John But He's Wearing Leather Chaps That Form A Heart Around His Butt

i know it’s a dumb cheat code but i’m not listening lalala it’s actually god (the strange man) speaking to john because he’s running around like a maniac killing folk for being a little snarky and building an even higher price on his head and hunting bounty hunters for sport because ranch life makes him feel miserable and useless and too fucking still, and it wasn’t enough to see micah’s brain matter scattered over the snow, it wasn’t enough to see dutch’s last act of care and kindness towards him because he still looked at him with disappointment in his eyes and he left him again, alone on top of a mountain with nothing but bleeding friends and gold that sits heavily in his pockets like the grief in his throat.

don’t be a stranger

Natalie Díaz, from “Wolf OR-7”, Postcolonial Love Poem

my john and hosanna (the only acceptable horse for john)

The Swan (1915)

— by Hilma Af Klint

morston just hurts sooooo good if they never even fucked each other and the only bit of intimacy they’ve ever shared together is arthur locking eyes with john through the cut linen of dutch’s tent — john’s eyes are hollow, wet with tears and red with a young boy’s rage, his jaw is slack, bleeding strangled hymns, his darkly shining hair is splayed over the cot, forms a twisted halo around his skull — arthur feels sick, wants to gag, almost does, wants to run and he almost does that, too, but he can’t bear to leave john alone like this, wonders how many times he’s been alone like this — with dutch — and when dutch hunches forward to run his hand over john’s chest and grasp at his throat his wide frame shadows john, swallows him all up until arthur can only see dark shimmering eyes peering up at him over dutch’s shoulder, refusing to look away and it all makes him feel deathly ill, stomach twisting, the stench of rot in his nose and when john cries and cries and dutch groans, hitches himself flat to john and holds fast there, lips twitching into a smirk, heaving with pride, arthur trembles with anger — fists clenched at his sides, fingers twitching because he can’t decide whether he wants to beat dutch to a bloody mess of fractured bone and mush or fire into him until his body is so full of holes that’s it’s nearly shredded in half — but he just keeps watching and he hates himself for it, and when dutch finally lifts off the boy and moves across the tent and john stays there, torn and shivering, glistening with sweat and tears and perversion, warmth, not hate, not fear, fucking warmth returns to his eyes that never once strayed from arthur’s.

crying while listening to ethel cain or townes van zandt is just a rite of passage for john marston fans i think

first post kinda nervous