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aspiring-house-husband · 3 months

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…oh. my god. this may be one of the longest things i’ve ever written. you want some sub/top regency kink a/b/o? you want some heat-fucking? you want some knotting? have i got a treat for you.

normally, a king would be proud to have all alpha sons. a sign of a strong bloodline, strong heirs. dominance and assurance in the future.

this king was not proud. he was scared. all three sons were alphas- his daughters, too. every child an alpha. what would normally be a strength was a curse, as it could not help him now.

there was a young king, butting up against their border. what had once thought to be a nuisance or even a weakness, their young king was new, inexperienced, unknown. but when the kingdom opposite this royal alpha’d family attempted to take advantage of the young and inexperienced king, their kingdom fell. the young king’s empire grew. as did his army, and his power. and his bloodlust.

he crushed a revolt, only a year later, from his conquested kingdom’s militia. he carved out pieces from his eastern and western borders. through every battle, every negotiation, every victory, he proved that his blade, tongue, and mind were equally sharp. he was accruing power at a rate that made long-standing reigns weary.

the kingdom he inherited by blood adored him. those kingdoms he conquered respected him. those kingdoms bordering him were terrified.

the alpha king, of an alpha queen, with five alpha children, desperately wanted to avoid war. an ally was preferred to an enemy, and he saw what happened to kingdoms who resisted. peace was preferred, and what better way than offering a spouse to the young king, preferably an omega to be controlled and toyed with, so that the kingdom could remain uncontrolled, untouched?

his youngest son, his sweet prince. an alpha, but the most likely to submit to a young but obviously alpha king. he was dressed in ceremonial cloth and jewels and taken to the young king. the prince was stunned by the beauty of the king… but not the ruggedness the prince expected. he was not a muscular and scarred military man with blood splattered across his chest, but instead a small man with legs crossed and his chin resting, bored, in his palm. soft hair framed a curious expression around bright, curious eyes.

“young alpha prince,” the king says, the corners of his lips only barely tugging into a smile, “welcome to my kingdom. welcome to my home.”

the prince kneels before the king and bows, touching his head to the floor, his robes pooled around him on the tiled floor as a great island of nobility. he stays as the king stands, graceful steps taking him to the prince.

“quite generous of your father, sending me a toy of such noble stature.” the king circles him, his gaze drinking in the prince. “stand.”

the prince does as ordered and raises his chin. he finds the king slightly shorter than him. “an alpha, i smell. tell me, are you afraid of me?”

the prince lets his gaze flick to the king, who still circles like a predator.

“majesty, i will regard you however it is you should require me to,” the prince responds, and the king finally smiles full and across his face, but his eyes are dark. he comes to stand in front of the prince, and lifts a hand to his face, but stops just short of touching.

“may i?” he asks, and the prince hesitates in surprise at the question before nodding. the king’s hand is warm as it slowly cups his face.

“have the prince shown to his quarters and dressed,” the king addresses his men without breaking eye contact with the prince. “return him to me once he is settled in.”

the prince marvels at his living space. it has high ceilings and double paned windows that face the western skies, a plush bed larger than the one he’d had at home, and a bath with working plumbing. the hearth was alive with warm fire when he arrived, and two servants awaited to help him dress and fetch him food. not even as the prince of his kingdom had he ever felt so taken care of, so privileged. only when his handmen showed him to his wardrobe did he feel again like a plaything. his closet was not befitting a prince- it suited a concubine. hardly covering cloth draped from metal chains and jewels, his dignity spared by only a few inches. he chose the outfit that covered the most of his skin, but even that wasn’t much, and what it hardly covered could still be seen through the fabric.

“do you know what the king wants of me?” he asked one of his handmaidens, and she shook her head.

“i’ve long stopped questioning his intention. he hasn’t lead us wrong yet. he did order, though, that robes be made available to you, if your decency was less than to your liking.” she opened yet another wardrobe, and the prince sighed in relief that he could at least drape a large fur cloak over himself before he was sent before the king.

he wasn’t led back to the throne room, as he had expected. instead he was taken to an office study, where the king sat hunched at the end of a long dark wood table over maps and other papers. he took a seat at the king’s left and dared not look at the scribblings, lest he be reprimanded for curiosity above his station.

“your father is a smart man.” the king breaks the silence. “even being so far from the throne, he would’ve prepared you, yes?”

“Yes, highness,” the prince responds.

“Perhaps you will notice something i haven’t. this river isn’t supposed to flood- it never did, during my mother’s reign. but it has thrice in mine, and i can’t work out why. each time it floods, it destroys homes, and i can’t have that any longer.”

the prince sits in stunned silence before he responds.

“you’re asking… my opinion, sire?”

“why wouldn’t i? a pretty face does not a lesser mind make.”

the prince can only be glad his complexion hides blushes before he leans in to study the maps.

the royals emerge hours later with flood plane maps and funding plans for village relocation drawn up. the king takes the hand of the prince and sends him back to his chambers, but not without first again holding his face.

“my pet, from now on,” he says, his smile unexpectedly fond, “sit at my right hand.”

the bed is too plush for the prince; he cannot stop his mind from wandering. the king was not at all what he had expected. not just small and soft, beautiful and graceful instead of rugged and rough, but also kind, generous. though the prince was rarely called anything but ‘toy’, ‘pet’, ‘gift’, he was treated like not only a royal but a confidant, an advisor. the touches that he had expected from his new king had never come, and those that did were only soft enough to make him desire more. and his plush pillows were no help, hugged into the curve of his frame and just the right plushness. it made him buck before falling asleep. made him grind as he woke. made him whimper through his dreams of serving the king as he once thought he would be required to.

“highness,” the prince begins one morning, over breakfast. “is there anything more i could be doing for you?”

“for me?” the king asks, setting down his utensils and locking his fingers together, resting his chin to his knuckles and his elbows to the table. “how so?”

“i am but to serve you,” says the prince, “it is my purpose, my life. if there would ever be anything more you need from me, you need only ask.”

he couldn’t be sure, but the prince swore he smelled an arousal spike, and for the first time it made him wonder at the king’s designation. all had assumed him an alpha, but not once had the prince smelled an alpha scent from him. until this moment, in fact, not a scent at all… his eyes drifted to the metal chains that wrapped his neck with links and leather. the prince has assumed these pieces armor, but maybe they were more. maybe they hid the king’s scent.

“you are servant to me,” echos the king, fondness in his voice and tugging at the end of his lips. “you believe so?”

“i am lost to it,” says the prince, wishing he could take back how his voice cracked. too many times recently had he been erect in the presence of the king, his only disguise being his fur cloaks. too many time had he woken up dripping with the idea of the king ordering him around, owning him the way he truly was owned.

“very well,” says the king, and he stands from his breakfast. “walk with me.” the prince gladly does so, half a pace behind the king.

“with honesty, i have been waiting,” he says, hands clasped at his back. “when i took you as my own, i wanted it to be of your choice. i couldn’t help but be impatient.”

the king’s chamber door opened into a small room first, empty but for light furniture. this is where the king turned to the prince, hopping up onto a table top to sit nearly the same height as the prince.

“touch me,” he says, his voice not even close to hard enough for it to be an order. the prince obeys nonetheless, his fingers rising up the king’s sides to tease his tunic over his head. still, the leather and link around the king’s neck remains. the prince moans with the skin revealed to him, and breathes out raggedly.

“you mustnt tell anyone,” the king says, and the prince blindly nods without knowing what he was meant to keep secret, far too focused on exploring the king with his hands and the way the king’s legs have latched into him and knocked the fur cloak from his body. he manages, though, to follow the king’s hands to the armor around his neck, and a few seconds later the armor falls to his lap.

the prince’s head spins. not only was the king’s scent entirely new to him, new and perfect, but it was omega scent. it was omega, and aroused, and strong, and so incredibly sweet smelling that it must’ve been crafted just for him. if he hadn’t been hard, he would’ve swelled to full size from the smell alone.

“don’t be dumbfounded,” the king says, “i know i’m an omega, but that’s why i’m so strong in battle, so people-“

“i don’t care,” says the prince, diving his face to the king’s neck and scooping the king by the legs into his arms, “i don’t care what people assume about you. you smell so good, highness, that i wouldn’t care if they all were watching us, right now.”

the king moaned and held onto the prince as he opened the door to the king’s bedroom. he had never seen it before, and now he could guess why- the scent of omega, aroused and needy, hung heavy in the air. the prince placed the king down in his bed, which now that he could see, he could tell was filled with pillows and blankets, woven into a perfect nest. still he did not leave the king’s neck, salivating over the scent that made his head spin. he lathered open-mouthed kisses along his neck, scraping his teeth over the omega’s scent gland and prompting a wanton moan straight from the prince’s dreams. the prince cursed under his breath and unthinkingly thrusted his hips, his thin clothing doing nothing to hide either his arousal or the sensation of grinding against the warmth of the king’s body.

“pet,” says the king, breathing ragged but hands still strong as he holds the prince away from him, just enough. “undress me, pet.” the prince didn’t nod, didn’t hesitate, just pushed the king onto his back and grabbed his waistband, lifting his hips as he yanked downward. he did it with ferocity, desperation, and hardly had the mind to hear the king’s chuckle over the sight he was greeted with. the king’s hole was nothing short of everything he’d dreamed of in every rut-fevered sleep, soft and wet and warm, so wet he was dripping. the scent was strong and still so sweet, tuned to his nose alone, like it was made for him. he kneeled before his king and held onto his thighs, sliding forward, but the king closed his legs and trapped the prince just beyond his knees.

“my king?” he asked, desperate eyes looking up at the king as his chest heaved. was this what catching an omega’s heat felt like? he had rut before, but this was different, like he was driven by something external and so ravenous that he could devour the king. but he didn’t smell heat, as he had before from his oldest brother’s wife. the sticky sweet smell wasn’t among the king’s scent, his beautiful dripping warm and wet and soft scent. this feeling was all his own, without heat, without rut. he was this pathetically desperate, all his own.

the king had sat up, and finally his hands pet through the prince’s hair, held his jaw.

“put your mouth to me, pet,” says the king, “your lips, your tongue. and don’t emerge until you’ve tasted my high and swallowed it. don’t come out of it until you’ve smeared yourself in my slick and no one will be able to even smell your breath without knowing i’ve been on your tongue.”

with an unprompted moan the king falls back down into his bed and opened his legs for the prince, who presses the king’s thighs further open and eats like a starving animal. he nearly cums through his clothes at the taste, his cock strained and weeping and impossibly, painfully hard. he does not spare a hand for himself, too focused on the king’s bucking hips, his loud moan whenever he sucked against the king’s cock, the way his moans cracked and whimpered when he dove his tongue deep. to his surprise, it doesn’t take long; the king clamps down around his tongue and bathes his face in the smells of satisfaction and warmth and arousal and most of all, need.

the prince feels like a wild animal rising from his kill, his face dripping and his breathing rough. the king looks upon him with pleasure, his breath hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“toy, love,” says the king, barely untangling his fingers from where they had gripped into his bedsheets, “i had planned to do a lot of walking tomorrow. force me to change my plans.”

the prince shivers and undresses himself quickly. the clothing he wore couldve easily been torn, or even pulled to the side, but he took the time to yank them from his body, catching sight of his own cock for the first time that morning. he was surprised to notice an angry, throbbing knot- he had rut?

his hesitation catches the attention of the king, who sits up enough to see the knot, and his moan is nothing but heavenly as he falls to the bed again.

“i’ll milk that best if you’ve had me twice more,” promises the king. “get me there, toy.”

thrusting into the king nearly had him over the edge, but he couldn’t swell his knot without being deep inside the king, without satisfying his orders. he had to control himself, had to fuck into the king’s sloppy, throbbing, hot and wet hole without losing himself to it, but it felt like a pointless battle. he was too far gone, the scent of omega burning in his nose and making his eyes half lid, his hips snapping into the king and pulling back only halfway before impacting with the king’s tightly wrapped legs before thrusting deep again.

he growled in dissatisfaction—not the right angle, not deep enough, not lewd enough moans from the king—and pulled out to flip the king onto his stomach, pulling his hips back, and thrusting in. the noise he pulled from his omega was high-pitched and filthy, and the prince’s gaze moves between the hungry and soaking wet hole that suckles against his knot with every thrust, and the blissful expression and soft, drooling lips of the king, pressed into his bedsheets.

he barely notices as the king gets tighter, and tighter, before he clamps down again and screams, his voice broken but loud, catching and announcing every shudder, pulse, tremble, twitch, broken with soft words the prince could barely hear, words as “toy,” and “love,” and “yes,” and “pet,” and, the worst of them all, the one that had him throbbing, “alpha.”

the prince pulls out to flip the king over again. he is pliant and panting, flushed down the front of his body and looking up at the prince with undisguised adoration, obsession, lust. the prince has to look away to focus; he wants nothing more than to be inside the king and satisfy him again, but he needs to make it better. the nest he had crawled into is well constructed, and he wouldn’t dare rip at the pillows built into walls, but there is one that doesn’t seem to be for either structure or for laying heads on, one that seems thick enough. he lifts the king and lays the pillow under his back, propping up his hips to the prince, splaying his thighs open to show the soaked and reddened, throbbing, abused hole. the prince has to break his own hypnosis to move his eyes away and back to the king.

he crawls up, cock hard beneath him, and for the first time kisses the king, their mouths dancing together, tongues tangling and teeth clacking. he sinks into the king’s hole like he belongs there, lined up perfectly and finding no resistance. the king moans into his mouth and his arms come up around the prince, nails latching to his back.

“knot me,” begs the king, his ankles locking behind the prince. “knot me full, take me, mark me deep.”

the words were pleas, not orders, but the prince obeys without question. he thrusts into the king with what feels like every ounce of power in his body, deep and fast and strong. his body is alight- every sensation his to memorize. the sting of his omega’s nails on his shoulder blades. the lustful moans just next to his ear. the near-stickiness as their bodies part before coming together again. the warmth of his omega’s body. the heavenly softness of his hole. every sensation, his, and too easy to burn into his mind forever. his omega begins to tighten, to whimper, his moans sliding higher pitched, and the prince keeps his same pace, desperate to please and to do as the king ordered. the king does not cum, yet, holds himself with tension in every muscle and teeth bared.

“knot me, alpha,” he whispers, eyes bright and hungry. “so deep your seed will never find its way back out.”

the prince drops his gaze to where they meet, his knot nestled against the king’s entrance, and he lifts himself so that he can hold onto the king’s hips. he stares at the fluttering muscle of the king’s body, trying to suck him deeper, trying to be one with him, and his mind swims. still, he pulls, strong and slowly pulling the king toward him as he pushes his hips closer. the king breathes shallow, unable to see where they meet and so watching the prince, pliant and soft and beautiful as the prince guides them together. he pulls with more strength, grits his teeth, pushes forward until they snap together, knocking the prince onto his elbows again, face inches away from the king’s, who looks lustful but bewildered, as though he has looked upon heaven for the first time.

“alpha,” he breathes, unfocused eyes finally moving to the prince. “my alpha.”

“my omega,” answers the prince, and he kisses him deeply.

he rocks his hips gently, unable to move the knot but just enough to pull the climax they had both been seconds from. it crashes over the king, who thrashes and screams, and washes over the prince, who collapses and spills. he can feel them throbbing in time, his omega’s hole milking him, pulling everything from him. they bask in it for an eternity, unable to move, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe. finally, the king touches his face again.

“my pet, from now on,” he says, his eyes unfocused and body still trembling, “sleep in my bed. never leave my side. never let me be without you.”

“i am servant to you,” the prince echoes the king’s words of hours ago. “i am whatever you require.”

“whatever i require?” the king repeats, his eyes lazing closed, blissful enough in his knotting and his alpha’s rut to fall asleep, still clamped around a knot and milking it gently. “you are mine.”

the prince no longer felt the need to wear his fur cloaks. whatever skin that the kingdom could see was marked with the king’s adoration, scratches and bites and hickeys decorating every bit of his body. he fetched the king breakfast and helped him dress, but equally undressed him around hallway corners and beneath banquet tables. he let the stuck-up old nobles turn up their noses at his hard cock trapped beneath only shear fabric, all thoughts of embarrassment wiped away by the soft touch of his king, squeezing him and reminding him of the privilege only he wields.

an alpha prince, servant to an omega king. a pet for pleasure and a lover. a toy.

#a/b/o #og #story #non monster #prince #public #heat

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orchidyoonkook · 1 year

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To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 1

Title: Assembly’s and Introductions

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Mild Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: There’s a new kid at your prestigious university, he’s tall, tattooed and muscular, and oh yeah, he’s the Prince.

Warnings: PG13, mild swearing, a general ‘lets get the ball rolling’ first chapter

Word Count: 5410

Release Date: January 26, 2023, 12:40PM

A/N 1: I’ve been working on this since September 2022, got 80K in, and have accidentally taken an extended break from Dec 1st until now. I need a kick in the pants to continue writing it so here’s the first chapter. I hope you enjoy as I have read this about 400 times and I’m sick of editing it.

A/N 1.5: it’s pronounced ‘Nehl” not “Neal”

“Come on, come ooooon!!” Yuri says as she drags you by one arm down the corridor, the other filled with books and study notes. You’re being dragged from your mid morning study session and she's starting to stretch your favourite sweater from how hard she’s pulling.

Slipping from her grasp to save it from any permanent damage, Yuri uses her new freedom to take the lead.

“Not everyone cares as much about this as you do,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I get you’re here because your parents put you here but I worked for it. I can’t just abandon my study plans for some guy,” voice echoing in the corridor as you succeed in keeping up with her quick pace.

Yuri mocks your words in gibberish, matching your tone, just more nasally.

She’s heard this hundreds of times since becoming your best friend in first year after being assigned your roommate. She may force you to go to places and parties you don’t find nearly as important as she does, but you also know she’s the only reason you’ve had any fun since starting university.

That doesn’t deter you though.

“I’m serious,” you insist, refusing to back down.

A look you know well flashes over her face. One that’s a mixture of absurdity and exhaustion— specifically at you.

“You know, sometimes I can’t even believe we’re friends. He’s not just some guy YN,” she looks over her shoulder to make eye contact. “He's the prince.”

Ah yes, the prince.

How could you be so foolish?

The fancy name given to the poor bastard who doesn’t get to decide his future—or work for it for that matter. Just has it handed to him because he was born at the right place, right time.

The prince who’ll be king to the biggest nation in the west one day.

The prince everyone freaks out over.

Sure, he’s cute enough, and will eventually have lots of money and power, because those are so important for someone like him.

But what’s money and power if you’re miserable or an asshole or you don’t know what to do with it? What’s money and power for someone who’s never known poverty and helplessness?

The title of Prince means nothing if you don’t earn it. Means nothing if you don’t know how to use it properly.

Who knows if this one does? So why should you particularly care?

Unfortunately, most people can’t get past the ‘young, handsome, future king of the Western Shores, hunk-a-hunk of dreamy’—blah, blah, blah, the media splatters over every magazine cover they possibly can, earning the prince a hefty social following of adoring, screaming—slightly brain dead if you had any say about it— ‘followers’ aka fans.

And Yuri, like every other girl on campus, is one of them. Minus the brain dead and screaming.

Well…Sort of minus the screaming.

She has screamed, in the past at least. So maybe just minus the brain dead part…

Anyways, she’s grabbing your wrist and you sigh, wringing yourself free of her near iron grip, again. But you can’t blame her.

Yuri’s focused on one thing, and one thing only.

And it’s beginning in 15 minutes.

“Plus I want good seats!”

You scoff.

“He’s just a person, Yuri. I get he’s got an important title and fancy job, but that’s all that separates him from us.”

She glares at you as you reach the courtyard of your school.

Trees surround the perimeter in evenly placed lines, a large running fountain at its center. There’s plenty of open grass space the students use to study, picnic or throw a ball around on. And its cobblestone walkways are currently covered in rows upon rows of filled up seats.

Most of those filled seats are in the middle though, which surprises you. You would’ve thought girls would be lining up at the front row to see their prince.

“Yeah, just the title and fancy job,” Yuri says, taking her turn to scoff and opens her hand to count on her fingers. “Let's not count the fact that he’s insanely hot—have you seen his body? His face? Or what of the land he’ll inherit on top of the land he already owns? And money! Can’t forget that. Or clothes. Not enough? I can keep going,” she switches to her other hand. “How about control over the largest kingdom in The West? They don't call him ‘Prince of the Western Shores’ for nothing, Sweets. Also the mass of adoring fans, security and advisors following his every move, nice cars, fancy vacation houses…should I keep going?”

You’re pretty sure she only stopped because she ran out of fingers and you don’t deign her with a reply. Yuri seems content to have made her point and she did.

But you’d never admit that to her. Instead you keep walking, taking in the sights around you.

Your school is The Royal Academy of Business and Fine Arts. Anyone can study here if they have the cash, or the brains, though one method is much more abused than the other.

It’s one of the most prestigious schools in the world because it’s where nearly every royal on this half of the continent goes to university. Hence the “Royal'' in the title.

Ladys, lords, dukes, duchesses, princesses and yes, princes all go here—are most of your classmates, actually. But there is only one prince everyone cares about. The one who, in the next few short years, will not only be at your school for whatever it is his father deems appropriate for him to study in his post secondary education, but the one who is also first in line and heir to the biggest kingdom in The West—if it hadn’t been mentioned before.

His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook.

Okay… look.

It’s not that you don’t like him, he hasn’t done anything to make you hate him, and you’re sure he’s a decent guy once you get to know him.

It’s just that you don’t really feel any type of way about him, positive or negative. And that confuses so many people around you.

Which in turn, confuses you.

Most people seem to think he’s some sort of god sent angel carved by the hands of whoever created the universe. Fawning over him and thinking he can do no wrong. But what they all fail to see is that he’s just like them.

Got a bit more of a leg up on life than most, sure, but still human. Like you, or Yuri.

He eats and showers and uses the bathroom. He gets a runny nose and puffy eyes when he’s sick. He has bad hair days and ties his own shoes… you think.

He’s just a regular guy with an irregular job. So no, you had no opinion on him other than disinterested neutrality.

But if you had to feel something? You guess you probably felt pity.

You worked your ass off in highschool to get where you are. You and your mom screamed until your voices were hoarse when you got your acceptance letter two and a half years ago. One of 25 scholarship students accepted on a full ride every year.

You were doing a major in fine arts and a minor business, wanting to milk your education for all it’s worth on their dime. Lucking out that your two areas of interest were not only at one school, but at one of the best schools in the world for both subjects.

You chose what you wanted for your life and you worked for it for years. And now you sit comfortably at the top of your class in both fine arts and business, not taking your opportunity for granted for a second.

Jungkook though? He’s expected to go here. Doesn’t have much of a choice about it, and he doesn’t have to work for it either.

A small part of you that has yet to mature envies him for how easy he has it, for the privileges he is given simply because of one six letter word in front of his name. That he didn’t have to put in 60 hour weeks and give up his teenage years just to prove he was good enough to be here.

He was born good enough.

But that’s a small part of you, and you can ignore it if you try hard enough.

The point is you felt pity because he’s probably never had to work for something a day in his life. He doesn’t know the satisfaction of working towards something, to not only succeed, but to be the best.

To earn what he has.

He won’t know what to do when real life hits him.

Yuri lets a baby scream loose as she spots her desired seats and yanks you out of your thought spiral.

The front of the courtyard is still relatively empty, middle still filling up faster than anything else.

“Yes! Score! First row, left side, that’s perfect! He'll definitely see us.”

She grabs your arm a third time and it’s an effort not to drop your books and groan at her.

Yuri’s like you in the sense where she is not royalty, but unlike you she—or should you say, her parents—are loaded.

Family business perks.

She’s here because she can be, because her family can afford to send her and make donations, not because she wants to be or because she worked for it.

But don’t misunderstand that, Yuri works hard. She just happens to party more than she studies most days. That and plan her future with a very rich and handsome guy who has yet to be determined.

You’d jokingly deemed her a royalty hunter after about an hour of meeting her for how badly she wanted to ‘marry up.’

“See you,” you correct, or has she forgotten about Nel, your boyfriend of 5 years? Your high school sweetheart and who is currently, much to your dismay, at school about 5000 miles away.

“I’m sure Cornelius wouldn’t be mad if the prince charms his girl just once, seeing as his royal highness can do that to most people just by breathing near them,” she quips. ”And even if he would get mad, Jungkook can just have him thrown in a dungeon for being overprotective and jealous.”

“The royal palace doesn’t have dungeons, but they do have a series of interrogation rooms on the third lower level,” you inform her. You did a project on the history and architecture of the royal palace in tenth grade—and Nel really wouldn’t care, he knows where he stands, just like you do.

“How do you just know that!”

Yuri didn’t know you in highschool and you used that to your advantage every single time you could, laughing bright and loud.

She starts dragging you down the walkway again, a habit of hers. Like she’s worried you’ll try to slip away if she isn’t forcing you where she wants you to be.

It’s a good instinct on her part.

You're nearly there, so you focus more on the trees just starting to turn colours overhead, casting slightly pigmented shadows on the ground. Fall is just starting to creep up on the heels of summer, the days of sunscreen and chlorine slowly being replaced by pumpkin spice and crisp apples.

She sits exactly where she wanted too, and you plop beside her, glad you’re wearing a light sweater and tights. They are just warm enough to keep the slight breeze from giving you chills, but also keep your legs from sticking to the plastic seats.

For such an expensive school to go to you’d think they’d have better assembly furniture.

You notice a news camera off in the distance and suddenly understand the empty front seats. No one wants to publicly embarrass themselves on national television from seeing the prince, rewindable and replayable, forever seared into the internet.

It’s times like these you’re happy you’ve never been one to get starstruck. They’re all just people, why be shocked or surprised when they exist near you?

Opening up your books on your lap, you figure you can kill the next ten minutes in a productive way, considering what happened to your original plans for the mid morning.

And as you do, you feel the seats around you begin to fill, not a single one empty by the time the event starts. Not even the ones up front.

A jerked movement catches your eyes and you see that two seats closer to the pedestal from Yuri is Adaline.

Great.

Adaline Dupree is basically a princess from the Eastern Shores. ‘Basically’ because she’s not, but she certainly acts like she is. A fake princess, an even bigger royalty hunter than your best friend and your not so secret arch nemesis.

She’s in your fine arts classes—all of them, unfortunately—her proper title being ‘Duchess of…’ some province you never bothered to learn the name of, and she’s one of the most well known people on campus.

Tall, with beautiful blonde hair, hazel eyes, freckles, a slim figure and quite the socialite. You’re surprised she went into fine arts and not modeling. She’s got the ego part of the job down pat.

Good for her for being pretty. But anyone could be beautiful on the outside with enough money and a surgeon. That’s not why you considered her your nemesis, you don’t give a shit about any of that.

She was your nemesis in the academic world. Because not only was she beautiful, she was also brilliant at her craft.

Which happened to also be your craft, and it pissed you off to no end.

Where you were first, she was second and where she was first, you were second. Always neck in neck with one another, always trying to one up each other.

You only considered yourself better than her because unlike her, you hoped at least, Adaline was a complete and total bitch. She took what she wanted without remorse and she wasn’t above sabotage to get it.

You learned that the hard way in your first year. And you’ve always wondered if that was her privileged upbringing speaking or if she’s just like that naturally, so unused to not getting what she wanted that she’d take it.

Therefore, it is of absolutely no shock to you that she’s sitting as close as she possibly can to where the prince will be standing. Directly in front of the pedestal at the base of the fountain in the center of the courtyard.

A door opens to your right followed by a couple screams, and you can only assume the man of the hour has arrived. A red camera light flicks on in your peripheral vision and you take that as your confirmation and cue to close your books.

The Dean of Schools, a few advisor looking people, a good handful of terrifyingly large security guards, and a head of black hair you conclude to be the prince all make their way towards their destination.

A smirk graces your face at all the girls batting eyelashes or screaming his name, as if that would get his attention. You’re about to mention that exact thought to Yuri, but you notice her eyelashes looking awfully similar to those around you and can’t help failing to stifle a laugh.

She catches it. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say. “You might just want to pick your jaw up off the ground.”

Her response gets cut off when a voice comes over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for such a warm welcome,” says the Dean, calm and assured. She knew exactly the welcome they'd receive. “I’ll keep my introduction short. Today, I present to you not only the newest addition to The Royal Academy of Business and Fine Arts, but the future King of our great nation. He has requested to formally address the student body before he starts classes this fall semester, so without further adieu: His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook.”

Riigghht. Did you mention he was the prince of the country you’re living in?

Well…he is.

The crowd soars in volume once more, a couple “I love you’s” thrown in for good measure as the prince steps up and you zone out.

From your angle, you can see his whole body from the side, and that even though he’s holding cue cards, he doesn’t use them, placing them face down on the pedestal.

His dark hair is swept back in a suave styling and he’s wearing a simple navy long sleeve button up, black dress pants and matching leather shoes.

The outfit makes him look ever so princely and very much not like a student. More like one of the faculty.

However, what you don’t expect are the small patches of ink on his arm peeking out of his right sleeve. Or just how tight the clothes he wears are on his apparently very muscular form.

You remember Yuri’s words from earlier, only now registering. You knew he had muscles, no one ever shut up about them. But seeing them in person… wow.

You kind of want to sketch him—for anatomy practice, of course.

The prince begins his address to the crowd and an eerie silence replaces the roars from earlier. You take a quick look around and notice that not one person isn’t completely transfixed on him. Even the dean can’t keep her eyes off him.

You give him credit for not balking under the intense gazes of literally everyone. You know you sure as hell would have, never being one to like being the center of attention. At least, not like this.

You clue into his speech as you look back at him. He’s talking about how he found himself as a teenager thinking of what he wanted his future to look like and what he wanted to do with his schooling, which is not only why he took a couple years to explore the continent before enrolling, but why he will be doing a major and a minor at the school.

One for his career, and one for his heart.

You won’t admit to yourself that the sentiment very closely resonates with you.

He continues.

“All that said, I asked to address you all today for one very simple reason, being that, for my time here at the academy, I wish to be treated like any other student. I am not unaware of my celebrity and how I am seen to the outside world. It is not lost on me my place in the world and who I am to become. I know for some that it may be… difficult to see me for anything other than who I am, and this is why I ask you humbly, just for the short while that I’m here, you all treat me no differently than you already do one another,” he pauses for a moment. “I extend my request most deeply to those who will be studying alongside me in my business administration major and photography minor, as I don’t want it to affect my studies.”

Yuri slaps her hand down onto your leg causing you to jerk forward and you clamor to not drop any of your books. Business administration is her major. Her parents want her to take over the family biz after school.

That was probably why she partied so much. Living as much as she can before being thrust into a job she doesn’t want for the rest of her life.

Pity creeps back up your throat at the thought.

Jungkook notices your jerking movement, but only for a second. His eyes meet yours and you hope yours convey ‘sorry for interrupting’.

You may not care about him, but just like him you are not unaware of his status in the world outside the walls of your school.

Yuri, of course, thinks he’s looking at her and not only does her grip on your leg tighten to the point of circulation cut off, she returns to her earlier routine of batting her eyelashes.

You roll your eyes away from her sight, but unbeknownst to you, well within the gaze of Jungkook.

He suppresses a smile at your response to your friend's clear attempts to gain his attention.

You, on the other hand, seem indifferent to him. He has the entire student body watching his every move with hawk-like precision, enraptured. Normal, for him.

But you?

You just seem to… not care. Like he wasn’t anyone special. Like the word in front of his name meant nothing.

And if it wasn't the most freeing feeling he’s felt in a long time.

“Thank you so much for your time, and I’ll see you all around campus,” he finishes before stepping down, security wrapping around him again until he’s barely visible. The dean pops up to conclude the gathering but you aren’t paying attention anymore, too busy trying to peel Yuri’s hand off your thigh.

“Yuri, retract the claws please!” you whisper-yell to your friend. And she does in fact, retract instantly.

“Shit, sorry. My brain is running a million miles a minute,” she says as she pinches herself, shaking her head and smiling. “I’m three years ahead of him in his major. His major YN! But he’s still older than us, which is so hot. I'm so glad he did that tour in the east and whatever else that kept him back for a couple years, it makes this whole situation even better,” you start to worry at the look in her eye as she continues.

“What if he needs a tutor? What if I become his tutor, and we fall in love like a cliche romance movie. I could be the future queen. YN, this could actually happen for me. I could actually get the prince, it’s not some wild dream anymore. I could talk to him and he would talk back and this could happen.”

You can feel that she’ll just keep spiraling, nothing being able to stop her train of thought at this point, so you try your best to at least have her do her thinking in her head.

“Maybe! I wish you nothing but luck!” And you mean it. You don’t think it will happen the way she does, but you never know. And you don’t want to give her false hope.

You’ve always been the realist to Yuri’s optimist.

With the assembly over, most of the crowd files out of the courtyard quickly, prior plans calling to them or classes starting soon.

Only a few stragglers are left behind. You and Yuri are two of them, as well as Adaline, and a couple more you don’t know.

Security starts to spread out and you watch as Jungkook makes his way to the people farthest from you, much to their delight.

It’s a group of guys, all of whom look muscular enough to be varsity athletes. Maybe Jungkook will want to do sports while he’s here. You know that he’s an accomplished rugby player, greatly to his fathers dismay, but to the pleasure of anyone who has about $10 and has access to magazines or wifi.

“Oh my god he’s making his way over. Do. Not. Move. I want him to come to us,” Yuri says, forcing you to stay in your spot. It would be fruitless to try anything anyway. Another lesson you learned the hard way in first year.

She starts fluffing her hair and asking you to check her teeth. You do. She’s in the clear.

Unfortunately, you two would most likely be the last people he greeted, so you had to watch as he made his way down the line of people.

He greets the guys with a handshake and a clap to the back, and the girls with a kiss to the top of the hand.

One thing you notice as he meets more and more people is that everyone still calls him ‘prince’ or ‘your highness.’

It’s automatic for them, they’re not even thinking twice about it, but it’s also completely besides the point of half of his whole speech. He wanted to be treated like everybody else.

It especially irked you when it was Adaline’s turn and she put on her most feminine, formal, and ridiculously overly flirty, “Hello, Prince Jungkook,” before curtseying, blasting her full facade of charm and courteousness.

Ever the dainty, prim and proper duchess, she’s all small laughs and less than subtle flirting, never impolite, and never speaking out of turn.

You wanted to gag, and you’re quite sure that’s exactly what your face conveyed. But Jungkook smiles wide for her, and is as kind to her as he was to everyone else prior. He even flirts back a little bit.

Yeah, you definitely want to gag. What a match those two would make.

But just as soon as he greets Adaline and her friend, he politely steps away and moves on to you and Yuri.

“Hello ladies, what might your names be?” he asks ever so formally.

You gently laugh at being called a lady and Yuri shoots you a look. Jungkook doesn’t appear to take offense though.

“Hello, your highness!” Yuri chirps in the most ‘I'm trying to flirt but trying to not sound like I’m flirting’ voice you’ve ever heard her use. “My name is Yuri Yeun, and I’m actually a business admin major too, just a few years ahead.”

Jungkook lifts her hand to his mouth, giving it a light kiss and she looks like she’s about to explode.

“It’s lovely to meet you Yuri, I’ll look forward to seeing you around the halls,” he says in the same tone he’s used for everyone else. He’s about to face you, but Yuri cuts in quickly.

“If you ever need any help with your studies, just let me know. I’d be happy to help you with anything you might need help with. Having already been through it, I may be able to give a students insight versus a professors.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Thank you for your generosity.” Again that same tone, you mentally dub it his ‘greeting the public like the ever so good royal I am’ voice.

He turns to you and extends his hand for yours.

You reach for it, twisting it so that instead of a hand turned upright to be kissed, it’s a regular handshake. If he wanted to be treated like anyone else here, you sure as hell were going to.

“I’m YN, it’s nice to meet you Jungkook.” At the mention of his name untitled, he pauses, eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not a bad pause, just a surprised one. And by the looks of the small smile on his face, a good one.

Yuri's eyes, on the other hand, almost bug out of her skull at your informal greeting.

“Likewise,” he manages to get out, completely unlike his usually composed self.

You're the only one who hasn’t addressed him with his title, and it’s the most like him he’s ever felt.

Twice in one day—in one hour—you’ve managed to make him feel more human and more like himself than he ever has. With your distinct indifference to him of all things.

Jungkook decides then and there he’s very sure he wants more of it in his life.

He still hasn’t stopped shaking your hand, and you don’t know why that’s the only thing you can focus on. His hand is firm and calloused, the kind that can only be built over years of hard work.

Releasing you the second you think it, he looks as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding on too.

Quick to step back into his princely role, Jungkook says, “Pardon my forwardness, but I just have to say that the two of you are beautiful, and that it’s been lovely to meet you both.”

You swear you see Yuri’s soul ascend from her body at his words. “Thank you, Your Highness! That means so much coming from someone as well met as yourself,” she nearly fawns, and you roll your eyes out of her sight for the second time today.

And for the second time today, Jungkook does not let the gesture go unnoticed. How you hold no fear in showing how you feel in front of others, even those you’ve just met. As if it holds no consequence.

It doesn’t for you, he realizes.

You can freely show how you feel without worry of anyone over-analyzing your every facial tic. No fear that a slight misuse of a lip quirk or eyebrow raise could give away national secrets or offend a visiting diplomat.

He envies you for it. For having that freedom he so rarely does.

“You’re most welcome, Yuri. I’m glad you hold my opinion in such high regard.” He flashes her that well practiced bright smile and you already know what she won’t be shutting up about it anytime soon.

“I’ve always been told I have my fathers bone structure but my mothers beauty. I’ll be sure to let them know their Prince thinks the combination is worth complimenting,” you respond, not braggadocious or sarcastic in the slightest.

You know it would make your mom so proud to hear the future king found you pretty, even if you knew the compliment was given to every girl here.

Your father wasn’t in the picture, but that didn’t matter and the prince didn’t need to know.

“I hope they won’t mind a stranger's compliment on their daughter then,” Jungkook says, ducking his head slightly and giving you a smaller smile.

This one felt genuine, like he wanted to hold it back but couldn’t. So you return a small one of your own, to let him know this was an even exchange. You may not feel any type of way about the prince, but you were raised to be kind.

“Any praise for their daughter from the future King would be welcomed any day, I’m sure,” Yuri cuts back in, killing his smile along with it.

You’re sad to see it go.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” he responds, princely public persona back on. Stupid flashy smile back on. “What will you two be heading off to do now?”

“What I wanted to be doing for the last half hour in the first place before being hauled down here by this one,” you point a thumb at Yuri. “Finishing my study hour at the library,” you add quickly, before Yuri can get out her answer. You almost wish you hadn't because the hand that had your thigh in a death grip earlier now only somewhat playfully swats your shoulder.

“YN!”

“What!? I’m just being honest. He wants to be treated like anyone else right? That comes with people being honest to you instead of glazing over their answers with pretty little white lies to appease you.”

Yuri looks ready to rip you a new one, but she’s cut off again before she can open her mouth. This time by the prince.

“No, no it’s okay,” Jungkook says before she can swat you again. She stops mid swing at his words, eyes as wide as saucers at being stopped. “YN’s right, I appreciate the honesty, and I apologize for the interruption. I hope your studies will not be too greatly affected because of it.”

“Guess we’ll find out during midterm season,” you say with a smirk that turns into a genuine smile as you see Jungkook look panicked, like he actually thinks he messed up your education by disturbing your study session.

Relief quickly replaces the panic when he sees your smile and realises it was a joke.

Being treated like a regular person also meant being joked with at their expense, and he takes it in stride as his small smile from earlier makes a comeback.

“Well I have class in half an hour,” Yuri says, finally answering his question, “So probably grabbing a coffee from the cafe near the biz-admin building… I could show you if you want?”

“That sounds great actually, I’m still trying to figure out where everything is.”

“Great! Let’s go.”

Jungkook, ever the gentleman, lifts an arm for her to take and you watch them walk off, Yuri absolutely beaming as she glances back at you. You give her a thumbs up before collecting your books and heading back in the direction of the library.

Chapter Two: Unknown Numbers and Sharp Tongues

A/N 2: and so it begins.

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videogamepoc · 3 months

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Before Israel’s war in Gaza, Palestinian programmer Doaa Ghandour was working on Palestine Skating Game’s grind rails. Any skater — be that skateboarding or roller skating — knows rails are essential to street-style skating. In Palestine Skating Game, these grind rails weave through the West Bank, Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater-style, for use as you spray graffiti on the Israeli-built separation wall. It’s easy to see the appeal of Palestine Skating Game in its early prototype on Itch.io: The futuristic Bethlehem is made all the more colorful with paint splatters and graffiti, set to what the team describes as “Arabic electronic music.” And it’s designed to be enticing: “The idea is that if you immerse Westerners in that kind of art and music from the region, you’ll start to actually see people from the region as human beings,” Palestine Skating Game’s current project lead told Aftermath in November.

Palestine Skating Game has been in development for roughly two and a half years. The inspiration initially hit after the project lead, who was granted anonymity by Polygon, saw We Are Lady Parts, a TV show about an all-women Muslim punk band. Development has changed since then — it had to. “We have to acknowledge the existence of a lot more suffering,” the project lead told Polygon. “We are having to do the thing where we had one creative vision for the project, and now we have to figure out how that changes with respect to the events unfolding.” Israel’s war in Gaza is entering its fourth month. Nearly 28,000 people have been killed in Gaza, 388 in the occupied West Bank, and 1,139 in Israel, according to Al Jazeera. The International Court of Justice (ICJ) is currently hearing a genocide case against Israel, wherein it argues that “the acts and omissions by Israel complained of by South Africa are genocidal in character because they are intended to bring about the destruction of a substantial part of the Palestinian national, racial and ethnical group,” as reported by Vox. Israel denies the accusation, saying its attacks are justified as a response to Hamas’ terrorist attack in Israel on Oct. 7, where roughly 1,200 people were killed. “Israeli Occupation Forces have cut off all medical supplies, as well as water and food, from Palestinians in Gaza, amidst the continued carpet bombing and genocide. It has left our friends to navigate the most severe humanitarian crisis of our time,” the fundraiser reads. Palestine Skating Game has been in development for roughly two and a half years. The inspiration initially hit after the project lead, who was granted anonymity by Polygon, saw We Are Lady Parts, a TV show about an all-women Muslim punk band. Development has changed since then — it had to. “We have to acknowledge the existence of a lot more suffering,” the project lead told Polygon. “We are having to do the thing where we had one creative vision for the project, and now we have to figure out how that changes with respect to the events unfolding.” The project lead said the team, which is Ghandour, writer Hadeel, and himself with four other developers and volunteers, want to make it easy for people — even those unfamiliar with the conflict — to see what’s happening in Gaza. “We want to make it easier for people to see, Oh, here’s how the West Bank has been slowly eaten up and balkanized,” he said. “We also just want it to be something that people want to share with their friends. There should be so many fucking cool things in this game that people will immediately want to say, ‘Hey, you’ve got to see this.’” The Palestine Skating Game team — the core group, four paid developers, and roughly 15 volunteer developers — is working on a full vertical slice, or a polished, short demo, of the game. They’re also hoping to run a Kickstarter, GoFundMe campaign, or other investment to fund more development.

#palestine #palestine skating game #gaza #free palestine #free gaza #doaa ghandour #video game industry #gaming industry

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thecoffeelovingfreak · 30 days

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𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genre(s): western!au, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

word count: 14k

warnings: written before v2.2 & boothill's release, blood, injury, gun violence, swearing, alcohol consumption, implied/referrenced alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, graphic depictions of violence, death

notes: I've spent about the last month working on this a little bit each day, so I hope you enjoy this labor of love :). Feel free to tell me any warnings I might have missed! I also want to add that this is told in the past and present with flashback scenes in italics. Anyway, here are some flowers as a thank you for everyone who reads this! 💐 <3

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Dark clouds shrouded the sky as shots rang out across the valley. Dried mud fell from the edges of your boots in time with the gallops of your horse. Turning back, you aimed your revolver at one of the officers, red spread over his dirtied shirt not long after. A silver bullet grazed its way over the left side of your neck, leaving a stream of scarlet running down to stain your sharp white collar. The tarnished grey vest covering it blew open harshly in the breeze as you winded down the path into town.

Shouts echoed in the street as you leaned down, bringing the reins closer to your chest. Dainty yellow flowers reflecting the bit of sunlight breaking from the coming storm became trampled by hooves. Jumping the fence into a stranger’s backyard, you once again shot at another pursuant. He fell crudely from his ride, the horse startled and stopping before the same pickets.

With just one now on your tail, you jumped again, making a quick right down a small pathway and breaking out into the wide and dusty main street. Townsfolk jogged for cover in the shops, not unfamiliar with this song and dance, and carrying enough awareness to leave what could become an impromptu duel.

You spot a figure stepping out quietly from the nearby saloon, making his way behind the establishment. Bringing the reins together in one hand, you pulled tightly. Your horse stopped, and you brought them around to face the remaining officer – the deputy based on his badge. He pulled down the hammer on his revolver, aiming straight for your forehead. Bringing your hands up, you faced your palms outward alongside your head in mock defense. A small smirk grew on your face as you picked up on near silent hooves approaching the street.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” he asked pointedly.

A bang came from before you as blood splattered and flowed from the deputy’s head. He landed limp in the damp dirt, a look in his eyes that you could recall anywhere. The gaze of death – a complete absence of life in a form once animated.

A large stallion sidled up to you, a familiar head of black and white hair gesturing toward the path out of town. Angry shouting filled the street as people left their shelters, some staring you down and others rapidly walking to you, waving a hand or a weapon.

“We’d best get out of here before you can raise some more heaven.”

“You lead the way, then.”

With a wild speed, he took off ahead of you, wool cape billowing in the chilled air. You caught up quickly however, racing to pass the city limits and be in the wide-open again.

Desert ironwoods and mesquite trees became more abundant among the varying cacti. White translucent blossoms formed on some of them, while others rested uniquely. The sun began to pour further from the clouds, casting its rays over the light brown land as you rode on. At the top of a shady hill, you paused for a drink.

A husky voice broke through the birdsong, “Why don’t you get down for a minute?”

You looked at him quizzically, drying the corner of your mouth.

He matched your gaze sternly, “Well, first, you’re bleedin’ out the side of your neck. Second, I’m curious what that sweet mess you brought into town was,” his gaze softened as a proud smile grew on his face, “and third, I wanna hold you under the tree for a bit. It’s midday and I had ordered some fine lunch from the bar. I wasn’t expecting to be shootin’ a man instead of sittin’ with you.” he finished with a chuckle.

“You can sit with me now.” you retorted, lifting one leg around and off of your horse before making the jump off.

“Indeed, I can.” he replied smoothly, reciprocating your action.

Drawing open the satchel hanging along his stallion, Boothill pulled out two small packs – one likely containing a meal and the other a makeshift aid kit. Although he never needed food, and rarely required bandages, he would always carry them in the event that your supplies would run out. It was part of the reason he had initially gone into town, but you happened to bring in the lawmen on your way to meet him.

Tidying the braid in your horse’s hair, you felt cold fingertips brush against your shirt collar, shifting it to the side. A white cloth rested on your empty saddle, a few materials from the aid kit on top. A cold rag rubbed against the outer edges of your scrape before it was placed on your shoulder, the left side being held to the front of your neck. Water flowed down along the wound, giving the cloth a light pink color. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but one that you had grown used to after years on the range.

Another wet cloth swiped across the injury, leaving light streaks of antiseptic behind. A quick rip reached your ears before a flat gauze pad was gently placed at the site and a gauze wrap surrounded your neck snugly. It would only stay for a few days, needing your remaining kit supplies to be maintained.

A grey brim soon came into view as a hat was placed on your head.

“Now you’re lookin’ like a real outlaw.” Boothill smiled as he gathered up all of the medical items and walked them back to his satchel.

You snickered before replying, “Should I get one the next time we go to Warren? I’d reckon it’s about time.”

“I’m afraid we ain’t got the funds for that right now, there’s just enough to get provisions.”

“I never said I would be buying one, cowboy.” You retorted, slowly striding to where he stood and flicking your borrowed hat upward.

“Well go ahead and take ‘em for all they’ve got, then we can pay a little visit to the theater.” He slid his right arm around your waist, lightly dragging you closer.

“Are you askin’ me on a date?”

“Maybe I am, sugar.”

Placing his hat back on his head, you left a small kiss on his cheek and turned out of his arms, swiping your lunch from his saddle in the process. “Why don’t we have one now?”

He smiled, teeth sharp and eyes playful, before following behind you to the tree.

—

PART I - Sorrow-Gilded Equals

“Boothill, that’s my name.” The cyborg in front of you replied, swirling his glass of whiskey before drinking it down.

He stood tall, a firm steel body paired with shining silver eyes, determination reverberating in his gaze. It seemed only natural that he was the first to draw your attention, raucously celebrating the year’s final round-up with his fellow rangers.

“Say, undertaker,” he looked over, “care to join us for a round?”

You glanced backward from the bar to the faro table housing a few of the gang. A hand hit the wood in laughter, empty amber bottles rattling against each other. The owner of said hand brought twelve checks back to his stacks.

“Quit your cacklin’, you smug cutie!” Boothill shouted, leaning back against the bar.

“Oh, you flatter me, you gunslingin’ sack of shit! Get over here and give me a fun time, why don’t you!”

“Gunslingin’, huh?” you teased, “I thought that was forbidden on the trail.”

“Well, I ain’t never been one for rules.”

“Really, now? And here I thought cowboys had a sense of honor.”

“We do, but it don’t always follow convention.”

With a hum you turned, walking slowly to the group’s oval table. “I’ll join you, and so will he.” A gesture toward Boothill brought him over, where he took a seat across from you. After a few curt introductions, he voiced, “Will here is the banker,” before pulling out a small bag of nickels from a satchel on his belt.

You followed suit and exchanged them for checks and a hexagonal copper token from Will. He layed out all of the spades in two rows on his board – ace through 6 on the top, and king through 8 on the bottom. The seven sat at the end of both rows between the 6 and the 8. He placed another deck of cards in the dealing box and drew the soda before burning it off.

You placed one of your checks on the nine, betting that it would be drawn second. Will pulled and revealed the first of two cards in the deck. A three, to which Isaac had groaned. Next, he revealed the second card, a nine. With the losing and winning ranks determined, you had won the bet at 1 to 1 odds, bringing in another check on top of the one you wagered. Isaac lost his check to Will, leaving Boothill and Lee’s bets still on the table.

The losing card from the previous round went beside the face-down soda card. You placed two checks on five this time, watching as Boothill put three with yours. Isaac went for four, and Lee remained on ten. Five was the winning card this round.

The black, white, and red of the cards began to fade together as the night went on. After several rounds, you found yourself toe to toe with the “gunslinger”. He didn’t speak a word as you both prepared for the final bet.

Ten of your checks went on one, and ten of his were set on eight.

Will drew and displayed the cards, one was the second, making you the victor.

Boothill relaxed into his chair with a low whistle, “Seems like I’ve finally got some competition! What d’ya say to another game?”

“Well, I’m not one to turn down a challenge. Ready for a duel, cowboy?”

“Always.” he smiled, shifting forward to prepare for the coming rounds.

As Will prepped the next game, the doors to the saloon broke open abruptly.

“There you are, you no-good son of a bitch!”

A bang echoed through the saloon as a bullet shot straight for your table. A silver revolver appeared in view before sharp lead was firing toward the entrance. Boothill’s gun returned to its holster as the intruding man crumpled to the floor. Blood covered the wood, spreading into the grain and taking its place among the many stains.

Isaac approached the bartender, likely trying to give him some money and charm to resolve the incident. Lee strode to the body, kicking it over and revealing a green bandana in their pocket.

“Yep, no doubt he was here for us, Hill. One of Walker’s boys.”

You were slightly familiar with the name; Lloyd Walker was in charge of one of the most prominent gangs around. There were countless ambushes with him as the figurehead, and just from the mention alone you could observe various reactions across the establishment. Few continued on in their games, veterans to these types of conflict. Others seemed stiff or enraptured in conversation about the man. In the case of many of these rangers, their eyes had a fire of revenge.

Walking to stand by Lee, you folded your arms. “Well, he ain’t one of Walker’s boys, anymore. He’ll be mine by morning and the dirt’s by sundown.”

“Need help moving him?” Boothill offered, leaning down to pick up the fallen gun.

“Sure.” you accepted plainly.

He handed the gun to Lee who inspected it as Boothill lifted the corpse, carrying him over his shoulder without a care. The jaunty tune of the piano resumed as you left the saloon with the gunslinger.

"I must admit, undertaker, this here was quite the party."

"Glad I could entertain."

“It wasn’t just you. I forgot how much I missed the thrill of a standoff; this old town doesn’t provide those opportunities like it used to.”

“How roguish for a ranger, but I’d have to agree.”

“Oh? Is the resident mortician gettin’ into trouble after hours?”

“Only with you around.”

“But we’ve only known each other for a night, unless I’ve ran into you somewhere before?”

Your boots resounded over the boardwalk deck as you kept walking silently to the front of your parlor. He didn't press further and waited quietly for you to unlock the back door.

With a creak, said door went wide open and you watched carefully as he flipped the body over on a mortuary table.

Finished, he grabbed a nearby towel to dry the blood off and clean himself up. You got a better look at him as he did so, no longer caught up in games and drinking.

A story spread around town, over a decade ago. It didn't stick around for long, but you witnessed it yourself. There was a boy – probably about fifteen at the time. He arrived on the back of a horse before being taken into the jailhouse. At the end of the week, he had been released, and took up odd jobs around the area. He headed out on the range a few months later for the fall round-up, then never came back.

"I'll see myself out, good luck with this rottin’ sweetheart."

A hand turned the back door open once more before Boothill exit casually. It was half-closed when you finally responded.

"Perhaps."

He paused, shifting to look you in the eyes.

"You're Jesse Blackwell, right?"

His gaze fell to the floor, "Once, but I ain't anymore… Goodnight, undertaker.” He dismissed with a tip of his hat and a small smile, shutting the door as he left.

—

Soaked ground squelched beneath your boots, the now sunny sky reflecting in the soft brown. The streets of Warren were bustling, showcasing its status as the second largest city in the state. A dark grey cowboy hat rested on your head, a shining black belt running around its center. Stealing it was easy, all you had to do was get some drunken fool to follow you to an alley. Point your gun at him and wait for him to give you all he has, then leave with a cold threat – revolver boring hard into his head. If he talks, he’ll be hunted down and stripped of his tongue. If he runs after that, he’ll be gunned down where he stands. You had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Boothill opened the doors to Jerrell’s General Goods a few buildings down the road, disappearing inside. You leaned up against one of the front posts of the hotel, watching coaches and uncovered wagons traverse the main street. Your horse whinnied from beside you where they stood, resting and glancing around on occasion. A soft breeze brushed against your neck, the chill of former rain still present. Small thumps came from your left as somebody passed behind you.

A hand landed on your shoulder, turning you around against the post. They gripped the collar of your shirt, leveling their gaze with yours.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time, you coward.” They threw you into the mud, stepping down from the deck in anger. “You remember me?”

Standing up you replied, “Somebody’s always got a feud with a person like me, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

“Town of Fort Talia, five years ago. You murdered my brother.”

“Jasper?”

“Well, it seems you do recall.”

He swung his right arm, fist colliding with the side of your face. It hurt terribly, but fights weren't uncommon to you. With where you grew up, and some training from Boothill, it came easy now.

You raised your own right arm, blocking his next hit before bringing your left up to target underneath his nose. He stumbled back a bit at the pain, and you hit again at his right cheek and then upward from under his jaw. He took a second to level himself before spitting at the ground and pulling his pistol from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, the grip facing outward.

"Do you not know how to use it, Ellis?

"I do, but I want you to feel my sufferin’ first.”

The grip crossed your cheekbone, sending a sharp sting across the plane. With you now staggered, a knife plunged into your torso just above the hip. It remained lodged in your flesh as you clashed onto the ground, mud coating your clothes.

Ellis stood still for a moment, watching. He glanced down at the gun, preparing to fire it off. Quickly and with slight caution, you drew your revolver and shot him between the eyes. He fell as the horses shifted and voiced their discomfort. Your head lay in the mud, breath trying to calm after the incident.

"You've always been a good-for-nothing piece of shit, Ellis." You whispered.

Standing up carefully and to the best of your ability, you heard something heavy landing on wood before wet footsteps.

“Hey, now,” Boothill said, hands coming to brace your elbows and steady you. “Who came and dragged you to heaven?” His eyes assessed you – up and down, side to side – then he brought your left arm around his neck.

"You couldn't hear us fightin' from the store? Here I thought you’re supposed to have superior hearing.”

Ignoring you, he placed you against your horse, retrieving the full satchels from the deck and laying them down beside you. His cold hands came to pick you up, setting you just behind his saddle, legs hanging over the side to keep yourself in the stablest condition possible. Lifting his right leg under himself, he mounted his stallion, beginning to ride down the main street to a destination unknown.

"What about…" you trailed off, eyes growing weary.

"I’ll take care of it, you just rest."

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

Your head rested against his right shoulder, the cool leather of his jacket soothing the burning cuts from Ellis' pistol. The only thing keeping you lucid was the persistent movement inside of you, slicing against more flesh at every stomp of hooves. If you had a mirror, you're sure that you'd look like hell – Boothill was right.

It was saddening that the other Weston boy had spent the last few years hunting you down. He spent practically his entire life distant and running away, and now he had the guts to ambush you in the city. Still, you supposed whatever old grudge he carried now lay dead alongside him.

—

The first time you laid eyes on Jasper was at his mother's funeral. He stood in a thick coat beside his brother watching wordlessly on with silent tears. A wooden cross sat before a mound of dirt, engraved with the following:

Callie Weston

A strong mother, and relentless woman.

1846 - 1879

Her grave wasn’t far from your father’s, a bushel of freshly picked desert marigolds resting under his own headstone from your visit. Two of the bright yellow flowers still rested in your pocket as you walked to the family’s side.

Placing the blossoms underneath the delicately carved wood, you spoke softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Ellis whispered.

“I’m sorry for yours as well.” Jasper had replied.

With a nod of your head, you left them to their mourning.

When you made it into town from the cemetery, shouts could be heard in front of the saloon.

“Go home, you idiot!”

“Have a little compassion!”

“I do, but my compassion doesn’t include wastin’ away here while your boys are up on that hill.”

The man stumbled slightly down from the deck, voice cracking as he said, “Surely you can understand, mister… please.”

“Go home, Isaiah. Try to sober up before they get back.”

The bartender threw his cloth over his shoulder before leaning against the post, waiting patiently. Isaiah wiped his hand down his bearded face as he exhaled, then walked off down the street toward the few blocks of houses.

Gesturing at a nearby man, the bartender lowly spoke,“Hey, will you follow him? Make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anythin’ wild.”

You crossed in front of the saloon doors as the man walked off, trailing behind the drunken one.

“Wait a minute, kid.”

Pausing in your steps, you turned around to face the swinging doors to the saloon. The bartender came out as quick as he went in – a bag in hand this time.

“Some oil guy came through town not long ago, ordered more food than he even wanted. There’s untouched steak and soup in there, it’ll probably need to heat up again. Share it or keep it to yourself.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

With a polite nod, he disappeared back into the establishment, yelling at some other unruly patrons.

That evening you brought a couple portions of that meal to Jasper and his family. It took a bit of asking around to find them, but soon enough you were knocking on their door.

Ellis answered, looking down at you coldly.

“I wanted to bring you some food. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it.”

He took the bag wordlessly, before shutting the door.

“I have some stew for you, mama.”

Her gaze never drifted from the window as you placed the warm bowl beside her. Draping a cloth over her lap, you watched her solemn face. Silently, she turned for the bowl, letting it rest in her likely cold hands.

You stood, walking to fetch her tea from the kitchen. Upon return, you found her gently bringing the spoon to her lips, shaking lightly as she did so.

With a soft thud, the mug settled on dark wood. Drawing a book from the nearby shelf you sat down next to her, flipping the leather cover open.

You read calmly from the pages, skipping over or changing words you didn't quite know. It had been a couple years since you stopped going to the schoolhouse, after all. There was just no time after your father died, especially with your mother in this state.

A hand landed quietly on your knee, drawing your attention back to her. Marking your new spot in the book, you set it down with the remnants of her meal.

She brought her hand down to yours, gripping quickly in thanks. It was dejecting seeing her like this, but after this long it was hard to picture her outside of mourning.

"Why do you never talk to me, mama? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

With a shake of her head, her gaze returned to the window and her hands to her lap.

About a week later, you remember waking up early to the sound of your dog barking loudly from the front yard. Donning your heavy coat, you opened the door to find Jasper trying to pet her down at the fence line.

"Is this your dog?" he had asked.

"Yes."

"She's real pretty…Thanks by the way, for dinner."

"It's no problem. I had extra."

"I noticed you were visiting someone of your own."

"My papa." you replied, standing beside him and petting the long fur of your dog. "He was caught robbin’ a wagon full of weapons and shot by the lawmen, at least that's what I heard. Mama never said nothin' to me about it."

He hummed, looking down and rubbing behind the ear of your dog.

"My mama was sick for a long time. It was hurtin' my dad forever, probably even more now. He doesn't really care how it makes me feel – my brother neither. They just leave angry in the mornin' and come back even worse at night."

A minute of vulnerable silence passed between you, before Jasper spoke up again.

"Are you headin' to school?"

"No. I'll have to be at work soon."

His eyes seemed wide for a second before he shifted, "Where do you work?"

"At the funeral parlor, as an assistant to the director."

"Why would you pick a job like that?”

“I don’t really know. I just saw the horse-drawn hearse moving down the street and felt somethin’ come over me.”

“I think I can understand,” he whispered, looking down into your dog’s eyes.

He stayed like that for a moment as you rested in the early morning quietness. A bird sang abruptly from the nearby tree, and he perked up once more.

“Would you want to walk down to the river with me? We could try and catch a frog or two before daybreak.”

“I guess.”

“Great,” he nodded.

And that became your routine. Every morning, he would come see you and your dog. Sometimes he would have a little snack for her in hand and other times he would have a paper with some work he couldn’t quite figure out. Being with him by the river was a pleasant thing – something to get both of your minds off of circumstance.

“I plan on retiring next year, and I would like for you to be my successor.”

The world seemed to still as Mr. Whitfield sat calmly, waiting for your response. His aging black hair shifted lightly in the wind, his gaze out over the nearby buildings. Cool stone rested under your back as you leaned against the parlor's walls.

“I… I’m honored, sir.”

“Oh, just call me Peter already. We’ve worked together long enough.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

The sounds of the town took over for a moment before he stood up, walking in through the door. A commotion drew your eyes up from the deck, watching as someone rode in with a grumbling figure on the back of their horse. The person in the saddle had a dark green bandana hanging out of their pocket – the trademark of a growing gang in the area.

They dismounted across the street from you, just in front of the jailhouse. Both of the deputies came out shortly after, one talking to the person then bringing them in. The other approached the horse, throwing the figure over his shoulder. They disappeared into the sheriff’s office, seemingly exchanging words about what to do with the two.

“Here are some books I’ve used over the years,” Peter said, a small stack in his hands, “If you’re going to take over the business, there’s more you’ll need to learn. Feel free to take these home if you’d like.”

“I appreciate it.”

He handed the books to you, then returned to his seat in front of the parlor. You decided to join him, setting the stack on your right.

As the gravity of your future inched in, you laid back against the stained wood of the bench. Your right foot tapped on the deck, reverberating over the plane anxiously while your thoughts became jumbled.

“What’s weighing on you, kid?”

“I’m just… starting to doubt myself is all.”

“I was the same as you when I first inherited this business from my father. He was always kind and courteous, served the community well. I’m passing this on to you because I see you as my kin. I have every confidence in you, whether you see the potential in yourself or not.”

His words brought water to your eyes, making you inhale and look away towards the snowy mountains in the distance.

Sniffling brought your attention back as Jasper walked up to the deck, cradling his left arm with the other hand.

“Are you alright, boy?” Peter questioned.

“Could I go inside?” he asked gently, making eye contact with you.

Standing up, you guided him into the entry room of the parlor, watching as he sat on the sofa.

“I ran as fast as I could, I figured since it was day you’d be here.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”

“Alright. I’ll go get some coffee and an aid kit.”

Turning to leave the room, you heard him speak up again.

“Can I come with you?”

“Of course.”

It was probably about five months later when you found Jasper sitting on the bench of the parlor, bottle in hand. After locking the door, you went and took a seat next to him.

“What are you doing, Jas?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know nothin’ anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

He tilted his head before taking another sip. Your right hand came to rest at the back of his neck.

“Talk to me… please. Nothin’ you say will leave this porch.”

“I… think I’m not cut out for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he gestured around the street, “I do my best in everything, and it still isn’t good enough. My dad couldn’t give a shit about me and my brother anymore, all he does is drink and sleep. He hardly ever goes to work – I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fired by now! Ellis ain’t much better. He leaves for the farm early, storming into my room and draggin’ me out before he goes. Always tellin’ me I need to grow up – that I’m not man enough for this world. It’s not like I have a job, and I ain’t been going to the schoolhouse much recently either. I figured since I’m set to be finished there soon anyway, I could start skippin’. I just… wish my mama was still here. Even when she was sick, she still went through every day with more strength than I’ve ever had… Looking back now, I think she accepted that death was comin’, and she lived to her fullest because of it. Maybe I could take a page out of her book. I know that this all might seem sudden, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”

“You’re good enough to me, Jas. Even if that doesn’t seem like much, I want you to know. Your family is just too ignorant to understand. You’ve got plenty of grit in you, but you still show that you care.” You sighed before continuing, “And I understand. While my mama might not be dead, she hasn’t spoken since my father died. I still try my best to take care of her, but it’s like she’s just sittin’ there, waiting for her day to come.”

The snorting of a nearby horse broke the heavy atmosphere.

“If it’s a job you want, you’re always welcome here. Peter would gladly have you work the front. Just come talk to him tomorrow.”

“Alright.” he smiled smally.

“Hand me the bottle?”

Glass hit the wooden deck as you set down the exchanged liquor. Standing up, you reached out a hand for him.

“Come on, you can stay with me.”

Jasper’s life only worsened just two months after that night at the parlor. He didn’t come in for work that day, and you couldn’t find him anywhere usual in the town.

Crying and a thump at your front door brought you away from your mother’s side. You had been tidying her hair, a simple activity you would do to help her before she started her nightly routine.

Peering from one of the windows, you saw him waiting in your front yard, holding onto your dog for comfort. He looked up in your direction when you emerged from the dimly lit doorway, walking down the stairs from the porch.

“He shot him. Shot him dead, right in front of me.”

You got on your knees in front of him, bringing your hand to his shoulder.

“I… I was comin’ home from a walk, I… I went out to clear my head. Ellis, he stormed out with my dad trailin’ behind him. His eyes… they were just fed up – bloodthirsty almost. He looked at me. God, I’ll never forget that stare. They yelled at each other some more, going’ on about somethin’. My brother… he drew his gun, shot my dad right in the chest four times. He came over to me, put a hand on my head and told me things would be better now. Like hell they will! He took off on some horse – he’s gone now too. Out runnin’ from the law and leavin’ me high and dry with nothing.”

He let go of the dog, running his hand down his face. She walked off to somewhere behind you, sniffing around.

“I’ve got nothin’ but you, now.” He whispered, looking up at you full of turmoil.

You brought both arms around him, feeling him start to cry again.

“I know my dad had his grief, even when my mama was sick he’d be out doin’ who knows what. Still, I… I can’t help this weight on me.”

“It’s natural, Jas. You lost two people tonight, despite your experiences with them, it’s still a loss.”

He exhaled shakily, shifting back from you and rising to stand on his feet. You matched him before bringing your hand back to his shoulder, rubbing your thumb lightly against the edge of his neck.

“How about supper? Would that help a little?”

“Yeah… yeah.” he sighed.

Together you walked to the front door, and on this occasion, your dog followed too.

—

PART II - Redemption for the Wayward

Winces and the metallic echoes of medical tools could be heard from the nearby room. Boothill rested in an entry room chair, leaning back with his hat over his face. There was nothing in this space he wanted to look at – nothing he sought to remember. Your sounds of pain didn’t help either.

He had gotten stitches himself many years ago, but the scars were long gone now.

A sharp cry resounded down the hall, followed by hushed murmurs from the doctor. There was a fiery response, before the room went quiet again.

It wasn't the first time he had found you in trouble – far from it in fact. Since the day you started riding together, it seemed like thunder followed. Be it the sounds of hooves, gunfire, glasses on the table, or simply storms themselves.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

—

"I want to leave with you."

It was the only time you had ever seen surprise on Boothill’s face.

Holding his gaze you continued, “Does that sound like a plan?”

“I… I don’t see why not. Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?”

As if answering his question, whistles broke out two streets down. A few shouts from who you assumed to be lawmen echoed, sending a wave of fear through you.

“No. I’ll find a river or somethin’ later, right now we just need to get out.”

“Mind explainin’ why they’re lookin’ for you?”

You appeared stunned for a moment, before you recalled the events that led to the blood on your hands.

“Please… please just end me already.”

“You know I can’t do that to you, Jas.”

He ran his hand through his hair, revealing more of his distraught face. “You’ve seen me… I’m just like my father and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it no more.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me, we both know I’m right.”

“Jasper, please, come over here so we can talk this out.”

“We’re talkin’ it out right now.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m sick of talkin’ anyway. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into trying to get rid of this feeling, but it never leaves. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

You stood on the back porch of your parlor, watching as he pulled a gun from his side. He walked to you, leaving it on the chair to your left.

Just three months ago you watched Boothill walk from this porch, the hint of new friendship roaming on the wood.

Two months ago, you bid farewell to your new assistant, a promise of success growing over the stain.

One month ago, your mother spoke to you for the first time in seven years, apologies and regret falling from her lips.

Now, you would be in the greatest standoff of your life.

“If I’m gonna die I want you to do it.”

“No.”

He grabbed your left hand, lifting the gun up from where it rested. “Give me my freedom, please. We both know nothin’ else will.”

“Jas…”

“Stop wastin’ your breath.”

A set of tears rolled down your cheeks, and in a final act of care, Jasper wiped them away.

“Don’t cry for me. I want this. I want to see my mama again, healthy and bright. Maybe even my dad,” his voice broke, “smilin’ and rocking on the porch. I may even see you one day, too.”

He inhaled before bringing your hand up to his forehead, a sad look of acceptance and peace on his face. He nodded, the barrel of the gun shifting up and down.

“Goodbye, Jasper.”

A shot rang out, slightly muffled from the circumstance. Blood splattered down to the dirt, soaking into it crudely. Jasper’s body tumbled back down the wooden steps, landing face up at the end. He looked content, the dead light in his eyes causing conflicting waves of emotion within you.

There would be no time to feel them, though. Not yet. Even if it was nearing midnight, there was always a deputy out somewhere.

You descended the scarlet-covered steps, kneeling down to close his eyes. A warmth spread over your hands as you did so, red coating your fingers when you pulled them away.

Exhaling heavily, you left the back alley, on the lookout for a horse.

Boothill told you he’d be leaving tonight, after a final few rounds of faro at the other saloon in town. Why, he never shared, but you figured it had something to do with the incident a couple months back.

If you were lucky you could join him – head out on the road of an outlaw. It wasn’t an idea you had ever considered before, but now it seemed like the only choice.

The fire crackled in front of you, smoke rising to the starry sky. Boothill sat beside you, hands occupied with a knife and a piece of wood, idly carving.

In the silent peace, you felt the gravity of your actions begin to set in. Water crept over your eyes, gathering along the edges and flowing down your cheeks. Your quiet cries were some of the only noise in this area of the desert. Somewhere out of the town limits and secluded enough to provide cover in case of any emergency.

“Do you… have any regrets?” you asked lowly, drying your eyes with an exhale.

Boothill looked up from his work, “Once, but not anymore.”

You hummed, staring into the bright flames before you. Sadness welled once more before you spoke up.

“I shot my oldest friend today. He asked me to, came to me pleading.”

There was no movement or sound, until he set down his tools. “And now you’re out on the road with me.”

The dried blood on your hand felt like a glove as you clenched your fist. “I suppose I am.”

He stood up, walking to his horse’s side. A blanket was in his hands as he returned, tossing it gently in your direction before sitting back down to carve.

“I might not be the best at comfort, but I’ll try.”

You placed the wool underneath your head. Neither of you had the makings of a proper camp yet, but even if it was a makeshift pillow it would work.

“When we were out on the trail, there wasn’t much for occupying your time. Most of it was spent herdin’ and fending off animals or gangs. We often had cards with us, and so we’d sit around a fire like this one at night, playin’ the boring games that didn’t involve gambling. When it was time to sleep, some of us would take our places closer to the cattle. We’d sing or hum to them to keep them calm – they always told me I had the best voice. One that suited folk like us the most.”

With that, he started to hum a tune. It was quiet, and the slicing of wood fell in time with the slow rhythm. The melody was soothing, and with a deep exhale you found yourself letting go. As your eyes drifted further shut, he started singing. They were right, he did have a voice perfect for the range.

—

“Thornton’ll be headin’ out for a while. Said we could use the room upstairs as usual.”

You hummed, buttoning up the fresh shirt the doctor had given you. The space stayed quiet after, as your gaze bore into the bloody knife resting on the cloth-covered table. You stood up carefully, gritting your teeth before you were upright.

Grabbing your hat and gun belt, you met Boothill at the doorway.

“How’re you doin’?” he asked gently, bringing his hand up to the side of your neck. His thumb rubbed along the edge of your jaw as you crossed your arms.

“Fine, still trying to work off the sting.”

“Well that’s better than nothin’, isn’t it?”

He was right, yet, there still was something tugging at your chest. A sensation that weighed on your breath.

“I apologize-”

“There ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

You sighed, “I just hope I haven’t been much of a burden these last few weeks.”

“I take care of you, and you take care of me. It’s that simple. There’ll always be trouble when you live a life like ours,” he chuckled, “I’ll never think less of you for it.”

—

“You've used a gun before, right?”

Boothill looked over at you, an eyebrow raised and a hand resting along his belt.

“Only once.”

“Well then, we're gonna work on your skills today.”

He walked back over to his horse, unclipping a holstered revolver from his equipment. A red and cream package of bullets were placed on his saddle. He gave the brown leather-clad weapon to you, letting you pull it out yourself and feel the cool weight in your palm.

“I wanna see your instinct first. Spot that rock up there?” he gestured toward a miniature cliffside, angling down toward the two of you. A large dark grey stone lay on its edge. “Aim for it and shoot.”

You analyzed the gun for a moment before raising it in both hands, the top of the barrel aligning with the rock. Pulling back the hammer from its half-cocked state, you heard a singular click. Pressing your index finger down on the trigger, a bullet flew from the barrel straight at the stone. It made an echoing crack before the case flung off to the side.

“Not bad. Do it again.”

You shifted your feet in the dirt before taking up your former stance. Aiming, you drew back the hammer as the chamber revolved. Two clicks sounded this time. With a finger on the trigger, you pulled it down to hear the same ringing shot and clack against rock.

Boothill sidled up next to you, bringing your left hand down to your side.

“Another.”

Now only using one hand, you shot once more. A small chip fell from the rock as you hit a second spot.

"Fall back into me a little bit."

"Why?"

"If you're gonna be an outlaw, you best learn to carry yourself like one."

You did as he said, falling back into a casual lean against his chest. His arm came up against the back of yours, carrying it down to your side before lifting it back up again and pointing the revolver at the rock. You brought the hammer back again, before pulling the trigger. You cocked the gun once more, firing another shot at the stone, followed by a third.

A low whistle came from behind you, “Aren’t you a natural?”

“Well, I’m learnin’ from the best.”

“Got that right.”

“Are you always this smug?”

“Only with you.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” you stated, turning around from his hold.

“Really now?”

“You just love to keep on teasin’ me. That’s what it is.”

“And if so?” he questioned, stepping forward as if taking on a challenge.

“I’ll keep doing this dance with you, cowboy.” you tipped his hat down, watching his silver eyes disappear beneath the brim.

“I wouldn’t prefer it any other way.” he flicked it back up, a sharp smirk on his face.

“Now, why don’t you show me how the best shoots? I’d like to see what I’ll be competing with soon.” you stepped back from him, angling the gun toward the rocks.

“I said you were a natural, but I never said you were as practiced as me.”

“Talkin’ down to me?”

“Just statin’ facts.” he tilted his head, spinning his revolver from it’s holster along his leg.

“What a show-off you are.”

“Quit talkin’ and start aimin’.”

“You’re on.”

“See those deer?” Boothill whispered, watching beside you as a herd of coues passed by a few yards away.

The wind brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of coming rain in the twilight.. There must have been water falling on nearby creosote bushes.

You stared on, admiring how sweet they looked roaming and feeding on cactus fruit.

He smiled at you, seeming almost wistful before his gaze returned to the scene. "I remember we used to see them a lot in the brush along the trail. Big herds stayed longer than just a few of them, less skittish together I suppose." He laughed lightly, genuine and lovely. "The first time I saw a buck was on my family's farm. I had just finished some harvesting, when its antlers caught my eye. The wheat was up to my elbows at the time – I still recall its itch. We had locked eyes, and from that day forward I felt called to be out like them. It was part of my motive for joinin' the round-ups."

"There's a freedom to it – one that you only dream of before you finally live it."

"So articulate. Maybe you should start doing all the talkin'."

You snickered, beginning to pack up your belongings from the small camp you learned to make. "I'm afraid I could never be a poet like you."

"With all this flattery, I just might be inspired enough to pursue that instead."

"I'd better get a dedication, right on the first page.”

"You’ll get the entire book, sugar." He smiled.

"Oh please, save it." You tugged down his hat to hide his teasing eyes.

—

PART III - The Revenant of Vengeance

The wet stone pathways of downtown Warren echoed the heels of your boots. There was little light behind the shops – few people too. It was the perfect spot for a short walk, one that could provide a break from the doctor’s incessant tinkering.

“Well, looky here.” Boothill murmured, pausing to look at a board of papers.

“Think I’ll be up there?” you questioned, hands in your pocket beside him.

“Oh, without a doubt.” his eyes roamed the posters before lighting up at a pair. “Right here, see.”

‘Reward’ was printed in large font at the top. The value of $2,000 sat above text that shared your name, followed by a photo of you from about six years ago, dressed professionally in a well-designed chair at the funeral parlor. Your name was added below it, and a description of your appearance. The signature of the sheriff was penned at the bottom, adding yet another county to your roster.

Boothill’s began the same, with the exception of a $3,500 bounty. An unflattering sketch took up most of the page, as well as key notes about him were added underneath.

“They can never get my eyes right.” he huffed, gaze lingering on the board.

“My picture isn’t even accurate anymore.” you voiced, arms now crossed against your chest. “What lousy lawmen they have here.”

“I’d have to agree.”

With a sigh you continued, “I reckon it’s about time we get back to the office. Before those lawmen spot us.”

“We could take them.”

“Maybe so, but we don’t need larger bounties.”

“Really? I think there’s somethin’ romantic about it. The more wanted you are, the larger the reward. The more opportunities for attention and infamy.”

“Is my attention not good enough?”

“Come on now, sugar, you know I love it more than anything else.”

“Well then head back with me, cowboy, and I’ll show you some.”

He chuckled lowly, “Who could turn down an offer like that?"

As you turned to walk, his hand landed on your shoulder, the other reaching up to the board, ripping off one of the posters.

“Well I'll be.” you mumbled, observing the photo on it from over his arm.

Lloyd Walker, wanted dead or alive with a reward of $5,000. He had practically become public enemy number one in the surrounding areas over the last seven years. He had numerous crimes, and as many tricks up his sleeve to match. At least that's what the rumors said – his gang was only ever unruly.

“What do you say? Is he gonna be our newest target?”

A fire grew in Boothill’s formerly somber eyes, as he turned to you with a smile.

“Absolutely.”

—

The damp and pebble-covered ground was tarnished with deep red, the remnants of injury seeping into the soil beneath a discarded body. It was windless as Jesse laid against the riverbank, staring up into the ray-stricken cloudy sky. Low cries for help continued leaving his bloodied lips, but his energy was wearing thin. Every inch of him ached – stinging or burning the only sensations he could feel.

Still, he couldn’t just lay here and accept death. He was far too stubborn to ever answer a reaper’s call.

And, as if by some little twist of fate, hooves clamped their way toward him until rushing footsteps were the only thing he could hear.

“Good lord, sir, what happened to you?”

It was an ambush, plain and simple.

One moment he was talking with the other rangers and the next they were hiding behind rocks or trees, shooting at whatever green bandana they saw. One or two bandits weren’t unusual, but they had never dealt with such a large group before.

He was panicking, running out of bullets and watching his friends fall in the dust. They were overwhelmed with little to no chance of making it out unscathed.

Walker’s people were relentless, though, and they would never leave until they got what they came for or hit the dirt.

How unlucky for them that Jesse was the same.

Dilapidated cabins were built together in two rows, some of their group’s stolen cattle grazing off to the side. His horse stopped right at the rotting wood enclosing them, head high as he prepared for revenge. They had killed four of his trailmates, and he would be coming now for at least four of them.

It was bold to break the rules set for round-ups, and Lee’s warnings echoed through his head. There was leniency given to him before, and for this cause, he was sure he’d get it again.

After dismounting, he made his way through the brush to one of the cabins, two revolvers in hand. It was a risky game, but he was willing to play – whether it was the facade of victory or delusion from righteousness keeping him going.

He snuck through the makeshift settlement, hearing bits of laughter from his left. No matter what he did after this, he would have all surrounding eyes on him. Treading lightly, he stalked behind the house until he found a decent opening. He aimed through the cracks in the dark wood, going straight for the heads he could target. With four clicks, both guns were fully cocked and he shot.

It would be the only regret he had in his life.

“Time to wake up, my friend.”

An oddly chipper voice reached Jesse’s ears, as if summoning him from a lengthy slumber.

His eyes drifted open, leaving him to feel painless yet confused.

“I’m sure there is much you would like to know, but please, try to become used to this body first.”

This body?

“We’ll need to utilize some methods of physical therapy to ensure that you know how to use it, and that everything is in working order.”

He turned his head in the direction of the voice – a movement that felt unexpectedly stiff.

“You may call me Dr. Thornton, or Claude if you’d prefer. You have been reborn in the city of Warren. Do you remember where that is?”

Reborn?

“Yes, doctor, I do.” his voice hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

“Wonderful. Do you recall the events that led you here?”

“I was bleedin’ out by a river, after… well I’d prefer not to talk about that part.”

“That is perfectly fine, sir. I found you there, and brought you back to my practice. Well, my unofficial practice I suppose one could call it. What about your name?”

“Jesse Blackwell.” he responded, without any hesitation.

Thornton stood up, drying off his greased hands on a nearby rag. He brought the same towel to Jesse’s neck, but he couldn't feel it. The mild brush of cloth, a sensation he had known well from cleaning himself up, never came. He began to tilt his head downward, but the doctor’s fingers caught his chin.

“Not yet.”

He shifted his chin back up, staring straight ahead as alarm started setting in. Questions plagued his mind, until a sharp snap from behind broke him out of it.

The doctor held his hands out to him, and he placed his own over his open palms. They were grey, metallic, and the more he looked at them, the more they seemed almost mechanical. His thoughts seized him as he found Thornton’s eyes. They seemed proud yet there was a glint hidden under their pine-like color that brought a pensive look to Jesse’s face.

He was guided to take a step, and he heard what sounded like a boot as he did so. It persisted as he was brought across the floor to a doorway, passing into another room. His hands left the doctor’s, falling back to his side as his gaze drifted up to something covered in a white sheet.

“Are you ready to welcome this new life?” Thornton asked.

After a brief moment, Jesse nodded.

The cloth was lifted to reveal a tall mirror, one that reflected every inch of him.

“If there is anything you would like me to change, you need only say the word.”

Silence fell, as Jesse was confronted with rushing realization.

He survived Lloyd Walker, but at what cost? His humanity?

But what constitutes humanity?

Flesh and blood?

The ability to experience empathy and emotion?

His bewildered eyes met the doctor’s – ones that were steady as stone.

Thornton looked into the mirror from beside him. “You are a marvel of human craft, sir.”

Something in him stirred at the words, an anger that he wasn’t well-versed enough to place. The only thing he could do was grab the doctor’s collar, observing him with contempt.

“Come now, Jesse, you best be grateful. I’ve transformed you. You’ve become something that people could only dream of. You cried for help and I gave it to you.”

The doctor stumbled after he was released, moving back into the office, or whatever he liked to call it. Jesse remained in the small room, inspecting himself in the mirror. He stared for a long while, paralyzed by the overwhelming circumstance. He felt violated, like his very being was invaded.

Was his life even his anymore?

No. He couldn’t sink into that void.

“You’ve surpassed my expectations, Jesse. Count yourself free to go, though you’re always welcome back for repairs… or a hideout if you find yourself in trouble.”

Clad in monochrome leather, with a few scattered hints of red, the reborn cowboy placed his hat on his head as he opened the front door to Thornton’s establishment.

“My name ain’t Jesse.” he voiced, looking back at the suited man. “It’s Boothill.”

The doctor met his eyes over his glasses, “Farewell then, Boothill.”

—

A disheveled Claude Thornton broke through the spare room’s door, appearing wild and bruised.

“They’re on their way.”

Any plans you had been discussing with Boothill were interrupted as you watched the panicked man sharply. “Who exactly?”

“I think you already know." he said, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"You goddamn idiot."

"They cornered and beat me! What did you expect me to do?"

"Follow our agreement that we could lie low here." Boothill stated, glaring at the doctor as he reloaded his revolver.

"I had only made that agreement with you, friend, not them.” he replied, gesturing a hand toward you. “Regardless, the law knows by now that wherever one of you goes the other will follow.”

“And this time you’ll be with us.” you sighed, lifting your hand for him to stand up.

Grabbing the man’s right arm, you brought it behind his back, placing your other hand on his left shoulder. Guiding him down the stairs as Boothill followed, you walked to the hitches Thornton had built at his rear door.

Whistles came down the alley as you ordered him to sit on the back of your horse. After he finished grumbling, you mounted and began riding off to the left as Boothill went right.

Handing him a spare rifle from your horse, you pulled two revolvers from your gun belt.

“I apologize, but I do not know how to use one of these.” he shared, holding the weapon awkwardly.

“You’re hopeless, doctor.”

Trading with him, you aimed the rifle at one of the lawmen approaching you.

“Just pull down the hammer and shoot at them until the chambers are empty. Don’t bother reloading, we’ll be out of here by then.”

He nodded before turning his head back, covering the rear as you winded down stone streets, doing your best to avoid bringing citizens into the fray. You caught a glimpse of black and white disappearing around a corner – a road that led to the train tracks from what you could recall. Pulling the reins to the right, you moved to follow, shooting at one of his pursuers before dodging the fallen body.

Droplets flicked against your boots, leading the doctor to groan at his dirtied shoes. Broken glass nearby signified it was probably some discarded liquor.

A horn sounded from your right, accelerating the rushing sound in your ears. One of Thornton’s hands gripped onto your shoulder tightly as you sped up, crossing before the train daringly.

Pausing on the other side of the tracks, you watched cautiously for any other lawmen. Boothill came up next to you, eyes analyzing your figure before they followed your gaze.

“I swear the two of you are going to get me killed.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t do it myself after the shit you’ve pulled.” you spat, securing your rifle back against your horse.

“Need I remind you I had no other choice.” he retorted, handing you back the revolvers.

“You sold us out after three hits, doctor, that’s something that would get you a hole in your forehead with anyone else.”

“I only told them where you were, dear, not him.”

You pointed one of the guns behind you against the side of his skull, disregarding if it was empty or not.

“Do you think that’s somethin’ you should really be saying to me? For as much tinkering as you do, and as many people as you claim to help, I don’t think you’re very bright. If you were, you wouldn’t have given us up, and you would watch your mouth when you’re talkin’ to me. Now, tell me you can understand that at least, doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you best stay quiet.”

“Alright.”

Putting the gun back into its holster at your side, your focus returned to Boothill.

“Are we still going north?”

“I don’t see why not.” he replied, shifting slightly in his saddle.

“Then let’s go – this train is almost over.”

—

The town of Iris Creek was quaint, fresh air gliding over land of dying grass. A few small flowers grew along the trails, blossoms of deep violet running up their stems. Your stresses slowly quelled as the peaceful atmosphere set in.

At least until you had to sort out Thornton's situation.

Boothill had left for the saloon not long ago, attempting to find what information about Walker he could. In his absence, you would be taking the well-dressed man to the hotel.

Getting the room was a simple affair, so was the walk to where he would stay. It seemed odd that you received no second glances, but it was a welcome change.

Entering his room, the doctor finally spoke, "What do you think of him?"

"Pardon?"

"Boothill."

He sat in a chair right before a plain wooden desk, crossing one leg over the other.

"I care for him very deeply, but I think you could figure that out already. ”

"Would seeing him in pain hurt you, then?"

"What exactly are you trying to say, Thornton?"

"Nothing at all, just conjecture." He responded, hands coming up defensively before returning to his lap.

"I still have half a mind to kill you."

"Always so crude with me," he shook his head, "If you do decide to murder me, you might as well do the same to Boothill. Nobody else in this world understands his inner workings like I do. If I'm dead, there will be no one left to repair him if something goes awry. He's already tried before himself and landed at the same conclusion."

In the dim lighting of your shared room, your fingers carded through Boothill's newly cleaned hair. The noise from the saloon below reverberated upward, but it faded into nothing as warm lips found your neck.

"What did you find?" you questioned, quiet in the tranquility of the moment.

"There's supposed to be a whole bunch of Walker's a bit further up in the mountains. By Whitetail Hill."

"Well, that's good. Leave at dawn and we could make it there by early afternoon."

"My thoughts exactly."

A group of cheers from below filled the silence. Sharp edges nipped at the same spot of your neck, drawing a short wince from you. It was soothed by a soft tongue licking across the area as cool fingertips traced the other side of your neck.

You began to turn your head in his direction before those same fingers brought your chin down. Rough lips met yours in a rare instance of gentleness, something that reminded you of calm before a storm.

—

PART IV - Death, the Range's Old Friend

Dust kicked up from underneath the gravel path as you brought your horses to an abrupt stop. A figure rest in the middle of the road, bloodied claw marks running down their front. They coughed, red splattering back against their cheeks.

“Mercy… mercy, please.”

A scarlet covered bandana slipped from their pocket, bits of green peeking out from beneath. You cocked your gun at them before speaking.

“I’ll grant you your wish after you answer some questions. Deal?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You were coming from the area of Whitetail Hill, correct?”

They nodded weakly.

“Where specifically?” Boothill asked, looking around the surrounding forest – likely watching for the animal that attacked them.

“Copperhead Mine.”

A breeze blew through the trees, carrying an odd and empty whistle. A bang interrupted the cryptic melody as the Walker’s plea was granted. The slow movement of hooves followed shortly after, as you maneuvered around them.

“What do you think we’re headed into?” you wondered, meeting Boothill’s eyes.

“Nothin’ good, I can tell you that much.”

“How many’ll be there?”

“I can’t say. The bartender said upwards of 20.”

“Will we be able to take them?” you picked up the pace, looking over the small cliff to your left.

“After all this time, you still doubt us.” he chuckled, matching your speed.

“It’s better to stay realistic.”

“You have me with you, anything we do is realistic.”

You sighed, as the clouds drifted across the blue noon sky. “I suppose I just want you to look after yourself more.”

He waited an instant before responding, features full of sincerity. “I know you care about me, more than I had ever thought I would receive. But I’m not going anywhere – there’s nothin’ in this world that could kill me anymore.”

—

The ominous tune of the wind persisted, some symphony of nature that could only serve to unnerve you. A shiver went down your spine as you reached a viewpoint of the mine, a chill seeping in beneath your clothes. Dismounting, you pat the neck of your horse, trying to steel yourself before the confrontation.

You nodded at Boothill, before leaving first down to the camp. Dry grass crackled under your steps, before the crunch of gravel came instead. The sound alerted who you assumed to be the leader of the group, a scarred eye looking over you in suspicion before he spoke.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

“I was in Iris Creek yesterday, askin’ around about any jobs. They said you’d need some more hands out here.”

“Really now? Who exactly told you that?”

“The bartender at the saloon.”

“Which saloon?”

“There’s only one in town, friend.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite so.”

He glanced back at a set of boxes, before making eye contact with one of the members. You drew your revolvers, shooting at two of the people before ducking behind a pair of barrels. Boothill emerged from behind one of their tents, blood already coating his cheek.

He was always brash in his ways, usually coming in guns blazing unless the plan said otherwise. Even then, there was no safe bet that he would follow it. Today was a lucky day, you supposed.

Splinters of wood broke off in your direction, falling over the edge of your arm and over a dark red stain you had yet to notice. Aiming around the side, you fired at one's eyes and another's cheek from where they hid. A second pair hit two plainly in the head, one of their bullets going astray into the rock by the mine entrance.

A strong grip wrapped around your ankle, pulling you backward through twig-like bushes. You were met with the same scarred left eye when the dust cleared – a gaze that spoke murder pinning you down. A fist met the side of your face, brute pain emerging afterward. He went again but was met with your right arm. He tried your left side, and you let him get a hit in as you cautiously unsheathed your knife. With a block to another hit, you slashed your knife across his chest. It was the easiest thing to do in this position, and he backed off of you slightly to stare down at the scarlet seeping into the edges of his cut shirt.

A tight hold turned him over, leaving you above him. The sharp tip of the knife pointed right under his chin as you started your interrogation.

“Where’s Lloyd?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” he spat.

Taking the blade, you punctured along the edge of his right eye. He screamed as crude fluid bursted against your sleeves, running down the side of his face as you twisted it.

“I’m not fuckin’ around with you! Where is Lloyd Walker?”

“In- in Thatcher!”

“That’s it? You sure there ain’t anything else you want to tell me?” you questioned, drawing the knife from his eye. Another scream came before the tip of the blade returned to his chin, dragging down to his sternum.

“He’s hidin’ out with somebody. They’re in bed together, doing some real shady business. Patrick Arrington – that’s the guy you want to meet with! He’s in the oil business, and real paranoid to boot.”

“Any tips you want to share before I’m finished with you?”

He licked his lips, panicked and steadily bleeding. “Find Ef. I… I met her at a theater once. She loves it there, lights up the minute the curtain rises.”

“Does she have a full name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

“I’m not lyin’! She never told me!”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

The blade plunged in his throat forcibly, the near frightening sensation of shattering bone reverberating to the hilt of the knife. A dry wheeze left his lips as you stood up, pulling the weapon back out.

A low whistle, one that you could recall anywhere by now, came from behind you. Boothill walked up, looking down at the body.

“Did you get anythin’ out of him?”

“Plenty. What do you think of a trip to the capital?”

He smiled, sharp with excitement and thrill. “Sounds like a lovely time to me.”

—

PART V - Ballad of the Dead and Alive

It had been years since you last set foot in Thatcher. The city had become strikingly more commercialized, with a shop, service, or office on every corner. Your boots had been left behind at the hotel room, exchanged earlier after a trip to the tailor’s for something more formal.

Wood doors with decorated glass opened as you walked into the lobby, Boothill following behind.

“Tickets for two, please.” you smiled, leaning against the front counter.

“Door to your left.” the taker replied, sliding the slips underneath the barricade.

With a tip of his new hat, Boothill thanked them before heading through to the hallway. It was plain black, something simple yet classy per recommendation of the tailor. He had outright refused their first suggestion of a top hat – slight disgust on his face as he said that would never be his style.

“Guess I finally got that theater date.” he chuckled, opening the double doors to reveal a lit stage.

“I suppose you did.” you replied, taking his hand and going to find your seats.

A narrator stood in front of the curtain, reciting the introduction to a play. Now sitting in the second row, you and Boothill waited patiently for the show to begin.

“‘Do not plague thyself with vexatious matters. Live unshackled and wander from this day forth.’ Thus, did the young Lady Rena commence her journey.”

A beautiful woman walked out to center stage, clothed in a green silk dress. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color rested on her head, feathers rising from the right side that were held under a silk brim. Lavender sprigs and violets emerged from the left, wrapping around to sit delicately on the front.

A gasp came from your right, bringing your gaze away from the show. Brown hair, pinned and curled, came into view before an apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry, I just love to see how the characters dress.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t bother me at all.”

“Oh, well I’m glad.” she smiled, then looked back to the stage.

As the play continued on, your gaze bounced between the actors and the spectator next to you. She seemed to beam at the performance, her eyes watching every detail closely even if she noticed your attention on her. It wasn’t until the brief break before the climax that she turned back to you.

She didn’t say a word for a minute or two, simply looking over your features.

“Have you ever thought about acting?”

“It’s never crossed my mind before.”

“It just seems like you have a knack for it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can’t really say, it’s just a feeling. I have a… friend that reminds me of you. She’s been up on the stage there all night. She acts so well, and you can tell she really loves it despite her always telling me it’s just a job.”

“And what about you?”

She paused, seeming to briefly sink into herself. “Can I trust you with a little secret?”

“Of course.”

She smiled smally, “I actually wrote this play. When my work day was over, I’d go up to my room and spend a couple hours jotting it all down. My boss is a miserable man – it’s a pleasant break from him.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely to see it brought to life, then.”

“It’s my biggest achievement so far, and nobody besides you knows the truth behind it.” Sincerity took over her face, a beat passing between you before she spoke. “So, it’s only fair that you share your truth with me. Who are the two of you?”

A hand came to rest on your shoulder as the other was held out across your front, waiting for a shake.

“You can call me Boothill, Ef.”

Her face looked surprised, as if she had possibly seen him somewhere.

“We were preparing to do business with your boss, Patrick Arrington, correct?” he continued.

“Yes.” she replied curtly. “He’s been having me carry around something for you as a matter of fact.”

She placed an envelope in Boothill’s open hand. He turned it over between his fingers, taking a moment to look at the wax seal. With a quick rip, it opened, revealing tight cursive on the parchment. It was an invitation to a dinner in two nights time. Arrington’s signature sprawled over the bottom half of the paper, bold in comparison to his previous handwriting. He spoke of knowing Boothill was in town, likely trying to seek him out. Instead, he wanted them to meet and have a discussion over steak. He also extended the invite to you, his “hell-raising partner”.

If Arrington and Walker wanted a confrontation, they would get it.

“I hope the two of you will entertain his offer. Let us enjoy the rest of my play, though. We can be friends for this evening at the very least.”

—

Patrick Arrington's house reflected his wealth. Dark colors were covered by intricate wood detailings, highlighted well with lamps. The butler guided you and Boothill into the dining room, revealing a lengthy table covered in candles and plates. The men of the hour waited patiently, Patrick at the head of the table with a glass of wine and Lloyd to his right, a lit cigarette resting between his lips as he inspected the utensils.

They weren't very intimidating to say the least.

"Glad you could join us," Lloyd welcomed, a silver steak knife twirling around in his hand. "I've been waitin' to see you again for years, been pretty boring without your games." He pointed said knife at Boothill.

Patrick's weathered eyes met yours as he gestured for you to sit at his left. You strode to the cushioned chair, a foreboding sense creeping in as you pulled it out.

"You can take the seat opposite to me, Mr. Blackwell."

His features appeared defiant before you glared at him. It would be best to follow his commands. A sharp exhale left him as he sat down, leaning casually.

A new butler came in, wine bottle in hand. He poured for the two of you before being dismissed.

Swirling his topped up glass, Patrick leveled his gaze onto Boothill. "I want to make you an offer."

"Ain't that the nature of business." he chuckled.

“Indeed.”

Seared steaks made their way onto the table as Arrington shared his proposal.

“You may take Walker’s life, so long as I take theirs.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard him, boy.”

The room remained tense as your hands froze, a slight cut staying in the meat at your idleness.

“I’m willin’ to… succumb to your revenge,” Lloyd waved his hands around dramatically, “Let you claim my bounty – just after someone is exchanged for me.”

“You think I would ever agree to that?”

“Well, let’s just say it is not so much an agreement as it would be a reward.” Patrick smiled, placing his fork on a cloth gently.

A line of cold steel rested against your throat. You set down your silverware, raising your hands and leaning back.

“I didn’t do nothin’ to you, Mr. Arrington.” you reasoned.

“Maybe not in your eyes. A debt is owed to me, however, and it must be repaid. Your father stole my weapons, robbed my men, and ruined my oil! He was scum, and it seems you are too.”

“Any issues you had with him aren't my problem.”

“The knife to your throat begs otherwise, dear.”

“You started this.”

“No, I did not. Your friend here began his feud with Mr. Walker years ago. That is the true reason why the both of you are here tonight. I am simply ending a personal matter at the same time.”

“What’ll it be, Jesse?” Lloyd asked, an excited smile growing on his face.

You met Boothill’s stare, watching the gears turn in his mind. His gaze drifted upward, past yours and to the person behind you. Their grip tightened on the hilt.

“I’m gonna have to decline.”

Walker laughed as Arrington’s face went stoic.

“So be it.” a familiar voice spoke.

The knife formerly held to your neck flew into Patrick’s right shoulder. With the room still surprised, you flipped the dining table with help from your near-executioner. Plates clattered onto the floor surrounding Lloyd, the candles beginning to eat away at the rug.

“Where do you think you’re going, you piece of shit!”

You watched, revolver in hand, as Ef strode angrily to an escaping Patrick. He gripped his shoulder, walking out and down the hall as fast as he could. She followed suit, chasing and pinning him down easily. The click of your dress shoes echoed over the wood floor as you came behind her, witnessing her tackle him to the ground before pulling the knife from him. She threw it to the side, choosing to instead beat him as hard as she could while curses fell from her tinted lips. You leaned back against the wall, toying with the chamber of your gun. You watched as it spun, just one bullet sat inside.

With a huff, Ef rose from Patrick’s bloodied body, scarlet covering her teal dress.

“Do with him as you please. I’ve had enough of him for eternity.”

She then turned down the hall, the sound of ascending steps coming shortly after.

You came to stand right next to Arrington’s head, pressing your left heel down on his shoulder. He groaned, trying to twist out of the situation.

“I have a special hatred for rich filth like you.”

Two clicks of the hammer – a blank.

“Always walking around like you own the place.”

Another blank.

“Throwing money at everything you can – money that you made from stealing what belongs to others.”

Blank.

“And you’re so much better than me? Look at what you’re doing right now.” he whispered out, eyes growing unfocussed.

“We might be bad people, but at least we’re honest. I think liars like you will suffer a worse fate than us. You’ve got no honor, no respect, left in you. Sold it all away for what? So you could feel some power? Some control? We all die the same, Patrick. This wealth’ll mean nothin’ in the end. Keeping it all to yourself only makes people resent you more. We struggle everyday, only ever dreaming of what you have and take for granted everyday. You deserve nothing that you have in this world if all you do is abuse it. Save whatever dignity you have left for hell, Arrington. You’re gonna need it.”

A shot fired as his mouth opened, leaving red to splatter out from the proximity. You leaned down, taking his pocket watch and dangling it in front of you. It was gold, polished, and engraved – an item that could fetch a high price. You shoved it in your own pocket as you left his body, searching for the stairs Ef had gone up.

Flames caught on the curtains as Boothill waited in a standoff with Lloyd. Neither uttered a word as they waited, staring each other down. Crackles came from the walls, the flames illuminating the space with harsh glares. Walker drew his old pistol, aiming quickly and preparing to fire. Blood flowed from his arm not a second later, three shots ringing out in the burning dining room.

A swift kick crossed his face a moment later, something sharp cutting down it. Despite his pain and lack of clear vision, he took one of the scalding candlesticks and threw it in front of him. His hand came to hold his face, sighing.

“If you want to kill me Jesse, do it already.”

The cold barrel of a gun met the back of his neck, one click reaching his ears.

“Givin’ up that easily! Really now?”

“I’d rather die than try and make it out of here.”

A set of curtain rods fell to the floor before Boothill spoke, “ I’m gonna take my time with you, then. See if you can handle what you put me through.”

Whistles sounded through the courtyard as lawmen slowly encroached the property. A pair of satchels rested full over your shoulder, one similar sitting on Effie’s horse. They were bulked with stolen bonds, jewels, and anything else you could get your hands on.

“I suppose this is farewell.” she exhaled.

“For now, at least. If you’re going down a road like ours, I think we’ll cross paths again.”

“I hope so.”

“Go be with your friend.” you smiled, winking and patting her horse as she mounted it. “And thank you for the help. This wouldn’t have worked out if it weren’t for your decision.”

“You flatter me. But you’re welcome anyway.”

She pulled a poppy from her hat, handing it down to you. With exchanged nods, she rode off around the back, leaving you to the steps of Patrick’s burning house.

The front door burst open as Boothill kicked at it, stepping out as smoke started billowing from the building. You had every confidence in his capabilities, but you still found yourself in his arms. Crimson stained his cheeks, seeping into your palms as you brought his face closer to your view.

“How are you?”

“A little worse for wear, but if you kiss me, I just might be alright.”

“That can wait, cowboy. For now, we’d best get out of here.”

—

Epilogue

The sun beamed down brightly, casting a hazy glow over the river. Morning light was always lovely at times like this, and the sound of rushing water provided a welcome sense of relief. A soft breeze blew through the tree branches above you, ruffling the papers in Boothill's hands as well.

His head rested on your thighs, leaning back and reading them over with a smile. A sketch replaced your photo now, headed by text that read: “Reward for the capture, dead or alive, of __ __. The murderer of Patrick Arrington, they are still at large in Kearny County.”

“Look who made it big.” he chuckled.

“Think they’ll have a stage ready for me next time we visit?”

“If that stage is the gallows, then I’m sure.”

You laughed, leaning back against rough bark.

“Meanwhile I only got an extra $500! Can’t believe those lovely lawmen.” he grumbled, ripping them in half.

You brushed your palm over his forehead, shifting his hair back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Fingertips brushed down his cheek, before curling under his jaw and tilting his head in your direction. Silver and red eyes met yours, simmering down to a rare gentleness. He stared at you for a moment, no vibrant expression or words leaving him. Peaceful – that’s what he was.

“Where do you want to go next?” you asked, thumb tracing along his cheekbone.

“I think we’ll just keep ridin’, stop where we want and see where the trail ends.”

“Take some jobs here and there, try to make some money.”

“Sounds nice.”

You hummed as Boothill turned his head back to the river, sighing toward the low reeds.

“Would you ever want to have a farm again?”

He rested quietly before replying, “No, but I wouldn’t be against working on one every now and then.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes, though.”

“Course. There’s plenty more I could show you too.”

“Like?”

“Anythin’ you can imagine.”

“What a magician you are.”

“You flatter me, sugar.”

“Gettin’ a little shy on me, are you?”

“Not at all.”

He leaned up on his right hand, the left coming to the side of your neck. Slightly rough lips met yours challengingly, as if lovingly proving a point. Cold metal was removed from your neck, fingertips running along your throat teasingly before coming up to tug down the hat on your head.

“Stealin’ my moves now, cowboy?”

“You learned them from me first.” he chuckled, “Just one of our many games, right?”

#coff writes for hsr 🍾#hsr #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr au #hsr fanfic #hsr boothill #honkai star rail boothill #hsr boothill x reader

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curiositydooropened · 2 months

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Ranged • 00: Prologue

After Hell brought Horror to the Heartland, America’s dirt roads and open woods began to fall to rot and ruin. To prevent further inter dimensional slips, the government dispatched several workers, such as yourselves, to travel the country saving small communities.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 922 - This fic is episodic.

Warnings: very slowburn, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, and vomit/nausea.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Episode 01: Firetower

Blood shone in thick, dark splatters across a freckled cheekbone. It stuck his hair to his ear and his collar to his throat. It stained a shoulder. You watched it glimmer under street lamps, watched the clench of his knuckles around the steering wheel, watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he avoided your gaze.

There was no point saying it anymore, the words exhausted their meaning a year ago, but it was true nonetheless. You can’t save everyone. You both knew it. It didn’t hurt less.

You mopped at the blood splatter on your own cheeks with a spare t-shirt to flirt a discount out of the motel attendant. He slid you a key on a novelty ring while Steve parked on the far side of the lot.

You’d set the phone on its receiver by the time he exited the shower. You rinsed bloody clothes in the sink and brushed your teeth and slipped into an oversized t-shirt. You couldn’t remember who it belonged to. Maybe you’d picked it up at a thrift store along the way.

“Owens?” He asked, voice gruff, eyes red. A claw mark dug into the flesh of his cheek, to the bone.

You reached into your duffle for the first aid kit to procure ointment and a butterfly bandage. “Sit.”

He sighed, but did as instructed, towel falling to his shoulder. He winced as you patted ointment into his wound. “Did he say where to go next?”

You nodded, pressing his flesh together until it wrinkled near his eye. “Small town in Western Montana. Locals think it’s the water supply. Park ranger called it in.”

“How far?”

“Eight hours.” You zipped the kit closed and wedged it back into your bag.

“Okay,” he muttered, tossing his towel into a corner near the sink. He stretched sore muscles with a groan, and you watched the bruise on his ribs bloom in greens and browns. The swelling was down significantly from two days earlier. “We’ll leave first thing.”

He meant first light. You glanced out a fogged window at the glow of street lamps. The vacancy sign buzzed bright red. The sky remained dark just beyond.

“Okay.” You sighed and toed under linens that had yellowed years ago.

Steve triple checked the lock and toted his bat from the nook near the front door to his bedside. Then, he pulled his lighter from his pants pocket and shook it to his ear. By the look on his face, it needed a refill. He placed it to the bedside table between you, just beside the Bible.

“Are you okay?” He’d asked it four times already, a compulsion you’d learned to ignore.

“Yes.” You knew better than to reciprocate, knew he wouldn’t answer you anyway. You had minimal sleep hours left. It wasn’t worth the fight. You can’t save everyone.

“I’m going to turn the light out.” He warned, sliding himself into his own double bed. A large hand reached beneath an orange lampshade and the room went dark.

The darkness was spotted orange and blue, and you fought back the images of Steve’s fists meeting and elderly man’s face. You fought back the screams that rang in your ears, the copper taste on your tongue, and that pang that lay permanent in your nostrils.

Steve shifted in his bed, springs groaning beneath his weight, and you honed in on him instead. Every night, you fell asleep to the steady in and out of his breath, the comfort of him an arm’s length away.

—

The ranger’s uniform matched the coffee and cream in your styrofoam cup. The confusion knit between his brows matched those of dozens of local law enforcement across this country over the last year. You flashed you badges and asked him to take a seat, and hours later you were holding your hand over your nose to mask the smell of decay.

The corners of Steve’s mouth pulled upwards in a grim apology, sipping his own coffee.

A room full of National Guardsmen looked aghast. There was no guarantee a burn of that size could stay contained. Half of the state could be up in flames by the end of the week.

“Better than the alternative.” You promised.

The Spread started on a cattle ranch north of town, the herd dwindling as calves and heifers slipped into cracks and broke legs and necks. A large crevasse rotted through a patch in the back forty, splitting the land down the middle from government land near to the rancher’s estate.

On the back side, it seeped into the river. Trees were downed and turned to mush and rot. Where once sat a hunting perch, now folded into a vat in the ground.

The Ranger had taken you up by four-wheeler, an excursion neither of you had been prepared for in slacks and blazers. You supposed those were hazards of the job though, wading through the remnants of a hillside in nylon stockings.

Steve rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up past his elbows to dive into the meat of a fallen tree. It came back green and gooey, but nothing had nest inside. Not yet, at least.

“You called just in time,” he wiped his hand on his pant leg and you dry heaved a little.

“So this… virus,” the Ranger gestured to the pocket of melted flesh, root to branch, “it can infect humans too?”

“If it festers too long,” you nodded.

“And what might that look like?” He asked like he already knew the answer.

---

[A/N: Here she is. These two have been my new best friends lately, the one thing I've written that actually stuck because it felt good. Let's hope it stays that way so I can keep riding this train. I don't know how often I'll update this, but it'll be on-going. I'd love to write blurbs, and I have a few episode locations/monsters in mind.

I'd really appreciate it if you reblogged and/or left me a comment. Or if you're more inclined, head to my Ao3 and leave me a comment there. It'd really mean the whole world. xoxoxo]

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington slowburn #amanda's wips #wip fic #ranged fic

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yoonavii · 9 months

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𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Regency era! Sanji x reader

Description: Lady Y/N, a gifted seamstress, is chosen to craft dresses for the daughter of the prestigious Vinsmoke Family. Amidst the world of nobles, she encounters Lord Sanji, the charming third son with culinary talents. As vibrant fabrics and bold flavors entwine, will their love be durable enough to preserve the trials and tribulations ahead? or will it have to be seared and served on a silver platter? Yes that is Taz Skyler lol

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

In the western expanse of London, a tempest raged, casting shadows across the cobbled streets as Lady Dilara dashed through the rain-soaked alleys. Her breath came in ragged gasps, matching the frantic rhythm of her heart as she clutched her precious baby daughter tightly against her chest. Months of defiance, secrecy, and stolen moments with her true love had led her to this desperate escape. Raindrops splattered against her face like tears of the heavens themselves, and Dilara stole a fearful glance over her shoulder, her heart racing as the echo of pursuing footsteps drew nearer. Her fiancé's relentless hounds were hot on her trail, their loyalty to him unwavering, their determination unyielding.

With a trembling hand, Dilara sought shelter beneath a timeworn archway, her chest heaving as she huddled protectively over her child. The baby girl nestled against her, oblivious to the storm of emotions that tore through her mother's heart. Dilara's grip tightened, torn between the life she had dreamed of with her true love and the impending threat that now loomed over them.

As raindrops cascaded like crystal tears from the sky, she pressed a fervent kiss onto her daughter's downy hair, her voice a whisper borne of both love and heartache. "Forgive me, my darling. This choice I make is born of love—a love that seeks to shield you from the storm that threatens to consume us."

With a determined exhale, Dilara squared her shoulders, resolve hardening in her gaze. She knew the choice she must make to ensure her daughter's safety. It was a choice forged in the fires of desperation, a last stand against a fate she refused to accept. The glistening streets led her to an enchanting boutique, its window adorned with ethereal lace and resplendent silks that seemed to dance in the soft glow within. And there, amid the needle and thread, the prominent Madame Lucille worked diligently, her hands weaving magic into every intricate stitch.

Dilara hesitated, her heart a symphony of conflicting emotions. But then, with a resolute breath, she stepped into the boutique, the chime of a bell announcing her arrival. Madame Lucille looked up, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the bedraggled noblewoman and the infant cradled in her arms. "Please," Dilara implored, her voice a tremor. "You must take and protect her. Keep her safe from those who would cause her harm." Madame Lucille regarded her with a mixture of compassion and understanding, as if she sensed the gravity of the situation. Wordlessly, she extended her arms, and Dilara gently relinquished her daughter, tears blurring her vision as she watched the child nestled in the arms of a stranger who might offer salvation.

With a silent promise in her heart, Dilara turned to flee, leaving behind a piece of her soul in that boutique—a fragment of her hope for a better future. Regret gnawed at her heart as she disappeared into the night. Yet, deep down, she knew that her daughter’s safety and the chance to live a life of her own choosing were worth the pain she felt. It was a sacrifice born of love, and Lady Dilara held onto the hope that one day, her daughter would understand the depth of her dire choice.

——

As sunlight filtered through the curtains of your room, you stirred in your bed, the sheets soft against your skin. With a determined spirit, you swung your legs over the side and stood, stretching your lithe form to chase away the remnants of sleep. Each movement was deliberate, a testament to the discipline that had become ingrained in your routine.

The room you occupied now was a far cry from the stormy night you were born into. Pure silk sheets cradled you, an embodiment of the comfort and privilege you now enjoyed. Inhaling deeply, you basked in the tranquility that had replaced the chaos of your past.

Your morning stretches served a purpose beyond merely waking your body. The rigorous routine was a prelude to the intense sewing sessions your mother, Madame Lucille, put you through. The skills she had honed and passed on were your birthright, a legacy that connected you to the artistry and craftsmanship that had sustained you both through the years.

As you moved through each stretch, your mind wandered to the day ahead. The boutique was a hive of activity, a testament to Madame Lucille’s reputation and the demand for her creations. You had grown into a skilled seamstress under her guidance, and together, you wove magic into every stitch, crafting garments that whispered tales of elegance and sophistication.

Descending the stairs with grace, you entered the bustling world of the boutique. Bolts of exquisite fabrics lined the shelves, and the air was filled with the soft rustling of fabric. Customers sought out Madame Lucille’s expertise, each visit an affirmation of her talent and dedication. Madame Lucille’s gaze met yours with a mixture of pride and determination. “Good morning, my dear,” she greeted warmly. “Another day of creating beauty awaits us.”

You nodded, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “Indeed, Mother. I’m ready.” The days were full, but they were filled with purpose. The boutique flourished, and your hard work yielded rewards beyond measure. The comfort you enjoyed was a testament to your shared dedication to the art you had perfected.

As you continue to sew, your nimble fingers dancing across the fabric, your ears catch snippets of hushed conversation from a group of ladies nearby. Their voices carry excitement as they discuss an upcoming luncheon hosted by Lady Sora of the Vinsmoke family. Their words pique your curiosity, and you find yourself listening intently.

“Lady Sora’s luncheon is simply the most anticipated event of the season,” one lady gushes.

“Indeed, the Vinsmoke family is known for their grand gatherings and exquisite taste,” another responds, her voice tinged with admiration.

Your heart skips a beat as you overhear their talk. Lady Sora’s luncheon—such events were common occurrences, and you often played a crucial role in their preparation, crafting elegant gowns that adorned the attendees. Your mother’s reputation and your own skill as a seamstress were highly regarded, evident in the meticulous designs you lovingly brought to life.

Yet, despite your contribution to these events, a pang of exclusion always accompanied your work. You were, after all, the daughter of a successful seamstress, a talented artist in your own right. Still, invitations to these lavish affairs remained elusive, like distant stars you could never quite reach.

With a careful stitch, you ponder the conversation you’ve overheard. The ladies’ excitement serves as a reminder of the world beyond the boutique’s walls, a world of opulent luncheons and elegant gatherings. A world that, despite your role in crafting its allure, you have never truly been a part of.

As the fabric passes through your hands, your thoughts drift to the possibility of this being the event that changes everything. A small spark of hope ignites within you—the hope that perhaps, this time, you will not only help create the beauty that graces the gathering but also have the chance to step into that world yourself.

Before you, lost in your thoughts, time can carry you too far, the entrance door of the boutique swings open with a burst of energy. Your best friend, a noble girl whose down-to-earth nature has made her a kindred spirit to you, steps in with a radiant smile. The familiarity of her presence warms your heart; after all, you've shared years of laughter and secrets together.

With a wave and a joyful expression, she excitedly approaches you, her eyes shining with a secret she can barely contain. "Y/n!" she exclaims, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. Turning your attention to her, you meet her gaze with a questioning smile. "What's got you so elated?" you ask, intrigued by her evident excitement.

Without missing a beat, she produces two delicate invitations from within her dress, her fingers clutching them with an almost triumphant air. "Look what I managed to secure," she announces, her voice a soft symphony of excitement.

As her words sink in, your heart skips a beat. The invitations bear the mark of Lady Sora's upcoming luncheon—the very event you'd been musing about just moments ago. Your eyes widen in disbelief, and your fingers brush the invitation as if to confirm its reality. "An invitation to the Vinsmoke luncheon," she says, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "And not just for me, but for you as well."

The enormity of her words settles over you, and a surge of emotions wells within. She, your steadfast friend, your connection to a world beyond your own, had used her influence to secure a place for you by her side. The gesture is as unexpected as it is heartwarming.

A shared moment of delight passes between you, and then both of you burst into squeals of excitement, your laughter mingling with joyous abandon. The boutique walls seem to shimmer with the shared thrill of this new possibility, and the shadow of exclusion that once loomed has been cast aside by the light of your friend's thoughtfulness.

As the joyous sound envelops you both, you can't help but marvel at the twists of fate and the bonds of friendship that have brought you to this point. Lady Sora's luncheon—a chance to step into a world you've admired from afar—suddenly feels within reach, a dream that's now more tangible than ever. And as the excitement continues to swirl around you, you know that this event will be more than just an elegant gathering; it will be a testament to the enduring power of friendship and the extraordinary journey that life can sometimes unfold.

———

Amidst the grandeur of a magnificent estate, Lady Sora occupies the tranquil confines of her tea room. The delicate aroma of herbal tea wafts through the air as she stirs the cup, her thoughts drifting like the tendrils of steam that rise from its surface. With an air of quiet anticipation, she awaits the arrival of her third eldest son, Sanji. The estate, though opulent, carries an air of serenity that mirrors the demeanor of its mistress. Lady Sora's husband, Judge, is away on business, and in his absence, a rare freedom has enveloped her. No longer subject to the constant watchful eye, she finds herself able to move with a sense of liberation that had been absent for so long.

Her gaze is steady, her thoughts focused on the conversation she plans to strike with Sanji. He, her son whose warm smile mirrors his blonde hair, possesses a connection with her that goes beyond mere familial bonds. Out of her six children, he's the one who resembles her the most, both in appearance and personality. Their connection is a bridge that has only grown stronger with time, a testament to the depth of their understanding.

And then, with the graceful entry of Sanji, Lady Sora's heart warms like the embrace they share. His smile, a reflection of hers, carries the same warmth that his hair does. Their eyes meet, and the exchange is unspoken, a silent language of shared moments and unbreakable connection. "Mother," he greets, his voice a soothing melody that resonates with familiarity. The hug they share is not just a physical gesture but a testament to the bond they've nurtured over the years.

"Sanji," Lady Sora responds, her voice a harmonious blend of affection and genuine joy. The tea room, their haven within the estate's grandeur, becomes a sanctuary for their unspoken conversations and shared memories. As they settle into the warmth of each other's company, the estate's walls seem to hold the echo of a mother's love and a son's devotion. Amidst the tranquil beauty of their surroundings, Lady Sora and Sanji's connection blooms, a testament to the intricate tapestry of family, understanding, and the unspoken words that tie their hearts together.

With a hint of excitement dancing in her eyes, Lady Sora leans in, her voice a gentle melody as she shares her plans with Sanji. "My dear, I have wonderful news. Tomorrow, I shall be hosting a luncheon right here at the estate."

Sanji's gaze meets hers, curiosity lighting his expression. "A luncheon, Mother? How splendid! This is your first time hosting such an event, is it not?" Lady Sora's smile widens, her enthusiasm palpable. "Indeed, Sanji. I'm absolutely thrilled. The opportunity to host and arrange an event is a rare privilege that I intend to embrace fully."

As the conversation flows, Lady Sora transitions to a topic that she knows holds a special place in Sanji's heart. "And speaking of the luncheon, dear son, I have a proposition for you. Your culinary skills are unparalleled, as I've been told by many who've had the honor of tasting your creations."

Sanji's expression shifts, a mixture of surprise and hesitation flitting across his features. The memory of his previous attempts at cooking for nobility resurfaces, a reminder of the severe punishment he faced for daring to defy convention. The idea that nobles should not engage in the preparation of food had been drilled into him, a lesson reinforced by his father's strict adherence to tradition.

Lady Sora watches his reaction carefully, knowing full well the apprehension that lingers. She chooses her words with care. "I understand that there are risks involved, my dear. But with your father away, the opportunity presents itself. Would you consider lending your expertise to help prepare the dishes for the luncheon?" Sanji's gaze meets hers, a mixture of emotions reflected in his eyes. The memory of his past transgression is countered by the realization that this might be a chance to pursue his passion without fear. His lips part, and he hesitates before finally giving a subtle nod. "I... I'll help, Mother."

Her smile brightens at his acceptance, and her eyes twinkle with maternal pride. "That warms my heart, Sanji. Thank you." But Lady Sora's plans do not stop there. "And once the preparations are complete, I hope you will join the luncheon as well," she continues, her tone inviting. Sanji's eyebrows raise in mild surprise. "Me? Attend an event as a guest?"

Lady Sora's gaze softens, her words tender. "Yes, my dear. You've worked hard, and I believe you deserve to enjoy the fruits of your labor. Besides, who knows? The luncheon might bring unexpected delights." A playful glint enters her eyes, and she teases, "You might even find your true love amidst the festivities."

Sanji's response is a blend of humor and romanticism. "Ah, Mother, you have a way of turning even the simplest event into something magical." Their laughter rings in the tearoom, a melody of shared affection and a mother's belief in her son's potential. As Lady Sora and Sanji look ahead to the luncheon, they both know that this event holds more than just culinary delights—it's a step toward embracing passions, defying convention, and discovering the unexpected joys that life can offer.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

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shefightslikeagirl · 1 month

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Hobby Drama: Emilie Autumn's Asylum [Part 1]

u/pillowcase-of-eels posted a link to their fandom-and-EA-history write up to the r/EmilieAutumn Reddit, and I thought it would be a fun project to share! 2 out of 7 parts have been posted to r/HobbyDrama so far.

Picture this: it's the early 2010s, somewhere in the western world. Instagram is a novelty, Harvey Weinstein runs Hollywood, almost no one on Earth leans one way or the other about RNA vaccines, and Donald Trump is that one real estate guy you vaguely remember from Home Alone 2. New player Lady Gaga is the most interesting thing to have happened to pop since Madonna, and the whole industry is attempting to catch up; Miley Cyrus is the chick who used to be on Hannah Montana; Melanie Martinez hasn't hatched yet. The time of Oddball Concept Divas is dawning just below the horizon.

You're a Bowie-loving student who skipped goth night at the club to tag along with your art school friends for a very special evening. You're a giddy sixteen-year old rocking cat ears, purple Wet 'n Wild eyeliner, a polyester petticoat, and a coffin-shaped backpack. You're an effete theater kid who sewed his own waistcoat for the occasion, but won't dare wear it to school the next day. You're a buff, bearded dude in a Venom shirt who's trying not to look too excited, since your girlfriend supposedly had to drag you here. You're a slightly bemused parent leaning against the back wall of the venue, sipping a warm half-pint, wondering if this isn't all a bit dark for a tween. ("It's called 'Victoriandustrial', mom," you've been told in the car, "and it's not dark, it's art.")

On stage is a pink-haired woman, with red porcelain-doll lips and a heart painted on her cheek. Among a set of antique consoles, twee tchotchkes, teacups and plastic rats, she pounces and twirls in glittery platform boots, tattered striped stockings, and a tightly laced crystal-studded corset that looks like it's splattered in blood. This is ostensibly a concert, but there is no live band. Where one would expect a drum kit or a bass, three bedazzled burlesque vixens act as back-up singers and dancers, with the occasional vaudeville act a fire-twirling number, a fan dance, throwing pastries and spitting tea into the audience. Lots of wholesome girl-on-girl kissing, too. The music on the backing track is a genre-bender of clanging beats and beeps, lofty orchestral strings, and the frantic hammering of a MIDI harpsichord, as the pink-haired frontlady sings of heartache and betrayal and drowning. Think if the Brontë sisters had invented industrial rock.

The audience gasps in excitement when the lady whips out a vamped-out wireless electric violin. With rockstar cool and virtuoso poise, she leans into the instrument, touches the bow to the strings, and tears out a single plaintive, impeccably distorted high note. Then her fingers go wild, and for a few seconds, everything is perfect suspended animation. Uncannily perfect, almost. Just behind you, you hear someone whisper: "Wait, is she miming it?"

#emilie autumn #fandom #hobbydrama #plague rats #i spy some of sflag's content used as citation lol #we're so dead retrospectives are the most interesting thing that come out of the fandom now

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captain-mj · 1 year

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Western!AU where Roach is pretending to be a woman for whatever reason and his coach gets robbed, so he's trying to figure out how to get himself out of this situation

Cue cowboys!Soap and Ghost who come up to try to save him.

Smut or I will steal your pelvis

@callsign-bunnie I think you'll like this one

I read this wrong but I talked to the anon who sent it and they said its fine

Ghost saw the stagecoach rattling by. He and Soap were hiding on either side, waiting. They heard it had a mail order bride and a ton of jewelry on it, so they were planning to steal everything and let the lady escape on one of the horses. Easy money.

The horses were spooked by something, starting to slow down. They looked around and snorted. The stagecoach driver snapped at them to keep moving, but he had been startled as well.

Ghost aimed his gun and shot, knocking one of the wheels. The coach shuddered and quickly started to run off the rails. Soap shot the other front wheel and the horses started to try to run. It dragged the half broken carriage forward as the driver tried desperately to get them to settle. He pulled his gun and started to shoot in Ghost's general direction, missing by miles.

Soap raced out, quickly shooting at him. Blood splattered as the men fell, hitting the ground with a dull thump.

Ghost rushed the stagecoach, just in case someone of fighting ability was in there.

There was a rather small little lady. Well, compared to him at least. Her dress hit her ankles and she had a hat with a veil. She stood up, clearly frightened.

"Don't worry. I wouldn't do anything to ya. Just want the cargo you're carrying." He put the gun up, aiming at her. She didn't move instead freezing in one place. Her head cocked to one side.

Soap opened the door on his side and jumped in. She almost jumped out of her skin and twirled around, putting her back to Ghost. Ghost grabbed her and quickly started to tie her up.

Her head slammed against his nose, the only thing stopping it from breaking being the hard mask over his nose. She slammed her feet into Soap's chest and tried to escape.

"We're not even into women. Just stop fighting so we can grab our stuff and go." Soap said and grabbed her legs, flushing a little when he realized her skirts were flying up. He quickly tried to push them back down.

Ghost held her tighter and the hat fell off her head and subsequently the veil.

They both stopped fighting immediately, staring.

Roach stared back at them. His hair was rather short and though he had some feminine features, he was clearly a man. He blushed brightly.

Soap lifted his skirt to look up it and Roach kicked him hard.

"So... you're a lad. Are you one of those people that doesn't feel like a lad?"

Roach shook his head head, looking more flustered.

Ghost was real quiet as he took in Roach. He was gorgeous. "What's your name?"

Roach reached for his necklace and showed him the engraving.

"Gary Roach Sanderson. Prefer Roach?" Ghost asked him. When Roach nodded, Ghost frowned. "Don't want to talk, love?"

Roach flushed and drew an X over his mouth, a pretty much universal way of saying he's mute.

"He's really pretty." Soap smiled at Ghost, both of them apparently thinking the same thing.

Roach looked between them. Both of them had on masks of skulls and were bigger men. Between them, Roach seemed rather tiny. He flushed more and wiggled just a tiny bit. Ghost had his arms pinned to his chest and Soap still held him up by his legs.

"Just shake your head no and we'll leave, okay?" Ghost promised, gently tilting Roach's head to the side. Roach flushed more but didn't move. Soap slowly ran his fingers further up his legs, exposing more of Roach.

Johnny smiled. "Alright, love. I'm going to unlace your dress." He reached up and started to undo the laces. Ghost lifted his mask and started to kiss Roach's neck. Roach shivered against him and let out a tiny breath.

"Sensitive?" Ghost purred and set Roach down so they could get his dress off. He didn't let Roach turn around to see his face, instead making him face Soap. Soap didn't care that much because he took his mask off fully and stole a kiss from Roach.

Ghost tugged the little garter on Roach's thighs, enjoying the way he jumped against Soap's chest and blushed more. "What do you want to do to him first?"

Soap grinned at him and without saying a word, Soap ended up laying on the seats with Roach in his lap. His back to Soap's chest. Roach blushed more but relaxed against Soap as Ghost spread his legs.

Ghost settled in front of him, starting to smoke, the mask pulled up just enough for him to do so. Soap pushed his fingers into Roach, going slow. Roach shivered and mewled, hips rolling up.

Ghost smirked and kept eye contact with him as Soap worked him open.

Soap kissed along Roach's neck. "Pretty boy. Feel real tight." He let Roach take over as he sat up and slid down on Soap's cock. He bit his own lip and flushed, tensing with his thighs shaking.

Roach rode him slowly, panting softly. His face flushed more and he looked up at Ghost.

Ghost grabbed him by the back of his neck, moving closer. He kept eye contact with him as he leaned in. "There you go. Feel good?"

Roach nodded and kissed him. Neither closed their eyes. Ghost blew the cigarette smoke into his mouth, feeling Roach eagerly open his mouth for.

Soap thrust up into him with no warning and Roach opened his mouth like he was crying out, but no noise came out. He did it again and Roach's eyes rolled back. Roach pressed back and started to quickly bounce again, almost desperately.

"Right there. Think you did something." Ghost grinned at Soap who immediately did it again. Roach's back arched as he eagerly tried to get more. "Don't finish until he does."

Soap groaned. "You're a sadist."

"It's called planning. Want to show him a good time, don't we?"

Roach tried to replicate what Soap had done, but he was too nervous. Ghost could see him trying to shift his hips without letting Soap go too deep. He reached over and forced Roach down, apparently hitting his bitch button dead on.

"There, that better?" Soap purred in his ears.

Roach nodded frantically and pressed back against Soap. He started tearing up, both of his hands now gripping desperately onto Ghost. He desperately rocked on him, eyelashes fluttering as he clearly got close. Soap spit in his hand and stroked Roach.

Their prize managed a barely audible whine before coming all over himself, panting him. Soap grabbed his hips and started to thrust into him hard. He lasted a few more minutes, Roach shaking and starting to get hard again, before he came inside him, kissing his cheek.

"You want a turn?"

"Of course."

Roach whimpered a little as Soap picked him up and passed him over. Ghost laid Roach down and pushed his legs up and out. "Just relax. Not going to stop until you finish."

Thanks to the change in position, it was much easier for him to fuck Roach how he wanted. He was rough with him, grazing his teeth over Roach's shoulder.

A tiny whimper made him almost feral.

Roach wrapped his legs around and Soap's hand found its way into Ghost's hair, gently stroking it away from the mask on his face.

"What if we keep him?" Johnny smiled.

"I wouldn't mind. Want to go home with us sweetheart?" Simon purred.

Roach nodded immediately, head tilted back. He trembled under Ghost who quickly started to stroke him, wanting to finish first. Roach started to shake his head immediately, overstimulated but he quickly melted into it, shaking. His back arched as he whimpered.

Ghost was persistent and pretty soon, Roach couldn't help it. He came again, melting to a puddle in Ghost's arms. Ghost came in him, feeling it drip out of Roach.

Roach held on to his shoulders and buried his face in his arms. Ghost picked him up. "I'll carry him and you get the horse?"

"You got it Simon." Soap kissed him softly and ruffled Roach's hair before stepping away.

#Johnny Soap Mactavish #Simon Ghost Riley #Soap Cod #Ghost COD #Soapghost #Ghostsoap #Soap x Ghost #Ghost x Soap #Macriley #Call of Duty #Call Of Duty Modern Warfare 2 #ghost x roach #roach x ghost #roach x soap #soap x roach #ghost x soap x roach

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schlock-luster-video · 6 months

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On December 17, 2010, Machete debuted in Austria.

#machete #robert rodriguez #exploitation film #grindhouse movies #grindhouse #splatter film #splatter comedy #cult movies #action movie #neo western #movie art #art #drawing #movie history #pop art #modern art #pop surrealism #portrait #cult film

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artficlly · 1 year

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me & the devil (one-shot)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x saloon girl!reader

The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel has always attracted bad men, and Bucky Barnes happens to be one of them.

Warnings: violence, death, wound descriptions, lots of blood and gore, mention of guns, swearing, sex worker reader, lots of talk of sex work, vague mentions of past non-con and abuse, lots of angst, sexual tension, breaking law, bank robbery, lmk if anything needs to be added.

Word Count: 11.2k (whoops)

A/N: hi! this is a pretty angsty/gorey fic I've been working on. i started this a month back while watching west world. i love westerns, rdr and all thinsg cowboy so this was so fun to write. i was thinking of maybe a part two just due to how long this got lol. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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It was still morning when trouble walked in. In the two months you had been working at The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel, it had taken you only days to figure out who was trouble and who wasn’t. There was an energy to them, something more clinging to their bodies than the grime and grit of the wilds. The saloon would fall into a hush, an unspoken knowing between all within. It wasn't just the guns on their person, but the way they held themselves. A swagger and a smirk, bruises on their knuckles, a twisted nose from a fight long forgotten An essence of something deeper, a whisper that hissed in warning.

That intensity screamed danger, and all those inside knew to obey it or face its wrath.

“Them boys look like trouble.” Charlotte hummed, echoing your thoughts entirely. The two of you stood leaning back against the bar, examining your new patrons. There were three of them, young and deadly. They had that energy and that intensity. With just a flick of your eyes, you could read it – fatality written into the dirt under their nails to the subtle splatter of blood along the cuff of a shirt.

“Maybe that’s reason to steer clear for once.” You muttered back to the woman, your fan fluttering as you eyed her with a frown. “The last lot didn’t even pay you.”

Danger didn’t often walk into Silverton, but when it did, it always stopped by The Diamondback for one final drink and fuck before facing the open wilds. Danger had different faces; some returned, some didn’t. The three men who now took up a table in the back were certainly new to you.

“The ride was payment enough.” Charlotte giggled as she batted her lashes. “Them boys always have a lot packing.”

You rolled your eyes with a huff. "Yeah, and half of em’ don’t even know how to use it.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Charlotte announced with one of her coy smiles you had grown to know so well. She strutted off in the direction of the group of men, hand dragging across shoulders and cleavage pronounced in her posture. The men looked at her up and down like a meal – predators and prey. You often couldn’t tell the difference between the two – who was prey and who was predator. Considering how much coin Charlotte would often fish from her corset after a day’s work, maybe she was the predator. You had learned a lot from her in your short time at The Diamondback.

After a moment of consideration, you turned to face the bar. The barkeep, Crowley, had his eyes fixed on the trio. With a tut, he returned to cleaning the glasses lined along the bar. You were barely able to hear his low voice over the piano. “I swear that girl ain’t got no fear.”

“I guess that’s what comes from workin’ in a job like this long enough.” You replied simply, abandoning your fan on the bar as you snatched up one of the clean glasses.

“I swear I seen them boys' faces on a poster up north in Rustler’s Grove.” Crowley muttered, eyeing you disapprovingly as you slid the glass in his direction. “You drinkin’ this early already?”

“Be a gentleman, won’t you?” You replied with a beam, elbows propped onto the bar. “Whiskey. The stuff from the back, not that watered-down shit for the guests.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Crowley grumbled, abandoning his post to rummage around for your request. You took the brief moment to cast a glance back across the room.

Charlotte was now perched on one of the men’s laps; he had a darker complexion, and curls of dark hair were escaping from under his hat. You noted how one of his hands gripped Charlotte’s upper thigh, squeezing the exposed flesh. Her hand explored his chest as he whispered in her ear. Across the table, his two companions seemed deep in a hushed conversation, completely oblivious to the table of men eyeing them suspiciously nearby.

You ripped your eyes away, instead putting your focus on your hands, which you had clasped tightly together. You never wanted this life; you assumed no whore truly wanted this life. Instead, you all stumbled into it one way or another. A broken family, a dead husband, a lost soul – each of you had a story that led you down this path. All you could do was put on a smile and tell yourself that you liked it, pretending that you had some kind of freedom or power over your situation.

Your eyes fluttered upwards, watching Crowley through your lashes as he returned and poured the liquor into the glass. “You’re thinking too much again; all you’re gonna end up in is a whole world of pain.”

You considered his words, turning them over in your mind before speaking. “That’s what the drinks for.” You hummed with a weak smile. “No thinking if the whiskey drowns it all out.”

Crowley offered you a hollow smile, more of a grimace, as his weathered skin pulled tightly at the corners. “Damn right.”

You shot the whiskey back in one swallow, with a moment of silence following as you allowed yourself to feel the burn in your chest. It was a familiar sensation, one you had relied heavily on to get through the past two months.

“Whiskey this early? A woman after my own heart.” A deep, husky voice spoke from beside you. Trouble. There he stood. It seemed one of the trio had escaped Charlotte’s clutches; if it had been to talk to you or simply drink at the bar, you could not know. You couldn't help but notice the intensity of his gaze as it bore into you. He was taller than the other two and broader, with large shoulders and a chest that seemed to fill out his shirt in all the right places.

Your eyes quickly swept back across the room, seeing Charlotte still occupied. A few of the other girls circled nearby like vultures, searching for the coin they knew was just under their nose.

“Buy me another one, then we can talk.” You replied easily, plastering on a sickly-sweet smile. You wondered if he saw through it and whether he knew how much you hated yourself. You knew it was foolish to think so.

The man silently motioned two fingers at Crowley, and your glass was quickly refilled. You swirled the amber liquid, eyeing the man as he examined you in return. He seemed to live a rough lifestyle, with skin weathered from the sun, sand and dirt clinging to flesh and clothes alike. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and there was a scar above his left eyebrow. Strings of brunet hair poked out from beneath his hat, paired with piercing blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your soul. The muscles in his chiseled jawline flexed as he swallowed back the liquor with a stoic look. Your tongue ran over your bottom lip as you watched his adam’s apple bob. He had a rough, handsome charm to him, despite everything telling you to run. It always seemed to be that way with troublemakers.

“How’d a girl like you end up in a place like this?” He hummed, placing his glass back on the bar. You smile at him from behind your own glass, keeping eye contact as you finish the liquor with ease. Whiskey made you comfortable, and whiskey made you fun. Most of all, it made you forget.

“How do you think most girls end up in this place, hm?” You reply boldly, watching as Charlotte ascends the stairs with her new client in tow. “Sad stories, bad stories. Every whore has a sob story; do ya really want to hear a sob story?”

“You’re new here; ‘least you weren’t around when I was last in these parts,” he chuckled in response. Another round of liquor was poured into your glass with a quick flick of the man's callused fingers.

“New…” You hum, your fingers tracing along the sticky, dark wood of the bar. The man’s attention was fixed on your every movement. “How new do you consider... new?”

“I was ‘round here about a year ago now.” His gravelly voice replied, and another shot of liquor was swallowed. Your eyes briefly danced back across the room, a table of patrons shouting over a game of poker stirring your attention. The man next to you didn’t even flinch as a glass was shattered and chairs screeched as they tumbled to the ground.

“I guess I am new.” You finally spoke, sending another perfectly empty smile in his direction. He ran his tongue over his teeth with a chuckle. “What’s your name?” You ask.

“James. But most people just call me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” You hum in thought, drinking yet another shot of the amber liquor.

“You wanna head upstairs, sweetheart?” He asks, watching as Crowley abandons his post behind the bar to clear out the poker table, the group having resorted to whipping out their guns. You ignore the chaos, shrugging with a simple smile.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You say as you hook your arm around the back of the bar, stealing the bottle of whiskey while Crowley was distracted. Bucky followed your movements with a grin, following you up the stairs wordlessly.

—

Finding an empty room was easy; most of the girls had unspokenly claimed a room they reused throughout the day. The rooms in the Diamondback were modest, as expected for a small town. A double bed with fresh sheets, a chair next to an unused fireplace, and a dresser near the door with a bowl and pitcher of water placed atop it.

Your back was turned to Bucky, and you could hear the creak of the bed as he sat down. You dared to look up through your lashes, meeting his eye through the mirror that sat atop the dresser. Bottle of whiskey forgotten, you turn to face the rugged man. You can't help but feel a little weak in the knees under his intense gaze. A hand runs over his stubbled chin briefly before removing the worn leather hat from his head. His hair, a rich, dark brown, emerges from beneath, his hand running through the messy strands.

You step forward, carefully taking the hat from his large hands. The remnants of sand and dirt prickle your fingers as you brush the pads over the fabric. You had come to learn how much the men who frequented the Diamondback valued their hats; there was an unspoken lore or story attached to each one. With his hat delicately placed on the bedside table, you return to Bucky’s side.

With the whiskey doing its work, you smooth your hands over the dark fabric of his shirt. Your hands looked so small, delicate, and clean next to him. You found him handsome; if you were younger, you probably would’ve been intrigued or charmed by his looks as well. You knew to avoid trouble like him, but under different circumstances, at a different time?

The thoughts bubble in your mind as you seat yourself close next to him, breath fanning across his skin as you lean in. Your movements are slow and deliberate. You test his response with a quick peck of your soft lips against his before quickly closing the distance. He was so rough in comparison to you; his body was sturdy as a rock. His lips were chapped from days spent in the sun, and his stubble was coarse against your smooth skin.

His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer as you licked into his mouth. A breathless chuckle rumbled in his chest, his lips hungrily consuming yours. Your hands explored lower, feeling the defined muscles beneath the dark fabric. Your hands wrapped around his suspenders and guided them over his broad shoulders.

Bucky pulled away, his mouth instead traveling towards your neck. You tilted your head, feeling his hot breath across your skin. Squirming in his hold, your eyes fluttered shut as his lips met your ear.

“As much as I appreciate it, sweetheart, I’m just lookin’ to chat.” He breathed. You were so concentrated on his hot breath and his squeezing hands that you could not understand what he had said. You opened your eyes, heavy lidded as you gazed at him in confusion.

“To chat?” You question, your faces still pulled closely together.

“Maybe I do wanna hear your sob story, darlin’.” He hummed through a smirk. You felt heat rise in your cheeks, embarrassment flooding your system as you realized he was laughing at you. With one strong push, you wrenched yourself from his grasp with a huff.

“Don’t waste my time.” You hiss at him with a scowl, shooting to your feet.

“I’ll pay you for your time; don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ to put you out of business.” Bucky defended himself, raising his hands in the air as if in surrender. You hesitate near the dresser.

“You want to pay to talk to me?” You question him, your skepticism clear in your tone. There were always men trying to get out of paying what they fucked; you’d seen all the different types of scams. Some would run, some would get violent, and some would promise to ‘save’ the girl from this place. You could imagine trouble like Bucky running that type of scheme, saying it was just a chat to get out of payment.

“I ain’t got many other people to talk to; why not a pretty lady?” He hummed, leaning back onto his muscled arms to view you properly.

“If you’re messin’ with me–” You began to grumble.

“I ain’t, darling. Just wanna talk.”

You stared at him for a beat, weighing your choices. Go downstairs and let another grubby man get his hands on you, or stay up here and chat with a handsome troublemaker who may or may not pay you. With a sharp exhale, you retrieve the bottle of whiskey and take a swig from it. “Fine. Alright then.”

Bucky watched your actions with an amused expression, his body language cool and collected against your outward annoyance. He reached over to his leather coat, which he had abandoned next to him on the bed, retrieving a box of cigarettes and matches.

“You have a real sad look to you.” He commented as he placed a cigarette between his lips. “Standing down by that bar like you don’t wanna be here, I bet it attracts a certain type.”

“What do you mean?” You question him as he strikes the match, taking a long drag once the cigarette is lit.

“The type of men you attract,” he begins to explain. “Type’a of men who want a girl who don’t want it. Cruel bastards, you know.”

You pause at his words, recounting all of the men you had serviced. Charlotte usually attracted the young ones, the boys who wanted a story to brag about to their friends. The men you attracted were older and quiet. They came to you, drawn in by your melancholy. The whiskey burned your chest as you took yet another swig. Memories best left buried. “And are you a cruel man?”

“No, well, some might say, but not in that way. I ain’t a mean bastard with a fantasy of being with a girl who don’t want it.”

“What type of man are you?” Your voice is low, a sense of unease crawls under your skin at his words.

“What do you think?” He asks, his body growing still. Predator and prey. A part of you enjoyed the thrill of watching him assess your every move. Another part of you was terrified, screaming that you knew trouble and should know better than to get tangled up in it.

“A dangerous one. An outlaw.” When you say those things, you mentally brace yourself for him to take offense and respond badly. Instead, to your surprise, he chuckles, eyebrows raising in delight as if you had hit the bullseye.

A gleam tugs at his lips, the chuckle catching in his chest as he takes another drag. “An outlaw, eh? What do you know about outlaws?”

“I know the type.”

“Hah. I suppose you do, workin’ in a place like this.” He comments, hands gesturing to the room around you, the cheap linen and scratched wooden floors. Somewhere down the hall, you could hear Charlotte putting on one of her shows, the paper-thin walls barely covering the moans. “Places like this breed evil; I suppose that’s why I frequent them so often.”

Your back met the dresser as Bucky stood, his frame towering above you even from a few steps away. It only took a couple strides for him to be in front of you, plucking the cigarette from his lips as he took the whiskey from your hand. Smoke engulfed your senses, and the sense of danger grew with his closeness.

Whoring was a risky line of work; like he said, saloons often bred evil. You weren’t a stranger to a man who got too aggressive, leaving bruises and blood in his wake. Bucky didn’t seem angry; he seemed amused by you, if anything. But you had to remind yourself that he was an outlaw, and most outlaws weren’t strangers to bloodshed.

“Are you… Are you gonna hurt me?” You asked, your voice weak as you pressed yourself harder into the dresser. He gave you a look and coughed a little, as if bothered by your assumption, as he downed the whiskey.

“What? No. I just wanna talk. I might be a bad man, but I ain’t the type to hurt a defenseless girl.”

You visibility deflated as he backed off a few paces, placing the whiskey next to his hat as he ran a hand through his hair with a tense expression. You exhaled a sharp breath, watching the conflict cross his face. Maybe he didn’t mean to scare you; maybe he just needed someone to talk to. You’d heard of big, bad men who couldn’t be vulnerable to anyone. They were so afraid of betrayal that they ended up isolated in a room full of people.

You could imagine Bucky like that; you almost felt sorry for the handsome man. He just wanted to talk; that couldn’t hurt, right? Your skirts swept across the creaky wood floors as you strode beside him, seating yourself between him and the bottle of whiskey. His azure eyes assessed you with a look of mild surprise.

“What… What do you want to talk about?” You finally cut into the silence.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? How you ended up in a place like this?” He questioned, taking a seat beside you. Your thighs bumped together through the fabric, yet you didn’t lean away. “I always see girls like you in these places – gentle women who fell off at some point. Most of the time, it ain’t even their fault. I guess that’s what happened to you, sweetheart.”

You contemplate his words, plucking the still-smoking cigarette from his lips. He doesn’t protest as you inhale the smoke, tilting your head in thought. “It ain’t a happy story.” You confess.

“Don’t need to be. Sometimes I just need a reminder that whatever god is watching over us is just as cruel as us men can be.” His arms brushed yours as he leant over, retrieving the whiskey from beside you. Careful not to exhale smoke directly in his face, you turn your head to watch out the window as you wonder where to start. The sky was so blue outside, just as blue as Bucky’s eyes. It was alluring in a deceptive way; the summer heat beat down on Silverton relentlessly. Sometimes you were glad to work inside instead of out in that brutality.

“My momma died when I was young. Cholera.” You begin, “Broke my daddy’s heart. He was a doctor, good one before momma died. I guess not being able to save her broke him. He fell into drink, gamblin', and whorin’. Barely made his appointments, so I had to help him run the office, cleanin’ up and sometimes stitchin’ up the fools that came in when he was too drunk to do it himself. Eventually he couldn’t afford to feed me no more; he could barely care for himself, let alone a child.” You pause to extinguish the last of the cigarette on the bedside table, the scorch mark joining a collection of older ones. Ghosts and memories of the place you sat in.

“So, my daddy, he sent me away to live with my uncle and aunt. They had a homestead not too far from here; my uncle and cousin were ranchers and moved cattle mostly. I liked it out there in the open; I would go ridin’ and watch the sun rise and set. My aunt would worry I would get robbed or worse, ridin’ alone out there. I was still a girl, really. I didn’t care nor really know how evil this place could be.” Bucky hummed in acknowledgement as you spoke, fingers brushing off some ash that had fallen onto your skirt.

“I would help out on the ranch too; I liked that work. It felt like real work. Good, rewarding work. I liked the animals, playing with the dogs and ridin’ the horses to move the cattle.” Your gaze pulled away from the window, instead turning your head to watch as Bucky took another long drink from the whiskey.

“Then, my uncle died. Gored by his own bull one morning, I tried to save him, but he lost too much blood. It was all so sudden, weren’t nothing we could do. My aunt, she couldn’t bear to live there no more, decided to sell the place. She said she couldn’t take me wherever she was going with my cousin. They were using the money to buy a new ranch back east and couldn’t afford to keep me on no more. She said to write to my daddy and continue working as his assistant until I found a man to marry.”

“What happened to your pa?” Bucky asked, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as he swirled it in his hands. You took a moment to shamelessly stare at the way the veins bulge over the muscles and tendons.

“Don’t know.” You finally admit with a sigh. “Never replied to my letter. Either didn’t want me back or is buried somewhere and no one thought to tell me. So I went to the nearest town to find a job; ain’t no one want to hire a woman ‘cept for in this place. I decided whorin’ was better than starvin’.”

“Real shame. I bet a sweet girl like you could’ve made it in one of those cities back east. Married some big shot, lived life comfortably in one of those fancy city manors.” Bucky hummed. You knew the type of places he was talking about – massive manors filled with staff and shiny, expensive things. Hell, you could imagine Bucky having robbed a place like that while the inhabitants were out at social evenings with the rest of the upper class.

“Maybe. I don’t think I could ever live in a city.” You confess with a shrug. “I like the open air, the emptiness of it all. I don’t get to see it much in this place, but I remember what it was like when I used to go ridin’ all those years ago.”

Bucky’s eyes trailed across your face. “I understand what you mean. I don’t stay in places long, get cold feet. I live in the open; I like traveling without being stuck in one spot.”

“How did you end up livin’ the way you do?” You ask hesitantly, watching his thoughtful expression flicker into a more somber one.

“It ain’t much of a clear story like yours. Absent pa, my momma had it rough raising us kids by herself. I got caught up in bad business, thievin’, killin’ and such. Once I got into it, I didn’t know how to get out. I made friends with similar stories; we all wanted to stay doing what we do so we could look out for each other. All of us just wanna stay out in that open; just keep headin’ west, knowin’ we’ll be buried in a place civilization has yet to meet.” His words were brief, and it was obvious to you that he had more of a connection to the outlaws he surrounded himself with than he did with his own blood.

“Don’t you ever want to settle down some day?” You ask.

“Nah. Once you got the west in your bones, you’re lost to that life.”

You consider his words in silence, drowning out the sounds of other girls working in the surrounding rooms. You understood what he meant; it felt like you hadn’t left those open plains since you first discovered them. You missed riding without a care, the wind tangling your hair as you navigated the emptiness of it all.

“Well. When you’re out there ridin’ in the empty, you’ll think of me? Some sad saloon girl who just wanted to ride out in the open?” You ask, eyes dipping behind your lashes as Bucky flashes you a genuine smile.

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

—

Bucky and his friends hung around longer than both you and the other girls expected. Men like them usually only hung around for a few days or less. From Crowley’s muttering, it seemed the law didn’t show interest in them. Either that or the boys were keeping their heads down.

Most mornings Bucky would come visit you, his two friends switching between drinking and sampling the other girls. Bucky’s eyes never seemed to stray from you, always finding you at the bar with a ‘hey sweetheart’ muttered with the scent of whiskey and leather. You started to enjoy his company, the stories and thoughts the both of you shared.

Every time he visited, he would pay, neatly stacking the coins on the dresser. He always gave double your rate, a rugged smirk and wink sent your way as he slipped out the door. You found yourself waiting and looking for him each day, lingering near the bar until he and his friends sauntered in.

Today was no different than any of your other meetings. Half a bottle of whiskey down, the two of you were talking about thoughts and worries you’d never thought to voice. The summer heat was worse than usual, and the saloon was crowded with working men slick with sweat and tempers to match the scorch outside.

You sat now perched on the windowsill; the window cracked open despite the lack of wind. With your skirts and petticoat bunched up to your thighs to fight the heat, you dangled your legs through the air nonchalantly. A cigarette hanging from your lips as you carelessly stared out at the stretch of blue skies beyond. Bucky had carefully placed his hat on the dresser; his coat peeled off as he watched you from across the room.

“Do you know what time the law go on their lunch break?” Bucky asked into the silence. Often, when a lull presented itself, the outlaw would break the quiet by questioning you about your clients or the townspeople of Sliverton.

“One o’clock, sometimes two if they’re dealin’ with trouble.” You respond easily, exhaling smoke out the window. It took you a beat to think about his question, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why?” You question.

It was an obvious conclusion to be suspicious: why was an outlaw asking about the law’s schedule? You’d noticed how Bucky’s interest often peaked at the mention of the law, the bank tellers, and sometimes even the gunsmith. You had mentioned how the manager of the bank was a cruel man, often leaving the girls with bruises. The group of you would draw lots when he came in, that or hope he would get too drunk to perform.

As for the law, they often mixed business with pleasure. During their lunch break, they would often call down the girls to the sheriff’s office to work while they drank over a game of poker. You had been invited a couple times and mentioned it to Bucky off-hand a few days ago.

“I heard some rumors about a bounty in this area, wanted to stop by when they weren’t… busy.” Bucky replied, a small amount of guilt growing in your chest at your unspoken accusation. The two of you had been open with each other these past weeks.

“A bounty?” You question. “What are you doing gettin’ involved in that business?” You look over at him. The outlaw chuckles under his breath, his callused hand sweeping through his hair as he leans back further in his seat.

“Takes an outlaw to catch an outlaw sometimes, sweetheart.”

You chew on his words for a moment, shrugging with acceptance after not much thought. You could see what he meant; only outlaws were generally cocky enough to risk their lives for coin. That, and they would probably know where another might hide, having lived in their shoes.

“You do that work often?”

“Sometimes,” he hums in reply. “Only when we’re tight for coin.”

You swing your feet down to the wooden floors, your bare skin sticky against the warm wood. Once more, heat envelops your figure as your skirts descend to your shins. Bucky watches with interest as you put out your cigarette, stalking towards where he sits.

“If you’re short, why are you out here spendin’ double on me?” You ask softly, pausing in front of him. His eyes dart upwards, examining your face with a gentle look.

“Sometimes you gotta make sacrifices for a pretty lady.”

You feel your cheeks flush at his words. Normally compliments made your skin crawl and your mouth turn sour, but Bucky had grown on you. Your hand moves towards him before you can think, resting gently on his shoulder.

“I might regret sayin’ this but… I ain’t worried about the money. I do like our chats for other reasons than the coin.” You stumble over your words, a smug smirk growing on Bucky’s face.

“Now, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be putin’ ya out of business talking to a fool like me–” Bucky doesn’t get to finish his words, much to your disappointment. Instead, you jerk back in surprise as the door is thrown open.

In the doorway stands one of Bucky’s friends; you recognized him from his time in the saloon. His face was pink from the heat, and messy blond hair poked out from under his hat. A boyish grin spread across his cracked lips. You noted how large his stature was, nearly taking up the entire door frame. His chest must have been muscled beneath his dirt-stained shirt, his forearms bulging where the fabric had been pulled back to his elbows to combat the heat.

“I see why you spend so much time here, Buck. She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?” Steve comments. You swallow thickly, glancing at Bucky, who sighs through his nose in annoyance. Any tenderness has left his expression, replaced with cold annoyance.

“This is Steve.” The outlaw explains to you, getting to his feet. “What is it?”

You recognized that name; Bucky had mentioned Steve over the past weeks. Steve had been one of his childhood friends who had followed him down the path of an outlaw. Bucky had told you how the two would pickpocket so they would have enough to eat. They had robbed and shot their way west; they fucked their way too, apparently. Bucky had mentioned how the two of them enjoyed their ladies, sometimes taking them at the same time in the same room.

You couldn’t help but let your mind linger on that thought as you studied the blond man. His eyes were looking you up and down eagerly, lingering on your pronounced breasts due to your corset.

“Sam… er, Sam needs to talk.” Steve finally responds, hesitant and careful with his words, as if he didn’t want you to know the true meaning behind his interruption. As you look back over at Bucky, who has crossed over to the dresser, he nods at Steve in silent understanding.

You bite your tongue as the two outlaws share an unspoken conversation, Bucky returning his precious hat to his head. As usual, you watch as he stacks double your rate on the end of the dresser, a secret, cocky smirk sent in your direction as he slips into the hallway.

“Why is he payin’ you that much? You got gold between your legs or somethin’?” Steve questions, having glanced at the pile left behind. You simply huff at him, slamming the door shut in his face. Through the door, you can hear him bellow out a laugh.

—

It was a lazy Thursday afternoon when the first shots were heard. Silverton was not unfamiliar with a bit of violence; the occasional exchange of bullets was easy to grow accustomed to. That Thursday was no different, you’d thought, that was until the bullets grew more frequent. Shots rang through the town, sending people scattering into nearby buildings or braving the streets with revolvers in hand.

That increase in sound blasting through the swelteringly hot afternoon was what made you pause. You were upstairs fixing your updo after a client. Placing the last pin between your strands, you moved to walk cautiously into the hallway. Glancing over the staircase railing, you look into the main bar area. Silence had fallen over the saloon, with chairs and tables empty as if the last patrons had fled.

Your eyes land on Charlotte, who stood next to the bar, exchanging a worried conversation with Crowley. Quickly, you glance back down the hallway, noting the girls and guests who peeked their heads from their rooms in similar morbid curiosity.

It felt wrong to linger upstairs listening to the massacre below; instead, you found yourself opting to join Charlotte and Crowley. As you descend the stairs, carefully lifting your skirts so as not to trip on them, Charlotte peaks up at you.

“Somebody’s robbin’ the bank.” She quickly explains, catching your nervous expression. A bit of relief floods your veins. As loud and violent as that could be, the robbers weren’t likely to hang around for a drink.

“Sounds like a slaughter out there.” You grumble in reply, finding your usual spot by the bar. Crowley looked mostly unphased, shining his glasses with a faint shake of his head. “You think they’re gonna get away with it?”

“Old man Billy ran by and said they ambushed the sheriff's office before they headed to the bank.” Crowley cuts in, placing the now-clean glass down. “Guessin’ there's still a few of them alive if they’re still shootin’. Pretty smart of them robbers to get them while they were on lunch break.”

A pit of dread grows in your stomach, your eyes glancing to the clock above the bar. Quarter past one.

“Were any of our girls down that way?” Charlotte asks with worry, but your focus was instead turned to the dusty road outside. You hoped, if not prayed, that if you caught a glimpse of those robbers, it would not be Bucky and his friends. You couldn’t help but feel a crawling guilt, the possibility that maybe you had been duped into giving an outlaw information. You could not handle the deaths of so many on your shoulders. You knew if your careless words had caused it, it would be squarely your fault.

“No, thank God. Law sent word they didn’t want girls today. Maybe they knew somethin’ was up.” Crowley replies, but you are hardly present in the conversation, instead shifting closer towards the window. You knew it was dangerous, but the pit of worry and guilt was growing in your stomach; you just needed confirmation.

Charlotte let out a sudden and piercing scream as one of the saloon’s windows shattered, a stray bullet richoeing and landing in one of the tables with a thud. “Get away from the windows!” she shrieks at you.

Only as your brain recognizes the danger do you move away, rigidly walking to Charlotte’s side once more. The woman grabs at your arm, beginning to tug you behind the bar as you cast one last glance out the windows.

Nausea crawls in your stomach, and bile rises in your throat as Charlotte tugs you to the floor behind the bar. Amongst the gunshots and dead bodies, you saw the group of masked figures emerge from the bank onto the streets. Just a brief moment, a glance, and your world was left spiraling as your breathing grew faster and ragged. Any other person may have looked at those figures and been oblivious, but you had spent weeks tucked away in the upstairs room with Bucky. You could recognize him even with a mask on, with his muscled form and leather hat. Bucky was out there, standing over dead bodies with a shotgun in hand. And it was all your fault.

Conversations long past swirl in your mind; how many times had Bucky shifted the topic to be about the law, the bank tellers, or the townsfolk of Silverton? How many times had he tricked you into revealing information that wasn’t supposed to go beyond your ears? So many times clients had confided in you, and you had just passed on the information like it were some inside joke between the two of you.

Charlotte flinched and trembled beside you as the gunshots and shouting grew louder. You could only stare at the clock above and spiral. Crowley remained in place, cleaning glasses with a cold expression as if he alone could ward off any evil.

Outside, the voices grew louder and angrier.

“Well, it ain’t me who shot the doctor!”

“He can’t ride like this!”

“You better be fuckin’ right about this Barnes or we’re all dead!”

Charlotte's hands dug into your arms, pulling you closer as the wooden planks of the boardwalk outside grew alive with the sound of stomping boots. Crowley’s glass cleaning paused as the saloon doors were slammed open in a hurry. Crowley’s mouth opened, meaning to speak to the men who had just stormed in. No words came out; instead, the spray of blood, chunks of flesh, and skull decorated the surrounding area as a bullet was fired directly into his skull.

Beside you, Charlotte shrieks once more as Crowley's body slumped to the floor with a hollow thud. You clamp your hand over her mouth, shushing her as you pull her closer. Your body is trembling, and bile is still stuck in your throat. You try not to focus on the way that Crowley’s brain matter had sprayed across your skin, dewy drops of crimson like a mist. You could feel the moisture, smell and taste the copper in the air. All you could do was try to keep as quiet as possible as the armed outlaws prowled only feet away.

The next thing to catch your attention is the sound of groaning and hissing, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain. Chairs and tables screech as if they are being pulled together while bullets still rain outside. You try to blindly piece the scene together in your mind, trying to understand why the outlaws had gathered here with lawmen so closely on their tail.

“They can’t hold them off for long out there. One of the law got away; we reckon he’s headed up Deadwood way to get back up.” A woman's voice shouts over the chaos.

“Where’s your girl then, Barnes? Better be worth it.” A male voice snaps. Through Charlotte's panting and the gunshots, you can hear the thunder of boots storming up the stairs.

“Someone get me some fuckin’ whiskey.” The injured man speaks through gritted teeth. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, hoping whoever goes to retrieve the liquor doesn’t spot both you and Charlotte quivering in the corner. You press your back harder against the bar, pulling Charlotte closer into your side as she lays her head across your chest while silent sobs shake her body.

“Barnes! Hurry up!” The woman shouts up the stairs in annoyance, only to be met with no reply. The gunshots outside began to slow, the law seemed to be losing this shootout.

Heavy boots fall closer, a large figure rounds the corner of the bar. To your horror, he spots the two of you immediately, and even worse, it’s Steve. You recognize him quickly, with his sunburnt cheeks and blond hair and a mask still tied around his neck. His expression was one of relief but also of worry. When you last saw him, he was all smirks and flirting. You imagined it was probably a sight to see both you and Charlotte trembling behind the bar, covered in the contents of Crowley’s skull.

“She’s here, Buck.” Steve called out, your blood turning to ice.

A few days ago, you wouldn’t have been afraid of Steve or Bucky. Foolish, you now realize. It was foolish to get so close to danger and not feel her power. You didn’t know what these outlaws wanted from you, but you weren’t going to give it easily.

Steve stepped over Crowley’s body, and you shake your head. Beside you, Charlotte began to sob loudly, her nails digging into your skin. Between her panicked breathing, you could’ve sworn she was chanting, ‘Please God, I don’t want to die.’ under her breath. The woman you had once known was gone, in complete submission to fear. No more coy smiles and soft touches; no more fearlessness in the face of dangerous men. Charlotte was terrified, and so were you.

“Don’t touch me.” You warn Steve, but he ignores your request. His large hands wrap around Charlotte’s waist, tugging her away. She let out a terrified scream, grabbing and scratching at your arms in an attempt to hold on. Steve’s arms proved stronger, finally wrenching Charlotte away and ushering her away.

Steve’s attention now turned to you, a gruff sigh leaving his nose as he noticed your defiant look. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, pretty girl.”

You shove his hands away, the two of you briefly struggling before Steve finally finds a grip around your waist and hoists you to your feet.

“I said don’t fuckin’ touch me!” You shout at the blond, shoving and hitting at his chest. He grumbles in annoyance, trying to grasp your arms to stop the movement. Behind you, Charlotte is making a noise somewhere behind a sob and a scream as one of the unfamiliar men drags her out from behind the bar.

You back away further from Steve, still shoving and pushing him away. Only when your back meets something warm and solid does he stop his advance. Spinning around, you stand face-to-face with Bucky. His scent is the same: leather, but this time with a dash of gunpowder. Small blood splatters decorate his skin and clothing. As he grasps your wrists to stop your struggle, you unconsciously note how his knuckles are bruised and split.

“No...” is all you manage to utter, Bucky tilting his head with a frown as tears begin to streak down your face. You had been foolish enough to trust him and his rugged, handsome looks. You had blindly answered his questions without a care for the consequences because he had been kind and mysterious. He had told you himself he was an outlaw, a bad man. Now how many lives weighed on you too? Even Crowley’s blood was on your hands, literally and metaphorically.

Bucky’s hand reached up tenderly to wipe the tears from your cheek, his frown only deepening as you flinched away from his touch.

“As touchin’ as this is, we don’t have the time for this, Barnes.” The woman’s voice from earlier spoke up. Now that you are standing, you could look over to see her. She had a wicked look, messy red hair, and a cut across her cheek. A rifle slung across her shoulder, a revolver, and a knife at her hip. She assessed you with a look of annoyance, a scowl painted across her sharp lips.

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky obliged the woman’s request. His hand wrapped around your wrist as he tugged you back onto the main floor. You tried to ignore the hole in Crowley’s face as you were forced to step over his body, your shoes slipping in the pool of slick blood gathering on the wood floors.

“What do you want? You comin’ in here to kill us all too?” You ask, your voice raspy from the tears. Charlotte lingered near the staircase, still sobbing, as a younger man growled in annoyance at the sound.

“You think I’m here to kill you after everythin’, sweetheart? No. I need your help with somethin’.” Bucky questions, sounding a bit dismayed at your sudden fear. You swallow hard, trying to contain the tears that continue to freely stream down your face.

“Crowley is dead.”

“Yeah, well, that was unfortunate.” He grumbles, displeased.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” You snap at him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I need ya to stitch up my friend here.” Bucky shrugs off your insult, instead tilting his head in the direction of a bloody sight. Your body shakes with each step, and you feel as if you are only held upright by Bucky’s firm grip, guiding you to a set of tables that have been pulled together. On top lies a man, older and with greasy black hair. Blood stains his shirt, and there is an obvious bullet wound in his lower abdomen. Sweat beads line his brow, his eyebrows drawn together as he battles the pain. You stare at him speechless, watching as Steve returns from behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey.

“Here ya are, Stark.” The blond mutters, shaking his head, as the injured man eagerly chugs the liquor down. For the pain, you think. He’s drinking it for the pain. You try to attach yourself to thoughts and knowledge you recognize, distracting the noise in your brain in the hopes that your hands and legs will stop trembling. You can barely think, and Bucky wants you to stitch him up?

Charlotte’s wailing doesn’t help your case, nor does it seem to quell the tempers rising in the room. Stark speaks up between gulps of whiskey. “Someone, for the love of God, stop her wailing or shoot the damn woman!”

The younger, twitchy man makes a loud noise of agreement, revolver in hand, as he points it directly at Charlotte’s forehead. Charlotte’s sobbing becomes uncontrollable, curling in on herself as she wraps her arms around her middle in defense. Your breath comes short, and your shaking hands grip Bucky’s bicep for comfort as you watch in horror.

“Her daddy was shot–” You suddenly blurt out, capturing the attention of the younger man. “He was shot in front of her; this type’a stuff upsets her. You understand?” Your tone was desperate, near begging. You don’t know why you said it, but you hoped maybe the man would have sympathy for her. Charlotte had confided in you about nightmares once; you didn’t know who else knew about the darkness in her life. The young man stares at you for a moment, his hand running over the non-existent stubble with an irritated sigh.

“You women are so fragile.” He mutters, raising the gun and striking the metal across Charlotte’s face. You gasp involuntarily, ducking your head so your cheek is pressed against Bucky’s chest. Charlotte’s wailing finally comes to a stop; instead, she only sniffles quietly as she holds a hand to her face in shock.

“Leave it, Parker.” Steve growls, prowling across the room, placing himself between Parker and Charlotte. Parker throws his hands up in surrender, instead stalking across the room to where some of the other nameless outlaws had gathered to keep watch.

Stark growls in annoyance from the tables once more, the mixture of pain and whiskey elevating his rage. “Trust pretty boy Rogers to be a fuckin’ gentleman. I’ll shoot the bitch myself even with this bullet in me.”

“Barnes.” The red-headed woman warns, sensing the rising tension and passing time.

“What do you need to stitch him up?” Bucky pressed with questions more urgently; it was clear time was running out and stalling would end in bloodshed.

“I can’t–” You mutter over your panicked breathing.

“Your pa was a doctor.” Bucky interrupts. “You told me yourself that you used to stitch fools up when he was too drunk to do it himself.”

“It’s been years–”

“What do you need?” Bucky’s voice was more firm, demanding even. You note how the other outlaws lingered nearby, twitchy and ready to pull the trigger at any moment. If you continued to stall, you would surely die. So would Charlotte. You would just have to stitch Stark up as quickly as possible, and then danger would finally leave your home.

“Clean water, cloth, and a sewing kit too.” You gasp out. “They’re upstairs in my room; the sewing kit is in the dresser.”

“Good girl.” Mumbles to you lowly, your stomach twisting as the gravelly sound. Bucky’s gaze raises to meet Steve, who quickly bounds up the stairs to retrieve the objects.

“Must be the end of times if we’re trustin’ a whore to stitch me up.” Stark grumbles from below, you sigh heavily through your nose, trying to calm your shaking hands. Beside you, Bucky tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, as if trying to comfort you. Somehow, it gives you the courage to breathe again.

“You’re gonna want to lay off that whiskey.” You instruct Stark with a small sniff, fishing the bottle from his grip and wiping your tear-stained face. “You don’t wanna be chuckin’ that back up with a bullet in your gut, trust me.”

Stark barks out a pained, drunken laugh in response. “Alright, little lady.” His eyes swept over to Bucky. “She always this commandin’? This why you like her in bed, Barnes?”

Bucky lets out a sound resembling a snarl, but Steve's arrival bearing the requested items muffles any retaliation. You willed your hands to stay steady as you approached Stark, who was still writhing in pain on the table. Your father had called it ‘the calm’ or even ‘God's will’ when a doctor could quieten his worries to have a steady hand while stitching. You’d never believed in his spoutings until that moment, burying the anxiety of the situation as you instead focused your attention on the injury before you.

With the bloodied shirt pulled up, you turned him slightly to inspect his back. No exit wound. A sharp sigh left your nose as you realized you’d have to dig around and find the bullet yourself and pray it hadn’t burst into more than one piece. Wetting some of the clean cloth, you use it to wipe away the blood from the skin, giving yourself a better view of the entry. Stark tenses and squirms involuntarily beneath your touch, hissing through clenched teeth.

Your eyes flicker upward toward Bucky and Steve, catching their attention. “I need help holdin’ him down; he’s not gonna stay still even if he wants to.”

Stark seems irritated by your assumptions but keeps his mouth shut. The men are quick to assist you, with two men holding down his legs while Bucky and Steve take his arms and chest. You keep your eyes downcast as you easily unlatch Stark’s belt.

“Bite.” You guide the injured man, placing the leather belt between his teeth. You’d heard stories of men biting through their own tongues, even shattering their teeth in the height of pain. Best not to take the risk.

You take the bottle of whiskey, splashing the liquor over your hands before pausing before the wound. You glance over at Stark’s face; there is a look of determination in his eye as he nods for you to proceed.

Stark’s body reacts instantly to the liquor, jerking against the hands that held him in place. His groans and screams are muffled through the belt as he bites down, his face growing red. Your hands are steady, and your fingers are nimble and quick as you blindly dig through the wound. Muscle constricts around your fingers, hot and sticky against your skin.

Your heartbeat is in your ears as you search, drowning out the muffled screaming and the puffing of the men as they use all their might to restrain Stark’s squirming and jolts. Your fingers dig deeper, and a small worry grows in your gut that maybe you might not be able to locate the bullet. Blood spills from the wound, slippery copper sliding down his side and splashing onto the tables below. Your heart is in your mouth, the screams growing worse–

Your finger brushes something solid and hard; the object is slippery and small in comparison to the muscle and organ. It takes a few tries to grasp it between your fingers, with the sleek metal proving difficult to grip.

A sharp sigh of relief leaves your body as you successfully fish it from the wound, the metal clattering to the table. Thankfully, you note that the bullet is also whole. Blood paints your skin; all you can do is wash it away with the water while Stark pants in relief.

“How much longer?” The redhead woman asks; she has moved to linger near the doors. Outside, a few men hover with guns, as if expecting more law to turn up at any moment.

“It is small; it won’t take long to stitch.” You explain, your hands remaining steady as you begin to thread one of the larger needles.

The woman nods. “Make it quick.”

You follow her demands, quickly dousing the wound once more with whiskey. Stark groans, his head lulling from the mixture of drunkenness and exhaustion. If he were one of your father’s patients, maybe you would’ve comforted him and told him it was nearly over. But you were reminded of Charlotte still sniveling by the stairs, Crowley’s head blown open, and his body still slumped behind the bar.

Empathy evades you as you dig the needle into his flesh, your mouth set into a line as you easily pull the skin together with each stitch. Stark continues to jerk and shake, his body still held steady by the outlaws who watch your movements with interest.

Within minutes, you have tied off the thread, successfully putting Stark back together again. The outlaws seem silently relieved, if not surprised, by your efficiency as you wrap one of the clean strips of cloth around his middle like a bandage.

“He will be able to ride?” Bucky asks as you turn back to the bowl of water, cleaning your bloodied hands.

“The stitches will hold as long as you don’t ride too hard.” You respond, not quite meeting his eye. “If the wound keeps bleedin’ or starts festerin’ don’t give him whiskey. You can find yarrow and greasewood herbs out in the wild; they’ll help him best.”

The redhead woman makes a sound at your words, swinging around to face you. “What does a whore know about herbs? Your doctor daddy taught you that, or ya tryna poison us?”

You pause your movements, biting your tongue at her harsh tone. “I read it in a book.” You admit sheepishly.

The room is silent before Stark surprisingly roars with laughter, clutching his wound as he wheezes with pain at the sudden movement. “A whore that can read? Now that is a treat. What’s next? You can do arithmetic?”

You ignore his quip, instead drying your hands on the remaining cloth. Your father had made sure you could read, though that was before he spiraled into an early grave. Your cousin had helped you as well, the older boy providing you with stories and adventures to consume. You missed the simplicity of those days, riding the horse and moving the cattle without a care for the real world.

You were pulled away from your thoughts as Bucky gently touched your arm, seemingly having forgotten your new-found distaste for him. You flinch away from his touch like a skittish animal, sidestepping as you quickly depart his side in favor of Charlotte’s. The woman was still crouched near the staircase, shivering, with a large bruise developing across her cheek and her lip split and bloody.

You can feel Steve hovering nearby, his expression cold as he watched you usher Charlotte to her feet. You knew his irritation wasn’t with you or Charlotte but rather with Parker, who had struck the woman.

“Is she going to be–” Steve begins to question as you guide Charlotte up the first few steps. You look back, scowling over your shoulder at the outlaw.

“Don’t.” You hiss at him, watching as he nods in meek surrender.

Charlotte is slow to walk; her footsteps are clumsy as she shivers and whimpers in your arms. The redhead woman watches the both of you with an expression of distaste. Below the men gather their wits and guns, Stark teeters in place as he gets to his feet with a cocky expression. His gaze follows the woman's, dark eyes landing on the both of you, lingering a few steps up.

“Hold on there, little lady!” Stark booms up, his words still slightly slurred from the liquor and exhaustion. Charlotte freezes in place, hands clasped rigidly on your arms. You glance back at Stark, hoping he means to just announce their departure instead of demanding your skills once more.

“There ain't no doctors out in the wild; what am I supposed to do if this wound splits open? Get one of these fools to stitch it up?” He asks, his mouth curled into a cruel smile. The outlaws shift their weight, as if they are also unsure as to where this is going.

“Find another town to terrorize?” You suggest tugging Charlotte so she is positioned behind you, hidden from their view.

“Nah…” Stark drawls, staggering a few steps, a revolver swinging on his finger. “I think… it would be easier if you just came along with us.”

“What?” Bucky and the redhead woman bark in unison before you can react. Your grip on Charlotte tightens, blocking out the bickering between the outlaws below as you tilt your head to whisper to her.

“Run.” You mutter, dragging Charlotte up the stairs behind you. You had no plan other than to escape. There was no point in fighting out the front door, instead you would have to risk climbing out one of the upstairs windows–

A shot rings out behind you, and Charlotte's body suddenly becomes a dead weight. You can feel the spray of moisture across the back of your neck, but don’t dare turn to see the sight.

“Did you really need to do that?” Steve shouts from somewhere below, the sound of unfamiliar, wicked laughter carrying up the stairs. Your heartbeat is so loud you can’t hear anything else, only the distorted voices of the outlaws below. Your mouth tastes like blood as you top the stairs, gripping the railing as you turn to race down the hallway.

A pair of hands grasp around your middle, tugging you backward. A scream, louder and more violent than any of Charlotte's, leaves your throat as you thrash in the grip, scratching and kicking as the chuckling man carries you down the stairs.

“You sure you want her, Stark? She seems like a handful.” The unfamiliar outlaw carrying you asks.

“Don’t look so pressed, Barnes. My aim’s good enough not to shoot your girl. You got a real thing for her, haven’t ya?” Parker remarks with a grin.

Sobs escape you as you struggle in the crushing grip of the outlaw, any sense of your father’s mythical ‘calm’ or ‘Gods will’ leaving your body. Animal instinct takes over; Charlotte was dead. Crowley was dead. In a blind panic, you bite down on the arm of your captor, the man yelping in pain and dropping you instantly.

Your knees bite with pain as you slam into the hard, wooden floors. After stumbling to your feet, you turn to resume your escape. Your attempt is short-lived, as you are stopped by a familiar body. Leather and gunpowder. You bury your head into his chest, exhaustion and fear taking over as you silently beg Bucky to protect you.

“See! She’s got the spirit. We’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.” Stark remarks with another cruel laugh. “And if your stitching proves useless, you can always prove your worth with what's between your legs.”

The redhead woman lets out an annoyed grumble at that, and over the cackling of the men, you hear her march out of the saloon to ready the horses.

“Come on,” Bucky mutters to you, guiding you towards the door. You dig in your feet, nausea rising as you watch the men mount their horses through the windows.

“I don’t want to.” You sobbed quietly. The brunet outlaw sighs, his movements hesitating as if he were conflicted.

“I can’t do anything to change Stark’s mind–”

“And when you deem me useless? Are you going to shoot me like Crowley, like… like Charlotte?” Your voice quivers and shakes; your vision blurred from the tears streaming down your face. You had hated this place; you had felt its evilness and oppression. But it was your home; it held your friends. You weren’t ready to leap into the unknown or trust these men who had hurt you. To trust Bucky, who had tricked and betrayed you.

“This is not how this was supposed to go.” Bucky mutters under his breath, then, without asking, scoops you over his shoulder to forcefully carry you from the building. Through sobs, you squirm, his shoulder digging into your stomach as you watch the saloon slowly be ripped away from you with each step.

“Put me down.” You gasp at him as he finally exits the building. “Bucky– Bucky please just put me down–”

The outlaw obliges, dumping you on your feet next to a horse. “Get on.” He instructs.

You shake your head, pushing at his chest. “No.”

“Get on the horse.” He demands once more, guiding you towards the horse’s side.

You begin to push him away harder, with the other outlaws watching as you sob between hitting and struggling as Bucky tries to persuade you to get on the horse. His patience seems to quickly grow thin, and the watchful eyes of his peers grow equally impatient with hateful sneers.

His hands move quickly, grasping your wrists and tugging you closer to his chest. You freeze as he lowers his head, his hat brushing your hair as he whispers in your ear.

“If you don’t get on, these boys are gonna tie you up and drag you behind. We don’t want that, do we now? So what is it, all tied up or sitting pretty, sweetheart?” His gravelly, low voice sends a shudder down your spine, your eyelids fluttering shut briefly.

“I’ll get on.” You mutter back quietly, pulling back. Bucky nods, pleased, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek.

“Good choice.”

With a shuddering breath, you grip the horn of the saddle, swinging your legs over to mount the horse. It had been months since you last rode, but the muscle memory remained embedded deep in your mind. Bucky was quick to mount up too, his body sliding in behind you while one of his hands lazily wrapped around your waist, reins in the other.

The band of outlaws were quick to move once everyone was situated, with fearful townsfolk peering out their windows as the herd moved past in a cloud of dust. You tried to ignore the dead bodies that lined the street, their blood staining the loose dirt. You couldn’t let your brain slip into a dark place, thinking of Crowley and Charlotte still warm in the saloon. A nauseous feeling of dread consumed your being as you noted the blood still splattering up your arms and dress, the rocking motion of the cantering horse beneath you not helping.

You found yourself leaning back into Bucky, the only sturdy thing nearby. Your head lay back against his shoulder as you looked up at the blue skies above, the heat beating down on your exposed skin.

The pace only slowed as the outlaws felt they had traveled far enough to evade any lawmen acting as backup. The heat had grown unbearable the further you drew from civilization; these wilds were not the ones you had frequented as a teen. There were no rivers, forests, or grass. There was only dirt, sand, and heat. These were what men meant when they spoke of the west, pure, untamed country.

Bucky had hardly spoken, leaving you alone in your grief and sickness. He held you steady as you silently cried. Even when you could cry no more and your eyes rolled back from the heat, he continued to hold you steady, ensuring his horse kept an even gait.

The silence was finally broken as Steve slowed his horse, falling in step with the two of you at the back of the party.

“She ain’t looking too great, Buck.” The blond commented, leaning in his saddle to inspect you closer. You shied away from his eyes, pressing closer to Bucky.

“It’s the heat.” Bucky murmured in response, his gaze fixed ahead. The redhead woman had slowed her own horse, glancing back at the interaction with interest.

“Here.” Steve says, retrieving a waterskin from the pack on his saddle. Unscrewing the top, he passes it to Bucky, who in turn offers it to you. You groan, pushing the offer away. At that moment, you’d have rather become one with the bleached bones of the desert.

Bucky huffs sharply, lifting the waterskin to your lips.

“Drink,” he commands. “You lost too much energy crying and wailing back there.”

As soon as the earthy, warm water graces your lips, a survival instinct kicks in, and you greedily take a few gulps before finding the strength to push the waterskin away. Bucky seems happy enough with the amount you have taken, passing it back to Steve.

The blond man shakes his head while screwing the top back on. “I don’t know what Stark was thinkin’ Buck; I don’t think she’s gonna make it out here.”

Bucky seems to sigh at that, giving Steve a sidelong look. “She’ll be fine.”

Steve shrugs, nudging his horse forward to catch up with the redhead woman. Through your squinted eyes, you make out the two of them exchanging some hushed words.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Steve don’t know what he’s talking about.” Bucky reassures you, one of his large hands patting your thigh.

“What if he’s right?” You question, your voice cracked and raspy.

“There’s no need to worry.” He says it with a hum, accompanied by a small squeeze of your thigh. “I’ll look after you, pretty lady.”

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