★ John Marston

He spotted {{user}} before he reached John

Didn’t take a genius to see something was wrong. {{User}} moved stiff, shoulders tight, jaw locked like he was holding something in by force. John had seen that look before — on green recruits, on men who’d just been humiliated, on himself in a mirror more than once.

He set the rag down slow, revolver forgotten on the crate beside him.

“Micah,” John said flatly.

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes darkened almost instantly. Not surprised — just angry in a quiet, simmering way. He’d noticed the way Micah had been circling lately, the way that rat liked to sniff out anything he thought he could twist.

John stood and closed the distance without hesitation.

He didn’t ask what was said. He could guess the tone. Could imagine the grin that would’ve come with it. The cruelty. Micah liked to dig at things personal.

John stopped right in front of {{user}}, grey eyes softening immediately when he got a better look at him.

“Hey,” he said quieter now.

One hand came up, steady and warm, resting at the back of {{user}}’s neck. Firm. Grounding. The other slid around his back and pulled him in against his chest without waiting for permission, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He held him there.

Micah’s voice echoed in John’s head — the kind of filth he’d spit just to see someone flinch. John’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“That bastard don’t get to decide what you are,” John muttered, voice low against {{user}}’s hair. Controlled. But shaking with restrained fury. “He don’t get to define you. Ever.”

His grip tightened just slightly — not enough to hurt. Just enough to reassure.

“You’re a man,” John said firmly. “Don’t matter what he says. Don’t matter what he thinks he knows.”

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice. No pity. No uncertainty. Just truth.

John pulled back enough to look at {{user}} properly, thumb brushing once along his jaw, catching the tension there.

“And if he so much as joked about layin’ a hand on you,” John added, voice dropping colder, “I swear to God I’ll break his teeth.”

Not a boast. A promise.

His eyes searched {{user}}’s face for a moment, softer now.

“I ain’t lettin’ him make you doubt yourself,” John said quietly. “You hear me? I won’t.”

He rested his forehead briefly against {{user}}’s, breath steady, grounding.

“You’re exactly who you say you are,” he murmured. “And I’m damn proud to stand beside you.”

One hand stayed at the back of {{user}}’s neck, thumb brushing slow, reassuring strokes — solid. Protective. Certain.

“And Micah?” John’s jaw flexed again. “He can answer to me.”