Open heavens | Marshal Tom Davies x fem!reader
It takes place after the story missions with Horley and the Marshal and you meet up at Manzanita Post to continue where you left off. It's the second part of the hanging of Tom Davies but can be read as it's own piece.
Word count: 4.7k
Tags: explicit sexual content, post-canon, semi-public sex, getting caught, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, clothed sex, age gap, it's mentioned that reader gained a bit of weight after being bust out of prison, rdo spoilers
A/N: Everyone thank @stupidgaynerd who wrote this amazing fic about Marshal Leigh Johnson! It had me buzzing with the urge to write smut the very same day I read it lmao. Picture of Marshal Davies is made by the wonderful @colterblues
Manzanita Post lies quiet as the setting sun drowns it in a rich orange that bleeds onto the green of the leaves and the earthy brown of the soil beneath your shoes. Feeling saddle sore from the ride, you almost yelp in relief as you dismount your mare. There’s a hitching post in the front yard with a Kentucky Saddler and a familiar Golden Dun Mustang.
You’ve visited this place only once when you were hired to retrieve Alfredo Montez together with Lee (and unfortunately accidentally wound up killing his brother), but you know that the owner of this property is a Norwegian feller. He’s nowhere to be found as you leave your horse with the other two and wander between the stretched pelts, benches and tools.
The squeak of a door rips you out of your thoughts and your attention steers to the big house. A familiar figure steps outside and halts at the porch, gaze snapping to their right and meeting yours. Marshal Davies stands there, shoulders dropping as if a great weight has been lifted off them as he recognizes you. You smile up at him and march over while he strolls off the porch.
“So, you’re done with whatever it was Horley needed of you?”, he asks and your body responds to his low drawl.
Only two days ago you two had been in Armadillo, confessing to something that none of you were planning to voice in the first place. The fact that he was almost hung feels somewhat surreal as if it was just a bad dream. Noting the bruises around his neck, you know better than to pin it to your wild imagination.
Some people would try to mask the mark of a noose with a hiked-up collar, but his is as neatly folded as it always is. The Marshal isn’t the type to hide the traces of battle.
“It appears so.”, you answer and recall the massacre that ensued in Blackwater.
You accompanied Mrs. LeClerk and Mr. Horley into town after there was talk about protection. You didn’t think she’d actually put a bullet into that bastard, Amos Lancing. Not that you’ll be grieving over that man any time soon, given that he was the reason that you ended up behind bars with a chain and ball around your ankle in the first place.
“I heard from folks passin’ by that it was some kind of bloody business.”, he comments, earning a glance from you.
“And what if? Will you arrest me, Marshal?” In all honesty, the thought of him tying a rope around your wrists excites you.
“No, Miss. That would never cross my mind.”, he says with a conviction that puts you immediately at ease. Not that you believe he would actually hand you over to the law, judging by his own unorthodox methods of exacting it. “As I said, I’ll just turn a good, old fashioned blind eye on it.”
“How kind of you.”, you coo, coaxing a chuckle out of him.
He nods towards the open fireplace that has been popping and crackling and he takes one of the foldable chairs, gesturing at the seat. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you sink down onto it and watch him pick up a few things from a nearby crafting table. A glass finds its way into your hands, scratched up from a long time of service and a rough washing cloth or two.
Marshal Davies is holding one of his own and a bottle of whisky in his other hand which he brings close to his face. Biting down onto the cork, he pulls it out with his teeth and it makes a satisfying ‘plop’. As you hold out the glass, he pours a generous amount of the liquor in it, making it slosh around and a drop of it escapes over the edge.
As it runs down the milky glass and onto your thumb, you scarcely notice the dampness on your skin. You only have eyes for that cork between his teeth, nestled in there like a cigarette or a cigar and you never thought you could harbor such envy for an inanimate object.
“I thought you could use a drink.”, he slurs with that thing in his mouth.
“Thanks.”, you say, snickering.
The Marshal huffs out a short laugh of his own before setting the bottle back onto the crafting table and putting the cork back on. Then he takes the seat next to you, leaning back and sprawling his legs out in front of himself. He’s wearing his hat again and the rim sits low over his face, hiding the upper half. You can only make out the edge of his black eye-patch.
“So, what will you do now? Or has Horley more work for you?”, he asks and the questions leave him as anything but idle chitchat. There’s genuine curiosity swimming in them.
“I think this is it for now. His mistress hired me for a very specific job and I’m pretty sure that we finished it in Blackwater now.”, you explain, uncertain how much you’re allowed to reveal.
No, Marshal Davies won’t stab you in the back, but you don’t know if you can or want to drop Mrs. LeClerk’s name or anyone else’s. She has asked you for discretion after all and you also don’t want to burden the Marshal with this knowledge either, in case someone starts to investigate this matter.
“That’s good, ain’t it? Means you get to go your own path again.”, he remarks and you shrug.
“I don’t know. It was nice to have a goal, something to work towards. Like with Montez.”
“I understand that.”, he murmurs and takes a sip. “But there’ll always be more bastards out there to catch. If you’re still interested to work with me.”
“Of course. I even have a bounty hunter license now, so you hiring me won’t be illegal anymore.”
He cackles, throwing his head back. “I guess I did forget to ask you about that, didn’t I? But I don’t think I can be blamed after Horley recommended you. I reckon he didn’t think to ask either.”
“You’re right. He didn’t.”
Your entire body aches from today’s work. It felt like Amos Lancing had expected you all along or at some point at least. There’s no way that all those armed men had been waiting around the corner by coincidence. Most of them weren’t even in uniform or sporting a deputy badge over their chest. Hired guns then or bounty hunters. Some had even been positioned on the rooftops.
But you held your ground well. All three of you.
“My associate suggested to start a trading company, but I don’t know about that.”, you explain.
The side of your face burns as Marshal Davies looks at you. Only two days ago, the two of you kissed. The air between you is casual, loaded as ever but casual. You removed that wall that had blocked you from approaching him, but you find yourself in a different, yet similar position. Shy. Timid even.
“That sounds like fine work.”
“I’m not much of a hunter though.”
There’s a pause in which you bring the glass up to your mouth. You’re absolutely parched and it takes about everything to not sigh in ecstasy as the liquor runs down your throat surprisingly smoothly.
“You could continue workin’ for me. You did say you got a license now.” The suggestion leaves his lips low, almost a whisper. It carries a hint of hesitancy as if he wasn’t sure that he should even voice it. Is he worried that you might reject him?
“I could if you want to have me, of course.”, you answer and his gaze burns into you.
The marshal’s pale iris gleams in the light of the flames. The blue in it acts almost like a canvas and even with that gap between your chairs, you still clearly see the fire dancing and licking at the blackened wood. With his free hand, he fishes out the revolver from his holster.
It’s polished to perfectioned, though obvious by the details that it has been used frequently over the years. The engravings aren’t as visible along the barrel and some smaller parts have been replaced, judging by the slight difference in shades. But you do so admire a man who takes care of his guns.
“If my answer to that question ever ends up being a no, I want you to take this and shoot me in the head.”, he says as grave and serious like a priest at a funeral and you clasp a hand over your mouth to mask the grin.
“Oh, Marshal.”
As the bottom of your glass becomes clearer and the red from the setting sun retreats, the fire is the only source of light out here. There’s an oil lamp behind one of the windows in the main house and you crane your neck to peer inside. It’s a kitchen from what you can tell and a shadow stirs inside it.
“I talked to Nils about stayin’ here. I weren’t sure when you’d come back.”, Marshal Davies speaks up and points with his thumb over his shoulder. “You can have that house there.”
It’s a cozy looking cabin that has an elk skull hanging over the front door. You’ve been spending so much time in your camp that you entirely forgot how it feels to lay inside a bed. The hotel room in Armadillo, as grimy and dusty as it was, had felt like pure luxury. Your muscles seem to sigh at the prospect of sleeping on a mattress again.
Mr. Cripps might wonder where you’ve gone off to tonight, but you told him that he shouldn’t expect you. Just in case things in Blackwater wouldn’t have turned out as favorable as they did.
“That’s very kind of you.”, you answer. “And Nils too, of course.”
He didn’t talk much when you were here last time to meet the Marshal, but Nils seemed all right. In fact, now that you think about it, he didn’t even acknowledge you guys and you wonder how he may have reacted after stumbling upon that severed head that Lee just tossed into a bush. Standing up, you’re surprised that your joints aren’t creaking and squeaking like unoiled hinges.
One glance and you notice that the Marshal finished his glass too by now. You wrap your fingers around it and slide it out of his grasp. He doesn’t break the eye contact and when you turn around to place the glasses next to the bottle, you can practically feel his gaze traveling along your body. In Armadillo, you both were willing to cross that certain line if it only hadn’t been for your damned injury.
It’s still hurting when you apply pressure on it, but most of the time it just itches. The prospect of perhaps continuing where you left off leaves you buzzing with excitements. Almost giddy, actually. Spinning on your heels, you reach out to lazily take his hand and hold it in yours, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles.
Callouses and scars mark his skin and your gaze trails along his sleeve, wondering how the rest of him looks like. You’ve never really seen him out of his neat suits. Shirt, vest and a jacket with that kind of cut that make any posture look straight and disciplined. Even when Montez’ men tried to hang him, his clothes sat on his body in a proper manner. He looked proper that day.
Glancing at the cabin, you wonder whether the bed in there will fit the two of you. Normally there’s only a single bed when they’re this size. A part of you hopes that that will be the case here as well. You want to be sleeping close to the Marshal tonight.
“I’m a bit tired.”, you mumble.
Your breath hitches as he brings the back of your hand up to his lips and plants a kiss on it.
“Me too, I’m afraid.”, he says in an equally low voice.
The oil lantern in that kitchen window has been snuffed out by now. Nils must have gone to bed then and there isn’t a single soul out here for miles. Marshal Davies slowly starts to stand up from his chair and takes off his hat. You don’t know when he had the time to retrieve that thing, believing it lost in Tumbleweed.
Maybe Sheriff Freeman went back and found it lying around somewhere, but you sincerely doubt that. It looks pristine and clean and not entirely brand new, but not particularly worn either. Does he just keep a bunch of those somewhere in a closet? What an amusing thought.
“Too tired for anything else?”, you ask and look at him from under your lashes.
His beard twitches as he tries to fight back a smile.
“Not yet, Miss.”
Pulling him in close, you let your hands roam over his chest and tip your head back. You don’t know where his hat went, but suddenly both of his palms are on your back, burning through the blouse and into your skin. You’re still wearing that wash skirt, not having had the time to change into the pants you usually prefer.
Though you’re happy for it now as you back up against the crafting table and feel the edge press into your rear. All the while, Marshal Davies draws closer until his body is pressed up to your breasts or perhaps it was you who shoved him close. Running your fingers through his silver hair, you run the tips along the back of his eye-patch.
“We should move this inside.”, he murmurs, painfully close to your mouth.
His mustache tickles your face and it isn’t the first time that you wonder how it would feel between your legs. Those same legs that you’re spreading right now to allow him to step into your space, which he does without second guessing.
“Perhaps we should.”
None of you move an inch towards the cabin though and instead remain rooted in place. The Marshal’s lips collide with yours with a fervor that knocks all the breath out of your lungs. It’s being squeezed out of your body through your mouth and into his as he kisses you dizzy. Teeth scrape over lips and tongues lap at one another.
His hands run down your curves, mapping your waist and hips, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts. Your own hands fly up to loosen the first couple of buttons of your blouse and deepen your cleavage. The silhouette of your chest flickers from the twitching flames and the Marshal’s eye is glued to it. This close, you can watch in real-time how his pupil dilates.
Your tongue darts out to run over your lips as you watch him push the blouse aside and reveal the now bare mounts. Your nipples stand hardened from the cool breeze caressing them and when he presses one down with his thumb, you shudder. He moves it in slow, tantalizing circles, sending mild jolts through your body.
Then his mouth is on yours again, ravishing you entirely. One hand is still cupping your breast while the other hurries down to hike up your skirt. Your own get to work as well, helping him speed things along before you grab your bloomers and push them all the way down. They pool around your ankles, standing out with their cream color in the vast darkness.
The Marshal makes it a point to avoid grazing over your injury like he accidentally did last time, shuffling more into the opposite direction. You angle your hurt leg away as well to give him more room. His crotch lies against your stomach, his clothed erection pressing into the softness of your belly. It has grown a bit ever since you got bust out of prison.
Suddenly, his hand let’s go of your chest, trailing down your ribs, beyond the hem of your blouse that is tucked away beneath the wash skirt and below the skirt itself as well. It stops between your legs, hovering above your exposed cunt that flutters and clenches around nothing in painful anticipation. The tip of his index finger pushes your sopping wet folds aside and you stifle a hiss at the contact.
It feels so rough against the damp heat and leaves your head spinning. Marshal Davies presses against your clit that has swollen up slightly from arousal and you bite down onto your lower lip. When he flicks over it, your nerve endings explode like fireworks. Rocking your hips, you seek for the friction and he groans.
“Lord have mercy.”, he grumbles under his breath, close to your ear. Then he slides two fingers in and you feel him tremble as if it’s his cock that’s in you instead. “Oh, good God.”
You want to speak as well. A thousand words are lying on your tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, spreading them and curling them up ever so slightly, but it all drowns inside your throat. All you manage to wring out are choked back moans and mewls. You lift your good leg to allow him better access and he hooks his arm under it to help keep it in the air.
As he fingers you, the bottom half of his palm keeps rubbing over your clit, stimulating it at a delicious pace. Pressure builds up inside your lower stomach and you chase it with the desperation of a woman gone mad with greed. Your wetness soaks his hand, running down to his wrist and you feel more staining the inside of your thighs.
The drops roll down your leg that is beginning to shake from the effort of holding up your weight all by itself and they seep into the bloomers that are still lying forgotten on the ground.
“Oh, Marshal.”, you cry out in pleasure and whine when his hand retreats.
A protest bubbles up in your throat that dies as he suddenly grabs you by the rear and hoists you into the air. Setting your down onto the table, he pulls you roughly towards the edge and starts unbuckling his belt. The first item to be cast away is his weapon belt and he immediately goes to work on the other one that is holding up his trousers.
The clinking and jingling of the metal feed the heat inside you and your hands join his in an attempt to unfasten his pants. They drop, joining your bloomers and you swallow a gasp at the sight of his cock. It basically springs free, bouncing heavy from its girth and length. Veins protrude along his shaft in a light blue that matches his iris. That color has always looked good on him
Holding up your skirt, your spread your legs further and allow him to get a proper view of your cunt which he knows. His breath hitches and throat bobs as he stares at it absolutely mesmerized. You don’t even remember the last time you felt this little shame in front of another lover. Something about the Marshal has you toss all humility and decency into the wind.
You grab him around the shaft and pull gently on the foreskin, revealing his flushed red tip that’s leaking pre-cum. It resembles a pearl. Your pussy weeps as you grab him by the collar and pull him close for a hungry kiss. You’ve seen him fight for his life like a man, fight for justice like a man. Now you want him to fuck like one too.
Pushing your hips slightly more over the edge, you put one palm down onto the table for support and knock over the whisky bottle with your elbow. It rolls over the wood and lands with a dull thud in the grass. Marshal Davies moves closer, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance that sucks him right in.
There’s no resistance when he enters you. It leaves you impossibly full and he isn’t even halfway in yet. The Marshal stops for a second and pulls out, though not fully. A pale, creamy ring of your wetness adorns his shaft and you squirm when he thrusts forward, deeper than before. Slowly, he fucks himself into you until he’s sheathed entirely.
Eyes fluttering shut, you lean your head back, exposing your neck for him to bury his face in. Both of you are glistening with sweat and none of you move, just letting his cock soak up your arousal for a hot minute.
“Oh, Lord have mercy.”, he repeats breathlessly and you feel him throb inside you as if his erection has a heartbeat of its own. “You feel so nice. Oh, you’re so tight, Miss.”
His words do your heat no favor. The ache between your legs grows and suddenly you’re beyond impatient. Yearning for some more friction, you wiggle with your hips. Rolling them and squirming from left to right and right to left. He groans into your skin, his mustache tickling and slightly scratching.
Then he pulls back a second time before driving his cock deep inside you, his tip ending up kissing your cervix. An invisible copper wire tightens in your lower stomach from that action and you grasp his shoulder with your free hand. Thighs trembling as your boots hang in the air, you grit your teeth and wonder how long you will be able to hold this position.
The Marshal seems to be in no hurry, though you can tell from the sweat along his hairline that he’s struggling himself. Whether it’s the effort or restraint, you can’t tell. He starts at a slow pace, undoubtedly to get used to it as well and not cum too fast. You love the intimacy of it. The sweetness. Though it’s not sweetness that you’re craving this moment.
No, sir. You want it rough and hard. You want him to rut into you on this crafting table out in the open like you’re nothing more than those wild animals out here in the woods yourself. The smell of the forest enters your nose together with your mixed sweat and the scent of sex. It works like a drug as it penetrates your mind.
“Marshal.”, you coo encouragingly beside his face.
“Miss-“, he stammers and jerks his hips forward.
It’s an abrupt motion that has stars dance across your vision. He fucks you in earnest now, deep and fast and the sounds are wet and obscene. The crafting table rocks along and the glasses that you drank out of clink together. You squeeze your thighs together, the pleasure outweighing the sharp pain in your still fresh wound that you scarcely even register it.
You had no idea that you even have a thing for pain during sex. It mingles together perfectly with the jolts shooting through your veins as his cock keeps brushing over your g-spot. Nerves set ablaze, your mouth hangs open as you moan different variants of his name. Sometimes it’s Tom, meanwhile other times it’s Marshal and on some occasions, a Marshal Davies slips in too.
They all spur him on further to a point where you genuinely begin to wonder where exactly he draws the stamina from. One arm is still hooked under your good leg, taking off some of the work much to your gratitude and the other inches closer to where your hips meet. With each thrust, his balls slap against your ass cheeks, low and heavy and full.
Wedging his hand between your bodies without having to pull away too much, his thumb finds your clit that is still sensitive from the attention he has given it earlier. The stimulation seems near mind breaking. Pleasure claws at you from the inside, flashing in hot waves with each slam of his cock. The wire inside you uncoils like lightning.
Your entire body convulses and trembles as Marshal Davies tears the orgasm out of you. It’s ruthless the way it wrecks your body like a train slamming into it. Your sopping walls clench around him so tight that you can’t imagine it must feel good in any way, yet pure bliss is edged into his callous features from it.
He moans your name in that typical low drawl of his and next thing you know, something hot fills you up. Ropes of cum paint your walls, pushing against them and for every drop that escapes, more leaks out of his cock. As he pulls out, you gaze down on the mess you two made and can’t help but acknowledge the way the sight makes you feel.
Your cunt is crying with his load. It stirs a dirty kind of arousal inside you.
“I’m so sorry.”, he breathes with a hoarse voice. “Look at you, poor thing. I’ll help you get cleaned up, Miss.”
He sounds and looks so genuinely distraught that you can’t help but chuckle. “No worries, Marshal. It looks like I returned the favor.”
His cock looks equally wrecked. The thick curls around the base cling to his soaked shaft and pearls of cum have joined the veins along it. More have drooped down onto his balls and you wet your dry lips, imagining the taste as you lick it all off him. A foreign sound rips you out of your thoughts and both of you freeze.
It doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the background noise of the forest like the rustling of leaves, swaying of branches and tiny footsteps of critters. No, it reminds you of a person, of a pair of boots stepping on pebbles and dirt. Glancing at the kitchen window where you have seen the lantern earlier, you think that it could be Nils at first. The main house lies completely dark.
“What’s that?”, you hiss in a hushed voice.
The Marshal’s eye is wide from terror and he scrambles to pull his trousers back up. You follow suit by pushing down your skirt and hopping off the table. He doesn’t concern himself with his belts and instead helps close up all the buttons of your blouse to conceal your breasts that were bouncing up and down earlier.
The fire, although it has shrunk a bit, is still burning and illuminating a pair of neat shoes. They belong to Mr. Horley, whom you see clearly now.
“Horley?”, Marshal Davies snaps and the other man looks positively startled by the sudden outrage.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.”, he says. “I forgot that you probably have some folk out for you. I didn’t consider announcing my presence.”
“It’s all right.”, you chime up, even though you don’t feel that way.
Mr. Horley opens his mouth to reply when something catches his attention. Following his gaze, you’re mortified that it’s your bloomers that have caught his eyes. They’re sprawled out on the ground next to the Marshal’s weapon belt. Both items speak louder than any words ever could and shame prickles beneath your face.
“I see now that I’ve interrupted something.”, he mutters bashfully after clearing his throat. “I only came to let you know of another business opportunity that might interest you, but that can obviously wait. When you have the time, go speak to Mr. Cripps. I’ll leave a letter with him.”
Before anyone else can utter a single word, he takes his leave. Your cheeks still burn from the whole scene and you press both palms over them, laughing nervously to yourself.
“That was something.”, you comment and watch Marshal Davies run a hand over his face.
“Sure.”, he agrees and then quietly adds more under his breath. “I think I’m too old to get caught like this.”
Grinning, you swat playfully at his arm and lean your head against his shoulder. His arm wraps around your torso and a delicious shiver runs down your spine as you feel the remnants of his cum leak out of you and down your leg. Your cunt aches from his size, but it’s a comfortable kind of pain. The same way your muscles are going to feel tomorrow. You reckon that you will welcome the soreness with open arms.