･ ｡ﾟ☆: *. WITHIN DIRT, FLESH GROWS .* :☆ﾟ.

On me hands and knees may I request general romance hcs with Mud x reader? Maybe what he's like when he's whoops in way too deep and realises? Thank you omg

۶ৎ Mud x GN!Reader General Romance HCs

《 A/N: YESS I GOT YOU ANON!! THE CROWD GOES WILD 🗣‼️‼️ I'm IN LOVE with this guy I can't even lie, this prompt is cute asf <33 Ty for requesting! 》

───────────── ۶ৎ ────────────── “Ah, shit."

───────────── ۶ৎ ──────────────

☠︎︎ He realizes he's in love with you when he catches himself stealing trinkets, not for himself, but because he thought 'Y/N might like this.'

☠︎︎ The realization hits him like bullet to the neck!

☠︎︎ He'd try to deny it at first, telling himself that you're just another ‘scheme’ he's working on.

☠︎︎ What scheme you may ask?

☠︎︎ Uh…

☠︎︎ "Just gettin' close to earn their trust... that's all." He lies murmurs to himself under his breath.

☠︎︎ Sure.

☠︎︎ You'd notice him watching you from across the butchershop, quickly averting his eyes whenever you catch him staring.

☠︎︎ Despite his decaying appearance, Mud becomes oddly self-conscious around you when he’s fallen deep!

☠︎︎ He’s adjusting his fedora, straightening his tie and even making sure the melting skin on his face looks ‘presentable’.

☠︎︎ Ken can read his brother like a book, he often catches him staring at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

☠︎︎ "Me? In love?! With Y/N?! HAHAHA! That's rich!” He throws his head back as he cackles fakely. After he’s done ‘laughing’, he’ll probably beat on his chest to clear his throat.

☠︎︎ Ken just rolls his eyes and gets back to work.

☠︎︎ There’s definitely been instances where he asks Ken to cement a person who’s been harassing you around town under the guise of them being an awful person (which they are) similar to how Ken avoided telling Mud why they were trying to hunt Jack.

☠︎︎ When you ask him directly why he's been acting…strange, he'd respond with something like: “Strange? Me? I ain't strange, doll! I'm the most normal rotling in this whole district. It's YOU who's been actin' funny!”

☠︎︎ Watching the light in your eyes sparkle as he hands you a present really warms his heart…wait does he even have one—

☠︎︎ He’ll probably confess with a bouquet of stolen flowers, the ones you once mentioned liking in passing.

☠︎︎ He'd try to impress you with his shooting skills FOR SURE!!

☠︎︎ Despite all these cute gestures, the guy is a BIG flirt and a little shit!

☠︎︎ Since Mud is over 7 feet, the MAN IS TALL and will use it to his advantage!

☠︎︎ And so, he WILL blow smoke in your face lovingly and has the AUDACITY to chuckle to himself as he watches you swat away the fumes from your face

☠︎︎ Plus it doesn’t help that he finds you even more irresistible when you’re mad

☠︎︎ Despite his crass nature, he's surprisingly gentle with you, ONLY in private if course!

☠︎︎ But sometimes he does forget when he’s in front of his (soon to be your) family or flat out doesn’t care, so his sudden tenderness confuses the hell out of the others.

☠︎︎ “GET A ROOM!”

☠︎︎ Speaking of rooms!

☠︎︎ Since the poor fella sleeps on meat hooks in the freezer room, you bought him the mattress he’d been desperately wanting. (The gesture made him fall for you even harder)

☠︎︎ His idea of romance would be teaching you how to shoot/improving your skill if you already know how!

☠︎︎ He starts setting aside some of his stolen goods in a special "Y/N Fund" for your future together.

☠︎︎ He feels so cheesy but he genuinely thinks not being around you is worse than the Inferno itself.

☠︎︎ He’d say cute stuff like that all the time before adding something along the lines of: “Don't you dare tell anyone I said that."

☠︎︎ When you two drift asleep in the same mattress you bought him, he definitely stays awake a little longer to watch you sleep with a content smile on his face before he dozes off.

EVERYONE PLEASE WELCOME MY GUPPYS BABY

What should I name them guys I need ideas

Jealous HCS for most of the Van der Linde Gang

➤ Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Micah Bell, Dutch Van der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Josiah Trelawny, Kieran Duffy, Charles Smith, Sean MacGuire, Lenny Summers, Sadie Adler, Karen Jones, Mary-Beth Gaskill, Molly O’Shea x F!Reader

Note: you ever just pull something out of your ass and it… works?

ARTHUR MORGAN

He can’t help it sometimes. The way he handles his jealousy varies, but most of the time, he would want to bottle it up - thinking it’s a silly thing. You weren’t making him jealous, he knows that. He’s making himself, due to the severe lack of self-esteem he has.

At first, the man would watch silently, observing how happy you looked. Sure, he could use some attention, too — he thinks, but there isn’t any harm with you having fun. Although the man can’t help but frown at the sight.

He doesn’t want to confront you. If he ever decides to stop watching you like a hawk — he would stand beside you and flash a raised eyebrow. “Hey, honey.”

“Who… ya talkin’ to?”

It’s pretty obvious, even though he likes to believe it isn’t.

JOHN MARSTON

He notices your prolonged attention and time spent with someone, and he doesn’t mind — at first. He convinces himself you’ll stop soon, and you’ll be left alone. But it doesn’t.

He spends the whole day sulking, trying to do other things, but his thoughts still linger. He wishes it was him, why couldn’t it just be him? He was right there.

The man, who tries to talk, is kind of stubborn. “Think that’s enough, talkin’ to my wife.” He states simply. But there’s something deeper within his words.

He has a stupid-looking scowl on his face, whispering to himself and crossing his arms. “I don’t like how he’s lookin’ at ya.”

MICAH BELL

He won’t admit it — but under that façade of not caring, there’s a sliver of it under his thick skin. But he wouldn’t act on it, no, you could do whatever the hell you wanted.

He’s quiet, like always, but a little bit more this time, looking at you with simple glances occasionally as he sharpens his knife. The man lets out a groan of pain when he accidentally cuts himself. “Great.” And he realizes, he won’t stop thinking about it, will he?

“Who were ya talking to?” He asks. When you ask him why, he avoids the question. “No reason.”

He’ll never admit he gets jealous, however, his tense mood looms over wherever he goes.

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

When Dutch is jealous, he’s jealous. A marathon of thoughts run in his mind like a train. Why would she be smiling and laughing with another man’s presence, rather than his? No, it’s unacceptable.

The man approaches you immediately. No time for dilly-dallying, and he just can’t take in the sight. “Wat’cha doin’, sweetheart?” There’s something amusing about the way he’s placed a hand on your hip, trying his best to be able to smile, at least.

Dutch who doesn’t really explain why he’s acting this way, but it’s obvious with his actions alone, taking you away for himself and his attention all on you.

HOSEA MATTHEWS

He knows and trusts you enough not to get jealous. He knows you love him as much as he does. Although, maybe, in his most vulnerable times, he does — just once.

He looks at you from afar, with an uncertain look in his face. He’s gotten a little uneasy, sipping a cup of coffee that doesn’t even taste like anything. He tries to read newspaper, but the words just look like gibberish. The man shakes his head, how silly of him. He hasn’t felt this in a while.

He waits until the end of the day, trying his best to shake the feeling off. But it doesn’t, and you notice. “Can you believe it? I actually got jealous.”

Just kiss him, and he’ll be alright.

CHARLES SMITH

He isn’t jealous, he convinces himself. But there’s something about it. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like feeling this way — after all, he knows you were merely talking withs someone else.

Someone else who isn’t him.

He shakes the thought off. You’ll later find Charles oddly pushing himself with hunting and chores, glistening in sweat and heat.

He’ll be quiet, at first, when asked — appearing calm. But his thoughts are the complete opposite. It doesn’t take a genius to realize his inner turmoil.

He’ll tell you the truth, though. He always does. He just needs a little reassurance.

JAVIER ESCUELLA

It’s hard to mask his jealousy when his face uncontrollably grimaces. He’s upset, walking around, in a bad mood. He’ll tie his hair messily. He’ll strum the strings of his guitar with irritation. He’ll twist the pegs, completely absent-minded, trying to tune it, as the string snaps directly on his nose bridge.

He curses under his breath. He gets up, holds your hand tightly, and leads you away, without explanation.

“I’m jealous.” He says, blood running down his nose. “And I’ve made it obvious, you know.” Javier looks like a wet cat.

“What was so important with him, anyway?” He asks, with a scoff. He’s trying to act tough, but he’s currently got himself buried in your arms, with a bandage on his nose.

SEAN MACGUIRE

There’s no one more dramatic than him. A day without interaction would, and does drive him crazy — if he already isn’t. A jealous Sean jokes around, teases you, tries to get your attention. This trick usually works.

But it doesn’t, today. He’s walking, following you around, watching you talk to everyone except him. Times are busy, he’s afraid, you’ll find someone else who’s better than him.

For once, he’s a little serious. Nervous, on his toes. He’s murmuring, and laughing awkwardly as he stands there. “Me? Jealous? No, no. I don’t get jealous, hah.”

“I am…”

LENNY SUMMERS

He’s had his hands tucked in his pockets for a while now, trying to understand what he was feeling, exactly. He waited around, kicking some rocks. He didn’t want to seem upset, but he was. No doubt.

Poor boy. Lenny doesn’t want to say anything, he doesn’t want to talk to you about it. He didn’t want to seem selfish, or come off in that way. But he couldn’t stop stealing glances at your figure, his thoughts may as well eating him up alive.

His actions are off — uncoordinated, distracted, thinking endlessly. He can’t help it. “Are you busy?”

His jealousy is silent, but not towards you, specifically. He’ll open up, when he’s holding your hands tenderly, but won’t reveal the thoughts of uncertainty that once skipped in his mind.

KIERAN DUFFY

It’d be hard for him to accept the fact that he’s jealous. He’ll deny himself most of the time. But he was, and he knew it. He’d been brushing Branwen’s mane for about fifteen minutes now, unable to tear his eyes away.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, exactly, when he coughs behind you and looks at whoever you were with. “Hey, ah… Who’s this?”

For now, he’ll have to push away his own needs, and he understands that. But he’ll be beside you, curling his fingers between yours, interlocking it tightly.

JOSIAH TRELAWNY

There’s enough confidence in him to reassure himself and let you be, most of the time. Although that doesn’t mean he’s not needy. That, he will be.

There’s a loneliness that creeps up his chest when he isn’t with you, when he’s away. He’ll think about you. Trelawny squints his eyes at the person in front of you, taking a bit too much of your time for his liking. As he says, it ‘pains him not being near you.’

“My dear, why don’t we go ahead now?” He coos sweetly. He’s trying his hard, and his best, to be cute. He grins when he wins, celebrating like a child and taking your hand in his.

SADIE ADLER

It’s not often she’ll get envious, while it is easy to provoke her. She’ll say a word, or two, or a few sentences — when it’s needed.

She’ll cock a brow, place a hand on her hip as she watches for a moment. Maybe she’ll wait a staggering one minute before she goes and joins the conversation. The woman smiles at you, and asks. “Hey, honey. Who’re you talking to?” And look at the man in front of you with a now neutral expression. She has no interest, whatsoever, only to you.

“Well, we really have to go now, sir. Surely ya won’t mind if I take her back, right? I know ya won’t. ‘Cause she ain’t yours.” It’s hard to prevent whatever spews out of her mouth.

KAREN JONES

“So yer gonna talk to her the whole night, that it?” You hear from behind you, Karen says to who you’re talking to. It’s not common for her to get jealous, but she’ll let you know. It’s a little scary, really, the way she can be so blunt.

Expect her to be, initially, in a not so bright mood.

Maybe she’ll even drink a bottle or two, in nights without you beside her. Jealousy’s a nasty thing, and she tries to keep in check. Her tongue is loose, though, she can’t do much about it.

MARYBETH GASKILL

She’s been peeking, looking around who you were with the past hour. The book in her hands, suddenly becomes a little harder to read. She wants to talk to you, be with you — but that apparently can’t be done.

She’ll come to you, a little shy, smiling a little. “Who’re you talking to, [Reader]?” Pretty please will you go and talk to me instead? It’s written all over her face. She doesn’t really understand why not, you see.

It’s not along before you’re eventually dragged away. Sometimes you don’t even notice. She’s sneaky like that, has a penchant for averting your attention to her. Although with good intention.

MOLLY O’SHEA

She understands, you’re a busy person. And that means you lend a lot of time to other people, and talk to them, and go with them. Your attention, love, and care has always been enough for her. But she always thinks, and thinks.

Molly notices the little things. The way your body is close, the way your elbows and hands slightly brush against some people. It upsets her to an extent where you’ll find her huddled away, just waiting for you to visit her.

“It’s nothing.” But she’ll crack the next moment and tell you all about how she’s been lonely, and how she missed you. “Do you still love me? I do.”

Tell her you do. All she needs is a little reassurance.

D̵e̵a̷r̵ ̵E̵s̴t̴e̸e̷m̶e̷d̷ ̷M̴o̶r̴t̶a̴l̸,̷

̶I̶t̷ ̴i̷s̷ ̸w̸i̸t̸h̶ ̶g̴r̴e̸a̵t̴ ̷p̶l̵e̵a̴s̷u̸r̷e̴ ̷t̵h̷a̸t̴ ̵I̶ ̵p̴e̸n̶ ̵t̵h̴i̸s̶ ̸l̷e̶t̶t̵e̴r̴ ̶t̵o̶ ̶y̷o̵u̶,̸ ̴d̸e̸t̸a̴i̴l̴i̷n̴g̷ ̸t̴h̶e̴ ̵m̵o̵s̷t̶ ̷e̷x̸q̵u̷i̵s̷i̶t̶e̷ ̷a̷n̴d̷ ̸d̶e̵l̸e̵c̴t̴a̵b̵l̴e̴ ̴e̸x̵p̴e̵r̴i̷e̷n̷c̸e̶ ̵o̶f̶ ̴m̵y̷ ̶r̶e̵c̶e̶n̷t̶ ̵e̵n̵d̶e̵a̵v̵o̴r̸s̴.̷ ̶I̸ ̸w̵r̷i̵t̷e̴ ̶t̶o̷ ̸y̴o̸u̶ ̸w̵i̴t̸h̸ ̸a̶n̴ ̶u̵n̶d̵e̶a̴d̶ ̶h̶e̷a̶r̶t̷ ̶f̵u̴l̵l̵ ̵o̷f̶ ̵p̶u̴r̷e̵ ̶e̸c̶s̷t̷a̴s̵y̵.̴ ̶A̷l̵l̶o̵w̶ ̴m̴e̴ ̶t̶o̶ ̸r̸e̸g̵a̷l̷e̵ ̸y̷o̶u̶ ̷w̶i̸t̵h̵ ̶t̶h̵e̸ ̵t̸a̶l̴e̴ ̸o̷f̸ ̷h̶o̵w̸ ̵I̸,̸ ̵C̵o̷l̷m̴ ̶O̶'̶D̶r̸i̷s̷c̸o̷l̴l̸,̷ ̶t̴h̶e̶ ̵f̷e̸a̵r̵e̶d̷ ̶l̸e̴a̵d̸e̸r̸ ̵o̶f̶ ̷t̴h̷e̶ ̶O̸'̷D̷r̴i̴s̴c̵o̷l̴l̴ ̴B̷o̸y̸s̴,̵ ̷c̸a̴p̴t̶u̶r̵e̶d̷ ̸a̷n̷d̵ ̵s̴a̸v̴o̴r̸e̷d̵ ̴t̶h̵e̵ ̶f̴l̶e̵s̷h̷ ̶o̷f̴ ̴t̷h̵e̵ ̶i̴n̶f̶a̶m̷o̶u̵s̵ ̸V̵a̸n̸d̷e̷r̷.̴ ̴O̶u̸r̷ ̵p̴a̷t̶h̵s̷ ̶c̷r̸o̶s̸s̶e̷d̸ ̴i̴n̶ ̸a̸ ̴m̷o̷s̶t̸ ̸u̸n̸e̵x̵p̶e̷c̷t̶e̵d̸ ̷m̶a̵n̸n̷e̶r̸,̷ ̵a̸s̷ ̷V̵a̸n̴d̶e̸r̶ ̶f̵o̸u̵n̸d̴ ̵h̵i̵m̶s̶e̵l̸f̶ ̴a̴t̸ ̵t̶h̶e̸ ̷m̸e̷r̸c̸y̵ ̸o̶f̷ ̷m̵y̷ ̶m̵e̶n̶.̸ ̷O̷h̵,̴ ̴t̵h̸e̴ ̵l̷o̵o̸k̶ ̷o̸f̶ ̶f̵e̷a̶r̵ ̷a̴n̶d̸ ̵d̵e̶f̴i̷a̶n̴c̸e̵ ̸i̴n̴ ̷h̵i̶s̴ ̵e̷y̶e̷s̷ ̴o̵n̵l̵y̴ ̵s̵e̴r̶v̵e̷d̶ ̷t̶o̸ ̷f̴u̶e̴l̸ ̶m̸y̵ ̴a̵p̴p̸e̷t̸i̷t̷e̴ ̴f̶o̸r̵ ̵w̴h̸a̴t̶ ̴w̷a̸s̵ ̵t̶o̷ ̸c̶o̶m̶e̷.̶ ̵T̸h̷e̶ ̶p̴o̸o̴r̸ ̵f̴o̴o̶l̶ ̴t̴h̵o̷u̷g̷h̸t̶ ̸h̴e̵ ̸c̴o̵u̶l̵d̵ ̶o̶u̷t̷w̶i̵t̸ ̴u̵s̸,̴ ̸b̷u̵t̸ ̸l̸i̶t̵t̵l̸e̴ ̵d̸i̷d̵ ̵h̶e̴ ̶k̷n̶o̶w̴ ̷t̸h̶e̵ ̶t̷r̴u̶e̸ ̴e̷x̵t̴e̴n̸t̸ ̴o̵f̵ ̵m̸y̸ ̴p̸r̴o̸w̸e̸s̶s̶ ̷i̸n̴ ̴t̸h̸e̸ ̶a̷r̸t̶ ̴o̸f̴ ̶t̵o̶r̵t̵u̷r̶e̶ ̷a̴n̴d̴ ̵c̷o̵n̴s̷u̵m̶p̸t̴i̴o̵n̸.̷

̴W̸e̵ ̷b̸r̴o̴u̸g̵h̷t̴ ̴V̵a̸n̶d̸e̷r̸ ̴t̵o̵ ̶a̸ ̵s̷e̷c̴l̷u̸d̸e̵d̷ ̸c̴a̸b̷i̵n̶ ̷d̵e̵e̸p̶ ̵i̶n̵ ̵t̴h̷e̵ ̴h̷e̸a̸r̴t̵ ̵o̸f̷ ̷t̷h̴e̵ ̵f̷o̷r̷e̷s̴t̸,̴ ̸w̵h̶e̴r̴e̶ ̷I̴ ̶h̶a̸d̶ ̷p̸r̶e̵p̵a̶r̸e̶d̴ ̷a̶ ̵f̸e̴a̵s̴t̶ ̴f̸i̶t̸ ̴f̸o̷r̶ ̸a̵ ̴k̷i̸n̸g̷.̴ ̷T̸h̴e̶ ̵f̷l̵i̸c̶k̸e̸r̸i̶n̶g̶ ̸l̶i̴g̸h̷t̴ ̸o̴f̶ ̷t̷h̶e̶ ̷g̷a̴s̵ ̵l̶a̵m̸p̶s̸ ̸c̶a̷s̸t̷e̷d̴ ̶e̷e̶r̶i̸e̸ ̸s̶h̵a̸d̴o̷w̸s̵ ̴u̵p̶o̴n̸ ̶t̸h̵e̴ ̷w̶a̵l̵l̴s̷,̷ ̸s̵e̷t̶t̷i̸n̶g̶ ̷t̶h̸e̷ ̴p̴e̵r̶f̷e̷c̷t̶ ̵a̸m̵b̵i̵a̶n̴c̴e̶ ̶f̸o̴r̷ ̸t̷h̴e̷ ̶f̸e̷s̸t̴i̶v̴i̸t̵i̸e̷s̶ ̶t̴h̵a̴t̷ ̵w̶e̶r̷e̷ ̶a̴b̷o̶u̸t̵ ̴t̷o̸ ̶u̸n̴f̶o̵l̶d̵.̸ ̷V̷a̴n̸d̴e̸r̴ ̴w̴a̸s̸ ̵b̵o̴u̸n̴d̴,̵ ̸h̸a̷p̸l̸e̵s̵s̵ ̶a̸n̷d̵ ̵h̵e̸l̵p̷l̶e̷s̶s̴,̴ ̷h̴i̶s̵ ̷s̴t̵r̸u̷g̵g̸l̵e̴s̸ ̵f̴u̷t̴i̴l̶e̶ ̶a̷g̷a̸i̶n̸s̶t̷ ̶t̶h̸e̷ ̷m̷i̵g̴h̴t̴ ̴o̶f̸ ̶m̴y̵ ̶b̷o̸y̴s̸.̸ ̸W̶i̵t̶h̶ ̸a̷ ̷w̵i̵c̷k̶e̴d̸ ̴g̵r̶i̸n̴ ̵u̴p̵o̷n̸ ̸m̶y̵ ̶f̸a̷c̸e̵,̴ ̸I̸ ̴a̵p̶p̸r̴o̴a̶c̵h̴e̶d̵ ̴V̴a̴n̸d̷e̷r̷,̴ ̴r̵u̸n̶n̵i̶n̷g̵ ̵a̴ ̷f̸i̸n̸g̵e̶r̵ ̵a̴l̵o̵n̴g̷ ̷h̶i̴s̶ ̴j̶a̴w̵l̵i̴n̴e̸ ̷a̴s̶ ̸I̷ ̴a̶d̴m̴i̸r̴e̸d̵ ̶t̴h̵e̵ ̸f̴i̶n̷e̶ ̵s̴p̶e̷c̷i̸m̸e̴n̶ ̸b̷e̶f̸o̶r̶e̸ ̷m̶e̶.̴ ̵H̷i̸s̶ ̸s̷c̶r̴e̶a̵m̸s̵ ̷o̷f̵ ̴a̶g̶o̸n̸y̷ ̵o̴n̵l̷y̶ ̸s̵e̷r̷v̴e̷d̵ ̷t̴o̵ ̷f̵u̵r̴t̶h̶e̶r̸ ̷m̸y̶ ̸h̴u̵n̵g̶e̶r̵,̸ ̸a̵n̸d̵ ̵I̷ ̶w̷a̵s̶t̴e̵d̴ ̴n̵o̶ ̷t̸i̷m̷e̶ ̷i̸n̸ ̷b̵e̶g̸i̸n̷n̵i̷n̸g̶ ̴t̷h̴e̴ ̶f̵e̴a̸s̴t̶.̸ ̷I̷ ̸s̸t̵a̶r̵t̶e̶d̵ ̸w̴i̸t̵h̸ ̸h̸i̶s̸ ̸f̷i̷n̵g̴e̴r̴s̶,̸ ̷o̴n̸e̵ ̷b̸y̵ ̴o̶n̵e̶,̵ ̸r̵e̴l̷i̶s̶h̷i̶n̶g̷ ̷t̵h̵e̸ ̴c̸r̵u̷n̶c̸h̵ ̴o̷f̸ ̶b̶o̵n̴e̷ ̸a̸n̸d̸ ̴s̸i̸n̶e̸w̴ ̵b̵e̸t̷w̶e̶e̷n̷ ̵m̶y̶ ̸t̶e̷e̷t̵h̶.̵ ̴T̶h̶e̵ ̴t̷a̶s̷t̷e̷ ̷o̷f̸ ̶h̷i̸s̴ ̴f̵l̴e̶s̸h̸ ̶w̷a̸s̴ ̸l̵i̴k̸e̵ ̷n̷o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̷ ̸I̵ ̸h̴a̴d̸ ̵e̷x̵p̷e̵r̵i̷e̸n̴c̶e̶d̵ ̶b̴e̴f̴o̷r̷e̵,̷ ̵a̶ ̴t̷a̵n̷t̸a̷l̷i̵z̵i̷n̵g̸ ̷b̷l̸e̵n̸d̴ ̵o̶f̷ ̵f̶e̵a̵r̵ ̸a̷n̶d̷ ̴d̵e̴s̸p̷e̸r̷a̴t̵i̶o̸n̷ ̴t̵h̶a̴t̶ ̴o̵n̶l̷y̴ ̴h̷e̸i̶g̵h̵t̸e̸n̴e̷d̶ ̶m̶y̴ ̷p̸l̴e̶a̵s̸u̶r̴e̶.̷

̷A̷s̷ ̴t̶h̷e̶ ̷n̶i̵g̴h̶t̴ ̵w̷o̴r̸e̵ ̸o̸n̸,̴ ̶I̸ ̷c̸o̶n̸t̸i̴n̶u̶e̸d̵ ̶m̶y̴ ̷g̶r̶u̶e̷s̷o̸m̸e̷ ̴f̴e̸a̸s̵t̴,̷ ̵s̷a̶v̶o̸r̸i̴n̷g̷ ̴e̴v̴e̷r̴y̵ ̸m̶o̶r̷s̵e̴l̷ ̸o̸f̶ ̴V̷a̷n̴d̵e̴r̸'̴s̷ ̷b̸e̷i̵n̶g̵.̷ ̵H̵i̸s̵ ̵c̵r̸i̸e̸s̶ ̵o̴f̸ ̸a̴n̶g̶u̴i̷s̵h̸ ̸e̴c̶h̸o̶e̷d̷ ̴t̷h̵r̷o̵u̴g̶h̸ ̸t̵h̴e̴ ̴c̵a̶b̵i̸n̸,̸ ̷a̵ ̸s̴y̷m̶p̴h̴o̷n̸y̶ ̸o̴f̷ ̷s̸u̷f̴f̷e̵r̶i̵n̵g̴ ̸t̷h̸a̵t̶ ̶s̶e̶r̷v̵e̶d̵ ̸a̶s̸ ̸t̶h̷e̷ ̸p̸e̵r̶f̶e̵c̵t̷ ̴a̵c̵c̴o̴m̴p̶a̵n̶i̴m̴e̷n̷t̵ ̵t̷o̵ ̷m̶y̸ ̵m̶e̵a̵l̷.̸ ̸I̶ ̴f̴e̸a̴s̸t̶e̷d̵ ̸u̸p̷o̵n̶ ̴h̶i̴s̵ ̷f̷l̷e̶s̵h̸ ̴w̶i̶t̸h̵ ̵a̸ ̸v̴o̶r̴a̴c̴i̸o̵u̸s̴ ̸a̵p̴p̵e̸t̶i̸t̷e̷,̷ ̷e̴a̶c̸h̵ ̵b̴i̸t̴e̶ ̴b̶r̶i̷n̷g̵i̸n̸g̸ ̵m̴e̷ ̴c̴l̸o̵s̷e̸r̸ ̶t̴o̸ ̵a̸ ̴s̷t̸a̸t̵e̴ ̸o̶f̸ ̵e̵u̷p̷h̸o̸r̴i̸a̵ ̶t̶h̴a̶t̵ ̶I̶ ̵h̴a̴d̶ ̴n̶e̸v̶e̴r̵ ̴b̴e̶f̴o̶r̵e̸ ̷e̸x̸p̷e̶r̶i̸e̸n̷c̵e̵d̶.̴ ̶B̴u̴t̶ ̵i̴t̸ ̴w̷a̵s̷ ̴n̸o̶t̷ ̵j̵u̶s̴t̷ ̷t̴h̴e̴ ̶p̵h̷y̶s̷i̷c̸a̶l̶ ̸a̵c̸t̴ ̵o̷f̵ ̸c̸o̵n̵s̵u̵m̶i̷n̷g̵ ̸V̶a̸n̵d̵e̵r̸ ̸t̸h̴a̷t̶ ̴b̶r̴o̵u̵g̴h̸t̸ ̶m̶e̷ ̴s̶u̸c̶h̵ ̸p̴l̴e̴a̵s̶u̴r̸e̸.̶ ̶I̷t̴ ̵w̶a̵s̶ ̶t̴h̵e̷ ̸k̸n̵o̸w̶l̵e̵d̵g̷e̴ ̴t̴h̷a̶t̵ ̴I̶ ̴h̴e̶l̴d̴ ̸h̶i̸s̸ ̵f̷a̸t̷e̸ ̸i̶n̷ ̴m̶y̶ ̵h̴a̸n̷d̵s̷,̶ ̴t̶h̵a̴t̶ ̵I̵ ̴a̸l̷o̴n̷e̴ ̸h̴a̸d̵ ̷t̵h̵e̸ ̵p̵o̷w̴e̴r̵ ̷t̴o̵ ̷d̸e̶c̴i̵d̵e̶ ̸h̸i̷s̷ ̷u̴l̵t̶i̴m̴a̴t̴e̸ ̴d̷e̵m̷i̷s̶e̷.̴ ̴T̵h̴e̴ ̴l̴o̴o̴k̷ ̴o̴f̷ ̶r̶e̴a̸l̴i̶z̸a̷t̶i̷o̴n̷ ̴i̵n̷ ̶h̷i̶s̶ ̶e̸y̵e̷s̸ ̶a̴s̴ ̶h̶e̴ ̵u̶n̴d̷e̸r̶s̷t̷o̴o̸d̷ ̶t̴h̴e̴ ̷d̷e̴p̴t̸h̸ ̴o̴f̷ ̶h̵i̸s̶ ̴p̸r̴e̶d̵i̶c̸a̴m̵e̷n̵t̶ ̶o̸n̸l̷y̸ ̶s̶e̵r̴v̸e̴d̶ ̵t̷o̸ ̸f̶u̴e̶l̴ ̸m̴y̷ ̴s̸a̵d̴i̴s̸t̶i̶c̵ ̵d̴e̷s̷i̶r̵e̷s̵.̶ ̶A̴n̶d̶ ̸s̵o̴,̶ ̷e̷s̶t̴e̴e̵m̵e̸d̸ ̵m̵o̶r̷t̷a̶l̵,̷ ̶I̶ ̸w̸r̸i̷t̸e̴ ̶t̴o̸ ̸y̶o̷u̴ ̷n̸o̴w̵ ̴w̴i̷t̸h̶ ̵a̷ ̵h̵e̵a̷r̶t̵ ̸f̶u̶l̶l̵ ̶o̷f̸ ̴s̸a̴t̸i̵s̵f̸a̶c̴t̷i̴o̵n̸ ̷a̵n̵d̵ ̷c̴o̷n̴t̴e̵n̶t̶m̶e̶n̸t̷.̶ ̴T̶h̸e̶ ̷t̴a̷s̴t̵e̸ ̷o̸f̶ ̸V̷a̵n̵d̵e̸r̵'̴s̶ ̶f̵l̶e̵s̴h̷ ̵s̶t̷i̵l̵l̵ ̸l̵i̷n̷g̶e̸r̶s̷ ̴u̴p̴o̷n̴ ̵m̸y̸ ̷l̸i̴p̵s̴,̶ ̴a̷ ̸r̴e̸m̷i̴n̴d̵e̷r̵ ̸o̸f̸ ̶t̴h̵e̸ ̵p̵o̷w̴e̸r̶ ̵a̸n̷d̴ ̴c̴o̴n̵t̷r̵o̷l̵ ̸t̵h̷a̶t̷ ̷I̵ ̴w̵i̶e̷l̶d̸ ̷o̵v̷e̷r̸ ̷t̸h̵o̸s̴e̷ ̴w̴h̸o̷ ̶d̵a̵r̶e̶ ̷t̸o̷ ̴c̴r̵o̸s̶s̷ ̵m̵e̸.̸ ̵I̶ ̷s̶h̷a̵l̴l̸ ̵n̶e̴v̸e̵r̸ ̴f̷o̴r̷g̶e̸t̸ ̶t̶h̷e̷ ̷n̶i̵g̶h̴t̵ ̸t̴h̵a̸t̸ ̸I̷ ̸f̸e̶a̸s̴t̸e̴d̴ ̵u̶p̸o̶n̶ ̸t̴h̵e̵ ̶f̵l̴e̸s̵h̵ ̸o̸f̶ ̷t̸h̶e̶ ̷i̸n̸f̴a̸m̴o̷u̴s̴ ̷V̵a̷n̶d̶e̴r̸ ̶f̴r̶o̸m̴ ̴A̷r̶c̵a̷n̵e̶,̵ ̵a̵ ̷m̸e̵a̵l̴ ̵t̷h̷a̶t̵ ̶w̴i̸l̸l̸ ̶f̶o̴r̴e̴v̵e̷r̴ ̴b̷e̸ ̸e̸t̵c̴h̴e̸d̵ ̸i̶n̸t̶o̵ ̴t̴h̸e̶ ̴a̷n̷n̶a̵l̶s̴ ̵o̸f̵ ̸m̶y̸ ̷d̷a̴r̸k̷ ̸a̴n̶d̸ ̷t̵w̶i̵s̴t̷e̵d̶ ̶l̶e̶g̴a̵c̴y̵.̶

̸Y̴o̵u̷r̶s̵ ̵i̸n̸ ̸m̷u̵r̵d̵e̷r̸,̴

̶C̶o̸l̵m̵ ̸O̶'̵D̶r̵i̷s̶c̴o̷l̸l̸

The shock value of these kind of runs out after the first time, sorry buddy better luck next time LMAO.

It was high key nice to have someone in my inbox just trolling then the seven million bots begging for money (that I don't have💔)

❛ common interest ❜

note: hope you enjoy anon 💖 ty for requesting!

i really want to write something about charles next bc that man is my legal husband and baby daddy 💞

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"Oh look," Tilly announces, drawing the attention of the other two women. "Here she comes, back into camp."

Karen follows Tilly's gaze and rolls her eyes in distaste. "The Ice Queen herself."

Mary-Beth, who'd had her head buried in a book - sneaking in a few minutes of reading when Grimshaw was off doing something else instead of barking orders at them - looked up with a frown. "That ain't right, Karen. She's just not overly talkative, that's all."

"'Not overly talkative'?" echoes Karen in disbelief. "I don't think I even heard her speak once!"

"Maybe she can't," Mary-Beth suggests empathetically.

Tilly shakes her head, disagreeing. "I seen her over with the horses a few times. Heard her speaking to them."

Karen snorts. "So she can talk to horses but not people? What a freak."

"Karen!" Mary-Beth scolds, glaring disapprovingly at the other woman.

"What? It ain't normal, is all I'm sayin'. Preferring the company of damn horses to people. It ain't right."

Unbeknownst to the three women, chatting away about you, there was another set of ears nearby taking it all in.

Kieran Duffy had been tied to this tree for the better part of a goddamn week. It sure felt longer, with the way his muscles burned from being forced to stay standing on account of the ropes around him and the way his empty stomach ached with a gnawing hunger so consuming that even the dirt was beginning to look appetising.

For the most part, he pleaded with anyone passing by, begging to be set free, or just some water and food. One girl, the younger one - Tilly, he believed her name was - had listened and given him a sip of water, which he'd drank with such euphoria he had to hold back a moan.

The other woman, the one with her head buried in a book half the time when she weren't doing chores - Mary something or other - had quietly come to him when it was dark and fed him a few spoonfuls of their usual stew the camp cook makes for their dinner every evening.

It tasted almost as good as it smelled, and Kieran would know exactly how it smelled because the cruel bastards had tied him to the tree right beside the food wagon to watch as they got their dinner each evening.

Not many other people talked to him or even paid him much attention, other than the men who glared at him with murder in their eyes.

Didn't seem to matter how much he swore he weren't an O'Driscoll. He might as well have been trying to convince them the sky was purple instead of blue. They were convinced he was the enemy, an outsider, and they sure as shit treated him like one.

When the three women gathered near enough that Kieran could overhear them gossiping, he listened eagerly. It wasn't often he could listen in on a conversation to take his mind away from the constant pangs of pain and hunger.

His eyes found the one they were talking about, the one they referred to as the 'Ice Queen'. He weren't quite sure what that meant exactly but he presumed from the rest of the conversation that you didn't mix well with folk here.

You were over by the horses, going from animal to animal, stroking their manes, brushing out their coats, sneaking them some treats of apples and carrots and whatnot. From this distance it was hard to tell but he thought he could just about make out your mouth moving as you spoke to the horses.

If he hadn't been tied to a tree for days on end, left to starve and dehydrate, he would've found the sight a lot more endearing. As it was, he didn't have much energy left for endearing.

So he simply filed the information away for later, if there would be a later provided the men of the gang didn't carve him up and add him to the goddamn stew.

The thought caused him to grimace.

Fortunately, they didn't kill him.

Once Kieran led them to where some of the O'Driscolls were hiding out (after they'd threatened to castrate him, mind you) and he'd saved the life of the feller called Arthur, they'd taken a slightly more kinder approach to him.

Even let him stay with them after he'd argued he had nowhere else to go. If he left, Colm and his boys would surely catch up with him and kill him for squealing.

Even though the Van der Linde gang hadn't treated him all too kindly, staying with them was his best option for survival.

They didn't fully trust him enough to let him in on any robberies and schemes, which suited Kieran just fine. He found himself gravitating towards the horses, a natural instinct for him.

He'd always loved horses, even when he was riding with the O'Driscolls he'd look after all the horses and make sure they were fed, clean and healthy. The only reason Kieran figured they hadn't cut him loose back then was because he'd taken such good care of their steeds.

Kieran ran a hand over the smooth coat of a Blood Bay Thoroughbred, admiring the glossy red colour. It was a beautiful mare, calm and friendly, and it seemed to take him to him fairly quick in comparison to the other horses.

Dutch's horse, the Count, had kicked him when he wasn't careful enough and even tried to nip at him a few times.

"Yeah, you're a good girl, ain't ya?" Kieran murmured to the horse, feeding it an apple. "A lot nicer than that nasty Count, that's for damn sure."

The sound of a twig snapping from behind made him freeze and whirl around, expecting to be met by one of the male members of the gang glaring at him. Instinctively, his hands twitched to cover his crotch.

But it wasn't a man.

"O-oh," Kieran stuttered, visibly surprised (and a little more than relieved). He quickly took his hands off his crotch. "Um...hi."

You blinked, face impassive.

Kieran gulped, feeling his nerves grow under your steady, stoic gaze. "U-um, it's Kieran. I - I mean, that's my name, is, uh, Kieran. Not that you're Kieran, obviously you ain't a Kieran, you're a woman and I don't think women are called Kieran - not that there's anything wrong with a woman being called Kieran, o' course, but I just don't think it's a pretty enough name is all..."

The silence was deafening.

Kieran felt mortified. His face was on fire, his hands were clammy and trembling, and his throat was constricted, making his breathing a little shallower.

Then, almost interciptively, the corner of your mouth twitched. A glint of amusement flitted across your eyes. "You sure talk a lot."

The man grimaced, still feeling utterly embarrassed by his idiotic, anxious rambling. "I--I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to, I just - I guess I'm still a little nervous."

Instead of turning away in disgust and ignoring him, you held out your hand and offered him a carrot.

Kieran blinked, taken aback. His mind whirred with endless possibilities on why you might be giving him a random vegetable - and how to politely say thank you without seeming as completely bewildered as he felt inside.

It must have shown on his face because the corners of your lips lifted further, forming an amused smile that made the corners of your eyes crease. "It's for Leyla."

It took a moment to register that you were talking about the horse.

"Oh, right, o' course! Um, I didn't realise her name was Leyla." Kieran gingerly accepts carrot from you and offers it to the horse, who gratefully gobbles it down, making sounds of approval.

You smile fondly. "Named her after a dog I had when I was a kid."

His brows raise in shock as your words register. "She's yours?"

"Mhm," you hum in response with a nod. "Best damn girl in the entire country - ain't ya, Ley?"

Leyla, as if in agreement, stomped her hooves and swished her tail.

Kieran huffs a warm chuckle at the horses reaction. He had no idea she belonged to you. If he had, well, he doesn't think he could've treated her better, she was already getting a few more treats and brushes than the other steeds.

"You like horses then?" You ask nonchalantly, stepping around him to gently scratch under Leyla's muzzle.

Kieran cleared his throat, taking a step back, giving you some room. Being so close to you made him feel all jittery inside. "Uh, sure, yeah, I- I like horses as much as the next feller."

"It's nice, isn't it? To be around creatures who don't make you feel judged or make you second guess yourself."

A smile spread on Kieran's mouth as he nodded in agreement. "It is."

As you and the Duffy man continued to make conversation about the horses, you were unaware of three pairs of eyes on you from across camp.

"The first time she speaks to a human being and it's the O'Driscoll?" Karen hisses as she, Tilly and Mary-Beth watch in disbelief.

"I guess they both really like horses," Mary-Beth murmurs, and Tilly nods, agreeing with her.

The trio of women continue to watch on in intense intrigue as you and Kieran host a spirited discussion for what seems like hours.

Before that day, they'd rarely, if ever, seen you smile.

After that day, when they'd catch you talking to Kieran again, they swore they'd never seen you smile as much.

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note: fun fact. i called the reader's horse after my own dog and she is also, in fact, the best damn girl 🐾💓

Jack Marston x Reader

Once Upon a Time in The West

Description: Orphaned at 14 and desperate to find a way to make ends meet, you stumble upon a boy struggling to build a fence at a ranch called Beecher's hope. Little did you know your unsolicited building advice would land you with a job at the ranch. You become the best of friends, only for life to tug you away. Years later, the 'mysterious' death of a certain government agent brings you back to Blackwater.

(SFW, fluff, angst, friends to lovers)

Warnings: mentions of death, alcoholism, depression.

6k words bc i didn't feel like making separate chapters. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

The wind carried the scent of freshly cut timber and sun-warmed earth as you rode through the valley aimlessly. The land stretched vast and golden before you, the rolling fields dotted with cattle and fenced enclosures. You rented a hotel room in Blackwater with the spare money you had, spent hours asking anyone and everyone if they were hiring only to be met with the same answer. You figured a stroll around the area would clear your head. Your horse trotted steadily, hooves crunching against the dry dirt road as you approached a homestead marked,

Beecher’s Hope.

You were met with the sight of a young boy around your age, hammering away at a fence post with all the grace of a drunkard. He adorned a worn striped shirt and gray vest, his hair cut short, freckles dusting his face. He looked well off, at least compared to yourself, clad in a torn up dress and muddled boots. 

You pulled your horse to a stop, watching as he drove a nail into the wood at an angle that would surely give way in a few months.

With a sigh, you swung yourself off your horse and approached him from outside the fence. You shifted, watching him struggle before one final smack of the hammer against the wood plank finally tempted you to speak,

“That fence is gonna collapse if you keeping hammering it like that.”

The boy startled, nearly dropping the hammer in his hands. He turned sharply to face you, small dark eyes squinting and thin brows furrowed in suspicion. “Who're you?”

You shrugged, “Nobody.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Well, ‘Nobody,’ I don’t need help.” He went back to hammering, but you remained where you stood.

A moment passed before you held out your hand expectantly, 

“Come on, just hand it over."

The boy looked at you with suspicion, before passing the hammer despite himself, “What, you some kind of carpenter?”

“No, but my father was.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them, your mind briefly clouding over at images of his tombstone. He hesitated, his earlier annoyance softening into something more uncertain.

“Your folks know you’re out here?” he asked.

“They’re dead.”

You spoke absently, focusing instead on fixing his shoddy work. The silence that followed was thick. He shifted awkwardly, staring at the dirt before mumbling, “Oh. Uhm… I’m sorry.”

You only nodded, hands deftly straightened the plank before nailing it in place

“I guess that looks better, thank you," He cleared his throat, "for helpin' me, I mean."

"No problem," you replied, giving the fence a once-over before your gaze caught something on the ground beside him 

You bent down, picking it up, “What’s this?”

The boy’s pale face turned a shade of pink, “Oh, that’s–it’s nothing.”

You suppressed a chuckle at his awkwardness, you were no charmer yourself, but you figured he hadn't much experience talking to people, seeing as there weren't any other kids around.

You flipped it over, inspecting the worn cover. “A western?”

“It’s…stupid,” he muttered, scuffing his boot against the dirt.

“I love westerns,” You mused.

He seemed to perk up a bit, “Really?” 

“Sure,” you smiled, flipping through the pages, “I used to have a ton of these back home.” 

The boy scratched the back of his neck, shifting back and forth for a moment, “You can have it, if you want.”

You grinned, tucking the book into the bag on your saddle.

“Thanks, uh-"

“Jack,” he said, “Jack Marston.”

You mounted your horse, “I’ll make sure to bring it back to you, Jack Marston.”

With not much to do, you returned a few times after that, sometimes watching Jack work on things from behind the fence, other times offering unsolicited advice.

“That beam’s not level.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t.”

Jack would groan, mutter something under his breath, but inevitably, he’d adjust whatever you pointed out or let you take the reins altogether.

“So, you do all this stuff at home too?” he asked, stepping aside as you fixed the wheel on a broken wagon.

You laughed, shaking your head, “Don’t have one, not anymore at least.” Your parents were so neck deep in loans, the bank had taken everything away before their bodies even hit the ground.

Jack’s expression sobered slightly, but he nodded, filing that piece of information away without prying.

The next time you rode up to Beecher’s Hope, you noticed Jack standing stiffly beside an older man. He was tall, skin weathered under Blackwater's sun which only emphasized the lighter scars across his face. He had the same dark and deep set eyes as the boy next to him.

You approached, despite feeling a bit nervous under his firm stare, “Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon,” he smiled, tipping his hat, “I’m John, the boy’s father.”

You nodded, glancing between them. “Figured you were. You two look a lot alike.”

John snorted, giving Jack’s shoulder a rough pat, “Poor kid.”

“Pa," Jack griped.

You looked to Jack who avoided your gaze, suddenly finding the dirt beneath him very interesting. Maybe he told his father about you, maybe he was here to shoo you off like everyone else did. "My son here tells me your fairly decent at fixin' things, and I’d love to hire you if you're interested.” You were torn from your thoughts, a job? You couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave you a chance at finishing your sentence let alone give you a job offer.

“Wait-really?” You asked, looking at him like he'd grown two heads.

“Really,” John replied before he hesitated for a moment, “but I ain’t sure about our extra hand bein’ a little girl. I mean, what’re you, twelve?” "Fourteen. If you’re anything like your son, you’re gonna need a lot more than an extra hand.” You chuckled, motioning to Jack who sputtered while John barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You got some nerve, kid.”

“So, you hirin’?” You asked, clasping your hands together, trying your best to contain your excitement.

John looked at you for a moment, before relenting, “What the hell,” he extended his hand, “We’ll clear out a room for you. You can move in soon as it’s ready.”

You took his hand, “Thank you, Mr. Marston.”

You hurried toward your horse, mounting it before looking at Jack, 

“Sorry for throwin' you under the bus Jack, but hey, it worked!” You grinned.  

"Sure did," John mused, placing a playfully rough hand on Jack's shoulder.

Jack huffed, as he rolled his eyes and shrugged him off. 

As you rode off, John turned to his son, “I like her! That attitude...she's gonna give you a hard time, son.”

“I hope not,” Jack exhaled as they head back into the house.

Life at Beecher’s Hope quickly settled into a rhythm, one that felt strangely comforting despite the unfamiliarity of it all. Mornings began with the golden sun spilling over the horizon, its warmth chasing away the chill of dawn. 

You would wake early, often beating Jack to the barn. The both of you bickered over who did daily chores the best, often asking John to choose and he’d dismiss you both, muttering about how he’s getting too old for this. 

John quickly learned that, despite his initial reservations, you were more than capable.

He’d often find you working on the things he told you not to in case you'd 'mess it up', shaking his head in amusement when you proved to be just as stubborn as he was.

“Y’know, I was worried about bringin’ you on. Thought maybe you’d up and run off after seeing the workload," He remarked one afternoon as you helped him shovel the barn, "Or Uncle," he added.

You chuckled, “it’s going to take a lot more than a lazy old drunk to get me out of here, Mister.”

He chuckled, giving you a playful jab as he went to fetch some more hay. 

Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, had taken to treating you like a daughter. When you weren’t outside helping John, she fussed about you needing to sit or lie down. It was nice having a motherly figure after being on your own for so long, but being as restless as you were, you insisted on keeping busy with her too.

“You’re makin' things real easy for us.” She grinned one evening as the two of you worked on fixing up some dinner. “And Jack’s taken a real liking to you.” She added quietly as you stirred the stew.

You glanced up, cheeks warming slightly, “Oh–well he’s a good friend...real smart too.”

“Mhm,” Abigail hummed, voice tinged with an amusement you tried your best to ignore.

Jack, true to his word, really had become one of your closest companions. In the evenings, when work was done and the sky was painted in shades of pink and orange, the two of you would race each other to the hillside near the house, books in hand. 

Sometimes you read aloud to one another, breaking into silly voices, other times you simply sat in comfortable silence, flipping through pages until the light outside dimmed.

“You’ ever thought about writing your own stories?” Jack asked one night as the two of you lay on your backs in the hayloft, staring at the rafters above.

You thought about it for a moment, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jack sat up, “We can figure one out together?”

Just then a little memory came back to you,

“My Ma' and I used to play this game where we'd come up with stories by finishing each other's sentences."

“That sounds fun," Jack said.

"Yeah," you reminisced, before scooting closer, "Okay, you start.”

Jack nodded, eyes searching around as he thought for a moment, “Once upon a time in the West…” he began.

“There were two cowboys," you continued.

"And their names were…” Jack looked at you expectantly.

You paused, before snickering, “John and Uncle.” 

The two of you’d laugh your heads off over the hilariously awful protagonist duo, mustering up a fairly compelling plot if it weren't for the odd predicaments and crude dialogue sprinkled in between.

Your fun was interrupted when Abigail's piercing voice hollered at the both of you from the porch to come inside, scolding you two for staying out so late. The both of you would obey, entering the house straight faced, bursting out laughing the second she turned away. 

On warmer nights, you would stretch out in the grass just beyond the house, gazing up at the sky. The stars stretched across the heavens, twinkling in the dark like tiny beacons. Jack would point out constellations, his voice quiet as he recounted the stories behind them.

“This one here,” he murmured, tracing the shape of Orion’s Belt with his finger, “Pa’ used to tell me it was a hunter…”

He would ramble on about the ancient stories of the constellations, his voice fading into the hum of cicadas and crickets as the world grew darker around you, slipping into the comfort of your dreams.

2 years later...

“You know, you keep brushing that horse any harder, poor thing's gonna be bald.”

Jack scoffed, not even bothering to look up from the mare he was tending to, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ask for an expert opinion?”

You smirked, dragging a brush through your own horse’s mane. You had half a mind to flick some hay at him, but you let it slide, for now.

For a few moments, the only sound was the steady strokes of brushes and the occasional rustle from the horses shifting in their stalls. It was comfortable, the back-and-forth, the both of you never letting the other get too comfortable. As fun as it was, things just felt calmer on that night.

Jack was the first to break the lull. “You ever think about the future, like ten years from now?”

You were caught off guard at the suddenness of the question but answered nonetheless, “I don’t even know what’s gonna happen ten days from now.”

He was quiet for a moment, running a hand down the mare’s neck as he glanced at you.

“I do,” he admitted. “I think about it a lot. See myself bein’ a lawyer.”

You blinked. Of all the things you expected him to say; writer, rancher, bounty hunter...a lawyer wasn’t one of them.

“A lawyer?”

“Why not," he shrugged, "Ma' always told me I'd be one cause I like reading and arguing,” he added, nudging you with his shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess that does makes sense," You considered.

"With all that money, I could take care of Ma and Pa. I can buy you a little work shack," he pondered, "Have our own carpenter on the ranch.” He chuckled.

You let out a small breath at his words, he was so optimistic, sometimes it bordered on naive, but the sentiment warmed your heart nonetheless.

A small laugh left you before you could stop it, "I'll be following in Uncle's footsteps, free loadin' off of y'all."

Jack looked at you pointedly and you snickered, “I’m only kiddin'.”

"You better be," Jack huffed, but there was no real heat behind the words.

You spoke after another moment of silence, “Never really thought about all that though. Guess I figured the future wasn’t really mine to think about.”

Jack stilled, “You don’t have to think that way. You’re gonna be here, with me.”

It was quick, unfiltered, and the second he realized what he’d just said, a flush crept up his neck. He turned away, suddenly very invested in adjusting the saddle on the mare.

If there was one thing both you and Jack feared, it was being alone, abandoned. He guessed that's what made him want to help you all those years ago,

“Really?” You asked.

“I’m not just gonna leave you.” he muttered with a shrug.

You felt a flush of your own creep up on your face, it was nice having someone who cared about you the way Jack did, “Thanks."

That was all you needed to say.

The both of you startled when you heard John clear his throat from behind you both.

Jack jumped so fast he nearly knocked over the bucket beside him. You turned, and there he was, leaning against the barn door, something somber in his eyes.

“Didn't mean to startle you two, but I need to talk to you,” John said as he approached.

You exchanged a glance with Jack before setting your brush aside, “What’s goin’ on?”

John sighed, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a folded letter, turning it over in his hands before finally looking at you, “Got a letter from a woman who claims to be your aunt. Says she’s been lookin’ for you.”

Your stomach twisted. 

“She lives near Strawberry now. Found out what happened to your folks and she wants to take you in.” He spoke carefully, as if not wanting to overwhelm you, “Plan on riding to her cabin and seeing if she’s safe, you know, right in the head and all.” He added, attempting to make you smile but your mind was elsewhere.

Your world, the one that had just started feeling stable, tilted all over again. Sure, you loved your aunt, she was kind to you growing up, but she was always moving around, 'free spirited' as your mother liked to put it. You sighed shakily, dreading the thought of having to start over again.

John looked at you with something almost apologetic in his eyes, before he gently wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “Let's talk some more in the house.”

You nodded, feeling Jack’s gaze on you, but were unable to meet it just yet. The future, once distant and uncertain, was suddenly pressing down on you, demanding yet another change you weren’t sure you were ready to make.

The morning air was crisp as you stood near the packed wagon. John was finishing up putting the last of your things in the back while Abigail, Uncle, and Jack gathered nearby to see you off.

You had come to terms with leaving. The Marston's had given you a home when you needed it most, and you would always be grateful, but you were eager to be with the last of your family. 

Still, the thought of leaving Jack stung the most. He had been your first real friend, and now, you weren’t sure when you’d see him again.

“Aw, come here,” Abigail murmured, pulling you out of your thoughts and into a tight embrace.

“Won’t have anyone to complain to about these boys anymore,” She chuckled as she pulled away, wiping the corners of her glistening eyes.

Uncle tutted, “You’ll do that with the girl gone anyway!"

Abigail smacked the old man on the shoulder as you and Jack shared a humorous look. As useless and odd as he was, you were going to miss Uncle. "Wagon's all packed," John grunted, easing himself up the steps to hold onto the reigns.

You nodded, about to leave when Jack stepped forward, “Here! I almost forgot,” he said.

You looked down to see him holding out a small, leather-bound journal, “For the trip. Don’t open it ‘til you get there.”

“Alright,” you took it carefully, before lightly tapping his chest with the book, “But you better write to me.”

He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you promise to try and visit.”

You nodded, “I promise.”

With one last glance at them all, Abigail’s sad smile, Uncle’s lazy wave, and Jack’s uncertain look, you climbed into the wagon.

The journey to North was fairly quiet. Mr. Marston wasn’t much for conversation, but his presence was always calming. 

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, noticing you were quieter than usual, before speaking up, “You know, I know a thing or two about startin’ over. Hell, I’ve lived more lives than I can keep count of.”

He tutted, head tilting as if replaying the past few years over in his mind, "Took a while, but I found my place," he mused, before looking over at where you sat, "You will too, I know it."

“I hope so,” you said, looking at the trees whirring by.

When you finally arrived at your aunt’s house, she was already outside waiting, arms open and eyes shining with unshed tears.

After greeting her and brushing off her endless praise, John helped you unload, carrying your trunk inside.

When it came time for him to leave, you were unsure of how to convey all that was on your mind. You were going to miss him, his family, the ranch. You were grateful, scared, uncertain.

You opted for throwing your arms around his middle, hugging him tightly, not ready to let go just yet.

He stiffened for only a second before returning the embrace, patting your back gently as he sensed you're anxiety,

“Gonna be just fine, kid.” He murmured.

Although you felt a lump form in your throat, your muscles relaxed as you nodded. Mr. Marston knew what it was like to be in your shoes, always had a way of reminding you it wasn’t the end of the world. You were going to miss that.

After you pulled away, he tapped the brim of your hat with a deft hand, “You stay out of trouble now, Miss.”

You fixed your now crooked hat, “You too, Mr. Marston.”

He gave you a small salute before heading off, leaving you standing at the doorway of your new home before your aunt coaxed you to come inside and eat.

After settling in later that night, you finally pulled out that journal Jack had given you. Flipping it open, you grinned at the first few words on the first page, 

‘Once upon a time in the west there were two cowboys named John and Uncle…’

Followed by endless pages full of your shared stories, some silly, some a little more serious. Some had little sketches in the margins, others had notes about how he’d come up with an idea, all carefully written in Jack’s handwriting.

You ran your fingers over the ink, before plopping down on your bed to read the journal in it's entirety.

3 years later...

The night air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as you sat on the porch beside your aunt, the distant rustling of trees filling the silence between you. 

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she noted, sipping from her tin cup. “Got something on your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment before sighing, glancing down at the warm tea cupped between your hands. “Just thinkin' about how beautiful this place is,” you admitted. “It’s peaceful. But-”

“But you still miss Blackwater,” she finished knowingly.

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips, “Yeah. It was desolate, sure, but it had its own charm y’know?”

Your aunt hummed in understanding, setting her cup down on the railing.

“I read something in the paper the other day,” she began, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Some government agent from Blackwater was shot dead. A Ross, I believe?”

Your breath caught in your throat and you turned sharply to your aunt, “What?”

She yawned, seemingly unaware of your inner turmoil, “Edgar Ross, I think it was? Paper said he was gunned down.”

Jack.

Your mind reeled back to the long-forgotten letters, the last few that you had sent without a reply. A quiet void had replaced his once-constant updates on Uncle's shenanigans, new books he’d read, and notes informing you that ‘Ma’ and Pa’ say Hi.’ 

You thought back to your aunt breaking the news to you, about Mr. and Mrs. Marston's death. An unbearable grief you hadn’t felt in the years since your parents' death had settled in your chest the day you learned they were really gone.

Jack had always admired the heroes in those dime novels, the men who avenged their fathers with unwavering conviction. If Jack had truly done this, if he had killed Ross, what did that mean for him now?

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady your voice, 

“Do you know anything else?” 

“Not much. They found his body near some riverbank.” She leaned back into her chair with a soft sigh,

“Whoever did it, I can’t say I blame ‘em."

You stared at her, startled. She glanced at you with a small, knowing smile,

"What goes around comes around, right?" She chuckled, taking another sip of her tea.

You looked away, your throat tightening as you turned your gaze back to the endless stretch of stars above.

A few weeks later your aunt had gone on a trip, so you decided to ride out to Blackwater while she was gone. You wanted to find out about Jack’s whereabouts from some of the locals first, not wanting to ride all the way to Beecher's Hope only to find it empty. After asking around and getting no clear answer, you decided to check the saloon though you hadn’t much hope he was going to be there. 

Laughter and drunken murmurs filled the air, the clatter of glasses punctuating the atmosphere. You weaved through the crowd, before sitting down at a table and scanning faces for what seemed like hours.

You got up and sighed in defeat. Then, just as you were about to turn around and leave, someone barreled into you. You flinched as a cold splash of liquor soaked into your coat sleeve.

“Watch it, lady!” A voice droned.

You bristled, looking up, “Excuse me?”

The man, taller, rough around the edges, looked down at you, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. You could see the freckles dusting his nose, small beard covering his jaw. That voice is familiar, and his hat, isn’t that Mr. Marston’s? You thought.

His lips quirked up as he leaned in closer, breath reeking of liquor, "You know, look just like a girl I used to know!" he drawled over the saloons noise, words slurring together slightly.

You rolled your eyes, taking off your stained coat, "I bet I do."

"Your doin’ terrible things to my hormones, miss-Woah!"

He was cut off when you grabbed his wrist, dragging him towards the exit. You needed to get this boy in his right mind. Quickly, before any more god awful pick-up lines graced your ears.

"Someone's eager," He slurred, tripping over his feet.

“Eager to smack you," you muttered, pushing past a few curious onlookers, "We’re talkin’ outside.”

He staggered as you pulled him through the swinging saloon doors, the cool night air slapping you both in the face. 

Before he could get another word in, you took the hat off his head and gripped the long hair at the nape of his neck, before dipping his head into a bucket of water just outside the saloon doors. He sputtered, gasping for his breathe as you pulled him back up for a breather, "The hell! What’s wrong with you, Lady?!"

"It's not Lady!" you groan. He winced, trying to dodge your hand as you smacked his shoulder.

"It's me," you said, sharply gesturing to your face.

His breath hitched, Adam’s apple bobbing as recognition dawned on him, "I-you..." he trailed off.

You crossed your arms over your chest as you took his state in fully, eyes scanning him disapprovingly. You barely recognized him. His once-boyish face was hardened, sharper, with stubble covering his jaw and upper lip. His hair was longer, messier, his clothes wrinkled and worn like he hadn’t cared for them in weeks. And his eyes were dark and tired, swimming in hollowness.

“What are you doin’ here?” He asked, tone suddenly laced with annoyance.

“I could ask you the same,” you shot back. “I wrote to you! Why didn’t you answer me?”

Jack exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if the weight of your presence was too much, “Jesus,” he muttered, “I don’t know…I just—I didn’t think you’d—” He groaned, rubbing his soaked face as if still trying to catch up.

You held back, maybe you were being a bit harsh. After all, he was clearly unwell, and here you were berating him, “I'm—sorry for yelling,"

You took notice of the dark purple circles under his eyes, as he blinked rapidly to escape his haze.

"Let's just get you home, alright?"

His shoulders tensed.

It was like a switch flipped. Whatever confusion or vulnerability had cracked through, vanished in an instant.

His expression hardened, and he took a deliberate step back, shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t need this.”

“Need what?”

“This,” he snapped, gesturing wildly between you. “You showin’ up here, lookin’ at me like that, like you got some kinda right to fix me.”

Your brows furrowed. “I never said—”

Jack scoffed, jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask you to come here, alright? I don’t need your pity or advice—just leave me alone!”

You swallowed, before shaking your head. “Come on, you don’t mean that.”

Jack laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “Yeah? Maybe I do.”

He turned, already stepping away. “Just—Go home, alright?”

He was halfway up the steps to the saloon, eager to disappear back into the dimly lit haze of liquor and forget this ever happened.

For a moment you thought to hell with it all, unable to see past the angry shell of a boy you used to know. But then you remembered how bitter you were when you lost everything, how Jack and his family seemingly put things back together.

And now, that same boy who’d ramble about the constellations till you fell asleep, the one who’d make you laugh over silly stories, and stammer over his words when he got nervous, had no one left.

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them,

“I love you, you fool!”

Jack froze.

“I don’t care how much you don’t wanna see me,” you added quietly.

He turned to face you, expression unreadable.

You looked away, blinking back tears, “You said you weren’t gonna leave me, so I’m not gonna leave you either.”

Jack shifted back and forth, as if thinking of what to do now, before exhaling sharply as he walked past you without another word, heading toward the stables instead. You watched him go dejectedly, you knew you shouldn't have come here.

Suddenly, he turned around like he was half expecting you to follow him, faltering when he was met with the sight of you standing in the same spot.

“I know my backside’s real purdy, but maybe you can get a better look at if you actually follow me.” He said, though his tone was gentler than it was moments ago as he rested his hands on his hips.

You perked up a bit, realizing he wasn’t just sending you away, before shaking your head in amusement at his words.

“Where we going?” You asked quietly as the two of you mounted your horses.

“Home.” He grumbled, shooting you a half hearted glare.

“If you weren’t so drunk, I’d smack that attitude right out of you.” You huffed, spurring your horse on.

“I guess I’ll just stay drunk then!” he hollered from behind you.

In an odd way, your little verbal sparring match made things feel a little more like old times.

Beecher’s Hope was a graveyard of memories.

The fences had rotted, weeds tangled through the soil where crops used to be, and the barn doors hung open, swaying in the wind. It was silent now, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the occasional rustling of the trees. It was like ranch had died with Uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Marston. 

"Happy now?" He asked, motioning to the ranch.

“Jolly,” you muttered under your breath. 

You walked the barn as Jack released a heavy sigh, trailing behind you silently as you climbed up the barn ladder to the hayloft. 

He sat with his back against the wall, knees bent. For a while, the two of you just listened to the wind howl through the cracks in the barn walls.

Then you broke the silence.

“I heard about Ross.”

Jack’s jaw tensed, “Don't know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You raised an eyebrow, noticing the familiar way his dark eyes flitted around whenever he was fibbing, “You’re a terrible liar.”

His shoulders slumped, “Ain’t no way they’ll trace it back to me. I made sure.”

You studied him for a moment before sighing, “Did I ever tell you my parents were killed by a couple of thieves,” you asked. Jack turned to you then, looking fully sober for the first time that night,

“God, I just–I wanted them dead. Thought it’d make things right. But when I saw them hang, all I felt was empty and even angrier than before," you sighed, feeling your chest ache at the memory.

You tapped your boot with his, "But then I met you.”

Jack flushed a little under the brim of his hat, swallowing thickly as he kept his gaze down at his hands.

“I guess revenge isn't as glorious as those storybook heroes make it,” You pondered as you looked out the barn window.

Jacks voice was barely above a whisper, “Ma used to always say something like that that to Pa.”

He huffed, reminiscing her words, repeating them aloud, “Stop tryna be some damn storybook hero.” 

You chuckled, remembering her piercing voice and John's sarcasm.

“You really are like Mr. Marston.”

Jack scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile there, the one that made his eyes spark a bit, hidden beneath all that bitterness.

You grinned as memories of the two of them standing in front of you years ago flooded back, “I thought you’d stay scrawny forever, but now you’re bigger than he was. What the hell do they put in the beer at that saloon?”

Jack groaned, suppressing the grin tugging at his lips as he took off his hat and ruffled his hair tiredly, “I don't know, but it's got a hell of a hold on me."

You sat up a little, “You won't even have time think about that saloon anymore."

Jack furrowed his brows, looking at you in confusion. "We're starting work on this place tomorrow, so I'm hoping you finally learned how to build,” You clarify, giving him a pointed look.

Jack huffed, “How couldn’t I? With you annoyin' me about it all the ti—.”

You quickly gripped the hat sitting on his lap and began whacking him with it as he dodged you, apologizing through breathy chuckles—you had missed that sound.

You finally relented as the two of you let out the last of your giggles, “That was for all those nasty pick up lines at the bar.”

“Sorry,” Jack muttered quietly, face flushing a little.

“I mean, seriously, where the hell’d you learn all that?” You tutted.

“Uncle,” Jack grumbled, “I only remember all the gross stuff he taught me when I’m out of it.”

“I can tell,” you chuckled softly.

He yawned, running a hand down his face.

“You wanna head to the house?” you ask, ready to get up, but he grabbed your arm lightly to stop you. 

“No, I'm good. I mean—I don’t sleep too well anyways.” He admitted, avoiding your gaze. You felt a little jab of sympathy go through your chest at his confession.

Without a word, you reached into your bag and pulled out a book, flipping to the first page,

“Let’s read,” you murmured, laying down to plop your head on a small bail of hay, “Like we used to.”

Jack hesitated, still stiff.

You turned to the first page before looking at him expectantly, “You're just going to sit there and stare?"

With a reluctant sigh, he laid back beside you, shifting uncomfortably as he kept a careful distance. But as you began reading, he felt himself relax.

The words blurred together, your voice a gentle hum in the quiet night. He fought it at first, but sleep crept up on him, tugging his eyelids lower and lower until his head slumped against your shoulder.

By the time you reached the end of the first chapter, Jack had finally let go. His breath evened out, the tension in his body easing as exhaustion won out. 

You glanced down at him, his breath steady, scowl fading away as the faintest trace of peace settled over his face. He looked better like this, closer to the boy you used to know.

You yawned, closing your eyes and falling into a deep sleep of your own.

The morning light filtered through the cracks in the barn, casting long streaks of gold over the hay-strewn floor. Jack stirred sluggishly, his body heavy with sleep, head pounding and mind foggy from exhaustion.

For a moment, he almost believed it had all been a dream. That you'd never come back and just about poured your heart out to him, that he’d just drank too much and fantasized the whole damn thing.

But then he felt it, a warm weight on his chest.

His eyes cracked open, and there you were, head resting right over his heart.

Jack stilled, barely breathing. Then he sighed, trying to calm the hammering of his heart under your head.

After a moment, he craned his head a little to look down at you, observing in detail now that the cloudiness of the alcohol had worn off.

You’d grown, filled out your features beautifully, but in so many ways, you were still the same girl he was familiar with. Stubborn and too damn persistent for your own good.

Jack groaned as memories of the night before came flooding back. He had been such a drunken asshole back at the saloon and yet, you came back and…loved him.

He cursed himself for not saying it back right then and there. Though he couldn't understand why a girl like you saw anything in him, he knew he felt the same way.

I’ll just have to find the right moment to say it back. He thought to himself.

————

Four Weeks Later…

Jack hadn’t touched a bottle in weeks. It wasn’t easy, particularly in the first few days. When he wasn't sluggishly moving around, he was abrasive. One day he snapped out of nowhere at the slightest disagreement, only to be overwhelmed by guilt right after seeing you wince slightly before walking off to tend the animals.

You knew it was probably a mixture of the withdrawals and grief, so you'd distance yourself on those days, but it hurt nonetheless. Jack never got that way in the past, sure you bickered, but he always made sure to not cross the line or raise his voice.

He made it up to you by rising early and getting a head start on his share of work so he could finish yours by noon. He even walked to a nearby lake where a few Lillies grew, plucking a few and leaving them on the table for you. He’d shrug, saying he just so happened to 'have the extra time' when you'd thank him.

Now, there was hardly any time to sit and dwell on the past. His body was sore in ways he hadn’t felt in years, but his mind felt clearer than it had in a long time and the ranch was beginning to look as lively as it did before. He had even gone back to reading, something he’d neglected in his haze of grief.

He sat on the porch, squinting as he read his book under afternoon sun. It was a romance, not something he normally reached for, but he liked it.

Maybe it was because protagonists reminded him of the two of you. Two childhood friends who drifted apart only to find each other again years later. There was something comforting about it, something familiar.

“Come on, Jack! These fences ain’t gonna fix themselves.”

Jack set the book aside, “You ever think maybe they should? Damn things break every other week.”

You shot him a look. “And whose fault is that?”

Jacked rolled his eyes but followed you out anyway.

You worked side by side, driving nails into wood, replacing broken beams.

You were giving him grief about a crooked post when Jack paused, leaning against it with an amused smile, "I was going to say this reminds me of when we met, but I don't remember you being this insufferable.” “That's funny because you're just as useless as I remember," You retorted, taking the hammer from him.

Jack took notice to the way you bit the inside of your lip to hide a grin. He definitely noticed the way his heart lurched when your hand accidentally brushed against his, the way the air between you felt heavier than it used to.

By the time you finished, it was growing dark. Jack leaned against the post, exhaling slowly. You did the same, standing just close enough for your shoulders to touch. As he watched the sun dipping below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with reds and golds, casting the endless fields in front of him in a similar hue, he thought to what his father told him years ago when he'd first moved here. "There's a lot of ugly in this world. But there sure as hell is a lot of beauty! You'll see it better when you get older. It's tough at your age. Just land and light. But to me it's...it's life." It's life.

For the first time, he was beginning to understand what that meant. He was torn from his thoughts when you broke the silence,

"Saw you reading a book earlier, what's it about?"

He huffed, “A romance, if you can believe that.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the thought of his broody self reading a romance.

"Well do you wanna know or not?" Jack asked exasperatedly.

"I'm sorry, continue—please," you said, regaining your composure. He rolled his eyes, gaze fixed on the sunset. “It’s about these two childhood friends. Went their separate ways, and ended up finding each other again.”

You glanced at him, teasing smile faltering just a little, “Oh, that actually sounds nice.”

“It is," He nodded, swallowing thickly.

“I—I think I like it because…well,” He hesitated, tapping his fingers nervously against the wooden beam behind him, “It reminds me of us. The way they can’t help but come back to each other.”

Your breath caught when Jack pushed himself off the post to face you fully. He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a shake of his head. He had so much to say, but he didn’t know where to start.

Instead, he leaned down and closed the space between you.

You barely had time to think before his lips landed on yours, soft and warm and real. You tensed for half a second, hands stilling mid air. But then you melted, reaching your arms around his shoulders and holding on like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

When you finally pulled apart, you avoided his gaze as you tried to calm the red hot blood rushing to your face.

“I love you.” He blurted out, eyes searching for yours.

That didn’t help your predicament.

“Took you long enough,” You huffed, feeling your heart beat out of your chest.

“I know,” He mumbled under his breath, "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know how to—“ "Don't be, I love you too.” You said, placing a gentle peck on his cheek, "I’m just messing with you."

He nodded, shoulders untensing as he leaned back on the post and lightly kicked at the dirt under his boots.

That made you smile, he always did that when he was flustered.

After a few moments, the two of you decided it was time to warm up inside the cabin, maybe eat some dinner. As he watched you enter the house, still a bit jittery from the kiss, he was hit with a familiar feeling, one warmed his heart differently.

After his parents died, the cabin was just a house, an empty void. With you it felt warm, lively, comforting. It felt like home. Jack chuckled softly, wondering if that was how his father felt seeing his mother enter the same house he built during their time apart.

He stopped in his tracks as you disappeared inside the kitchen, noticing something peeking out of your bag on the couch near the fireplace.

Jack hesitated, before plopping down on the couch and gently pulling it free, his fingers running over the worn cover. He flipped it open, scanning the familiar ink on the first few pages by the light of the hearth.

A quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle left him, his lips curling into a small, rare smile.

There it was,

'Once upon a time in the West...'

thank u for reading `(*>﹏<*)′ i got a lot of Jack requests, so i hope this fic did them justice. Like this post for + honor (≧∀≦) Lmk what u think by leaving notes, I love reading them!

May i ask for Married Mud headcanons ?

hi kinda short sorry i have no idea how married people act my parents hate eachother LOL :3 adding everything new I've written to the masterlist <3

MUD X READER | MARRIED HEADCANONS

He proposed by coughing up an old, slightly cracked ring from his throat and holding it out to you with a grin. It might be made of bone, some metal, who knows. So romantic. The little thing wasn’t expensive or GREAT looking by any means, but he found something he thought you would like. It's pretty nice by GD standards

He never wants to sleep in the freezer ever again. I mentioned before that ever since you got together, he started staying over at your place if you have one, or at least sleeping near you. He’d make any excuse to not sleep back there ever again. But now that you’re married? Absolutely not. He’ll want to share a place of your own together.

Also! Your wedding isn’t anything formal (or normal). He’ll try to arrange some small family event that ends up in chaos. He insists on wearing your best outfit (matching btw) from now on he’s introducing you as his spouse and THEN your name.

The wedding was supposed to be a little get together at the shop. Ken was cooking up something begrudgingly, Mel and Breadhead putting up small decorations. Ken is glad old Mud was able to find someone, maybe finally he’ll calm down a little and work a little harder at the shop. If you got to the point where you’re marrying his brother, it means he likes you enough too.

Anyways in the middle of the party it gets raided by some other rivals. The whole place gets stained with purple. Gun shots, explosions, brains out everywhere. Mud seems to fall harder if you fight by his side. Your outfits are ruined but oh well! He likes the purple on you. He’d do a maniac little laugh at the end of it then scoop you up and kiss you. It’s in the most uncomfortable position for you since he’s so slippery and probably bent all weird, but its special in its own way.

Matching rings! He definitely has your name or initials carved on the inside of the ring, never takes it off. He didn’t tell you but his name is carved in yours too :3 if you forget to wear it or take it off for a second he’s immediately interrogating you.

“Hey… so uh, where’s your ring?” As he pulls up your hand to REALLY inspect your fingers. He’ll get all grumbly about it too.

He’s sleazy but he’s committed to you. Lowkey he never thought he’d get close to something like marriage <3

AITA for texting my fiancé that "this isn't working"?

Steven Grant x reader.

Tags & warnings. None. Yes, this literally is just a silly little thing that I read on reddit and I thought it was so funny lol. Reader is gender neutral!

Word count. 823.

Moving in with Steven was one of the best decisions you could make in your life, right after saying 'yes' when he proposed.

The only inconvenience came at a precise time between morning and afternoon, sometimes even at night, all depending on the mood of his boss. Waiting for Steven to return from work was such a headache, boring hours and dead time as you tried to find your own job.

The upside was that you now had complete freedom to organize his apartment to your liking, and if anything needed a complete makeover, it was Steven Grant's dark and disorganized home.

You had just made a completely necessary expense, a gigantic mirror that was clearly bigger than your capabilities. Worse yet, considering that if there was something you despised with all your heart, it was the mere idea of reading an instruction manual.

When the mirror arrived, the Amazon delivery guy mocked you to your face for your difficulty in handling the box and getting it into the house.

You: Baby, the new mirror just came in!

You hit send after the message.

You: I’m going to try to put it together but I may need your help later.

And just as you said, you got to work with the phone by your side, waiting for a response from Steven.

You assumed Donna was in a terrible mood because at least two hours went by without a reply, although you were really too busy to worry about that.

For a moment, you insisted on the idea of finishing assembling the darn mirror before Steven arrived home, but that clearly didn't happen because for the two and a half hours of effort you put in, you didn't feel like you were really getting anywhere.

Plus, you had extra screws that shouldn't have been left over.

You: This isn’t working and at this point, I think I need to just give up.

You put the phone aside and lazily lay down on the carpet. Why was assembling furniture so hard? Although not as difficult as having to accept that you couldn't finish it on your own.

You stayed there not knowing how long, but you estimated it was a few hours because you heard the front door indicating that Steven was home. The smile lasted only a short while because as you straightened up to greet him, he walked past you without even looking at you, heading straight to the bedroom.

"Steven?" you questioned, slightly furrowing your brow. You stood up slowly, giving him time to exit the room.

When you finally confronted him, your heart almost jumped out of your chest. His eyes were red, completely filled with tears.

"What happened, baby?"

"Why?" he asked, his voice breaking. It shattered your heart into pieces.

"Why what, Steven?" He sniffled, and you searched his gaze when he started avoiding you.

"Why are you giving up on me?"

You nearly killed him right then and there.

"What are you talking about?"

He didn't take long to pull his phone out of his pocket and shake it a bit in front of your face; he was on the verge of sobbing.

"Y-Your messages, you were breaking up with me."

The moment Steven mentioned your text messages, you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing in his face.

Your expression almost made him cry harder. Were you making fun of him?

"Steven." Your voice came out in a playful tone as you almost burst into laughter. "I was talking about the mirror."

"Huh? What mirror?"

"The new mirror, it arrived." Your eyes were almost watering from holding back laughter. "I'm guessing that the previous messages didn't send; I was talking about not being able to assemble it on my own."

You stepped aside to let him see the mess you had made on the floor, with the mirror halfway assembled.

Steven exchanged glances between the things and you.

He looked at the things.

He looked at you.

He looked at the things.

He looked at you.

Realization hit in seconds, and you couldn't say anything more when you felt Steven's arms squeezing you against his chest. You couldn't stop laughing even though your laughter sounded odd, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

"Bloody fucking hell, love!" Steven cursing was definitely a special event. It only made you laugh harder. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

He lifted you off the ground, and tears were already streaming down your face. It took much longer than expected to calm down from the laughter.

Still breathless, you let him kiss your face, as well as embrace you with his strong arms that refused to let you go.

"Still, I need you to check the mirror." You took a deep breath, your cheeks already reddened, one of your hands held onto him, and the other wiped the corners of your eyes. "I think I damaged it."

guys what the fuck is a boop im scared

Can I request more Oliver from Threadville headcanons please?

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *. A GARDEN IS A LOVE SONG .* :☆ﾟ.

✿ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Oliver X Reader

✿ Character(s): Oliver (Threadville)

✿ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

✿ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✿ Image Credits: @SleepyBlueii on X

❀ Oliver is the kind of guy who flusters when you brush dirt off his shirt. You barely graze his chest, and he practically sputters, tugging at his collar like it might let the warmth out. “Shucks, uh, thank ya kindly… I, uhm… I usually just let the wind take care of that, y’know…” His whole face turns the same color as a ripe tomato. But later, once you’re not looking, he sneaks a tiny flower into your pocket—morning glory, his favorite. “For bravery,” he says when you find it. “For touchin’ a muddy ol’ scarecrow like me without batting an eye.”

❀ When Oliver’s having a hard day—like when the worms chewed through his carrots again or Rocky gave him the stink-eye for three hours—he doesn’t tell you he’s sad. He just shows up at your door with his floppy straw hat pulled low and a half-baked rhubarb pie clutched in both hands. “It’s got too much sugar and not enough rhubarb, but… it still made me feel better makin’ it. I… I figured maybe you needed a slice, too.” He sits with you on the porch, legs swinging, watching the sun go down in silence. He never says what hurt, but your presence fixes it.

❀ He’s never really had a crush before. So when he realizes he likes you, really likes you, he reacts like someone told him the barn’s on fire. There’s panic. There’s pacing. There’s him staring into a pail of water whispering, “Oh, Jeepers. I like them.” Veena’s the one who finally corners him. “You’ve been sweeping the same patch of floor for ten minutes, Oliver.” “Shhh!” “Just tell them.” He tells you in the most Oliver way possible—by shyly handing you a bouquet made entirely of bee-friendly flowers and whispering, “Would ya… wanna be… my garden partner? Forever, maybe?”

❀ Oliver doesn’t just want to hold your hand. He wants to earn it. He asks things like, “Would it be alright if I held your hand now, if you’re not too busy?” and “I washed my gloves extra good this morning just in case you needed some help walkin’ through the thorns.” And when you do take his hand? Oh, he stares at it like it’s a rare fruit. Thumb brushing yours, trembling a little—but warm. So very warm. “You’re softer’n a plum,” he mumbles, and turns away so you won’t see his bashful grin.

❀ When you’re sick, Oliver panics like you’re dying. He makes five pots of soup and spills three of them. He fumbles your forehead with dirt-smudged hands until Veena yells at him to use a rag. But he refuses to leave your side. He curls up in a wooden chair next to your bed with his hat over his heart like he’s mourning your cough. “Don’t you go scarin’ me like that again, now. I thought… I thought the bugs had gotten ya. Not the sick bugs. The, uh… puppet ones. The scary ones.”

❀ He tells you the story about his dad under a blanket of stars one night, voice all shaky and eyes far away. “He had a hat just like mine. Mama said I was born with dirt on my hands and a weed in my hair…” You don’t say anything. You just rest your head on his shoulder. Oliver holds you a little tighter. “He’d’a liked you, y’know. Anyone brave enough to love a feller like me is someone worth sittin’ next to in the dark.”

❀ When he plays the piano for you, he always gets nervous and messes up the third chord. Every. Time. He insists it’s the piano’s fault, even though he built it himself. “I-it’s just got character! Just like me! Crooked but honest!” But when you hum along, he glances at you like you just lit up the room. And if you sit next to him while he plays? He stops pretending to be brave. He just lets himself feel—soft, and small, and so very safe. “Thanks for listenin’. I only get this brave when you’re nearby.”

❀ Oliver’s always asking if you’re eating enough. If your shoes fit. If you’re warm. If you’ve seen any wasps recently because he’ll personally go chase them off if he has to. “Y-you matter, okay? Even if you ain’t perfect at math or talk funny or like the weird kind of pie.” He says it like it’s a secret, like it’s something he’s not supposed to know but does anyway. “Just thought… you should know someone’s rootin’ for ya.”

❀ You catch him once—talking to your jacket like it’s you. “Miss ya already,” he murmurs, gently folding it and patting it like it’ll feel his touch. “Wish I could keep ya in my pocket or my hat. But I reckon you’d get dizzy in there.” He jumps when you walk in, face going bright red. “I-I was just, uh—foldin’! Just foldin’ things! Real productive like!” He won’t live it down for a week. But your smile makes the embarrassment worth it.

❀ Oliver doesn’t kiss like the heroes in his favorite romcoms. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet. He just leans in one day while you’re planting tomatoes, hands covered in soil, hair stuck to his cheek, and murmurs, “Could I? Just real quick?” And it’s gentle. Like the way sun catches on dew. Like the softest promise. When he pulls back, his face is pink, and he mutters, “W-wow. I-I’ll write about that one in my journal later.” Then he trips over a rake.