ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴ

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧…

Indie JOHN MARSTON from RED DEAD REDEMPTION 1 & 2 . Source content and headcanon based. Non-selective and open to AU, OC, and crossovers. Discord given to mutuals only. Personals do not interact.  Rules under readmore. ( side blogs CHARLES. ARTHUR. OC. )

Darkness everlasting ellipses between pending crescent lids on the brink of parting of eyes nearly rolling back into his skull, fragmented images blur in tandem of waves of pain coursing through a body nearly crushed for what felt like hours since wading in a mind unconscious. He had had worse falls, yet the sheer force in combination with the bullet hole now occupying his upper left shoulder only deepening the hurt that felt so resolute in keeping him pinned to mud and gravel that cradled him.

Involuntarily he gasps for air, rasping for coolness of breeze seemingly evaded his lungs until hes forcing in breaths that had been knocked out of him so thoroughly he had simply felt as if he hadn't breathed at all. Fighting between consciousness and a spinning world, John pushes through ache with hands pressing behind his back to a sitting position propped up on their efforts of staying upright.

Realization becoming awareness in light of eyes blinking away fatigue as anxiety recalls the nature of his current state. the train speeding away as hes left for dead by men who had called him brother not more than a week ago. If family meant being abandoned over and over again, he'd be sure to return the favor after getting his family out of beaver hollow and away from Dutch for good.

She stood a torrent, eyes matching his dark gaze that had leveled to rival hers in their furrowing judgement of his place on the ground below, somewhere amidst sitting stop a horse several paces at his flank looking down her nose and expression half shaded against willows that overcast them both. However long she had been there, he hadn't the time nor energy to scrap against another person considering she had more than enough of an upper hand, and he reduced to carrion on the side of an embankment.

( from Abigail , unprompted ! )

Face to the sky a hand presses to the furrow of a brow, sheltering eyes against the glare of the oppressive rays of sunlight in their observation regarding its position amidst the dotting of white clouds. Summer heat in tandem making a brow as well as arms soak with perspiration, sweltering to the point that a toe taps itself in worn leather boots. Encapsulated as much as the fluttering of a heart set to beating enclosed in a rib cage. Frustration combined together with impatience tied him in knots, anxiety never something that had really kept him immobile as it did so presently.

It vexed him how long a woman could make him suffer without her presence. How her absence alone controlled how much he had thought about her and, to a degree, coated him in a measure of fear considering their life up until this point had been rife with danger or chaos to trouble them. Some his own poor choices, in which, he supposes its right for her to take as long as she does in this moment. A torment. A taste of his own medicine bitter sweet. Or perhaps simply, his current hysteria is brought on by a matter of bravery? Anticipation weighting quite literally in the shape of a small ring box in his pocket.

Blackwater's general store at least giving reprieve through a large glass window. Abigail's form, while somewhat blurred in the opaque divots still shown forms of colored splotches making up the length of her body. He imagined on one darkened hue the gentle slope of her neck that rested plainly on shoulders as if delicately balanced. The depth of her blues like pools of diamonds glinting either with the low blue flame that always guided her actions or the care she was won't to bestow only in the prodding of insults. Fire in something so lovingly encased in her form to the point its effortless that a gloved hand opens the door upon her exit.

oh , so you're a gentleman all of a sudden?

"I have my moments.", Hes quick to correct, the residual coughing meant to adjust his tone as he ushers her out holding the doors handle in place. A sort of pouting of lips press together, fighting with the urge to bite his lower lip merely in lieu of dealing with the pressure in his pocket bid him to act sooner than later. to be done with the feeling near close to a migraine borne on this need to ask the question withheld. Her answer the only thing that could undo him for better or worse.

An ever tumultuous relationship that spans the near entirety of Johns life and one that makes him walk a fine line of loyalty and doubt. These two have more in connection than Hosea's careful nurturing. In fact, it's Dutch that John takes a shine to almost immediately, mostly due in part to the theatrics and albeit grandiose promises that starts the belief that this man, while not his father, is a damn near identical replacement in the boy's formative impressionable years. John in his youth is more inclined to follow Dutch at his coat tails, in hopes to replicate the sheer shadow that the older man casts or simply to catch some of the greatness unparalleled in the boy's eyes.

A savior, teacher, god that bestows some hope (or indoctrination) that he is deserved of more than a life remaining as an orphan. Growing up Dutch is the one that John learns to read and have a love of nature beyond survival, beauty that an early teen John tries to capture in rudimentary illustrations. John easily becomes a favorite apostle, often referred to as the "golden boy" of the camp. Generally having his more questionable decisions dismissed overall and earning hate if not jealousy from others such as Bill or Arthur disapproval of John's attempts of leaving the gang 1-2 times.

Blackwater's river boat heist is the catalyst to unwind the tightly held ideas that John has at Dutch's benefit. Murdering a woman in cold blood and not entirely apart of the plan that becomes the living nightmare over the duration of RDR2 and RDR1 in which the Pinkertons seeking out to silence the rest of gunslingers in the encroaching peak of the industrial age.

John starts showing the signs of doubt, typically in direct relation to or in outright questions of Dutch's conduct or displays of great violence ( example: Bronte's death, siding with Micah etc. ) something that John exhibits in the excommunication and handling of the former Van Der Linde members Bill and Javier in the events of RDR1.

John's only true break from Dutch was not only being left to be jailed and hung after the bank heist in Saint Denis, but the complete betrayal of never having been recovered once shot on the final train heist during chapter six. Something that comes to be a traumatic event that stays with him even lamenting it to Landon Ricketts.

1911

Reaching his middle teens to early twenties, John is conventionally attractive, though nothing special. when looking at him, the most noticeable feature has would be the three scars he sustained on his right cheek and semi-long dark brown hair. The only real differing factor being the choice of clothing and brandishing a bandolier in later years . This being a combination of personality tastes and strong tailoring to the lifestyle he leads as a result. A style that never changes throughout his life until briefly jailed or on a mission requiring a more convincing appearance. To which, he sports whatever the situation requires. However, gradually reaching middle age, John develops more refined features separate from his younger years. John Is fairly average height despite being malnourished as a child, (5′11″) and slim, physicality akin to a kick boxer than bodybuilder.

facially, John has a strong set of features; a strong jawline with noticeable cheekbones, his nose slightly long in length, but with small nostrils, slightly small full lips, thick deep set brows, medium rounded ears, narrow eyes, along with deep dark bags beneath his eyes and slight lines of age, and he often sports a scowl, but how intense of one varies. his skin tone is lightly tanned during the events chapters 1-3 of RDR2, however takes on a deeper bronze from being captured and jailed during the bank heist that effects last permanently even after his return to the gang. in general, John is incredibly smooth - having only a few patches of hair his body. Hair centralizing on the face, arms, legs and lightly on the chest. while the scars that adorn his body remain unable to form new hair growth and in general are permanently light to dark pink/red in pigmentation. However - generally the older he gets, the less he’s inclined on personal upkeep as he finds it unnecessary or has a lack of interest.

Unsurprising to many though, he’s not very on top of his personal hygiene, only when possible, but he takes little consideration into his appearance unless it is absolutely necessary - he changes clothes when prompted to, but otherwise his routine only consists of bathing sporadically and cleaning himself, brushing his teeth, and trimming his hair ( obviously not very often as his hair is usually oily ).

after a lifetime of surviving alone, battles with law enforcement or gunslingers in general, John’s skin is covered in scars - most of them are worn, faded with age or simply healed, and there’s too many to count (he’s constantly in danger and sometimes sustaining severe injuries, often unable to dodge fast enough between blows). most are from things with edges (rocks, bricks, glass - the environmental hazards of doing what he does, he’s often falling through things, into things, against things, along with various things exploding around him), though he has several from burns and the occasional scar from weaponry/firearm. His hands being fairly unblemished since he is seen wearing gloves, which takes most of the damage albeit superficially. However he is fairly resilient, having walked all the way back to beaver hollow with a bullet wound to the shoulder.

the most noticeable scars are as follows:

Head/skull: Deep claw marks that a wolf made, some along the right eyebrow and upper lip.

Back: Several puncture wounds from rocks and debris from falling off the train.

Torso: Bullet wound on his left shoulder close to the arm pit when trying to rob the train.

Legs:  scarring on the right thigh from the wolf attack, and knees from repeated scrapes in trying to stop backwards momentum.

other than that, notable features of his appearance are that he tends towards cool but dark colors ( greys, black, sometimes red or a burgundy ).

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒

PTSD associated memories with the wolf attack, and with gang member deaths.

Frequent insomnia due to living on the run and the potential that his identity could be revealed in later RDR2 events.

Anxiety/depression when his family is taken away or when agent Ross denies him seeing them in RDR1.

Mild aquaphobia, due to the fact John has trouble with swimming. Lacking natural buoyancy to keep him afloat.

Despite the sacrifice of Arthur, John suffers bouts of night terrors. Only able to manage 1-2 hours of sleep at a time in the later events of RDR2, conversely, a very light sleeper able to awake at the slightest sound due to living for the vast majority of his life as an outlaw (needing to be ready from an attack from anything). along with this, he suffers auditory hallucinations on the occasion which he has trouble differentiating from reality, leading to chronic headaches. Usually the voices from old memories replying in his mind given that hes close to or experiences something that triggers them.

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

Puffs of cold, heated and curled to form semi-opaque clouds in front of scarred lips amidst the pre-dawn. Tilted, but mostly scrunched up against bark did a form conform to the slight bend of an old pine, withered and mostly having discarded all needles beneath the structured boot partially tied. John's using an arm to prop up the drooping of a head on the blink. Lids fluttering with each heavy breath exhaled in near beat to the slight hushing of crickets.

In determination or rather stubbornness had led him to reject the change in camp patrol some hours prior, and, to the reluctance of Lenny. Something in the way that silence held his space since the trek from the frozen precipice of Colter had somehow made wanting to remain awake more important. Perhaps, the need to separate from the constant dotting and lectures from all, motivated and propelled to a body to act despite its injuries. He'd attempted to be deserter and yet, worried tones, fast hands that wrapped bandage after bandage and bound him in its embrace. It's comfort near suffocated.

Slight breezes that found its way in to the corners of a cotton fold, singing its winters kiss upon an exposed length of scarred cheek came to alight, stinging what remained of the exposed muscle underneath and reawakening pain and eyes alike to hiss between clenched teeth at the former's presence. Repeating the cycle of fatigue and alertness everlasting.

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

A painted sky colored in oranges, pinks, and encroaching shades of a blue line and caress the rays of dying light -- evening waning into dusk to settle what things that bask in heat now cooling into silence. All except the glow of gaslight lanterns set to cut through the dark and invite those willing to brave the night. A sea of stars that dot and speckle, the only witnesses to what lie beneath its cover of twilight.

Armadillo, now at the peak of its occupancy and free of the cholera that long plagued the desolate town now thriving for such wanderers that still longed for the untamed vigor of what the west used to be. In this, came the unwanted attention of vagrants seeking to claim a piece of it. New Austin now overrun with its seemingly endless problematic personalities sook with equal degenerate ideas of how things should be run.

All that akin to what became his current standing mirrored seamlessly, in the faces he passed -- a general clinging to something that would eventually evaporate into nothing the moment it became obsolete. He, now like them, a relic stuck in a past with no future but now in the present a mere symbol of what times were. And so, resigned to himself, John simply bides time amidst the bar of Armadillo's saloon - drinking to and in the hopes of find the next move somewhere at the base of a glass decanter. A collection of wanted posters spread out in front of him each curling to the damp condensation trickling from his cup.

A certain Gene "Beau" Finley had caught the attention of many in recent weeks. How a rich man became infatuated with the idea of turning into outlaw, to the point of following through with the transformation entirely had captivated a small audience. Either stupid or merely a moron playing at cowboy sat ill in John's mind. How one could have necessity but waste it was beyond him, however, if there was excess - John would relieve him of it. Only the issue of where to find the man at large.

Humid, hot was the breath at a neck uncovered by the leather coat that adorned the shoulders and draped halfway down the stool of his chair. Languid and also dulcet were the notes that flooded his ear in a request of the stool beside him. A form coming to view that near shadowed him in the sheer height. Feminine physiques rarely stunned him, yet, eyes wide as saucers as a pair of dark hues traveled from foot to head engulfed a mind to near awe. Blonde strands swayed as her body readjusted, bi-colored eyes almost hauntingly keeping his own gaze transfixed. What came next had only been her interest in the bounty paper of Beau of her own that an olive hand produced from some hidden pocket. A question of where, followed by an almost promise of niceties.

oh, don’t worry. I’m real nice.

It was no secret that he was the resident bounty hunter of the area, no doubt something that could've been told to her in passing he supposed. Otherwise, the tension brewing in this moment had turned his mood and drink sour.

"I'm sure Beau will kindly put a bullet in your head for your hospitality, Miss.", the words no less irritated than the intent on the furrowing of his brow. whatever 'nice' she had truly intended.