#i'm a lonesome cowboy

[chronicowboy]

[saturncoyote]

5. How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

You didn't say any specific OCs so i'm guessing i can pick freely

well Sage Solace is most definitely not new to committing unspeakable acts to get what he wants, he has no qualms with putting other's lives on the line if it's what it takes to achieve his goals nor does he care for his own wellbeing, putting himself in near death situations on a near daily basis

however, even the worst of men have lines they won't cross, and sadly for Sol over here, his biggest weakness is his nature

[mercless]

is there something specific about cowboys , high noon , or the western / western gothic genre that draws you in ? 🤠

honestly! until recently the western theming wasn't even something i leaned towards outside of the humble 'howdy' 'yeehaw' or 'ya'll' thrown into my speech for fun... i think the biggest factor for my piqued interest into particular western themed characters has been my interest with horror and gothic imagery, media, etc. which ties in with the more niche western gothic.

so i suppose it was the skinline thematic itself which drew me in; the aftermath of the end times, and the world that followed after. what happens if hell is real, devils and demons a constant threat, and if this was all set in a time of developing technology that destroyed the very land and it was dug out from.

but... i think im just easily obsessed with edgy lonely brooding characters and they keep wearing large hats and speaking with a drawl recently 🧍‍♂️

[unlucky-outlaw]

John really does feel alone. After crossing to Mexico and Irish leaving it's so quiet and not even the nice quiet.

[wildwestwandering]

wildwestwandering is an open. selective cowboy themed oc and canon rp blog written by Forrest (He/It, 21). here is the link to my character list. this blogs fandoms are red dead redemption and billy the kid. a study in Weathered leather, cracked but well-loved, The weight of a revolver resting at the hip—always ready, but never the first to draw, Eyes that have seen death but still hope for a better tomorrow.

[woundthatswallows]

i'm a lonesome cowboy but a girl

[winonaparadise]

when a girl starts posting about how good her life is a week after i spent an entire party comforting her i feel like the lonesome cowboy silently wandering out of town after fixing all the local problems. looking back with a smirk beneath my hankerchief. they'll never know it's all because i gave them tapwater in a plastic jug and cold pizza. and i'm happy to keep it that way.

[gracieheartspedro]

Your Needs, My Needs

I : Strawberry Wine

a masterlist of how you can help gaza

the prelude to this series

pairing: cowboy!joel x f!reader (no outbreak)

description: joel fixes your toilet but you can't help but yearn for more time with him. so you invite him to dinner and try to win his stomach? aka love?

word count: 3.2k words

warnings: there is no smut in this part. still MINORS DNI! no use of y/n! vague talk of reader's old life before texas, no real description of the reader, reader does have anxiety/mental illness that is not fully recognized/diagnosed, mentions of eating food, reader lives alone, reader got MONEYYYY, mentions of joel's ex wife (gasp), alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, kissing, flirting. all the fluffy stuff <3

author's note: hey...hey.... how y'all doing?? i'm so so so sorry this has taken so long. my life has been crazy for the last like 4 months and I'm finally getting settled into my life again. I miss y'all and I miss writing, so HERE I AM! I'm hoping everyone who wanted me to tag them months ago is still cool with me tagging them 4 months later lol. okay, lemme know what you think xoxo

Joel comes and goes for days. The first day he returns, he inspects your toilet again and tells you he has the wrong tools. You discuss a game plan and by his initial projections, your toilet should be fixed the next day. But when he fails to come by in the morning, you decide to call the phone number on the post-it note he left for you the day before. 

The phone rings and you get an answering machine of a younger girl telling you to leave her and Dad a message after the beep. When the line lets out a long ding, you breathe out the random croak in your throat. 

“Uh, hey, Joel, it’s me. Just seeing if you’re stopping by today. If not, that’s fine, I’ll be home all day today and tomorrow. Okay, uh, bye.”

Hours go by and you find yourself pacing, regretting your decision to leave him a message. What if he gets it and thinks that you’re crazy? 

Ever since you had made his acquaintance, you felt completely reliant on interacting with him. It may be due to the fact that you haven’t socialized with anyone else in months. You were very good at isolating yourself, but lately, it’s been eating you alive being so alone. Now that you had this big house, the silence felt almost too quiet. Joel’s southern drawl and straightforward responses gave a bit of light back to your life. 

Around dinner time, your landline rings. You practically fall over your couch racing to pick it up, hoping it was him. 

“Howdy neighbor,” He grunts through the phone, “Sorry I didn’t come by today, hope ya didn’t miss me too much.”

You let out a dry laugh, trying not to sound too giddy about him following up with you. You were borderline pathetic. 

“No, I just wanted to make sure you were still alive,” You manage to get out, “You are still alive right?”

“Still kickin’, just busy as all get out. ‘M fixin’ to head to your place now if you’re not busy.”

You look down at your pajamas and start to nod. It’s not like he can see you through the phone, but you are reacting to his words like he’s right in front of you. 

“Sure thing, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

-

“So… It’s really just you here? All by your lonesome?”

He’s messing with his toolbox, searching for the one tool he needs to fix the toilet. You stir your fresh brewed tea, ensuring none of the sugar clumps up at the bottom of the mug. You had offered him some, but he politely declined, telling you that he had a big dinner.

You take a sip, testing the sweetness. “Just me. How about you? Just you and your daughter, right?”

He laughs heartedly, turning towards you from where he’s squatted. You look at him with curious eyes, unsure if you asked the wrong question. He stands up, a wrench in his hand, a smile still spread across his face. 

“Her mama left town with her new boyfriend about 5 years ago. Wanted the city life, not the life I gave her. It’s been just me and her ever since.”

So he’s single. You think to yourself. 

You realize the laugh was probably because of how absurd and new it must be for someone to ask him about his life. He grew up here and you are positive everyone here already knew all about his business. You are a breath of fresh air for him. 

Before the silence becomes awkward, you speak up. “City life ain’t worth a shit.”

“Yeah, she’s different. Won’t speak ill of her ‘cause that’s my bosses’ mama. She sees her now and again. They are just very different.” 

The conversation comes easy with Joel. While the first couple of interactions you two shared were a bit strained, after days of small talk, you realize he’s the truest Southern gentleman you’ve ever interacted with. Polite with a little bite. He never speaks ill of others, except his brother. He loves to pick on Tommy. He seems like an attentive father. He loves to pick at you, always pointing out your Northern tendencies. Your horrible driving. Your accent and your speech patterns. But he’s also very complimentary. A couple of days ago, he remarked how nice your perfume was when you were standing close to him. It made your heart skip a beat. 

And on top of all of those things, he’s very easy on the eyes. 

“That’s mighty fine of you not speaking ill of your ex,” You try to drag out the silly Southern saying, which causes him to chuckle again. You smack your lips before continuing, “Wish I could do the same.”

You are not sure what he’s doing to the tank of your toilet, but you watch him strain to get a piece out of the corner with the wrench he has. He clenches his teeth, turning the piece to the left to loosen it. 

“Exes are exes for a reason,” He grunts, fiddling with some more things in the tank, “I ain’t too hung up on datin’ right now. I got my girl and my horses.”

“And now you got me, your annoying neighbor who almost crashes into your horses and asks you to fix toilets.”

He breathes out loudly, “Yeah, ‘nother pain in my ass. Just what a man needs.”

-

The toilet is fixed too quickly. You had busied yourself with other small cleaning tasks that when Joel finds you in the kitchen doing dishes, he startles you. It took him about 15 minutes to finish the job and you had thought you could at least finish up the dishes you made from dinner. 

“‘M all finished up. Gotta get back home to do some rounds at the stables,” He says as he waltzes over to your paper towel holder. He grabs a sheet and begins to wipe his damp hands, “Anythin’ else for me today?”

You turn off the running water, going down a list of fixes you could ask him to do. You decide it’s probably best to just ask him to swing by another day to help you with other things. 

“No, thank you though, Joel. I am sure I’ll be by to ask for more help,” You chuckle, shaking your hands dry, “I owe you dinner or something.”

As you say it, it feels like all the air leaves your lungs. He’s staring at you and there’s a glint in his eyes. You are not that good at reading people, mostly because you are deathly afraid of being wrong. His eyebrows raise as he leans against the counter near you. He’s so close and in your space, but you try to push the thought of him coming onto you out of your mind. 

“What’do you got on the menu tomorrow?”

His voice is kind of husky which makes your brain draw a blank. You wipe your hands on your pants before crossing the kitchen to check your fridge. You glance through your ingredients, settling for the only dinner item you can conjure up that his southern palette may like. 

“Baked chicken and vegetables?”

He nods, tossing his paper towel into the bin beside you. “Yeah, I've been needing a home-cooked meal. Think I could come over at like 5? Tomorrow?”

You recollect a time when a guy showed interest in wanting to hang out with you outside of work. It had been years and he was not nearly as attractive as the man in front of you. 

You nod slowly, trying not to look too robotic due to your nerves. “Sure thing, cowboy.”

-

You did not know what to wear. You contemplated going into town to see what the local boutiques had but you ran the risk of Joel seeing you out. You didn’t even know if this was a date. 

You settle on a sundress you have owned since high school. It’s the perfect length and while your mind goes to wanting to impress Joel, you also need to be comfortable. 

You cleaned your house, adding some new decorations to your living room walls. You even clean your sheets and make sure your bedroom is vacuumed. 

When the time comes for Joel to arrive, you pace the kitchen anticipating the doorbell. You already had all the food prepped and ready to put in the oven. The vegetables have been cut and seasoned. Everything was just the way you needed it to be. 

Joel gets there 5 after your scheduled time. When you welcome him at the door, his hair is styled and you can tell he put on his “fancy jeans”. 

What you didn’t expect was the bouquet of flowers he had in his hands. 

“Afternoon, neighbor,” He begins before extending the floral arrangement towards you, “My girl said I had to bring you something nice. Somethin’ bout being a gentleman.”

You smile widely, giving flowers all your attention. Even with the fragrant bouquet, you get a whiff of his sandalwood cologne. 

“Nice to see you cleaned up for me, cowboy. Come on in, dinner is about to get put in the oven.”

-

You catch him scanning you up and down when you place the spread of chicken and vegetables on the table. He was in the midst of talking about his daughter and her band fundraiser, but he completely halted when you took notice of his staring. 

You settle into the dining room chair across from him, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“She needs more sponsors?” You break the silence, wanting to move away from the sudden awkwardness. 

He swallows, reaching for the serving fork, “Oh, yeah. She needs to reach a certain goal to go on her senior band trip.”

You try to avoid his wandering gaze again, focusing on organizing your plate of vegetables. “Where are they going?”

“Disney. She ain’t never been out of Texas, so she really wants to go.”

You remember all the trips your family said they’d go on to Disney, but they never did. Your father could not stand being around his own children, let alone other people’s children. You think about how he used to complain about your constant questions, all the times he completely ignored you for your brother. You start to spiral, the anxiety creeping up in the back of your throat. You push your chair out from under the table, excusing yourself for a moment. You go to the bar you have set up in the living room and grab the only sweet wine you have. Strawberry. You grab two glasses from the top of the setup and walk back to Joel. 

“Forgot wine,” you mumble, setting a glass in front of him, “You want some?”

He is already picking at his chicken, “Yeah, I’ll take some.”

You are quiet as you uncork it expertly, pouring it into each of the glasses. Joel watches you like a hawk. You can tell he’s trying to read your expression, so you try your best to remain neutral even though your hands are shaking. 

You place the bottle in the middle of the table, making sure it’s easily reachable. 

You finally sit back down, sipping the red liquid. The strawberry flavor isn’t very strong, it’s more like a hint of the berry. You had gotten the bottle from a roadside stand in Kentucky. An older lady who must have owned a vineyard nearby was selling them for $5 each. You told yourself you would only use it for a special occasion. This event seemed fitting. 

Wine always makes you flushed, but you are always a bit flushed around Joel. Even more so when he’s watching you so intently. 

After a couple of sips, you finally rest your shoulders and begin to eat your dinner. 

“I could sponsor her,” you finally say, returning to the previous conversation. For some reason, you felt obligated. Joel quickly retaliates, shaking his head as he chewed on your roasted veggies. 

“You ain’t gotta do that, doll.” 

The nickname rings in your ears. You take another sip of wine. You can tell Joel notices your reaction because he smirks with his mouth full. 

“But I want to, Joel. I’m sure she has worked hard her high school career, she deserves to have fun.”

He hums, but still shakes his head negatively, “I can’t let you just pay for-”

“You can and you will,” You enjoy another bite, smirking at your defiance towards him. He looks perplexed. “So when is this fundraiser? Is there like a dinner or something?”

He finally caves, “This Friday at the school. It’s a dinner and auction. I guess if the kids don’t find their sponsors, some local businesses are willing to sponsor them.”

“Are you going?”

“Yeah,” He cuts up his chicken, “I guess you’re gonna come along, too, if you’re givin’ my girl all that money.”

“Does a check work?”

He sits back in his chair, already finishing off his wine, “You seriously don’t have to-”

“What are neighbors for, Joel?”

He nods, “You mean friends.”

You furrow your brows, trying to let your hazy mind find a time when you called him your friend. This was a new development.

“Friends, huh?”

He pours more in his glass, “Well, I’d like to think so.”

The wine is hitting your system and you realize your arms feel lighter. You grab the stem of your glass and tip it up to down the rest of the alcohol. Joel’s eyes are trained on you, waiting for a snarky response. 

“Do friends stare at other friends like that?” You pour more wine for yourself. You realize he’s done eating so before he can respond to your flirtation, you speak up again, “You done with that?”

He looks down at his empty plate, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes friends look at other friends like that, or you’re done eating.”

He grins, “‘m done eating, doll.”

-

You two find your way out to the rocking chairs. They were left there by the previous owners and you could tell they were probably as old as you. 

You had another full glass of wine, sipping it as Joel lit up a cigarette. He admitted it was only a bad habit when he was drinking, which was rare. “Sarah gets onto me when I have even one beer. So this has gotta be between us two.”

You swirl the crystal, watching him carefully take a drag of the stick. “Your secret is safe with me, cowboy.”

He giggles as he lets out a huff of smoke. “I haven’t had secrets in a long time. Guess I’m lucky it’s with the town stranger.”

The statement hits you in the very pit of your settling tummy. You furrow your eyebrows, leaning forward towards him. Your chairs are not that far away from one another, so this is probably the closest you have ever been to him except for that one moment in the kitchen. 

“Luckiest man in Texas that’s for sure,” You muster, averting your eyes. You could not stare into his beautiful brown eyes for too long. “Having the privilege of getting me out of my head. No man has done that in years.”

“What? You not good at letting loose?”

You shake your head, knowing that he did not understand what you meant. You take a moment to inhale, finally glancing up at him again. “I think I may just be cursed.”

“Now, why do you say that?”

You contemplate spilling the beans. Letting your heart fall onto your sleeve after years of shielding it from anyone who looks your way. Your lips part, but no words come out. It’s just the sounds of the cicadas. 

“As soon as something is good, it gets bad somehow. I don’t even get a moment to savor it.”

You feel the statement down to your bones. The last time you felt settled in your own life, the rug got pulled out from under you. You cannot remember a time when you truly felt present in a special moment. You always felt like you were floating outside of your body, watching things happen and never really truly feeling anything. 

You don’t expect him to lean closer to you, “Whatever happened before you got here, you ain’t gotta worry about it anymore. You obviously put distance between you and what happened for a reason. Let this little side of the world be your home now.”

You push your spiraling thoughts away, letting him be right. 

“I’m workin’ on getting settled. It’s easy when you have a handsome cowboy to help along the way.”

It comes out like word vomit. Between the wine and the nerves coursing through your entire being, you can’t help but admit your little crush on the man. You slap your free hand over your forehead, admitting defeat before he can even respond. You knew he would take the comment and run with it.

“You always flirt with your friends, sweetheart?” He was toying with you, which was a good sign. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t call you such a thing. 

You smile, releasing your face from your hand. His eyes are tracing every curve of your face, a subtle pass that you did not capture quickly enough. 

“Only ones that fix my toilets.”

And then, he kisses you. It happens so quickly, that you don’t fully grasp that it’s happening until you're molding your lips into his. Once your buzzed brain picks up the fact that the man you have been crushing on is kissing you, he pulls away. Your eyes are still closed, your hands still gripping onto your wine glass. 

He huffs loudly and stands up quickly. Once you place your eyes on him, he’s pacing around the back deck stairs, not too far from where you’re sitting. You instantly bite back the urge to ask him what’s wrong, because there’s always something wrong. 

“‘M sorry, sweetheart. I should’na done that.”

He instantly regretted it. The thought made your throat tighten. He continues to walk back and forth, causing a draft. 

“It’s fine, Joel. I’m n-not mad.”

He shakes his head, halting his robot-like movements. He finally looks at your pitiful expression and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think I’m much of a gentleman, kissing you on the first date.”

You watch as he places his hands on his hips, contemplating his whole life right before your eyes. You realize he is too traditional to see that nowadays, people are sleeping together on the first date. First base is nothing. You rest your glass on a decrepit table next to you and stand up. 

You slowly approach him, trying to catch a glance from him, but he continues to avert his eyes. You grow bold enough to tilt his chin towards you, letting your guard down for a moment. 

“You’re such a gentleman, it hurts,” you whisper, slowly letting a smirk grow across your face. The comment makes his shoulders lower, finally relaxing from such a heated moment. 

“Just don’t wanna mess this up with ya,” He murmurs, only letting you and the nearby fireflies hear you, “I enjoy spending time with you.”

You slowly lower your hand to your side, trying to act casually about the confession. But the truth is you want to run and wake up every cow and horse within a 10-mile radius with a squeal of delight. 

“I like spending time with you, too, Joel.”

He takes your hand as you say it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips. His breath is hot on the back of your hand before he says, “Well now, I quite like the sound of that."

taglist (some of y'all can't be tagged, I tried lol)

@midnightdragonzero @casssiopeia @anoverwhelmingdin @notsosecretspy @raindrcpsangel @art-estrange @misstokyo7love @lizzie-cakes @d1lf-loverrr @ashleyfilm 

@blckbrrybasket @cande-beggins @gloryekaterina @lilyevanstan1325 @frogtape @jamesdeerest @mellymbee @arrowsandanchor @polishedtaylor @harrieandharassed @ranahx @youwouldntdownloadapizza @jmillersgirl @wintersquirrel @stefanibear003 @joliettes @startsm00n @abbsfrommars @76bookworm76 @youotterbekiddingme @jodiswiftle

[blubellion]

I'm a poor lonesome cowboy, 'long way from home.

rdr2 sketches because the cowboy special interest is taking over

[litanumb]

"I'm a poor lonesome cowboy, I'm a long long way from home"

[spideyhexx]

where you're not Billy's (yet) and get jealous <3 mdni

Billy wasn't yours. You knew that. It helped to remind yourself that you weren't his either. You could easily find another mind to keep your company, but you could never get yourself to even try. Instead those nights, you always returned to Billy, also in his lonesome, with no other woman at his side because he would always, already be looking at you.

That's how most nights would go. You would find one another like there was a string attaching you two and you'd fall into your bed, his bed, the grass, the side of a building, honestly anywhere he can get you quick enough.

Part of you always wanted to bite the bullet. Billy's made it clear he would pursue you more than just your late-night rendezvouses but you knew who he was. The type of life he leads and you're reluctant to let that bleed into your life. Fun little relations with him did not carry the weight his love would.

It was unspoken, but Billy respected it, he took what you gave him and that was better than nothing.

So in truth, you should not have had such a visceral reaction to seeing him chat with another woman one night at the saloon. You went there specifically to seek him out, not having seen him the past week made you antsy, but the moment you stepped in, your eyes found him, leaning close to a woman who would lean up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. His smile was easy, his demeanor relaxed, the flirty kind you felt used to.

Jealousy was always a problem for you, but it's never struck you this hard. Never has it hurt like it is as you watch them together.

Against your better judgment, you left immediately, and a restless sleep made you decide to ignore the cowboy.

Billy feels the cold shoulder the very first day. He sees you in the morning just as he rides into town, "Hey, doll, wait up," he says, getting off of his horse and tying it up in a quick manner to catch up to you, but he notices you didn't stop.

He jogs over, a hand to your arm, his big, warm hand to your arm, "Doll, you hearin' good?" He chuckles a little but you don't look amused so he drops it.

"I'm busy, Billy," is all you say to him, even though it pains you to keep your emotions inside, and you walk, quicker, away.

Billy's almost too stunned to speak before he calls after you, "Hey, hey, hey, slow down I just wanted-"

"I said I'm busy," you repeat, your head turning to lock with his gaze. The last thing you catch is his shoulders slumping before you turn forward again.

The entire week Billy tries to talk to you, only to get waved off or completely ignored until he just accepts it and leaves you be. You wonder if it's better to keep him at this distance, this way you didn't fall more for him every night you spent naked with him. But the pain in ignoring him was a devil.

Especially after you hear word that he got injured. Nothing major. He was in some scuffle and all you heard was that he actually got a little beat up from it this time around compared to other times he's fought.

It made you forget your pact to ignore him, knowing how often you were the one who cleaned him up. And Billy didn't seek you out this time. Maybe you fucked up.

You try the saloon, but he's not there. Who is there though, is his friend Charlie. You're barely even thinking through your actions as you walk up to him, "Charlie?"

He turns to face you, with a small smile after realizing it's you, "What's going on?"

"Where's Billy?" You don't beat around the bush with it and you try not to sound so desperate but you're sure you do.

"Uh, I'm actually not sure. Maybe go ask George over there," Charlie nods his head at the other man and you nod, turning your mission elsewhere.

You ask the same question to George, who's also unaware of where Billy is, citing he was back at the camp they've set up a bit away from town, but he's not sure if Billy is currently there.

It feels like a complete lost cause. Maybe even feels stupider that you've asked. Without much else to do and asking around the people you knew to be friends with Billy with no luck, you make your way to a spot Billy and you would typically go to.

In the fields, a small walk from town, where you'd sit under one of the bigger trees and talk. Or fuck. Either or.

A small sliver of hope pokes at your chest that he's there, but he isn't. You let out a sigh and sat down, leaning back against the tree.

You're not sure how much time passes until the sudden sound of footsteps jolts you to your feet. Your eyes lock with Billy, his brow is furrowed, and he's almost storming towards you. It makes your chest ache with relief that he's here. It makes your chest ache with anxiety over his anger. It makes your chest ache with desire because boy was he hot when he was angry.

When he gets closer, you see the cut on his lip and the worry overtakes your emotions. You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off, his hand grabbing your jaw. His touch is firm, but not enough to hurt you. Billy tilts your head up, leaving you no room to look away from him.

His words are rushed, "You were lookin' for me? You were lookin' for me, huh?" A scoff leaves his lips after he speaks. His voice is gruff, almost demanding an answer than just curiosity. You swallow your desire.

"Well. Yeah, I was, I heard you got hurt and-"

He moves in closer, close enough that your back leans against the tree and you can smell him. The slight scent of whiskey, campfire and just him was enough to get you dizzy. It's dark, but you can see the tick in his jaw and the intake of breath he gets.

"Here I am," he says, taking his hand off your jaw and gesturing to himself, "What do you want?" There's a snap to his words and you know he's angry about your avoidance of him.

"I was trying to say I heard you got hurt and I wanted to...make sure you were okay," you get your words out slowly, your eyes never leaving his as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Right. So it took me gettin' hurt for you to find me?" There's pain in his tone when he says it and it makes you shake your head.

"Billy-"

"Doll, what did I do? We were fine and then suddenly you were actin' like I fucked up bad. I can't recall anythin' I could've done to deserve that from you," he says, crowding your space till the brim of his hat bumps into your head. Billy seems to get annoyed with it so he haphazardly takes it off dropping it to the ground at your feet.

"I saw you with that...woman or whatever...you...," You take a deep breath to keep yourself in check before you start speaking again, "I went to the saloon to find you and you were all up close with some girl and I just..."

When you let yourself trail off, you glance up at him and see the anger still full in his eyes.

"I wasn't...that was Manuela. Charlie's wife, doll. Can promise you, I am not gettin' sweet with her," Billy says, his brow still furrowed. It made you feel even more embarrassed that you jumped to conclusions, but could you help it? Women flocked to Billy easily. And he wasn't yours, you tell yourself again. He lets out a humorless chuckle.

"I told you I wanted you, you know?"

"I know, but-"

"I know. But I told you. And now you're jealous. You want me too?"

Billy is almost pleading with you to just say it. He knows it. But he's in desperate need of you to finally let it out. You're quiet, your head mulling it over in a frantic manner as he stares right into your soul.

He scoffs, "Darlin' stop thinkin' so hard. 've told you before. All you gotta do is tell me and I am all yours." It feels like you can't speak, your tongue is missing completely from your mouth. Billy's frustration only seems to increase as he rolls his eyes at your silence and his jaw clenches again.

His hands move to your hips, a firm grip, as he lets out a harsh breath, "What do I gotta do? Do I have to fuck it outta you?"

Your cheeks burn at that and he hears the hitch in your breath, "Billy, I-"

"That is it, huh?" He's mocking, finding humor in how heated you get over his words, his thumbs rubbing your hips over your dress. "Been missin' me these days? Got no one to look after you? Just me."

You nod, your head lurching forward enough to brush your nose to his and it almost makes him groan. "You're pissin' me off," he mumbles, like a warning, his lips almost inching to kiss yours, but he restrains himself.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, your breath lingering on him as your hands finally move to touch him, right against his chest. You swallow hard. "Don't know if I've ever felt this much," is what you're able to get out through your laboring breath. Billy takes that as enough, for now, pressing his lips hard to yours.

It's a bruising kiss. His lip was cut and he was fighting a wince, but he did not give a fuck about the pain right now. Billy was starved without you and all he can think about is taking. He pushes you back until you're more against the tree, the bark uncomfortable but that's the least of your worries. His hands pull at your hips to bring your body flush with his, slotting his leg between yours.

His one hand moves to cradle your face, mumbling to your lips, "still pissed off," and he licks his tongue along your bottom lip, nudging under your chin to tilt your head up more.

"Good," you mutter back to him before happily opening your mouth to him, tugging on the handkerchief at his neck to pull him as close as he can be.

He hums at your words, "Oh? You like me mad or somethin' doll?" Billy's hand at your hip holds you tighter, "is that why you're doin' this to me?"

You don't answer, your lips trailing along his jaw and to his neck. Your hand grasps the back of his head, pulling his head back a little to expose more of his neck, enough to find his spot that you found. That he didn't even know about until he slept with you.

As you suck at the spot, biting the skin enough to leave the start of a mark, Billy refrains from moaning, but you hear him mumble, "fuck's sake," before he's pulling back from you and taking his belt off.

"Ground?" He takes his belt off so easily it distracts you, but you nod.

"Ground," you reply, moving yourself to the grass. Billy doesn't waste a second, taking his jacket off and laying it out so you can sit on it.

He nudges you to lay back and gets on you so quick, it makes your breath run fast. "Billy," your voice is breathy, his head burying into your neck, leaving surprisingly soft kisses as he fumbles to push his pants down.

You help the best you can, then swat his hand away to fish his cock from his underwear yourself. Billy lets out a low groan when he feels your hand wrap around him. You hum, stroking the length of him once, then twice before taking him out.

"Tell me you missed this or I think I'll actually go crazy, doll," he mutters, his kisses finding your jaw.

"Now I wanna see you go crazy," you joke under your breath, but Billy isn't having any of that.

"Fuckin'...fine. That's what you want?" His hands are under your dress in an instant, and find your undergarments, the thin linen being harshly ripped from your body.

"Billy! Did you actually rip them, I-"

"Darlin' please be fuckin' quiet," he rasps, and you pull hard on his hair in his response. He laughs.

"Missed you. Pissed at you. But still want you just as fuckin' much," he whispers, giving your cheek a kiss as he hikes your legs up around him, his hips slotting to yours.

Billy's hand finds himself, guiding his dick to rub at your clit, both of you letting out shaky sighs at the feeling. His nose smushes to your cheek, eyes stuck on you to watch you react to him.

"Oh, honey," he whispers as his tip rubs through your folds, feeling just how slick you are. The head of his cock catches at your entrance and you both moan in unison again. Billy slowly pushes the tip into you, groaning over it and helping you wrap your legs tighter to him.

"There you go. Still take it good, hm?" He doesn't let you even try to answer him as he thrusts the rest of himself into you, his knees shifting in the grass to adjust his position. Billy grips your hips hard, thumbs pressing to the underside of your thighs as he begins fuck himself into you.

A moan rattles through you, your head pushing back against the ground at his immediate quick pace. You grasp at his shoulder, your other hand tangling into his hair so you can pull it whenever he fucking quips at you.

Billy grunts, his head down and teeth nipping at your jaw, "You actually listened to me. Actually stayin' quiet besides those pretty moans. Not even talkin' back," he chuckles at it and then again when you tug his hair like he thought you would.

"'M sorry," he murmurs, leaving an affectionate kiss on your jaw. For a moment, Billy buries his cock as deep as it can be inside of you, holding still to feel you tighten around him. "That's it...you missed that?"

You nod, your words not coming, but he grips your jaw, "you can speak," he says, his hips snapping to yours, just as desperate as his kisses were before.

"I did miss it, Billy....so, so, so much."

That spurs him on as he opens your mouth with a push of his fingers at your cheeks, your eyes dazed and tongue sticking out a little like routine. Billy slows his thrusts as he spits down onto your tongue.

Before you can close your mouth, his lips and tongue are finding yours, a strangled moan leaving him and melting back into you. Billy's one hand still at your hip moves under you to wrap around, giving your body a slight angle as he fucks harder, his rhythm starting to break.

His kiss is sloppy, as is yours back, tongues a mess of massaging to one another, his teeth biting to your lip, noises tumbling from you both. He breaks the kiss to nuzzle his nose to your cheek, "please tell me you didn't fuck someone else while you were angry at me," he suddenly says, his eyes closed like he's anticipating the worse.

"I didn't," you whisper back to him, "I promise you," you assure him again, your hand rubbing through his hair.

"I didn't touch anyone," he tells you, "nothing," he pauses, giving your cheek the lightest kiss as he changes his movements, slowing down, sliding his cock out of you slowly, but pushing back in hard, his hand moving from your jaw to slip between your legs and thumb at your clit, "Just tell me."

A whimper leaves your lips when you feel his thumb, your hips bucking up, which only makes him want to fuck you faster again, but he holds back. You know what he means the moment he says to tell him and you turn your head head to nose back at him.

"I want you," you breathe out and you feel him let out a breath, his lips tenderly kissing your nose.

"Can I be yours then?" He slows even more, which makes you whine. Your eyes lock to his, his face strewn with hope and deep desire, you can feel the twitch of his cock and see the flutter of his eyes.

"Yes," you whisper to him, giving him a small smile as you ruffle your handing his hair, "then I'm yours?"

He groans at your answer and question, and his hips rock faster again, needy and full of so much want, "yes, doll, you're mine," he rasps out, "and you're gonna come just for me, yeah? I know you will, Bet you wanted me to come for you all week, I'll give you it," he gets out his words quick, your fingers digging into his hair and his shoulder.

"Billy....fuck...f-faster."

He chuckles, "Jesus, doll," he gives you a crooked smile, but obliges, rubbing your clit in tight fast circles as he ruts into you, his forehead pressing to yours.

A heat overcomes you as your orgasm washes over you, Billy smiling as he watches it overtake you. The way your mouth parts and your moan borderlines a whine, the arch of your hips to his, and the spasm of your cunt against him.

He fucks into you maybe three more times before he's pulling out of you, letting out an almost guttural moan, spilling on your thigh, the slight friction of the tip against your thigh is enough to get him hard all over again, but Billy pushes those thoughts aside to move his hands back to your face and kiss you passionately through your heavy breaths.

"Still a little pissed," he mumbles and you nudge your knee into his.

"Ow," he grins into the kiss, a bigger flush coming to his face when you start laughing.

[pop-sesivo]

"I'm a Poor Lonesome Cowboy" por Pat Woods. De la banda sonora de las adaptaciones cinematográficas del cómic Lucky Luke.

"Es una auténtica canción vaquera del siglo XIX, aunque se desconoce su autor exacto. El creador de Lucky Luke, Morris, escuchó la canción en una película del oeste de Gary Cooper. Encajaba tan bien con el personaje de Lucky Luke que la añadió a sus historias con el escritor Rene Goscinny", indice Pipeline Comics.

Según Pipeline Comics, la canción se escuchó por primera vez en el cine en la película Along Came Jones (1945), con Gary Cooper.

Lucky Luke - I’m A Poor Lonesome Cowboy

[the-kr8tor]

What is Normal for the Spider is Chaos to the Fly

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW violence and gore, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW food mention.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Eyes closed, you breathe in the fresh spring breeze, the first of many this season. Pollen makes your nose itch, bees buzz around the field of flowers, yellow dots kissing the soft petals. A babbling brook sits near you, perfect spherical rocks worn down by the waters makes you want to skip them across the transparent clean water where fish lie and swim right under the currents.

The bright sun above shines down on you, its light fighting through your eyelids and through the canopy of the oak tree. Its strong trunk provides the perfect back rest, the wood is stable and protective of your relaxed form. Like the softest carpet, the green grass below is splayed under you. Blades of grass and wildflowers swaying amidst the wind just like how your lashes flutter with every soft blow of the cool air.

“Why'd you stop?” Hobie asks from below. You crack open your eyes to see his lopsided smile, jade eyes crinkling in the corners. His head is resting on your lap, fingers absentmindedly playing a tune on the beaten up guitar on his chest. There's flowers in his hair, courtesy of you. “C’mon, lovie, I was just starting to fall asleep.”

You chuckle, and he smiles wider. The sun bathes you in its glow, a halo of light around your head, a heavenly sight for a mere mortal. “You're spoiled you know.” You realize your fingers are in his hair, soft fingertips paused on his skin. Your vision goes blurry, with a blink, everything shifts back. “So spoiled.”

“Says the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He says it with no ounce of malice.

“How'd you know about spoony?” You joke, he laughs, a sound better than anything you've ever heard of. “How was work?”

“Lonesome, you didn't come by.” You tilt your head, lips pursing into a soft smile. “Do I still smell like gunpowder to you?”

“No, you smell like flowers.”

“Is it too late to say that I'm allergic to ‘em?”

You giggle, “No you're not. You haven't even sneezed.” Grabbing a daisy from his hair to wiggle it under his nose, his face scrunches up comedically, and then he fakes a sneeze. The loudness of it startles the birds nesting by the branches, wings fluttering rapidly further away.

“Good job, you scared the birds.” You look down at him, hand inching closer to the daisy ring you've made a while ago.

“What? I can't sneeze?” His eyes are glued to you, the sun paints a pretty picture of his viridescent eyes shining in the light.

With a deep inhale, you take his hand away from the guitar, slipping the flower ring you've been itching to place on his finger. Hobie seems to freeze up either in your touch or the sight of the makeshift ring. You show him your hand, an identical white flower whose stems are wrapped gingerly around your middle finger.

“Ta dah.” You say shyly. The tightness around your chest clenches at his silence. “I'll take it off, I'm sorry. I thought—”

Hobie quickly reaches up to shield the ring away from you, “No, don't—it’s brilliant. Thank you.” You beam at him as he intertwines his fingers around your own, the rings in full display. “Suits me, I think. But it looks better on you.” You inhale, the comfortable warmth is replaced by icy air. Everything shifts.

The breeze is colder now, the grass is frozen under your feet, frost clinging to each blade. The canopy is no more, only dark angled branches with tiny leaves hang off the precious oak tree. A puff of smoke billows out of your dry lips, Hobie hugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm, body heat shielding you from frost bite.

“Cold?”

“Yes, very.” You shiver, and he holds you closer. “This sunset better be worth it, Hobie, I had to put down a really good botanical book for this.” You say, cheek pressed atop his chest, breath warming his neck. You'd choose him over any book.

“First sunset of the season, love. It's worth it, I promise.” Without a second thought, he takes his coat off to place it over your shivering shoulders. You huddle closer, wrapping yourself around him. Sharing your warmth.

Blue slowly ebbs away as he pulls you closer. The clouds part ways for red and orange, pink splashes across the sky, a watercolour painting that leaves you gasping for air. Or was it his lips upon yours for the first time that has you heaving for air?

Hobie kisses you with the gentleness only a lover could provide, yet with the tentativeness of someone who isn't sure you'd kiss back. The pads of his fingers brush along your jaw, ghosting over your flustered flesh. With a sigh and a pull on his jacket collar, you kiss back. Lips pecking the corner of his own, clouds of smoke mixing in, hands warm on your searing cheeks— he slowly leads you towards the same oak tree. Your back hits the wood with an almost silent thump, his hand protecting the back of your head. Eyes closed, you memorize his lips by kiss alone. Your hands knead at his nape, he shivers not from the cold.

“I'm in love with you.” He says it confidently, like he's been saying it to himself for years. He feels like he has.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that.” Your eyes meet his own in a dance. Eyes flicking down to his lips, jade eyes looking between your blown out eyes and your quivering lips. “I've been in love with you. For a really long time.” You feel his lips open, mouthing the three words back against your own. It's barely above a whisper but you know that he'll scream it if you asked.

A flash of his warm hands around your own, a glimpse of a knife carving yours and his initials on the wood that you both call home. A muffled promise lingers in your ears, soft, just like his lips on yours.

You open your eyes and you see him above you. Hobie pinches your nose with a laugh, calloused fingertips squeezing lovingly at you, emerald eyes swimming with affection. The warm air passes by, humidity stuck in your nose. The sweat of your brow is quickly wiped away by him.

“Stop sayin' that, yeah?” You don't remember what you said. “You're bloody gorgeous, she doesn't know real beauty even if it hits her powdered arse.”

“Hobie!” You laugh, hands planted on his hips, the fabric of his shirt is hitched up for easy access. “She's still my aunt, and my legal guardian.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile agrees with him, but if you say it out loud you're afraid that the ground will swallow you alive and Hobie will be ripped away from you.

“It's a nice day today, you plannin’ on gropin’ me the whole afternoon?”

“Yep!” You look down at where his hands are placed, palms cupping you right above your ribs. “You planning on doing the same to me?”

“Say otherwise and I'll take my hands away from you—”

“No!” You say quickly before he could finish.

Hobie guffaws loudly, face leaning closer to yours. You close your eyes, expecting the expected. Instead, his head falls on the crook of your neck, blowing warm air into your skin.

Your laughs echoes around the clearing, fading into the sound of leaves crunching under your footsteps.

Orange leaves fall down on you like rain, a puff of breeze settles in your muscles, rattling your bones. Despite the cold, you inch your way closer to him, his smile beckons you over, grassy spring coloured eyes lighting up at the mere sight of you. His back resting on the strong oak tree that carries both your names.

“You know, we could always meet up at your place now that you're the up and coming associate.” You hold your hand out towards him, his fingers slide on your palm so naturally that you think you're made for eachother. “We can stop sneaking around now thanks to you.”

Hobie feels like he can finally breathe once he has his hands on you. He twists your wrist gently, leaning down, he presses a quick kiss on your pulse, eyes meeting your own. Years of being together, and he still makes your heart race.

Warm lips on your skin, he pecks it again for good measure before leaning away and pulling you closer. His hands are around your hip, while you wrap yours over his shoulders. “We could. But even after all my hard work, your aunt still doesn't—won't approve of us together. I'm me and you're you, love. What would they say when they see their heiress skulkin’ around the harbour, hm?”

“They won't say anything because I'm good at skulking around.”

“Or they'd say you're hurtin' your prospects of a good husband.”

“Fuck them! You and my garden are all I need.”

He calls your name solemnly, “we have to face the fact that—”

“What? That I'll be stuck in a loveless marriage in the near future?” You shake your head. “I refuse.” A humourless laugh breaks through.

“Good thing you said that or this will be awkward.” Hobie takes out a pair of gold rings from his pocket, it shimmers in the sunset, cold metal upon his warm trembling hands. “It took me a hundred days to save up for them, they're scraps from the factory. All melted together to make a pair.”

“Y–you're stealing from us now?” You could barely finish your joking sentence with the sob fighting to escape your throat.

Hobie laughs, a breathy one that has you mentally making up another joke just to hear it again. “Been at it since they hired me.” He hands you one, not sliding it down your finger, no, he places it right in the middle of your palm. “Remember those daisy rings you made years ago?” You nod, eyes brimming with tears. “I've made ‘em real this time. But the next one would be pure gold, none of the mixed ones I've melted with it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as you glance at the gold ring that is a hodgepodge of different shades of yellow gold. Some seem to be darker, some lighter. “You deserve real ones.”

“You could make me a ring out of grass and wood, and I'll still wear it everyday.” Taking the ring, you slide it into your middle finger, a promise, he says in your ears, a promise, you repeat against his lips as you slip his own ring around his finger. A promise you both carved out into the tree and into your hearts, a promise that you'd carve out into your skin if you could.

The smell of burning wood wakes you up with a start, You've woken up with tears trapped in your eyelashes.

Your eyes open to a boiling pot of brown liquid. It's familiar, awfully so that you've hated it, it reminds you of someone you'd rather not remember. Looking up at the sky that is darkened to a pale blue, turning the orange and green plains into its royal colour— The roaring open fire is the only bright thing in sight, a yellow glow amidst all the bitter blue.

The amber flames screams among the dead silence and the vast emptiness, ‘Someone’s here! Someone’s alive over here!’ yet, you don't feel like you are.

You cough from the cold, throat itching from dryness. Lifting your hands up to tug the blanket further up, you now notice the deep crescent moons left on your palms. Some even bled through the night, dried blood decorating the lines on your palms and under your fingernails.

“You're awake. Good.” Hobie's voice hits you like a carriage, sleep ridden mind still hazy. For a second you thought that you're still dreaming of him. But his solid form and smoke from his cigarette resting on a stone says he's real. Your mind can't dream of something so tethered to reality like this. “You want some?” He rattles the now empty tin cup, brown liquid dripping from the rim to the ground below.

“You're offering me a cup?”

He furrows his pierced brows. “‘course, there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. Do you have something to eat instead? Or water?” Sitting up, you wipe the sleep off your eyes. Your joints hurt, stomach gurgling, and ankle aching. You hate it here, he's the only one that's making everything bearable even though he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than be with you. It still hurts, thinking that he does.

“Yeah.” Standing up with a groan, it seems like sleep didn't agree with him either. There's bags under his eyes, worsened by the shadow from the brim of his hat. Taking something from his pack on Buckeye, who still slumbers quietly, he holds out a canteen and a piece of dried meat wrapped in cloth. “‘ere.” The familiar scar on the back of your hand has him reeling away. He remembers the day you got it, he remembers how his hand trembled as he stitches your hand back together.

“Thank you.” You say, stiffly smiling. He nods, returning back to his seat.

Breakfast went over fast, with dawn turning into morning, and the crisp air warming down, you take the blanket off your shoulders. Bucky trotts on the road, coyotes chirp on your left and a tumbleweed passes by on your right. It feels like you and Hobie are the only people on the road, or even in the whole world.

You clear your throat, attempting to break the quiet after riding for hours in absolute silence. “So…are you an outlaw? A mercenary for hire, or even a trapper?”

“‘m one of those things, yes.”

“So mysterious. You know you're still an open book to me.” Looking over your shoulder, he grabs your chin to make you look away and to keep your eyes on the dirt road. To which you laugh at. “Yep, still an open book.” It's true that you still know him for the man that he was, but there's missing pieces of him in your mind. You intend to dive to find the pieces so you could piece together who he is today. Before you go home, before you part forever again.

“How would you know?” Hobie tamps down a smile even though you won't be able to see it. “Maybe I've changed in those five years.”

“Oh you have.” You'd know. “But I can still see through you. I know you, Hobart Brown. Or did you also change your name too?”

“It's Larry now.”

“You serious?” Looking behind, you see him sporting a smirk. A smile spreads across your lips at his playfulness, a semblance of the Hobie you once knew.

“For example?” He asks, something he might regret. “What do you see through me?”

“Well, you put this big bad façade up because it's what everyone expects you to be. But in truth, it's so you could survive here. I bet it's working well since you're still here breathing.”

“I don't care what anybody thinks, Y/N.”

“I know that too. But you still do it because you don't want them talking to you, coming close to you. I remember how hard it was to even get you to speak to me.”

“I was a kid, we were children, and I was new in town.”

“I got you to talk though. Still proud of myself that I got to see the real you.” You puff out your chest. “This place is just like our old town, you know. Harsher, yes, but this time you don't bother to try, not like last time.” Your voice lowers into a murmur. He knows why he doesn't bother, because there's no one out here that could get him out of his walled up shell just like you did. There's no one like you. “I still know you, after all these years. Even if you think I don't, or at least the version of you that you left me with.” The sky gets darker, grey clouds floating next to white fluffy ones, and you still remember how he held you the first time you shared a bed. “You've changed and I confess that I barely know this side of you. I don't know what happened to you in those five years but could you let me try to get to know you again? Just like last time?”

The clouds above darken his green eyes, something passes by them, something that has his hands gripping tighter around the reins.

“It's goin’ to rain.” Is all he could say. “We should hurry and find shelter, there's a shortcut I know.”

You inhale the sharp familiar smell of petrichor, letting it settle in your lungs, letting it drown you, letting it seep through your skin so you can focus on it rather than the flatness of his voice that lacks what you're used to.

“Sure,” you swallow thickly, nails digging into your hemp bindings instead of your flesh.

Hobie clicks his tongue thrice, a sharp almost whistle, and out runs Bucky faster on the sandy lonesome road. Hooves thudding like the rumble of the heavens above, a lightning storm races behind you, sparks of light flashing and clashing on the mountainous rocks of the west.

“Hold on,” Hobie whispers close to the shell of your ear, goosebumps spreading through you like poison ivy on skin. He leans forward, leather clad body shielding you from the harsh howling winds that approaches quickly. “This storm's comin' in fast.”

Wind whips your cheeks, cool air making you narrow your eyes into slits to protect it from the dusty debris. A silhouette of a person appears at the end of the road, you feel Hobie stiffen up from the suspicious man. Arms cage you in, the mysterious man's shadow gets closer and closer as Bucky whines and halts to a stop. Hobie hides your hands with his own, a small act that brings your mind a minute of peace.

“State your business.” Hobie says in a practiced tone, commanding like the one he used with the man who snatched you.

The old man walks with a twisted cane, a makeshift one made from an old branch. His eyes are dull and almost silver, blue rings around his irises, eyebrows thick and white, beard bushy and hair almost gone. Right behind him lies a dip in the road, a chasm from where you sat, a deep gorge from what you surmise. Right next to the road sits a dingy solemn cabin, roof looking like it's about to collapse under its own weight, hinges creaking, window shutters opening and closing harshly from the wind. A border collie barks at you, mismatched eyes unwavering, warning you of something to come.

“Just ‘ere to warn you, son.” The old stranger trembles, either from the cold or from his bad leg. “Anyone who come ‘ver down that road doesn't come out unscathed.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his yellowed shirt. “Just tryin' be a good samaritan.”

“Yeah? Penance for the war then?” You give Hobie a look. He glances over to you in return.

“I was on yer side, son. I won't be out ‘ere warnin’ you and the missus if I wasn't now eh?”

“Thank you for the warning.” You pipe up, the brief silence has made the whole situation more awkward. “We'll try another route then—”

“No,” Hobie stands his ground, “just like she said, thank you for the warnin’ but that's the closest route to Strawberry.”

The man takes his hat off even with the intense shaking of his hand. He then places it on his chest like he's already mourning you. “Safe travels. Don't say I didn't warn ya.” With a whistle, the dog runs over to him before helping him walk home.

“Wait!” The man stops in his tracks, even the dog turns around to face you. “A storm's coming, you'll be cold. Here.” Sliding your hands away from Hobie's, you take the blanket from your lap.

“My eyes are bad but do I see you givin' me your coat?” He smiles toothily.

“Y/N—” Hobie warns.

“Yes, but it's a blanket, not a coat.” The man chuckles deeply, cheeks red and warm.

He whistles again, and the dog walks over to you. “Give it ‘ere to ol' Nellie.” The dog wags her tail, tongue lolling.

“Hi, Nellie,” you giggle as you lean down to place the fabric in her mouth. “Take good care of it. Good girl.” Hobie's hand is holding your waist, single handedly preventing you from falling over.

He remembers your kindness, how you don't falter when you see someone you can help. You're unequivocally kindhearted, a stark contrast to himself, and what he has become in those five years he wasn't by your side. He remembers how much he loved and longed for you. He needs to know who sent the letter on his behalf, but it can wait, maybe he'll thank them when he does find them.

You don't notice him look at you with the same expression he had years ago.

With a happy wag of her tail, Nellie skips over to her owner, handing him your blanket. “Thank you, miss, you've got a kind soul.” There's warmth in your chest, nodding towards the man. “You take care now. And you.” He looks over your companion. “Better watch her back and protect her kind soul eh?”

“Get inside, don't want you gettin' my blanket drenched.”

A laugh billows out as he waves you away. Entering his humble abode with a loud bang of his door.

“I think we should listen to him.” You say above the winds.

“We'll be fine,” Hobie's voice is softer. “I've been ‘ere before. Just listen to me, yeah?” He kicks gently, and Bucky takes his cue to run in the same direction again.

“If I listened to you back there then the poor man would've shivered from the cold.”

“And now you'll be the one shivering from the cold.”

“He needed it more than I did.” You almost scoff as you hold on tighter around the horn of the saddle while Bucky trudges downward on the slope and into the gorge.

“Don't expect me to get you a new one.”

Now you scoff. “Then don't.” Yet, your chest clenches from his words.

Buckeye finally slows down halfway through the gorge. Hobie inhales deeply, jade eyes flicking above the rocks. The walls seem to close in on you, fifty foot tall walls of ancient stone looming over you. A stream runs along the path, murky brown water splashing with every movement.

“Why'd you slow down—?” Your eyes widen at the moving figures above. “There's people up there.” You whisper as you watch them observe you. The bows on their back gather your attention, eyes piercing through you than the sharpest of arrows. Hobie suddenly grabs your chin, still gentle but with a sense of urgency this time. He turns your head towards the road, rough leather sliding from your chin to your hands.

“Keep your eyes on the road. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“Yes.” He says immediately.

“Do you know them?”

“Yes, now keep quiet.” Tipping the brim of hat in respect, you do as you're told. “Or they'll be the one askin' me questions. And we don't have time for friendly banter.”

When he says those words, you hear a whisper of his name from above, then a bout of laughter echoing downwards. Subtly looking over your shoulder, you see him crack a small smile.

You turn back towards the road, a soft morose smile on your lips from how much you've missed from his life. You want to know what happened to him in those five years, to be told stories of his adventures under the campfire. To be part of those stories once more, not whatever you're in with him. An afterthought, a burden.

You're starting to feel all the love he once gave you was just from your mind. Made up by you, dreamt and imagined.

—

The cave you've found shelter in is perfect. It's big enough to house you and Hobie, even Bucky rests inside, dry and happy while his dark eyes follow you— as if trying to keep an eye out for you. The cave protects you from the hammering rain outside and from the lightning that pierces the clouds. You lean on the rocky mouth of the cave, hands reaching outside to cup the rain and feel the sharp water droplets drench your skin. Lifting your head up, you watch the sky. The storm has no end in sight, yet, there’s a bit of light passing through the grey, a ray of sunshine that brings hope, blue peeking in between the dark clouds.

Water splashes against your flesh, cleaning the tiny gashes and dried blood that you're not sure is all from your body. The rope that binds you is soaked, weighing heavy around your wrists like steel bracelets.

Wind howling, lightning cutting through the sky like a bullet through skin— You don't feel his heavy gaze on you.

The roaring fire behind you provides warmth just like the man tending to it. And like the fire he's tending, he realizes that his affection for you still burns him inside out no matter how he tries to snuff it out.

The fire crackles, you watch your shadow dance with the flame's movements. You still don't feel his heavy stare on your back.

With a forced smile, an idea pops in your head. You let the water on your palms fall, flicking away the droplets, making your own patch of rain.

“I've got a proposition.”

“Come eat, smelly” You both speak at the same time, amusement flashes behind his precious emerald eyes that's illuminated by the embers.

"I don't smell." You laugh in between, loving the fact that he seems to be in a better mood. Sniffing at yourself, you scrunch up your nose from the smell. "That much. You're not any better.”

Hobie shakes his head, hiding the curl of his lips with the brim of his hat. He places a can of peaches in your direction. “We'll be in Strawberry by late afternoon. There's an inn there where we can rest and bathe.”

Sitting down next to him but still giving him enough space, you tuck your legs under you, wiggling your hands in front of him.

“Can you untie me now? I'm not going to run, Hobie. Where will I go?”

“Tell me about your so-called proposition.” Hobie raises a brow, teeth biting down and clenched around the leather before fully yanking his glove off. You suddenly feel hot when he unties your hands without another word.

There's no identical ring around his finger. Your happiness is snatched away at the sight of his empty finger. What was once a promise is now gone from his flesh that you used to trace with your own hands.

Clearing your throat, you watch the shadows on the cave walls flicker behind him. “W–we take the scenic route. I want to see the sights the new world has to offer. Before returning.” You don't even want to call it home anymore.

“The new world? You sound like a grandma.”

“You saying ‘state your business’ wasn't any better, grandpa.”

Hobie's eyes meet your own, green eyes aglow. A remnant of the Hobie five years ago. You could get used to this, his warm gaze that soothes you from the inside out, something that you never took for granted before but never thought you'd miss dearly. You welcome it back with open arms. Even if it was brief.

A flash of bright lightning hits outside your cave, startling you, free hand placed on your quaking chest.

“It's just lightning, love.” A freudian slip, a term of endearment that travels you both back in time. Now that he said it once more, he finds that it still fits you like a warm hug on a cold winter's day, or a first kiss, one of many.

Slowly turning your head, your lips tremble, eyes watering from a silent cry. You try to reach for him, but he deflects your touch by twisting around on his seat, taking a swig from his canteen. The only one that he has.

Quietly eating, your insides are yelling for you to hold him close, to be near him, to hug him until the screaming stops. You can't satiate the feeling, it bites at your bones, chewing, eating at you, going hungry, starving. You stand up, leaving the can of peaches on the ground, returning to the mouth of the cave so the feeling will ravage you alone once again like it always has for the past five years. You've survived this long, but there's barely anything left of you now— a husk, barely a speck, so you cry and cry, sobs muffled by the rain.

You don't feel his gaze on you. He feels the same gnawing feeling in his belly, crawling up to his chest, eating what's left of his heart like a vulture that carries all his grief and guilt.

—

You're back on the road again, the ground is wet and muddy. Clay and grass sticking to Bucky's hooves as he trudges along the soil. You purposely don't remind him about the missing rope around your wrist. Loving the freedom the lack of it brings, you brush your fingers through Buckeye’s hair; dark wavy tresses that reminds you of fine silk.

“You take good care of him.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, I'm just saying it again for emphasis. I hope you're taking care of yourself too.”

You feel him shift in his seat, fatigue rattling his bones that's exacerbated by the rocking movement.

“Do you feel alright?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyebrows are furrowed, sweat dribbling from his forehead.

“‘m fine.”

“You don't look fine. Riding bareback this long hurts, we can switch places—”

���It would be better if you had your own horse.” Hobie groans, stretching his shoulders. Buckeye seems to notice the conversation, huffing and staring back at his rider. “‘m not replacing you, Bucky. Not yet anyway.”

The dark horse neighs, a high pitched sound that makes you laugh. “He was not happy with that.”

“He's not happy with anythin'” Hobie shakes his head at the horse, you're amused by the whole situation. “Picky eater, always demanding sugar cubes instead of a carrot or an apple. Fuckin' spoiled.” Bucky neighs again, louder this time, clearly annoyed.

“Just like his rider.” You giggle, Hobie stifles a roll of his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his pierced lips. “Careful with your comments or he might buck you off and have me as his rider instead.”

Hobie's amusement fades, his eyes hardens, a sight that has your heart thrumming loudly, a sight that you're very familiar with back at home.

“I‘m sorry— I–I didn't mean to.” You frantically apologize, shaking your head, hand reaching for his own, palm hovering over his gloves.

“Look ahead.” He gestures forward. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.”

“Are you sure?” You can't seem to slow down your breathing.

Hobie notices, blinking, he tentatively takes your hand in his. Squeezing once, jade eyes searching your hurt face. Guilt passes through him.

He should've come back for you.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly, slowing down Bucky's steps. “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod, inhaling and exhaling. “Good, keep doin' that.” Inhale, exhale, “atta girl. Now listen to me, I need you to hold on tight, and do what I say.”

“What's wrong?” Did you do something wrong again? You hold on tight just like he asked.

“Eyes up front, sweetheart.” The floodgates open, he can't stop himself from calling you those honeyed names. And you can't stop looking at him. With a gentle hold to your chin, he carefully moves it forward. You see five people waving you over further down the road. They're accompanied by a broken down carriage, three wheels missing, no oxen in sight, just a few horses hitched near them.

They call you over, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh thank God!” You hear them say, their forms getting closer and closer.

“They need help.” You say, Hobie's hand around the reins tightens.

“And we're not goin' to give it to ‘em.”

“What? Why?”

“That's bait, we're not fallin’ for it.” His eyes don't leave the strangers’ hands.

“Bait—? They genuinely look like they need help.”

“We're close to town, and they have horses. They could've gone over there instead of flagging down an armed stranger.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Yes, but I am.” With a swift kick, Hobie guides Buckeye to a mad dash. Your back hits his chest from the sudden momentum. A dull ache on your spine, a tingling sensation on his ribs.

Buckeye passes by the broken carriage, leaving dust in their eyes. “C’mon, Bucky! Get us out of ‘ere, boy!”

Wind in your eyes, you look behind, your heart falls in your stomach when you see them follow immediately on their horses, guns drawn, aiming at Hobie.

“Oh fuck!” A bullet whizzes past your head, missing you by just a few inches. You feel it's hot searing metal fly past, “they're shooting at us! Why the fuck—!”

Hobie twists, with one hand on the reins, and the other on his gun, he shoots down one man with precision. The bullet hits its mark, right in his heart. A fountain of crimson splashes from his wounded body, his feet still strapped in the stirrups, flinging the now lifeless body around like a window shutter in a storm.

Hobie shoots again, a horse falls, another bullet, and one gets iron in their gullet. And another and another, one on the leg and one on the shoulder, but they still ride on. Until Hobie's gun clicks, its chamber now empty, in slow motion, you see the remaining survivors use the opportunity to aim at Hobie's head. With quick thinking, you twist uncomfortably, body stretching behind to grab the hunting rifle strapped on Bucky's back. Within a second, you sit upright with the barrel pointing at them.

Hobie sees it all happen while he frantically reloads. His gun jams from carelessness, heart beating like a snare drum, fingers frantically trying to fix it. The sun is in his eyes as he sees you cock your head over his shoulder, the long barrel of the rifle is placed atop his leather jacket, finger itching to press the trigger.

“Duck.” Your voice is calm as Hobie follows through your command, the firing pin ignites, sparks fly, the smell of gunpowder permeates the air, bullet whizzing and hitting your mark— Right in between the eyes.

Gore explodes from what used to be a head, then a scream from the remaining target. Hobie steers Bucky, whilst you fight. Fight for him, and for yourself.

Pulling the bolt handle, without missing a beat you release the shell with a clink of metal. The remaining man looks at his dead companion in horror, still riding on next to him, now missing a head. Just like they did, you use the opportunity to reload, hand reaching for Hobie's gun belt, taking what you need, reloading with an expert hand. You pull the bolt to place the bullet, pushing it in, you aim once again. At the same time, the man screams, aiming at you. But you're faster.

Inhale. You shoot, hand steady, eyes focused.

A wet squelch can be heard, then a body thuds harshly on the ground as a horse neighs, crying and trotting wildly. You finally exhale. Hobie reins Bucky in, hooves digging in, he stops.

“Holy shit.” Hobie stares at you with a growing smile, cheeks aflame, not from the adrenaline nor the fight. “You can shoot.”

“You taught me.” Your eyes doesn't leave the violence you left behind.

“Yeah, but not like that!” He laughs in disbelief. His heart hammers in his chest, and he remembers all the times he held your hand in his while he teaches you the basics.

“What do you think I've been doing since you left?” You swallow thickly, nerves catching up, hands trembling around the rifle. “My books can only take me so far until I've read the entire library.”

Hobie holds your cheek, face concerned, thumb running along the tear you don't notice slide down your cheek. “Can you look at me, lovie?”

Slowly but surely, you turn your head. “We manufacture guns, Hobie, it's important for me to learn.”

“I know, but shootin’ it at people is different.” He would know, he worked at the same place. “Are you alright?”

“Now you ask me that?” You hand him the rifle, breath shuddering. “Can we go now, please?”

Hobie could only nod, hand itching to hold you again.

—

You finally reach Strawberry, it has a sweet sounding name but it's anything but sweet. The streets are thick with mud, the smell is much better than the other town but it still makes your nose itch. The place is situated on the foot of a mountain, the air is cooler with heavy winds persisting. Rows and rows of establishments lie along the road, a saloon with a balcony on your right, a doctor's office on your left. Convenient, you think.

A brothel sits next to the saloon, women gathered around on the porch, smiling and hollering at the people who pass by. Hobie garners their attention, (who wouldn't be?) despite riding with you on the same horse. He doesn't give them any attention, a disappointment on their part. His eyes are too busy looking over your profile and the inn that's situated on the hill.

You flick your eyes over to him, as if he has a sixth sense, he stares back. “What?”

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Hobie hides a small smile over your shoulder. He stops Buckeye at the front of the inn, hopping off, he hitches his horse first before giving you a hand, surprising you.

Without a second thought, you take his outstretched hand, bare against his leather clad one. You land carefully on the soft ground, cringing at the wet squelch of mud on your shoes.

“I need a bath,” you stomp over towards the porch and out of the mud. Hobie's hand finally leaves your side once you step foot on the steady planks. “And a nice bed.”

“That's why we're ‘ere.” He says while he takes his pack from Bucky's back. Giving the horse a pet and a much deserved sugarcube. He whispers something to the horse, to which Bucky neighs in reply. Stepping on the porch right next to you, the dark horse nods at his rider.

You laugh at them. “What'd you tell him?”

“I promised him a place at the stable so he could get a proper rest. ‘m gonna take him once you're inside.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?” Panic sets in your stomach.

Hobie furrows his brows, “no, ‘course not.” I'd never do that. He thinks, but he already did, years ago. “C’mon.”

Bucky neighs to you this time, tail swishing behind him. “G’night, Buck.” You give him a small wave. “You did a good job today.”

Entering the inn, the smell of pine and something fruity catches your nose. Its walls are all wooden, lined with old photos and animal furs. There's a fireplace in the common area where a couple of people sit and chat by the fire. The place is cozy, it's the first time you feel like you can finally have a nice comfortable place to sleep in since you landed in America.

Hobie knocks on the reception desk, leaning on the table, clearly tired and weary. Whilst you try not to think about what you did earlier, you roam your eyes everywhere in an attempt to push all the thoughts away, to kick the gore you saw, and the act that you've executed far far away from you. Your hand trembles at the sight of a deer head hanging on the wall. Then you remember the man whose head you blasted to pieces. Heart beating faster, breath stuck in your throat, Hobie suddenly takes your hand— squeezing, reminding you to breathe.

Before he could comfort you further, a middle aged man appears behind the desk. Shoulders broad, mustache well maintained and curled at the ends. Blue eyes wide and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Strawberry inn.” He says in a comfortable yet deep tone. His eyes flick towards your intertwined hands, lips smiling faintly. “The name's Finn, room for one?”

Hobie clears his throat, taking his hand back on his side. “Yes, two beds.”

“Ah, a conservative couple eh?”

“Sure,” Hobie acts, nodding along.

“Name?”

“Larry Smith. And baths for the missus and I.”

Finn nods, showing him a sign on his desk. “three dollars for a regular one, five for a deluxe bath.”

“Deluxe?” You ask, curious.

Hobie beats Finn to the punch by explaining it himself. “It's when a woman helps you scrub down.”

You blink twice in quick succession. “Oh.” Cheeks warm, you awkwardly bounce on your feet. “A–are you going to take the deluxe one, Ho–Larry?”

“I might.” He says with a smirk, eyes shining.

“Okay.” You crane your neck towards Finn, “what's our room number?” Your tone inches towards something that has Hobie amused.

“Uh, three—” You're already snatching the keys from him and then quickly speed walking up the stairs. You turn to the right, Finn calls after you. “Left side, ma’am.” Frustrated, you walk the other way. He then turns towards Hobie with a shake of his head. “Happy wife, happy life, english. Don't tease her like that or you'll end up sleeping in the stables.”

Hobie bites his tongue so he couldn't laugh. “I know that now, thanks, mate.”

—

You feel nice, nicer than you should be after what you did. There's a pebble inside you that keeps growing and growing in the pit of your stomach right next to the boulder that has resided there for years. You have no idea what is, but you want it gone just like how you disappear under the tepid water of the tub.

Hobie has laid out clothes for you, it sits on the chair in the corner. A white work shirt that smells like him and a pair of clean socks. Your skirt hangs on the doorway, days worth of dirt and dust clinging to it. The walls are thin, you hear the hinges squeak in the next room, the arguing couple above; and a child's cry from below. The water laps at your chin, now cold and icy on your slowly freezing skin. Like muscle memory, you hold your hand up, the jagged long scar across the back of your hand has you tracing the remnants of the injury— what he used to do to remind you that he's there, that you're safe. But when he left, when he disappeared into the night, leaving you to the horrid predetermined life, you had to do it yourself. You had to carry yourself everyday with the heavy boulder in your heart, surviving each day without him, hurting, rotting in that damned empty mansion you never asked for.

You thought you could finally take the boulder out of you and place it down once and for all when you saw him. it's still there, weighing you down like a hundred ton steel of grief and longing. You don't resent him for what he did, running away, leaving you when the night before he promised you sweet words, words of freedom, words of an escape. No, you don't hate him. Yes, there's days where you would curse his name, but it never lasts. It never does, even now. You still love him even when he doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Your eyes prick from all the unshed tears, everything makes you cry nowadays, even the old lonesome man you met on the road brought a tear to your melancholy eyes. But you can't seem to find the courage to cry in front of him, to let him see your salty tears flow out of you like a raging river of sorrow. And moreso, you're afraid, afraid of home, afraid of what's waiting for you at the end of the road. Whether it be a coyote with its maw opening to lunge at your neck. Or a rattlesnake ready to strike silently at your open wound.

You're not afraid of him, you're afraid to lose him again to the coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Lifting both hands, you watch the blood that collects within the lines of your palms. Rubies ebbing into your life line, your love lines, and into your death— you'd carry the life you've taken until you're six feet underground, decaying, milky bones turning to dust, food for the worms. And yet, the blood in your hands would stay there, even when your hands are eaten by the soil, brought back to where you once came.

Hobie's right, this place changes you. Molds you into something that can survive its harsh environment, just like the plants you once read about. And just like the coiling vines, the flowers that wait and bite their prey; the leaves that kill when cut— you intend to survive the harshness of it all.

With a deep inhale, you leave the metal tub. Water splashes across the floor as you stand up, the even colder air leaves goosebumps in its wake. You dry yourself and dress like an automaton, movements rigid, eyes blank.

Opening the door with a creak, you're met with Hobie standing in the hallway, just across from you. His hand still lingers around the doorknob, viridescent eyes blinking slowly at you.

For a second that felt like hours, you watched each other. How his eyes flick over your form and over his work shirt that you wear. How water still clings to his chest, soaking parts of his white shirt. And how his finger twitches around the doorknob whilst steam escapes from the slits in the doorway. He observes you with vigilant eyes, how your lips are slightly parted, chest breathing heavily. And how much your legs are begging to run towards him, feet pointed in his direction, heels lifted up slightly, but you don't. You don't run to him, instead, you toss him the keys to the room before he could ask for it himself. He catches it with ease.

“You're closer to the room.” Walking closer, you rub your arms for warmth.

Hobie sniffs, hand wiping a stray droplet from his forehead, pack slung over his shoulder. He unlocks the door that's a few steps away, with a click, he opens it for you.

“You look like you're about to pass out.”

You push past him, trying to smile, but you fail. “I feel like I will in a second—” pausing by the doorway, you sharply inhale. “You asked for two beds right?”

“Yeah— fucker.” Hobie clicks his tongue at the sight of the single bed standing in the room. “I'll go get our rooms changed.”

“I'm fucking tired, Hobs.” You lumber your way towards the inviting bed, too tired to even check the room and its sparse décor. “Complain tomorrow. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before.”

“That was different—”

“How is it any different?” Shucking off your shoes, you blink at him through tired eyes. “It's just sleeping next to each other. We were doing anything but that back then.”

He curses breathlessly under his breath. “Fine, don't hog the blanket.”

“Don't kick in your sleep.” You smile for the first time since you pulled the trigger. Slithering inside the warm covers, you lay your head on the lumpy pillows. Heaven to you after sleeping but nothing on the ground or hay for the past few weeks.

“I don't kick in my sleep.” Hobie does the same, laying next to you, giving you enough space in between. “You're the one who kicks in your sleep. Like a fuckin' donkey.”

You lay on your side, inching closer to him. “Please, I'm more of a mustang, not a donkey.”

“Back then you were more like the rider than a horse.” He jokes with a smug smile across his lips.

Your cheeks are aflame, laugh creeping up your throat. The heaviness in your chest subsides, the blood in your hands thins. “You wanna bet?”

Hobie's joking expression is replaced by something else. Flustered, amused, and a mix of an emotion that he has only felt for you. “Fuckin' hell, love.” He turns away from you, lest he lets his thoughts get to him. “Good night, you fuckin' minx.” He hears you laugh, immediately he wants to turn back around and meet you face to face, just like before. But he doesn't.

You're met with his back. The feeling comes back, like a cockroach that wouldn't die even with how much you try to stomp on it. It was foolish to think that he'd love you forever. It was foolish to think that he'd greet you with open arms after years of being apart. How foolish, they'd always whisper to you, naive, and stupid, always standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes always looking for something, someone. Someone that lays before you now.

“Good night, Hobie.” He mouths your next words like clockwork. “Only dream of good things.” You refrain from doing the next thing, a kiss for sweet dreams, a whisper of the three words to remind him of you in the dreamworld.

Hobie silently wishes you did.

Soon enough, soft snores can be heard from behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he makes sure you're asleep before quietly standing up. Sheets rustling, he tiptoes over the noisy planks, breathing silent. Hobie takes a chair from the corner, propping it under the doorknob, shaking the chair, he makes sure that it's locked up tightly. He can never be sure with the simple singular lock on the door.

Once he's sure that it will hold up, he takes his gun from the hanging gun belt, checking the chamber, he keeps it on the waistband of his trousers. After checking all the windows and the fireplace, he finally joins you back in bed. Gun placed on the bedside, ready to be used just in case. Laying on his side, he faces you, observing how the moon shines just across your face. You look peaceful, relaxed, and he remembers how much he has missed you. Like an impossible itch. A craving that cannot be satiated. Incurable, until you're within reach.

His tired eyes stare at the glaring scar across the back of your hand. Hobie remembers how you got the scar on your hand, it was warm that day, searing hot whilst you ran into the woods frantically to meet him. As a result of your unmindful actions, a sharp branch takes a chunk of your skin; leaving him to sew it close for you. He reminisces of how your face contorts to pain with every suture, and how you grip his shoulder to tamp down your screams. He wasn't careful, or even thinking about how it would scar, he just wanted to get it over with so you'd stop hurting. He held you for hours after, held you more after your great aunt saw the damage. She called you broken that day.

He blinks and he's back to the present. He can never go back. You can never go back. So he inches his hand closer to yours, pinky brushing along your skin. Finally, he curls his pinky finger around your ring finger. Linking his life line to yours. Just like he always does to the identical hidden ring around his neck. Your scar peers from the side, a reminder that everything that happened before was real. That all those saccharin touches and words were flesh and blood. He wishes he could go back, to take you away the moment she called you broken.

In his sleep he dreams of you.

[kismets-barista]

Hold onto your Stetson, @ohposhers; have I got some personal HickDory lore for you 😎💜🌟🫧

Excuse the insanity for those who don't feel compelled towards these two

SO!

Hickory and JD met a few good years before the events of the World Tour when Dory was traveling to find Lonesome Flats, got heatstroke and passed out in the desert. Wakes up to Hickory shadowed in the flickering light of a campfire beneath a canopy of the brightest stars he'd seen since the Neverglades, but it wouldn't be until QUITE a few months later until they really started developing crushes against each other. (Cowboy under the stars, you'd think he'd fall right then and there, right? 🌟)

Why was Hickory already in Lonesome Flats, you might ask? Where was Dickory?

In a glue trap, I say in response. Hickory came from Yodelsberg (is there a canonical name for this?) for international study and to learn about new music. He fell in love with country because yodeling and country music are actually quite gorgeous together. She Taught Me to Yodel, anyone?

Delta Dawn obviously didn't take to Dory showing up and around the town, but after some convincing by Hickory and lots of proving himself (plus a vulture attack that resulted in John Dory saving the very young niece of Delta Dawn- Clampers-) he 'earned' a place there and began to work around town.

It was weird for him.

He'd never quite settled down, until then.

(Now, the specific timeline, yearly I mean is a little muddled because I'm still crafting this, but I'll put them out about three years, now.)

John Dory was still living in Lonesome Flats, and he'd started a relationship with Hickory. They loved each other, as my cohort in crime @protagonist-art (CHECK OUT THEIR ART I LOVE THEM SM MUAH) has Hickory tell John when we get write them, "More than the moon loves the ocean." As surely as the tide pulls in and out, so the lovers return to each other.

So Via, what does Hickory think about BroZone?

Oh, my sweet star.

He doesn't know.

After returning to the devastated Troll Tree, John Dory lost a piece of his heart in the damaged pod they used to live in. It was the first time he went grey, and the memories of his brothers started shifting from what was, to what would never be again. He couldn't find it within himself to talk about them, and has his secrets.

But so does Hickory.

Girl wdym stop being so mysterious.

Heh. I know. It's just a glimpse into my dark mind /ref. Anyways, Hickory never told John Dory he was a Yodeler troll. (Another piece of lore that Quizzy and I worked on together and I think it's brilliant.)

Huh? Aren't they in a long-term relationship? Won't this cause issues later on if they don't share these things with each other?

Oh, they love every aspect of each other too much for their bond to truly be broken.

And yet.

One morning, years after just living and loving, John Dory wakes up with a massive headache and nausea.

"Maybe it's that horse that kicked me yesterday, could've gotten me harder than we both thought."

"Lemme check for a knot, Darlin'."

No knots, but there was an egg.

🌟 (Here I'll say that I'm massively in love with the headcanon that trolls conceive through true love- it isn't quite necessary for them to physically do anything unless they want to. Just them, wholeheartedly trusting and putting everything into their relationship and pouring their heart out to their partner.)

They were absolutely ECSTATIC, and rightfully terrified in their own ways. Neither of them were looking for children but not against it, and after resting for a few days they began to plan. A nursery in the house, baby books with millions of names scattered on the coffee table, toys and cute little baby clothes for when the little one hatched.

Wanna know two of the names John Dory had in mind? Rhonda and Dolly.

They were ecstatic until the night John Dory woke up absolutely ill and with a pit in his stomach.

They lost the egg, and it was the second time John Dory went grey in his life.

A week after this had happened, John Dory left a bundled lock of his hair at Hickory's nightstand and did what he knows how to do all too well. He ran.

Hickory never went too far out of Lonesome Flats in the hopes that John Dory would come back. He couldn't imagine what would happen if his love came back and didn't find him there.

The events of World Tour come about, Hickory meets Branch, and travels for the first time since John Dory left.

John Dory continued to travel, until the events of Band Together.

But don't worry, dear readers, for as surely as the tides come in, so will the lovers meet again. 🌟

Aaaand BOOM! That's it! 💜 I've got lore behind the names Rhonda and Dolly as well, and am SO down to answer any questions about them that anyone has. For you, Posh, thank you for asking and helping me to share a story I've been working on, and for everyone else that read this, thank you kindly! I hope that everyone who made it this far has quite a lovely day, or if you didn't, have a lovely day anyways!

Remember to take your meds, drink water, eat something, and stretch!

💜🌟🫧

[unboundprompts]

hi! do you have any title ideas for a historical wild west/cowboy story? i'm really bad at coming up with titles and need some inspiration :,) (and if you can, maybe include birds or stars? necessary tho, ofc.) thank you so much, i love your blog :) <3

Wild West/Cowboy Title Ideas

-> feel free to edit as you see fit.

The Broken Past

Lassoing the Stars

Wild and Free

Chasing Sunsets

The Gunslinger that Shot Too Far

To Ride the Stars

Tough as Nails

The Nightingale

The Path of the Stars

Burning Daylight

The Sixth Shooting Star

Tumbleweed Blood

Constellations of the West

The Lawless Night

Talons of the Falcon

The Reckless and Wild

Stars in the Whiskey

A Wild Spirit

The Hawk and the Outlaw

The Lonesome Sun

After the Sun Sets

Dreamers Have Tomorrow

The Trail You're Riding

[brujahinaskirt]

look i love john marston once and true i really do but listen if i were ms. abigail roberts

i would have shacked up with arthur so fucking fast after john ditched me his lil possum-man head would have been spinning on his neck way out in whatever hole he was hiding from the smoking ashes of my broken heart in. "stand by your man?" "give him space?" "take a chance that love exists?" no. i would not. i would have simply turned around and brought The Big Hoss to stable with EXTREME marston-negative malice. i know i know, arthur is sooo loyal he wouldn't leave dutch but yes he fucking would. we are not talking about some copypasta y/n buckle bunny here with no distinguishing features. this is ABIGAIL FUCKING ROBERTS. are you telling me if abigail "The Best Person Alive" (Arthur Morgan, "Abigail You're the Best" speech, 1899) roberts walked up to this babytalking Fatherhood And Other Dreams-addicted wifeless Wifeguy with a cooing toddler stuck under her arm and said "arthur you're jack's daddy now. arthur he's soooo small arthur. he's the size of a single grapefruit. arthur we have to protect your microscopic pea-sized incredibly tiny son" he would not have said Yes Maam and split that camp like the ass crack in a pair of Forever 21 jeans. i'm sorry to this woman but if i were Miss Thang the Van der Linde Princess Herself I would never have waited on a man (J*HN M*RSTON) to come crawling back to me. wait for what?????? i would have waltzed up to that sad sagging open concept tent, outstretched my gleaming ex girlfriend eagle talon and snatched mr I'm-a-Lonesome-Cowboy by his barely concealed raging domesticity stiffy and we would have blown that fucking outfit in two shakes and a holler. i would have ZOOMED onto that orhter-mahrrgahn-shaped gravy train at such fucking velocity you would not believe it. dump ME like a rusted can of peaches. oh no no no. could NOT be me. me and MY peaches would have been out of that whole marston sitchuation and making nice with big brother on a little homestead somewhere at mach 1 (one vindictive bitch) speed. leave me with a fucking baby sleeping on the grass. kiss my outlaw ass. not if I'M ABIGAIL FUCKING ROBERTS. john would have come stumbling back a year later dragging his jaw behind him like "huh??? wuut??? MY BABYCAKE IS WHERE??? WITH WHO" and the revelation that the bad bitch he tossed out with his toenail clippings was now eating bon bons or whatever on his brother's knee in callyfornya would car compact john's world into the size of a soup can. but i wouldn't bat one pretty eyelash about it because i would be spending my enormous devoted husband's train robbing funds on exotic fruits and fancy $15 token mugs and other dumb shit. john fucking god damned linguini legs marston. break my goddamn heart?? bet. arthur knows how abigail takes her coffee. jack would not even know who tf john marston is.