✮ tags ; fem reader, historical fiction (time period typical commentary about gender), bantering / romantic tension, smoking cigarettes, indirect kiss, enemies to lovers if you squint, a vague age gap hejkfdjks
✮ a/n ; i cant believe myself but i needed to get it out of my fucking brain.
"Aren't very good at being stealthy, are you Mr. Marston?"
His eyes linger on your frame longer than he'd like them too. You're still in your night clothes, and dawn has yet to break. Up earlier than he's used to seeing you. Up brushing his horse, of all things. Old Boy's nothing but tender under your care.
The faint mist of morning touches his skin, turns him cold. You oughta be even colder like that, but it doesn't show on your face.
He scoffs a little, hands tucked into his pockets. "Wasn't trying to be. Nobody's up this early so I though we had some unwanted company."
"I guess I still count for that, huh?"
“Oh, shut up would you?”
You giggle back to him in reply. It’s rare to hear. Normally when you're laughing, it's a lot coarser. Always so rowdy. He doesn't mind how you sound now. He sits on a log nearby, watching you as you pat the horse gently. Brushing it's mane and whispering words quiet enough that he can't hear over them over the crackle of the freshly lit campfire.
He can't see your face in the dark either, not well. But you're smiling.
"He likes you more than he likes me," He mumbles.
"A woman's touch or somethin' like that," You reply back. John laughs sardonically.
"A woman? Hardly. Got plenty of other options if that's what he needs."
You shoot him an unimpressed look, brows furrowed. Most women would be pissed at him for saying so. John wouldn't say it to anyone but you, he figures. You hardly look mad though, if a little displeased.
You rifle through the horses saddle (with all of John's things, not even bothering to ask him permission) until you find some sugar cubes. The horse makes a pleasant noise as you coo at him, opening your hand up to feed him.
"But he's eating out of my hand all docile anyway," You give John a furtive glance, smile pulling at the corners of your lips "Reminds of somebody,"
Yeah. Right. He bets it does.
For how much you and John argue and for how much you get on each others nerves, he can admit to himself that he spends more time looking at you then looking away. He can't understand it himself. Makes him feel guilty. He ain't much of a good man. He ain't much of anything. A decent marksman, a fine swindler. Not much else.
The flame paints your face orange-yellow in the light. Not enough for you. Not in anyway. But he can't keep his eyes from memorizing you . Always noticing the way you look back at him. All tender. You can be a lot of things when you want to be, but he doesn't often catch it.
It's hard to ignore when he does. "Don't you have things to do, Mr. Marston? Your turn to stand watch today, isn't it?"
He wants a little longer with you. He frowns at you. "Mr. Marston? You call everyone their name but me."
"Does it bother you?"
Course it does. That's what he wants to say. He looks around for his satchel and pulls a cigarette out from it along with a lighter. The flame sparks, looking away from you. "Just wondering why that is."
"Well, lets see," You stop tending to Old Boy after a few more lonesome pats, instead walking towards him close to the fire. You pour yourself a cup of coffee as you sit on the log adjacent. "Arthur's troubled when I say Mr. Morgan, says it makes him feel old. Mr. Smith is too formal for Charles, and Summers is... Summers. Same with Dutch, and Hosea and Bill. Mm, I guess that leaves Javier - but he's hardly a mister."
"And I am?"
You grin into your cup of coffee, not looking at him. "Course you are, Mr. Marston. What else would you have me call you?"
"My name would do you just fine."
"I like Mr. Marston. It's nice and formal, and well," You do peer up at him at him this time. "Young ladies are supposed to be prim and proper and formal, aren't they? At least from what I know. Shouldn't go around calling a man with a son by just his name now should I?"
Damn it. You're clever. "It's no wonder men lose their betting money to you."
"What are you saying now? Just trying to be mindful. Would you prefer I call you your name, Mr. Marston?"
You're doing it on purpose now. He sighs.
"Call me whatever you want," He says, giving up on it after a while as he takes another drag of his cigarette. You finish your coffee, bemused before empty out the grounds.
After, he watches as you saunter over to him. You bend forward, too close - bare skin inches away from prying eyes.
He's thankful everyone's asleep and not around to witness this.
You bend to him eye level, plucking the cigarette half-smoked from between his fingers and placing it between your lips. Your lips are smooth, shiny and plump and soft.
You hold it between your pointer and middle and take a deep inhale of smoke. The scent of tobacco floods his lungs again as you blow the remaining smoke out into his face, making him cough.
He stares at you wide-eyed and awe struck as your grin widens. A flush creeps up his face as he realizes where your mouths been, watching the end of butt of the cig get dark and stick between your lips.
"Thanks for the cigarette, John," You say, waving him off as you turn back towards your tent. "I'll see you at supper,"
John watches you smoke as you get yourself ready for the day, at the far end of the camp - adjusting something in his jeans. Damn you do something to him.
98 notes
·
View notes