#arthur asks john to slow down

[rabbit-heart4]

just finished season 3. I will be choosing to ignore the last few minutes and I will pretend that arthur and john drive away while eating the bread. its sourdough and arthur discusses different types of bread and why he does and doesn't like each. arthur explains sourdough starters to john and john is throughoughly horrified. then arthur explains everything that happened while john was gone. then once in a normal area they stop at a motel and arthur has a real shower. then they go to a pharmacy and arthur more properly bandages and cleans his stomach wound. then they go to a burger place which arthur absolutely devours and explains how incredible they are to john. they get something sweet with it, perhaps a cookie or a brownie to make up for arthur's blood loss. if not, a coke. then they drive off into the sunset happily ever after!!!!!!!!!

[kayakiki]

HOW DO THEY KISS YOU | Red dead redemption x reader

Characters included: Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, John Marston, Hosea Matthews, Javier Escuella, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith (In this order)

Warning(s): none

Genre: fluff

Arthur Morgan

For a guy so intimidating and confident most of the times, he has troubles speaking to women (Honestly, he is better with horses)

Its not his first kiss, but he’ll stare at your lips like it’s a complicated math equation

He's a lil stupid once it comes to women, he's goofy like that sometimes

I feel like he would ask for permission from you first

“So, um… can I…?”

Yes, babe. You can.

When you kiss him (you lost patience) he is so stiff you might think he had forgotten how to move

But after a few moments, he kisses you back

His kisses are soft, slow, and surprisingly sweet

When he kisses, it’s an interesting mix of contrasts. His large hands—often rough from a lifetime of work and wielding weapons—become surprisingly gentle as he cups your face or pulls you closer

Despite his towering figure, he’s careful not to make you feel overwhelmed. His kiss is slow and deliberate, as though he’s savoring the moment, giving you all the time to melt into him.

He might even blush afterward and nervously mumble something like

"Was that okay?"

(Spoiler: It was amazing)

This man loves you with his whole heart, and he treats you with respect

Dutch Van Der Linde

This cocky, dramatic bastard

He treats every kiss like a grand event. There is no such thing as a casual peck with him—no, every kiss must have intensity, flair, and possibly background music playing somewhere.

His ass really is that dramatic

He announces his intentions very dramaticaly

"Come here love, I have been deprived of your lips for too long"

(Like an hour)

When he kisses you, it's with the same confidence that defines him as a leader

He’s not shy about making the first move, and it’s clear that he knows exactly what he’s doing

His lips are bold against yours, demanding your attention, but it’s never forceful—it’s the kind of kiss that makes you feel wanted, adored, and completely swept up in the moment

He might even dip you slightly, fully expecting you to just go with it

He definitely use his hands (This man can't keep his hands of you)

One on your waist, pulling you closer.

The other gently cupping your face like you’re the protagonist of his favorite romance novel

And afterward? He’ll smirk, brush a thumb over your lips, and say something like

"Ah… exquisite, as always."

Or worse—

"Did that leave you breathless, my love? Or shall I try again?"

(It did leave you breathless)

He sometimes throws his coat over your shoulders and say “You mustn’t catch a cold, my darling” right before kissing you?

You’re dating a historical drama character

John Marston

His kisses often start off rough and impulsive

He'll grab your face with a bit too much force, but it’s always followed by a softer touch once you pull away and glare at him

He realizes he’s being a little too aggressive (never to the point to actually hurt you though, he is just little careless)

It’s a little chaotic at first, but it smooths out into something tender once he settles into the moment

Despite his sarcastic, rough exterior, there’s a surprising sweetness to his kisses

Sometimes they’re slow and deep, as if he’s letting his guard down and showing you the side of him he doesn’t often show

In those moments, the sarcasm and playfulness fades away

Between slow, lingering moments, he'll pull back just enough to flash you a smirk or crack a playful comment, making you laugh before diving right back in, kissing you harder this time, as if he’s trying to win you over all over again

He might be a little reckless, but when he kisses you, there’s a kind of control in the way he pulls you close

He might whisper something sarcastic or teasing into your ear right before a kiss, making you roll your eyes at him

He’s not the type to plan out a romantic moment, but he’ll surprise you with a kiss at random times

Like when you're both laughing at something dumb or when he’s just looking at you for a second too long, his smile softening into something genuine as he leans in and kisses you

He is a little bit of an idiot, but in a good way

Hosea Matthews

He’s a patient man, and his kisses reflect that

When he kisses you, it’s never rushed

He takes his time, savoring every moment, as though he knows good things are worth the wait

His lips are soft and deliberate, moving in slow, sensual rhythms that make you feel cherished with every gentle press

As someone who respects women deeply, he treats you with a kindness and reverence that shows in every kiss.

He might cup your face with his hands, brushing his thumb against your cheek before he leans in.

His kiss is tender, respectful, and never forceful, making you feel safe and cared for in his embrace

Sometimes when he kisses you, there’s a subtle sense of humor, a lightheartedness in the way he pulls away with a smile, teasing you about how he “might” kiss you again, but you’ll have to earn it.

It’s not cocky, just a little playful teasing to keep things fun (in his opinion)

He’s the type to kiss you on the forehead in moments of quiet reflection, a soft gesture that speaks volumes about how much he values your presence

It’s never about passion first

it’s always about the emotion behind the kiss

Javier Escuella

Now let's be honest, Javier is a very romantic and passionate man

His kisses are intense—there’s no beating around the bush with him

When he kisses you, it’s like he’s pouring all his emotions into it, full of fire and passion

His hands will pull you close, his lips eager but still careful, as though every kiss is an opportunity to express just how deeply he feels for you

It's like a blazing flame that never burns out

He’s a man who’s incredibly loyal and protective of you

But even in his possessiveness, there's a tenderness beneath

He often calls you pet names in Spanish— "mi amor,” “mi corazón,” “cariña” before he kisses you, each word wrapped in affection and pride

When he kisses you, it’s not just the kiss that’s passionate; it’s the playful teasing that comes with it

He might pull you in for a kiss, only to stop just before your lips meet, giving you a smirk before finally sealing it with a passionate kiss

If someone dares to flirt with you, you’ll see a whole new side of him in his kisses. He’ll kiss you fiercely, almost as if to mark his claim

While kissing, his hands are placed on your waist, holding you in place, as if he’s making sure you know how much he values you.

He’s proud to have you as his, and it shows in the way he kisses you

Beneath his fiery exterior, there’s a side of him that’s surprisingly tender.

After a heated kiss, he might rest his forehead against yours, just taking a moment to breathe together.

His hands will caress your face gently, almost as if he’s trying to hold onto that moment of peace

When he kisses you, it’s not just to show affection, it’s because he’s fighting for your heart.

He wants you to know that he’s loyal and steadfast in his love for you, and his kisses are always filled with that promise

You might get a kiss full of passion after a difficult moment or a kiss that’s a little extra when he’s feeling especially proud of you

Either way, he’ll make sure to show you that you mean the world to him

Lenny Summers

At first, his kisses are a bit shy and uncertain

He’s incredibly intelligent and quick-witted, but when it comes to showing his feelings, he gets a little nervous

His hands might tremble slightly as he cups your face, but the warmth in his kiss makes up for the hesitation

His kisses are soft and gentle at first, almost as if he’s testing the waters, unsure of whether he’s doing it right but fully invested in the moment

Despite his shy side, he has a playful nature, and that’s reflected in his kisses

If you laugh or smile at him, he’ll get all flustered, but he’ll still find a way to make it lighthearted

Maybe he’ll steal a kiss quickly, then tease you about how your reaction made him nervous

His kisses are full of energy, but they always carry a humorous edge to keep things fun

When he’s in a more serious mood, his kisses reflect his calm and introspective nature

He won’t rush things or make them too intense; instead, his kisses are slow, deliberate, and filled with thoughtfulness

You can feel how much he’s thinking about you, and how much he wants to express his feelings, even if he can’t always say the right words

It’s the kind of kiss that makes you feel deeply cared for and appreciated

Charles Smith

His kisses are always gentle and sincere, as he takes great care to never rush or force anything

He is the kind of person who is patient, so when he kisses you, it feels like a carefully thought-out moment of affection

It’s a soft, lingering kiss, full of warmth and tenderness, as if he’s savoring the connection

He’s a man of honor, and that extends into how he treats you. His kisses are never about trying to impress or overwhelm you

Instead, he ensures that every kiss feels like an act of respect

He might gently hold your face in his hands, guiding you to him with a soft touch, letting you know how much he cherishes you without saying a word

In his kisses, you can feel the depth of his protective nature

He never wants you to feel alone, and when he kisses you, it’s almost as if he’s silently reassuring you that he’s there for you, always

His kisses have a way of calming your heart and giving you the courage to face anything, because you know he has your back

Despite his quiet nature, when he kisses you, there’s a sense of quiet confidence that emanates from him

He doesn’t need grand gestures to show his feelings; his kisses are enough

Even in the most intimate moments, he remains respectful and considerate of your boundaries

He takes the time to understand what you like, what makes you feel safe and loved, and adjusts his approach accordingly

His kisses are always in tune with your comfort level, making you feel treasured in every way

[blackenedsnow]

The saddlebag prompt is so silly! I love it! I have a fluffy child reader idea too!

The child convinces Arthur, John, and some of the others to play pretend a passenger train robbery. While they play, John surprises the child by picking them up and taking them over to the "loot bag" Arthur is holding for the game.

The child is all giggly when John puts them in it, and Arthur hops on his horse to escape with the "loot".

the loot's alive

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Arthur Morgan & Child! Reader, John Marston & Child! Reader, Sean MacGuire & Child! Reader, Javier Escuella & Child! Reader, Hosea Matthews & Child! Reader, Charles Smith & Child! Reader

NOTE: I'm so glad you liked the saddlebag idea! Thanks for requesting this fluffy, fun story. I hope this one brought a smile to your face!

SUMMARY: The camp is quiet until you convince Arthur and John to play a pretend train robbery.

It was a lazy afternoon at camp, the kind where even the wind seemed to have decided to take a break. You, however, had far too much energy to sit still. After spending half the morning running around, you had an idea that just couldn’t wait. You found Arthur sitting by the campfire, sharpening his knife while John cleaned his guns nearby.

“Uncle Arthur! John!” you called, running up with wide eyes and a mischievous grin.

Arthur raised his head, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “What’s goin’ on, kid?” he asked, putting the knife down.

“I wanna play! Let’s rob a train!” you announced with dramatic flair, throwing your arms up.

John grinned and glanced over at Arthur. “Well, sounds like we’ve got ourselves a criminal mastermind.”

Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head. “A train robbery, huh? Alright, kid. Guess we’ll need a loot bag then.” He got up, grabbing an old saddlebag from his horse. “What’s the plan?”

Your eyes gleamed with excitement. “We stop the train and take all the treasure! You, Uncle Arthur, carry the loot bag, and John, you handle the passengers!”

John played along, giving a mock serious nod. “Passengers, huh? Alright, kid, you’re the boss.”

As the two of them got into position, you ran around as the "passengers," pretending to be someone very rich. “Please, sir! Don’t take my treasure!” you cried, clutching an invisible pile of jewels.

John crept toward you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m afraid we gotta take everything you got.”

Just as you were about to run, John grabbed you gently, scooping you up into the air. “Look what we’ve got here! The real prize!”

You squealed with laughter as John swung you around, making you feel like you were flying. He carried you over to Arthur, who stood there holding the loot bag.

Arthur looked down at you with a smirk. “Well, well. Looks like we found ourselves some valuable loot.” He held the bag open, and John carefully placed you inside, your giggles echoing as your legs dangled out of the bag.

Arthur grinned, lifting the bag with you still inside. “Better hold on tight. I’m takin’ off with the goods.”

Before he could start his "getaway," though, Sean came strutting into camp, his wild red hair bouncing as he caught sight of the scene. “Now what in the name of all things holy is goin' on here?”

You peeked out of the bag, giggling uncontrollably. “We’re playing train robbery!”

Sean’s face split into a wide grin. “Aw, shite! I love me a good robbery! Count me in!” He ran up beside John, rubbing his hands together. “So, who’s the unlucky bastard we’re robbin’?”

John shook his head, still smiling. “Already got the best loot right here.” He pointed at you, still giggling in Arthur’s loot bag.

Sean threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, but ya gotta watch out for them sneaky lawmen, Arthur!” He made finger guns and started shooting at imaginary enemies. “Bang! Bang! The law’s comin’ for ya!”

Arthur played along, hopping onto his horse. “Better outrun ‘em then!” He spurred his horse into a slow trot around the camp, with you laughing from inside the saddlebag.

By now, Javier had wandered over, his guitar slung over his shoulder. “What’s all the noise about?” he asked, amusement in his voice as he watched the scene unfold.

“Train robbery!” you yelled from the bag, waving your arms.

Javier chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, so that’s what I’m missing.” He strummed a few chords on his guitar, playing a lively tune. “Well, no robbery’s complete without a good getaway song, right?”

As Javier’s playful melody filled the air, Charles, who had been quietly sharpening his tomahawk nearby, couldn’t help but join in on the fun. He walked over, arms crossed, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You need any help making your escape, Arthur?”

Arthur snorted. “Could use some muscle to back me up.”

Charles nodded and jogged beside Arthur’s horse as he continued his slow “escape” around camp, giving you a reassuring grin as you peeked out of the bag.

But then came Hosea, who had been watching from the sidelines with a bemused expression. He sauntered over, shaking his head. “I see you’ve all lost your minds.”

John grinned. “Come on, Hosea. You know you want in.”

Hosea chuckled softly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose someone has to play the lawman. You folks are in big trouble now,” he said, raising his hands like he was ready to arrest you all.

Everyone burst out laughing, even Arthur cracking a grin as he slowed his horse and “surrendered” the loot bag. “Alright, Hosea, you caught me,” he said, carefully lifting you out of the saddlebag and setting you back on the ground.

You wobbled slightly, still giggling as you dusted yourself off. “You got us all, Hosea!”

Hosea winked at you, his eyes full of warmth. “You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful today.”

Sean came over, lifting you onto his shoulders with a playful grin. “Well, we may have lost the loot, but that was one hell of a robbery!”

They all laughed, Javier strumming his guitar as Charles, John, and Arthur looked on with soft smiles. Even Hosea shook his head with a chuckle.

“All thanks to our little mastermind,” Arthur added, tipping his hat toward you.

You grinned from your perch on Sean’s shoulders, beaming at all of them. “We should rob another train tomorrow!”

[spring-rol1]

Bear price and his housewife while she's ovulating, and he obviously wants her to have his little cubs

mhmM bear price with that breeding kink

this was supposed to be with no plot by my hands have a mind of their own

// p in v, slight manhandling, talks of having kids, comment what else I've missed!

••••

John is clingy than usual. His usual gentle hand around the waist, had now become full on groping your hips, squeezing and patting the fat around the edges and if you listen close enough you could hear him groan delightfully.

Not to mention his usual appreciative kiss on the neck, had now become open mouth kisses to the side of your neck, sometimes he would smell just you. He did say time to time of the day you smell better, sweeter, nicer even without perfume. And both of you can't point out why.

Just like right now, you were trying to focus stirring the stew for dinner but John's hands and kisses were nothing but distracting, albiet a welcoming distraction.

"John? Im cooking" You said, trying to lightly imply that one more kiss to the neck could make you turn off the stove and kiss him on his bearded face right before reaching the bedroom and-

"Mhm... I can see that."

"Then Mr. Price, I need you to wait for dinner."

John was silent for a moment and you could almost think that he complied with your request, but those are wishful thinking

"How about, dinner can wait for us Mrs. Price?" John spoke back as his hand reached out to turn off the stove.

John didn't waste time on carrying you bridal style to the bedroom while you squel in surprise.

John couldn't wait any longer, just watching you do your daily routine had him adjusting his pants. He had enough and he wants you. Now.

John carried you to the bedroom right before lightly throwing you on the bed making you gasp in surprise. You didn't have enough time to gather yourself before John started crawling on top of you.

"Jo-"

He didn't waste time, pressing his lips onto yours. Its feverish, heated, and full of unsaid words.

"Sorry luv... Couldn't wait any longer."

With how he's panting and desperate, why not take pity on your poor poor man? They did say actions speak louder than words, with that in thought you leaned forward to kiss him more and your hands work on his shirt.

John groaned into the kiss

"atta luv."

••••

"Fuck! J-John, slow down- Ffuck please!" You gasp as he thrusts into you more from the back, your tits dragging sweetly agaist the sheets

"Just.... Little m-more" John hugged your body closer as you feel his weight onto you, his hairy chest and his bod agaist your back, and you can't do anything but lose your mind more.

Along the way he started whispering things agaist your ear, with him closer your getting the words clearer. Something about cubs?

"so good, so good for me luv, ai-aint that righ'?" John groans into your ear as his thrusts turn sporadic.

"Jo-John!"

"Take it- take it all. Gon be a good mum." He unwraps his arms around you and rose up straighter to grab you by your hips and plow deeper

You couldn't speak, your mouth only opening silently and John grunts as he feels you tighten around him.

"c-cum wit' me luv," he says as he thrust faster and faster.

John loudly groans as he spills his seed into you as you scream his name.

Your body shakes in its aftermath and John leans his head back from the feeling.

Both of you are panting and holding each other as you both calm down from the session.

"John?"

"Mhm... Yes luv?" he asked as he kisses your shoulder, spooning from behind you, his dick still inside, keeping you plugged

"Arthur sounds nice for a boy..." you smile at the thought.

John freezes his movements as he takes in your words.

"You really thin' so?" John looks at you, half afraid that was he heard was just a figment of imagination yet half excited at the prospect of having a baby.

"Mhmm, how bout a girl?" you smile at the thought

"haven't though' of that yet.... As long as she has your eyes..." Both you and John smile as the two of you start to daze off to sleep

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Trained to Love (Tommy Shelby)

Description: Thomas and Y/N are married but neither love each other and nobody seemed to notice the fake acts of love besides one person

Warning: A little smut

Word Count:1,682

Request:been reading too many smut for Thomas Shelby need heartbreaking angst

Author’s note: Can be a Michael x Reader as well...

She stared at the ring on her finger, a young girl who was forced to marry a man that was way older than her but atleast was very very attractive. She loved him, she really loved him or so she thought. He had given her everything, truly anything she could ever want he was able to provide. Except for love, he didn’t love her. Sure he played the part in front of his family but he couldn’t always play coy.  The hand holding, the laughs, the closeness was all fake. She hated that he put on this front while he was with his family. Why act like everything was all peachy when it clearly wasn’t? Clearly was a strong word because everyone bought this act besides one person, Michael. Michael could see through the fake marriage like it was glass. Y/N could only wish that someone would say something, call them out on such acts but that was a lot to ask for.

She sat across from Michael, who was around her age as they drank from the whiskey she took from Tommy. He had so many at this point she doubted that he would notice. Michael kept eyeing her as they drank thinking of what he should say. “Why are you with a man that doesn’t love you?” He asked and boldly so. She looked at him, interested in the question. She hadn’t thought that anyone would notice, “What’s it to you?” She asked. He gave her a small smile and set down the glass. He was a lot more observant than he led on though that was fortunate for her.

“You didn’t think I would notice, did you?”  She really didn’t. “I had thought that everyone was oblivious to it and that nobody would ever question it.” She told him and he smiled. “Well here I am.” He said and she chuckled. Finally, she thought. Someone who had a mind and looked closely at things. “Did he promise you money or objects? Anything your little heart desires?”  He asked. She shook her head and set down her glass. “Arranged. Something about keeping my father alive and a business deal?” She had humor in her answer and she acted as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard of.

“Do you love him?” Michael asked her as he poured the rest of the whiskey from the bottle in his cup. She sat there and thought about the question, did she love him? Or did she train herself to love him? She never seemed to have the option of whether or not she loved him. She stared off as she thought, Michael waiting for her answer. “ I’m his wife so yes but that’s the only reason why.” She tells him. Trained to love him based on their marriage. Thomas wasn’t trained to love her based on their marriage so why was she?

  “But you don’t love him for him.” How could she? He cheated on her constantly and was a dangerous man, what was there to love? Michael could tell that she was waiting for someone to see through it and he came just in time. “No, I don’t.” She had never said it outloud and it felt good. She didn’t love Thomas and maybe just maybe this could be her way out. Michael stood up from his chair and walked over to her, slow steps approaching her. “I’m your hero then.” He mumbled as she looked up at him.

She could see herself falling for Michael in another life, maybe even marrying him. He seemed nice and could see through all the bullshit. “Maybe you are.” She whispered and leaned up to him. Their lips barely touch as the thought of Tommy runs through her mind. She was about to cheat on her husband, something she never thought she would do. Michael closed the gap and kissed her and she hated herself for thinking that this kiss was better than any she shared with Tommy. 

Tommy left maybe 10 minutes ago with Arthur and John to do whatever it is that they do before killing people. Y/N was barely paying attention anytime they talked about business. She watched him leave before running to Michael’s office. Michael heard the knock and knew that it was her. He smiled before telling her to come in. She opened the door and whatever Michael was working on was not important. Young Love, that’s what this was and has been for months.

Tommy had yet to catch on to their drinking sessions and sex in Michael’s office. He had yet to catch on to the lingering stares and how happy his wife looked over the past months. Michael’s lips touched hers and the world stopped, they were in another universe when they were together while Tommy was out protecting his family that included her. “Does he fuck you as good as I do?”  Michael asked as he thrusted inside of her. She could barely speak from the pleasure but managed out, “No never!” She whined but the truth was that Tommy barely touched her. The last time they had sex was way before Michael and her started hooking up.

Tommy didn’t need to have sex with her while he was getting his pleasures from other women. Michael took pride in knowing that he was better at sex than Tommy. Though Y/N couldn’t compare them, she never really had sex with Tommy.  Her hands gripped the counter as Michael thrusted in her, both of them being loud as the others should be gone. Should be but Tommy had walked in before the others and heard the noise from Michael’s office. 

At first he smirked thinking that Michael was getting it on with some random woman, not his wife. It wasn’t until he heard the scream of Michael’s name that he knew that was his wife. When Arthur and John walked in the two were done. Tommy had a look on his face as his brothers walked in, one that was no good. Arthur asked him what was wrong but Tommy stormed off.

Y/N got dressed and brushed through her hair to make sure it didn’t look messy. “You look great.” He told her and she smiled at him. He walked up to her and kissed her, the kiss was soft and full of love. Love, the word that they had yet to say but both felt regardless of the situation. “I love you.” She said to him. She looked at him and waited for him to say something. “I love you too.” He said and she gave the biggest smile.

She opened the door to her and Tommy’s shared home with a smile on her face. She had been out with Michael all day but they couldn’t act all lovey. That didn’t stop her from being happy as they didn’t have to act like that to be happy. Tommy waited for her with a glass of whiskey as she walked into the house. “Bonnie said he saw you with Michael today.” Tommy said, she nearly jumped at his voice. She saw him with his glass that she was drinking from months ago with Michael. “Yes we were out at the pub.”  She told him, which wasn’t a lie. “You guys are close.” “Yeah sure.” The jealousy in his voice couldn’t be ignored.  “Close enough that you guys have sex in his office?” She froze at the question, how did he know about that? Who told him that?

He stood from his chair and dropped his glass, the shattering noise did all but break the tension. “How long have you been fucking him?” He asked as he got closer to her. She couldn’t even deny it at this point. “A few months.” She said and he couldn’t believe that she would do that to him. He seemed to forget that he cheated on her a lot and that he didn’t even love her. “Do you love him?” The question brought back the memory of when Michael asked her that.  It wasn’t the same situation but the same question. She didn’t have to think about it like she did when Michael asked her. “Yes.” She whispered and looked at her husband. “Yes I do but let’s not stand here and act like you love me so much.” Her voice raised a bit and she took a step closer to him.

“Of course I love you, you’re my wife.” She laughed, right in his face. “Yeah right, Thomas that’s the thing! We don’t love each other for each other , we love each other because we are married, like we were trained to love. I was, not you. You don’t love me at all. You cheat on me too and way more than I have you.”  She called him out. “This act, Thomas, it can't go on you and I both know that this marriage was doomed from the beginning. We don’t love each other, we can’t love each other.” Her voice was soft at the end as she looked at him and waited for a response. “So what, you divorce me and marry him?”   She sighed and turned away from him.

“Not the point, Thomas.” She felt tears in her eyes as she stared down at her ring, a phony, it meant nothing.  She was young when her and Tommy were forced into this marriage and she was still young and had a whole life ahead of her. A life that she wanted with another man. She slid the ring off her finger and turned to Thomas with tears in her eyes. She would hope that was the last time she would have to look at him like that but it wouldn’t be. Years later she would look at him nearly the same way with tears in her eyes at her husband's funeral  after he killed him. But she didn’t know that yet, she wasn’t aware of the mistake she had of being tied to the family. She was better off dead than in this family. 

[kiana12113]

Oh, Neighbor

john marston x reader

✦ strangers to lovers, slow burn, john’s pov

Synopsis: John, your lonesome neighbor, continues to pester you every chance he gets. Other than ranching and journaling, he sure seems to have nothing better to do.

Note: finished ! ! ! rdr makes me want to kill myself, but at least john exists (๑و>o<)و♡⁠ finally got this thing out of the trenches, and after requests i’ll follow-up w a jack fic. YAY <3

i kind of imagined the whole thing with a studio ghibli animation in my head. there’s only one inaccuracy: “can’t help falling in love” by elvis presley wasn’t out until 1961. let’s just pretend he was early by a few decades ~

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 17.2k

February 24, 1907

Heard there weren’t much people here, guess they were right. All of this is to retire from all of that business, and live out my remainin’ days in peace. When Arthur gave me his journal, I didn’t expect it to have so much written. He was poetic — in a way. I try my best to recreate the way he drew all those animals and people, even though I can’t pick up a pencil.

For the most part, it has been peaceful here. Not much people to talk to, though. Takin’ care of this ranch ain’t much work, either, I always find myself having spare time. And I’m sure I’ll develop a lung disease with how much cigarettes I’ve been smokin’.

Guess we’ll see, though, how this whole thing’ll work out.

John writes in his journal, flipping the pages without noise. No one disturbs, and there is no one to disturb. Mellow streaks of light from the sun mark on the paper, and from his view are the snowy trees and the ice melting on the grass.

Only faint mooing and baas of animals are heard from the distance, other than rustling of the trees — due to cold wind — that also hits him in the face like a brick.

It was quiet. And as much as John had been searching for that quiet, he found himself doubting — about all of this. About all his actions and choices.

February 28, 1907

I’m not sure if I’m capable of settlin’ down and livin’ a quiet life, at least like this. The only person I can talk to here is Uncle, and he’s a damn leech.

So this is the normal life.

John paused his writing, sighing and closing the journal.

Nothing is quite interesting here. He’s thankful for the peace, however, there’s something that’s always been bugging him since he moved here.

The stillness of everything. How only leaves seemed to fall, how no one passes by, the chirping of the birds as they flap their feathers above. John does ranch work in a systematic manner — and the more he spends time with himself, the more he notices the tiny things he used not to.

He felt alone, but he refused to call himself lonely.

He’s gone out and reeled up fish, attempted to cook — only that didn’t work out, and he found himself sweeping the wooden floors of his home.

For a person that lived alone, the walls seemed to expand without an end.

March 7, 1907

I got a dog.

He’s cute, I’ll say that. Named him Rufus. I’d rather talk to him than Uncle. Nice to have someone here who actually has a contribution in the ranch.

Damn it, I forgot to feed the chickens. John remembers, while he hurriedly walked over to the chicken pen.

“You’ve been hungry, ain’t ya? Sorry ‘bout that.” He talks to the chickens, as if they could understand him.

It wasn’t hard to manage the ranch. All he had to do was to not forget, and he had more time than he needed to do these things. There’s never been a struggle taking care of the cattle, or his horse, or lifting up the crates and sacks.

But someone looked to be having more trouble than he was.

You — his neighbor. One that didn’t talk, nor did he see much. But you seemed to live alone, and worked all day without any help.

“Hey, miss!” John calls, seeing you lift up crates with a posture that would definitely result in a broken back.

“No? Don’t talk much?” He asks softly, walking closely to the fence as his eyes followed you. He rested his forearms on the hard wood, leaning in as he raised a brow.

“That’s… you’re gonna break your back, miss.” He persists, before you finally place the crate on the ground.

You look at him, wiping the beads of sweat that dripped from your forehead. “What?”

John speaks up again. “I… think you need help.” Truly, he wanted to help you, but he couldn’t help that sheepish look of embarrassment on his face. He felt like he was being judged, hard.

“I’ve been ranching for years.”

John thought you were stubborn. But before he could say anything else, you went back to your business with clogged ears.

Huh.

March 7, 1907

In addition to this day, I met a strange woman. I should’ve met her earlier, since her home had already been here before mine — but regardless, I think she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

I offered to help her earlier, but she ignored it and stubbornly went back to breakin’ her back. Wonder why she’s workin’ on her ranch all by herself.

And it happened a few more weeks after.

“Hey, missy!” John calls out the second time this morning.

“I really think you should let me help.” He’s leaning on the fence again, the same spot every time. He tilts his head upwards to see what else you’re doing, as he lifts up the brim of his hat slightly.

You respond, this time, which makes him have a sliver of hope.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re somethin’, alright…” He murmurs. “…that was a compliment!”

“Look, miss, you’re gonna kill yourself like that. Why don’t you let me help you?” He insists, a pleading tone seeping in his voice as he watched you helplessly.

You stopped for a moment, catching your breath as you turned to look at him.

“I’m sure you have something else better to do, sir.”

John shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Not… really,”

“And it’s John. John… Marston. I mean, we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

The silence made him cringe. He awaited your next response with impatience — not because he was irritated, but because he was getting awkward.

Then you said your name. John’s face lit up, almost immediately.

“So let me help you, [Reader]!” He sounded like an eager kid. It seemed he really did have nothing better to do.

But you still insisted and refused.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

It��s been the same since then. John coming up to the fence to stare at you while you worked. Well, not really stare — but it sure felt like he was. He tried to subtly glance over you while working on his own ranch, but John doesn’t know a single thing about being subtle. So he ends up coming off as creepy either way.

March 27, 1907

I ain’t writin’ down her name here, but she told me it. Yeah, my neighbor. That stubborn one. Told her she was gonna kill herself few days ago because of her stubbornness, yet she still insisted. I really do wonder why she keeps on persistin’ like that.

John writes on his journal with focus and his foreheads knotting slightly. His back is pressed against the wooden wall of his porch.

Every morning she’s wakin’ up to carry ‘round crates and sacks and chasing down cattle. I do commend her for that, though. I just watch helplessly from afar. I got a feelin’ she sees me as some kind of competition — which I ain’t.

Can’t help but feel bad for her, in a way, even though she’s capable. Wish I could help, since I got nothin’ better to do here. Don’t wanna turn myself crazy talkin’ to animals.

His eyes glance over to your figure, again, for about the fourth time. You’re a hard-working one. You’ve always got that hair of yours in a ponytail, and you’ve always been quite neat.

“Missy! Your chickens are escaping!” John says as he notices the open pen and the overwhelming amount of chickens flooding outside.

Your hands were full with taking care of a horse. You had no time to chase them all down before they’d fully escaped.

Seeing your alarmed expression and unfortunate position, John climbs over the fence with haste.

“These damned things,” He mutters to himself while he chased them down. “Hey! Come back!” He scoops them up while some try to protest. The chickens were flailing and batting their wings endlessly, feathers shooting up by John’s eyes in an attempt to resist.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” He continues to talk to them. One by one, all of the chickens are returned inside the coop.

Except for one — which was securing a safe escape to the water.

John hurriedly chased it down, determined to hunt every last chicken.

While it happened, you stood there with awe and a certain dumbfounded expression.

What the hell was he doing?

He looked stupid. He really did. He chased down the last chicken with a tackle, his body hitting the ground with a thud and a loud grunt.

“I gotcha, damn chicken.” He murmurs, getting up as he dusted his pants and made his way back to the pen.

You stood there. “Why’d you… do that?”

He stopped in front of you, with a chicken in hand. “Well they were gonna… escape. So I chased them. I hope you didn’t mind?”

John thought maybe he should have let the chickens escape, with that puzzled look on your face. He was covered in mud and dirt, all from that tackling that he did.

“…Thank you.” You said, looking hesitant. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ve caused you trouble.”

He was surprised of how guilty you looked. John was nothing more than a bored-to-death rancher. You acted as if you took all his precious time.

“I told you, miss. I ain’t got nothing else better to do. Tackling these chickens for ya ain’t trouble at all.” He replied, once again dusting himself off in a futile attempt to get all the dirt off of him. He gently drops the chicken back in the pen.

And his ears perk up at your barely-contained snort behind him. He turns his head to your direction almost immediately, to see you muffling a laugh with your hand.

“What’s so funny?” He asks with confusion.

He didn’t know how incredibly stupid he looked right now. All because of chickens. He looked like he had gone through a storm. A real rough one — with his hair all messed up and his clothes practically drenched in dirt and mud.

“Nothing,” You say, failing to contain your laughter. John puts on a confused smile, taking off his hat as he approached you.

“It’s just… you… look stupid, John.”

He thought your comment was the sweetest thing you’ve said to him yet. It’s degrading, but you’re laughing, and you’re saying his name. Which is more than your usual ignorance — so he’ll forgive you for now.

He lights up for a moment, before he tries to dust off all the mud off of him again. He can hear your chuckles while he did so. “Alright, yeah, yeah… make fun of me.”

He can’t help but smile himself, despite all of that. He was the reason of your laughing, even though he did look stupid.

“Sorry, sorry…” You mumbled with a sigh.

“Well? You saw how helpful I am. Think that makes me worthy of helpin’ you out now?” John says with a small smile.

“I think you need to clean yourself off first.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

March 28, 1907

Made a fool of myself chasing around chickens. You know, my neighbor’s. Ran around the field scooping them up and got dirt and mud all over myself.

She called me an idiot. But I guess it doesn’t really sting much, since she laughed along with the words. Guess she ain’t that much of a stubborn woman, more of a closed-off one.

Today John is by his usual spot — resting on your fence. He’s as early as morning, awaking along the crowing of roosters. Dawn barely cracks and he’s already blabbing his mouth.

“You gonna let me help out?” He asks. You’re off to carrying another heavy sack.

“Depends. Will you?” You said with a huff, panting quietly.

John took that as a yes, and he didn’t need to be said twice. He was already up and going with a sack over his shoulders. He’s swift, already on the job without a single complain.

He already had two in by the time you put yours over the wagon.

The early morning shining on his figure didn’t help, you thought. It distracted you more than it made you work.

He wasn’t anything special. Just an average male with a lean physique, but you could tell he did more than ranching. He lifted those sacks up like they were nothing, and he was more than happy to do so.

As the action prolonged you could notice the tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. One trickled down until his chin, dropping down to his throat, dragging itself along his skin.

“I appreciate the admiration, but ain’t it rude to stare?” He says with a small smile, stopping in his tracks momentarily to tease you.

“I wasn’t.” You replied almost immediately, picking up another sack with determination and striding towards the wagon without error.

“Ah you weren’t? ‘M sorry for the assumption.” He says with light sarcasm. You rolled your eyes in response.

It was kind of fun, in a way. More on John’s part. He seemed a little too happy for lifting up sacks and crates.

“You really do have nothing to do, huh?”

“No ma’am,” At this point your work had been reduced by hours. He was an effective ranch-hand, that much was true. “Told ya I’d be helpful.”

But you were far from done for today’s work. You still had a few more things to check on.

“Well, thank you.” You replied, making your way to the pens. You did expect him to say something like another offer of help, but instead the man followed behind you like a puppy.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad to have him here.

Hours upon hours had passed since then. He was insistent in helping with every single activity you had on your list. You could swear his eyes lit up every time you said “okay”.

When the sun set in the horizon, John, who smelled all sweaty and like the sun, leaned on the wall of your porch. “We finished a lot, huh?”

He had a proud smile on his face, but you looked at him with uncertainty. “I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t have anything in return.”

John’s head snapped to you with squinted eyes and a lifted brow. “Did you seriously think I helped you ‘cause I expected somethin’ in return?”

“I ain’t that bad of a person. I helped ya ‘cause I wanted to.”

“But I owe you.” You replied.

“You don’t owe nothin’. Let that be it.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

April 17, 1907

She let me help her. All that work definitely paid off, since I slept one hell of a good night then. Maybe this peaceful life ain’t so bad after all.

I’ve learned a few things, too. One is that she does live alone, but I don’t know why. Second is that she’s got a little cat, but I ain’t that blessed yet to see her.

Note: gotta feed the horses later.

Weeks pass again, and John continues to insist on helping you every chance he gets. It’s a nice deal, honestly — he gets to do something, and your ranch gets more taken care of.

And you’ve become somewhat friends, if he could dare say that. He hasn’t asked yet — but he’s sure you two are.

Like usual, the day is slow. John stares at the blank paper in his journal, taking in his surroundings. Not a single soul in sight he found. All too quiet for his taste. Sometimes his bones still ached for that life or being rough and rugged.

Though he guessed this was better than settling down in those bustling, putrid cities. The civilians and rich politicians would kill him before the smoke and smell did. And he’d convinced himself he was not alone anymore, but the pain of loneliness lingers in his chest from time to time.

He couldn’t slide the pencil in any direction — his eyes remain stagnant on the land before him, while his thoughts move in a state he couldn’t quite describe himself. It isn’t running, it isn’t racing — but he certainly wouldn’t call it calm.

The past few months since he’d met you filled that little gap in his heart, at least, for the moment.

“Hey, Mr. Marston.” He heard you call, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?,” He tucks away his journal and he sees you leaning on the fence this time. “And just call me John — please.”

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t come?” You asked.

“You’re waitin’ for me?” He replies with slight surprise, his eyebrows lifted. A an impudent smile creeps up his lips — though it remains affectionate.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say that.” You said with a dismissive wave, glancing at another direction.

John stood up, standing in front of you. “Do you need help?”

“No, but you’ve got that lonely look in your eyes.”

“Yeah? How’d you know?” He replied, scratching the stubble of his beard with his index, trying to appear unbothered by your reckoning.

“Seen it somewhere before.”

“It’s nothing, you know. I was just thinkin’.”

He seemed distant, without eagerness to talk about whatever plagued his mind.

There was a fence between the two of you. It was ironic — you spent all this time with him helping you out and you know not a thing about him except his name and a few niche things.

That was the same for him, too. He wondered a lot about you; but he knew asking you was off-limits.

So you opened the fence — along with your mouth, even if it was just a little push.

“My ranch… It’s family-owned,” You started. This grabbed John’s attention almost immediately. “My mama and papa worked on it. I remember them building it when I was a kid.”

With a sigh, you continued. “Papa was a smart man. He paid off his debts with what we were earning at the ranch.”

“But I don’t know, something happened. Mama wouldn’t tell me. Papa almost worked himself to death, but it wouldn’t cover our debts.”

John listened to you without distraction, eyes not breaking contact. You couldn’t help but smile — despite the sorrow that began to build in your heart.

“They told me to live a city life, to marry, and leave this place. But I couldn’t leave, and I needed to take care of papa and work.”

Hesitantly, John asked. “So… what happened?”

“Papa died last year.”

“…‘M sorry to hear that, [Reader].”

“So I know that look. I know those eyes more than anyone.”

John opened the fence a little more, and he let out a soft chuckle. “I ain’t got anybody to talk to, nor a family. Not anymore.”

“Then that makes us both?” You asked with a short laugh.

He shook his head. “No, no. You’re… I…”

“I ain’t exactly the man you think I am. I ain’t a good man.”

He was rough around the edges. He’d gone through a lot, you could see, just from the scars on his face and how he helped you without breaking much of a sweat. Though despite that, you could sense he was better than he described himself.

Your eyes scanned his face a little more, resting on the scars of his face.

He saw not eyes of judging, but curiosity instead; so he decided to open the gate a little more. “…Got attacked by a wolf a few years ago.”

He never talked to anyone about it. Well, not that he had someone to talk to. He didn’t bother to, either way.

“I used to ride with a gang,” His voice quieted down, eyes averting for a moment before they landed on you once again. “We was outlaws. Robbed people, killed people, ran ‘till we couldn’t.”

“Then it falls apart, my family. Them.”

John takes a deep breath. He couldn’t look at you, he couldn’t bear to imagine the face you were making. “I guess I was lucky. Stupidly — even though I argue some of ‘em deserved this life more than I did.”

“Guess I ain’t built for this sort of thing, ranchin’ and livin’ peacefully like I don’t have the blood of countless innocents in my hands.”

John closed the gate.

“…John?”

And before you knew it, he waved you a goodbye.

“…Maybe not today, missy.”

May 2, 1907

I don’t know why I told her about my past. Maybe it’s because she said hers, so I felt indebted to do so as well. But I know that ain’t the case.

Guess I felt bad? Maybe. I couldn’t keep on pretendin’ to be some innocent man next door, either way.

She told me her parents used to own the ranch. She’d been tending to her father before he died last year, so now she’s runnin’ the ranch by herself to pay off all her family’s debts. I guess that’s why she was so hell-bent on workin’ hard every day.

I felt kind of an ass for leavin’ her after that. Scratch that, I was an ass. I just couldn’t look her in the eye, even if I wanted to. It was like I was skinning myself alive in front of her, telling her things I couldn’t even repeat to myself.

But she just listened, I don’t know why. Maybe she was disgusted, or offended, or too shocked to speak. Though I felt as her eyes weren’t judging me at all, maybe that’s why I continued talkin’.

You didn’t think any lesser of him since he said that. In fact, you admired how he was able to bring up his past, even though he clearly looked pained at the thought of it.

He wasn’t a good man. At least he used to be.

But wasn’t it a big step already if he decided to give up on that life? You were sure it was.

Or maybe you were justifying him because you took a liking to him.

Truth be told — you did like John. His company, how he carried himself, how he talked. He made you forget about the problems you were sinking in.

“John, you’re my friend,” You admitted, while the both of you sat on hay bales. With your back hunched and arms on your lap, you continued.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“Don’t think you understand, missy,” He says beside you, smoking a cigarette. “I killed people.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

Despite what John said about himself, he himself didn’t have a choice. In a way, to be able to live normally has set him in the right direction. He could understand you thinking that.

“…Maybe, I don’t know.” He inhales the smoke, letting the nicotine fill his lungs.

Could I really live this life? Did I deserve it?

The events of the past few years altered how his brain worked. He was reckless, and avoided responsibility — only caring about himself like the immature man he was.

Have I really changed at all?

“Is that why helping’s been too easy for you?” You asked.

“Why, you think I’m strong?” He replied with a short snort.

You looked at him, as if imagining what he had looked like years ago. He must’ve looked rough — maybe more intimidating than he was now. And now he was a rancher insisting on pestering you every chance he got.

You chuckled.

He looked confused, again. “You’re laughing at me again. You really like doin’ that, don’t ya?”

“Sorry. I just thought you looked a little silly, is all.”

“Silly? I’m the most serious man you’ve met, miss.”

It was as if you saw him for himself. You awfully reminded him of his family. In a way, it hurt, remembering all those things again.

“…Gunslinger.” You snickered to yourself, shooting him with finger guns.

“You’re makin’ fun of me.” He shook his head, resisting the urge to smile.

“So you’re good at shooting, aren’t you? My papa kept a rifle, though he never used it,”

“I keep cleaning it, though. I bet it still works.”

“Are you threatening me?” John asks with mock-offense, laughing.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

After minutes of persuasion, John caved in and stood behind you.

You aimed with the rifle, closing your right eye as you listened to John’s instructions.

“You need to relax your shoulders.” He says from behind you, adjusting your form. The palms of his hand rest on your shoulders, pressing slight pressure so it would lower. His fingers graze over the soft fabric, gliding through the wrinkles as he spoke.

“You’re really set on learnin’ this thing, huh? You know I can protect you.” John said, both jokingly and seriously.

You huffed, relaxing your shoulders under his guidance and touch. His back pressed nearly completely against you, and his breath soft by your ear.

He whispers you further insurrections, placing your hand on the grip of the gun, careful to let you know not to hover your index over the trigger yet.

“So we’re aimin’ for that rock over there. You focus your eyes near it, but not there exactly.”

“Use this part of the gun for a reference on where it’s pointing.”

You let out a sigh, eye completely still on the target. Your index finger lay on the trigger without pressure, awaiting for further notice.

“I got it.”

John murmured, behind you, closing an eye as well. He turned the gun a little to the left. You could feel his warm breath on your neck as he spoke, “Breathe in, focus.”

“And when you breathe out — shoot, alright?”

You did what he asked, taking in a deep breath. With the air out of your lungs, and with John’s words of approval, you shot.

A loud noise came echoing through the trees, the bullet hitting the target merely a few inches away. He released his hand from yours, leaning away with a small smile.

“I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side,” He chuckled. “That was clean.”

You faced him, lowering the gun. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I try, I’m far from being great, though,”

“had a friend, or more of a brother — aimed without closin’ his eyes.”

You could see the fondness in his eyes, and how his voice softened when he talked about him. You hummed, nodding your head with a slight tilt.

“Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” He murmured, looking over at the several bullet marks on the rock. “But you’re a natural, huh?”

John borrowed the gun, closing one of his eyes and attempting to shoot another smaller rock.

Bullseye.

He chuckled to himself, looking back at you with a dorky smile. “But you ain’t ever gonna beat me, missy.”

“Yeah?” You shook your head. “Maybe I will, just you wait.”

He chuckled again. “Think you’re gettin’ far too ahead of yourself.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

The next few days John had continued to teach you every now and then. He was great at it, even though he argued the opposite. You could tell he had many mentors, as he told you stories.

With his continuous help, the ranch’s been earning quite a lot more than it did, and you’ve learned to hunt as well.

John was a sweetheart, well, for an ex-outlaw. You always thought his smiles were a little crooked, and his ideas were idiotic — but it was part of his charm.

You found yourself thinking about him more often than you’d admit. This hushed ranch was becoming one of liveliness and laughs.

So, now, as John carried a basket full of vegetables and fruits, you spoke.

“You know, that’s a lot we’ve harvested today.”

John wiped off the sweat on his forehead as he nodded.

“Think it’d do nice for tomato soup,” You added.

John didn’t seem to understand what you were implying, so he continued nodding and humming in acknowledgement as he busied himself with picking tomatoes.

“Are you busy? We could… have dinner, later.”

He froze. He was crouched down with a face full of bewilderment and surprise. “You’re invitin’ me for… dinner?”

His eyes were narrowed, as you smiled. “Do you know how to cook?”

Of course I don’t.

He’d been surviving off of canned beans and fruit half of the year he’d been here. He didn’t know a single thing about the art of cooking.

I really am an idiot, huh?

That’s when John found himself in your humble abode.

Polished wooden floors, painted walls with mild cracks — it showed how you kept it all nice and well-kept. Many rooms of the house were unoccupied, void of any presence — but only remains of what used to be; represented by the paintings and pictures, with the faint smell of of you.

Corners of each room remained tranquil and solitary. It reminded him of his own, however this one had soul.

The first thing he laid eyes upon was a family picture. Not a speck of dust was on it, and it hanged on the wall proudly. There, in black and white — what seemed to be your father, mother, and you, barely a teenager.

He thought it was nice. It reminded him of his own family, as big as it was compared to yours. His eyes laid upon your young self, who grinned widely, teeth showing.

“Hey, you look cute here.” He comments without a thought, letting out a soft snort.

You gave him a look of confusion and a smile. “I looked like a dork.”

“But you were happy.” He replies, his eyes still glued on the picture.

You let out a thoughtful hum, watching him. “Yeah, I was.”

And the other thing he notices, is a menacing look — from a powerful being above: your cat.

Of course.

“Ain’t that…” He says, feeling threatened by its presence. He feels as if he’s being told to leave, unwelcomely and unkindly so.

“Mhm. He never leaves the house.” Your cat approaches you warmly, asking for a pet you generously give.

“Are you hungry, Sir?” You asked, while the cat continued to purr.

John blinked. “His name is… sir?”

“Fits him, doesn’t it? Bossy fella.” You watched the cat avoid John, again, as his tail flopped down. “He’s usually… unbothered.”

John crossed his arm, before attempting to approach the cat gently. “Sir?”

He almost gets scratched, if he didn’t dodge last minute. Your cat growled and hissed, clearly not fond of John.

“He already disapproves of me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the interaction. Clearly he wasn’t liked — he failed the first impression.

“That doesn’t make you like me less, does it?” John jokes lightly, wary of the closeness with the cat.

As Sir leaves, he gave John one last nasty look.

“I’ll think about it.” You joked back, earning a playful complaint from John.

He’d been helping you all this time, so you decided to return the favor today.

“So you said you were going to cook?” John asked, looking around the kitchen.

“No, we are. You don’t know how, don’t you?”

John stiffened, scratching his neck awkwardly. ���What are you planning?”

You shrugged, washing the tomatoes. “To return the favor, of course — to add knowledge in that tough skull of yours.”

He mumbled something incoherent — presumably a weak protest. But you didn’t bother entertaining it.

“Here.” You gave John carrots, onions, and celery.

He looked at you with a confused face. “Thought we were makin’ tomato soup? Where’s the tomato here?”

“I need you to cut this, and we can put this in it, so it’ll have flavor.” You replied.

John looked at the knife for a few seconds, before hesitantly cutting up the vegetables. At least he knew how to do that.

At first he thought so too — and you quickly reprimanded him for cutting it the wrong way.

“What wrong way? There’s a right way? This is too complicated.” He said, frustrated, looking over to you for guidance.

With a sigh, you peered over his work, behind him and your chin barely ghosting over his shoulder. You grabbed the knife from his hands, holding it yourself. “Cut it like this.”

You cut the carrots up, and John tried really hard to focus on that and only that. But with you so close behind him? It was proving to be difficult.

With a shaky sigh, he took the knife again, attempting to cut the way you taught him to. He didn’t understand a single thing, but he guessed good enough that you gave him an approving hum.

But you didn’t let go — didn’t go away. You were still there, so incredibly close, and it bothered John. Not in a bad way, no, not at all.

“You’re still doing it wrong.” You corrected gently. This time, instead of taking the knife — you took his hands, and guided it with the knife. “You getting it yet?”

He nodded. “Ah… yeah, yeah, I got it.”

So when you let go if his hand, lean away — to be honest, John had felt both relief and disappointment.

What the hell is wrong with me? John thought.

You shook your head and chuckled. With a silly and impulsive thought, you draped one of your aprons over John. “Can’t have you being messy, can you?”

He grumbled, watching you put on yours, too. In a way — you matched.

A few minutes pass as you continue teaching John instructions, to which he obeys quite nicely, except for some whispers of complain.

You laugh softly at his predicament. He was stirring the filled pot with a ladle. This was unbelievable.

“I swear you’re jus’ makin’ fun of me, are ya?” John says, but he can’t help but smile himself.

“Well? I think you’ve done a good job,” You grinned, approaching him and the steaming pot. It smelled good, for the mistakes that he had made earlier. “You gotta taste it.”

You took a small spoon, dipping it in the hot soup and lifting it up to your lips, blowing it softly.

“Here.” You neared the food to his mouth.

John stared at the spoon, blinking a few times, before his lips went agape for you.

This is stupid, so, incredibly stupid.

But it tasted good. The savory taste of the soup melted in his mouth — earning a hum from John. For some moments, he let his ego inflate once more at his cooking.

He licked his lips absentmindedly as he nodded. “Yeah… it tastes good.”

You hummed, dipping the same spoon again to taste for yourself. “Mm, this is it.”

“You’re a quick-learner, huh?” You said, stirring the pot a little more.

John watched as you stood over the counter. Of course he was a quick leaner, he had the dumbest luck in history. “Yeah… ‘course, only ‘cause you taught me.”

Still, he wasn’t going to be cooking anytime soon, but it was worth the shot and the lesson. He coughed and fixed his throat, leaning over the counter.

“You always cook?”

“I guess, ever since ma died,” You said. “Had to teach myself or else I’d starve to death. I didn’t want to survive on canned goods, like… maybe you.” You chuckled, pointing the ladle at him.

He feigned offense, preparing a retort. “Hey, I’m… Well, I guess that’s true.” His voice quieted down. And it was adorable.

That night, your once-quiet home, was filled with light teasings and conversations after a long while of silence.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John stared at the ceiling in his living room, where he lay on the couch. He rested his hands on his stomach, as the fan continued to circle around his motionless body. He didn’t use the bedroom at all — never did. Never saw a use for it.

He couldn’t sleep tonight, not after what had happened today.

Was he overreacting, or did something else happen, but so incredibly discreet that both of you didn’t notice? He couldn’t put his finger on it even if he tried — his brain would short-circuit at the attempt.

With a sigh, he put a hand over his forehead, desperate for sleep.

June 4, 1907

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Guess I kind of had to? Hell if I know. But a few days ago she invited me over to have dinner with her. Saw that devilish cat, Sir, who didn’t like me — not one bit

Saw her family pictures, too. Looked real happy then. Her home felt devoid of people, much like mine. I wonder, what’s the point of a big house with only one person living in it? Could that be called a home, either way?

So then we cooked tomato soup — tasted good. Even if I made it.

Her hand brushed against hers a few times, did I mention we shared the same spoon? This is too much, even for me. Feel like a damn schoolboy, fussin’ over small things. Why do I? It’s all confusin’ me.

Well, to be completely honest — John never slept well or had a full night’s rest in the first place. With all that’s happened, and how long it had been since then — he still got nightmares occasionally.

The guilt clawed at his chest, rising up and down in the night to keep his dreaded mind going and his tired eyes open.

The moon lit up the sky with its beauty. Outside the breezes of wind made him shiver ever so slightly, the cold passing through the fabric of his clothes. John looked up at the sight, lighting up a cigarette in an attempt to comfort his restlessness. It had become a habit for him, tapping his feet on the planks, until the nicotine filled his lungs and calmed him down.

Goddamn it, I can’t stop thinking of her.

Ever since those chickens, ever since those crates, I haven’t been able to stop thinking.

Do I really deserve this?

John felt guilty, again. With every surge of happiness and joy his heart felt, there came an equal doubt to bring it back down again.

With every waking day, he was beginning to fall deeper and deeper.

It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t false. He knew it in himself. He had tried to deny the truth, push it down, over and over again — since he didn’t feel worthy enough to feel it.

“You aren’t a bad man,” Your words echoed in his ears. “At least, not to me, and at least, not anymore.”

Maybe he did wake up early and help you because he wanted to see you. Maybe he did all of that work so he could hear your words of thanks. Maybe he did like your smile, too much than he would like to admit.

And the world seemed to revolve around you. It seemed to only move when he was with you, it only seemed to exist when he was beside you.

The next day he stared at his journal, once again. The past few months have only been about you, mostly, aside from irrelevant things that he had been doing himself.

“I always see you writing around in that journal,” You curiously tried to peek over his shoulder. John quickly tucked it away and closed it, leaving you no room to steal even a single glance at it.

“Ain’t yours,” He says, hiding it away.

“I know, I know. You’re always in it, and I suppose I can’t help but be curious. Are you a poet?” You asked, sitting beside him.

He chuckled — no, not at all.

Every time he was with you he felt like a teenager. He felt something indescribable, something so unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time.

And damn it, he was acting like one.

It never struck him, but he could have sworn someone by your age should have already had someone already. He isn’t complaining.

“No, I ain’t. I just like writing down my thoughts, that are private, and I don’t need ya readin’ ‘em, missy.” He shoos you away.

You weren’t deterred by his actions at all. Instead, you only leaned in further. “Why not?”

“Just because, alright? Don’t get all pouty like that. I’m bringin’ this to the grave.”

He was a an idiot, still is.

Life felt nice. It felt worth it.

If he could describe it, in the best that he could — maybe it was akin to winning the lottery, except even more. Maybe it was the peace of mind. Like he had thought he couldn’t feel anymore better at one point in his life, that he had hit the meter — but you proved him wrong, time and time again. It was like the comfort of a warm blanket on a cold, raining night. It was the feeling of satisfaction in a right after numerous trials of wrong.

It was the clasp that perfectly fit with one try, that click, that feeling.

Everything made sense. Everything had reason, and everything fit together in the complete essence of perfection.

You tried to grab his journal playfully, hands reaching down with haste. Of course, John didn’t let you. “Hey—!”

His other hand grabbed your arm, and your free hand made an attempt to snag the journal again.

With a grunt and a laugh, he let go of the journal, only for his other hand to take yours.

You pulled back, and unexpectedly John’s body followed your force, which resulted in your back hitting the grass.

He supported his body upward, as he was on top of you, and his hands still held your arms. You laughed, persisting still and squirming under to escape his grasp. “Hey, let me go!” You yelled playfully.

John huffed, shaking his head with a goofy grin. “No way.”

His grip was tight, but not too tight to hurt you — just enough to keep you pinned down. “Ain’t you gonna give up? I swear, you’re a pain.”

He looked down at you and saw your flushed face, due to how hard you were laughing and chuckling. You panted, making an attempt to escape once again. “You’re no fair!”

He laughed dryly. “Ain’t nothin’ fair in life.”

As you continued to laugh, John shook his head, eyes still glued on you.

I could do this forever.

Just watching and hearing you like this made him feel giddy.

Of course he noticed he was on top of you, of course he noticed his hands on yours — how could he not? He tried desperately to shake the thoughts off, before his eyes locked with yours once again.

Despite his heart racing, he could swear everything went slow-motion, like a movie. The sun hit your face in the best way possible, it lit up your eyes, it reflected his own face.

It felt like an eternity, and when it ended, it felt like merely a second.

You relented, sighing. “Alright, fine.”

He snapped out of his trance. “That’s what I thought.” and lightened his grip, beginning to sit back up.

You huffed, crossing your arms, still laying on the grass. “One day I’ll get a peek. Mark my words, John.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

In a sense, nothing was ever safe. Nothing was ever free of the threatening presence of danger. Nothing was, at least, that’s what he had thought.

But you? You were different. He had yet to find out why, but it just felt so right, and so undeniably safe.

More months pass by like speed. He could barely count the days before fall came.

Leaves turned into hues of orange, every time he walked on piles of them it would leave that crisp sound. Warmth drifted around, the tepid temperature accompanying the falling petals.

October 19, 1907

Feel like I need to bang my head in a hard, rock-wall. I’ve gone crazy, haven’t I? Things have been the same, kind of. No, I can’t say they have been, truthfully.

Guess I’ve always been wrong in the head, talkin’ to myself. But when I say I feel like a fool, I really do. Tell me why do I start smellin’ her scent? Tell me why I picked these flowers up? Damn crazy, I am.

And I went to get stuff in the town today, still reeks of smoke ‘n shit. Just went in and out.

John left the messily-picked flowers by the windowsill in his house, not planning to show it to you.

He kept looking at it. He kept glancing at it. He kept squinting his eyes, he kept thinking about what you’d say.

And damn it, why couldn’t he stop?

Rain fell heavily; it had been, ever since this day started. He wondered what you were doing — he always did. Maybe particularly more today.

He glanced at the window again, his eyes landing on your quiet home — the constant and distant flickering thunder making deafening clamor.

You didn’t need help, did you? And yet he stood up anyway, stuffing the flowers right in his pockets. He tried to rush it, but his hands still gently shook, either way.

And so he grabbed an umbrella, looking for you.

But you weren’t there, at least, not where you usually were.

She ain’t here, you dumbass.

John wanted to punch himself.

But before he turned around and left, he heard a quiet sob.

Just outside by your backyard, there you were, kneeling down in front of two graves.

You were soaked in the rain, completely wet. The rain was particularly harsh today, and John couldn’t fathom at all why the scene before him hurt him, himself.

Without a second thought, he put the umbrella over your head. The feeling of the droplets ceased, and a shadow by you was cast, but you didn’t bother looking at him.

“John?”

“Am I that obvious?” He replies, his gruff voice turned soft and quiet. He looked at you with eyes of worry.

“Are you alright?” He follows up, kneeling beside you. “You’re… wet.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur quietly. “Just…” You took a deep breath, composing yourself before you faced him. “It’s their death anniversary.”

“…After mama died, papa followed a year later. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” You said with a dry chuckle — a forced one, a futile attempt to light the mood.

He didn’t find it funny at all — but if it was how you coped with the matter, how could he blame you? “I’m sure they were great.”

“They were.” You say, facing the tombstones once again.

A long pause passes, and he speaks again. “You can let it out, you know. I ain’t here to judge ya.”

His words echoed in your ears like a ring unable to escape.

John’s voice had always been comforting to you, at least, it grew to be.

So before you even knew it, tears were falling down your cheeks again.

And you did that, for a long, long while — even going silent for what seemed to be half an hour.

John knew you had many things in your mind, just too much to leave your mouth in a way that could be clearly understood. He knew the feeling, and he understood.

And it puzzled you, it confused you. You’d expected him to leave after the first few hours, though even after the rain had hailed, he stayed still beside you and hung that same umbrella over your figure.

He didn’t know exactly why either — he only knew one thing: that he’d stay there for as long as it took, even if rain fell all over again, even if the sun returned to rest.

It felt right to do so.

It was all stupid. He wasn’t a patient man, no, not any of that sort. He much preferred to get things over with and get to chase.

But with you? It was different, somehow. Somehow he’d wait, he’d learn, he’d stay.

In the silence that ensued, you asked him a question. “Why’d you stay?”

Even if you hadn’t uttered a word for those hours, even if he was treated like some ghost — he stayed, like some statue watching over you.

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

“Y’know, my pa, and my ma — I ain’t had nothing of a close relationship with them like you had, but I understand what it feels like losin’ family.”

Sometimes he felt like he was treading this Earth without any meaning and direction — and truth be told, for some time, he really was.

He was quite glad that he stayed for a bit more, though.

“Thank you, John. Really.” He heard you say, sincerely.

He was never a man so soft. But you made him feel different, and he found himself not minding it at all.

His hand reached for his pocket, where the small flowers are tucked. He brings it out with a slight shake in his hands.

He knows that it isn’t perfect, with it all battered and messed up.

But with it tucked by your ear, he swore he hadn’t seen anyone this beautiful before.

“I don’t like seein’ you cryin’, is all.”

He felt an overwhelming urge to wipe away your tears, to shield you away — to hold you in his arms. He wanted to hold your hand, for his thumb to caress yours, for his hand to cup your cheek.

And of course, he did not do it.

“If I have to keep watchin’ you drool, I swear I’ll load a gun and shoot myself,” Uncle dramatically says, chugging another bottle of beer as his back laid by the porch.

“What do you mean?” John questions, stopping in his tracks as he looked at uncle with a judgmental and confusion-filled stare.

What is he talkin’ about now?

“I got some insight for ya, as a person that’s got many experience with the ladies.” Uncle wipes the remains of beer on his mouth and beard, with a shit-eating grin.

“You’ve experienced everythin’. You sure you ain’t immortal?” John retorts.

“And it ain’t like that, Uncle,” He declines right after, shaking his head with a sigh.

“I ain’t drooling, either. I’m just… simply admiring.” He adds, shrugging, stealing another glance at you.

“Uh-huh. You look like a man beggin’ to be unleashed. A man chained.”

John stutters. “It-It’s not like that. And what the hell does that even mean?”

“Sure it ain’t. I can see smell it from a mile away — you smell like hormones. Disgustin’, but I understand.”

“You’re disgustin’.” John grimaces. Uncle still spews out the most out-of-hand things, despite all’s that happened; he claims it’s knowledge.

Well, to some extent — it is; but most of the time it isn’t.

The man attempts to sling a hand over John’s shoulder, as John swiftly dodges. “You get the girl flowers, and listen to when she talks — and you look at her eyes. ‘S gonna be sparklin’.” He chuckles lowly — eyeing John with a knowing look.

He was sure Uncle was going to say something incredibly dumb, but this time, it was plausible to do.

“I’ll take it, but that don’t mean I’ll do it, alright?” John says, and Uncle pats his back with a laugh.

“This old man’s got a lot more to offer, if y’wanna get right into that action—”

“No thanks.”

That night, John talked to the stars, and himself.

He couldn’t help but keep replaying Uncle’s words in his head. He surely didn’t feel that way, did he?

Maybe he was too scared.

You were something pure. You were like life and light itself. But he? He was the complete opposite. He could taint you and your goodness.

He put a hand over his head, ruffling and messing up his own hair in annoyance.

I’m so confused. I don’t know what to feel.

One part of me wants me to let go, wants me to acknowledge the truth.

But the other part is nagging me, yellin’ at me to keep quiet and push those thoughts away — since I could never even begin dreaming about it.

Feels like I have to cut my body and soul in half. Feels like I already have.

Being with her makes me want to smile, but I’ve always felt bad for doing so.

With another, quieter sigh — John closes his eyes, with an attempt to calm down his thoughts.

And before he knows it, he drifts into sleep; and this time — his mind does not think of nightmares.

It’s a warm, mellow feeling. He feels like he’s being coddled, and he feels the warmth of the morning sun on his skin.

He breathes, and it feels fresh, it’s not of smoke — but freedom.

He hears voices. Faint, muffled ones. It was all too familiar.

He could still hear them. The voices of what he had done, and what people see him for. They are distorted, low, some more recognizable than others as his brain continued replaying and racking itself for that taste of sweet taste of guilt.

But one voice overpowers them all, coming into a clear tone.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

“I think you’re… good.”

He remembers the scene without an error.

You were beside him, sitting on those hay bales. It was barely a few months ago, and yet it was stuck in his mind.

It was beautiful, that day — he was just too blind to notice it. To notice how deep your words cut through him.

He bled, and he covered himself back up. And somehow, while you continued prying away his ribs, one by one — it felt as if his heart was close to beating again.

How can you look at me and see good, when I’ve looked at myself and only known bad my whole life?

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He awakes the next morning with Rufus licking his face, barking and panting excitedly.

He groans, wiping the saliva of his face. “Good morning, boy,”

“Ain’t you excited…” He rubs his eyes. “What for? You hungry?”

He too, was strangely excited. He fed Rufus, undoubtedly in a good mood as he combed his hair, looking at the mirror.

He showed his teeth, wiping it quickly and flashing an attempt at grinning.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He tried again — it was a little too crooked.

That wasn’t quite right, either.

He smiled awkwardly at himself.

Now, this was stupid. He looked stupid.

He sighed, fixing his hair and trying a softer smile this time.

“Y’know what? Good enough.”

And then he sets off, after tidying himself up, working on his ranch, with a light-hearted tune — humming around.

For once, he doesn’t mind cleaning up the horse’s manure, or any other animal’s — to be exact. He goes about his early morning without a care. No complaint leaves his lips this time, even as the stench hit his nostrils hard.

Today was a normal day. It should be, but it felt different. Like he’s made some kind of breakthrough; and yet he doesn’t know exactly what it is.

He catches himself staring at you, again.

And Uncle’s words repeat in his mind again, even while John busies himself with sweeping off the fallen leaves on his courtyard.

When your eyes meet his, he feels like he’s been caught red-handed. So he coughs to himself, quickly snapping his head back down and pretending that he wasn’t doing anything.

Then afternoon comes — he rides his horse, trotting over nearby fields and rivers with his mind in the clouds.

Flowers, flowers, flowers…

And before he knew it, he’d made himself a bouquet of flowers that looked… alright — to say the least. He tried his best to make it look presentable.

They did remind him of you. Surviving out here in harsh winds and weather, and yet being able to bloom ever so beautifully.

In that moment, he thought: maybe he was a poet.

And his hands picked them up softly, with attention to how the petals could fall off if he did it any harsher.

Now, he didn’t have an eye for these things. Not at all.

He knows you aren’t easy — not that he thinks you are, not that you ever were. And that’s just another compelling part of you.

But he was willing to go through this whole unfamiliar thing. And damn it, Uncle was right.

He’s never had much experience with women anyway.

So when evening came, and he knocked on your door — hell, he wanted to bury himself in a hole right then and there.

You opened the door to a John that rubbed the side of his neck, attempting to smile — and obviously hiding something within his back.

“Good evening, John,” You said, hands on the doorknob.

“Good… evenin’,” He greets back, standing up straight now as he fixed his posture and his hand grasped by his own collar.

“I just… I…” Now he was trailing off, stuttering and stumbling over the words he so religiously practiced earlier. He decides to simply put out the bouquet, or if you could say it was even one — right in front of you.

“…‘S for you. Thought you’d like ‘em. Picked up a few, it doesn’t look much — but I hope it’s still by your taste.” He added, pushing the flowers closer to you.

If you squinted your eyes, you could see how shy he looked. His hands shook, unable to stay still as his eyes darted frequently away. He definitely was not made for this.

“I don’t believe there’s an event?” You said softly, taking the flowers with a small smile.

He smiled back sheepishly. “Do I have to have a reason to give you flowers?”

“You have a point.”

“And I got this for Sir, too.” He says, grabbing a fish he had gotten earlier by the river. “Thought I’d try to get his approval, this time.”

Giving fish after a flower was certainly not romantic — but it was the thought that counted.

It looked like the mention of his name alerted him, as Sir climbed over your shoulder and peered over the fish in John’s hands — carefully, as if examining it.

You looked at your cat with a smile. “Is it good enough for you, Sir? Or should we send him back?”

“Please don’t do that.” John playfully quips back.

Sir meowed in response. He seemed to approve of it, this time. “Looks like he likes it. Lucky you, huh?” You laughed quietly.

While chuckling back, John’s gaze continued to glance over how your fingers clutched the flowers. It was of delicacy. Despite it being in a less-than-fortunate look, you handled it with care and fragility.

“Thank you, John.”

He’s getting all sweet on you now — not that he wasn’t already in the first place.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He couldn’t stop himself. Not after he saw how your eyes twinkled. Shortly after he gave you those flowers the both of you indulged in conversations that lasted hours — despite feeling like minutes.

He notices the little, seemingly unimportant and specific things about you. He notices the touches, and how he finds his own mouth tumbling out excuses just for it to prolong.

John starts to see your name in the stars.

He starts to smell you in the flowers he gives.

He starts to hear your voice in every waking day.

November 21, 1907

I did follow Uncle’s advice, even if I said I wouldn’t. I did see sparkles in her eyes, and how she lit up when I looked at her. I don’t know why I’ve been trying so hard to impress her these days. Hell, I’m lookin’ in the mirror every time I go out.

And I’ve been giving her flowers when I see some on the way. Is it so wrong for my fingertips to linger a little bit? It probably is. I realize I’m even more of a fool than I thought I was, stumbling and stuttering with my words the moment she looks my way.

It’s changed, the way I look at her. I know it has. But I ain’t sure if I can admit it to myself yet.

He doesn’t look at you with hearts for eyes, does he? He prays you couldn’t tell.

For this afternoon it was a simple supply run. Of course, he had offered to take you there with him — the reason of some company you might like.

The road stretched out until it reached the outskirts of the nearby town, and while on the journey — you two talked casually about how your days have been.

He tells you stories of fellers he occasionally meet, all the while he remains seated on next to you on the wagon, with your hands gripping the reins.

But most of the time he is quiet. Not that he was a talker in the first place — with comfortable silence ensuing on the way, you repeated your checklist internally.

You did visit Blackwater occasionally, as he did. Most of the streets are covered in cobbled roads, lamps littered by the sidewalk. You looked over to the river nearby, as the slightly salty air hit your nostrils.

Civilization had truly improved — with all of these shops and restaurants lurking about, standing tall with pristine designs and walls. Although it was definitely more busier at this time, the distant chatter and business of people heard throughout each corner of the town.

You stopped the wagon, facing John. “I’m gonna stop by the store, I assume you have something to get, too?”

He nods, helping you off. “Yeah, I’ll just check sumthin’.”

With one last look, you made your way to the general store as you bought supplies, food, and fertilizer.

“That’ll be ten dollars and fifty-two cents, miss.” The cashier says, looking at you while he opens his palm.

“Ten dollars?” You repeat. Had the prices gone up? You didn’t remember it being this high — not since the last time you came for a supply run. With a sigh, you grabbed money from your pocket — looking at the cashier with doubt.

“Sir, it can’t possibly be that high. I got a ranch to handle. If every supply run is this expensive, then the debts would—”

He sighs. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do about it, miss. If you want to, you can lessen some of the things you bought.”

“But I barely bought anything,” You replied, biting your lip in worry.

That was when a voice came from behind you — a quite unpleasant tone. You could smell the booze coming off from him, as he stumbled across the plank floorboards with a grin of a bastard. “You havin’ trouble payin’ there, sweetheart?”

The drunk man leaned over the counter — while the cashier grunted in distaste.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it, I could lend you some money, yeah? A woman like you…”

“I don’t need your money, sir.” You interrupted, not wanting to hear anything out of his nasty mouth. You stepped backwards, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Awe, don’t be like that now,” He stumbled ever so closer, trying to put his hands on you before you swat him off and give him a glare. “Feisty, huh? I love it when ya women do that, playin’ hard to get.”

Looks like you were going to have to stab someone today.

Although, someone had probably done it for you already. “Hey! Get your hands off of ‘er, you Goddamn creep.” John snapped, walking in the store closer and closer to the man.

With every closing step, the drunk man raised a brow higher. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ to her. Who’re you, huh?”

“I’m your old friend amnesia.” He answers both seriously and sarcastically.

The man avoids him and tries to look at you again with a smile. “I don’t see a ring, miss.”

“Not yet you don’t,” John says, cutting him off. “She’ll punch you alright, but not before I beat you the hell up.”

“You her husband or sumthin’?” The man kept pressing, hissing and slurring his words.

“Yeah, hands off. Stop botherin’ my wife.”

The man stumbled over his own feet — trying to keep himself uptight as his legs wobbled. “I don’t see why I can’t borrow ‘er.”

“That’s enough!” That was when John landed a punch straight to his face — which was enough for the man to land on the ground.

You stopped John before he could kill the guy — seeing as he’s just about prepared himself for another punch, rolling up his sleeves.

He sighed, getting up as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth — result of the man’s broken nose.

Bastard.

All sorts of condescending nicknames he muttered to himself, looking at the body on the floor. “You alright?” He asks softly.

You nod, as the man behind the counter sighed. “You gonna buy this or not, miss?”

You shook your head, counting the money you had on hand. “…Just lessen the food, sir. We’re sorry for the trouble.”

He stood beside you, looking at what you had bought — confused. “What do you mean?”

“No, we’ll buy it,” He answers. “I’ll pay.”

Walking back to the wagon with him, you spoke, thanking him. “I’ll pay you back.”

He shook his head. “Don’t got to.”

His tone left no space to argue. But you were starting feel like he’d done too much for you. “I’m not a maiden in distress. I can pay you back.”

“Just treat me to a game of poker later, then?” He looked at you with a charming grin as he helped you up the wagon.

Idiotic, reckless, and unnecessarily charming: that was what you’d describe John. You were sure some of what happened earlier — although impressive, were his theatrics and bravado. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Sure, husband.”

He choked on his own saliva, as his confidence simmered down.

God, he truly was an idiot, wasn’t he? He argued it would’ve been more effective that way — but the words that left his mouth were indeed satisfying.

“Yeah, wife.” He replied, looking elsewhere.

When you played poker with him, he saw you stealing the chips sneakily. You both would erupt in a fit of laughter and chuckles once he called you out, but his hand that captured yours would linger, reluctantly pulling away.

There are times when his thoughts get ahead of him, when he would think about crossing a line. Impulsive thoughts make his mind a home, thoughts that he wouldn’t dare to do. Even though his hands itched to capture yours, or to simply stare at you.

Every subtle and accidental touch he was aware of. Every time you’d say his name, every time you were there.

January 28, 1908

There was this bastard from the day before. Reeked of alcohol. Tried to touch her. Men really are damn fools.

Wish I could’ve beat that piece of shit, but he went unconscious from one punch. Still irks me when I think of him.

I didn’t mean to agree when he asked me that question, but somehow it just left my mouth. I called her my wife. She teased me ‘bout it after. Was it a bad thing that I enjoyed doing so?

Now I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Have I really lost all logic and reason?

There never was a need for the two of you to talk. Sitting beside each other, on some rocks — perhaps by the riverbank, were enough words spoken.

The wind whispers to him all thoughts of impulsiveness and irrationality. By then the cold water smoothly laps against his skin, feeling your knee brushing next to his.

Quiet fills the atmosphere. Thoughts run adamant, hesitation wins over.

Perhaps by the grass, laying down and looking at the stars. You point out and tell him of the Big Dipper, of the stars — but the only thing his eyes rest on is you.

Breezes of wind compose songs, melodic harmonies that murmur in his ear. Blades of the pointy grass tickle his skin — the moon above peering over his pathetic figure.

Or another could be by home, simply discussing over things that don’t matter. Chuckling over the smallest things. Telling stories that get lost in night.

“You have a phonograph?” He asks, looking at you with curiosity, his hands behind him.

“That? Was my mama’s. She liked to dance, my papa would dance was with her even if he didn’t know how.” You chuckled at the memory, trying to see if the thing still worked.

With the blessings of whom above, it started playing.

♪ Wise men say

He hummed to the tune, as he spoke with a small smile. “We used to have one of those, too. My family.”

Only fool rush in ♪

“So you know how?” You let a smile curve up your lips.

♪ But I can’t help,

He huffed a short, quiet laugh. He saw your eyes twinkle with hope — but he shook his head. “Hell no. I don’t know a single thing ‘bout dancin’.”

Falling in love ♪

“I don’t believe you.” You mused, smiling fully now as every step of yours synched with the music.

♪ With you.

Soft, slow, piano played, a sweet melodic tune ringing by his ears. The voice continued to sing out, in a slow manner, as smooth as dripping honey.

Shall I stay? ♪

“Well, I’m no good at it,” He shrugged, shoving his palms in his pockets.

♪ Would it be

“How can you be so sure?”

A sin ♪

He froze, watching you start slowly approach him, as your feet swayed with the music.

♪ If I can’t help

He heard your soft query, that rendered him speechless the moment he heard it. “Dance with me?”

Falling in love ♪

John refused, shaking his head as he waved his hands. “I ain’t good at it — I got two left legs.”

♪ With you.

But to no avail was his pleadings. You took his hand in yours, dragging him gently across the living room — now filled with easy swaying. “Don’t complain when I step on your feet!”

Like a river flows ♪

“You’ll be alright! Dance with me!”

♪ Surely to the sea

With a reluctant sigh and the tiniest hint of a smile, he took his hat off, placed it somewhere he wouldn’t remember before your left hand interlocked with his.

Darling, so it goes ♪

It was so soft — he thought. Palm to palm — fingers wrapped around each other. If he wasn’t going to step on you, he’d fall down instead.

♪ Some things

He feels heat rise up his neck, feeling your hand gripping his shoulder languidly.

Are meant to be. ♪

And without a single thought left in his head, his shaky hand twined around your waist.

♪ Take my hand

“Now follow me. Just sway.” If you hadn’t had your head faced to your feet, he would’ve sworn you’d saw his embarrassing predicament of utter inexperience and bewilderment.

Take my whole life, too ♪

He followed your footing, merely swaying back and forth along the tempo of the music. Slow and steady he went, although his heart was otherwise.

♪ For I can’t help

“Like this?” He asked.

Falling in love ♪

You lift your head up, eyes meeting his in an endless gaze. “Mhn. Hey, you aren’t stepping one me yet?”

♪ With you.

He snickered, face all scrunched up with emotion. “Not yet I haven’t. Don’t trust me too much.”

Like a river flows ♪

You hummed with the melody. John couldn’t fathom the situation — hence his quietness, as he needed to absorb the fact that you were holding his hands, your hand placed on his shoulder, and his own rested around your waist.

♪ Surely to the sea

Time seemed to slow down.

Darling, so it goes ♪

He thought to himself, now that he could formulate one.

♪ Some things,

You looked happy. Your grin was most wide as he’d ever seen — almost reaching the ends of your ears.

are meant to be. ♪

He wished this moment would last forever. He wished he could see you smile like this every waking day.

♪ Take my hand

All the while the music continued to play in the background, John finally let a smile slip on his lips.

Take my whole life, too ♪

A long time it was since he’d met you. He couldn’t imagine a day without interrupting your day, without thinking what to pester you with each time.

♪ For I can’t help,

As the chorus came by, you swayed with him with more emotion, almost as if you were in synch.

Falling in love, ♪

He felt alive.

♪ With you.

With a large grin, he tightened his grip on your hand, letting go of your waist as he spun you around.

Like a river flows ♪

You let out a brief laugh of pleasant surprise, as your body dipped down — his hand back on your waist to support you.

♪ Surely to the sea

While stagnant, eyes were locked onto each other, breaths were kept. With close and suffocating proximity — you jested lightly. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

♪ Darling so it goes,

John, at first, couldn’t reply at all.

Some things, ♪

In that moment — the way you laughed, the way you felt in his arms felt so incredibly right — he never wanted to pull away. He didn’t.

♪ are meant to be.

And damn it, damn it all — he thought.

Take my hand ♪

I love her.

♪ Take my whole life, too

That was when John Marston realized he truly had been an idiot, all his life — even until now.

For I can’t help, ♪

“I didn’t know either.”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

You smiled, watching his dumbfounded expression fade into one of calmness and content.

For I can’t help, ♪

“Let me spin ya around again?”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

“Next song, then.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John Marston, turned lover boy — was sat on his porch, with his cheek on his palm and his elbow on his knee.

The realization shouldn’t have hit him as much as he did — but here he was.

He feels the weight of the world fade from his mind and shoulders, words ever the clearer now in his mind.

I love her.

He let out a shuddering breath.

Damn it, I love her.

Now, like all things — he didn’t know what to do about it. These feelings, once more confusing, it seemed as if after solving them there would arise more problems.

The thought of you made his heart beat a million times. Did you love him back? Or perhaps he was merely holding onto a weak, unsupported thread of delusion.

Even if months passed by, his eyes would dart to you, his hands would shake near yours — but that was all it was.

John knew he loved you in the spring — and until by late summer, he couldn’t quite get the words out of his chest the way he wanted it to.

Rain fell heavily, as John had just come back from errands — saddled up on his horse — wet from the rain.

“Damn this rain…” He mutters irritatedly, hitching his horse by the stable, rushing a dry cloth over his wet hair, entering his home with small puddles building up on the floor.

Thunder clapped roughly, a reminder of the terrible weather outside. After he had dried himself up, he had to go outside once again to herd the cattle somewhere drier; the slippery and muddy dirt and the loud noise of lightning a reason.

Then he caught a glimpse of you, working still, even under the heavy rainfall. Covered in wet clothes, hair all soggy — and stubbornly walking around even with exhaustion prominent from far away.

When he approached you, he yelled out, “Why are you workin’ out in this rain?”

“You’re wet as a hen! You’re gonna get sick.”

“I have to.” You replied, not indulging in any more talk.

He saw how red your nose was, how you shivered under the cold.

“Alright, you stubborn woman, come on. Let’s go inside.”

“I have to get this done,” You protested weakly as he stopped you from continuing any further, his hand gripping your arm.

He let go of you momentarily, pressing the back of his hand on your forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“I mean, temperature-wise.” He adds after, looking at you with concern.

“I feel fine, John.”

“You could’ve had me fooled,” He says sarcastically, lightly flicking your forehead. “Ain’t stoppin’ the workin’ to death business, huh? That can wait.”

You let John drag you inside your house, as you took off your coat and he went rummaging for a clean cloth to dry you off with.

You sat on a wooden chair just by your door, afraid walking in more would make a mess. With a sneeze, you let out a quiet groan, as your eyes followed John’s figure — who slowly approached you.

John kneeled down on one foot, getting on your level as the cloth lightly dabbed around your face. Although focused on the task, he couldn’t help but notice how tired you looked, how warm your skin was.

There was no denying it — you were sick.

After drier hair and drier clothes, you sat on your sofa, watching John struggle but pretend not to.

“You have to wash it.” You say, voice slightly groggy.

John groaned softly, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just sit there, alright?”

What the hell was he doing, trying to cook soup?

After learning that you had no medicine, but rather herbs, he tried to cook something up with his prior knowledge.

He boiled the water, standing over the counter with a hand on his hip. He was determined, even though he had made a mess of your kitchen — much to his own dismay — but he was going to clean it. He promised.

With a sneeze, you stood up, approaching him. “Here, let me—”

“Hey, didn’t I just tell ya to rest? Uh-uh. Get back.” He said, stopping you before you could even got close.

“You’re always helping me,” You murmur.

Your voice quieted down. “I swore I could take care of myself, but I’m still as useless as I’ve always been.”

“You ain’t… useless, alright? You’re sick.” He says, watching you stumble, holding your head that throbbed. “Come on. Go rest.”

He wish he could’ve said more, but the words couldn’t leave his throat. With a hand on your shoulder, he guided you back to the velvety cushions of the sofa — to which your body sank in when you laid quietly.

She’s burning up.

The soup tasted like shit — after a reluctant taste test. He grimaced at the flavor; bitter, harsh, and unforgiving.

With a bowl of piping hot soup in his hands, he approached you slowly and sat beside where you lay. The putrid smell hit your nose, but you knew this was how it normally was.

“C’mon, sit up,” He tells you softly.

He stirs the spoon in the bowl as you did so, blowing out air from his mouth.

“It tastes awful, but you’re gonna have to take this so you get better,” He says, inching the spoonful by your mouth. “Say ah.”

If you weren’t going to die from exhaustion, you’d die from food poisoning. “This is terrible.”

“Yeah, it is. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ‘bout it, though.”

You grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around yourself as he continued to feed you. With every passing second, you’d get colder, and your head would continue to drill inside you.

“Don’t be difficult,” He sighs as you tried to minimize the amount of soup you’d drink.

“You don’t have to do this.” You protest.

“No, but I want to—”

It was like you were swallowing nails and fire.

“—‘cause I care for you.” And I love you.

He confesses, a little too quick. He coughed right after, rendering himself speechless.

“I thought I was doing pretty well by myself,” You mumbled. “I thought had it all under control.”

“Turns out I really hadn’t.”

He furrows his brows lightly. “If you push yourself more, you won’t be able to do anythin’.”

“Grief’s swallowed me whole, then.” With another spoonful of soup, you grimaced.

“Look, I don’t want ya to kill yourself, workin’ so hard,” He looks at you with empathy. “Why were you out in the rain? You knew you’d get sick.”

“Maybe I…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “The debt collectors came to visit a few days ago.”

Hearing this, his eyes narrowed slightly, the words ringing in his ears.

“The money I had wasn’t nearly enough. I-I thought I’d been doing well, but even with all your help, it wasn’t enough.”

Your words were barely above a whisper as you continued. “Am I really that weak?”

“No,” He answers — quicker than he could think. “You ain’t weak, no. You’re…”

“You’re more than you think you are,” He adds, clutching the now-empty bowl in his hands as he looked straight in your eyes. He could see how you shook, how you looked so hesitant to talk — but you did, anyway.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve met. You remember that.”

You stole my heart, that’s what you did. You brought me back from the dead.

You looked away briefly, as his hands came to softly graze over your cheek. “Look at me.”

The words poured out of his mouth involuntarily, though it felt so good. “You’ll get through this, alright? I’ll help you.”

“Why are you so insistent on helping me?” You asked. “I don’t deserve even half of what you’ve done.”

“Hell, I don’t deserve what you’ve done either.” He replies.

He wanted to say more — he wanted to say how much you meant to him. How much he’d done to you. You took his rotting heart and nursed it back to health.

He wanted to say how much he loved you — but he couldn’t.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

Now, he sits beside your sleeping figure, running a cold cloth over your forehead and neck.

The bags under your eyes weren’t getting much better, either. You were sweating, as his fingers swayed over the wet strands of hair on your forehead.

Without much thought about his actions, his fingertips continued to caress the strands of your hair.

I swear, she’s gonna work herself to death.

I wish I could do somethin’ about it. If she keeps this up, I don’t know what’ll happen to her.

What a stubborn woman I’ve fallen for.

You were soft, so much so. He could keep caressing you like this until he couldn’t.

His eyes glanced over you, darting over your lips.

It wasn’t a good time to let his feelings get ahead of him.

And suddenly, the words “I love you” threaten to leave his mouth. Even as an inaudible whisper, he hoped he could let it escape, fade into the never-ending rain.

Inside him were two different people. He wished he could let himself go, let those words leave his mouth — but he couldn’t help it. He was a coward, he knew that.

Even until now, where you couldn’t possibly hear anything he could say.

He couldn’t keep watching you beat yourself up like this.

His fingers trace down your cheek, down to your jaw, as your chest heaved up and down slowly in deep slumber.

When the cold cloth traced down your warm arms, you shifted. “Hold me.”

Did I hear that right?

He froze when your fingers intertwined with his. “‘S cold.”

He let a warm smile creep up his lips as your antics. “Yeah, alright.”

His thumb grazes over yours, slowly tracing small circles on the skin, watching you fade back into unconsciousness. Hell — you probably weren’t conscious when you asked for that, too.

Hours pass by until then — John falls asleep next to you, sitting down on a chair, with his hat draped over his face — and his hands still intertwined with yours.

You got better a week after, though John told you to lay off working for a bit — promising you he’d do your work instead.

But he noticed it — he noticed how despite he told you to rest, you were counting coins in the night. You were barely eating — buying provisions only for the animals.

He sat by your porch, watching as you hid and flicked away a cigarette.

“You know I see ya, right?”

You huffed, placing your chin on your palm. “I’m just… stressed.”

He plopped down beside you and sighed. “I know,”

“But I don’t…” He trailed off, taking a moment to gather his own thoughts and words before he said something stupid. “Look at you.”

He tucked the loose strands of hair covering your face behind your ear.

You didn’t look the best.

“You need rest, and you need to stop thinking about it.”

Your feet tapped against the wood rhythmically fast. “I can’t.”

“‘S hard to not think about, John. One day, they’re gonna come, and everything I’ve fought so hard for will disappear like nothing.”

You considered taking it all, running away, leaving your problems there in that ranch. But you didn’t; you stayed, and you worked so hard to bring it all back to life — to make the most of what was left.

The only thing your family left for you was that ranch, after all. And other than that, what was your place in life? What was your identity — your reason?

Even while the day, it seemed so gloomy. Clouds hovered over the place, all dark and moody.

“But it won’t. Trust me, it won’t.” John said — even though he knew nothing about comforting, he knew not of what was going to happen.

He could tell, any more of this, and you’d spiral back to a hard shell. Back to when you’d push everyone away.

August 9, 1908

Things ain’t goin’ good. I don’t know. She ain’t doin’ good — as far as I could tell.

Debt’s a nasty thing. I fear she might work too hard these days and somethin’ bad’ll happen. Am I worryin’ too much? No, I think I worry just the right amount.

She was sick the other week, I had to take care of her. Still stubborn. Wish I could tell her.

I’m a damn coward and a fool.

It’s been raining more than ever. The clouds are constantly dark — along with the moist air.

And you’ve been worser than ever, as well — much to his dismay.

Only weeks after that whole ordeal, it seems the debt collectors finally had enough.

Today, it didn’t rain.

When you sat next to him, he felt something somber.

“You alright?” He asked softly — almost immediately, upon noticing your quiet nature.

You’ve been more quiet then usual, of course, but today was different.

With a deep and sharp breath in, you spoke. “Can you take care of Sir?”

He felt confused. More than it.

What were you asking for?

“Sure I can, if he doesn’t claw my face off. Why… do you ask?”

“Can I ask you a favor? Just one.” You asked, hesitant. “Can you take care of him? When I leave.”

Cold, unforgiving breezes of wind brushed against the both of you — filling in the silent and palpable atmosphere.

You added, when he went quiet. “It’s alright if you can’t.”

“You’re leaving?” He asks — the mere idea of you doing so made his entire world go still.

You looked at the clouds. No sun, no light — just shadow and fullness. You were afraid of what he would say — so you looked in front, you kept your eyes glued away when you nodded.

“They came back. And… I was still short, so… I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

He looked at you, no he had been looking at you, with confused eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “Where will you go?”

You shrugged. “I’ll get by.”

“Do you have to leave?” He asked. It was a stupid question. He knew you were set on leaving, and he knew you had nothing else to stay here for.

In his heart, he really meant, “Do you have to leave me?”

Which, once again, was a stupid question. He was only your neighbor. Only a friend — only a man.

But he did see it in your eyes. You had to leave — but you didn’t want to, either. He knew how much the ranch meant to you — and now after inevitably losing it, you had no other choice.

Could his words mean anything to you? If he tried — if he held your hand, if he pulled your arm, if he told you, with pleading eyes “Don’t.”

For some time, he thought he could. But in the end, he couldn’t.

He took your hand in his.

Stay with me, please.

You intertwined your fingers with his — looking at him with warm eyes. “They… took everything,”

Not even in a physical way. Memories, they took. You wanted to say more — to cry in his arms — but you wanted to make your leaving clean and short.

You didn’t want to regret it all. Except you already did, in a way; could it possibly be worse?

“Here, John,” You took something from your pocket. “It was papa’s ring.”

He put the gold material between the tips of his index and thumb, looking at it briefly before his eyes landed on you again.

“I’ll take the train by tomorrow.”

“Will you—” He shifted, squeezing your hand. “Will you write to me?”

Right now, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to push his lips softly against yours, and murmur prayers of denial.

He felt bittersweet. All about this. It didn’t feel right, and yet he couldn’t do anything about it. This time, he was truly helpless.

“Always.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

August 10, 1908

Did she enter my life and fix me just to leave me broken and helpless?

Is she gonna take my soul with her, too?

It’s like… I got all close to her, and life rips her away once she’s close enough for me to hold. Goddamn cruel.

With Rufus on his lap and Sir on his shoulder, he couldn’t seem to write anything that night.

With a woof from Rufus, he patted his head. “I know, boy. We’re back to zero.”

And a meow from Sir, he sighed. “You ain’t the only one missin’ her. Hell, she hasn’t even left yet.”

You smell exactly like her, Sir. That’s a problem.

He lets the pen fall from his hands. The journal is tucked away by his side. He stares at the ring you gave him — drowning in his own thoughts.

His fingertips feel the engraving on the ring.

“Home.”

The thought of her leavin’ sickens me. My stomach churns, and I feel like I might drop dead the next second.

I should’ve said it, huh?

He continues fiddling with the ring.

That’s it? That’s what happens? That’s what happened?

It ain’t her fault she’s leavin’. Maybe I could’ve done somethin’. Hell, I know I could.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The ring in his fingers continue to jog around, as more of his relentless come to attack him.

Even if we weren’t all of that, I believed we were at least somethin’. It ended so suddenly, like all things. I was a fool.

With everything now so quiet, his thoughts are loud again.

God, I don’t deserve anything good. I don’t.

But if You believe I’ve redeemed myself, even just a little bit — could You bring her back to me?

I know… I’ve done bad things. But I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose her.

The ring drops to the ground — the clinking and clammer echoing in the empty room. For a light ring, it was loud.

God, I can’t.

He doesn’t sleep that night. Morning showed itself — roosters howled, light cracked from his window, rain fell heavily. And yet he still rotted in the comfort of his couch.

His heart felt heavy, it felt like it was dragging down every inch of his body. Like his flesh had turned into weights, like his lungs were under water.

He was the rain himself — sulking around the walls of his house.

He was beginning to truly drown in his own guilt and regret — until Uncle slapped him in the face.

“Ouch! What was that for?” He asked, sitting up straight and nursing the pain with his hand.

“You get up, John,” Uncle says, unamused.

John wanted to say something snappy, or poke fun at him — but he wasn’t exactly in the mood. John grumpily retorted with a “What?”.

“I can’t stand you sulkin’ ‘round here.”

“What do you mean?” John says, confused.

Uncle fumes, slapping him a second time. “Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me, dumbass!”

John let out a yelp of hurt, as Uncle continued, with a mocking tone. “You’re lookin’ at me with a face that says ‘it’s all over’,”

Uncle tries to slap him a third time, “Of course it is! And it’ll be, if you don’t do anythin’!”

But John swiftly dodges, finally standing up now.

Uncle continues. “You try to use that brain of yours, or it’ll rot.”

“Hell, maybe we could use it as horse-food so it’d be used,” He just kept going.

“I’ve seen children with greater will. Hell, I’ve got more will than you!”

“Point is, I could run after her m’self. And I can’t even run.”

John looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. He was getting what Uncle was pointing at, but he didn’t have to be that cruel, did he?

“I can’t… do nothin’ ‘bout it. She’s probably left already.”

Uncle interrupts him. “She is gonna be gone, if ya don’t try! Get your head outta the gutter, John!”

“It’s embarrassin’ and all, but ain’t nothin’ gonna happen if you do nothin’!”

Despite being quite hypocritical, John still felt attacked. “I get it—I get it,” He raised his arms up in surrender. “What d’ya want me to do?”

“I’m tellin’ ya to go after her before that damn train leaves.” Uncle shakes his head, looking serious for once.

John finally realizes. He did have one last chance. Uncle made sense. Instead of sulking around all day, he could do something one last time.

“Right now?” He asks, before answering the question himself.

Of course right now, John. Damn idiot.

“Right now! I’m—going—you’re right!” John hurries away, putting on his coat and hat — which he knew was ineffective against the heavy rain, but he’ll be damned if he let that stop him. He’s already let too many chances pass.

When he leaves, he can hear Uncle yelling one last time — faintly now. “I’ve always been right — you just been too dumb to comprehend!”

With every second passing, he swore he could hear the honking of the trains get louder. He didn’t want to hear it at all.

If he doesn’t do this right, he might just be lonely for the rest of his damn life.

He murmurs an apology to his horse for riding out in this ridiculous rain. “Real sorry for this, boy. Won’t take too long, alright?”

Already completely soaked from the downfall of rain — he didn’t care. At this point, the sun was about to set — and he wouldn’t make it.

Damn it. I should’ve done this a long time ago.

He’d go faster than ever. Like his life was on the line. Because truth be told — it is — to some extent. His horse understands that this is urgent, its hooves clacking along the dirt and mud without stopping.

Please be there, please be there. He repeated internally, gripping the reins so much his knuckles had gone white.

Still on his horse, he sees the train just about departing — slowly picking up the pace against the rails.

He was late.

He cursed under his breath. Desperation filled his very being.

Not this time. Please.

“Hey! Stop!” He shouts at the train — even though it’s useless — with the loud honking and rain. It muffled his voice.

It wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t slowing. But he wasn’t going to, either.

He’d never see your face, your smile. He’d never hear your laugh, your voice, your taunts and sweet voice again.

So, without you, who the hell would he wake up for in the morning?

Who would drag him to dance?

Who would he write about in his journal?

Who would soothe the lonely ache in his heart?

Who would he love?

He couldn’t live with the thought that you would be gone. That you would just disappear — like thin air. Like you had never existed at all. Like he wasn’t in love with you.

John was right by the tail of the train — but he had yet to catch up with it. He yelled out again, louder, this time. “[Reader]!”

Of course, he had foreseen that he would look like a lunatic. Like he’d lost his mind.

Inside the train, passengers seemed to have noticed his chasing figure outside the train. Some of them sticked their noses by the window — murmuring amongst themselves — who was this man yelling for?

With all the fuss and talk, you looked outside the window of your seat.

It was all too familiar, that man.

Your heart raced, along with your feet that stepped outside the moment your heard a faint calling of your name. Running to the outside of the last car — with the many passengers you bumped with — with every sorry — you could feel your heart beat faster.

There he was, John Marston, chasing the train on his horse — wet by the rain.

And you swore he was shouting your name.

Your hands gripped the railing, watching him struggle to keep pace. But he was yelling, and you knew he was saying something incredibly important — but you couldn’t hear it.

“John!” You yelled.

He yelled out again, muffled by all the noise. “Don’t go!”

But you couldn’t hear him. You tried to — but it seemed everything was against the two of you at this very moment.

“I can’t hear you!” You yelled.

You couldn’t hear what he had just said — you could only attempt to make out the words he was saying with his mouth.

“Damn it, STAY!”

You could finally hear him.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“STAY! STAY WITH ME!”

He could only watch as you froze, before you ran back inside the car. Just then, while John’s heart seemed to explode — everything made sense for you.

It all clicked.

“Ex—Excuse me, sir!” You ran to the conductor, panting heavily. “I need you to stop the train, please!”

“I made a big mistake.”

When the train slowly stopped, you thanked the conductor profusely as you made your way out. People’s eyes followed your steps, they watched as you ran outside in the cold rain right to John.

In that moment, he quickly got off his horse, running to you himself.

You jumped right in his arms — he caught you. He always did.

With his arms supporting your weight and your limbs wrapped tightly around him, he spun you around like a princess.

He exclaimed your name, grinning so widely.

“John, you idiot, you…”

“I love you too.”

When you settled down, he still held you up in his arms.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But was he complaining? No.

You loved him back.

You soon followed with a light scoff. “Chasing a train… who does that?”

“Who wouldn’t?” He asked, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a kiss.

He never thought he’d be able to do that.

March 7, 1913

In honor of our marriage anniversary — I decided to transfer all those journal pages to a new one. It’s been years since then. I never thought I’d actually use Arthur’s ring.

I still remember the moment I met her. Still remember that whole dramatic process. If you asked me, was it worth it? It was worth every damn penny. It was worth the universe.

I love her so much. I really do. I wouldn’t change a thing. Despite everything that happened, sometimes, even to myself — I can’t believe that she’s here with me. That she stayed — that she accepted my offer — and even married a man like me. I’m the luckiest man alive.

I’m right here, makin’ tomato soup. Rufus and Sir are fightin’ for the food. Ain’t nothin’ separates the two. And th—

“Oh, darlin’, please,” John sighs, watching you steal his journal from his hands.

“What, John?” You said coyly, reading it in front of him as you flipped the pages.

With an over-exaggerated gasp, you spoke in disbelief. “Are these love letters? Oh, you poet, John Marston,”

♪ Take my hand,

“I married a poet!” You giggled.

Take my whole life, too ♪

John tries to take back the journal — was he blushing? Yes. Like a schoolboy that had confessed to his crush. “Shut up. Stop readin’ it.”

♪ For I

“And your first impression of me was strange and stubborn?—” You followed up.

Can’t help ♪

He shrugged after, attempting to steal it back with a light lunge forward. “Of course. And hey—give it back!”

♪ Falling in love

“You try!” You chuckled, watching him fail miserably — before kissing you instead.

With you. ♪

[charles-smith-pillow-princess]

the first person you’ve let yourself love since your father’s life ran scarlet through your own hands is slung on the saddle behind you

you wrapped him in a robe you brought for the purpose. it’s made from buffalo. you think of anyone he’d appreciate the poetry

you are taking him to his final resting place. it’s where he watched the sun set while he waited for his life to end. it’s where you first learned he had a son

it is ground that already knows mourning

these are the things you tell him as you ride together at the end of ‘always’. the things you never told him, because men in this age do not speak freely of their hearts

he’s the first man you’ve met who you thought could have earned the title father

you know about Isaac. you know he failed that boy. you still think he did better by his duty than the men that sired either of you

you heard him singing sometimes. you sing to yourself, too. you ask him if his songs were his mother’s, also

when you told him to know was a blessing, it was because you could see cleanly the lines of his story. it was tragic, but the arc of it was something beautiful. he was scared to have an end. you’re scared that one day you will simply disappear, the trailing end of a forgotten verse

you tell him you found no lingering trace of john. that he got away clean. that you’re glad his brother made it out, even though it meant he passed his final moments alone

you tell him the pinkertons followed you and all you brought to the tribe as their rescue was more danger. that you killed a man slow to get the bearing of where to find him

you don’t tell him you wish you’d stayed, or that he came with you. this is not a regret you can hold inside yourself if you are to live

you crest the hill where you will lay the body of the man whose love for his brother will in seven years be the closest thing you can find to meaning

you carve a cross and inscribe it with a blessing from a book you have no belief in, because the words might have comforted him

you lay him down and tell him that the silence between you was the first place you didn’t feel lonely

you sing to him, your mother’s songs. you sing out all your love and loss on a cliff side, facing west, into the sun

(in direct conversation with @noshirdalal ‘s devastating cameo response for @missusarthurmorgan’ s request regarding how Charles found and buried Arthur)

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Could we get some sex hcs for Dutch, John, Charles, and Arthur (maybe even both sides of the honor spectrum) for how they are in bed and what kinks you think they'd have?

Kinks HC

(Dutch Van Der Linde, John Marston, Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan)

Warnings: smut, size kink, mommy kink, lactation kink, foot fetish, bdsm dynamics, daddy kink, sadomasochism, asphyxiation

Arthur Morgan

Size kink for sure

If you're especially smaller compared to him it drives him crazy

Would use his strength to his advantage and carry you while y'all fuck

Pins you down with his weight, holds you in place, carries you around, etc

Grips the head board...

Has probably broken a bed or two

High honor would mean he'd be a lot more considerate of your pleasure and what you want. Much gentler and passionate. Sex with high honor Arthur would feel a lot more like love making, but if you have requests for something a little rougher he'll indulge you in that. He'd be mindful of his size relative to you but it'd still be a huge turn on for him

Much like with high honor, low honor Arthur would also find a huge turn on in the size difference. Though he'd be a lot more selfish with pleasure. Not to say he wouldn't keep your enjoyment in mind, but he'd always get his nut in no matter what. One way or another. Also this man FUCKS, not necessarily makes love. Rough as hell and he finds enjoyment in your debauched flace and pleads. Will probably mock your moans for enjoyment.

John Marston

I said it before. Mommy kink. Let me elaborate.

Definitely a tits man, so he'd probably have a lactation kink too. Would beg to suck on your breasts when you're pregnant. Handles your chest like they're some treasure he needs to be careful with.

Aboslutely awestruck by the way your breasts increase in size throughout your pregnancy.

Gets antsy and hot and bothered whenever you lactate through your shirt.

Practically BEGS on his KNEES just to get a taste

As for the mommy kink, this is when he's submissive in bed

Probably likes it when you're rough on him when you're domming

I'm talking hair pulling, slapping, ordering him around

Calls you mommy the entire time and tries to get a nipple in his mouth whenever he can

Motherless behavior

Also feet, but that's a fetish. I can just see him frequently asking for foot jobs.

Charles Smith

I feel like he'd be pretty vanilla, but he'd still be flexible depending on what you like and what he's willing to do

One of the things he'd be more willing to do is asphyxiation. A gentle squeeze of your neck to putting you in a choke hold while he flexes

Is iffy about it but once he sees your red face and your eyes roll back he's all for it

Also praise! Any form of positive reinforcement in the bed room is a green flag for him.

Uses the most gentle and flowery words to take and make you feel comfortable

BRO JUST IMAGINE HIM SAYING "Good girl" IN HIS VOICE IM DECEASED

Also wouldn't mind letting you dom him once in a while. Would be down to be tied up. Thinks the trust aspect that comes with it is super attractive.

Dutch Van Der Linde

Roleplay 100%. Think it's fun to pretend to be other people. Supplies costumes, jewelry, props, anything to make it more realistic. Will even do location changes for it.

Wants to be called sir during sex, any other title or name and he'll view it as deserving of punishment

Brat taming, so be as bratty and bitchy as you want, he'll find a way to break you

Likes blindfolds, gags, bondage, leather

I can also see him pouring candle wax on you. Gets a rise out of inflicting these things on you

Likes to command you to do things such as laying down, spreading your legs, getting on yout knees, etc...

He sets the scene and everything, rose petals, candles inside his tent, slow music, he puts thought into EVERY detail

Now that I think about it maybe a daddy kink. For times when he's feeling dirtier and rougher he'll want you to call him daddy.

Thinks its so scandalous and it makes him feel so giddy

[tempting-andromeda]

NSFW HEADCANONS 3

Characters: Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Dutch Van Der Linde, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella, Sean MacGuire, Lenny Summers, Kieran Duffy, Micah Bell, Eagle flies

Arthur Morgan

Bites your lip while you kiss. He’ll suck on it but he thinks biting it is even more attractive.

Has a biiig thing for eye contact. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time but if you look at him it sends him

He tries not to be too rough but he’s caught himself a few times applying too much force into shifting positions or grabbing the back of your thighs

Occasionally teases you but it’s mostly full of praise. Like “look at you” with a slight chuckle.

John Marston

Has once broken his cot and didn’t stop. It boosted the fuck out of his ego

Does not shut up. It’s physically impossible for him to stay silent and not make a sound.

Sometimes when he’s a little drunk and needy he’ll stand behind you and slowly grind himself into you

If you rub his thighs or his arms he gets turned on. He acts like you’re practically throwing yourself onto him and he’s holding himself back if you just squeeze his bicep.

Dutch Van Der Linde

He likes to lead you into intimacy. Like helping you change or helping you unwind knowing he’s a lil heated

Likes to be the mastermind of the situation. He asked you to put on that outfit because he knew he’d be taking it off

Likes to take his time to admire you no matter how flustered you get. He runs his cold rings along your stomach and smirks

Coaxes you into things by kissing your ankles or neck while he leads you into positions.

Charles Smith

If you have your period I think he’d be great at it. Like he’d know exactly what to do.

Cannot set a constant pace to save his life. He can start slow and steady but if he finishing like that? Absolutely not

He isn’t used to someone taking care of him but when you do? He’s barely able to stay still. He’s forcing his hips from bucking and he’s biting his bottom lip.

He likes of you hold his hair back while he goes down on you. He fuels something within him.

Javier Escuella

Always presses his face into your neck

Ik we say John is whiny and shit but Javier?! I bet he’d throw his head back and let out a breathy whine

Sometimes he “edges” himself by pulling out or stops moving his hips so he doesn’t finish and can last longer

Stays quiet sometimes but just grunts and mumbles into your ear

Sean MacGuire

Doesn’t even bother to get either of you completely undressed. He complains when it gets in his way but he finds it a bit attractive.

He’d get off humping your leg if you wanted. He’s so bad it’s nearly pathetic (in a hot way)

Horrendous at pillow talk or aftercare. But he tries. He usually comes down by like chuckling softly and being like “yer legs were over my shoulders”

Loses his mind is you tease him. Grab his thigh, accident caress his bulge? He’s about to break into tears if you keep it up.

Lenny Summers

He likes to hold your hand in missionary. He’ll grip onto it and sometimes he’ll accidentally pin your hands above your head because he wants to hold both of your hands

He’s into feedback when he goes down on you. He’s not the most experienced but he knows how to follow directions.

He gets dizzy and flustered from kisses so he likes when you cover him in kisses. He won’t complain if you’re wearing lipstick either

Holds the back of your head for nearly anything. While you’re going down on him, while he’s fucking you, while your kissing?

Kieran Duffy

Likes being behind you to hold you close and grab onto your chest and stomach. He gets so needy with it.

He gets embarrassed if you see his face so he tries to keep it hidden like he hides it in your hair, his arm, etc

Will knead your thighs if he’s between them. He’s grippin onto those bad boys like his life depends on it.

If you’re between his legs he’s bucking up into you and holding your head. He feels bad about it but he can’t help himself.

Micah Bell

He thinks messy sex that kinda makes you feel embarrassed afterwards is the best kind

Likes when your surprised by his actions. Like he’ll slap you and then kiss you and watch your confused and flustered reaction

Ruins clothes and he’s proud about it. He asks you to wear your favorite blouse just to rip all the buttons off

Loves to choke you. He thinks you look pretty with your face all red knowing that you’re letting him do this to you

Eagle Flies

He likes marks. Hickeys on either one of you, scratches, etc. he gets a rise seeing a mark he left the day before or he feels a little cocky when someone mentions the scratches on his back.

He pants and groans at anything when he’s in the mood. He physically can’t hold back. Run your fingers through his hair or gently touch his waist.

His hair down in missionary. That’s it.

He confident enough to beg. Like if you want him to be more desperate he is desperate. He’ll get on his knees and follow you to the bed.

[corrupte3d-mindz]

His Angel

Possessive! Thomas Shelby x F! Younger Reader

Summary: Thomas can’t help himself when it comes to her, she gets everything she wants from him.

Wordcount: 3.4k

Warnings:

possessive! Thomas, head-over-heels! Thomas, lap sitting, kissing, soft talking, praise, lovey dovey things from Thomas.

Inspiration: Too Sweet - Hozier

The Garrison snug was thick with the familiar haze of smoke, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and sweat. Thomas sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid yet relaxed, an oxymoron that only he could embody so effortlessly. 

Arthur was mid-sentence, his gruff voice detailing the latest shipment, but Thomas’s mind was already elsewhere, drifting into the echo of his brother’s words. John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael murmured amongst themselves, the background noise a symphony of camaraderie and business. The soft knock at the door silenced the room instantly. It was a knock they all recognized, a signal that brought an immediate hush over the group. Thomas’s eyes flicked to the door, and his entire demeanor shifted. The sharpness in his gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing into something almost tender. He took a long and deliberate drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dim light, before turning in his chair to face the door.

As the knob turned and the door creaked open, time seemed to slow. There she stood, framed in the doorway like a vision from a dream. Her off-white fur coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, contrasting beautifully with the dark, rich red of her dress. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, accentuating every curve with a grace that seemed almost unreal. The bottom hem brushed just past her ankles, revealing her black heels with their signature red bottoms—a custom pair made just for her by Thomas and his connections. Thomas felt a swell of emotion as he took her in. Her makeup was flawless, enhancing her natural beauty without overpowering it. The deep crimson of her lips matched the ruby drop earrings that dangled delicately from her ears, the diamonds in her dog collar necklace catching the light and adding an extra sparkle to her already radiant presence. Her hair was styled in a poodle bob, a classic look that gave her an air of timeless elegance.

He rose from his seat and stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table; the movement drawing the attention of the room, but he paid no mind to the eyes on his back. His focus was entirely on her. With a few long strides, he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to pull her gently by the waist. As the door closed behind her, sealing them off from the world, he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.

"What did I ever do.." he sighed softly again, "...to get so lucky with someone like you?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion and the smell of cigarettes, whiskey as well as his natural musk he has. He tilted his head slightly, inhaling the scent of her hair—a delicate fragrance that sent a shiver down her spine. The sensation of his breath and the intimacy of the moment made her heart flutter.

She smiled up at him, her eyes full of warmth and adoration. "Maybe it’s not about luck, Tommy. Maybe it's just meant to be," she whispered back, her voice soft and melodic.

Oh, how she spoke to him; he loved it so, it always melted his cold and dark heart; tugging at his vulnerable little heart strings, oh he would do anything she ever asked him. The quiet laughter from the table behind them went ignored. Thomas was lost in her presence, the rest of the world fading into the background. He traced his fingers lightly over her waist, feeling the delicate fabric of her dress under his touch. Her skin was warm, even through the material, and he could feel her heartbeat quicken under his fingertips. He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his own filled with a mix of awe and affection. "You’re too sweet for a man like me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a rough edge to his words, a hint of the darkness that always seemed to linger just beneath the surface.

She reached up, cupping his face in her gloved hand. "But you’re just right for me," she replied, her smile never wavering.

The sincerity in her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them; his eyes filled with love as he spoke softly just so she could hear. "ingerul meu," he said, his voice breaking slightly; as he spoke his romani language. It was a rare moment of vulnerability; but it was more rare for him to speak his language and say such caring words, it something that he only ever allowed himself in her presence.

For a few precious moments, they stood there, wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world outside their small bubble. Her presence was a balm to his troubled soul, a touch of sweetness in his otherwise bitter existence. The noise of the pub, the business, the danger—they all melted away, leaving just the two of them. Thomas buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, holding her as if she might disappear if he let go. Her hair smelled like wildflowers, a scent that clashed so wonderfully with the leather and smoke that clung to him. Eventually, the world intruded once more. Thomas pulled back, but kept one arm wrapped around her waist. "Come, sit wit' me," he said, his voice a low rumble, guiding her to the table. He pulled out his chair and sat down, before tapping his lap slightly, the gesture almost gentlemanly despite the roughness of his exterior. She blushed slightly before taking off her off-white fur coat and hanging it on the small coat rack next to him.

She moved to sit down in his lap, her movements graceful and cautious. Thomas helped her get comfortable; his hands gripping her waist to steady her. Each touch was possessive yet tender, as if he were afraid to break her. He occasionally let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear. These sounds were uncharacteristic of the man known for his stoicism, but with her, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He eventually let go of her waist and rested his hands in the softness of her lap. Her presence grounded him, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold steel he often felt in his chest. The conversation Thomas once had with Arthur resumed, it was about a shipment of theirs, the details gritty and grim, but necessary. Time passed slowly as they talked about things she didn't need to worry about. She would occasionally feel uncomfortable in his lap, and moved slightly to sit differently. Each time she moved, he let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear; his reactions a testament to how much he loved and needed her.

Soon, everyone had said what they needed to say, and they called the little meeting to a close. Arthur, John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael started to get up and leave the snug, their goodbyes curt and businesslike. Thomas watched and waited as they filtered out, his focus shifting back to her as the room emptied. It was just them now, them and the air around them, them and the world only. Thomas sighed, the weight of the world momentarily lifting as he leaned forward to rest his chin on her head, his arms wrapping around her waist to hold her closer. He occasionally sniffed her hair; oh, how he loved how she smelled. The sweet scent was intoxicating, a reminder of the softness and sweetness she brought into his life. His arm now slightly wrapping around her waist; an action that held her more against him. His other hand found its way to her hands; cupping them both in his large, calloused hand, feeling the contrast between his roughness and her softness.

"I heard y' had problems when visitin' Polly the other day... why didn't y'-tell me? Eh'.." His voice was a low whisper as he leaned into her ear, his lips brushing against the soft flesh of her earlobe. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, a mix of his tenderness and the latent danger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface with him. "I had 'em handle it, they won' give ye' problems anymore—" His voice filled with a mixture of slow-burning rage for the men who gave her problems she shouldn't have to deal with and a deep, abiding love for her.

His words were a promise, a declaration of the lengths he would go to protect her. His hand tightened around hers, his grip firm but gentle. She was the light in his darkness, the sweetness in his bitterness, and he would do anything to keep her safe. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and love, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest, a rare feeling for a man so accustomed to the cold. Her voice was soft when she replied, "I didn't want to worry you, Tommy. You've got so much on your plate already." Her words were filled with the kind of understanding and compassion that only she could offer. She was too kind, too sweet, too loving, and he was acutely aware of how undeserving he felt of her love. He shook his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "You never worry me, love. Yer the only good thing in this bloody world. An' if anyone tries to take that away, I'll deal with 'em myself." There was a fierce protectiveness in his voice, a promise of retribution for anyone who dared to threaten her peace. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The pub, the business, the danger—they all became background noise to the rhythm of their shared breath. Thomas stroked her hair, his touch gentle, his heart full.

Her presence was like a soothing balm to his tumultuous soul, and in these stolen moments, he allowed himself to savor the peace she brought him. His entire being radiated a dangerous intensity, a brooding darkness that was barely contained beneath the surface. The sharp planes of his face were etched with a perpetual look of determination, his eyes glinting with a mix of love and ferocity. There was a rage simmering within him, a fury that was always ready to explode at the slightest provocation. But with her, that anger was tempered by a tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else. As he sat there, holding her close, his thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind of emotions. He was a man used to control, accustomed to bending the world to his will. Yet, when it came to her, he found himself at a loss. She was everything he had never known he needed: kind, sweet, understanding, and loving. She was the light to his darkness, the softness to his hardness, and he was utterly captivated by her. His tone was dark, his words dripping with unspoken promises; he stopped petting her soft hair. He could feel the tension in her body as he spoke, her confusion evident in the way she shifted slightly on his lap. He picked her up slightly, turning her around to face him. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand left her hands and moved to cup her face roughly, his touch firm yet somehow gentle.

"If people ever fuckin' knew..." he began, his voice low and menacing. His eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of understanding. But she looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes, not comprehending the depths of his words. "The thin's I'd be willin' t'do for yeh," he continued, his touch becoming more possessive, his fingers digging into her soft skin. There was a darkness in his gaze, a promise of violence that he would unleash upon anyone who dared to harm her. "They woul' realize t'one they should b' scared of is not me..." he said, his nose scrunching in a gesture that was both menacing and almost tender. "It's you, love."

She still didn't understand, and that only fueled his frustration. How could she not see that she held more power over him than anyone else ever had? How could she not realize that she was the one thing in this world that could bring him to his knees? He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin as he spoke.

"They don't know what it's like, lovin' someone like yeh. They don't know what I'd do, what I'd sacrifice, to keep yeh safe," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'd tear the world apart for yeh, I'd burn it all down if it meant keepin' yeh by my side."

His words were a vow, a promise of the lengths he would go to protect her. He could feel her trembling in his grasp, whether from fear or something else, he wasn't sure. But he needed her to understand, needed her to see that she was the most important thing in his life.

"You make me better, love. You make me want to be better," he confessed, his voice softening for a moment. "But that don't mean I won't do what's necessary. That don't mean I won't become a monster if it means keepin' yeh safe." He could see the thoughts piling up in her brain, in her eyes; he could tell by the way her lips quivered, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. His touch was gentler now, a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before. "I love yeh," he whispered, the words carrying a weight that was almost tangible. "More than anythin' in this world. An' I'll do whatever it takes to make sure nothin' ever hurts yeh."

Her skin was soft and smooth, a delicate canvas beneath his rough fingers. He traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch feather-light, almost reverent. His thumb brushed against her lips, and he felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. The crimson stain of her lipstick left a faint mark on his thumb, a vivid reminder of her presence.

"I've been thinkin' 'bout..." His voice trailed off, rough and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid thoughts. He paused, his thumb resting against her lips, feeling the soft, pliant flesh beneath his touch. The struggle to find the right words was evident in the furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw. "I just wish I could've met yeh before all this." The words finally came, a rough whisper in the quiet of the snug. His thumb traced her lower lip, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. There was a vulnerability in his voice that she rarely heard, a glimpse of the man beneath the hardened exterior.

He gazed into her eyes, those windows of softness and light that calmed the storm within him.

"Ești prea dulce pentru mine," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, rough and full of the gravel of his Birmingham accent. His Romani roots slipped into his words, a tender whisper of his heritage that only she was privy to. She smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the understanding and love she held for him. Her hand covered his, her fingers curling around his, feeling the strength and callouses of a man who had fought many battles. Before she could respond, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was more battle than embrace. His lips crashed against hers with a force that spoke of desperation and need, a raw intensity that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The kiss was a tempest of emotions—passion, anger, pain, and a lingering sadness that he could never quite shake. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, as if he feared she might vanish if he let go. His other hand cupped her face, thumb brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. She clung to him, her arms finally moving to encircle his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if anchoring herself to him. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into her mouth, exploring and claiming in a way that was both possessive and reverent. He tasted the sweetness of her, a stark contrast to the bitter whiskey and smoke that lingered on his own tongue. Her taste was intoxicating, a heady blend of innocence and warmth that he couldn't get enough of. He gripped her face more firmly, his need for her bordering on frantic.

Time seemed to stand still as they kissed, the world outside the snug fading into oblivion. It was as if they were the only two people in existence, bound together by a connection that defied explanation. The kiss went on, a relentless exploration that left them both breathless. When they finally pulled apart, a thin string of saliva still connected their lips, a physical reminder of the bond they shared. Thomas's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his gaze never leaving her face. Her lipstick was smeared, a vibrant red that now adorned his own lips and around his mouth. She looked equally disheveled, her eyes bright with the same mix of emotions that churned within him. He watched as she leaned back against the table, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Without a word, he pulled her against him once more, her face finding its place in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her close. The silence between them was thick with unspoken words, a quiet that was both comforting and fraught with tension.

"îngerul meu dulce și dulce," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her skin. My sweet, sweet angel. The words were a confession, an admission of a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. In her arms, he found a sanctuary from the darkness that constantly threatened to consume him.

Her hand moved to his chest, resting over his heart as if to soothe the turmoil that raged within. She didn't need to say anything; her presence was enough, her touch a silent promise that she wasn't going anywhere. He tightened his grip on her, drawing strength from her unwavering support. Thomas's thoughts were a chaotic swirl of emotions, memories of a past marred by violence and loss clashing with the hope that she represented. She was everything he needed but didn't deserve, a beacon of light in his dark, dangerous world. He knew he should push her away, should protect her from the storm that was his life, but he couldn't. She was his, and he would do whatever it took to keep her by his side. As he held her, he couldn't help but marvel at the way she fit so perfectly against him, as if she were made to be there. Her kindness, her sweetness, her unwavering love—they were the antithesis of everything he had known, and yet they were exactly what he needed. She balanced him in a way nothing else could, her softness soothing the jagged edges of his soul.

Author's Notes:

This song is actually so fucking perfect, like it matches Thomas so well. God I can't believe I let this one shot sit on the back burner for this long!!! The reader is literally too sweet for Thomas; because she's too sweet like wine....ahhhhh!!! Please check out these articles to understand it more!!: What does it mean? 'Too Sweet' by Hozier.

The person who asked for an older and dom! Cillian paired w a younger reader; I must tell you that's its being worked on it's just I've had weird problems with it, like it's cursed. I've spent a couple hours on writing for it; then saved it only for it to not save. I've had text formatting problems; the whole 9 yards; everything and the damn kitchen sink.

However it is in the works and should be one of my next uploads; if I don't have problems with it.

To just a simple passer by; I hope you enjoyed this one shot as I did writing it.

[red-dead-n-dandy]

fluffy cuddle headcanons for bill williamson (+ anyone else you feel like writing!) and a gender neutral s/o? im in the mood for cutesy cowboy content 👉👈

Absolutely! Always! I try to write gender-neutral as much as I can so everyone can enjoy :) And mee too!! I need a cuddle, where's my cowboy at?!

Mind on You

Pairing: RDR2 Men x Reader

Game: Red Dead Redemption 2

Warnings: some of the men's headcannons got slightly angsty/emotional - it's not too ba,d but i always warn just in case! (Bill, Kieran and Sean)

{ How each of the men love to cuddle/hold you }

I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback in the comments or tags, thank you and enjoy! <3

ARTHUR MORGAN:

Lover of the slow morning cuddles

He's always on the go, so the mornings that he can relax with you are his favourites.

"Slow down, ain't got nowhere to be this mornin'." as you try to get up and get dressed.

It's a feeble attempt.

You barely manage to sit up before his arm snakes around your waist.

Chuckling as you're pulled back into the warmth of his chest.

"Now," he murmurs in his deep morning voice "you ain't going nowhere."

Slowly starts kissing your neck if you try to protest.

BILL WILLIAMSON:

Behind all the bluster, he's a big softie.

He seeks you out when he's had a tough day, the kind of day when the whole camp just views him as the camp fool.

It stings deeper than he's willing to admit

But you know

The soft "Come here, darling" just melts him.

Surrendering into your arms, hair on his body standing upright as you run your hands over his shoulders to ease away at the knots of stress.

Though he's embarrassed, he looks up at you - into your soothing eyes and he knows...everything's gonna be alright.

CHARLES SMITH:

Charles is quite a private man, so although he loves your affection; he wouldn't necessarily go for full-blown PDA and cuddles in front of the gang.

That's your time, together.

To him, it's sacred.

If you come and quietly ask him to cuddle, he'll take your hand and lead you away from everyone else.

Happiest with you in between his legs, your back against his chest

Whether you're reading, drawing, sharpening knives etc - he likes to wrap his arms around you and gently rest his chin on your shoulder to watch what you're up to

Has been known to fall asleep like this, but will deny it

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

Dutch loves nothing more than pulling you into his lap in the evenings when sitting around the campfire.

Does this in a low-key possessive way

He gets even more of a kick out of it when he knows you're busy.

I mean, who's gonna deny him?

Not you, that's for sure!

"Come, sit for a while. You've been so busy today"

Encourages you to cuddle in closer as the warmth of the fire envelops you both.

HOSEA MATTHEWS

BIG fan of having a cuddle while reading

Whether it's you laying in his lap or the other way around

Will read passages aloud to you if you ask him to

Help him up, his back will thank you!

Enjoys being quiet and with nature, points out different birds and animals etc

Will also randomly launch into stories, some true...some less so! but you love them either way.

"Did I ever tell you about the time..."

JAVIER ESCUELLA

Another member of the cuddly gang!

Loves affection, but can become nervous when he falls for someone

Talk to him about music or his (emotional support) guitar and he'll relax.

Better yet, ask him to teach you how to play!

Awkward reaching of hands to help you get the chords

"It might be easier if I move closer?" you oh-so-innocently ask.

God, he smells good!

He is a nervous wreck inside, but the proximity is oddly addictive.

Oh, stay a little longer! He'll teach you song after song if you're willing!

JOHN MARSTON

He's not massively cuddly, but god does he need some love!

He'll never ask for a cuddle, but you'll see the signs.

"what you doin'?" he asks defensively as you move yourself onto his lap.

Soon relaxes into it, but claims it's you "being all clingy and stuff"

Gets more affectionate when he's drunk

Secretly loves it when you trace your fingertips over his scars.

He hates them, but the way you coo over them - that feels nice.

JOSIAH TRELAWNEY

If you can hold him down for 5 goddamn minutes, then sure, he'll cuddle you!

I swear this man just disappears?!

The best time to cuddle him is honestly while he sleeps!

Move into his arms and he'll subconsciously wrap you up, his moustache tickling your head.

If you're lucky, he'll stir in the night and give you a couple of small kisses.

Also a big fan of cuddles in a shared bath?

KIERAN DUFFY

Please...can someone show this man an ounce of love?

He works so hard, so it's nice to have some affection at the end of the day, a shoulder massage that turns into a sleepy cuddle - yes, please!

Another one for bath cuddles!

Is just constantly serving, it feels like he's never off the clock, but for you? he doesn't mind!

Do you need him to wash your hair, and your body? Your clothes?

He can feel at a loss if he just exists with nothing to do

So hold him, sing to him, serve him for a change!

LENNY SUMMERS

Like Hosea, Lenny enjoys reading with you in his lap and loves to absent-mindedly run his hands through your hair.

He loves to make up poems for you and will recite them as you cuddle.

Is so eager to tell you about all the different flowers! His mum taught him and it makes him feel so close to her. knows which ones are rare, their different uses etc

Actually has a collection of dried flowers in a journal but thinks the other men would tease him for it, so only you and the women know..shhh!

Loves to loud watch with you as well, he's such a little dreamer! *cough* dreamBOAT *cough*

MICAH BELL

Not a cuddler.

expect to be teased and tormented relentlessly if you dare to ask

If you stick to your guns...like you are GETTING this cuddle, he'll be handsy

And it's just not that kind of cuddle, you know?

Not that he particularly cares

It's not a satisfying cuddle by any means

like this man is ticking a box at the very least, and getting something out of it if he can.

Honestly, I think you'd be better asking literally anyone else!

"Don't you dare ask another man, c'mere!" he'll say coldly.

SEAN MACGUIRE

He's always happy, always bubbly! If you were to try and cuddle him before he was tortured by the bounty hunters, it would be a case of "catch me if ya can!"

but things have changed, Sean has changed. The rest of the group hasn't noticed much of a change, he's careful to make sure they don't. The fear of not being good enough, or strong enough consumes him.

So long as he's good ol' Sean-y boy, everything will be fine!

But he has become more vulnerable with you, wants you cose, needs you close

You are his little ray of sunshine and he can't lose you now!

Whispering praises and promises like it's his last night on earth...because although the gang doesn't seem to recognise it...it very almost was.

[roseandxanderfics]

"They help to tame your anxiety." (NSFW headcanon) - Peaky Blinders x reader

Tommy Shelby

Tommy notices it before you do—the tightness in your shoulders, the far-off look in your eyes, the way you’re fidgeting in his presence. He doesn’t need you to speak; he’s already figured it out. The stress, the anxiety, it’s becoming too much for you, and he’s not about to let you crumble under it.

He takes control with ease, his presence demanding attention. Without a word, he pulls you close, his hands gripping your waist and guiding you toward the bed. His eyes darken with that typical intensity, but there’s something more in them now—something possessive. He’s not asking for permission. He’s not here to discuss feelings or emotions. He’s here to give you release.

“Sit down,” he commands, his voice a low rasp as he pushes you onto the bed. The tone is non-negotiable.

Tommy’s movements are deliberate as he undresses you, every piece of clothing removed with purposeful slowness, as though he’s savoring every moment, knowing how much you need this. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries—his hands are on you in an instant, pulling your legs apart and positioning you just the way he wants.

“You’ll focus on me, and I’ll make sure you forget everything else,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your lips as he lowers himself between your thighs.

Tommy wastes no time. His tongue is a force, a master of its craft, moving with precision as he brings you to the brink of release again and again. You gasp, your mind clouded with the sensation of his mouth, his power.

He doesn’t allow you to finish on your own, his grip on your hips tightening as he lifts you against him, claiming you with slow, measured strokes. His eyes never leave yours, watching your body tense and release beneath his touch.

"Come for me," he commands, voice a low growl. "Do it for me, and let go of everything."

There’s no negotiation, no back and forth. You simply obey, letting him take what he wants, all the while the anxiety melting away beneath his firm hands and control.

----------

Arthur Shelby

Arthur is always the first to recognize when something’s wrong with you—his sharp instincts never miss a beat. He knows when you’re struggling, even if you’re not saying a word. You pace around the room, your anxiety palpable in the way your hands twitch and your breath comes too fast.

Without warning, Arthur closes the space between you, his hands on your arms, forcing you to still. His grip is tight, strong, grounding.

“You’re not doing this alone, love,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. “You’re not getting away from me.”

There’s no discussion. He moves you toward the bed with a single tug, pushing you down onto the sheets. Arthur isn’t one to be gentle when it comes to getting you out of your head. His actions are driven by a raw need to make you feel safe, to remind you that he’s in control.

His hands are rough as they strip you of your clothes, his eyes scanning your body with a possessive hunger. “I’m gonna make you forget all that shit in your head, alright?” he mutters, his lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Arthur’s mouth is on you in an instant, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling you against him as his tongue finds its rhythm. His movements are intense, designed to bring you to the edge quickly, again and again.

“You’re gonna come for me, and you’re gonna let me fix this,” he commands, his voice thick with dominance. He holds you in place, not allowing you to move, only to surrender to the pleasure he’s giving.

When he enters you, it’s deep and fast, his thrusts hard enough to make the anxiety vanish completely. He controls every inch of you—your pleasure, your release, your ability to think. Every ounce of tension in your body is wiped away as you come undone beneath him, your body responding to him as if it has no other choice.

-----------

John Shelby

John knows you well. He’s seen your anxiety creep up in subtle ways, and he’s aware of the overwhelming pressure that builds in you when you start to pull away. But he doesn’t let you retreat. He’s always had a way of breaking through, and tonight, it’s no different.

You try to avoid his gaze as you pace, but he’s already behind you, his hands on your shoulders, his grip firm.

“Stop,” John’s voice is commanding, low but filled with the authority that only he can carry. “Look at me.”

When you turn to face him, his eyes are full of understanding but also that familiar dominance. He’s not asking you to explain or justify; he’s not interested in your words. He’s interested in taking care of you, in making sure you forget the chaos swirling in your mind.

“Get on the bed,” he orders, guiding you without hesitation, his voice unwavering.

You obey, and he undresses you quickly, not gently but with a purposeful touch that shows he knows exactly what you need. His eyes never leave yours as he positions you, spreading your legs apart, and as he moves between them, you feel a quiet surge of vulnerability, but it’s balanced with trust.

John’s mouth moves over you with practiced precision, his tongue moving in expert strokes. He doesn’t give you a choice, doesn’t give you a chance to overthink. He’s already taking what you need, and he knows it’s the only way to make you stop thinking.

His fingers push inside you, curling and moving with intention. “Don’t think about anything else, love,” he murmurs as you begin to lose yourself. “Just feel me. Just let go for me.”

Each thrust, each movement, is focused entirely on your release, your pleasure, your relief. And as you come undone, trembling beneath him, you realize that in this one-sided act, he’s fixed what no words could.

------------

Michael Gray

Michael is quiet, calculating—always watching. He sees your anxiety building, the way you try to hide it, but he’s not fooled. You don’t even have to speak for him to understand what’s going on inside your head.

He doesn’t approach you with words. He simply stands there, his presence unwavering, his gaze commanding.

“Come here,” he says, his voice calm and steady as he walks toward you. There’s no hesitation in his tone. He knows exactly what’s going on, and he’s in control of the situation.

He doesn’t wait for you to move; instead, he grabs your wrist and leads you to the bed, his steps confident. “You’re not gonna get away from me,” he says as he undresses you with a steady hand, his eyes darkening as he takes in your body.

Michael is deliberate with everything. His hands are firm as he positions you beneath him, taking control without a single word wasted. His touch is commanding as he moves over you, his mouth trailing down your body until his tongue is between your thighs, making you forget about everything but the pleasure he’s giving you.

“You’ll come for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s the only thing you’ll focus on now.”

He moves in a calculated rhythm, his fingers and mouth pushing you closer to release with a singular goal: to make you forget, to make the anxiety melt away under his control. And when you come, it’s not just physical; it’s emotional too—every ounce of tension leaving your body as you surrender to him completely.

[dollyzdaydreamz]

John Marston x Van der Linde! Reader

Whiskey and Worn out Souls

Description: The events at blackwater and your father’s erratic behavior has you caught up in your thoughts at the saloon with the gang as they celebrate a petty win over the O'Driscolls. Two men decide to heckle you over your gunslinging outfit and you can't help but let your frustrations out on them. Warnings: Violence (reader is a gunslinger, reference to Blackwater massacre) sexism, some people drink, reader has Dutch’s smart mouth, reader doesn’t drink but smokes a cig (don't smoke yall:)

angst/overthinking, daddy issues lowkey (^-^)

The saloon was a lively mess, full of drunken laughter, piano playing, and the ever-present stench of stale beer and poor decisions. The gang had taken a petty victory against the O’Driscoll's as a reason to celebrate, and the drinks kept on coming. But while the others laughed and drank, you sat against the bar in your usual gunslinging attire: the pistol gifted by your father long ago strapped to your hip, a bullet belt around your waist, worn down jeans that reached just past your ankle, a shirt under your fur lined vest, and muddy boots. Your mood was darker than the cheap liquor in the bottles laid out on the counter. 

You were trapped in deep thought as you fiddled with a chip of wood on the oddly sticky bar counter. Maybe, it was the Pinkertons steering closer to the gang, seemingly breathing down your necks at every train heist or bank robbery. Maybe it was seeing your fathers slow, yet subtle dissent to an even more distasteful degeneracy, ever since Micah’s unfortunate introduction to the gang. Maybe, it was the image of that poor woman’s brain plastered on the wall in Blackwater after your father had let a bullet fly at her skull upon Micah’s encouragement.

A few of the boys, noticing your off-mood, had asked if you wanted to join them across the bar, but you quietly declined, unable to shake the confusing thoughts whirling in your brain.

Which meant, of course, that some fool had to try your patience.

“That ain’t no way for a pretty lady to dress, miss” a baritone voice drawled beside you.

“I don't know, somethin’ about a woman in men’s clothing does something for me.” a more nasally voice chuckled. 

You barely spared a glance at the men, hoping they'd get bored and run off with one of the working girls eventually.

Across the room, John shifted slightly, already pushing off his chair to intervene, but Dutch lifted a lazy hand, stopping him.

“Hold on there,” your father warned him, leaning back in his seat with a small grin. “Let’s just…enjoy the show” 

You shifted in your seat to face them when you realized they weren’t going to leave just yet, eyeing them down as you fished a cigarette out of your pocket. One, a wiry rat-faced fella with the confidence of someone who'd never been clocked in the mouth. His friend, bigger and dumber-looking, smirked. His yellowed teeth at display as his eyes lazily raked over your figure.

You scoffed as you brought the cigarette to your lips and crossed a foot over your knee to light a match with the sole of your boot, “And who’re you two? The local drunk and his pet pig?”

The bigger man blinked “Huh?”

He huffed, trying to regain his footing. “Well, you uh-you look like you belong in…one of them mens whorehouses up north that folk talk ‘bout.”

You snort, admittedly finding the insult a bit creative, “Like the one your pa’ works at?” 

Arthur choked on his whiskey from across the room,

“He still doin’ those two-for-one deals, or did business slow down?” you asked, feigning curiosity.

Micah, of all people, stifled a chuckle behind his beer glass, leaning forward with interest, always up for listening in on some stirring drama.

The broader man frowned. “The hell did you just say ‘bout my pa?”

“Ah your right, I was outta line mentioning your father…” you apologized.

“Damn right” the smaller one said, puffing out his sternum.

“Maybe I should’ve asked if your mama was givin’ out referral discounts” you added, crushing your cigarette with your heel before standing up and meeting the oaf face to face. 

That was the final straw. The bigger man snarled and raised his beer bottle at you,

“Who the hell do you think you are little girl?!”

Feeling a fit of anger wash over your previous indifference, your patience snapped,

“Give me that,” you grunted, snatching the bottle from him, “I’m your old friend amnesia.” (stealing lines from my pookie John(✿◡‿◡)

Without a flicker of hesitation, you smashed it over his thick head.

The man staggered, eyes rolling, before dropping to the ground in a dazed heap.

You dusted off your hands and turned to the remaining man, who was frozen in shock.

Rat-Face took one look at his unconscious friend and quickly decided he had somewhere else to be.

“Now,” Dutch groaned as he stood up, slamming his bottle onto the counter with a piercing clink “does any other brave soul care to share their unsolicited fashion advice with my daughter?” He asked, putting his arm around you as he grandly gestured to the audience.

Silence.

“Alright, boys, let’s clear out. Leave the lady be,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head as he approached the lingering onlookers, “unless you wanna end up like this poor feller” he mumbled giving the unconscious giant a sympathetic look. 

The small crowd eventually wandered off, some returning to their drinks whilst some distracted themselves with poker. 

Dutch tapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, “I trained you fairly well.” He chuckled drunkenly with Micah, who turned to you with a loopy smile,

“Youu, had them twisted like a pair of knickers!” him and Dutch cackled once more, before taking another swig of beer. 

Your gaze drifted to the man on the floor, then at your crimsoned hand, before it caught the dried O’Driscoll blood on your father’s knuckles as he tightly gripped his beer glass. A shiver ran down your spine, What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I am a damn man, starting dumb bar fights. Suddenly you were hit with the overwhelming need to just get out of there. You sighed, grabbing your hat from the counter and pushing your way past the saloon doors.

John’s grin faltered as he watched you grab your hat and storm out of the saloon, clearly still stewing in your thoughts.

He exhaled and followed.

He found you by the lake, leaning against a lamppost, flicking stones into the water absentmindedly. The moonlight reflected off the surface, casting a silver glow over the waves and onto your face.

John approached quietly, hands in his pockets. He picked up a rock and tossed it in, but instead of skipping, it plopped straight down.

You huffed. “You never were good at that.”

John smirked. “Well, at least I didn't drown tryin’ this time.”

You turned, arching a brow, oblivious to his obscure reference.

He crossed his arms, leaning on the post beside you. “You really don’t remember? When we were kids? That time I tried skippin’ a rock real far to compete with you, but I-” he faltered a little, face flushing slightly, “I tripped and fell face-first into the lake.”

You paused, raking your mind for the memory until it came back with a chuckle, “Right, now I remember. Arthur had to haul you out, didn’t he?”

“Damn right he did,” John muttered. “I thought I was done for!”

You let out a small chuckle, but your face still held that quiet tension.

John sighed, skipping another rock. “You wanna tell me what’s…goin’ on? or are you just gonna keep throwin’ stones ‘til the lake dries up?”

You hesitate, rolling a smooth rock between your fingers, unsure of how to express everything on your mind. 

“I guess…” you exhaled, feeling your chest tighten, “I just keep thinkin’ about what happened on that boat in Blackwater. About my fathers recent…behavior. That woman? She didn’t-she didn’t deserve that.” 

You slouched, kicking the ground with your feet, “but if I say somethin’ then suddenly I’m just a doubter, hell maybe even a softie. Now I got random bastards at every corner telling me I ain't ladylike enough for not wearin’ a damn corset with my jeans” you huff, throwing another stone.

John’s faltered, initially unsure of how to comfort you, “Well…they don’t know a damn thing about you.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. 

“But sometimes-” you turn to him, letting out an exasperated sigh, “I wonder if I even know me.” 

“Well, what do you mean?” 

“I spent my whole life hating my father’s ways, the blood he’s spilled,” you look at your cut up hand with a flicker of shame, “but, really, I’m just like him.” 

John was silent for a moment before shaking his head. “That don’t make you him. You ain’t Dutch. You’re you. There ain’t a soul in this world that can tell you who that is but yourself.”

You looked at him, feeling something warm settle your chest, before thinking of a quick way to divert the sensation “Well, that might be the most well put together sentence you ever uttered Marston.” 

John rolled his eyes, “Shut up.” 

He nudged you with his shoulder, before turning around to head back to the saloon.

“And Marston?” you call out, to which he turns back around

“if I ever see you near a lake again, just—y’know. Make sure Arthur’s around.”

He let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head before walking back, and for the first time that night, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter.

credit to breaking bad for that lil whorehouse joke loll

divider is made by dollywons on tumblr :)

[maebelmelee]

Rose~

• the following headcanons are NSFW so MDNI!

content: modern au!arthur/john/javier/charles x fem!reader, rose toy, headcanons

author's note • whewwww, I am feelin' FRISKY tonight so I had to write these little headcanons onto paper! pls let me know what you think !! I don't do headcanons very often so this was quite the challenge!

Content below the cut!

~ my interpretation of what would happen if you were to bring a rose toy into the bedroom.

🌹Arthur • A curious eyebrow raise, then a slow, wicked half-smile. Arthur’s a practical man, but he’s also quietly adventurous; once he figures out how the toy works, that curiosity turns into genuine interest. He likes that it lets him focus entirely on your pleasure; gives him something to control while he watches you unravel. There’s a possessive edge in the way he holds it, like he’s staking a silent claim. He starts slow, circling the toy where you’re most sensitive just long enough to build anticipation, pausing every so often to kiss the inside of your thigh or murmur a gruff “feels good, darlin’?” Once he’s got you trembling, he’ll keep the suction steady while his free hand slips under your hips to hold you right where he wants you. Seeing you come apart without him needing to rush is what really gets him going. He’d probably tease that next time he’ll make you hold the rose yourself while he just “supervises.”

🌹John • A quick flush across his cheeks—equal parts surprise and excitement. John’s the kind who’ll joke, “Well, ain’t that somethin’,” then immediately want a demonstration. John’s eager to please but a little competitive; once he realizes how powerful the toy is, he starts plotting ways to outdo it or combine forces. He’ll experiment with different settings while keeping eye contact, watching every gasp so he can dial it up or down. Expect him to pair the rose’s pulses with firm kisses on your neck or gentle bites at your shoulder, syncing his mouth with each surge of suction. John finds every last setting, memorizes your favorite, then brags later that he “knew exactly which button would do the trick.”

🌹Charles • Charles asks if you’re comfortable first, wanting to be sure it’s something you genuinely enjoy before he touches the toy. For Charles, pleasure is equal parts intimacy and trust. Once he sees your enthusiasm, he commits fully, treating the rose like an extension of his own hands. He’ll cradle you in his lap, letting you lean against his chest while he positions the toy so you feel every pulse without strain. His other arm holds you close, his calm breathing grounding you as the sensations build. When you reach your peak, he keeps the suction steady, whispering quiet encouragement until the aftershocks fade. Feeling your heartbeat race beneath his palm and knowing he helped you let go so completely, then pressing a kiss to your damp forehead as he switches the toy off.

🌹Javier • A devil-may-care grin and an appreciative whistle. Javier’s always up for adding a new instrument to his repertoire. Ever the flirt, he turns the toy into part of a slow, seductive performance; lots of teasing words in Spanish, lots of feather-light touches elsewhere to keep you guessing. He’ll glide the rose over lace or silk first, letting the vibration travel through fabric before giving direct contact. When you’re begging, he finally presses the toy down, alternating between short pulses and lingering suction—never quite giving you the exact rhythm you expect. The sound of your voice when you switch to pleading in half-formed sentences; proof that his “little flower” is blooming exactly as he hoped.

[livingdeadmlm]

VDLG mens favourite positions, GO!!!!!!!!! bonus points if any of them correlate to their kinks

So i actually already have some written down but here we go!! These might require some googling cause tumblr might strike me down if I use photos lol

Arthur

Marking, assisted masturbation and being vocal are things Arthur is into

He’s a sucker for classic missionary, he wants to see you he thinks you’re beautiful and so handsome! If he’s bottoming he likes more of a spooning position cause he gets a little insecure about his body/looks when the attention is all on him

He also would probably like morning sex, even if it’s non penetrative.

Jerk each other off while still being sleepy is a guilty pleasure of his cause he usually falls right back to sleep after 

Javier

Kinks wise I have Orgasm Control, hair pulling, vocal, and teasing

I think he likes riding no matter who is topping, but specifically if it just started with you innocently sitting on his lap or the other way around.

Likes if you pull his hair in the middle of it, no matter if he’s topping or bottoming. And with you right in front of him, gives easy access to his head for the most part!

Charles

I have slow sex, marking, guiding.

So position wise something like the lotus position he’d really like cause it requires you two to hold each other and he’s a bigger dude so thrusting makes him a little nervous and with the lotus position you can sorta just rock back and fourth!

But if he’s bottoming he’s not afraid of missionary or cowgirl! He might be a little shy but he’ll warm up to it

Hosea

For Hosea I have roleplay and oral written down for him

He’s pretty basic with good old missionary or cowgirl. He’s a sucker for cowgirl because he gets to look up at you and put his hands on your hips.

Put on his hat, he won’t ever ask outright but there has been times where before the two of you get down he puts it on your head with no comment

Sean

I have hair pulling, oral, marking, gagging, cock warming and overstimulation for Sean lol

He’s willing to try anything once and maybe twice to double check but unfortunately he doesn’t last long so he’s best with missionary or cowgirls helper!

Cowgirls helper is just cowgirl but put your legs up for him to rest against plus it can give you a little control cause his rhythm might not be the best

Dutch

I have Cock warming, oral fixation and sir kink for Dutch!

I do think he’d be a fan of the mating press (doesn’t matter if you can get pregnant he likes how he pretty much is over taking you in the position)

Also doggy, he will occasionally dabble in cause while he loves seeing your face, it’s a control thing with him to push your back down making you arch

Kieran

Praise kink, gentle sex, teasing, and humping for Kieran

I wrote about this before but he likes when innocent cuddling sessions turn into sex cause it puts him in such a soft and comfortable mood

But he gets a little impatient if you’re not making the first move so he might back up against you or hug you very close to his chest hopping your hand with travel down.

So things like spooning or just laying him on top of you are his favs

John

Quickies, hair pulling, breath play and sorta risky sex I have as kinks for Johnny Martson

He prefers sex against a wall or a tree or just on the damn ground. Sure a bed is nice and probably better for his back, but it adds to the enjoyment for him to be pinned against a tree or bent over a rock

Probably likes doggy cause you can pull his hair or grab his neck a little easier

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 4 ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: panic attack, light obsession/stalking Word Count: 2.8k+ Masterlist. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: Breathe by Laura Marling

April 6th, 1923, Arrow House, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

It wasn't Friday evening, hell, it wasn't even close.

It was late, the house silent enough that he could hear the ghosts of his past whisper from behind the curtains. He sat alone in his study, his tie frustratedly thrown off, his collar open, and his hair messed up like he had dragged his hands through it too many times. The walls felt too close, the air too heavy. His chest caved in on itself, his lungs almost burning with each breath he took.

Beside him his glass of whiskey had sat tipped over on the side table, the liquid reflecting the fire as it slowly stretched across the dark oak, dripping down the edge. He had dropped it long ago, too panicked with how fast the world was caving in, and for once he had no plan. So, he did the only thing that made sense.

He called her.

She picked up on the second ring—her voice, soft and drowsy, spilling in through the line like the warmth of the fireplace, "Dr. Hassan."

He couldn't speak, not right away. His lungs held his breath captive somewhere between their walls and the ghosts that haunted him.

"Thomas?" she asked, gentle but more alert now. "Are you alright?"

He exhaled shakily, "No—I can't—didn't know what else to..."

"It's alright," she says, with no judgment, just her soft breathing on the static like a lifeline, "you did the right thing."

There was noise in the background—the shuffle of her sheets, the sound of her limbs moving—and he could picture it all a little too clearly.

"Listen to me," she began, her voice smooth like silk, "Sit still, your feet flat on the ground, just focus, Thomas."

He obeyed, obeyed like a child, like a man lost in a seastorm who had finally found a lighthouse in the distance of the darkness.

"Breathe, Thomas," she spoke, her voice drawn out slow and warm, "in and out. Through your nose, out through your mouth."

He focused hard on the rhythm of just her. All of her, and he tried and tried.

And then—her voice had dipped, not speaking, not a song, just a lullaby with a made-up tune.

"Breaathe," she sang, soft and playful, too sweet to be heard by a man like him who held no sweetness at all.

"Breaaathe, Mr. Shelby."

He let out a huff, a soft breath that boarded on a sigh of relief and a laugh of humility. He closed his eyes tightly, letting her gentle voice wash over him. All he knew was that she had pulled him back. And when the panic had finally begun to fade, his hands slowly losing their shake, he whispered:

"Don't hang up."

And she didn't.

April 24th, 1923, somewhere outside Birmingham, United Kingdom.

They'd just left a meeting somewhere uptown, the afternoon sun was lazy, thick golden rays of spring slowly stretching across the blooming life that the change in weather seemed to miraculously bring. Thomas walked with Arthur and John, cutting across the edge of a public park—the kind of place they usually avoided, too peaceful, too open.

Thomas was already elsewhere, one hand in his coat pocket while the other began to drift a cigarette to his mouth despite every warning she had given him to not do that. But he was tired, and something felt off today.

Then he saw her.

Dalia.

Under a weeping willow near the water's edge, petals falling in gentle spirals. She sat on a neatly placed blanket on the grass, her legs folded elegantly beneath her and her hands resting by her side like she had been painted into the scenery. A little boy with soft brown curls was running in circles around her, laughing with childish joy as he tried to catch the falling petals. She watched him with a quiet smile he'd never seen before, fond, serene as always but this time it was touched with something sacred.

She wore green—emerald. Deep and dark and alive, the kind of green that made the honey in her brown eyes glow richer, like the flicker of amber struck by fire. Her long black hair caught gently in the wind, loose and free.

She hadn't noticed him yet, not the way he had gone completely still, his vice dangling off his lip like a smoke signal for help. She hadn't noticed the way Arthur snapped his head in her direction nor did she see the way John leaned in to ask if that was the doctor. And Thomas couldn't move. Just stared.

Because she looked completely and utterly untouched. Not the surgeon who's fought through hell, not the woman who had anchored him when he began to draw to the edge, not the voice that filled his dreams. Just her. Sweet and laughing in sunlight too soft to grace his skin as she caught the little boy who tumbled into her arms with ease.

And it had wrecked him to see her like this. Completely.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't looking at death or a deal of danger. He was looking at what peace might look like. And he knew that he was about to walk over there. Even if he shouldn't.

By the time he began to walk, everything else faded. His brother's voices, the shouts of other children, the wind rustling the trees. All that was left was her, serene and calling.

When she finally saw him, she didn't stand. She just looked up, the sunlight catching the golden pools in her brown eyes as her gaze met his. Her lips had parted slightly, caught mid-thought, and her doe eyes shimmered with something he hadn't seen since before the war—wonder. Not shock, not fear. Just a soft surprise that was so genuine it almost made him turn around and hide away in whatever shadows he carried with him.

The silence when he reached didn't need to be filled. It was too alive, electric in the way that it made his skin tingle with the need to feel her warmth.

Then:

"Auntie! Auntie!" The little boy had come running back, his soft curls bouncing as he darted straight to her and nearly collided with her torso.

His tiny arms had wrapped tightly around her, hiding behind her long hair like he was peeking from under a curtain of black silk to look at the man standing over them. He was dressed like a miniature businessman—tiny vest, crisp shirt, even a little tie to match his black polished shoes that had dewy grass sprinkled over them from playing too much.

Thomas glanced at him, then back to her, to the way her hand had rested against the boy's back, familiar and protective though her own eyes had never left him not once.

"Mr. Shelby," she said like she wasn't sure if the moment was real or she had summoned him by thinking too hard.

"Doctor," he said it like a secret, like the one thing he wanted to keep bottled up to himself was now found directly in plain daylight for everyone else to enjoy.

But then—the little boy had echoed it.

"Mister Shelby!"

It came out softer, seemingly free of the weight and reputation that carried like the blood that stained his hands. Thomas blinked, startled by how disarming it sounded in the boy's voice.

Then he knelt slowly, one knee planted in the grass. He didn't come too close, didn't overcrowd the boy, he just leveled himself so he could meet his large brown eyes.

The boy stared at him, his face round and cheeks flushed with the kind of childish joy that the world hadn't reached yet.

"I'm Adam," he said proudly.

When he spoke, it came out with an unfamiliar softness, almost like he was reliving a memory half-remembered, "Hello Adam."

"You're quite the lucky boy," he added after a long beat, his eyes trailing back to her as that same longing returned in his gaze, "to have an aunt that loves you so much."

Adam had only giggled, bubbling and sudden. Then, with his wide bright eyes, he tilted his head and pointed his finger like he could reach for it and said: "Your hat! I like it! It's very serious."

Thomas let out a soft huff—half surprised, half of a laugh.

"That so?"

Adam nodded happily, his curls bouncing, "I want one like it for important things. A real one."

Thomas reached up to touch the brim of his hat like he had begun to think, to remember something.

"Well," he began, a smile forming on his lips, "I'll lend you this one when you've got your own people to run."

And when the boy gasped and stared at him like he had been promised a kingdom, Thomas had finally gathered the courage to look at her again. She had said nothing—but her eyes still hadn't left him. Soft, unreadable, a thousand thoughts swirled in the chocolate hues that she couldn't say out loud.

And maybe, for a moment, he seemed to forget who he really was. Because now he was just a man kneeling in the grass, speaking to a boy who didn't know that his name was feared, his eyes focused on the woman who had been haunting his dreams ever since he had heard her first breath around him.

And it all felt like something he had been waiting for without realizing it.

The following week, her estate, United Kingdom.

The world had just begun to give away to dusk when he had arrived—uninvited, unannounced, and entirely himself. The maid on his payroll had let him know discreetly that her nephew was visiting again. Adam, the boy with wide brown eyes and that shy smile who had hidden behind her long hair and stared at his hat like it was made of gold.

The grounds and house were beautiful as expected. Tall white walls with podiums that softened with climbing ivy. Large arched windows, some open for the evening air—elegant in her way.

He knocked once, and not like a stranger either.

The sound echoed through the foyer, and then the soft padding of footsteps.

She appeared in front of him like a dream, and in a way, she was his dream. Dalia stood there barefoot in haloed amber light, dressed in a soft powdery blue dress that sprawled out from the synched waist. Her hair, falling over one shoulder like a spill of ink, sat widely free, curlier than he'd ever seen it before.

Her brows furrowed slightly, not in alarm. Just soft confusion.

"Thomas?"

He said nothing for a moment as his eyes dragged over her. The undone hair, the bare collarbones, the way she wore no slippers—and something in his chest had shifted so violently he had to remind himself to breathe.

He then held out the box, wrapped in a silk ribbon, heavy in its weight for its size.

"For the boy," he said, "stared at mine like it was sewn from gold."

She smiled—the kind of smile that made him wish he was some sort of artist so he could capture it and never let it leave his mind.

She opened it like there was something sacred inside. A miniature flat cap sat perfectly in it, the stitching exact to his, herringbone gray wool with a dark satin lining. Boyish, yet elegant.

She stared at it with the same look she reserved for the boy who would wear it.

"He loved yours..." she whispered, "wouldn't stop talking about it after that day."

And then—his small shouts. "Pew! Pew!"

Adam's tiny footsteps tumbled through the marbled hallways, shouting about some bad guys and loose horses and explosions. Thomas smiled just barely—but he said nothing. He just watched her like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She looked up, her wide eyes meeting his, "You knew he'd be here."

"I had a feeling."

That was all he said. No lies, no excuses, no explanation for how he knew her address or how he knew her routine, how he had something made in a London shop that didn't take orders with such short deadlines, that her nephew so happened to be there when he decided to deliver his gift.

Dalia didn't question it. She already understood well enough the kind of man he was. And so she stepped back gently, her palm holding the door open more for him:

"Come in."

And he was just stepping across the threshold, into the light itself, his shadows just beginning to peel back at the door when the sound of another car had shattered the moment of trust.

A sleek black vehicle pulls in just behind his Bentley. Instinct already had his hand hovering just near his coat, his body shifting towards the sound. Then the car door opened.

A man stepped out, clean, purposeful. Dressed in navy. He was tall, and refined, with the posture of someone well-military trained. His hair was dark, clean-shaven with eyes that resembled hers. His cufflinks were gold and his collar was open just enough to suggest comfort but not give away to weakness.

He paused when he saw Thomas. No confusion, just a thorough assessment. Then he walked over, slow and even.

"Yusif," Dalia called out, now stepping out onto the top step, "You're here early."

He had climbed the steps to meet eye-to-eye with Thomas.

"Clearly not enough," his deep, accented voice trailed out. It was warm, eloquent, polished in a way certain men were trained to be, the kind that knew how to handle danger. His eyes—they held the gaze of a watchful father.

"Thomas," she said, gesturing with her hand, "this is my brother. Yusif Hassan, Adam's father."

They shook hands firmly, deliberate in their way with their grip.

"Mr. Shelby."

"Mr. Hassan."

Yusif's eyes trailed between them, straight to the box, "a gift?"

"For Adam," Thomas spoke coolly.

"How thoughtful," Yusif replied, "though one could wonder why it brings you here personally to be delivered to my sister's door."

Thomas smiled, his lips twitching upwards just barely, "I like to see things through."

Yusif stared at him in a way that showed no overt challenge. Just a quiet, sharp yet regal warning of: I see you.

"Thomas was kind enough to stop by," she cut through gently, "Adam will love it."

Yusif only looked at her for a moment, a silent communication played between the siblings before he nodded curtly and stepped through the door past them both.

Inside, Adam spoke again "Baba! Did you bring the chocolate biscuits?"

A soft look of joy passed through Yusif, only momentarily, just enough to show the weight of fatherhood through his posture before his eyes returned to Thomas, and instantly that warmth was gone.

It was replaced by the kind of intelligent, protective stare that said: I know what kind of man you are and I don't give a damn how expensive your gift was.

That's when Thomas was finally pulled back to the reality of where he was, of who he was. Standing there, in a house filled with sweetness and serenity, of trust and family. And he had come bearing something else entirely.

Dalia turned back to him, stepping closer as her hand absentmindedly reached out to touch the edge of his coat, like a small tug to bring him back to her focus.

"Well," she said with a light laugh, "you have met my brother."

He nodded, "Yeah."

She tilted her head up to look more into his eyes, her voice more gentle now, "Come on, I'll make tea."

There was that offer again, that invitation to continue. To continue that pull that seemed to tighten with every phone call, every quiet look, every unspoken word between them.

But behind her, Yusif hadn't gone far. He lingered in the marbled hallway, one hand loosening his cuff, watching with a sort of patience that gave away he was someone who was very familiar with the knowledge of exactly how long a slow fuse could burn before it blew up.

Thomas tore his gaze away, his jaw shifting.

He looked back down at her, at the soft blue of her dress, the strand of hair against her pale flushed cheek, the way she seemed to trust him when he knew it was better off if she didn't.

Then he shook his head gently, "Not tonight."

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's best if some things are left outside for now," he said, offering a faint, and very clearly, restrained smile.

She didn't press, she never did, she just nodded once, understanding far more than he could ever say with his words. And when he took his first step back, he felt that deep ache again beneath his ribs. Not shame, not guilt, not regret.

Obsession, standing right next to the echo of a child's laughter.

And for once, maybe for the first time, he had the decency to walk away from it.