ruffling his hair.

"Pa, quit it," Jack whines, but he laughs a bit as he squirms away from his father. Jack is everything like John and nothing like John all at once. He could see himself in the boy like a strange reflection, but he could never understand him. Still, his heart thrums with pride as Jack feeds the horse a few sugar cubes and leads her towards the barn.

Some kind of fatigue John still isn’t used to begins to set in, but Abigail is dragging him inside and pushing him into a chair. There’s a plate of food in front of him a few moments later, and he doesn’t even need to be told to begin scarfing it down like a last meal.

Abigail’s cooking has improved greatly over the years. She’s better far better than Pearson -- if not as good as Charles -- and John hums appreciatively around every bite. He doesn’t even have to ask for seconds. She’s already heaping more onto his plate, and all he can do is stare at her with the same stupid adoration he’s been wearing for years.

“Whew,” John leans back once he’s cleared his second plate, “I think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“Nuh-uh, John Marston,” Abigail stares him down. “You are goddamn filthy, and I’m getting you clean if I have to tie you down to do it.”

John’s heart picks up, and he knows his heated cheeks give him away. "I wouldn’t be opposed to being tied down by you," he winks. She scoffs and hides her smile as she clears off the table.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” she orders, pressing a bottle of beer into his hands. She sits John on a stool in the bathroom while she heats the water. He watches her, amazed anyone would ever do so much for him.

“Stand,” she pulls him to his feet. He smiles down at her, still wearing that dopey look he’s sure of it. “Strip,” her fingers are already at the buttons of his shirt. He helps as much as he can, but she works fast. She all but tears his clothes off, shoving John towards the steaming tub.

"Geez woman,” he can’t hide his grin, “you could be a little gentler."

"And you could be a little cleaner."

John does relax into the hot water, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. No more looking over his shoulder, no more constant fretting. The second he crossed the threshold of his home all of his anxiety seemed to melt away. Abigail hasn’t left the room, and he hopes she never will. He needs her near him, needs to know she’ll still be there when he opens his eyes.

"Thanks for this, Abigail."

He's surprised when her hands dips into the water and begin scrubbing him down. "Abi- you don’t gotta do that."

"It's the least I can do, John." She washes him more thoroughly than he's been cleaned in years.

Her hands are strong, nothing like the dainty caresses of a saloon girl - not that he's been touched by another woman in almost a decade. Rough callouses from working right beside him. He watches her, furrowed brow, slight frown, sleeves rolled up but still soaked as she scrubs over his hip and thigh. It's juvenile, he knows, but the way her wet shirt clings to her breasts makes his heart race. It's been days since he saw Abigail, since he was able to hold her in his arms and feel her skin against his.

"Really?" She raises her eyebrows and gestures a soapy hand to John's hardened cock.

"Just happy to see you, darling," he smiles.

Abigail huffs and shakes her head, but John has to bite back a groan as her fingers knead into his inner thighs, tantalizingly close to where he's twitching under the water.

She skims her fingers across his abs, across the softness that's filling out across his stomach after a few years of eating regular meals. They've finally escaped the sharp bite of hunger, and John looks all the better for it.

He would say the same for Abigail. She's no longer rail thin from years of giving her portions to Jack. Even now, John can appreciate the shape of her curves under her skirts.

"Get in here with me," he says before he can stop himself. Idiot John. Always speaking without thinking.

"We both won't fit," Abigail chides, but that doesn't stop her from closing her fingers around John's shaft and stroking him slowly.

"Please," is all he can manage.

She pulls away and John suddenly wants her right back where she was. It takes too many tantalizing moments for her to undress, but then John is pulling her into the water with him, her back to his front. His legs are too long and they look ridiculous bracketing Abigail as she goes back to washing him.

He buries his nose in her hair, running his hands over her chest. Even after all this time, he doesn't think he'll ever get used to just having her, holding her. He’s almost lost her so many times - a fear that still chases him.

Her thighs are soft, and he spends far too long pressing his fingers into her soft flesh, tracing the criss-cross of stretch marks and digging his thumb into the crest of her hips.

"You alright, John?" Her voice is softer than it should be. She's worried about him.

"All good." He pulls himself out of his head, drawing his hands up and back to rest on her shoulders. "Geez, woman, you're tense." He digs his knuckles into a knot in her back.

"Maybe if I weren't so worried about you, I could actually relax once in a while," Abigail quips, but she lets out a soft sigh as John targets another knot.

He leans in close enough she can feel the scrape of his stubble against the shell of her ear, "Let me help you out, darling," and she hates that his words make her shudder. She should be stronger than this.

John's fingers dip below the water and between her legs. Even then, he can tell how wet she is. It makes him swell with pride, the fool -- his own wife, aroused by his touch.

He's comfortable enough with Abigail's body that he knows exactly how to get what he wants, how to make her gasp softly and claw at his arm, how to make her head fall back on his shoulder so he can nip and suck at her neck. His fingers are long, and he knows just where to press to have his wife shaking and panting against him.

He holds her close as she catches her breath, taking advantage of her orgasm and cradling her in a way she would usually never let him do. She's too prideful for that, too strong, but sometimes John just needs to know she's safe. To know that she still loves him after everything he's done.

"The water's cold, you fool," Abigail smacks his thigh and he almost laughs at the loud, wet sound. She struggles out of the tub and attempts to drag John out after her. "Get outta there before you get sick," she scolds him.

"Only if you promise to come to bed with me," John barters.

"Of course. I'll do whatever you want; just get out of the damned bath."

They dress just enough to make it to the bedroom without scandalizing Jack or Uncle, and then Abigail is pushing John back onto the bed, pinning him in place with her knees. John watches, paralyzed, as she strips naked once more and drags his own pants down and off. Her lips close around the head of his cock, and he groans and tangles his fingers in her hair.

"God, I love you," he says and hopes she doesn't tease him for it.

She can't. Not when her tongue is doing that and John's hand is guiding her down towards the base of his cock. He wants to come down her throat, or across her lips, or over her breasts or wherever she'll let him because she could ask anything of him and by God he would do it.

Abigail is very much a professional -- "retired" she always insists -- and she brings John to the brink hard and fast and then keeps him there. He's not usually very bright, but he can't form a coherent thought at all as Abigail turns her blue eyes to him and hollows her cheeks.

He shakes all over and arches his back, knuckles whitening as his fingers curl into the quilt beneath them. It's still not enough to finish him off, and tears threaten to spill at the corners of his eyes.

It happens all at once. Abigail pulls off of John's cock and tugs on his balls in a way that makes him want to scream. From everything to nothing in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, fuck,” John groans, nearly growls, “Abi- please.”

There’s a certain gleam of delight in Abigail’s eyes, knowing she’s capable of wrecking such a strong man. She leans over him, bracing herself on one arm so she can prepare herself with the other. John watches her expression change and lightly drags his fingers over her cheekbone. He’s a lovesick fool and he knows it. Abigail knows it too, yet she still puts up with him.

She sinks down onto his cock, and his world goes white. “ Fuck, ” he groans. His hands fly to her hips. She moves slightly. “ Abigail .”

It’s hoarse and desperate, his cry. Abigail looks down on him with pity in her eyes. She brushes his hair out of his face and trails her fingers down his chest. “John,” she sighs.

He twitches inside her, and her eyes widen. The quiet, easy moment is replaced by Abigail’s soft sighs and John’s choked off groans as she rides him. He hopes it feels as good for her as it does for him, hopes she feels the avalanche of pleasure racing through her.

She must feel it. The way her lips part and her back arches. He pulls her to him as he comes, hips lifting both of them off the bed as he thrusts up into her. Her lips find his -- barely. She drags them over his scars before kissing him deeply. He doesn’t remember the last time she kissed him like this. He wants her to do it more.

He finishes and she collapses on top of him, breathing hard and flushed dark pink. It’s another excuse to hold her and he’s not going to pass it up. His hands run across her back, over her ass, back up to the nape of her neck. He feels the mess they’ve made between them and worries that she’ll make him get back in the bath.

The sunlight is turning orange around them, and night is always quick to follow even out in the prairie. John presses his lips to Abigail’s temple and forces himself out of bed to wash the both of them. He considers going out to check on the animals, but Abigail’s slender fingers catch him before he can get too far.

“John,” her voice is gentle but still commanding, “get some rest. Please.”

He nods and settles into bed beside her, wrapping her in his arms and burying himself in her presence.