god there really is nothing like goth music. its magical. it takes me to a different plane of existence. putting it on during a rainy morning with a cup of coffee is truly transcendent. i need faith and the muse in my bloodstream
1. I steal my older brother’s PJO books, read them, and download Pinterest on my Kindle to get my first taste of fandom
2. I spend a lot of time online, secretly, and am exposed–for the first time–to the fact that it’s weird that I share a room and bed with my dad and am not allowed anywhere else
3. My dad brings me to a corn field and tells me obama is the anti-christ who’s been sent by god to end the world, as foretold by the bible. I believe this and cry when he’s elected because i don’t want to die
4. I begin googling and discover that my situation is not great. I begin a careful attempt to ~distance~ myself from my father by sleeping anywhere else through any means possible. Eventually, I’m allowed to sleep in my own room
5. Now that I’ve been exposed to the real world and the fact that I’ve been groomed, I’m not ~obedient~ anymore and my dad Dips(™) to find a new kid. We lose our house and have to move to government housing in a new city
6. Eventually my parents divorce because of this. My dad moves to a horse ranch. I visit him on the horse ranch, think it’s cool, and invite my friends over for a sleepover. I have my first gay kiss with a girl in a tent. The next day my father tries to ~kill~ me on the horse ranch(™) with a golf cart
7.My dad disappears from the face of the earth. He forgets his phone is connected to the family iMac. We know all about the crimes he is committing. He fakes a heart attack in a Wal-Mart at some point, idk
8. The FBI is onto his life of crime. He flees to Romania to escape them and lives with a millionaire Romanian woman. She’s suspicious of him after a while. She hires a private investigator and unearths his life of lies and crime. He flees to Alaska. He gets a roommate in Alaska. The roommate goes to federal prison. We never hear from my father again. He is, perhaps, dead.
9. It’s revealed to us that my grandmother is also involved. She’s been smuggling drugs from the hospital. She also goes to federal prison. Also apparently my older brother and I aren’t related. This was another scam from my father
Edgar Ross is dead. It was supposed to fix everything, Jack figured. But it changed nothing. With the law finally catching up to him, he needs to decide what kind of man he wants to be in a world that has long since passed him by.
!!! PLEASE READ !!! Content warnings will be included in the masterpost (linked below), and updated as needed as I post more chapters. There may be triggering themes, so please review the warnings.
Tags: Med-Low Honor Jack, Jack Marston x Fem OC, post canon, slowburn (really slow)
Wordcount: 3.2k
Masterpost ✶ AO3
Jack Marston had always been a dreamer. When he was a boy, his head always swam with stories of knights and kings or gunslingers in the old West. His changes and interests evolved as he grew into a young man, but the dreaming never did. It was a soothing balm for the posse of outlaws falling apart, the arguing parents, or being held in that dark, isolating prison in the middle of nowhere. Being lost in the stories in his mind was a means of escape from a harsh life. A method of survival. But dreams don’t keep you alive.
Jack knew his fantasies had to be put away the day John died. He buried them with his father when he scooped that first heap of dry, gray earth over him. He had but one dream left after that, and once it was fulfilled, in his mind there was nothing left that life had to offer. The bottle was his only comfort.
And it was usually his downfall.
Jack’s back slammed into the hard edge of the bar with a loud thud, and he wiped a bit of blood that trickled from his nose with the back of his hand. The man opposite to him wasted no time throwing another punch at his head. He ducked to the side. Jack’s skinnier frame allowed him to dodge and weave better than his opponent, but the head rush from the drinks he had earlier were making it difficult to stay steady enough to focus on the task at hand. Once the man’s arm was fully extended, Jack thought he saw an opening to be able to sock him directly under his ribs, and he took the chance— only for the man to spin towards Jack quicker than he could react. The man’s large fist had a death grip on the front of his shirt.
“I’m giving you one more chance. Take it back.”
Jack struggled to catch his breath. “I did nothin’ to you, you miserable bastard. You pushed me outta the way when I was gettin’ my drink.”
The man snarled. “You called me an inbred-looking ogre. You think that shit’s funny, boy?”
“Not funny, sir,” Jack smirked through his bloodied teeth. It was just enough of a smile so that the man could see it, and his nostrils flared like a bull’s in response. “Just truthful.”
In his peripheral vision, Jack could see the bartender waving his hands frantically. “Hey! You two take it outside! That’s enough, already!”
But the man paid no mind to his pleas. He shoved Jack to the floor so forcefully that his head knocked back violently against the wooden floorboards. The hit caused a sharp and excruciating pain to radiate from the back of Jack’s head. If the booze hadn’t already made him dizzy, then this certainly finished the job. Earl’s shadow loomed over Jack, and he grabbed onto his shirt again as he pummeled him.
The first time, Jack felt his nose gush blood like a fountain.
The second landed closer to his temple and made his vision turn white around the edges.
He had been mentally preparing himself for the third as he stared dazedly at the paneling of the ceiling, but it never came. He could barely register the large thud next to him. As his vision faded, he saw the blurry form of a new man over him— but this time with the familiar glint of a sheriff’s badge on his chest. The new man tried to speak to him. Jack could barely understand, and before he could attempt to reply, his grip on consciousness slipped away.
___
Before Jack could register that he was, in fact, awake and alive, he was hit with the sensation that his head was going to be split in two. He groaned immediately, slowly becoming more aware of all the horrid sensations his body had in store for him: namely pain, followed closely by soreness, grime, and a rapidly emerging nausea that tore up his stomach. He sat up faster than his body prepared for, and leaned over the side of the cot, anticipating the inevitable. Someone had done him a kindness and placed a bucket next to him. Jack vomited up whatever small amount of food he had left in his stomach from the night before, and he coughed weakly.
He looked around at his surroundings to see his meager belongings strewn around the bunkhouse. His coat, gun, and his father’s hat were draped across the assorted boxes on the other side of the room. Someone had taken him back home.
Miss MacFarlane is going to kill me, he thought.
His eyes shot open, and he quickly scrambled to reach his hand into the collar of his shirt. He pulled out a small ring tied to a worn leather cord draped around his neck, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. The man from last night hadn’t stolen anything from him, thank God— a hat or gun is one thing, but he was sure most folks would steal a ring from him. Jack stroked the thin gold band with his thumb before tucking it back into his shirt and patting the lump it created beneath the fabric reassuringly. The sun that shone through the windows did nothing to soften the miserable throes of his hangover. He eyed the amber liquor bottle next to him before reaching out to uncork it and take a swig, praying that the hair of the dog would save him from a bit of his agony. Carefully, Jack finally got on his feet and made his way over to the small mirror posted on top of a washstand close to the window. He mentally braced himself for the sorry state he was sure to be in.
Swelling, discolored skin encircled a small yet jagged cut on his cheekbone close to his eye on the left side. It spread to a much darker purple bruise next to his temple. Jack’s natural dark circles added to the blues and yellows that developed in the delicate skin under his eye. His nose was just as battered, and the way the bridge of it was tweaked slightly had him convinced it was broken. Jack tried to touch the cut he had gingerly, but he hissed at the contact.
That fucker surely knew how to throw a punch.
A knock at the door startled Jack enough to face it, grasping for a gun that wasn’t at his side.
“You alive, Marston?” The man’s muffled voice was familiar, and his annoyed tone clued Jack in on who it was quickly. He relaxed his shoulders.
“Amos.”
Amos sighed deeply from behind the door. “Miss MacFarlane wants to see you.”
Jack closed his eyes and rubbed them in defeat. He had forgotten his bruises and winced.
“How pissed is she?”
“What do you think, son?”
He thought nothing good. Nothing good at all. “Can you at least tell her to give me a goddamn minute? I barely just woke up. I feel like hell.”
“She said to tell you to meet her at eleven o’clock if you’re awake. And if you don’t want her angrier than she is now, you would do well to keep that time, boy.”
Jack swore under his breath and looked at the clock hanging above his bed. It read ten forty-five. “Fine. Tell her I’ll be there.”
The crunch of dry grass from outside let Jack know he was alone once again.
Jack filled the wash basin with some of the stale water in the pitcher and splashed his face with it. He was more careful this time to avoid the tender areas, and he looked in the mirror again. Whatever dirt that remained had been washed away, but it still didn’t do any wonders for the rest of him. He used the remainder of what was left in the pitcher to rinse the bile from the bottom of the bucket, and he dumped the foul liquid from the back window. After putting his tan coat and his hat back on, Jack reluctantly opened the door, feeling the arid heat of Hennigan’s Stead flow past the front door.
Many of the MacFarlane ranch hands were already at work before the sun even came up, and many were already beginning to linger around the other bunkhouses as the temperature slowly climbed to its peak. Jack ventured into the sunshine, much to his chagrin. He tried his best to ignore the stares and whispers of the men he passed by, but he could feel each one’s gaze as he made his walk of shame past the other houses and general store to the main house. It wasn’t like Jack’s hot temper had endeared him much to some of these men. One man he argued with last week snickered loudly at the sight of Jack’s battered appearance.
The walk to the main house felt as though it were too short and an eternity all wrapped up in one. Jack paused in front of the stead; its height imposed a long shadow over him. Jack kicked at a rock before walking up to the front door and knocking.
He heard a muffled noise from deeper in the house before Bonnie MacFarlane opened the door. She had a tense look on her face, and seeing Jack made her jaw noticeably tighten in frustration. If looks could kill, he figured Bonnie would have had him dead many times over, but this time her expression carried an especially potent kind of venom.
Jack cleared his throat awkwardly. “Morning, Miss MacFarlane.”
She ignored his greeting. The silence felt louder than any harsh words she could have thrown at him.
“Before I come in, can I say, miss, that—”
“No. No, you may not,” Bonnie said. She cocked her head in the direction of the house. “Come in and sit in the parlor room. Wait for me.”
Jack crossed the threshold and walked into the room on the left, sinking into the red velvet fabric of the chaise. Bonnie walked past him and into the kitchen, and when she came back into view, she carried two mugs of black coffee. She offered the mug to Jack wordlessly. He took a large gulp, thankful for something to make him feel slightly more human. Bonnie walked over to the wall facing the front of the house, over by the bookshelf. She cradled her coffee with one hand and braced her weight on the side of the windowpane. They sat in silence for a minute as she lost herself deep in thought. Jack ran his fingers over the old burn on the arm of the chaise from when Drew used to smoke his cigars.
Bonnie tapped her finger against the side of her mug. “I don’t know what to do with you, Jack Marston. Truly, I don’t.” She turned around to face him once more, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “I wanted to believe our little talks would finally get through your thick skull, but here we are. Again.”
“He swung at me first!” Jack argued. “I was tryin’ to mind my own business, honest, miss. That jackass was already drunk, and when he pushed me—”
“And I have had enough of your sad excuses. I mean, you could have just ignored the man, for Christ’s sake!” She threw up her free hand in defeat. “It’s always, always something with you! If you aren’t causing trouble in Armadillo, you’re fightin’ with the other hands! You used to be such a sweet kid. Now… I don’t know what to make of you.”
Jack shook his head and looked off to the side. He wanted to scream and explode and curl up into a ball and fade away from the world all at once. He didn’t hate Bonnie— on the contrary, he tolerated and sometimes enjoyed her company more than most people he knew. She reminded him in a lot of ways of his mother, and she was always kind to him. Always trying to encourage him. Always giving him chances.
It’s just that he was always ruining the chances he got.
“Jack,” she said. It came off less sharp and more concerned. “Look at me.”
He did.
“I made a promise to your mother when she was real sick that I would keep an eye on you. She knew you weren’t doin’ well. And I don’t blame you for everything that happened to you. It was horrible. The whole lot of it.” Bonnie’s expression changed from frustration to a touch of hurt. “And I’m tryin’ my best with you. I gave you a job here because I knew you were hurtin’ staying at home. But you make it hard to take care of you. What with your drinking and such— I mean, what would she say about any of this?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his mother, and he could feel the back of his neck grow hot. “I don’t wanna talk about her.”
“I have tried everything I can to get you to see some sense, but you’re as stubborn as a peccary, and just as mean half the time. At least this makes you pay attention.”
“Maybe I would be in a better mood if you lay off me sometimes,” Jack snapped. “Let me breathe.”
“Maybe you should quit actin’ stupid, sober up, and learn to be a man!” Bonnie threw her free hand up in frustration again. “Maybe then I could let you breathe: when you quit takin’ your anger out on folks. You’re nothin’ but trouble here. Even before you came here, when Abigail had just passed away, I couldn’t even find you. You were gone for nearly a month doing… doing God knows what. All I saw when I came to look for you was her fresh grave. I feared the worst, Jack. I thought I failed you and her. I thought you were dead.”
Jack stared deeply into the inky, deep brown coffee. He knew where he had been and what he had done, but he could never say, especially not to her. Killing Ross would have to be something he took to his grave.
“This was the last thing John wanted for you,” Bonnie said.
Jack clenched his coffee hard enough that a knuckle cracked. “I don’t want to talk about him, either.”
“We have to talk about it. It’s why you are the way you are now, and I don’t see any other way to talk some sense into you. I have tried everything.”
“You aren’t making much sense, Bonnie,” Jack said, slamming his cup down on the coffee table in frustration. “You say you want me to be better. To not be angry. Now you want me to come into your house to discuss things that you know piss me off.”
“Because, Jack, I am gettin’ tired of your behavior. We all are. And it’s the truth; when John was alive, he wanted nothin’ more to protect his family and see you grow up well. He would roll in his grave if he could see you like this. And it pains me nearly just as much. I want you to be better for their sake, and for yourself.”
“Tell me,” Jack said. Every muscle in his body felt as though it were pulled taut like the string of a bow. He could feel the blood pulse in his veins. “What’s more upsetting to you? Seeing me be such a disappointment to my father’s legacy, or livin’ your whole life knowin’ you could never have him?”
The hurt in Bonnie’s eyes was immediate. She blinked twice in a daze and quickly faced the window again. The sudden regret from Jack’s cruel jab felt more sour in his stomach than the sick feeling he had when waking up this morning. When he tried to open his mouth, nothing came out, as if it were filled with the parched dust of the desert.
The silence fell thick in the parlor and made Jack feel as though he could hardly breathe. Bonnie took what felt to Jack like an eternity to compose herself and turned back towards him.
“I want you to pack your things and be gone by the end of the week,” Bonnie said.
Jack blinked in shock.
“What?”
“You heard me, loud and clear.”
“And go where?” Jack’s hand was squeezed so hard that his fingernails made marks in his palms. “And do what? What about that promise you made to my mother?”
“You got Beecher’s Hope. As for what… that’s your decision,” she said. “I have fulfilled my purpose the best I can, but I am not going to let you harm the ranch, the people under my care, and wound my spirit because you can’t control yourself. If you can get—”
Jack was sure she said more after that. But he didn’t hear. He couldn’t. The blood rushed in his ears, and his rapidly increasing heart rate made it hard to focus on anything but the spiraling thoughts that held him captive. His skin crawled as though there were a thousand bugs beneath it. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as though the air was thick with something other than oxygen. He needed a cigarette. He needed fresh air. He—
He needed to leave.
Now.
Jack got up so quickly that it made him woozy. He avoided any eye contact with Bonnie. She tried her best to reach out to him, but he walked briskly to the front door and shut it behind him, hard. He kept his eyes fixed on the dirt, watching each puff of dust as the toe of his boots made contact with the ground. He could feel the presence of the ranch hands all around him. It was quiet outside that day, save for the normal noises of the livestock and conversations among the people, but to Jack, it all felt like a mockery. Every stare made him feel as though he was being watched and judged for his actions. It was unbearable.
One foot in front of the other, Jack.
The second he walked up the stairs of his bunk again, he fumbled for the keys in his pocket and swiftly walked back inside before shutting the door. Panic was still there, just below the surface, but it felt lessened now that he was alone.
This place had always felt foreign to him, but it was safe. No matter what happened to him, and whether it was a good or bad day, the little cot that he could rest his head on was the one bit of stability he had left— and in a week, it would all be gone. His makeshift home. His only source of income. The last friend of his family.
You ruined it all, like everything else you touch.
Jack sat back on the thin mattress, feeling numb. This wasn’t better than being angry; it was more unbearable. He needed something to touch and control. He looked at the closest thing to him; it was a hammer he had used to repair one of the fences on the ranch last week, and he took it in hand and threw it against the wall with all his might. It hit the wall’s paneling with a loud, hollow thud. The claw end of the hammer splintered a part of the wood as it bounced off and skidded across the uneven floor. It hadn’t helped at all.
Jack’s head fell into his hands. He eyed the bottle again through the gaps in his fingers and swore as he uncorked it and took another swig.
Any dreams of his boyhood were long gone.
Author's Note: i am still working on an outline as i write this so please do not expect a consistent schedule for this fic right now. please let me know if you liked it, i love any kind comments so much! thank you for reading! If you want to be added to a taglist lmk
Content Warnings: PTSD, trauma, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, mentions of vomit/emetophobia
Tags: Med-Low Honor Jack, Jack Marston x Fem OC, post canon, slowburn (really slow)
Total Wordcount: 3.2k
AO3
Happy anniversary to RDR1 and its protagonist that fundamentally altered my experience with video games. This guy is winning the “most skeletons in their closet” competition
a/n: i pull shit out of my ass and call it content. proofread by @whiskeyyreserve ,,, lots of love ❤️
warnings: 18+, inebriated oral sex, humilliation, rough handling, musk kink (?), shitty and perverted behavior, spitting in a drink, blood licking, flashes of insecurity, i’m not good at smut
—
If you were to tell the whole truth, it was your empty bottle playing the dirtiest of tricks on you. Feeding your mind all of these misguided ideas that you wouldn’t trail off with when sober.
Under the influence you weren’t all that different. The idea of alcohol stripping you down from all logic, intoxicating the naked truth out of you, amongst other things—is something you made up. This thing called making a blind eye; developing a debilitating ignorance to the day to day if you suckled at the rim.
No, your vices do not blind you. The fog of unreality that clouds your brain is a consequence, a leading cause. Tamper with your inner beings. Feel for your own reinvention, your degradation.
People at camp, in this gang, in this sick herd of sheep who bleat self reassurances of “I am better than you. So much better than the misguided outsiders whose violence is not for the cause.” They too did not have a cause, or at least you saw it that way. Shepherd Dutch; a looney lunatic full of niceties to spew and no wisdom behind them. Fools only followed him ‘cause charm goes a long way. You had none of that.
You’ve always been the kind to respect the honor of the needy, honest. The hypocrisy of these ones, their preconceived notions made your sworn words a lie. You hate this gang. They’ve never liked you all that much either.
With all that said, John Marston was nice on the eyes. The eye candy to sweeten up days.
Sardonic and strained. Permanently sore and bent and, God, kissed by all that is wrong. Nice didn’t mean easy. He was hard to look at. Pity, maybe, or the need to vulgarize him a tad. Yes, Marston, I sure do want to use you, own you. Humiliate you, too.
You’re a little drunk. Your mind is not your own. You’ll let yourself believe that.
The Horseshoe Overlook sunshine did you no good. Got you all moody and cranky. Thick forest, a steep cliff…still ain’t enough branches to filter the brightness. Good lord. Sounds of chitchatting, giggling, and all them social things you took no part of. Weren’t included in. You don’t care. You really don’t.
There’s screaming now, too. Confused it for Grimshaw’s nagging, she was always screaming ‘bout things. Wasn’t her this time, though. That Marston girl seemed to grow more lung capacity just to nag that bum of hers. The already pocked silence got more bullet holes to it.
“Pretty much the opposite of what you have been doing,” she says, gets the same sarcastic response from him, and keeps going. You zone out her complaints, you think he should too. Then comes the slap that snaps you back into attention. Nothing new.
You toy with a new bottle, fingers tracing the chipped rim down to the curve of the neck then to the bottom, base, and resting at the push-up. John would come around. Come to you. You grinned. No one was looking at you. They didn’t like looking. Your spit gathers in your mouth and you kindly let it slip past your lips and down to the bottle, swirling it and mixing it.
And it is true—he comes. Your assumptions about him usually are. John sits down next to you and he just looks at you through that mess of hair of his, face scrunched in puppy-like ways. Makes you tense up all the same as you hand him the bottle and watch him drink. Teeth dig in your bottom lip, hardly resisting the jut of the corners of your mouth. The temperature in your face warms, it gets you all dizzy; a pull in your stomach that has your hips bucking in the smallest of ways. You’re near your end and it’s all about him tasting you. His throat bobs, mouth all messy with dribbling remnants that he does not care enough to wipe off. You’d lick them off of him if he asked.
“I could help you,” blurted, sudden, impulsive. He only glances out the corner of his eye and you might as well have fucked up already.
John coughed a little, a confused grin not making that ugly face of his any better. Asked, “help me with what?”
“Anythin’.”
That makes him giggle. Probably thinks it’s funny. It infuriates you. Here he was, making a fool out of you and takings sips of your booze, all the while, you would bare all of yourself in a whim if he insinuated. Turns out you were destined for dirt. You suppose that’s what you deserve.
It’s awkward now. He is too much to swallow. His heavy hand positions itself on your shoulder—landing rough and uninvited; fingers dig into your shoulders in what you want to believe is suggestiveness. He invites you to go over into the woods with a tilt of his head, and you nod a yes. Handles you by your shoulder and lets you stumble beside him in drunken step.
—
Your jaw is slack as you stand here and watch him settle into the quiet. Leaning with his hip rested against a tree. Slouching.
It is an automatic hand motion of his that brings the bottle to his lips. Something to destress, he says. Something to forget about this girl and this kid he ain’t even sure is his, he says. You know that he is full of shit. As it reaches, the chipped rim nicks John’s lip, and out comes a small trickle of blood you’d soak in. You clench around nothing. A hiss and a coo between yellow stained teeth. A pretend game to distract him from your approaching steps. He ought to assume the reason is pity. Your hands take the bottle, taking the last big gulp left in it for courage you knew you already had in you. Closer and closer, he feels the rest of you up against him. Sees and feels your tongue stick out, less than shy kitten licks cleaning the minimal blood.
You feel him against your thigh. Outside, you try and save face. Eyes trail down and watch closely as John—less than subtle—nestles your leg between his own. You dry swallow and trail your gaze back up. He’s easier on the eye this way—flushed, unsure, and self-conscious in ways you haven’t seen before. You look down once more. Inside? You goad. A deep-seated itch of yours scratches itself seeing him this way, sloppily grinding, legs apart, and fists bunching the fabric of his dark black pants.
Mouth dry and all, you still poke and prod until you get what you want. Steady hands peel the scout coat off of him, leaving that ugly orange union suit out and exposed.
“You enjoyin’ yourself?” his voice is a little awry. Joking, maybe.
“No. Not much. Ain’t nothing in this f’me,” a lie.
“You ain’t?” and even with the heat of your body, you make him feel doubt. A heat that mocks the sun like it does him.
A rush of dignity, veneration—all those nice things that do not belong to the likes of you. An askew grin jesters, “That got you worried? Thought you were s’posed to be tough and all.”
John fists your shirt and buries his head in your neck. Open-mouthed kisses—sloppy with the accumulation of spit. They trail from jugular toward the jaw. Up, up, up, and they reach the side of your face. An approximation to his inner fantasies, all of the insatiable and possession-like urges; wide is the way his mouth opens. John licks a wet, long stripe up your cheek. You don’t have time to think before his hungry mouth ransacks your own. A newfound vice. Pushing and pushing, his tongue was uncoordinated—unappealing.
Taking a breath, you mouth something to yourself as wandering hands ease his suspenders off and down. The rush is there. A rush driven by something more rotten than lust, this intercourse all but a pun on romance.
You’re really drunk. Whether it be on booze, on him, or on the nurture brought by this accomplishment. He loves me, you say. I know him now, you say. You think no one knows John Marston like you know him. The entirety of you is too sorry to hold any shame. Pathetic lack of morality.
No mishap in his stripping; pants pool at his mid thigh and bunch in a mess of fabrics with his union suit. You want to embody all of his previous times, merge into an amalgamation of the best he’s had. You want his thoughts, his essence, his inner beings that make him into a whole person. The terrible burden of intoxication becomes a driving force; it makes your wandering hands feel all of him. You feel the skin better, the nerves more. Your mouth trickles down with your hands, too. It licks and savors the fuzz of body hair. Nicks and soothes at the same time. Smiles true and honest at the trembling body before it. Heat crawls up the rigidity of your spine and it is clear now that you can’t help yourself with him in front of you.
John doesn’t bristle when your nose prods at the pubic hair clouding the length of him. It takes in the musk of it—the mix of skin odor, lingering sweat, and all things unhygienic. Your greedy mouth gets its own taste; lapping at the tangy taste of coarse hairs. Insatiable hands fondle and grab with greed as the sole priority. One hand wraps around the base, a small set of strokes keeping a pace stable enough to flatten your tongue against the tip. Yippy complaints mix with his jagged breaths. He looks pretty funny with them glazed eyes.
Your hand travels up and wraps around the tip, sliding down the foreskin—letting the reddened skin peek. Lips wrap, slobber around it, and the thrill of it makes John lose his patience. Rough and uncaring, fingers knot in the hairs of the back of your neck—scruffing you like a misbehaving mutt. It’s almost as if your jaw unhinges itself to fit him.
Stupidly, recklessly, or violently—you’re not sure how to describe it—John starts a mismatched set of thrusts. It hurts. And it hurts so much. You want it to hurt. You want John Marston to hurt, bruise, and leave the long lasting reminder of his debauchery. Every instinct of the body is numb at the compulsive thrusts, mouth defaced of its humanity. The gagging is immediate. Your throat constricts around his dick and that seems to heighten his excitement.
The hold on your scruff tightens and it’s like all sorts of big and small needles prickle at your scalp. John calls for your attention.
“Look up,” he reproaches.
Your integrity is long forgotten. Complicity is readily available and standing on its toes just for him. You glance up. To John, this is a new act of intoxication. It not the vice of a drug or alcohol, but the wreckage of the undesirable; tears slick your face along with the snot that dribbles. Saliva pools and slicks your chin. The commonly penetrated holes are not the fullest form of pleasure, John realizes, it is the throat. The new genital. Marginalized just for him.
It is callous and brutish when in the one final grind, he is but fully sheathed in the cavity of your throat. The bitter, acrid taste of cum floods itself into your mouth at the excessive amounts pulsed into you. A burning sensation in your nose. The irritation of your bulging eyes. You have to gurgle and spit out any remnants when John unceremoniously slips out.
Undoing all of your defenses, taking you by the horns, and the taming of your crassness. The cocktail tailored for his abhorrence.
It is humorous to him to slap his length across your face, “c’mon, you’re alright. Ain’t you?”
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