marstxn-blog

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      “Get inside.” The expression John shot in the direction of his wife and son blew any semblance of a calm exterior he might have tried to put up. At least it got the point across. With a look of concern thrown back in John’s direction, Abigail tugged their boy back inside if only for his sake.

      “Never really took you as a traitor. Guess we were both wrong.” The younger man’s hand hovered over his revolver, aware of his disadvantage and scouring his mind for any way to improve his odds. 

     “No one ever lives how they wanna live. You know that, Dutch. If life were that simple you’d be sittin’ back eatin’ a mango right now.”

     John could have laughed out loud at that proposal, but in the tension of the moment, all that left his mouth was a half-aborted chuckle. “You’re willin’ to give me a second chance? You’ve got some nerve offerin’ me the chance to apologize after the shit you pulled. Get outta here.”

Hooves of the white Arabian pressed against the dry earth, kicking up a decent cloud of dust behind him. Dutch Van Der Linde, the former leader of the Van Der Linde gang, wanted in five states with a pretty hefty price on his head. He had received word that John was still alive, after all these years since they both took down Micah. Trotting up through the entrance of the ranch, Dutch stopped just in front of the house, where he witnessed Jack and Abigail step out of the front door.     “Jack… wow… I haven’t seen you since you were a kid.” There was a smirk underneath that moustache, a devilish smirk. He was up to no good, one thing is for certain.    “Never really took you as a rancher, son…” He rubbed his chin slightly, moving his head to the side. “Tell me John… is this really how you want to live?” Grabbing the rifle that was holstered in his saddle, Dutch figured it would be better to keep himself armed.     “I can see it in your eyes John, that desire to ride without a care in the world.” In reality, Dutch needed an extra pair of guns, there weren’t many people left who wished for the good ol’ days of the west, other than nutters who would rather skin people alive.      “What do you say? I’m willing to give you a second chance.”

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wildflower-of-the-west·:

“Yup, go get your horse, I’ll get everything else we need. Say goodbye to Bessie and Ms.Grimshaw too, we might be gone for a bit,” Annabelle said.

She was happy to see John excited, she had been watching him moping around camp all day. It was nice to see his eyes light up.

While he went off to round up his horse she went back to her tent. She grabbed her own hunting rifle and threw a bow over her shoulder, in case they found a deer. That was really what she was hoping for. A fat deer to feed the whole camp. She wasn’t as good at hunting with a bow, but she would have to make due. She stuffed a couple apples into her pack in case the horses or one of them got hungry.

When she was all ready to go she left the tent and went over to where the horses were hitched.

“Ready to go?”

John’s legs were moving before his brain actually started processing information, but his brain usually needed a little longer than anyone else’s to start working.

The young outlaw returned with the essentials stuffed into his satchel and an expression that fit for a kid his age. As he’d packed all he thought up all the ways he could impress the rest of the camp. If he brought home something good maybe he wouldn’t be left behind on jobs in the first place. The promise of a successful hunt had him on his horse before the woman could ask if John was ready. “Yes ma’am.” He nodded with a faint smile still present on his face as he absentmindedly stroked his horses neck.

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eisiramdeus·:

✯ You could say that to a seasoned murderer of the likes, this is akin to a turn off. Not that Hans derives deviant sexual pleasured from executing criminals and outlaws like John. For the reformed wolf that don’s the shepherd’s rifle has nothing but to bite at another wolf’s neck and make him bleed till his sheep are safe and sheltered from the world. After all, the wolf himself never forgets the taste of blood, the texture of striated muscle ripping like threads of silk on a sewn dress. And the wolf kills, and the wolf kills, and the wolf kills. In 1911, John would understand; this wolf’s time to become shepherd would come. And with this, it means the wolf must live past tonight. Disappointing.

❝Quite the lucky man, Marston. Must be luck, cause for a man that doesn’t keep his gun in hand, it ain’t smarts.❞ The Star in the North tilts his Remington to the sky, resting its barrel upon his left shoulder like some sort of European castle guard. ❝You have yer life, partner, thanks to Arthur. Do be more careful with it. An’ don’t forget this.❞ Just like that, the bounty hunter sits down across from the Outlaw in the campfire and pulls out a cigar he got straight from the docks at Saint Denis from Cuba. Discount price, too, if you bribe the workers that unload the heavy crates. The boys at sea like sticking it to the Man and make a cut on the side, stealing their employers profit. See? We’re all criminal here.

And more to the point, Hans did just hold John hostage for a while, but no hard feelings, right? Can’t be the closest John has been to the wraith-like bitter touch of Death. He lights the cigar by just grazing it on the flaming rocks of John’s campfire and puffs it, before chuckling like an old friend over inside jokes from a youth long gone. ❝Not sure why, but… yeah. Yeah, I believe ya. Arthur did mention a little bastard of a brother he said e’ had. An’ don’t worry, he meant it endearingly as only Arthur can.❞                                                     Are we not gonna talk about this?                                                     Not at all? Are you gonna let this slide, John?                                                     Trick question, for Hans still holds a rifle.                                                      So play nice and slick.

❝When ye see ‘im, tell Arthur he owes me. Again. Love the man, but can’t keep givin’ him a free pass every other month. Know what I mean?❞

“Seriously?” Arthur had saved John’s ass many many times, so many times that John had become foolish enough to believe there wasn’t any other way the older man could save him, but he was proved wrong. A simple name drop allowed him to live to see another day. “Don’t think I’ll be able to forget this... Guess I should say thanks for not killin’ me or somethin’.” The outlaw set his empty bowl aside, not bothering to clean it properly at the moment. 

John slouched forward resting his elbows on his thighs and his gaze down on the crackling fire. “You a bounty hunter or somethin’? Didn’t think Arthur started makin’ friends with the law...” John’s eyes slowly drifted up from the fire, following the straight line of the Remington to its wielder, “...No offense...” He tacked on to the end hoping that his inability to bite his tongue didn’t cost him. 

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eisiramdeus·:

✯ ARTHUR MORGAN’S BOUNTY                                         as a matter of fact,                                         Hans did actually chase. Seen it all, too;                                          the degrading things done to this hunter                                         because of ARTHUR MORGAN’S BOUNTY                                         where the water is dark and the water is murky.

He didn’t like that. Not at all. The Star in the North took some steps forward as if to approach him and knock some sense in the back of John’s head with the stock of his rifle, but as a seasoned killer he’d been in life, he knew better. Grace and composure——& a killer can’t do without, lest he just be a simple low-life gangster! So Hans stayed where he was, but was riled inside, and shook his head disapprovingly. 

❝Yeah, yeah, I’d say so myself, too, partner. Morgan’s smart enough. But ye don’t look the type.❞ And it’s true; perhaps John wasn’t as good of a man like Arthur for his stars to align and grant him enough luck to have a revolver in hand when he needs it the most. Or Arthur simply thinks ahead: the prefrontal cortex is a true gift to the evolved human, if with just enough intellect to use it. 

❝How d’ya know Morgan?❞ He asks, bitterly incredulous. Hans was aware that Arthur hadn’t led the best life in the best of company up to this day, and perhaps the two men had bonded over these coincidences of similarity and, ah, absinthe—— but, nonetheless, he doubted to the Death that someone like Arthur would associate himself with someone like John. Whatever that is supposed to mean. ❝An’ don’t bullshit the answer; you’ve got nothing to live for in these next five minutes o’ so.❞

Without the threat of death looming behind him, he might have actually laughed at the man’s assumptions. John and Arthur had always been two sides of the same coin, and Arthur would call John a fool one thousand times because he saw his own folly in John. “Really I should be askin’ you how you know Morgan. I’ve never seen your face around before.” The bowl of stew had dwindled to the halfway point and if John didn’t have imminent death on his mind he might compare his meal to the depleting top half of an hour glass.  “Usually I’d say it’s none of your business, but I guess it sort of is now.” John just managed to glance over his shoulder and take in Hans’ figure from the very corner of his eye. “I’ve known the guy since I was twelve- maybe thirteen, I don’t know when the hell my birthday is-- Anyways, I grew up with him. Guess you could say we’re brothers in every sense but blood.” An infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of John’s mouth. “That’s why they only needed two men to get me out. Morgan was one of them. Can’t imagine he’d be too pleased knowin’ all his hard work savin’ my ass went to waste.”

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fleewest·:

❝  i don’t know , y’all are both dumb and that in itself makes me have doubts about what either of yall did to try to fix what was wrong . but i know what you mean , arthur can be a vindictive man    ❞   still , she smiles , her eyebrows slightly furrowed . she wants them to be okay .especially with the relationship that they have . tilly doesn’t think that there is anything else like that in the word beyond the word of family .yet still , she tries to lighten the mood , and brighten the man’s spirit , as he seems like he needs it . ❝  but in my humble opinion , i think that the situation is fixable , just keep trying – please .❞

❝  maybe you had some hidden depths i don’t know about , with a mentor like dutch , all things are possible .  ❞   delicately pocking fun of him , though she doesn’t seem to share his unbecoming visage of himself . she thinks he’s somewhat handsome , a nice boy with a nicer face if he could so believe that .   ❝  but where do you want to grab something to eat , i don’t know if you wanna risk ruinin’ your look in the saloon  .❞

“Don’t worry too much about us. We ain’t worth the fuss.” He very nearly got himself a cigar for their short trek to the shoddy looking saloon across the barren dirt road, but his own hair could currently be mistaken for lavender thanks to those fancy soaps Tilly had spoiled him with. He wasn’t ready to replace the current scent with the stench of smoke.

Before they made it to the porch of the saloon John gave the town another sweep. “Don’t think we’ve got much choice of a place to eat besides this. Guess we’ll just make the best of what we’re given-- Well damn, listen to me. A real modern day philosopher.”

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eisiramdeus·:

✯Oh John, oh Saint John the baptist,                                                              you can eat your dinner but                                                              you cannot eat away at time;                                                              hungry bites? one per minute to savor the dish                                                              and the closing hour of your life but                                                              you didn’t fool him. 

❝You’ll pardon me if I don’t buy ya, partner…❞ The Star in the North laughed as a mockery of John’s poor defenses. Shaking his head——& but he gives credit for the attempt! ❝But the warden says yer busted out by only two gangsters. An’ one of them was a missus’, too, I think.❞ Though hell hath no fury like Mrs. Adler, the point stands: one lady-killer and a kindhearted outlaw too loyal for his own good did not measure up to the five guys John tried to casually name drop. ❝So… somethin’ tells me ain’t nobody really coming for all yer worth, is there, Marston?❞ To be in a ride-or-die gang and only two of your people had the capacity to do anything about it? Perhaps John shoulder consider resignation.

Oh, Hans… knew—to understate—Arthur too. How would we ever explain this to the gentle killer by circumstance? And the wife & kids? Hans hated these contracts; he never asked. Of course, if by chance and probability, many of the men he put down had wives and children. Perhaps they were better off without the bastardly influence of their men. But like Penelope who waits a thousand days and a thousand nights, some women are just too good for the men they carry on their shoulders. Sometimes all it takes is a good woman. 

❝Pick up yer stew from the pot, then, dead-man-walkin’.❞ He points to the campfire that was between them with the barrel of his rifle, granting the inmate on death row his last meal. Shame that it must have been bland, too, ain’t it? Just a degenerate outlaw cooking for himself out here in the clearing? It can’t be too good. Not like one of the many curious little corner shops in Saint Denis that sold French pastries and that invigorating South American-imported coffee. Hard to afford, too. ❝An’ don’t try nothin’ or runnin’ nowhere. Bet ya the ten coins in my pocket I could poke a hole in yer spine ‘fore you reached your tent over yonder. You’ve all the time in the world to eat up, huh?❞ But you cannot eat away at time, eat away at time, eat away at time.

John had been taught to twist words into coils tighter than the ghost of the noose still around his throat, but even the most experienced of teachers could not show John the way to spin thread into gold. Arthur had always done better, at this, at everything. John could try. He could screw his eyes shut and summon Hosea’s spirit, but even witchcraft could not pull off the miracle he needed to get out of this alive. “Two men came to get me ‘cause that’s all they needed. Even our womenfolk are stronger than a prison full of cowards for wardens.” That wasn’t the real reason only Arthur and Sadie bothered finding him, but that was his secret to keep. John very slowly removed the stew from its place over the fire and brought the bowl to his lap. The metal of the bowl burned his thighs through the worn denim of his jeans and he briefly wonders if the flames engulfing hell will feel better. “I’m a pretty fast shot myself. If we had a fair fight I’d bet take ya on that bet.” He ached for the familiar weight of a revolver in his hand, the cold steel that bit at his skin until he gave in and shot. “Learned from the very best. Ya ever chase Arthur Morgan’s bounty? You shouldn’t. He’d be smart enough to have a gun on him right about now.”

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closed starter | @norxstforthewickxd

In the years since the fall of the infamous Van Der Linde gang John had built a life for himself. A life not only for himself, but for his wife and his son. Owning a home, a real stationary home with a warm fire a plenty of food, blew orphanages and rickety tents out of the water: That was a thought he had every night before falling asleep in a bed that he owned. 

That didn’t mean his new life fulfilled all his wants though. He missed little things like riding for days without consequence, or waking up to a batch of coffee big enough to serve a whole camp. He missed Hosea’s stories and Grimshaw’s lectures, and hell... He even missed Arthur’s insults.

Some nights he swore Javier’s guitar would play as he dozed off, but  his desperation for even a sliver of his old life could never bring it back.

Maybe that’s why when he glanced up from feeding the chicken he didn’t believe that the white Arabian trotting through the entrance to Beecher’s Hope could possibly belong to who he thought it did. He buried his old life with his old friends... He still stared out at the horizon at rapidly approaching figure.

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fleewest·:

❝  your stomach’s always killin you , mr . marston .  ❞  still there’s a smile there , coy and wit sharp as is common of her when she does manage a grin . she doesn’t mind following him , her thinks snugly packed to return to their box when they returned to camp . but it seemed now she had truly gotten a great privileged , to meander about town with a truly clean man . she couldn’t believe her luck , though she seemed more inclined to giggle than anything else . 

❝  consider me your date then , maybe we can school each other on the fashions of high society .  ❞  she bumps shoulders with him , as she speaks ( or well as best as she can , she always forgets that he’s a long skinny branch of a man ) .  ❝  maybe you should to patch that up , ya’ll are like kin right ? he’s a sensitive man himself , maybe just try talking to him ?  ❞

“To be fair, sometimes it’s wolves that are killin’ me, not always my stomach.” Despite John’s very strong belief in the unfortunate luck he was given in the way of his looks, there was a new sort of confidence that came with being clean and looking closer to a human than a damn raccoon. 

“If you’re lookin’ to discuss high society with me you’re goin’ to be severely disappointed Miss Tilly. I ain’t read nearly enough Evelyn Miller to delude myself into believin’ I’m that important.” As opposed to Dutch, who fancied himself as the second coming of Christ. “You think I haven’t tried apologizing?” John rested a thumb under his belt and huffed out a breath through his nose. “That man won’t listen to a word I say. He’d rather hold a grudge his whole life than get himself some peace of mind.”

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eisiramdeus·:

✯ I must apologize to you, for I did omit & redact all that should not be known about the wolves of the world. All things in life come in a set of three, and there was a third wolf. If one proudly shows his wolfhood, if two hides in sheep’s clothing, then three must be a reformed wolf that tends the herd—the shepherd himself. One can imagine the Big Bad Wolf lamenting the wrongs in his life, if the Grimm Brothers weren’t such realists. For a couple of fable-writers, of course. 

❝Trying to take you out.❞ It was short of the comedic relief put forth by John, wasn’t it? If you could only know how smug this felt for Hans. To take you out. It clearly wasn’t a date. What other interpretation was left must have been so clear. And Christ, John, aren’t you so right? Who is to say God isn’t a rich man with something to lose from an escape criminal?——& embarrassing for the reputation of his business! 

To the deluded men drunk in money, one can imagine they must see themselves as God. After all, what can God do that they could not? Be humble, if for starters. 

❝Prisons ain’t fast but they sure last forever, don’t they, partner?❞ And John could tell him all about it, but Hans knew. He didn’t go to prison himself, no, but if he was back in New York this time tomorrow, he would have been strung up by sunrise. The wolf reforms; a new beginning in the American West, a fresh start, for everyone. Except for the damned wolf with large scars across his face, whom everyone already knows him by his eye. ❝’Nough said or’s there anything you wanna confess before you’re gone? I ain’t the usual type to do executions so I’ll entertain this one. And I gotta say, Marston, the warden looked like he’s hangin’ by a thread: him and his contractor really don’t want you to live no more.❞

“Take me out? You ain’t gonna get much out of killin’ me except maybe some selfish sense of pride.” John had done wrong, more wrong than many men his age, and even some men who exceeded him in age by decades. Erasing his meager existence would do nothing to help those he already hurt. John was a bad man in a world of millions of other bad men, and on a smaller scale, a bad man running with a gang of worse men. “You kill me tonight and I promise you’ll have five other men returnin’ the favor tomorrow.” Though, in reality the only man in the gang that would attempt to avenge him was a good man. A good man loyal to a bad man.

Confess? The outlaw had been raised within the confines of a church flooded with other orphans for a solid chunk of his life, and not once did he ever confess to his sins. If God was all knowing then he already knew what John had done, and furthermore, he knew John felt no guilt.  “You want me to give my last words? Fine. Let me finish my dinner first though. That’s what they do before hangin’ ya. Give ya a last supper.” Under his too baggy jacket the muscles of his back tensed. It’s not like it would lessen the pain of the impending bullet, but the situation didn’t allow him any sense of calm. Not when he had a wife and a child who’d be burying his body if he played this the wrong way.

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eisiramdeus·:

✯ IN ANOTHER TIME,                                     in another life,                                     the Star in the North might have been a deadly-silent man, his arrogant step never touching the ground that mere men sullied and toiled, BUT in this life——&

Hans Heinrich Kaiseride lived amongst men like the shepherd live amongst the sheep, a rifle in his hand to shy away the wolves of the world. Now, some wolves were prideful and they openly displayed their                         S C A R S  ��                                        for the whole world to see. You will know them by their eye. Other wolves adorned themselves in sheepskin, the fur was the tiniest diamond they’d pried off the ring on a dead woman’s finger. Hans always hated this kind of wolf. Without the need for surprise or subtlety any longer now that John Marston had correctly identified himself as hunted, the Star in the North complied. He loudly cocked the bolt on his Remington and appeared out of the clearing standing proud in perfect posture in the moonlight. Rifle drawn yet not pointed, he took a moment to stare at the marked man and note him. No revolver in his belt? A much simpler job than expected.

❝JOHN MARTSON❞ he announced like a herald on the altar of a guillotine giving the damned their last rites. Not that he was a priest—he just wanted to let men know their time and hour had expired, the hourglass cracked, and the sand spilled. Like the message in a bottle tossed out to sea, never to find land till its swallowed whole by the sea. ❝You mistake me for a common thief, partner? That ain’t why I’m here. The Warden … requests your penitence. Shouldda know, can’t outrun prison forever.❞ Oh, he would know, he would know, he would know.

And the bounty hunter raises his rifle, a world apart in distance, to the outlaw’s chest. There was but a very faint, pulsing twitch to the corner of his mouth as if to form a smirk that faded like Winter. ❝Now…❞ he says grimly, reaping,                                                                   ❝I ain’t here to take you in.❞

I think men like us understand each other. Don’t you, John? You dodge death like Penelope dodges suitors, undoing your mistakes one day at a time, but what happens when Death rides on a pale horse to meet you? The riveting questions in life.

God fucking damn. Of all the curses bestowed upon him by a higher power, the worst might have been the big ugly scars slashing diagonally down his cheek. He’d never don sheep’s clothing with the mark of the wolf so blatantly displayed on his face.  John didn’t stand. Didn’t turn his head to study the face of his maker in what little light the dying campfire provided. All John did was groan and rub at his temples in a sad attempt to get the rusty gears in his brain turning long enough to formulate a solution to his predicament. “Heh... Hate to break it to ya, but out runnin’ prison ain’t all that hard. They ain’t very fast.”  Interesting. The man after him spoke with a confidence that rivaled Dutch’s. Some prophet sent to do God’s bidding... If God was a rich asshole who had stock in a penitentiary.  “Well if ya ain’t here to take me in, what are ya here for? Tryin’ to take me out for a nice dinner?”

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closed starter | @eisiramdeus

John’s retreat from Beaver Hollow stemmed from a few things, first being Dutch’s anger at his return from Sisika. He’d watched the man spiral downwards in the past few months, but he didn’t want to believe it had come this far. The second reason sounded much better, and not coincidentally, was what he replied to everyone asking him why he was equipping Old Boy with enough supplies to last him a few days. With Arthur run ragged on all of Dutch’s missions no one provided food for the camp. John figured he might as well pull his weight.  He’d just pitched his tent for the night, but even in his exhaustion the slight rustle of dead grass. Someone was approaching... He left his revolver in the tent. Goddammit. “I know you’re out there. I ain’t got shit to steal.”

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wildflower-of-the-west·:

Annabelle pulled out  her schofield revolver and shot six glass bottles. Each one shattered only seconds after the last. She walked up next to where John was sitting and opened the chamber, letting the casings fall into the grass. She put new bullets in.

“Oh hey John, didn’t see ya there,” She joked. She held the revolver out and shot the rest of the bottles that were set up.“Aren’t ya getting tired of hitting these still targets?”

She walked away for a moment leaving him to be confused. When she returned she was holding a Varmint Rifle. She held the butt of the gun out to him. “C’mon we’re goin’ hunting.”

John jumped at the sound of shattering glass.He’d be dead right now if his surprise guest wasn’t Annabelle. He shot up to his feet, turning towards the woman with a dumbstruck expression. “It ain’t like I got anythin’ else to shoot.” His wide eyes narrowed at her question and his shoulders slouched. “Gotta stay here while everyone else goes out on jobs, and I can’t cook or sew like the ladies here so I might as well be dead weight.” He only sighed once Annabelle walked off, but perked up in a comedically noticeable way when she returned with her rifle in hand and the suggestion to do something useful with their time. “You serious?” He comes off as an over-excited child, and while he loathes that, he is thrilled to get out of camp.

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fleewest·:

she raises her eyebrows , trying to smother a laugh that bubbles up – but she snorts either way . she likes a lot of things about john , but she likes his humility and his brutal truths . it resonated with her own bluntness ; it also reminded there was some ease in life , if you could find what was funny in yourself – or find the weight in your insecurities and make yourself into something other using that as a platform . or maybe she was giving him more credit than he deserve , but whatever it was – she still appreciated him . 

❝  you should try to keep all the dignity you got if that’s the case .   ❞  she rolls her eyes , holding the door open as one would do one’s better but with all the sarcasm that could be afforded of a woman making fun of someone she cared about . they probably looked ridiculous – or maybe a little be scandalous , but she didn’t mind .  ❝ you got pomade back at camp , or can you be brave enough to ask arthur for some . if no to both , i can buy some before we go back to camp .  ❞

“It’s hangin’ on by a thread... but it’s still there, so I s’pose you’re right.” He ran a hand through his hair at the mention of pomade and was shocked to find that he could actually brush through his hair in one fluid motion. There weren’t any knots or tangles to impede him, and the lack of grease was an added bonus. “I’ve got some pomade, but it ain’t somethin’ I use all that often. I wouldn’t dare ask Arthur for his. He and I-- We ain’t gettin’ along so well these days.” He spoke that bit with a shrug, not letting on much about anything. “Let’s get outta here and get some food. My stomach is killin’ me.”

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@wildflower-of-the-west | closed starter The field just to the side of their current camp made an adequate location for target practice. John had gone through the trouble of setting bottles up just to shatter them minutes later and repeat the process over. The rest of the men were out on a job. Stupid. He could shoot better than half of them, but he was stuck practicing just because he wasn’t ‘old enough’ yet. Every time Dutch used that excuse John forced himself to hold back what was really on his mind. ‘Maybe you’re too old.’

Either way, it didn’t matter. He was forced to practice and help around camp until he hit eighteen, and even then he doubted they’d be in any rush to get him into a serious job. The next round of bottles shattered and John groaned, sitting himself down on the dry grass.

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(So... I didn't die. Just got very sick and then proceeded to fuck up my knee and THEN got sick again, so I'm living the life over here. I feel pretty awful for diappearing like that....uh yeah. Shoot me a message if you wanna continue a thread we had going on message me or reply or whatever! sorry guys ;-;)

[marstxn-blog]

fleewest·:

❝   well , seeing how cynical you are , plus the self loathing ; i’ll have to agree with you on that one .  ❞   she presses a hand against her midsection , gently drawing breath ; it was always hard to breathe in the corset that sit a bit too tight for her pleasure . she’d need to scrounge up enough to buy one that actually was fitted for her , and not one she stole ; but as of now , it would have to do ; she slipped her yellow bodice on over it , doing up the fabric buttons neatly .   ❝   ain’t sure why you act like that , like i said ; the scars at that bad , and even if you’re a grease bucket of a man , i’m sure you’re attractive to somebody .   ❞

she snorts out a laugh , unimpressed by both his need for modesty , combined for his collective lack of decency . she goes for her pants and drawers without hesitation ; they’d be suitable enough to wear till he got his suit ; she wastes not a moment tossing them to him ;  ❝   you’re absolutely ridiculous ,  that was absolutely a fib and you took the bait like some moon struck mark that’s never seen pussy in his life . get dressed , johnny-boy . ❞

In his very in depth observation of the woman currently mocking him, her labored breathing stuck out to him, just as much as all the features the corset accentuated did. He made a mental note to find something a little nicer for her.””I’m not actin’ like anythin’. I don’t care if I’m ugly. Ain’t gotta be pretty in my line of work.” At the woman’s snickering he removed the towel from around his waist tossed the dirty thing at her. “Hey, you can’t blame a man for tryin’. Got nothin’ to lose but some dignity, and I ain’t got much of that anyways.” He caught the clothing tossed his way and threw it on in a rush, the water on his skin already cooling to an uncomfortably low temperature.