Guys I Promise Big Bad John Part 3 Will Be Out Soon. 🙏 It's A Smut Chapter And I Always Get Stuck

I’d let him

Pairing: Jschlatt (Jay) x fem!reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Southern Gothic setting, suggestive themes, longing, age-appropriate obsession, minor religious guilt, emotionally charged romantic tension, kissing, not entirely innocent thoughts, suggestive content, TWINK SCHLATT!!!

Summary: You’ve always watched him from afar. Jay, the loud-mouthed boy with bruised knuckles and a laugh that makes you feel dizzy. You’re sweet, or at least you were, before he looked at you like that. Now you can’t stop thinking about him. And worse, he’s finally started noticing you back.

A/N: Hope this ruins you in the softest, most Southern gothic Ethel Cain way possible. 😘 fr though I love this song with schlatt and this plot/setting just screams twink schlatt to me okay- like all of the skinny trashy boys I had a crush on in high school who smoked way too much weed

You saw him for the first time the summer you turned eighteen, when the heat came in thick and slow like molasses, and the pavement outside the gas station bubbled under your sneakers. You were elbow-deep in freezer burn, rearranging popsicles behind the counter, when the bell above the door rang and your world tilted just a little.

He walked in like he owned the place, all long limbs and loud voice, laughing at something one of his friends said. God, that laugh. Big and brash, like the kind of boy who didn’t apologize for anything.

He was wearing a cut-off tee with a band you didn’t know and a backwards hat that barely contained the curls at the back of his neck. You watched from behind the freezer glass, pretending to look busy as he strutted past the aisle of honey buns and beef jerky, jaw chewing absentmindedly on a toothpick like it had done something to offend him.

He didn’t look at you. Not then.

But you looked at him.

And you kept looking.

⸻

Jay wasn’t the kind of boy you brought home.

He was the kind you watched from across the parking lot while pretending to count scratch-offs. The kind of boy your mama warned you about when she told you to keep your legs closed and your eyes down.

But you couldn’t help it.

He was loud and messy and wild in a way this place wasn’t. The kind of boy who’d get in a fistfight for fun and then kiss you in the fallout. He wore his meanness like cologne and spat sunflower seeds at your feet without saying sorry.

You didn’t know him. Not really.

But you wanted to.

⸻

You made a habit of knowing when he’d show up.

His truck would growl into the lot just after 7PM, rattling like it had a death wish. You’d hear it before you saw him, bass turned up too high, the windows rolled down even though the AC worked fine.

He always parked sideways like rules didn’t apply, and strolled in with two of his friends trailing behind him like bad ideas. His voice was always the loudest. Sharp, cutting, dipped in something vulgar and funny.

You kept your eyes low. Played it safe.

But you felt it.

The pull.

The ache.

The heat that bloomed somewhere just below your ribs and spread like spilled syrup when he walked too close, smelled like smoke and gasoline.

And you started dressing different.

Just a little.

Gloss on your lips. Baby tee tucked tight. A daisy clipped behind your ear.

All soft, sweet things.

Things you hoped he’d want to ruin.

⸻

One day, he looked at you.

Really looked.

You were leaning on the counter, chin in hand, flipping through a trashy tabloid when the bell jingled and Jay swaggered in alone. No friends this time. Just him and the thick heat and the sound of cicadas screaming outside.

You didn’t glance up fast enough.

But when you did—

He was already looking.

Right at you.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and lazy like he had nowhere to be. His smirk curled, and he walked right up to the counter, chewing on nothing, eyes half-lidded and cruel.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said.

You blinked. Swallowed.

“I work nights.”

“Shame,” he muttered, tapping the counter with a ringed finger. “Guess I’ve been missin’ out.”

Your face burned, but your voice stayed steady. “You want anything?”

He grinned. “Yeah. What’s your name?”

You told him.

He said it once, trying it out. “Pretty.”

You should’ve laughed.

Instead, you stared at the way his lip curled around the word, the way he leaned forward like he was gonna say something awful, something filthy, and you would’ve let him. You would’ve listened to every word.

But he just winked.

Grabbed a cherry soda from the fridge and left a crumpled dollar on the counter.

No change.

No goodbye.

You watched him walk out into the heat, long and golden and made of sharp edges.

You didn’t breathe for a whole minute.

⸻

You started writing about him in your journal.

Nothing serious.

Just little things.

Like the way he scratched the back of his neck when he was bored. Or how he always seemed to know when someone was watching him and looked smug about it. You wrote down the songs he played when his truck idled in the lot. You imagined what his voice would sound like in your bedroom, saying things you weren’t supposed to want to hear.

You didn’t love him.

You just wanted to kiss him so hard your teeth ached.

You just wanted to be his, even if only for a night.

⸻

Two weeks later, he showed up again.

This time, he leaned on the counter and said, “You ever been out to the creek?”

You blinked. “What creek?”

“The one past Miller’s farm. Little spot with the rope swing.” He smiled like he knew you wouldn’t say no. “You should come.

You didn’t ask why.

You just nodded, heart jackhammering against your ribs

.

“Tonight,” he said. “Ten sharp. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, you were his.

⸻

You told your mama you were staying at a friend’s.

Put on your shortest skirt. Slicked on lip gloss that tasted like strawberries and sin. Walked barefoot down the gravel path until his headlights found you.

He didn’t say hi.

Just opened the passenger door and looked you over like he’d won something.

You climbed in, silent and sweating.

The cab smelled like sweat and spearmint and a boy who never cared what time it was.

He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting just a little too close to your thigh.

The radio played something low and slurred, and he tapped the beat on his knee like he didn’t even notice you were staring at his hands.

You were.

You couldn’t stop.

⸻

The creek was quiet.

Moonlight hit the water in soft ribbons, and the trees whispered secrets to the wind.

He cut the engine and leaned back in his seat, one arm slung lazily behind your headrest.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You shrugged.

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You glanced at him.

His eyes glittered in the dark.

He grinned.

“You watch me a lot,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You think I didn’t notice? Thought it was cute.”

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.

He leaned in.

“Gotta admit,” he murmured, “I been watchin’ you too.”

You turned to him, lips parted, but he was already there—mouth on yours, hands rough on your hips, kiss sweet and sharp like peach candy and bad intentions.

It wasn’t gentle.

But it was good.

Too good.

And when he pulled back, eyes hooded, lips shiny, he whispered, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this.”

You didn’t say a word.

Just climbed into his lap and kissed him like you were starving.

⸻

You weren’t a good girl.

Not really.

You wore white dresses and said thank you and smiled at old ladies in church.

But under it all, you ached.

For him.

For something real.

And Jay?

He was real in all the worst, best ways.

He bit your bottom lip when you teased him. He pulled your hair when you got too mouthy. He kissed your neck like he was marking territory.

You let him.

You wanted him to.

⸻

You met like that every week.

Sometimes at the creek.

Sometimes behind the old laundromat where the lights flickered and the pavement smelled like bleach and burnt rubber.

He’d press you against brick walls and tell you how pretty you looked when you blushed. He’d call you baby and trouble and sweet thing like it meant something.

And God, it did.

To you, it meant everything.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

Not really.

But he called you his.

And when he drove you home with one hand gripping your thigh and the other curled around the wheel, you felt like you could die right then and be happy.

⸻

You never told anyone.

Not your friends. Not your mama. Not even yourself, not really.

Because to say it out loud would make it real.

And you weren’t sure you could survive that.

He was your secret.

Your summer sin.

The thing you prayed about in the quiet, trembling on your knees with dirty thoughts and clean hands.

You were the girl who watched him from afar and wanted him anyway.

And now?

Now he wanted you back.

⸻

Some nights, you still lie awake and think about the way his hands felt on your waist, the way he laughed like the world was ending and he didn’t care.

You think about the way he said your name—low, rough, reverent.

Like a prayer.

Like a promise.

Like you were something worth breaking for.

And maybe you were.

Maybe you still are.

2022 schlatt please save me. please save me 2022 schlatt. headband schlatt, if you can hear me. headband schlatt save me. save me 2022 schlatt please.

Big Bad John

Summary: In the town of Ghostridge, Georgia, Dollie Sheppard runs a quiet saloon where nothing ever really happens. That is until Big Bad John passes through town. He’s supposed to be a legend, a ghost story. But he’s real, he’s handsome, and nothing Dollie expected. With tensions rising, Dollie finds herself caught between the law, her past, and the man with a reputation that could ruin them both.

The Devil Went Down to Georgia ❀ Cowboy Like Me ❀✮ Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy ✮❥ But Daddy I Love Him ❀✮

“Saying me, me, me, me, me more cowboy than you!”

“Me More Cowboy Than You” by The Brudi Brothers

Divider: elleisdesigning

I'm not going to lie, I love writing long fics. I cannot for the life of me write one-shots. They always turn into longer fics. I wish I could write one-shots, but I physically cannot.

Cowboy schlatt PLEEASE!!!

Writings by zuzu had schlatt in their Don't get the blues series and I miss him, we weren't going for him at all, but him as a cocky gunslinger who's good with the kids in his small side of town...

YESS I can so imagine him being this big tough cowboy but he's really just a big softie.

COWBOY SCHLATT SMUT IS HERE 🙏

Big Bad John [Part 3] - Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

1,487 words Summary: Cowboy!Schlatt x original character. What the title says. NSFW / MDNI A/N: The smut took me forever to write. I’m no good at smut so if it’s bad, I’m sorry.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Divider: elleisdesigning

“And I was going, just about as far as she'd let me go

But her evaluation of my cowboy reputation

Had me begging for salvation all night long”

“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” by Big & Rich

Dollie lays in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The scene of John kissing her replays in her head. 

After the kiss, their conversation continued a bit before John called it a night and they returned to their rooms.

She's restless, constantly shifting positions to get comfortable, but to no avail. 

Finally, she gets up and goes into the hallway. A soft light coming from the kitchen casts shadows on the walls. Dollie turns the corner to see John sitting at her kitchen table, drinking out of a glass of water. 

“Couldn't sleep?” John asks as Dollie enters the room. 

“No,” Dollie says. “Kept tossin’ and turnin’. You?”

“Same,” John says. 

Dollie crosses over to her cabinets to grab a cup and fill it with water. She turns around to look at John as she leans against the counter. 

The two are silent for a moment. The tension of their kiss from earlier still twists in the air. She can still feel his lips on hers, the warmth of his hands still lingering on her skin. 

She knows he feels it, too - the ghost of the kiss shared between them, lingering in the silence.

John leans back in his chair, looking at Dollie. “So, that kiss,” he says. “You regret it?”

Dollie exhales, taking a sip of water before setting her cup down on the counter. “Do you?”

“No,” John says, sighing. “But I wonder if you should.”

Dollie cocks her head, a confused look on her face. “Why’s that?”

John looks away, shaking his head. “I ain’t a good man, Dollie,” he says. “I got a past full of trouble.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to be a saint, John,” Dollie says.

He looks back at her. “You should.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Dollie studies John for a moment - his hands make fists at his side and his jaw is clenched.

She scoffs. “You think I ain’t been hurt before?”

“Not the way I mean,” John says.

She walks over to the table, placing her hand on the table in front of him and leaning over him. “You keep talkin’ like you got some kinda say in what I do, John. Like you get to decide what’s best for me.”

His gaze flickers at her. “Maybe I ain’t got no say,” he says. “But that ain’t stoppin’ me from carin’.”

Dollie stills at that. He said it so simply. Like she hadn’t heard that from men like him - men who come and go and don’t leave much behind but their shadows. 

She watches him, how he won’t quite meet her gaze, like he’s waiting for her to call him a liar. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she takes another step closer, standing between his knees.

“John,” she says, her voice a little softer now. “You really think I’m scared of a bit of trouble?”

John finally looks into her eyes, his lip twitching slightly, like he wants to smile, but won’t let himself. “Ain’t a little trouble I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

Dollie tilts her head, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe I don’t care.”

John exhales slowly, his hands making their way to her waist. “You should,” he murmurs, but there’s no longer any weight behind his words.

Dollie smirks. “You keep sayin’ that, but you ain’t exactly pushin’ me away.”

John chuckles. “I’m not,” he says.

A quiet moment passes between them and John pulls her in a bit closer.

Dollie’s fingers travel along his jaw, tracing patterns in his thick mutton chops. “You gonna kiss me again, cowboy?”

John doesn’t respond - at least not with words.

He reaches up to cup her cheek, pulling her toward him. Their lips meet in a slow, deliberate kiss like they know they shouldn’t be doing this but can’t bring themselves to stop.

Dollie sighs into his lips, her fingers tightening against the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss. His other hand slides up her back, holding her in place as if she’ll slip away.

“Dollie,” John breathes. 

“Yes, John?” Dollie asks, pulling away from his mouth.

John looks her up and down. “Can we please go to my room?”

Dollie nods.

John moves quickly to scoop Dollie off her feet bridal-style. Dollie giggles as he carries her to his room, nudging the door open with his boot and gently setting her down on the bed. But there’s nothing gentle about the way his lips find hers again - desperate, urgent. 

His hands roam her body with reverence and hunger, like he’s trying to memorize her by touch alone. 

“Dollie,” he breathes as he kisses down her jaw and neck. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

Dollie laces her fingers into his hair, pulling him back up to her lips. “Then show me.”

That’s all he needs.

John smirks. He slips off her nightgown, tossing it away as he pushes her back against the mattress, his weight pressing into the creaky bed. He starts to unbutton his shirt while Dollie fumbles with his belt buckle.

He pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, revealing a body marked by a life on the run - scarred, tanned, and worn in the only way real cowboys are. He then helps Dollie with the belt buckle before throwing his belt across the room and pulling off his jeans and boots. 

Dollie looks up at the man in front of her, admiring him.

John chuckles, noticing her stare. “Ain’t much to look at, I’m afraid,” he says.

“You’re beautiful,” Dollie says. And she means it. Every inch of him is something she wants to explore - to cherish.

John moves to press his weight into the bed once more. “You’re killin’ me,” he says, half in awe, half in agony. “I ain’t ever wanted somethin’ like I want you.”

Their lips crash into each other again. John’s hands rub tiny circles into Dollie’s hip.

Dollie slips a finger into the waistband of John’s boxers. “Take these off,” she breathes.

He does as she tells him, his hard cock bobbing up as he does so. His hands slide down her body to do the same to her.

When their lips meet once more, there's a beat of stillness. No bravado, no games. Just John and Dollie together as if it was always meant to be that way. 

John lines up with her entrance and thrusts into her. Dollie gasps at the feeling of him filling her up. 

When he moves inside her, it's slow and deliberate - like he's savoring each second, like this may be the only time they do this. His breath stutters against her neck as he rocks into her. 

“God, Dollie,” he moans. “I ain't gonna last.”

“You don't have to,” Dollie says. “Just stay with me.”

And he does. Every touch, every kiss, every gasp is full of the kind of need that borders on devotion. 

They move together as if they've done this hundred times before in a dream. Like fate brought John into the saloon for them to find each other. 

John gives his last few thrusts through both of their climaxes, pulling out and laying down next to Dollie. He places his head on her chest. Dollie moves a hand to his head, scratching it gently. 

The room is quiet except for the sounds of their quiet breathing - slow and uneven as if they're trying to come back to earth. 

Eventually, they both drift off to sleep, wrapped up in each other's arms. 

The next morning, the sound of frantic knocking wakes up Dollie. She pushes John off of her, quickly slips her clothes back on, and gets up to walk over to her door. 

She opens the door and Charlie comes stumbling in - his eyes wide and body trembling. 

“Charlie, what is it?” Dollie asks, reaching out to steady him. 

“Your father,” he gasps, catching his breath. “He uh - he found out about John stayin’ here. He's not happy about it. Says he's on his way.”

“Shit,” Dollie breathes. “Shit, shit shit.”

She rushes over to John's room to wake him. 

“John, you need to leave,” she says. 

John sits up, trying to gather his clothes and groggily puts them on. “Why? Was last night that bad?” he asks, chuckling a bit. 

Dollie stares at him. If she wasn't so terrified of her father, maybe she'd laugh too. “It was amazing, John. But seriously, you need to get out. My father found out that you're here.”

John's eyes widen, he starts to move faster, trying to get his clothes on. 

But it's not enough. 

When Dollie opens the door to let John leave, her dad is standing on the other side. 

Previous Part

Good GOD

I need a movie/show/fanfic about Bucky being in congress right NOW.

No fighting or anything, just him fucking around and being a regular congressman. Day in the life of Senator Barnes perhaps.

I finally finished the first part of my cowboy!schlatt fic. Rejoice. 🙏

Big Bad John [Part 1] - The Devil Went Down to Georgia

Summary: Cowboy!Schlatt x original character.  A/N: Brain worms got me. 😔✊ Divider: elleisdesigning

In the old town of Ghostridge, Georgia, nothing ever really happened for someone like Dollie Sheppard. She ran the town's saloon after her grandfather died. Most of her days were spent pouring drinks and dealing with the occasional rowdy drunkard. Folks passed through her saloon all the time telling stories about outlaws, shootouts, and menacing figures that haunted the West like ghosts. But in the quiet town of Ghostridge, Dollie didn’t witness any of that herself.

There was one outlaw in particular that Dollie heard the name of a lot: Jonathan Schlatt. Most folks called him “Big Bad John.” He was the kind of legend that made men shiver and women clutch their children a little tighter.

They say he comes into town dressed in all black, his gun visible at his side. Some even claim he’s killed several people, but no one ever says the same number - it’s always either two, five, or even thirty.

Dollie doesn’t believe in fairytales, and sure as hell doesn’t believ in ghost stories. Hell, she’s not sure “Big Bad John” even exists. Folks come into her saloon spouting phony make-believe over a glass of whiskey all the time. 

That was, until he walked right into her saloon saloon.

One moment, she’s standing behind the bar, polishing glasses while making small talk with Ol’ Charlie. The next, the doors to her saloon fly open and a man scrambles in, his eyes wide and full of terror.

“It’s him! It’s Big Bad John!” the man shouts.

Panic spread through the saloon like wildfire. Chairs scrape against floor as men try to hide under tables. A few darted for the exit, practically tripping over themselves in their haste. The only ones who didn’t move are Dollie and Charlie.

Dollie scoffed, arms crossed over her chest. “Y’all really believe that nonsense?” she asks. 

No one said a word. 

Then, she heard it. Heavy boots against the wooden planks of the saloon floor. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man who wasn’t in a rush, because he didn’t need to be.

Dollie lifted her gaze as the man entered her saloon.

He was tall, at least a foot taller than her, and built like a man who’d spent his years taming the land rather than letting it tame him. Dressed in dark jeans, a belt with a large silver buckle, and a maroon button-up beneath a black vest, he carried himself with the kind of ease that only came with experience. A long black leather coat hung from his shoulders, dust clinging to the edges like he’d ridden through hell and back to get here. A black cowboy hat cast a shadow over his face, but when he stepped fully into the light, Dollie caught sight of sharp brown eyes and neatly trimmed mutton chops.

Something about his demeanor makes Dollie freeze for a moment.  Was this actually Big Bad John? He looked dangerous. But not in the way people had described. He wasn’t the monster they had painted in their stories—he was something else entirely.

She stood behind the bar, watching him closely as he makes his way to the bar and sits down. He reaches for his hat, taking it off and setting it on the counter. 

“What can I get for ya?” Dollie asks.

The man looks up at Dollie. She feels captivated by his good looks.

“Whiskey, neat,” he says.

“Coming right up,” she says, reaching for a glass and pouring the man a whiskey. She slides the glass across the counter to him. “There you are. Enjoy.” She smiles at him.

Dollie goes back to polishing glasses and speaking to Charlie. Slowly, the other saloon patrons go back to whatever they were doing before this mysterious cowboy entered the saloon.

“Can I get another?” The cowboy asks. 

Dollie pours him another. “So, cowboy, where ya from?” she asks. 

“All over,” he says. 

Dollie nods, not pressing. “And your name?” she asks. 

“That a habit of yours? Getting to know every man who walks through that door?” 

Dollie looks him in the eye. “Just want to get to know who’s sitting in my saloon,” she says. 

“Your saloon?” he asks. “You run this place?”

“Indeed, I do,” she says. “Now, are you going to tell me your name or what?”

He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Jonathan Schlatt,” he says. “But most call me John.”

“Like Big Bad John?” Charlie pipes up.

John chuckles. “Yes, like Big Bad John - if that's what they're calling me,” he says. 

“Well, welcome to my saloon,” Dollie says. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem so big and bad to me.”

John chuckles. “Is that so?”

“If I believed all the stories, I’d be shaking in my boots right now,” Dollie says. “But you’re just another man looking for a drink, huh?”

John lets out a low chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the right time to prove ‘em right.”

Dollie doesn’t flinch. “If you were going to prove ‘em right, I figured you would’ve done it by now.”

John smiles. “Smart lady.”

Charlie let out a laugh. “I like this one, Dollie. Seems like he’s got some sense.”

John tipped his glass toward the man. “I try.”

Dollie leaned forward, placing her elbows on the bar. “So, tell me, John. How does a man get a reputation like yours?”

John exhales. “People like to talk. Sometime’s a story is better than the truth.”

She considers this. “I get that,” she says.

The the three of them - Dollie, John, and Charlie - talk until Dollie closes the saloon. Charlie eventually heads out, but John stays.

“So, where can a man get a place to sleep around here?” he asks.

“Well, there is an inn down the road, but they may not let you in. Not too many folks like ‘Big Bad John’ around here,” she chuckles.

John chuckles as well. “I guess that’s true.”

The two are quiet for a moment before Dollie gets an idea.

“You know,” she says. “You could stay here. I live above the saloon. There’s a spare room.”

“That would be nice,” John says. 

“Alright, follow me, then,” Dollie says before leading John upstairs.

Big Bad John [Part 1] - The Devil Went Down to Georgia

1,040 words Summary: Cowboy!Schlatt x original character. Dollie gets an unexpected guest in her saloon. A/N: Brain worms got me. 😔✊

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

Divider: elleisdesigning

“Nobody seemed to know where John called home

He just drifted into town and stayed all alone

He didn't say much, he kinda quiet and shy

And if you spoke at all, he just said, "Hi" to Big John"

“Big Bad John” by Jimmy Dean

In the old town of Ghostridge, Georgia, nothing ever really happened for someone like Dollie Sheppard. She ran the town's saloon after her grandfather died. Most of her days were spent pouring drinks and dealing with the occasional rowdy drunkard. Folks passed through her saloon all the time telling stories about outlaws, shootouts, and menacing figures that haunted the West like ghosts. But in the quiet town of Ghostridge, Dollie didn’t witness any of that herself.

There was one outlaw in particular that Dollie heard the name of a lot: Jonathan Schlatt. Most folks called him “Big Bad John.” He was the kind of legend that made men shiver and women clutch their children a little tighter.

They say he comes into town dressed in all black, his gun visible at his side. Some even claim he’s killed several people, but no one ever says the same number - it’s always either two, five, or even thirty.

Dollie doesn’t believe in fairytales, and sure as hell doesn’t believe in ghost stories. Hell, she’s not sure “Big Bad John” even exists. Folks come into her saloon spouting phony make-believe over a glass of whiskey all the time. 

That was, until he walked right into her saloon.

One moment, she’s standing behind the bar, polishing glasses while making small talk with Ol’ Charlie. The next, the doors to her saloon fly open and a man scrambles in, his eyes wide and full of terror.

“It’s him! It’s Big Bad John!” the man shouts.

Panic spread through the saloon like wildfire. Chairs scrape against the floor as men try to hide under tables. A few darted for the exit, practically tripping over themselves in their haste. The only ones who didn’t move were Dollie and Charlie.

Dollie scoffed, arms crossed over her chest. “Y’all really believe that nonsense?” she asks. 

No one said a word. 

Then, she heard it. Heavy boots against the wooden planks of the saloon floor. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man who wasn’t in a rush, because he didn’t need to be.

Dollie lifted her gaze as the man entered her saloon.

He was tall, at least a foot taller than her, and built like a man who’d spent his years taming the land rather than letting it tame him. Dressed in dark jeans, a belt with a large silver buckle, and a maroon button-up beneath a black vest, he carried himself with the kind of ease that only came with experience. A long black leather coat hung from his shoulders, dust clinging to the edges like he’d ridden through hell and back to get here. A black cowboy hat cast a shadow over his face, but when he stepped fully into the light, Dollie caught sight of sharp brown eyes and neatly trimmed mutton chops.

Something about his demeanor makes Dollie freeze for a moment.  Was this actually Big Bad John? He looked dangerous. But not in the way people had described. He wasn’t the monster they had painted in their stories - he was something else entirely.

She stood behind the bar, watching him closely as he made his way to the bar and sat down. He reaches for his hat, taking it off and setting it on the counter. 

“What can I get for ya?” Dollie asks.

The man looks up at Dollie. She feels captivated by his good looks.

“Whiskey, neat,” he says.

“Coming right up,” she says, reaching for a glass and pouring the man a whiskey. She slides the glass across the counter to him. “There you are. Enjoy.” She smiles at him.

Dollie goes back to polishing glasses and speaking to Charlie. Slowly, the other saloon patrons go back to whatever they were doing before this mysterious cowboy entered the saloon.

“Can I get another?” The cowboy asks. 

Dollie pours him another. “So, cowboy, where ya from?” she asks. 

“All over,” he says. 

Dollie nods, not pressing. “And your name?” she asks. 

“That a habit of yours? Getting to know every man who walks through that door?” 

Dollie looks him in the eye. “Just want to get to know who’s sitting in my saloon,” she says. 

“Your saloon?” he asks. “You run this place?”

“Indeed, I do,” she says. “Now, are you going to tell me your name or what?”

He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Jonathan Schlatt,” he says. “But most call me John.”

“Like Big Bad John?” Charlie pipes up.

John chuckles. “Yes, like Big Bad John - if that's what they're calling me,” he says. 

“Well, welcome to my saloon,” Dollie says. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem so big and bad to me.”

John chuckles. “Is that so?”

“If I believed all the stories, I’d be shaking in my boots right now,” Dollie says. “But you’re just another man looking for a drink, huh?”

John lets out a low chuckle. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the right time to prove ‘em right.”

Dollie doesn’t flinch. “If you were going to prove ‘em right, I figured you would’ve done it by now.”

John smiles. “Smart lady.”

Charlie let out a laugh. “I like this one, Dollie. Seems like he’s got some sense.”

John tipped his glass toward the man. “I try.”

Dollie leaned forward, placing her elbows on the bar. “So, tell me, John. How does a man get a reputation like yours?”

John exhales. “People like to talk. Sometimes a story is better than the truth.”

She considers this. “I get that,” she says.

The three of them - Dollie, John, and Charlie - talk until Dollie closes the saloon. Charlie eventually heads out, but John stays.

“So, where can a man get a place to sleep around here?” he asks.

“Well, there is an inn down the road, but they may not let you in. Not too many folks like ‘Big Bad John’ around here,” she chuckles.

John chuckles as well. “I guess that’s true.”

The two are quiet for a moment before Dollie gets an idea.

“You know,” she says. “You could stay here. I live above the saloon. There’s a spare room.”

“That would be nice,” John says. 

“Alright, follow me, then,” Dollie says before leading John upstairs.

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