#West Spring Gun

[tooboredtothinkofaname]

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Warren G featuring Nate Dogg - Regulate 1994

Warren G is an American rapper, record producer, and DJ known for his role in West Coast rap's 1990s ascent. A pioneer of G-funk, he attained mainstream success with the 1994 single "Regulate". He significantly helped Snoop Dogg's career during the latter's beginnings, also introducing him to Dr. Dre, who later signed Snoop Dogg. After the success of "Regulate", American singer and rapper Nate Dogg became a fixture in the West Coast hip hop genre, regularly working with Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and Xzibit in the 1990s; his deep vocals became sought after for hooks, and he would expand to work with a larger variety of artists in the 2000s. As a featured artist, Nate charted 16 times on the Billboard Hot 100, and in 2003 reached number one via 50 Cent's "21 Questions". Nate Dogg also was notably featured on Dr. Dre's "The Next Episode" and Eminem's "'Till I Collapse" (poll #239). In 2015, Warren G released Regulate… G Funk Era, Part II, an EP featuring archived recordings of Nate Dogg, who died in 2011.

"Regulate" was released in the spring of 1994 as the first single on the soundtrack to the film Above the Rim and later Warren G's debut album, Regulate… G Funk Era. The album debuted at number 2 on the US Billboard 200 chart, selling 176,000 in its opening week. The single spent 18 weeks in the Top 40 of the Billboard Hot 100, with three weeks at number 2, and earned a Grammy nomination and a MTV Movie Award nomination. In 2017, "Regulate", certified platinum in 1994, went multi-platinum, propelled by digital downloads.

It employs a four-bar sample of the rhythm of Michael McDonald's song "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)", and also samples "Sign of the Times" by Bob James and "Let Me Ride" by Dr. Dre. "Regulate" starts with a read introduction referencing dialogue from the 1988 film Young Guns.

"Regulate" received a total of 75,7% yes votes! Previous Warren G polls: #20 "Prince Igor".

[totheblood]

i still hear you. (prologue)

PAIRING: post tlou2!ellie williams x reader

SUMMARY: ellie stumbles upon your self-run town after her life is destroyed, except there's more to this town then what meets the eye. and it seems like there is more to you too.

WARNINGS: 18+ mentions of death, grief, related subjects; cursing, mentions of drinking/drugs, mentions of s*x

A/N: i've been working on this one for a while... i hope you enjoy! please send asks, reblog, and reply to this post <;3

WORD COUNT: 3k

"i still hear you laughing, but only for a minute"

Spring couldn’t come fast enough for Ellie. 

The cold still nipped at the exposed skin on her hands, ghosting the phantom limbs of the two fingers she was now missing. Everything was cold. The tip of her nose, her ears, and most importantly her heart. As she wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go, she knew there was one place she couldn’t go: home. 

Jackson was no longer a place for her. Joel was gone, Tommy thought she was weak, and Dina…Well, Dina wanted nothing to do with her. Dina had a lot she could blame Ellie for before Ellie left, but she never did. She stayed. And now, on top of all of that, Ellie had left one of the few people in her life who cared enough about her to stay. Spring could come tomorrow but it would forever be winter inside her. 

She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she was going west. She couldn’t handle the harsh winters of the East Coast, and Wyoming stopped feeling like home before she left for Seattle. She thought about staying on the farm and living out whatever short life she was going to have there, but staying in that home painted with memories of “what ifs” would drive her crazy. 

So she packed enough supplies to last her a few months if she hunted her food and headed to the West Coast. The first few days were silent, she only encountered a few infected and found shelter in abandoned buildings. She lived off of expired food she found in vending machines in old universities and occasionally sang herself to sleep. 

On her tenth day, she found a car that lasted her about 2 days. Once it broke down, she just kept walking. Over abandoned highways and thick forests, she just kept walking. On day 17, she reached California and stumbled upon an eerily similar set of walls. It looked just like the gates at Jackson, except these were concrete and better built. They were much higher, and the gates almost looked… automatic. 

Ellie was hesitant. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she definitely wasn’t looking for another hometown to destroy. She approached the large walls cautiously, with her hands up and slowly. As she walked closer she was screaming, “I come in peace,” over and over again. She was almost 50 feet near the gate when she heard a girl's voice shout, “Don’t come any closer.”

She stopped in her tracks as the automatic gates began to open. Ellie expected an army of people with guns blazing, just how it was when she first arrived at Jackson, but when the gates opened there just stood you, grounded in all your glory, and a gun aimed right at her face. She wanted to laugh, but that just seemed sexist. 

Instead, you pressed forward, unwavering, with your gun aimed right at her. She didn’t step backward, or even breathe, she just stood there until you were close enough to her to make out all the freckles on her face and the slit in her eyebrow. 

“Who are you?” you spat at her.

“Ellie,” she breathed out, her hands faltering a bit. 

With your hand firmly wrapped around the cold metal of the gun, you inched forward again, pulling back the slide, a metallic click echoing in the silence. The gun was loaded, and you were letting Ellie know that you weren’t afraid to shoot. Her hands stiffened again. 

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was tough and the look on your face was enough to send Ellie running for the hills, but it also made her want to crack a smile. Your nose scrunched up as you spoke, and your lips were somehow not chapped in this weather. But Ellie didn’t smile, she was sure if she did you would put one right between her eyes. That much she was sure of.

“I-” Ellie hadn’t thought this far. What was she doing here? “I’m just looking for a place to stay.” 

Your eyebrows creased as you gave her a once over, looking for any sign she was trouble. It was in your nature to search for danger, but she wasn’t raising any red flags. Except the fact that she made it here alone and unscathed, and was missing two fingers. 

“What happened to your hand?” you asked, tipping the gun slightly to her hand. A pained expression crossed her face, it was almost like she forgot that two of her fingers were quite literally bitten off, but that fight was somewhere shoved deep inside her mind. It wasn’t something she wanted to remember.

“Lost them in a fight,” she replied simply, there was no point in telling the full story. It’s not like you had the time. 

“You can’t stay here if you’re going to be trouble,” finally you put the gun down, resting your hands on your hips, giving her a firm look. Ellie would hand it to you, you were absolutely scary. In her mind, she knew she could take you, but she also wasn’t so sure of that.  

“I’m,” she sighed, lowering her hands slowly, “I’m done with that. I won’t be trouble,” and for the first time in Ellie’s life, she meant that. She was ready to start over. She knew the fighter in her would always be there, itching to come out but she had been fighting her whole life. It was time to give up. She had already lost everything. Or so she thought. 

Your face softened slightly before firming up again, your empathy peeking through like it always did. You looked her over again, sighing, as you signaled for someone at the gate to come. A man with short blonde hair trotted over, a leash in his hand. He looked kind as he offered a smile to Ellie.

“Old girl here is just gonna check to make sure you’re not infected,” he smiled, dropping the leash. Ellie’s heart rate picked up again as she watched the German Shepherd approach her slowly, sniffing around her as it circled her. You stood behind the blonde guy with your arms crossed across your chest. The dog found nothing and returned to the man, sitting down next to him, “Looks like you’re all clear!”

“Welcome to Mono City,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you turned back towards the gate, walking in that direction. You were halfway there when you realized Ellie wasn’t moving. Turning on your heel again you stared at her, hand on your hip again. You had an attitude, Ellie thought, cute. “You coming or what?”

The small town sat on a large lake, glistening as the sun's rays bounced off the surface. Buildings were built close together, trees without leaves scattered on the walkway, and about a hundred people out on the street as she trailed behind you, earning dirty looks from half of them. Ellie scowled back. Ellie smiled when you introduced yourself to her, telling her your name and a few key details about yourself. She learned you served as some sort of mayor here, keeping everything in order, and that you were the person that people came to. She would be lying if she said that didn’t intimidate her. But all Ellie did was give you her name again and tell you that she was from Jackson, anything else she said would fall short. 

“How are you with your hands?” you asked, voice flat and simple. Ellie choked on her words, stuttering a response. 

“I’m, well,” she coughed, “I’m just okay with them now, since,” she shrugged gesturing to what she now called her ‘bad hand’, “you know.”

A wave of guilt crossed your face as you composed yourself, somehow already forgetting your previous interaction. You shook your head solemnly, cursing quietly under your breath as you stopped. 

“Shit,” you turned to her, eyes squeezed shut, “sorry, I’m so used to asking the same questions, I didn’t even think.”

“It’s fine don’t worry about it,” she gave a tight-lipped smile. Now, with the illumination of the buildings, she could see your whole face. You were pretty, that she was sure of, but it was a more down-to-earth pretty. A type of pretty that you had to take in. You had scars around your face, and a pretty big scar down the side of your neck. It almost looked like the one Ellie had on her arm. But still, scars and all, you were just nice to look at. 

“Well, just for that reason we probably won’t have you be on guard duty,” you stated, eyes flicking around her face, “do you have any other strengths?”

“Uhm,” Ellie had to think for a minute. She had never really been asked anything like this before. What were her strengths? Did she have any at all? She used to be good at guitar, but now she couldn’t play, and that probably wouldn’t be useful at all to anyone here. She was good at art still, something she couldn’t take for granted anymore. It was all she had. The scratched-out drawings of Dina, JJ, Jesse, and Joel were stuffed deep into her bag.

“I’m good at art,” she shrugged, “and writing, maybe.”

“Okay,” you smiled, showing off your teeth, making her warm a bit, “that we can work with. Maybe you can teach at the school.”

“You have a school here?” Ellie gawked. Jackson had a school but it was small and had maybe two or three teachers. 

“Yeah,” you turned to keep walking, making Ellie stumble behind you to keep up, “we have three. An elementary, middle, and high school.”

“Wow,” Ellie was in awe, “It’s not like a military school or anything?” 

“No,” you answered quickly, your voice tight, “It’s not like any of that shit. We don’t fuck with FEDRA here.”

Ellie would be lying if she said that wasn’t music to her ears.

“It’s just like a normal school except we teach a lot more practical things. Things we can use like, cooking, science, and English. Like reading or writing. Since you’re new you will probably start with the elementary school. We also have little extracurriculars and we’ve wanted to introduce art but haven’t been able to find anyone yet.”

“Oh, cool,” was all Ellie said as you both stumbled on what looked like a residential street. There were rows of houses, all that looked the same. There was a road, with cars parked on them and driveways with gates. Most of the houses looked about two stories tall, some had toys lying in the front yards and a few animals were roaming about, small cats and dogs. The porches had furniture on them, little couches and chairs, and as she walked she noticed some people outside with mugs in their hands as if they were drinking their morning coffee. The town looked like something she saw out of a movie, only something she could dream about. Her eyes were wide in awe as you rambled on about something but Ellie was honestly too entranced in everything. Here, in the middle of nowhere was a whole town of people living their lives, as if nothing had ever happened to them. 

“Ellie?” you stopped in your tracks, crossing your arms over your chest. There was your attitude again, “are you even listening?”

“Y-yeah, I am. It’s just-”

“A lot, I know,” you sighed, “but you gotta listen, there are a lot of rules here. Rules that make this place function and if you don’t follow them, you could easily be kicked out.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, genuinely meaning it, “I’m listening, promise.”

“It’s fine,” you gave her a fake smile, turning to push open a gate to a nice house, “This will be your place.”

“Uhm,” Ellie stopped, not entering the front yard, “what do you mean ‘my place’? This is far too big for me.”

“This is the only size our houses come in,” you replied matter-of-factly, “you can just say thank you.”

Ellie blinked as she looked up at the blue house, that looked like it was built yesterday. It had a wrap-around porch and two white columns right by the entrance. The door was a giant white door with a gold handle. This was nicer than any house she’s ever been in, and way too big for one girl.  

“Thank you,” Ellie replied, still awe-struck, “this is just so nice.”

“You’re welcome,” you smiled, fishing around in your bag for something. You pulled out a pair of keys, and handed them to her, “Here’s your house keys. You don’t get a car quite yet, that’s something you have to work your way up to, but there is a bike in the garage. Spring is around the corner so it will get warmer and you should have your car by next winter so don’t worry too much. My house is right across the block, but I’m usually in the City Center if you need me.”

She wrapped her right hand around the keys, tightening them in her palm. She watched as you searched through your bag again and pulled out a little device. 

“This is your walkie,” you took a deep breath, “Try to find me before using it. It’s usually only used for emergencies so just be mindful of that. I’ll be by tomorrow to take you to work, so you have time to get settled in today. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ellie smiled, her voice sounding a little bit breathless.

That night Ellie settled into her new home. Well, she tried to settle into her new home but kept shifting around in every seat and couch, like she couldn’t find something to get comfortable on. She examined every part of the house, picking the smallest room for herself and shoving her backpack in the closet. She took a bath for the first time in months, washing all the dirt and grime off of her. Left in the shower was a bar of soap that looked like it had been handmade and unused. It smelled so good she almost took a bite, but instead chose to use it how it was meant to be used.

As the sun began to set she stepped outside, watching the activity on the block and smiling to herself. Everything just seemed so normal, but with the state of this world this town was certainly abnormal. From her window she could see you in your front yard, feeding a pack of cats that slipped through your white picket fence. She smiled to herself as she watched one rub against your leg, and your gentle hand coming down to pet it. She continued to watch as kids passed your house, waving to you and running back to their homes. 

The next few days were uneventful. Ellie found herself getting used to teaching young kids, always laughing when they asked about her missing fingers. It was out of her comfort zone, but she was around JJ enough to know what kids liked. Her voice always got so high-pitched when she spoke to them, and they liked being chased around the room. On her fifth day of working, a kid ran in screaming, “Miss Ellie! Miss Ellie!” with a chicken scratch drawing of his family. He was so proud that all Ellie could say was “Good job, bud!” and ruffle his hair. He left with the biggest smile on his face.

But now, Ellie found herself at the city’s most popular bar, with the other teachers who wanted to congratulate her on her first week. Della, who invited Ellie out in the first place, made a toast to her, clinking her glass with Ellie’s and taking a long swig of her drink. Ellie took a sip of hers too and fuck, this shit was strong. 

She felt human again, laughing with people her age in a bar and old music playing. She was almost having a good time until a song came on that reminded her of Joel. It was like her whole demeanor changed and everyone could tell. She excused herself from the group finding a small corner to sit on and finish the rest of her drink, hoping maybe it would make her forget everything. But then, the bell at the front door rang making Ellie look up to see who had entered. 

There you were in all your glory, tight shirt on and hair completely loose. It almost looked as if you were wearing makeup. Ellie must’ve been staring too long because she blinked and you were standing in front of her. 

“See you got yourself a drink,” you laughed, voice making Ellie’s cheeks turn pink. She was… really drunk.

“Yeah, I could get you one too,” she slurred a bit, goofy smile spread across her face. She watched as something odd crossed your face and now she was worried she said something wrong, “I just mean, like.. you know… I mean like as a thank you.”

“Right,” you sighed.

“For my mansion, you know,” she shrugged and you giggled. You giggled and it went straight to her head. What was she doing?

“You haven’t been paid yet,” you smiled back at her, now moving to sit down, “and it’s okay, I don’t drink unless it’s a special occasion.”

“What? Meeting me is not special enough,” she teased, knocking her shoulder with yours. Her eyes scanned your face, your smile reaching your eyes as you giggled again. Her stomach sank again. She wasn’t so sure if this was just the alcohol anymore, she felt like she was 12 and crushing on Riley again. 

“No, it’s special,” you reassured, “Maybe, I’ll drink when you decide to stay.”

“Who said I’m not staying?” she questioned sitting up.

“Some people don’t,” you shrugged, smile fading. Ellie’s brain wanted to make it better, make you laugh again, or shit do anything to put the smile back on your face. 

“Well, I’m gonna,” she said gently, so only you could hear her, “I need to get my paycheck.”

You laughed and Ellie breathed a sigh of relief, laughing with you. 

“I’ll get that to you,” you smiled, “and we don’t use paychecks.”

“What’re you gonna pay me with?” she smirked, “I know some other ways you can pay me.” Then the same look from earlier crossed your face and she cursed quietly to herself, muttering an apology. 

“No, no,” you said, like you were about to let her down gently, “I just try not to get… involved with anyone since…” your voice trailed off.

“Since?” Ellie questioned, but as you opened your mouth to speak the group from earlier made their way over, noticing your arrival and screaming your name. She watched as you got up, hugged everyone and started chatting with them, leaving her with her drink and too many questions. 

There was one thing that scared her though. She knew you needed someone who could stay, and the only thing she was good at was leaving.

[archangeldyke-all]

hii idk if you’re still writing the cowboy sevika fics but i’m actually obsessed with them you have no idea!! anyway i was thinking a fluffy little fic about sevika being depressed after shimmers death and reader, vi, and jinx do their best to cheer her up/support her!! do whatever you want i’ll literally take anything i just love your characters so much🙏🙏

YEEHAWWWW i miss cowboy sevika

men and minors dni

it's been a month since you and your girls buried shimmer by your garden. not a night has passed where sevika hasn't cried herself to sleep in your arms. it's breaking your heart.

watching shimmer die was hard enough. you were never much of a horse person before meeting sevika's trusty mare, but shimmer converted you. before sevika settled down with you; one of your greatest comforts when she was out wandering the desert was that she had shimmer there with her. the horse was so in tune with sevika, and they'd been riding together for so long, that they practically moved as one. you worried less about sevika losing her mind when she had shimmer to listen to her rambling. you worried less about her losing her life when she had shimmer to run her back home to you if she ever got too beat up.

and as sweet as sevika is when she claims you're her best friend-- you know that title really belongs to shimmer.

"we should do somethin' for sev." vi mumbles one night. jinx is fast asleep between the pair of you, after insisting she wasn't tired for an hour straight.

"like what?" you ask.

vi shrugs. "cait and her dad go hunting sometimes."

you giggle. "you're crazy if you think we're giving jinx a gun."

vi laughs. "no, no, we wouldn't hunt. we could just, y'know, go camping or something. there are some cold springs thirty miles west of here."

"and how would we get there without a horse?"

"we could borrow one of grayson's." vi suggests.

you smile and turn to face her. "you've been planning this?" you ask. she smiles guiltily.

"sevika's just been so sad. i wanna cheer her up."

your heart bursts with love and you dart forward, squeezing jinx between your body and vi's as you attempt to hug her. vi giggles. jinx wakes up with an annoyed groan.

so, a week later, you, your wife, and your girls set out with a horse drawn wagon and one of grayson's newest additions: a young colt named 'teddy.' grayson was happy to lend you the horse, muttering something about him being a pain in the ass to train. "if there's anyone i know who can get through to a stubborn horse like teddy, it's sevika." she sighed.

the ride out to the springs is rocky and bumpy, sevika getting used to riding a horse that isn't shimmer-- teddy being an ass just for the hell of it. at least the girls find it fun. their giggles and squeals are the soundtrack for your entire ride to the springs. even with all the curses she's spewing at teddy, sevika looks more relaxed than she has in weeks back on top of a horse.

"what're we even gonna do once we get there?" jinx asks. you snort and ruffle her bangs.

"well, i'm going swimming. you losers can do whatever you want." you say. the girls giggle.

"do you think there are cliffs we can jump off of?" vi asks. you shrug.

"i'm sure we can find some. we've got a whole river to explore."

"none of you are doing any exploring until we set up camp and get a fire going." sevika huffs from on top of teddy's back.

"boo! boring." jinx whines.

'setting up camp' ends up being sevika building the tent and jinx feeding teddy while you and vi attempt to make a fire the old fashioned way.

"how did the cavemen ever do this?" vi huffs as she rubs two sticks together. you snort.

"i'm sure they had tools. blubber to make it catch better, or something."

vi rolls her eyes. "i don't understand why she won't just give us her lighter."

you laugh and look up at sevika as she wipes her sweaty brow. "she doesn't trust us not to burn down the whole riverbed."

"or she's just bossy." vi mutters. you cackle.

"i think you're right, kid."

you don't make it into the river on your first night, but you don't mind much. when the sun sets, the heat of summer fades and the cool dark forces you all to squish together on a log in front of the fire while sevika cooks up beans and weenies on the fire.

"is that a planet or a star?" vi asks. jinx looks up and hums.

"i think it's venus."

"yeah?"

"i think so. sev?" jinx asks.

sevika glances up at the sky, smiling proudly and ruffling jinx's bangs. "you nailed it, kiddo."

"what constellations are out tonight, sev?" jinx asks, tucking herself under your wife's arm. sevika hums, leaning back to study the sky.

you don't bother to look at the sky. pretty as the stars are, they're nothing compared to the sight of your three girls, cuddled together and illuminated in the firelight.

"follow my finger. you see those three stars close together?" sevika whispers, her voice melding with the crackle of the fire and the roar of the river.

"yeah." vi whispers. jinx nods against sevika's shoulder.

sevika drags her finger across the sky. "see how they lead into a cross? there?"

"is that the northern cross?" jinx asks. sevika nods, her smile growing.

"you know it. anyways, the cross is in the center of cygnus the swan. backbone of the milky way." sevika's eyes flick down and catch yours, and she smiles shyly. you grin. there are more stars in her eyes than in the whole night sky.

you spend the next day in the river with the girls, laughing and splashing and squealing when fish nibble your ankles. vi and sevika ride upriver to try to find cliffs to jump off of, and you teach jinx how to doggy paddle. when the girls return, they're soaking wet and cackling.

that evening, with the girls fast asleep in the tent, you and sevika smoke a joint and go skinny dipping.

"did you have fun with vi?" you ask, your arms and legs wrapped around your wife. sevika giggles against you.

"i shouldn't tell you." she says. you giggle.

"'s that supposed to mean?"

"means she almost jumped onto some rocks several fucking times. gave me a heart attack."

you groan, shaking your head. "no, you shouldn't've told me." you agree. sevika giggles.

"but, we both lived, didn't we?" she asks. you laugh.

"y'know we're gonna have to adopt teddy from grayson?" you ask. sevika snorts.

"what makes you say that?"

"jinx is obsessed with him. braided and un-braided his mane like six times today. calls him 'teddy bear.' plus..." you trail off.

sevika darts forward to kiss you. you hum against her lips. "plus?" she asks, her lips brushing yours.

"plus, you need a new horse. you look good in the saddle."

sevika hums and kisses you again. "you take such good care of me. how am i supposed to keep up my bandit appearance when i got a wife that talks me into adoptin' horses and takes me out on vacation?"

you laugh. "you haven't been a bandit in half a decade. and the vacation was violet's idea. she was worried about you."

sevika sighs and leans forward to rest her forehead against your shoulder. "you still take good care of me." she says. you kiss her scalp.

"well... y'know. you're my dingus the duck."

"your what?!" sevika asks with a cackle. you groan and shrug.

"i dunno, those stars you were talking about last night!" you whine.

"cygnus the swan!?" she asks. you nod.

"that's the one."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" she asks though her laughs. you snort.

"y'know. you're the backbone of my galaxy, or whatever."

sevika's teasing expression melts, stars sparkling in her eyes. "that's awfully corny, darling." she whispers, her voice shaky with emotion. you smile.

"what the-- what are you two doing?!" vi squawks from the riverbank. you and sevika giggle guiltily, caught by your kids canoodling in the cold springs.

"go back to the tent!" you shout.

"awe, gross, are you guys naked!?" jinx whines.

sevika snorts. "we all bathed together three hours ago!"

"yeah, but you guys weren't all up on each other-- vi, let's go before we overhear something nasty." jinx groans, tugging on her sister's arm.

violet laughs and stumbles behind jinx. "don't drown!" she calls.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

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taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3

[ghosts-to-reid]

Angelic

Request: hey so i saw ur ask are open and i wanted to request a reid x f reader. Like really angsty. they are both bau agents and reader is about to go on a risky mission and spencer has a nightmare about reader dying and in his dream Hes holding dead reader. And he wakes up and she is still next to him. fluffy ending. Sorry if this is too much😭😭 Anon

TW: Death, Injury.

SPENCER REID REQUESTS OPEN

The unsub ducked into a warehouse, Hotch barked orders to split up, you and him entering through the front whilst he and Derek entered around back. Drawing your guns, Spencer went in before you instinctively, shielding you.

The air was thick as you both listened for any sign of the unsub. He had been elusive, a horrific murderer who kidnapped women, forcing them to play the role of mother, until eventually he killed them. He had been escalting just slowly enough to have been doing thid for 20 years without suspicion, only being picked up on VICAP now due to his frequency of crimes turning from one woman a year to one a month. It was unknown what his current victim count was.

Spencer turned the left corner of a hallway, whilst you turned to the right, attempting to clear them before proceeding. However, the unsub had the element of surprise, springing to shoot you, grazing the artery in your neck. He fled before you hit the ground, but Spencer didn't pursue.

"We need medic to the west hallway now! Agent down! Suspect fleeing to west entrance!" He barked down his ear reciver before falling to his knees to grab you desperatly.

He cradled your head onto his lap, pleading with you desperatly as you gurgled, grabbing at him. He pressed his hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding the best he could. His eyes blured with tears.

"No please no baby..." He sobbed desperatly to you, your eyes were brimming with panic, and confusion

"Spencer..." You weakly managed to gurgle, grabbing his arm.

"Baby no.. no... HELP! HELP ME!" He screamed desperatly, pleading for anyone to do what he cant.

Eventually, your grip on his arm began to loosen, fear struck his heart as he watched you go limp, any life that remained draining from your eyes.

"No. No! You need to hang on! Help is coming... Help is..." He began to sob, the cries wraking his body as he help onto your now, limp body. He was soaked in your blood, still warm. He despertly whispered into your hair, begging you to please wake up but it was too late.

He sat up to scream, and suddenly he was no longer at the warehouse. He was breathing heavily, suddenly in the pitch black warmth of his bedroom. He looked around frantically, he was in bed. In his house. He broke out of any remaining trance when he felt your weight shift next to him.

He turned slowly to see you sleeping peacefully, face angelic in the dim light of the moon. His fears melt away as he takes in the sight of your hair loosley spread along the pillow, and he softly reached to move a stray strand from your face. Yous tirred, waking slightly at his touch, looking up at him with adoration.

"C'mere..." You spoke with sleepfilled vocie asyou reached your arm out tiredly to hold him. He smiled, moving to hold you, tighter than you had expected.

"Everything okay?" You mutter softly into his shoulder, all he does is nod sfotly, placing many soft kisses to your collar bone.

"Perfect, everythings perfect..."

[kedsandtubesocks]

blood on your name

Cowboy!Ezra x F!Reader

summary: Texas 1885 - the town’s ranching competition brings in new souls out from the desert, one unfortunately happens to be a ghost haunting you & he’s still as handsome and dangerous as ever

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY. MDNI, old Wild West AU, slight enemies to lovers, very morally!gray Ezra, fingering, oral (f receiving), pussy pronouns, one moment of spit kink, allusions to p in v, scoundrel but soft!Ezra, themes of violence & reader enacting violence on another, use of guns, blood & injury, morally!gray reader, time period views of marriage & shaming women (brief use of derogatory terms against reader), minor character deaths, light gender language usage, use of nicknames

word count: 7.2k

a/n: here’s to finally putting my 7th grade tx history lessons to some use plus I’ve been really missing west texas so here we are lol! Fun history fact - Pecos prides itself as the birth place of the rodeo so this competition is the inception of that! It took me a while to get here & this truly wouldn’t be here without @gasolinerainbowpuddles @julesonrecord & @perotovar i can’t thank you babes enough, and to you, if you decide to read this too, thank you so much ♡

The newcomers that blew into town stand around the edge of the fence.

Pecos had become famous for hosting this rope wrangling event, and you’re not surprised it’s brought others in to observe the spectacle. Just last week it seemed like more wagons wandered into the edge of town.

You’ve been living here among the desert’s harsh eyes with your aunt for a few years now. When your mother unleashed her wrath after she found you with an unmarried man who had drifted into town, you fled with the caravan heading out west. So far west it brought you to the Pecos River. You’re thankful your aunt welcomed you with open arms. The desert proved to be a harsh host. But you’ve managed.

The actual event in town wasn’t taking place until the end of the week. Except so many already want to see the cowboys proudly warming up, showing off.

It’s why you even stop on your way home from the tailor shop.

Duke Williams currently tries his hand at practicing. The handsome young star all the way from Austin shows promise while he maneuvers his threadbare rope with ease.

He lands a solid catch against one of the practice sheep running around, and the crowd claps already impressed.

His bright face, angelic almost, brightens when he smiles triumphantly. When he spots you among the on looks, he beams even wider. You smile back politely.

However, Martha, the mayor’s youngest daughter, nudges you.

“I don’t know why you haven’t let that man swoop you up yet?” She giggles with a slight tease however, her words sting.

Duke’s been pursuing you ever since he came into town last spring. He reminds you of a newly built chapel, lovely coated in pristine and full of holy hope.

Yet, you don’t care for him.

You understand you should be married by now. Especially at your age, you’re becoming a dusting antique on the shelf by the town’s whispers. You even understood your mothers anger after discovering the man she caught you with had simply scurried away without another word.

Everyone in town seems to see Duke almost as your god blessed savior on a white horse sent to rescue you from a desolate destitution.

But you don’t hold any sense of attraction towards Duke. Even as you watch how handsome and sturdy he looks, a fierce cowboy among the other competitors, you simply admire his skills. And that’s it.

You wonder if you’re simply destined to the life of a happily secluded cactus like creature.

Something tickles against your skin, a sensation of being hyper aware of being caught in another’s gaze. Living in the desert has brought you a heightened awareness to make sure no critters lurking among can strike you.

So your eyes flicker around and find the crowd still enthralled by the sight of the cowboys.

Until you find one man isn’t.

One of the newcomers.

Sun kissed skin, an absolutely striking hawkish nose, sparse facial hair and then, the deepest dark earth eyes you’ve ever seen stare straight at you. The dusty black cowboy hat he wears casts a strange shadow across his features, cloaking him almost sinister.

Your breath hitches fast like it’s stolen from you.

You know this stranger.

One of the other newcomers nudges against him drawing his attention away from you. But your face stays stuck on him.

The men discuss with each other low and close, clustered together like a pack of desert weeds sprouting fast.

Except after the mystery outsider relays something back to the group, his eyes flicker back to you.

There’s a simmered wildness to him.

The commotion of spurs clinking comes and so many giggle around you, drawing your attention away.

Duke moves towards you with a shining grin on his face.

A desire to scurry away tugs at you. So with a polite smile, you silently duck away and decide to head home.

“Hey! Why ya leaving so soon?” He calls out. “Did you see me?”

His voice is so bright but also, so slightly arrogant, as if he can maybe keep you from leaving.

“Yes, you were incredible.” You’re truthful in your words.

Thankfully the others all around begin greedily vying for his attention.

As you turn to head home, that strange itch crawls over you again. Someone’s watching you.

So glancing around you think it must be Duke, but his attention is preoccupied.

However, it’s the handsome black cowboy hat stranger who again blatantly stares so direct at you.

A moment passes of you simply staring back at him.

However you break the contact first, needing to head home. But the entire way you sense his eyes blazing a hole on your back.

By the time you hit the edge of town towards your aunt’s cabin, the day creeps into early evening.

Above, vultures circle around high. However… there isn’t any sign of decay nearby.

- ☾𖤓 -

Your walk towards the tailor shop passes by the large stretch of land where the cowboys practice. Duke cries out your name excited. Politely you turn to greet him good morning only to find he’s not alone.

Other cowboys of course have come to wrestle in their skills. One of them surprises you.

The man you saw a few days ago is here.

His deep midnight eyes flicker to you immediately. That handsome face of his stays entirely composed.

Duke rattles on about his day. Yet you pay no attention as the new cowboy has stolen all your focus. The black cowboy hat he wears is dusty, weathered, and for some reason, you feel as if it both does and doesn’t suit him.

Duke chirps out your name again. Apologizing, you blame your dazed attention on lack of sleep.

Your night has been restless

“Hope ol’ lady Julie isn’t working y’too hard at the tailor shop.” He grins boyish and charming.

“Oh, Duke.” A smooth twang of a voice floats out. Waltzing in besides the cowboy, the newcomer arrives.

“You didn’t tell me your bird was so lovely.” His voice is curled with a smile and his voice, a deep drawl, draws an acidic venom in your mouth.

“I’m not his bird.” You politely reply.

“Not yet.” Duke adds warm, shy. But that only causes your stomach to squirm even more.

“Name’s Ezra, dear honeysuckle.” The newcomer introduces himself with a tip of his hat.

You nod back quietly giving him your name.

“Ezra came for the competition, traveled all this way just to try his hand at it!” Duke, ever the competitor, explains excited for the new competition.

Your eyes unfortunately stay on the newcomer rider.

Compared to Duke, Ezra’s frame is lithe. Then again, Duke with his incredibly tall stature is built like a terrifying boulder. Ezra’s broad shoulders and his striking sleek build makes you think of a river, fluid yet quietly powerful.

As unfortunately handsome as he is, his frame does not seem like a cowboy’s build.

Instead he reminds you of the traveling con man you once knew.

Duke continues rattling on and on about how proud he is to show off the town and this event.

You however hate the way Ezra’s eyes still on you make your skin tighten.

Excusing yourself with a soft nod, wishing them both well, you return on your way to the seamstress. Your body burns the entire way.

The day goes by slowly at the shop. After working on a few ruined blouses, Julie, the elderly shop owner, keeps you busy with tidying up. When the sun starts setting, the door clings open, and you wonder who’s coming in so late.

Ezra saunters in, and your throat tightens.

“Welcome in, newcomer!” Julie greets with a grandmotherly grace. “What can we do for you, good sir?”

Ezra smiles with all the charm of a gilded cactus.

“Seems I am in need of a new stitch for these gloves of mine.” Ezra explains pulling out worn gloves.

Leather frayed along the straps speak of the weathered and worn attention they’ve been given. But they seem too big for his hands. You even swear you’ve seen them before on his old business partner. But you don’t want to think too much on it.

Good dear sweet Julie chatters with the man. You simply stay quiet, not even turning to greet or address him.

You don’t even work on his gloves, deciding to let Julie handle them.

You even hide out in the back room, not even listening to when Ezra leaves.

Julie ends up heading home, and you’re left to close up. The sun sets a dusty fading apricot against the shadow of the tailor shop.

As you pass by the alleyway, suddenly you’re handed into the dark shadows. You’re about to scream, maybe even yelp, until a hand goes flying across your face, silencing you.

“Now now, pidge, don’t need you making too much of a holler.” Ezra.

Anger seethes in you, boiling. Violently and with a harsh yank, you tear yourself away from his grasp. You’re almost tempted to storm away.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be graced by your beauty again. That mother of yours still got that shotgun she threatened me with?” He smoothly asks with the amount of dangerous charm a rattlesnake would carry.

“What? This your last attempt at selling that watered down snake oil you call elixirs and tonics?” You snap back razor sharp.

When you first met Ezra, which now feels like lifetimes ago, he was a smooth talking traveling salesman. A drifter, as your mother so harshly called him.

Instead of the cowboy hat he wears now, he looked more stately in his bowler type cap.

He charmed so many of the women in town, trying to sell them the secrets to youth, vitality, beauty, and anything else he could promise in his elixir vials. You however, were not interested, saw right through his ruse.

Though, you realize now you were just as foolish as the others in town rapidly buying his lies. Because you had been just as charmed and fooled as they were.

This man, who’s sharp wit intrigued you, who spoke to you as an equal, became so dangerous because you were willing to give him everything.

Your heart, your body - all of you should have been reserved for your husband. Instead you freely gave everything to this thief.

The swindler swore he would take you with him, make you his wife. But when your mother’s fury came, he fled like a petrified jackrabbit.

You suppose he is more coyote than jackrabbit, greedily stealing anything he can then sneakily moving on.

Ezra’s composed grin on his face flickers, like all the history resting between you and him resurfaces within him.

“Didn’t you hear, pidgeon? My elixirs were plundered. Even my poor partner, god rest his dear soul, was shot down in cold blood!” Ezra explains with sorrow.

You had heard about that. At the edge of town, on the dirt road leading out into the hills, one of the sheriff’s found the large carriage and Ezra’s associate dead. The carriage crashed, run off the road. The damage screamed of the work of bandits. However, Ezra was nowhere to be found.

“I’m just supposed to believe you miraculously made it out of there alive?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

You don’t want to say it, but your instincts twist dangerously in your stomach. You wonder if Ezra did the deed himself, killed his partner and took the valuables.

Ezra shrugs sheepishly.

“That’s the way the desert works, honeysuckle. It’s a harsh landscape that only protects those who can survive its wrath.”

You forgot how much he spoke like a preacher sometimes, so elevated and otherworldly. You hate how badly your heart races just being this close to him again, hearing his voice again.

“So you’re telling me you came all the way here just to try your hand at the competition? Never even seen you ride, much less thrown a rope. Can’t imagine a con-man like you being a cowboy.” You reply skeptical.

He barks a laugh. “You'd be surprised. I’m a man composed of many unrevealed talents.”

You knew that very well.

Cautiously, treading like he’s approaching a mountain lion, Ezra steps closer to you. Out of instinct you step backwards closer to the other shop beside the tailors.

“Now don’t tell me you’re pondering the idea of telling everyone about my past life, pidge?” His voice is low, calm but brewing like an approaching storm.

“Because it pains me just imagining the repercussions that could arise if ya did.” He mutters, and your throat gets tight.

There's an underlying threat below his words.

Fiercely, stubbornly, you glare at him, refusing to speak. But you know you won’t say anything. He must know it too. You’ve left your past far back at home. And you don’t want him reviving your ghosts either.

Suddenly the back of Ezra’s hand gingerly, barely touching your skin, grazes against your cheek. He whispers out your name.

“The years out here have made you bloom, like a beautiful desert petal.” He mumbles with hazed eyes.

Out of spite you snap your face away and scowl even harder at him.

“I have to get home.” You snap angrily, managing to finally remove yourself from him.

“The motel houses me for the time being,” he declares from behind in the shadows.

“Unless that blonde Galahad cowboy of yours is keeping your bed warm now?” Ezra adds almost amused.

Rage bursts a furious fire in you, and it consumes you in its heated path.

“Rot in hell.” You snarl whipping back to him.

“As long as you keep me company, beautiful.” Ezra replies coy.

You’re about to curse his soul when he stomps towards you, fast and steady. His hand flings to your face, pulls you back to the shadow of the tailor shop.

He kisses you with the fierce intensity of a sudden dust storm. It even shakes your soul, spins you around, as if you were caught in an actual twister.

He tastes like the faint hints of a cigar, but something still so deliciously sinful and him. Your knees want to buckle when he easily slips his tongue inside and immediately coaxes his against yours.

You whimper, don’t even realize he’s maneuvered you to the wall of the shop, until your back gently hits the cool wood building.

It’s like your body is imprinted to his, completely answering his call, willingly and wanting to be closer to him while your hands clutch at his broad shoulders.

His body pins you firm against the building, and already he grinds his hips into you.

Then the laughter nearby bursts the bubble, snaps your attention clear.

You scramble and rapidly shove Ezra away. You don’t say another word and simply walk away.

However your lips continue to sting, as if bitten by a bee. Your hands ache empty like they’re missing the presence of his body in their grasp.

You can’t fall for this trap again.

But by the time you arrive back home, greet your aunt warmly, the lie spills from your lips before you can stop it.

“Julie wants to start the inventory sooner. So I’ll be heading back and staying over at the shop.”

Your aunt doesn’t question you, simply grins sweet and wishes you a safe trip back to town.

The sun barely sets in for the night over the horizon. The sky is a dusty blue, the softest color before bleeding into a dark midnight. The desert at night is another creature entirely. Even as you walk into town, you try to stay aware and low from any curious eyes.

The motel approaches fast. The caretaker gives you a curious look but before he can, he’s called away.

Ezra already waits for you at the top of the stairs, hidden in the shadows but still so distinct among them.

He doesn’t tease you, doesn’t even greet you. His presence seems so different with how intense he stares at you. Simply moving to intertwine his hand with yours, he guides you to his room. Inside it’s like the world melts away. It’s only you and him.

He devours you, ravenous, like trying to both make up for lost time and also feel like not a day has passed. Your hands run through his hair, knock off his cowboy hat.

You hate how badly you’ve missed this, missed him. He’s the only man your body has known, and the nights you’ve ached for him your fingers never did him justice.

When you’re bare among his bed, and his fingers slide into your wet core, you whine against his lips.

“This cunt still mine, pretty girl?” He asks mutter.

You wearily nod then all thoughts shatter when he rubs against that certain spot you can never reach. Your body crashes in a climax so shakily fast you have to catch your breath against him.

Ezra kisses the top of your head over and over.

“That’s my sweet peach,” he says in awe.

You greedily now pull him towards you, aching even more for him to be inside.

But he’s not finished with you. Ezra greed swallows your sigh before his lips move down your bare body to your core and kisses you with reverent devotion.

Your body melts into the sheets feeling his tongue trace paths among your wet cunt.

Ezra firmly calls your name. It sounds like your soul is being brought back. Wearily you sit up to see him peering up at you between your legs. Slowly he lifts himself away from your cunt, his face glistening with your arousal.

Those obsidian eyes of his blazing in the candlelight lock you in their gaze. Keeping eye contact with you he suddenly spits down to your wet aching sex, and your mind spins.

It’s obscene, you should be disgusted and horrified. You even wonder if you’ve been transported to the brothel a few ways down the road. But it feels absolutely divine especially when he does it again.

“Oh she likes this.” Ezra coo’s then presses ever the softest kiss against your soaked throbbing pearl. “This pretty little cunt, my lovely lady, ache for me huh?”

You don’t argue with him. You don’t want to. He makes you come again and a creature raw and hungry awakens in you. You claw at him, now needing him inside.

It’s like a piece of yourself returns when Ezra slides into you. It’s hot, heavy, frantic but feels sacred.

Ezra must sense it too, because he doesn’t last long. When he spills over your tummy, his hands become claws and keep you caged in his grasp. Your con artist kisses every inch of you he can.

Sweaty and tangled in him, you still feel a tinge of sadness creep in.

“You left me.” You whimper against his lips.

“And it will haunt me until my dying breath.” Ezra sighs back, his voice weighing heavy. “I was planning to come back for you, my bird. But your mother…”

She had put a bounty out on your drifter, managed to get the sheriff on her side. You knew even in your anger at Ezra leaving, it was smart of him to escape.

His hand cradles your face, and his thumb strokes your cheekbone. Those endless eyes shimmer in the low light.

“But I’m here now, pidge.” Sincerity radiates from him.

You’re now able to bask in his beauty - his gorgeous jaw, his beautiful nose, the striking streak of blonde hair that has been hidden under his hat and you’ve been dying to see.

You nuzzle your face into his palm.

“What are you doing here? Truly?” You ask.

“I told you,” Ezra says, drawing your face towards him to kiss you tender again. “I’m here to try and prove myself victorious.”

You’re not sure you believe his words.

But you end up staying with him. Early morning, before the sun reaches over the desert, his fingers trace your face waking you up.

“Dawn bathes you in her glory.” He mutters. Embarrassed at his words you burrow your face into the pillow.

He doesn’t chase you, but instead lets his fingers draw aimless shapes against your shoulder.

“There wasn’t a day where you did not occupy my mind, even after all these years.” Ezra admits low, as if he didn’t realize those words escaped him.

Slowly you turn towards him and discover those deep eyes hazed over staring at you.

“I hate you.” You tell him without any malice. In fact an emotion something very opposite of hatred soaks your words.

“I know. I’d hate me too.” Ezra agrees muttering then leans down to kiss you gingerly.

You have to leave before the town wakes up, and to seal your alibi.

With a final kiss goodbye, you head to the tailor shop.

Julie finds you in the shop when she arrives and applauds you for your diligence and wanting to get a jump start on inventory. You’re thankful the lie worked out this way. You even manage to convince her to let you finish inventory the rest of the week. Of course she happily agrees.

Ezra drops by to pick up his riding gloves and winks at you shamelessly. You roll your eyes but hate how badly you fight against a grin.

The next few days are spent between the shop and the motel. You already brace your heart for Ezra’s departure approaching once the tournament is over, but you try not to face that.

“You’ve been in a rather good mood.” Your aunt notices when you stop by to drop off goods for her.

“Thought you hated inventory.” She comments.

“Guess not.” You reply with a shrug.

This blissful cloud you’re walking in however does cloud your mind. It makes you sloppy. Instead of taking the longer path to the motel, the one that kept you away from the views of the main road and town, you walk straight into town.

Running right into Duke Williams.

He says your name bright and clear. Dread dawns on you fast.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round. Heard Julie’s got ya working extra hard.” Duke smiles.

You hate this small town and the small whispers that spread like wildfire.

You reassure Duke you’re fine and are even glad you can help Julie.

All his friends, in their sleek cowboy hats, and dusty spurs, stand off to the side snicker. They crowd around each other like an ominous pack of wolves.

One of them even calls your name.

“Might wanna enjoy this freedom while it last!” He proclaims, and your stomach twists.

The other guys snickers, shushing him playfull, and even Duke turns around to reprimand him.

“What does he mean by that?” You cautiously question.

Duke simply waves the conversation off instead offering to walk you to the tailors.

You politely decline.

“Aw come on, sweet thing like you shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” Duke smiles but even with his sweet eyes you’re reminded of a crocodile now.

“Well gentleman, that’s why i’ll accompany this lovely bird to her destination.” Emerging from the shadows Ezra grins warm.

He must have come to find you after you hadn’t shown up at the motel.

The men including Duke go eerily silent. Ezra is older than Duke and the younger men. So he holds seniority now. But besides that, Duke now seems wary, and you don’t blame him. Ezra is a man that radiates a sort of unpredictable energy.

“You sure you don’t want me to walk ya back now?” You almost appreciate the slight genuine worry leaking into Duke’s voice. But shaking your head you move to walk with Ezra by your side.

You do hate how all eyes are on you, even walking away from Duke and his mindless followers.

“Just remain calm.” Ezra mutters.

You do especially with him by your side. By the time you open the tailors you thank Ezra, worried Duke and his men are still watching.

You whisper for him to meet you behind the shop, and he does. Your swindler willingly steps into the back room with you.

“Not my ideal choice for our evening, but I do love a good change of scenery.” Ezra comments amused browsing around the storage. Playfully, you throw a ball of yarn at him.

You’re surprised he even helps you with the small bit of inventory you do.

“That young buck…” until his voice comes out low. “He’s fond of you.”

“Unfortunately.” You reply back unamused.

“Earlier at the saloon…he was boasting.” Ezra continues with the same serious tone.

“About enjoying the last days of being an unmarried man.”

That causes you to pause.

“Must mean he’s gotten over me.” You sigh, thank goodness.

“No pidge…” Ezra stops to turn towards you. “He was proclaiming how you were to be his bride.”

Your stomach drops.

You think of the way the boys just now snickered almost knowingly, and that strange comment one of themselves said -

All of it makes your stomach sick, and you have to sit down.

No. There was just no way.

“I’d never accept his proposal.” You snap out hating how badly your body feels frantic, almost skittish like a cornered road runner.

Ezra kneels before you rubbing your hand with his, a strange solid comfort.

Eventually he gathers you into his arms and calms you with soothing soft words.

“We’ll figure out a solution.”

You still don’t know if you can trust his words. But that's all you have. Your drifter stays with you overnight in the tailor shop. You even feel sinful fucking him in the back room but it’s deliciously sinfull all the same.

Sitting and resting against the work desk you fade in and out of sleep. Tender fingers brush against your fingers, ghost like. Ezra is gone by the time you wake up and Julie’s entering the shop jolts you awake.

Her eyes are frazzled.

“Did you hear? Mister Johnston’s eldest son was shot down early this morning.”

You hadn’t heard. Dread fills you fast when you realize Johnston's boy was the one who had made the joking comment to you last night.

There’s talk about postponing the competition. But others in town, especially Duke, argue to continue the tradition in a way to honor the fallen young man.

An ominous terror looms in you.

Later that night, you return to the motel. Too many thoughts swarm in your head, and Ezra even seems distant. He even slides his duster jacket one before kissing you.

“I have some personal matters to attend to, pidge. Get some respite here.”

His boots echo down the hall and then down the stairs.

You can’t sleep. So you move to slide open the window and let some of the night air in.

The faint mutter of discussion very close outside in the alleyway floats into the room.

It’s muffled at first, but once you step closer and concentrate, you pick up the very familiar cadence of a certain drifter.

“No no, I have it covered. As long as you make sure to double the bets on me tomorrow.” Ezra explains in a hush.

The others with him explain the different amounts they’ve collected, and it hits you.

He’s gambling on the competition.

That’s why he’s here.

You knew the men at the saloon often bet, but this feels heavier.

A new clicking of spurs arrives.

“Y’know, you fellas look like a dangerous bunch all here hidden in the shadows.” Duke.

Panic prickles all over your body.

“Now young buck, we’re just here partaking in a fun and friendly wager.” Ezra with his smooth talking skills deflates the tension easily.

“Waggerin’ on what?” You’re surprised Duke immediately quickly jumps in to gamble.

Ezra and the other men begin conspiring on how to make sure Duke wins to favor the odds of their bets.

“I like the sound of that.” Duke grins.

He makes a hefty wager on himself to win, the price even makes someone whistle.

They offer to place their wagers on him as well and with Ezra even in the competition, he’s argued to be an even better reassurance that the outcome falls in their favor.

Ezra even swears by this.

They’re fixing the match, going to cheat. You don’t know how to feel about any of this.

They end their discussion, and you quietly slide back into bed. Before long Ezra returns, the smell of tobacco and the cold air lingers in the room.

His fingers dance against your shoulders while your back stays to him.

“You’re only here… to make money, and cheat.” You mutter hollow.

His fingers stop.

“You overheard.”

You don’t reply to him. Ezra sighs.

“Indeed I am. But I’m no different than the gentlemen that place simple wagers on a game of horseshoe.” He explains low, under the whisper of the candle flicker.

“But it’s like you’re wanting to play with a weighted or lighter horseshoe.” You argue back.

“Is it not in our best natures to make sure Lady Luck favors us by any means possible?”

You don’t know how to reply to him.

“…I’m doing this for you, for us.” He adds.

You turn to him, your face scrunching up in fury.

“Bullshit.” You tell him.

“Believe me a liar, but I’m honest in my endeavor.” His face becomes a firm steeled frown.

You can’t look at him anymore, turning your back again to Erza in bed.

“My hope was to gain enough funds to pay for the bounty your mother placed on me, return for your hand, and make our way into a new life together.” His voice is steady.

“Unless you wish to stay here and wed that Duke.” He offers.

You whip back to glare harsh at Ezra.

There’s a silence heavy and ancient like the desert that settles between you. But it doesn’t last long before Ezra leans down and sweeps in to capture your lips

The discussion dies immediately as passion burns in its place.

You don’t think of gambling cowboys, or of your mysterious drifter, only of the moment consuming you now, and you almost pray you never leave it.

- ☾𖤓 -

Late in the night, wearily half sleep, the bed shifting jolts you awake, and you even hear the door creak open. Before you can ask Ezra if he’s alright, your eyes so sleepy flutter close for a moment. Then he’s sliding back into the warmth pulling you close into his arms. You fall right back to your dreams.

In the early hours of the morning, Ezra kisses your jaw.

“My lucky charm, are you going to observe our tournament today?” He mutters.

The competition was today.

“You nervous?” You had never seen him ride much less try ranch hand work.

“Never.” He says smoothly.

Eventually he slides out of bed and lets you get ready. But soon Ezra walks over and places something in your hands.

The pistol weighs heavy, cold. And your eyes snap open wide now fully awake.

“Why-”

He cuts you off gently. “You know how to fire, yes?”

You nod weakly.

A small smirk tugs at his handsome lips. “Figured as much, after seeing your mother.”

It’s an attempt to tease, but too much terror bubbles in you.

“I just need to know you’re protected.” Ezra reveals, but with a croak you ask why.

“Cause unfortunate as it might be, it’s even more dangerous for a criminal like me to cherish something.”

Your eyes water. There are too many questions in your head, but the day will be starting soon. You need to leave before you’re spotted.

“Tell me you have another gun.” You snap at him.

Ezra simply taps the side of his head. “Don’t need another firearm when I have this weapon.”

You angrily throw the pistol down back to the bed, refusing to take it. That’s when he snaps your name, hard and serious.

You’ve never heard his voice raise like that.

“Take it.” He grabs the firearm and hands it back to you. His midnight eyes are ominously serious with no room for argument.

His hand grabs your face firm in his hand. Your eyes search his endless midnight lake eyes.

“I call you pidge, my little pigeon bird. But I’ve known right from the start you’re a fierce creature. Don’t ever forget that.”

Ezra’s words are beautiful but barbed. They rip up tracks in your heart. He kisses you quick, fierce and short. You hate how it feels like a goodbye.

With shaking hands and confusion, you slide the gun into your satchel. You walk back to your aunt's cabin in a daze. So much so that you barely notice she’s already awake when you sneak back in.

“You have fun at the motel again?” She asks, and fear freezes you.

“I wasn’t-”

“Mac, your uncle’s good friend, gave me the heads up.” She cuts you off softly.

Mac, the innkeeper. God damn this small town. Venom, anger, indignation, they all swirl violently in you.

“Whatever you’re doing there, you’re only gonna find danger.” She says somber, and you stay quiet.

Your aunt sighs.

“You’re lucky this hasn’t gotten out yet. What would young Duke say if he found out?”

Frustration bursts in you, and you snap furious about why would you even need to care about that man’s opinion of you.

“Because he plans on weddin’ you, and I plan on letting him.” Your aunt fires back and her words shoot right through you.

Your legs feel like they’re about to give out, even have to steady yourself against the nearby chair.

You thought your aunt understood. She’s been alone, a widow since she was around your age, longer than your mother had been a widow. You thought she’d never fall into the trap of forcing marriage.

“It’s for your own good.” She argues, watery urgent m. “You need protection, a home, a husband to provide for you.”

You rush out of the house even ignoring the screams from your aunt.

You’d have to think of a plan fast. Maybe leave with Ezra once the competition ends today. It’s all too much. You swallow back a sob and walk back into town.

The competition was today after all.

The day at the shop is very short. Julie doesn’t even notice your somber atmosphere as she’s completely caught up in the excitement of this day. So many more wagons stretch around the edge of town.

Pecos flutters alive with life.

But there’s already commotion, a dangerous kind that chokes the competition tense.

Duke yells loud and furious. The sheriff along with his deputies are nearby. Thankfully you spot Martha and quickly move to ask her what’s going on.

“Duke’s horse is missing.” She whispers.

From what Martha says, when Duke went to the stables this morning the gate was open and his horse was nowhere to be seen. His trusty companion, you even knew how serious an issue this is.

“Well young buck, if you’re that upset then maybe you shouldn’t partake in the festivities.” Ezra, out of thin air, offers.

He looks confident as he strolls up.

“Or you simply ride with another mare?” He proposes with a coy optimism.

“Fuck you!” Duke snaps at Ezra and even looks as if he’s going to lunge.

Your heart hammers hard in your chest. Thankfully the sheriff settles the commotion down.

Angered but stubborn, Duke declares he’s staying to compete and will simply use another horse. He is favored to win after all.

Other cowboys from out of town have blown in like packs of tumbleweed. So many of them are excited to participate and try their hand at showing off their rancher skills

Some are good.

But it is Ezra who proves to be the dark horse, the surprise underdog.

Watching him on his stallion, your throat goes dry seeing how effortless and strong he manages his horse. You never knew he could ride. The way he maneuvers and stays a quiet presence, he reminds you of an outlaw.

“Moves like a bandit.” Someone in the crowd even whispers.

His rope throwing skills however surprise everyone, including yourself. The calf he manages to wrangle takes you by shock. A dangerous lust slithers over your body watching him wrangle the animal with his strength and sturdy form.

But you realize -

This wasn’t what had been planned. From the discussion given last night, Ezra was meant to perform poorly to make sure Duke did better.

But this is exactly the opposite.

He’s the lead runner for champion of the competition.

And then Duke’s turn arrives. The crowd mummers curious, on edge waiting for the favored cowboy to make his move.

The horse he uses is not cooperative. Duke screams, unable to hide his frustration in wrangling the creature.

But once he stabilizes a manageable ride, he goes to lasso the calf. His rope lands and the crowd cheers. He’s already faster than Ezra.

Until the frayed rope snaps and the calf yanks itself free.

The crowd gasps.

It’s not an immediate disqualification, but it doesn’t look good. Duke argues that his rope was frayed and that someone must have slowly started cutting at it. However it’s a long shot argument. There’s no way to prove that and even the sheriff seems a little wary of the accusation.

“That’s just the way rope is son, you just gotta keep an eye on it.”

Duke screams in anguish canyon splitting anger. You’ve never once seen him like this. It’s like it’s a whole new man, or maybe, his true self being revealed.

He’s offered another rope, but it’s almost horrifying to watch that one as well snap. The crowd again gasps.

This wasn’t the outcome meant to happen.

“Duke’s cursed.” Someone mumbles.

The crowd is in disbelief, you even are. The last remaining competitors try their luck, but none can beat Ezra’s speed.

You can’t believe it. But he won.

And Duke is livid. The crowd tentatively applauds Ezra’s win because of the somber mood clashing.

“You bastard! You goddamn cheated!” Duke screams at Ezra while the deputies try settling him down.

“Poor boy,” Ezra says sympathetically before turning to find you in the crowd.

There’s a gleam of something proud shimmering in his dark eyes.

You don’t question it, don’t want to.

Ezra truly is a man of many facets, dangerous ones, like looking at a raw gemstone that could cut your fingers.

The competition spills into the nearby saloons, and the festivities only seem to intensify as the sun starts setting. You can’t even reach Ezra from the groups swirling around him and want to get as far away from Duke as possible.

So you return back to the tailor shop. Julie urges you to join her and the other women at the mayor’s large property, but you decline.

You simply sit in the store trying to muster up a plan. But in a blink, the night arrives and you have to find Ezra.

So after locking up the shop, you head to the motel.

Until the sound of Duke’s screaming and the rage of violence roars nearby.

You freeze, terrified.

Until someone wearily coughs. “That’s what ya get for gamblin’ with bandits, boy.”

Your swindler’s distinct twang drawls smug and now your body rushes to the secluded alleyway.

You swallow back a scream at the sight you stumble upon. Duke with blood fists has Ezra pinned against the wall, like a mythological creature, terrifying and large looking over with violence in his wake.

Ezra’s face is bloody and one of his arms even hangs limp.

“Pidge.” He coughs, and your heart aches.

Duke whips around to see you and barks for you to leave.

Shakily you snatch down to your bag, and whip out the gun to point it to him. Duke’s face falls a bit confused.

“Honey this man wronged me, I’m only enacting my justice.” He argues.

You snap at him to let Ezra go or else.

That’s when a sinister evil darkens Duke’s golden boy face.

“So, ya little god damn whore…you’re workin’ with this man aren’t ya? I knew I should’ve listened to all the rumors about a slut like you.” He spits with venom leaking from his voice.

“Don’t you touch her.” Ezra snarls, but Duke pays him no mind keeping his sinister eyes on you.

“What?” Duke slowly mutters. “Do ya really think you’re gonna shoot me?”

Tears fill your eyes. You don’t want to, but the way your heart races like a terrified Jack rabbit it screams at you to flee. But… you also wonder if your heart races because it’s urging you to attack, to bare your fangs.

Instead of releasing Ezra, Duke moves to grip his coat harder. He slams your drifter hard and fast against the wall. A painful crack-like smack comes, and you scream.

You fire the gun instantly.

Duke blinks, you even wonder if you landed a hit.

Until deep dark crimson, almost the color of dark sludge, leaks across Duke’s side. He crumbles like a fall leaf.

You cry scrambling to Ezra who thankfully is still standing. Duke wheezes out obscenities and even tries hollering for help. You’re however too worried about Ezra.

“M’fine,” your drifter reassures with a wheeze.

“Hand me the gun, dearest.” Ezra somberly mutters. When you do, without hesitation Ezra fires the gun point black down at Duke. And your eyes shut hearing the pistol strike. Duke goes quiet and stays silent.

“Come on, we gotta hurry.” Ezra urges.

Supporting his body, you manage to get him into the tailor shop to tend to his wounds.

Ezra coughs out your name. “M’dearest, I need to make my escape out of town once more.” His breathing his heaved, he needs to rest.

“Don’t leave me.” You cry sharp, unable to focus on anything now.

His hand slides to your face and he cradles you tenderly. You clutch at his wrist as you blink back tears starting at him now.

“It will not be a pleasant life, staying with a devil like me.” He mumbles.

Doesn't he realize, you’re just as tarnished as him now? Blood is on your hands. You simply turn to kiss the palm of his hand feeling more reassured than ever.

“I’d rather be with the devil than live without him.” You speak soft into his skin while tears dry on your cheeks.

He barks a hollow but watery thick laugh as he says your name. “You foolish bird, my lovely dangerous creature.”

The desert is unforgiving to those who do now learn to grow fangs or become just as fierce as its landscape. You wonder if that’s what has become of you. But you don’t question it. You simply gather all you can, steal one of the horses from the saloon and keep Ezra close to you on the saddle.

If Ezra is a devil, then you’re grateful he saved you from your hell. And for him, you will gladly stain your soul.

Under the eternal eyes of the desert, you wander into the night keeping your bandit close to you.

In the distance a lone coyote howls aching at the moon.

You don’t look back once.

[girlactionfigure]

Eve Barlow today (excerpts):

When your enemies murder babies with their bare hands there are no longer two sides. There were never two sides, of this we know, but our neighbors insisted there were two sides. This is now a myth debunked. There are no two sides when there are barbarians who strangle little children with their bare hands.

What their hands do, and what our hands do are not the same. We are not the same. Our hands are not the same.

I thought about the hands of the Palestinians a lot when I first watched the bodycam footage that Hamas themselves recorded; the footage that was shown to journalists in private screenings after October 7. I thought about their hands the whole time. Their hands on the trigger of their machine guns, mowing down the elderly at bus stops, shooting up little houses where sleeping families were naked and defenseless, throwing grenades into bomb shelters filled with young festival-goers, dragging the bodies of Jews across the 232 highway, so they could kick the dead, ripping off the clothes of young women who they had tied to tree trunks. I thought about their hands moving in these ways; the mechanics of it all. I couldn’t stop thinking: how were they physically able to do such things with their own hands?

Shame, and guilt. I wonder if in 100 years time the world is going to understand how absurd it was that people en masse set everything on fire because a criminal was killed in police custody in the spring of 2020. The West feels shame and guilt about every conceivable act of prejudice, except for the oldest prejudice on the planet. The West feels shame and guilt about everything other than what they’ve done to Jews for thousands of years. That is why the world stood silent today as the Jewish people were forced to reckon with the greatest evil our lives have ever known. We thought Hamas were evil and we were right. But we did not know how evil the evil can be.

The world remains silent but they have not been silent for 503 days. No not at all. They have been loud. Loudly sharing Palestinian emojis. Loudly posting memes such as “All Eyes On Rafah”. Loudly signing petitions to boycott Jews. They have shared all of Hamas’s work on their social media accounts. They have been duped and they are very quiet today. For 503 days, all they have done is provide an endless amount of oxygen to the worst people on the planet because it made them feel good. Some things never get old. The joys of antisemitism is one of them.

This morning I caught someone in the street with a glum look on his face. Are you ok? I said. “I can’t look at the news. I hate him. I HATE him. He disgusts me. He’s a dictator and we live in a fascist dictatorship and we’re just standing by and watching. Why aren’t we marching in the streets?” I just smiled and I kept quiet because the last 48 hours were some of the worst in modern Jewish history. Yesterday our slain, executed babies were returned in caskets by real Nazis, by real dictators, by real Islamic fascists, who held a parade and danced, and who returned a female body of their own people instead of the mother of those children, who finally tonight has been received and identified by forensics.

I just smiled and kept quiet because nobody is marching in the street and because I can’t help anyone who is that delusional and removed from reality. They need help. I am not going to provide it.

[careyakane]

2:05 pm - Lock Haven PA

Gun shops, 12 quart woodsheds releasing maple and oak into a winter sky. Corn rows frozen in until spring releases them with her warm hands and rains. Clusters of cows surrounding feed bins, farmers born here to die here. Kii and owl stripping back the sources of their rage and tendencies of their love brought about by absent qualities in their young mothers. Ten hours to go and then twenty five more after Tennessee before we will see the fires that hold Los Angeles and in it our home…. Freedom for a few days in the expanse of this beautiful country as our grand chariot (an 09 mercury) speeds west. In the brief time we will drive past a thousand opinions, past a thousand dreams that fell to silence in the heads of good people, we will trade brief conversations with our hopeful eyes and eager banter as we drive back to the lives we carve for ourselves out of time and ideals, such solid material they seem. We sing songs of our sufferings and we grow accustomed to our joys. — Back to the road.

[the-kr8tor]

On These Metal Tracks I Lay Myself Bare

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, CW guns, TW violence, CW injury, Cowboy AU, wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

The train station is packed with people, all finely dressed, waiting along the tracks, their luggages weighing heavy in their hands. The place smells of iron and steel, sweat soaked wood and rough leather. Your eyes wander around the station, domed ceilings loom above, carvings of horses and birds decorate the chestnut wood. Sunlight filters through the cracks, rays of light acting as a spotlight to the ornate building. It's a busier train station than the town you were in, the city you've stopped in is huge in comparison to the little towns you've passed by. The station is full of ticketing booths, lines stretching a few feet away that are full of impatient passengers. You look across the train tracks, seeing parents chastising their children, hearing hurried murmurs from husbands, holding their wives’ hands even though the luggage in their hand slows them down. You look at Hobie's gloved hand that's resting upon the ticket booth, you stare at it longingly, eyes getting glossy by the minute.

He's taking you home, and just like back home, you have no say in it.

A train whistle echoes, a signal of its metallic arrival. Its steel body creaks as it stops, its copper inlay is slowly turning green, and there's rust around the wheels. Soon, the station fills with smoke, dark tar belching smoke that sticks to your lungs as you cough. You feel a warm hand on your back, in a second you look back, the warmth is gone.

“You alright?” Hobie asks, lighting up a cigarette in-between his lips.

“It's the smoke,” you say, scratching at your throat that he cannot keep looking at for the scar in his neck throbs at the memory from the mundane act.

“Alright,” without a second thought, he takes his freshly lit cigarette from his mouth and then flicks it away from you, embers fly off in the distance just before it lands on the dirt outside.

You feel like the golden light in the summer. “I was talking about the coal smoke from the train. But that works too, thank you.”

He scoffs, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Right, didn't do it for you, I did it for myself. Heard it kills people y'know.” Nudging you, he doesn't expect for you to shuffle away. Blinking, he avoids your eyes, “that's our train, it's an overnight one so we can rest in our cabin.” He tugs you in by the sleeve of your coat that's tucked in between his middle and forefinger, guiding you towards the waiting doors.

“That's good.” You follow, eyes trained on his back lest you get lost.

As much as you don't want to go home, you still don't want to leave him despite your mind telling you to forget about him and just leave on Cherry and wander around the west like a tumbleweed caught in the wind. You'd probably last a week.

Hobie stops by the doors, waiting in line with the other passengers. You flick your eyes downwards, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not taut, just holding you close to him as the crowd grows. So close to your own hands, yet so far from your heart.

“Tickets?” The man clad in a blue uniform asks, Hobie shows the pink papers and the man nods.

You enter the train car, it's a cute little thing filled with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels, and carpeted floors that run towards the end of the car. On your left are filled with little cabins, with clear windows that you can see through inside. It's big enough for at least four people, five if possible, though it would be a tight fit. The hallway is already small enough that only two people could walk side by side, you'd like to walk side by side with him, unlike now that you walk behind him, behind his shadow that gathers around you like dandelions in the spring.

“This is us,” he stops at cabin number three, opening the door with a creak, he leans away to let you enter first. Closing the door behind him, he pulls down all the curtains so that wandering eyes can't watch your every move. It's bad enough that there's a bounty on both of your heads, you don't want gossiping passengers peering inside.

There are four collapsible beds on each wall, all held by golden ropes, bed sheets in rich red cloth, pillows fluffed to perfection and blankets neatly folded. Hobie scooches in between you and the beds to close the top bunks so that there's more space for his tall frame. He has taken his hat off not for politeness but if he wore it inside it'll be squished by the low ceiling. Then there's the large window that sits across the door, before you could take note of the people outside, Hobie shuts the curtains close.

“What do you think?” He asks, taking his jacket off with a flourish. “It's not even close to the ones back home but it'll do for now. We'll be train hopping to get our scents off the lawmen.”

“It's nice— wait, train hopping?” You sit down on one of the beds, the mattress is surprisingly soft under you. “Please don't tell me we'll be jumping from train roof to train roof.”

Hobie chuckles, copying your actions, sitting across from you. Back resting against the wall, comfortably slouching. “Think you can handle it?”

“God, no.” You can't help but rest your tired head upon the goose feather pillow.

“Good, because we're not doin' that, love.” Again, he copies you. Arms tucked under his head, eyes above the ornate ceiling. “We’re not gettin' off at the last station, so we'll be ridin’ with Buck and Cherry for a bit and then to another train station. Confuse the wankers with our brilliant wiles.”

You lift your head off the pillow, and in turn, Hobie turns his head to look at you. “Wait, what about the horses?”

“They'll follow the train.” He smiles.

“Follow? Like they have our scents?” Hobie laughs, not teasingly, no, it's full of endearment, chuckling softly, but it flies over your head.

“Don't laugh. It's a genuine question.” You roll your eyes with slight amusement.

“They're in the back carriage,” he tamps down his laugh but his smile stays.

After that silence prevails in your cabin as the train slowly chugs on, sharp whistles piercing your eardrums, and the hum of machinery bringing you back home. You want to speak to him, to finally tell him of all your concerns about going home, going back to them. But most of all, you want him to speak to you about everything, to tell you how he was faring for the last five years, and how he became such a terrifying figure to outlaws. You want him to just…talk, and make up for lost time. You gather the courage, but just as you were about to speak, he no longer lies across from you. Hobie is sitting on the bed, body facing the door, hands busy with oiling his guns.

“Hobie…I—”

“What is it?” He flicks his eyes briefly to you, his tone was sharp, but he didn't mean it, blaming it for his own worries and fatigue. He'd say something about it but you're already facing away from him. Back turned, blanket shielding you from him.

“Nevermind,” you mumble into the covers, falling into a deep slumber where the conversation happened in your dreams.

This goes on for three days, hopping from train to train, from busy cities to dead empty towns. You barely speak, talking only when Hobie asks you something. It's like you're back at that empty mansion, with only the plants to talk to.

Hobie silently hates it, he doesn't know what to make out any of it. You seem hungry so he gives you a can of strawberries, you look tired so he lets you sleep without him saying a word. When goosebumps appear on your arms he gives you a blanket, when you're nervous, lips bitten until it's bleeding, he leaves you alone to calm yourself down. None of it works, he misses your chatter that has kept him sane the entire journey. The silence gives him time to think though, a situation that he despises since nothing good has come out of all the thinking.

—

The rest of the journey goes without a hitch, except for that one bit where Bucky was stolen by an outlaw while you and Hobie were buying train tickets. You panic while he sits and waits. People look at you like you were a mad woman pacing back and forth, hand petting Cherry, voice whispering your thoughts to the poor hitched horse. And Hobie just…stares. After what seemed like forever, or fifteen minutes, Bucky returns, riderless, still has his saddle on his back, and seemingly chipper. Turns out, Hobie trained Buckeye to throw off would-be thieves, and this time, Bucky found a convenient ledge to throw this particular man off. You and Hobie quickly ushered both horses into the back just in case a sheriff comes looking for a murderous horse.

You've been seeing a few familiar faces in the crowd of travelers, the same children that's tugging at their father's coat, the same old couple that helps each other up on the platforms. Some have taken notice of you too, to which you smile politely at them while they wave kindly at you.

—

It's another warm humid day, another train to ride in. You don't bother to look at the interior this time, only deciding to sit on the cushy seat you were assigned to, sliding inside the booth, eyes already staring longingly at the outside world. Hobie once again tries to speak about something— anything to try to get you to finally speak your mind, but his rapid pulse tells him otherwise. So he clamps his mouth shut, deciding to sit across from you instead of sitting next to you like he wanted to.

He feels eyes on his form as he picks mud off his spurs, raising his head, he comes face to face with a freckled child staring at him curiously with her big blue eyes. Her tiny hands are curled around a teddy bear, her fiery red hair is tied into a neat ponytail. You notice her a second later, smiling softly at the child.

“Hello,” you greet kindly, and the girl scampers back to her family's seat, hiding her blushing face behind her mother's skirt.

“Sorry about that.” Her mother apologizes, round pregnant belly prominent as she tries to coax her daughter out. “This is Clementine, she's a bit shy.”

“That's alright,” you speak on behalf of Hobie. “Hi, Clementine, my name's Y/N, and this is my companion, Hobie.” The second your eyes meet his own, Hobie's breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Say hello, Clem, be polite.” The girl's father playfully pokes her side. Blue eyes hidden behind rounded glasses.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, giggling when she looks back at Hobie.

“I think she has a crush on your husband.” Clementine's mother chuckles, patting her daughter's back for a job well done.

“My husband?” Panic sets in your chest until you see her gesturing towards Hobie. “Oh,” you chuckle shakily, fists bunched around your trousers.

Hobie notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He takes your reaction as something else, so to keep your embarrassment at bay, he tells the couple otherwise. “Not her husband. Just escortin’ her.”

The air becomes awkward. “Oh,” the mother rubs her belly, smiling gently. “Sorry, you two just look like a good pair.”

Her husband taps her shoe with his. “Just like us, eh, sweetheart?” The wife shakes her head with a bashful smile, bringing a grin to the man's lips. You start to think that this is what marriage is supposed to be. Caring, loving, clinging onto each other in the best way that doesn't stifle or choke, just love in its most natural form. It's unlike any marriages you've seen and experienced back home. “So where are you folks off to? I'm guessing south? We've been seeing you two around since Valentine, it's nice to have some company during the journey don't you think?”

Hobie doesn't sense malicious intent from the parents. “Sure, whatever you say, mate.”

“You're not from around here aren't you?” The little girl listens to the conversation, head moving from side to side whenever someone speaks. “That's alright,” she laughs softly, rummaging for something in her bag. Hobie has his thumb pressed along the side of his gun. “I can tell you'll be good neighbors,” she hands you a small jar of honey, it's bright yellow and clear, you wish you had some tea to go with it. Hobie breathes a sigh of relief. “Here you go!”

“Oh no thank you, we can't possibly take it.”

“Please do.” The husband says, “we used to have a colony of bees, but we had to sell them all before we moved.”

“We have dozens of unsold honey, we're honestly just looking to get rid of it before we get to our destination. They're heavy, y'know.” His wife finishes for him. “Clem, can you give it to sweet Y/N for me?”

“That's so kind of you.” You smile, nodding. “You're moving to the south?”

“Okay.” She happily takes it, walking across the aisle to you and Hobie. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to Hobie instead of you. “Here you go.” She copies her mother.

Hobie takes the jar with trepidation. “Thank you?”

You quiet down a laugh while Clementine’s parents guffaw across you.

“Oh she's in love.” The mother says, arms raised to embrace her daughter who welcomes her touch. You can't help but feel a pang in your heart at her love for her child. “And yes we're going to be living there with my in-laws. Rent has gone too high in the west, y'know.” You nod along, making friendly conversation.

“Wish I had tea,” you hear Hobie mumble. You smile softly at his words.

—

It's been a couple of more trains, and more smoke in your lungs, you start to feel like your hands are starting to smell like the steel that you now know as your temporary home. The scenery outside your window has changed. From grassy dusty plains of tumbleweeds and windmills to rolling mountains that rise up high with large looming trees that shield you from the sun. Soon your view will be full of the southern charm, but you don't look forward to it, being there means that you're closer to getting back to the place you dread.

You've grown quite close to Clementine and her little family, even the other familiar passengers that are heading the same way as you are quite fond of you as well. You eat breakfast with them, have afternoon tea, and have even introduced Cherry and Bucky to the children. They've lovingly named them both ‘horsies,’ to which you'd always giggle at.

Clementine has latched onto you, you teach her about plants and flowers, and have her draw them for you just like you've sweetly described it to her. But when Hobie's near, she opts to be his shadow for the time being, following him everywhere until her mother calls her back. Hobie is half annoyed that he can't find the time to speak to you, but he's glad that there's someone as a mediator between the two of you or he'll start vomiting out words that may or may not make the situation worse.

Your back aches at the lumpy mattress that you've unfortunately landed into. You can't help but give up the assigned cabin for you and Hobie to Clementine and her family since the beds are much more comfortable in that cabin. So you offered to exchange it, citing that the mother, Florence, you've come to know, needs it more because of the growing baby in her. She gratefully gave you another jar of honey for your sacrifice.

Hobie enters the booth, heavy boots thumping against darkened wood, spurs clicking, footsteps rolling along like a thick heavy fog of loneliness.

“Where were you?” He asks even though he's afraid that he'd be overbearing. His worries win over him.

You grip the spine of the borrowed book, knuckles tightening, eyes drawn downwards to the written word that spells out ‘grief.’ “I visited Cherry, I don't want her to be lonely.” You barely look at him.

Hobie flexes his hands not out of anger, no, out of fear of losing you, this time, just like the last time he did, he doesn't know why or how he could even lose you. He sits down across from you, bed creaking from his weight. He tries to play as the nonchalant cowboy like he always had for the past five years.

“Clementine was lookin' for you.” *I was looking for you. “Cherry won't be lonely, she has Bucky with her.”

“Bucky hasn't been much help when all he does is look at her. Not much of a conversationalist.” You flick your eyes over to him, flashes of anger and hopelessness are melted into your irises.

“Maybe Bucky just doesn't have the words.”

“And maybe Cherry just wants to talk to him.”

“That fuckin’ horse,” he laughs, you don't find the humour in his words. But he clearly does. Your anger flies over his head. “that horse is already worth half of your bounty.” His words are a sharp sting in your arteries. “If she actually speaks she'll be worth it.”

“And what if she doesn't? That she's not worth your damned money?” You toss the book aside. Anger seeping out of your pores. “You'll sell her after you bring me in to my aunt?” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. “Am I just that to you? A bounty?” The dam breaks, and everything you've kept to yourself bursts open.

“That's not—” The heart that he has sewn together breaks at the seams.

You abruptly stand up, tears pricking your eyes. Inhaling, you stare down the man you love. The only man you've ever loved. “You are not what I hoped to find when I escaped on that ship.”

Before he could say something, anything, you disappeared into another train car, and amidst the metallic halls.

—

Another grueling day, another steel cage to get into. The train whistles as it comes to a stop, you've grown acclimated to the smell of burning coal, you let it coat your lungs as you enter the train with Hobie silently trailing after you.

Your eyes are glossed over, red and swollen from the sobs you've let out over the course of the last sixteen hours. Hobie hasn't talked to you since then, always looking at your back, face unreadable. You pass by familiar faces, you don't acknowledge them. You're tired, bones aching, muscles twitching from lack of sleep and water. Head thrumming, you enter your designated cabin like a doe who has lost its way.

There's a sinkhole underneath your feet, slowly it eats at you, up to your shins and up your thighs, coating your flesh in mud and dirt. You don't tug at him anymore, the small ember of hope in your chest has diminished, instead, you let the ground swallow you whole— letting it suffocate you, letting it drown your lungs in soil.

Just like he did on the first train ride, there's four beds on each wall, but instead of an empty space in the middle, there's a little foldable table. You close the top bunks and lay down on one of the bottom ones, head heavy against the soft pillow. You feel his presence behind you, and then a cool steel atop your bicep. You flinch away, thinking it was a barrel of a gun.

“I figured you're thirsty.” He says, hand hovering above your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down. The train whistle rings out, and the engine whirrs and starts up as more smoke bellows outside your window.

You take the flask, sitting up to take a drink. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Hobie sees the glow of your ring, he instinctively brings his hand up to his own that has made its home around his neck; hidden behind his clothes, finding comfort in its gilded form, the closest thing he can get to you.

“Why do you still hold on to me? After all these years?” He asks, eyes swirling with unknown emotion.

“Why did you let me go?” You answer, and that was the end of the conversation. Then it hits you, he truly doesn't love you anymore.

—

Night comes, and with it your sadness comes flooding through you, getting in the corners, slithering around every crevice— it has memorized your form and made it its home.

Weirdly enough, Hobie hasn't left the cabin, his lingering presence doesn't stifle you, unlike the man back at home who watches you with piercing glares. Even with your fury, your mind still finds comfort in Hobie.

He hears your almost silent cry, he wants to hold on to you, to brush his palms on your cheeks, to wipe away the tears and press his lips against your own. But he can't, or you'll think that he didn't mean it, that he only did it to make you calm down. It would be a cheap satisfaction for the both of you.

“I didn't let you go, I had to go.” He suddenly says above the quiet cutting of an apple in his hand, leaving pieces of it on your side just in case you want it. His voice doesn't waver, perhaps he has been saying the exact words to you in his mind for the past five years. You still have your back turned facing him as the deep rumble of the train goes on. “I was young and stupid. I was forced—”

You suddenly turn towards him, sitting up on the lumpy mattress. “And I was young and stupid too, yet I knew in my heart that running away with you wasn't foolish. Was it stupid to you? Escaping with me? That you'd rather run away, alone, to another country than be with me?” The memory of a young you waiting for him with your luggage in your grip has you seething.

Hobie matches your anger, hunting knife pausing on the red apple. “Did you hear what I said?” He angrily skins the fruit, slicing and dicing at its flesh. “You have no idea what I've done to survive. I have endured a lot to be where I am now—”

“And what of what I endured?!” You stand up, taking your bag, rummaging through it. “I'm truly sorry for whatever happened to you— but how could I apologize for something that I don't even know?” You toss the letters on the desk after struggling to take it out of the bag. “There! The letters that were sent back to me because I had no idea where you would be! Read them, and you'll know of the things I've endured. Unlike you who would rather look at me with contempt than tell me why I deserve that horrid gaze.” You gasp for air, he lets you speak, his own anger dissipating, fear once again encompasses him. “I thought you were dead, everyone kept telling me you were, but I didn't believe them. It's been years, my hands are raw from— I mourned you.” You pause, watching your golden ring glow in the lampshade. “Do you know how much that hurt? To start to believe their words? To lose hope? I didn't know where you were but you knew where I was and yet, not a single fucking letter went my way.”

Hobie stares at the letters spilled all over the table, apple juice seeping into the yellowed paper. He takes one, the oldest looking one that has its edges burned. Breaking the wax seal, he reads as he listens to your words coated in venom and grief.

“One letter, Hobie, and I would've understood. Then I wouldn't have come after you if you just told me you didn't want to be with me anymore.” You nod, “and now you're bringing me home, to the same people who would rather keep me locked up and tell me lies. I don't know how your letter got in my possession, but now I know that you didn't mean anything you wrote in it.” For five years you've asked yourself, ‘was it me?’ ‘Was I the reason you left?’ you never got the answer to your question, so now you ask him finally. “Was it me?”

Hobie raises his head to look upon your sorrow, his hand shakes at the act they've done to you the second he escaped. He had thought they'd leave you alone, that they'd finally let you go once he was gone and forgotten; but he never thought it would get worse, the hurtful words and slaps on the wrists were nothing compared to what they've done after that night he was almost buried alive— the night you tried to escape with him. His mind draws the scene, blood coating your knees, your pained cry as your aunt jabs your hands with the tip of a fountain pen. And then her words of hollow apologies as she heals your wounds so that it wouldn't scar. You're filled with them, invisible to the eye, but not to you, the only person who has felt every single torturous wound.

‘It's terrible,’ you wrote, ‘not ever seeing you again.’ And he agonizingly read it. No, it wasn't you, it was them, them who would rather commit murder just to mimic what he had. Hobie can't form coherent words at what he just read, anger and sadness piercing his veins like a poisoned arrow of guilt.

You sniff, wiping the tears in your eyes as he just stares back at you. His hands shakes, paper crumpling under his tight grip, he needs to bring you home. But not there, not at the gilded cage he left you in.

The cruelty of memory has plagued you, you try to remember, you reminisce, but did it actually happen? Did all his love for you even happen?

“You don't have to keep reading,” you say solemnly, “it doesn't matter now, we're nearly there.” With a slide of the door, you leave.

—

After the twelfth tear stained letter, with his own tears flowing down and leaving moistened webs on the paper, he has had enough. His eyes always seem to see the same words now, ‘was it me?’ ‘Are you alive?’ and ‘When will you come back?’ Hobie hasn't even made a dent on the letters, barely reading half of the pile of longing you've left. Hobie's mind swirls into different emotions, going through every scenario where he didn't run away, where he came back for you while clutching his still bleeding throat and body covered in moist soil.

He was foolish to try and push you away, to hold you at arm's length, to only look at you like he has let the poisonous words thrown at him by the very same man that gave him the scar curl around him like blackened smoke that stains his clothes. He thought that wanting you back would bring nothing but hurt, especially that he thought that he didn't deserve it. To want is his demise, to have you again in his arms is his folly, but what a wonderful folly it would be.

How could he do all of that to you when his scarred flesh is in the shape of your name.

He pockets the letters, tucking it inside his waist coat, right above his heart just to feel your words through them. The door opens with a click, and he walks towards your direction like a compass built inside him that always points towards you. His fingers glide along the scar on his neck, raised skin felt through his gloves as he walks from carriage to carriage. Where there's open air in between, cool breeze stinging his moistened cheeks. Then he stops at the edge of a crowd, a jaunty tune plays from a traveling musician, playing for a scrap of coins in the corner. People gather around the brightly lit bar, alive and happy, and there you are standing as if you're frozen in time. As if he's seeing you just how he left you.

Amidst the familiar faces within the crowd that gathers in the small bar to converse, he stares at you, and by some miracle, you stare back at him, meeting his jade eyes that are surrounded by a sickened red. There's a soft, ghost of a smile on your lips, even after what you've told him— eyes full of love for the same man who has your heart in the palm of his hands; gentle, caring and yet unknowingly the only person that could truly hurt you the most without the painful slap of a wooden board against your back. It brings him back in time, under the cloudy gas light and the whir of the metal machines whose maw opens and closes to reveal heated metal— His mouth opens and he says the exact same thing that he has been saying every single time his eyes meet yours in secret— ‘meet you back at home.’ He utters, a promise kept under the smell of unlit gunpowder and cheap champagne that your aunt always buys to placate the workers. And you say the same words back without a bated breath— ‘wait for me.’ You almost cry out into the crowd, you'd scream it if it weren't for the forbidden relationship. It has been like that through every cheap congratulatory milestone the factory and your aunt has thrown. You don't speak to him, but your longing eyes do. He doesn't come near you, but his hand would always gravitate towards your velvet clad hand. ‘No one else knows.’ ‘No one else knows,’ those words echo in your mind like a root taking its place. Yet, someone saw, it only takes one good pair of eyes to see the growing love between you— ‘no one knows,’ he mirrors, but one does. It only takes one to set off a domino effect, an effect that would lead to his attempted murder, and to your demise that he isn't fully privy to. ‘No one knows,’ ‘no one knows,’ you whisper to yourself as you pack your bags to escape the life you haven't got a say in. No one knows, and yet, one did, and that one got your love's neck slashed and buried alive in the same soil you once kissed above on, under the same tree that you were supposed to meet in.

He wondered why you didn't show up, but the one that knew did. No one knows, and the one that did lived in your house, ate your food, shared a bed with your aunt— a story told through a letter from a man he once worked with, a man who now has one eye, a man that helped dig him out of the shallow grave they've put him in, waiting to bleed out in the earthbound soil. A dangerous letter that he had burned in the fire from anger. He wanted revenge, but you would be the cost. So he survived and killed, and survived again, always seeing you in the corner of his eye, always hearing your almost forgotten voice when he's on the edge of sleep. He survived and now he's here, meeting with your eyes amidst the crowd once again— with the evidence of his survival curling around him like a heavy rope, and your own hovering above you like a grey cloud that threatens to spill, yet he still utters the same words above the murmuring happier crowd, “meet you back at home.” His throat closes in around the words, almost screaming it to the crowd.

A tear slips from your eyes that are full of woe, and you say the words back, quieter, unsure, yet, the love is still there— “wait for me.”

Hobie breathes for the first time, his feet carrying him around the crowd, weaving through bodies to get to you while you stand still, waiting for him, watching as he desperately trudges to get to you.

You look just like how he remembered, standing by the oak tree, waiting for him even if his hands are stained black from grease— you'd still hold his hand. Now his hands are soiled in crimson that drips onto the floorboards, and yet you still hold your hand out towards him. He would atone for his sins if that's what you'd ask of him, but no one would grant him his penance, he has accepted that fact long ago. Only your touch could mimic it.

Hobie finally makes it to you, now he stands in front of your form, now he notices your hand grasping his own. Featherlight, unsure, if he'd reciprocate, giving him enough time to shake you off. But he doesn't, instead, he holds on to you tighter as he leads you outside of the noisy carriage and away from prying eyes, what he should've done all those years ago.

Hobie tugs you out of the hole that has consumed you.

Silently, you follow him, squeezing his hand twice to let him know that you're right behind him without him looking over his shoulder to inspect. You feel his fingers run along the ring on your finger.

The sound of the metal wheels are loud in your ears, steam rolling off in waves as it warms your back. It's dark out, the moon above guiding his path while he opens the other door leading towards the last carriage that carries horses and baggage.

The moon has always been a comfort to you. You thought in those years without him that he'd be staring at the same moon as you, that at least you've still got a connection with him. Even if you weren't sure he'd be alive to look up at the sky. Arms suddenly envelopes you, hands cradling the back of your head to keep you close to him, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

You're the first one to speak while you tentatively raise your arms to embrace him back. He's warm, warmer than you remember. “Do you mean it?”

Hobie sniffs, diamonds rolling off his cheeks, a promise falling from his lips, “yes, I'll bring you home, my home.” He molds himself to the shape of you once again. An act that you've been trying to attain since the beginning of the journey, now you're both perfectly aligned with each other, heartbeats synching and full. “I'll tell you everything, everything you need to know.”

“Just the ones you're willing to tell, Hobie. I'm so sorry for yelling those words at you.” You hold his head in your hands, gentle, caring, cradling him like you're holding the moon. Guiding it upwards so you could stare at his viridescent eyes that's full of hope for the first time in years. But the gnawing in your mind draws too close to you. “They'll never stop, they will keep hunting us down.” A sob breaks through your throat, “You have to bring me to them.” Tears flow out of you, “or we'll never be at peace. You'll never be at peace.”

The horses neigh behind you, Cherry huffs while Buckeye just stares at the scene. The carriage rattles for a moment before Hobie leans, laying his forehead atop yours, squeezing the soft skin on your nape. He closes his eyes, inhaling you in, you almost crumble in his arms. You've dreamt of this day, dreamt of holding him like this once again.

“You're my peace.” he whispers, “They can try to ruin that peace, but I'll stop them. I'll kill them if I had to.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes, just as he opens his own. “Take me home.”

“‘m sorry,” he kisses your forehead, lips lingering, a heavy kiss that brings you back to life, mending all your doubts. “Let's go home, yeah?” Leaning away, his eyes dart over to a man coming your way, he doesn't find it suspicious, but then the stranger brandishes a gun, raising it over your head. “Y/N—!”

Your body flings off to the side, hip hitting harshly on the corner of a crate. Then a loud cackle of a gun goes off, the sound bouncing off the walls, gunpowder flying over head, hiding Hobie from your vision. You yell his name, but you can't hear your own voice from the ringing in your ears.

Everything happens slowly in your eyes. Smoke spreads as you see Hobie still standing and unscathed, gun raised, barrel aimed at the man's head. Said man runs towards him like a bull, making Hobie miss his shots. Yet the man still shoots at him, slower than Hobie but just as deadly. Hobie leans his head slightly to the side, effectively dodging a bullet. You scamper towards Cherry, lifting yourself up, waiting for the right moment. And then you slap your precious horse, making her kick before he could reach Hobie. Cherry's deadly kick hits the perpetrator right on his back, where a sickening crunch can be heard. The sheer force of the kick has dust flying off his body, and now he lays motionless on the wooden floor.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie gawps at you, smile spreading across his lips. “You alright?” He walks over to you, or tries to while Cherry gives one last kick towards the dead man.

“Yeah,” you nod, patting Cherry, Keeping her calm. “It's okay, girl. I'm so sorry.” You coo at her, Hobie goes around the horse to hold you. “Are you—?”

His arms wrap around your waist, lips smashing on yours. You inhale and it's already over. Even if it was quick, it wasn't a cheap satisfaction, it's everything. He pats your cheek affectionately, beaming at you, holding you close. “You're brilliant.” His thumb rubs softly where you hit your hip on the crate, a silent apology.

You smile, heart thumping loudly like an engine. “It was all Cherry.”

“Should I snog the horse now too?” Hobie says smugly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“No, preferably just me, for now at least.” You tap his chest, bashfulness encompassing you.

“Nah, it's you until the end, love.” He clicks his forehead against yours, making you chuckle.

A scream rings out from the other carriage, hurried footsteps bounding away. “Do you think—?”

Hobie reloads his gun effortlessly, giving the spare one to you. “You're a better shot than me anyway.” He takes one last look at you, as if this is the last time he'd ever set his eyes on you. “Whoever they are, I'll cut through them. Cover my back?”

“Always,” You nod, taking the silver six-shooter, “then we'll go home after this.”

He grins, hope in his eyes. “Home, you'll love it there.”

“Let's cut through all of them then.”

[archivaltrigger]

“Because the US government was not acting on mass shootings, we directly attacked a trait Americans are most known for: their pride in their country. Change the Ref created the Shamecards, a postcard collection designed to demand gun law reform from Congress. Subverting the traditional greeting cards that depict each city’s landmarks, ours show what cities are becoming known for.”

shamecards.org

There is 54 cards total representing:

Annapolis — Maryland: Capital Gazette Shooting

Atlanta — Georgia: Day Trading Firm Shootings

Benton — Kentucky: Marshall County High School Shooting

Bethel — Alaska: Regional High School Shooting

Binghamton — New York: Binghamton Shooting

Blacksburg — Virginia: Virginia Tech Massacre

Camden – New Jersey: Walk of Death Massacre

Charleston — South Carolina: Charleston Church Shooting

Charlotte — North Carolina: 2019 University Shooting

Cheyenne — Wyoming: Senior Home Shooting

Chicago — Illinois: Medical Center Shooting

Clovis — New Mexico: Clovis Library Shooting

Columbine — Colorado: Columbine

Dayton — Ohio: Dayton Shooting

Edmond — Oklahoma: Post Office Shooting

El Paso — Texas: El Paso Shooting

Ennis — Montana: Madison County Shooting

Essex Junction — Vermont: Essex Elementary School Shooting

Geneva — Alabama: Geneva County Massacre.

Grand Forks — North Dakota: Grand Forks Shooting

Hesston — Kansas: Hesston Shooting

Honolulu — Hawaii: First Hawaiian Mass Shooting

Huntington — West Virginia: New Year's Eve Shooting

Indianapolis — Indiana: Hamilton Avenue Murders

Iowa City — Iowa: University Shooting

Jonesboro — Arkansas: Middle School Massacre

Kalamazoo — Michigan: Kalamazoo Shooting

Lafayette — Louisana: Lafayette Shooting

Las Vegas — Nevada: Las Vegas Strip Shooting

Madison — Maine: Madison Rampage

Meridian — Mississippi: Meridian Company Shooting

Moscow — Idaho: Moscow Rampage

Nashville — Tennessee: Nashville Waffle House shooting

Newtown — Connecticut: Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting

Omaha — Nebraska: Westroads Mall shooting

Orlando — Florida: Pulse Nightclub Shooting

Parkland — Florida: Parkland School Shooting

Pelham — New Hampshire: Wedding Shooting

Pittsburgh — Pennsylvania: Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting

Prices Corner — Delaware: Delaware Shooting

Red Lake — Minnesota: Indian Reservation Shooting

Roseburg — Oregon: Umpqua Community Collage Shooting

Salt Lake City — Utah: Salt Lake City Mall Shooting

San Diego — California: San Ysidro Massacre

Santa Fe — Texas: Santa Fe School Shooting

Schofield — Wisconsin: Marathon County Shooting

Seattle — Washington: Capitol Hill Massacre

Sisseton — South Dakota: Sisseton Massacre

St. Louis — Missouri: Power Plant Shooting

Sutherland Springs — Texas: Sutherland Springs Church Shooting

Tucson — Arizona: Tocson Shooting

Wakefield — Massachusetts: Tech Company Massacre

Washington — D.C.: Navy Yard Shooting

Westerly — Rhode Island: Assisted-Living Complex Rampage

[overly-dramatic-artist]

On the Horizon - prologue

Hello friends! As per the voice of the people, the Wild West au is being written into a fic! I’m still building the world and some plot details, but here is a small little appetizer of a prologue! Thank you for all of the love and enthusiasm that you have shared with me about this au!

The memories of this town remain, like the grains of desert sand caught in the folds of leather boots and saddles. Nothing truly leaves this place. The plant may be plucked, but the roots that get ripped by the stubborn ground are trapped, not unlike the years spent in innocence under the scorching sun and surrounded by the unforgiving mountain range.

You pull on the reign, effectively halting the steed hauling your small wagon you sit upon, as you see the more defined structures of Aurora Springs come into view against the glowing sunlight that sinks lower against the purple mountains. There’s an ache in your chest, a tightness in your lungs as you breathe in the dry air, remnants of your past rushing forward like a dust storm, unyielding as the laughter of childhood wonder and honeyed words of your mother embrace your subconscious.

Her final letter sits in the tight space between your chemise and vest, over your heart and folded just as it had remained for the past 6 years.

And on the opposite side against your hip is your father’s holster and pistol, tucked discreetly into a deep pocket of your skirt.

A letter of love. An object of protection.

The only pieces you had left of your parents that had driven you to abandon the notion of mercy.

You had become a product of this desert, unrelenting and unforgiving.

………..

Some things in life never change. The out of tune piano across the bar. The shattered glass window that has been long since in need of repair. The suede leather chaps Sun had worn for years. The casual look of disdain on his lunar counterpart’s face as patrons yap and jabber. And of course, the unfounded and quite frankly stupid belief of man that this time for sure he will win.

With a round of loud groans and laughs, Sun collects his winnings from the table, much to the anger of the drunk man who had refused to fold before losing everything.

“So sorry, gentlemen, looks like I win again,” the sunny automaton says, the faux-sympathy of his synthetic voice further riling his red-faced opponents.

The man with the heavily oiled mustache and britches two sizes too short frowns, spits at the floor and stands with a screech from his chair.

“You been counting the cards! Ain’t right for a cheater to win.”

“Come now, good sir, I renounce rule-breaking. If you truly thought me a cheat, you shouldn’t have played the game.” Sun tilts his grin towards the man before slowly standing to his impressive height, one hand cradling over the grip of the pistol in his leather holster. “But I suppose we could always settle this like proper men…?”

The glint of the low bar-lighting on the silver gun that hits the angered man’s eye is enough of an answer, and the loser leaves in a huff, stomping away from the table.

Not long after settling all bets and debts, the lunar and solar automatons leave, saddling up their horses roped in the stalls.

”No need wasting a gunshot for the sake of petty cash,” the dark one says, his red eyes reflecting on the black rim of his hat, stomping the last embers of his cigar into the ground.

“You of all should know I don’t take well to being called something so despicable as a cheater,” Sun playfully shoots back. “Besides, I could get a couple rounds more with what I won.”

Moon clicks his teeth at his partner, adjusting the rifle slung over his back before signaling with the reins for Astraea to start moving. The horse brays, leading Calliope to follow.

As usual, the lunar bot remains silent for the ride through town, keeping his gaze forward. Sun was good at filling the silence, or at the very least, making the pair seem slightly less intimidating to onlookers. Their line of work came with that deadly connotation, and they lived up to their titles, but a bit of charm and camaraderie was useful for keeping the townsfolk in good favor. A nod to the miners coming back from the canyons, a wink at the courtesans on the corner.

Passing one of the bulletin boards by town hall, Moon pulls the reins to a halt with a hum. Sun looks where his partner is fixing his eyes, an identical smile pulling his lips. On the rotting wood bulletin is a newly pinned poster. A wanted poster. With an intriguingly high priced bounty wanted alive.

“I was looking forward to a weekend fixing that fence in the east pasture…” Sun says, pulling the poster down, letting his fingers trace over the details of the pretty face printed in ink, “…but I can’t pass up such an offer.”

His lunar lover laughs with a shake of his head.

“Does it say where they last were?”

“Stormridge, headed west.” Sun passes the paper to Moon. “Could already be here in town.”

The red-eyed bot hums, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it with the exposed wire on his wrist with a hiss. He lets his systems take in the smoke, the tarry buildup caressing the roughness within his casing. With an artificial exhale, he looks back at his partner.

“I suppose we should go get those rounds then.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Ahhhhhhhh!!! I hope that is enticing and intriguing for a beginning!

And for anyone who hasn’t seen this au before, here are some of my sketches for it 💖

[unidentifiedly]

Eventful Morning

Micah Bell x reader

- In which Micah almost scares the reader to death. Or at the very least, scares them enough for it to have consequences.

"Tip, tip, tip" Soft sounds of rain droplets made their way into your ears.

"No, no. Just a few more minutes." You thought to yourself, unable to open your eyes just yet. Slowly but surely you adjusted to the idea of waking up and opened your eyes. The off white canvas tent filtered the morning light beautifully. Glancing around yourself, looking for your favourite blouse and overdress, your gaze fell on the small dusty mirror in front of you, perched atop a trunk and supported by a stack of hardcover copies of romance novels.

In the mirror, yourself staring right back. You glanced at the intricately engraved brass pocket watch by the side of the bed. The watch itself was a birthday gift from Arthur a couple months back. The arms reaching toward four and twelve, it was way too early to get up and start one's day. Yet, here you were.

Softly humming to yourself you tied your hair up lazily with a ribbon, deciding to spend the hours of the morning organizing your safe haven. The gang had only recently arrived at the new spot, Horseshoe Overlook they called it. Far too east for Arthur's liking, but to you about anything sounded better than heading back up those cold mountains toward Colter. You were used to it at this point, the constant moving around. It was a way of life that held you tightly in its grip.

That being said, the new camp was still unorganized and there was sure to be work around that needed doing. This was a chance to have some private time, peace and quiet for yourself.

Sorting through the mementos and trinkets from throughout the years was quick, you wiped the dust off of the little mirror with the corner of your nightgown. Gathering up the few clothes you had laying around and neatly folding them up you realized the growing pile of fabric by the end of your bed was clothes and linen that needed washing, not something that should just be sorted back into the trunks right away. "I think it was Charles who mentioned there was a river just west of here?" Mumbling to yourself, you picked up the dirty clothes and put them in a basket, not bothering to dress up all the way. "Everyone will be asleep at this hour anyways, and if not, it'll be Miss Grimshaw awake. It's nothing that'll bother her too much." Pulling on your trusty leather boots you untied the strings holding the fabric flap door of your tent shut. A prompt walk to your horse, a beautiful paint mare, and you were off along with your basket of laundry. With the carelessness, soft hums and the skip on your step you failed to notice a pair of eyes watch you leave the camp. The observer finished smoking his cicarette, let his legs fall from the log they were resting on while chucking the cigarette butt over his shoulder, and rubbed his hands together. What on on God's green Earth were you up to this early in the morning, and barely dressed to boot?

The sound of a running stream reached your ears fast. Charles had of course been right, even a blind man would notice the Dakota River from this close by. Hopping off your horse and tying the reins to a nearby tree you swung the basket on your elbow and kicked the boots off your feet, walking straight into the cold running water. Oh how sweet the feeling was! In a low point of the river, a rock stood taller than the surface of the water, so you took a seat and began the chore.

"Eeeasy there boy" Micah huffed to Baylock, staying well hidden in the trees, observing you from afar. A smirk spread on his lips as he saw your boots and gun belt scattered on the riverbank, and you sitting on a rock in the middle of the water, with your back facing him. Dismounting with an agile leap, he slowly but surely started making his way toward you.

Completely lost in your activity and the sweet warm sunshine of the spring morning you were singing to yourself, getting ready to leave. Looking at the last blouse, and squeezing the extra water out of it a surprisingly strong wave hit the rock and splashed water all over you, soaking your thin white linen undergarments. "Fuck!" You stood up and turned around, screaming out loud.

"Mic- Mr.Bell! What the fuck are you doing?"

Keeping his eyes locked on your body, his smirk widened, his arms reaching out toward you. "Just call me Micah, and I could ask ya the same thing, sweetcheeks. Now come on here." He beckoned with his hands, but you refused.

"No, I don't think so, you can't just creep up on me like that Mr Bell. I could have dropped my laundry basket, or worse, fallen down and then drowned out of shock!"

You took a step back, lifting the now heavier basket full of wet clothes up to rest against your hipbone.

For every step you took back, Micah took one forward, and the man had both the advantage of longer legs and facing the direction he was going. It didn't take long for things to go south.

"I'm warning you Mr Bell, I'm going to tell Arthur about this, and you know he is not going to be happy!" You tried in vain.

"Hrmph. The cowpoke ain't got nothing to do with how I conduct my business with a lady such as yerself."

You were taken aback, "what did you just call me? You never- Ah!"

Slipping on a rock and falling back, you reached out to Micah for support, and closed your eyes in anticipation of the cold hard surface of the river. The sensation never came.

"Gotcha." Eyeing down at you was Micah, who effortlessly supported your almost naked body by your waist and left arm. "Now how about ya let me show you a good time as a thanks?" One of his eyebrows rising up and his face forming a seductive expression.

You, however, were too occupied to notice or care. "Micah you idiot! All of my clothes are fucking gone!"

And indeed, the river was decorated with the various pieces of clothing running merrily downstream, way too fast to catch up to.

"Well, ya won't be needin' any of those for th- Ow!" "Shut the fuck up and help me get dressed before anyone else notices!"

The ride to the camp was one of the worst you had ever experienced. For Micah, it was the opposite. A prideful smirk on his cocky face, throwing you the occasional remark about the curve of your waist and ass, and how good you looked in just his jacket as you rode, and making no attempts to be quiet and discreet as you arrived in camp. You tried your best to ignore him and get away from the situation as quickly as possible. Hopping off your horse, not even bothering to tie the rains to the hitchpost, you walked briskly toward your tent only to run straight into Sean.

"Oi, watch where ya- Y/N, wow, let me tell ya, could not see this one comin'!" A smirk instantly grew on his face, and he slapped a hand on Micah's jacket, on your shoulder.

"Sean it's NOT what it looks like, and don't you dare mention this to anyone either!" You whisper yelled while taking off the jacket, exposing your still wet and thus transparent garments. Sean blushed bright red, poor guy, and you stomped right in to your tent.

Not being able to face the rest of the day, the longer you stayed in your tent the more intimidating the prospect of leaving felt. Surely Sean had told everyone about what he saw, and you'd be mocked til eternity.

No, there was no way you'd ever leave that tent again.

A few hours later you were starving for a snack and stuck your head out to find the main area empty. Great! An opening. As soon as you stepped out, a voice rang: "Y/N!" You turned around, mouth open to start defending yourself, only to face a very noticeably beat-up looking Sean. "Listen, sorry about the earlier, I never saw nothing, alright?" You nodded in confusion and he smiled, thanked you quickly and scurried off. You got the food you were after, and returned to your tent to eat it. There, on your cot, rested a shirt and a dress, folded in a way which looked like a very bad attempt, with a piece of paper on top. There, in barely legible rough handwriting:

"The idiot won't bother ya about it. M"

You smiled to yourself, feeling the fabric of the clothes. Both of good quality fabrics, a white undershirt and a red simple dress. Just like the ones you usually wear every day.

Observing from a distance as you emerged from your tent in your red dress, Micah Bell smiled to himself as he sharpened his knife, softly murmuring to himself: "Gotcha ta call me by my name at least. That's a start."

note: Yay! My first ever piece of writing I've published online :) do suggest if you get any good ideas and like my writing style.

[shinynewboots]

The Ballad of Hell Springs: Part 1/5

Guitarspear (Hazbin Hotel) Western/Cowboy AU

AO3

Next Episode

Summary: On his yearly trip to Heaven's Gate, Adam, a forgotten outlaw, crosses paths with Lute, a woman on the run. On their journey, they form an unlikely companionship. However, the secrets of the past don't always stay hidden, and Adam soon finds himself thrust back into a role he had given up long ago. Part 1/5.

Warnings: Violence, gun violence, implied sexual assault, cursing

Notes: Thanks y'all for coming along for the Cowboy hyper fixation. A special thanks to @devastatedloyallute for putting up with Cowboy brain rot and being such a wonderful beta reader💚

Heaven’s Gate had been a paradise for a while. It was a boomtown that grew in the shadow of Heaven’s Arch, a spectacular rock formation that formed long before Adam was born and would exist long after he’d returned to dust. It was cut by red rock that seemed to sparkle under the sun’s rays, begging the weary traveler to continue on their journey. Through the Arch, the trail towards the West continued, along with the promise of fertile lands and gold aplenty. Adam had no use for gold or lands in the beginning. Just the gentle smile of his wife and the laughter of his boys.

Paradise doesn’t last forever. 

He was an older man now. Rode hard and hung out to dry. Long gone was the young man with dreams of a pretty wife and kind boys. Gray hairs had started to pop up around his brown hair and in his beard. His facial hair had grown longer than he’d let it in the past. He knew he needed a clean shave, but the beard, combined with his bandana, protected him from the dust and sun better than the latter alone. 

He laid back against his saddlebag as the light of another day snuffed itself out in the sky. He glanced over at Dick, who he’d tied to a sturdy log that lay nearby. Dick paid him no mind and continued to munch on the prairie grasses. Dick was a copper-colored stallion that had served him well for the past five years. Adam had borrowed him from an innkeeper a few hundred miles away. He’d return him one day. 

He’d set up camp about 50 paces from the banks of Hell Springs, a natural hotspring that emitted a foul egg-like odor that tainted the surrounding air. A thick layer of steam was always present on the water’s surface, along with the occasional bubbling of the rumbling earth. The smell kept most people and predators away.  It was why he always chose to make camp here year after year on his journey back to Heaven’s gate. 

He gazed into the fire, the sweet smoke doing little to ward off the perpetual stink of the springs. Adam had spent ten long years making this journey, every year returning to the scene of the original sin. Aside from new scars and graying hair, he had little to show for his efforts. Petty thievery, sure. The occasional expensive watch he could pawn off for some pieces of gold. 

Very little had proved to fill the decade-long void that filled his soul. 

He reached into his pack to grab a cigar and thought better of it. A waste this time of night. He glanced over at Dick, who paid him no mind, before leaning even farther back onto the saddle bag. He tilted his hat to shield himself from the fire’s light and closed his eyes. 

Adam awoke to a harsh kick to his boot. His eyes shot up to see a person looming over him. They pointed a revolver at him, only about two feet away from his head. The hammer of the gun was pulled back. 

This was not the first time Adam stared down the barrel of a gun, nor would it be the last. 

Adam looked at the figure down the barrel of the revolver. Moonlight washed over them with a ghostly illumination. He smirked, his brown eyes meeting the golden ones only half-obscured by the brim of their hat. “You goin’ shoot me, kid?” 

“I will.” The figure said. Their voice sounded strained, as if trying to sound deeper and more frightening than it was. Adam looked closer at the figure. Their clothes were ill-fitting. The cuffs of their sleeves brushed past their wrists, almost completely obscuring their small hands. Their dust-covered trousers were tied tightly with a rope at the waist and tucked hastily into their boots. This kid was young and green. “If I have to.”

“Kid, I’d put that down if I was you,”  Adam warned, holding up steady hands. 

“Or what?” Golden eyes narrowed at him. Their finger was tensed at the trigger. They tried to hide it, but their posture showed a slight tremor. “I’m the one pointing the gun.”

Adam took that tremor as a cue to act. He moved his hands so that they pushed the gun up and away from any meaningful path towards his brain. The kid gasped in shock and pulled the trigger. 

A shot rang out. Dick whinnied at the noise, pulling against the rope that tethered him. Adam felt the bullet breeze over his head, the boom ringing in his ears. His hat was pushed off his head by the force of the bullet ripping through it. He had liked that hat. 

The person looked at him with wide eyes. They began to place their thumbs on the hammer of the gun, their small stature forcing them to grab it with both hands. Before the click indicating the gun was ready could be heard, Adam had already lunged on top of them.

The softness under him as he rolled on top of the stranger, pushing both of their arms above their head and forcing the gun from their grip, told him that this person was definitely not a kid. The woman fought against him, trying to kick and fight back. But Adam was a large man, and she was no match for him. Her eyes were filled with a true fear as she searched his face. 

One hand still holding her wrists into the dirt as he leaned over her, he grabbed at the bandana that obscured her face and pulled it down. She bucked at the movement like an unbroken bronco. He narrowly avoided a headbutt. She heaved under him, her ribs flaring up against his body.

“You shot my hat.” He finally said as he took in her soft features. She looked young, early twenties if he had to guess. He’d always been shit at guessing ages. She was fair, as though untouched by years of sun. Her eyebrows were dark, a sharp contrast to the white hair that framed her face in the struggle. His eyes immediately went to the ugly purple and green bruise that bloomed over her right jaw. 

“It should’ve been your head.” She spat, struggling against his grip. He pushed down farther onto her with his torso. 

“I’m hard to kill, darlin’.” He grinned, shaking his head so the strands of hair would move from his eyes. She dropped her head back into the dirt and looked towards the bubbling spring. The moonlight gave the spring a more infernal look than usual, something that mothers told their babes to beware of lest they be lured into its depths. 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you up if you promise you’ll behave.” Adam offered, a mischievous look on his face. The woman still didn’t look at him, her face blank as she continued to stare towards the spring. He grabbed her chin with his large hand and forced her to face him. 

“Go to Hell,” She cursed, hatred and fear in her eyes. 

“Hard to go somewhere you’ve never left.” He replied. She furrowed her eyebrows at him, her gaze softening slightly. “Now, you are gonna behave darlin’?”

She let out a deep breath. He could feel her ribs compress beneath him. Her heart was beating fast like a rabbit. She looked at him with those golden eyes and nodded her head. 

He didn’t trust her. So he wasn’t at all surprised when the second he pulled his weight off of her, she tried to kick at him, her small legs packing a larger punch than he had anticipated. She wriggled free from him and began to belly crawl towards her gun. 

“Goddammit, bitch,” Adam exclaimed, once again throwing himself on top of her. She let out a gasp of surprise and grew still like a squashed bug, limbs splayed out around her. Her hand continued to twitch towards the revolver. 

“Let me go!’ She raged, building up the energy to finally thrash against him. He’d broken stallions with less fight than she gave him. 

“I tried that, and you took me like a damn fool.” 

“Bastard.” The word was weak coming from her lips. 

“It’s actually Adam.” He said cheekily. While the disruption of sleep was less than desirable, he found himself enjoying the moment. “And what sorry bastard do I have the pleasure of crushing this fine evening?’

He heard her mutter something under her breath that sounded suspiciously similar to ‘fun of a pitch’. 

“What was that?” He asked again, pushing his body down harder onto her. He couldn’t deny that the feeling of her soft body beneath him was affecting him. It had been weeks since he last laid with a woman. He feared pushing against her was teasing him more than it was teaching her a lesson. 

“Lute,” She said quietly.

“Lute,” He repeated, feeling the word around in his mouth, fiddling with it through his tongue and teeth like chewing tobacco. “Now, Miss Lute, where were you heading in such a hurry that you thought it was a good idea to point a gun in a man’s face while he was sleeping?”

“Pride’s Peak.” She spat out like a spooked kitten. “I was gonna steal your horse.”

“I don’t think Dick would have liked that very much. He’s a mean son of bitch,” Adam said. He and Lute turned to look at Dick, who happily whinnied at the attention. 

“How ferocious.” She said dryly. Adam gave Dick a reprimanding look. The horse didn’t notice. He turned his attention back to the woman beneath him. 

“Where’d you come from?”

“That’s none of your business.” She said slowly. Adam narrowed his eyes. Though he knew Lute couldn’t see his expression, he wanted to make sure he got his meaning across clear as crystal. 

His voice dropped low. Dangerous. He leaned his face close to her ear, his warm breath and beard ticking at it. “You point a gun at me, you make it my goddamn business.”

It was quiet for a few moments. Both stopped breathing. Adam heard the faintest reply. “Heaven’s Gate.” 

“You live there?” He asked. She didn’t seem like she recognized him. He had been gone a long time. His face was more weathered, more covered with hair. A decade was a long time to be away. He didn’t recognize her either. He would’ve remembered pretty eyes like that. 

“I did,” Lute responded curtly.

“Why you leaving?”

“Do you always ask so many damn questions?” She huffed. He chuckled at her. Perhaps he had tortured her enough. 

“Only to would-be horse thieves who try to shoot me.” He responded. He lightened up on the pressure he was putting on her. She didn’t resist or try and wiggle free this time. 

“There’s nothin’ left for me there,” Lute said. Her voice sounded hollow, with no trace of that spitfire he’d heard earlier. 

“Well, except maybe some clothes that actually fit you. What, you steal those from your pa?” He asked, feeling her tense up beneath him.

“Will you let me up?” She said quickly, avoiding the question on her appearance. There was also little chance in Hell he imagined she would tell him where she got that shiner on her face. Adam, however, had always been great at wearing people down. 

“That depends. Can I trust you?” 

“No.” She said without hesitation. Adam couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. 

“Good, ‘cause I wasn’t gonna.” He pulled himself off of her and was pleasantly surprised she didn’t immediately reach for the gun, instead opting to wipe the dirt from her face and body.  He’d enjoyed this; it would be a shame to put a bullet between those pretty eyes. 

He walked over to the revolver and grabbed it, turning away from her. He opened the cylinder and let the bullets pour into his hands. They glistened in the moonlight overhead. He held the empty gun out at her as she wiped the dust from her trousers. 

“Here’s your gun back.”

She snatched the gun from him and looked at the empty cylinder with disdain. “What the hell is this?”

“We’ll call it your collateral.” He said, shrugging. He walked over to behind his saddle bag and picked up his black hat, a bullet hole clean through the middle. He rubbed his finger over the frayed fabric and could still feel the heat from the bullet on the edges. “I really did like this hat.” 

She begrudgingly shoved the empty gun into her rope belt so that it hung at her side. Moonlight bathed over her pale features, making her look more ghost-like by the second. 

A howl rang out in the distance. Adam added sticks to the fire to build up the low glow into a broiling flame. Anything to keep the nocturnal predators at bay. 

“It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t catch you.” He said, poking at the fire with a stick. The shadows and glows danced in a frantic rhythm across his face. He looked up at Lute and noticed her golden eyes aglow. She didn’t respond. She stood there awkwardly, wrapping her arms around her body. 

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Lute,” He said, emphasizing the Miss so that it made her feel even smaller and weaker than she already did. “You promise not to aim for my head again, and I’ll get you to Pride’s Peak when I head that way in a few days.”

“Or I could just head to Pride’s Peak myself right now.” She said, her resolve steely. 

Adam gave her a hard look and pursed his lips. “You could. But I promise you that howling you hear? They’ve been tracking you all night. Coyotes don’t have any problem bringing down a full-grown doe. You wouldn’t stand a chance.” 

Lute narrowed her eyes at him. “Why would you want to help me?”

Adam winked at her and settled back down against the saddle. “I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes and wild women.”

“I don’t trust you.” She said quietly. She got on her knees before the fire and began to warm her hands. The button-down shirt she was wearing looked rather thin for the cold desert air. It was a wonder she hadn’t trembled more from the cold as she pointed the gun in his face. 

“Good, you’d be a damn fool if you did. But I promise you now, darlin’ I’m too old and too tired to try anything on you, so why don’t you settle down for the night and we’ll continue this little game in the mornin’.” 

Adam shrugged off his duster and threw it towards her with no second glance. The cool air nipped at him now that he didn’t have the protection of the worn leather, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about hearing her teeth chatter throughout the night. 

Lute didn’t sleep a wink that night. Between the putrid stink in the air and incessant snoring from her unwelcome acquaintance, she couldn't find even a moment of respite. The duster he’d given her was warm, though. A lingering scent of smoke, sweat, and tobacco on the jacket was welcome, if only to keep the smell of the springs at bay. 

She laid close to the fire and watched it die as the night wore on. She was grateful the man, Adam, had thrown her the jacket even if she would never tell him such a thing. 

This was not how things were meant to go. When she’d run, she had no clear plan. Lute was meticulous; she didn’t like surprises, but she did plan for them. This? This was no surprise she could have ever been prepared for. 

She’d decided to head to Pride’s Peak a few hours into her run. It was by sheer dumb luck that she had happened upon Adam. The plan, if it could even be called such, was simple. Point a gun at the man’s head. Make him piss his britches. Steal his horse. Easy.

It was a terrible plan, of course. She blamed it on the adrenaline; she still found herself running on it even hours after she escaped from Heaven’s Gate. There was a small piece of her that hoped she hadn’t actually killed Valentino. There was a larger, more powerful piece of her filled with hatred and strife that hoped that son of a bitch was rotting in Hell. Regardless, she wasn’t gonna stick around in Heaven’s Gate to learn which one occurred. 

Her jaw ached. The punch she had received from Valentino had shaken her to the core. No wonder her first instinct had been to pick up the shovel. The blood had stopped filling her mouth a few hours into her run. The swelling remained. 

Sleep finally found her in the wee hours of the morning. The ground was hard despite the sparse grass. She could feel bugs crawl around her; there was no telling what she would find in her hair when she eventually could clean it. She had only had her eyes closed for what felt like a few minutes when she felt a sharp kick in her left boot. She opened her eyes to see Adam grinning over her, a cigar between his teeth. He cast shade over her like a giant, unwelcome tree. 

“Don’t feel too good now, does it, darlin’?” Adam asked, taking a big inhale of the cigar. He closed his eyes as if in prayer. He looked peaceful. Reverent.  The peace was short-lived as he blew smoke from his mouth directly into her face. She coughed and turned her face away from him.

“I got coffee in the percolator and dried beef if you’re hungry,” Adam said as he backed away from her with a grin and turned his attention to the fire. 

She threw his duster off her and tossed it to the side. The stink of the springs seemed even worse under the rising sun. She felt her nose twitch at the offending smell. Even the smell of Adam’s cigar smoke was a more welcome start to the morning. 

She grabbed a coffee cup and poured a serving. It had been a few months since she’d had coffee. The General Store had raised the prices on coffee grounds, as well as most things they sold. Coffee had become a luxury she could do without. 

She took a sip and found herself at home with the bitter taste on her tongue. Coffee stuck between her teeth, and she found herself chewing at the grounds. She found herself back in time, sitting at the kitchen table with her father, coffee in hand, as he taught her how to clean a gun. She smiled to herself. 

“It’s good, ain’t it?’ Adam asked, his mouth full of jerky and cigar long discarded. Lute was pulled from the memory and scowled at the older man. 

“It’ll do.” She replied. She took another sip. It was heavenly. He didn’t need to know that. 

Adam shook his head and grabbed the duster she had discarded and threw it on. Lute watched him, getting a better look at him in the daylight. He was handsome, if not a tad rugged. He had a mop of ashy brown hair that showed the faintest hints of gray scattered throughout. His mouth was covered in a thick brown beard that was (shockingly) well-maintained. Brown eyes and the faintest beginnings of crow’s feet added a welcome maturity to his otherwise boyish nature. Faint dark circles shadowed his eyes. 

He couldn’t be older than early forties, if not younger. 

“What son of a bitch are you running from?” He asked, pulling her from her thoughts. She shook her head and glanced up at him. He grabbed a purple bandana from his pack and began to tie it around his neck. 

“What?” She asked, startled. He pointed first to his jaw and then to her. She mirrored his touch and felt the tenderness of the bruise. She thought for a few moments.

“I got it from a bad man.” She finally said. Adam looked at her with an emotion she couldn’t identify

“Your husband?”

She laughed, the sound hollow. “Hell no.”

“Then who?” 

“You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Persistence is one of my better qualities.” Adam shrugged, putting his hat on his head. It was rather absurd looking with the hole that sat right in the middle. 

Lute let out a deep sigh and thought for a few moments. She felt an odd ease with the man. All her caution and planning had been thrown out the window. What did a few more confessions matter, in the end? She chewed at the stray coffee grounds she found in her mouth. “There’s this bastard in town who, uh, tries to get with young girls and ruin them. Then he offers them a position as whores or dancer at his saloon.”

Adam remained quiet and crouched down in front of her, his hat shielding his brown eyes.  

“You’ve been to Heaven’s gate?” Lute asked. 

Adam gave a rueful smile, like he was the only one in on an inside joke. He tipped his hat up and looked at her head on. “I’ve been a few times.”

“You know Miss Sera’s orphanage, right near the post office?”

“Miss Sera? She’s gotta be getting up there in age.” He replied, thinking to the last time he’d seen the old broad. She was of those people who, even in his youth, had always seemed old . A good heart and intentions but was as mean as a snake when she wanted to be. 

“You better not let her hear you say that,” Lute said, looking over at him. She looked calmer. More at peace with his presence. 

Lute continued, “One of the saloon owners likes to snoop around there, talking to some of the older kids, close to aging out. Trying to convince the girls to be dancers or whores at his saloon. Most of the boys he likes to refer to the Sheriff to join their Regulators.”

“Sheriff?” Adam asked, his voice void of emotion. 

“Yeah, Sheriff Vox.”

“ Sheriff Vox?” Adam asked, standing up from his crouched position. There was a growl when he said ‘Sheriff’, like a slur leaving his lips. 

“You know him?” Lute asked cautiously. She knew nothing about this man or his past. He could be a bounty hunter or outlaw for all she knew. On the run from law, perhaps? Sheriff Vox did not let anyone who crossed him get away. If Adam had, he was likely more dangerous than she realized. 

Yet, even in his arrogance and mischief, he had offered her a kindness. He could have raped her or left her fend for herself in the wilderness with the coyotes. Instead, he had offered nothing more than mild annoyance and his duster to keep off the chill. A strange man, to be sure. 

“I did, years ago. Keep going; tell me about the bastard who hurt you.”

“I help Miss Sera out with the kids sometimes. She was good to me when my father passed a few years back. I caught Valentino trying to—”

“Valentino?” Adam interrupted. He ran a hand over his face, his tan complexion fading into an ashy, pale pallor. “You’re telling me that Vox and Valentino are still running large in Heaven’s Gate.”

Lute squinted her eyes at him. He looked shaken. “You said you’d been to Heaven's Gate before.”

“I’ve not truly been into town in almost a decade. I didn’t realize those sons of bitches stayed.”  He said, his voice low. Dangerous. He turned back to her with wild eyes like a madman. “What exactly did Valentino do to you?”

Lute searched his eyes, fear pooling in the pit of her stomach. “H-He was trying to pressure one of the girls. He had one hand over her mouth and another in her dress. She was only fifteen.”

Adam grabbed her chin firmly and took a long look at the bruise on her jaw. “Tell me what happened.” 

Lute felt the nausea building as she was taken back to the moment. He was bigger than her and Mary, the girl. Even though Lute was sturdier than she looked and her father had been meticulous in teaching her fighting and shooting to make sure she’d stay safe, she was still no match for a grown man. “I started yelling. He threw Mary, the girl, aside. It gave her time to run away.  He laughed at me, and then he slapped me.”

Lute let out a shaky breath. She didn’t realize she was crying until Adam wiped a gloved finger over her eye. Crying was a weakness. Crying in front of a man she didn’t know felt like a death sentence. The tears kept falling, anyway.

“I hit at him back. That’s when he punched me. I fell to the dirt, and I could see him towering over me. I grabbed the closest thing I could to try and defend myself, which happened to be a shovel. I grabbed it and turned, hitting him square on the side of his head.” 

“He just fell. Stone cold. I didn’t look to see if he was dead. I just stole his gun and ran.” She let out a shaky laugh that didn’t meet her eyes. Adam released his large hands from her face.  “I got a little sloppy after that. I got the clothes from a friend of mine to get me out of town in case anyone realized. Her father’s pretty small, we thought they would fit a little better. Then I got the hell out.”

“And then you tried to steal my horse,” Adam asked, attempting to calm himself and her down. 

“And then I tried to steal your horse,” Lute repeated with a nod. She wiped at her eyes, banishing the last tear. The last sign of weakness. 

“These Regulators, do they go by the ‘Vees’?”

“How’d you know that?” 

“I’ve had, uh, ‘run-ins’ with ‘em, once or twice,” Adam answered, his tone becoming even if not slightly uncomfortable. “Can I see that gun of yours again?”

Lute grabbed the gun from her makeshift belt and wordlessly handed it to him. Adam took a long look at the gun and sure enough he found exactly what he was looking for. Three Vs had stamped into the side of the gun. He’d not seen that stamp in years. Not since the last time he’d had a revolver pointed at his face. He handed it back to her. 

He let out a deep breath. “I’ll pack up, and we’ll head out in the next hour.”

Lute nodded. Suddenly, the coffee and jerky no longer sounded appealing. 

“Need some help getting up there?”  Adam asked as they stood beside Dick, the horse standing impatiently and loaded with Adam’s pack and saddle. Adam’s mood had brightened since Lute bared her soul to him. She didn’t know what kind of history he had with the Vees, but whatever it was, there was obviously bad blood. She wanted to ask, force him to spill his guts the way she had. Later, perhaps. 

“I can climb on a goddamn horse,” Lute replied. She grabbed the horn of the saddle and lifted her foot to place it in the stirrup. Before she could lift herself, however, she felt two large hands place a firm grip on her hips. In a fluid motion, Adam picked her up like a small child and threw her onto the saddle. Dick let out an indignant whiny as Adam dropped her. She looked down at him, her face flushed. 

“I said I could do it myself.” She seethed. Adam only smirked at her and climbed up on the saddle, careful to avoid kicking her with his leg as he swung around.

 He glanced back at her with a lazy grin. “Maybe I wanted an excuse to put my hands on you.”

“Well, keep your hands to yourself.” She shot back. That seemed to encourage him more. She looked around the saddle and noticed a rifle scabbard strapped to the right. 

“I’d hold on tight if I were you, darlin’,” He said. He made a clicking noise and tapped the spur of his boot in Dick’s side. The horse let out a huff and began to trot forward. Lute felt herself jolt unsteadily at the sudden movement and found herself grasping at the closest thing for stability. Unfortunately, that happened to be Adam’s waist. Her hands barely met back together at his stomach and settled right above his large belt buckle. 

They rode for a while until Lute realized the landscape was looking oddly familiar, especially once they escaped the distracting smell of the spring. 

“I thought we were going to Pride’s Peak.” She called out, the wind whipping her hair and making it so her hat wouldn’t stay on her head, but instead hung limply behind her with the strings pulling at her neck. 

“I told you we'd make a detour.” He yelled back, glancing behind. 

“We’re headed towards Heaven’s Gate!” She yelled. Dick trotted along at a steady pace, whipping up dust behind them. “I can’t go back there!”

“You and me both, Sweetheart! We won’t be going into town. I promise.” 

She huffed. There was very little she could do to change his mind, lest he leave her in the plains to fend for herself. Maybe she could still kill him, later at least. 

They continued at a steady pace, and despite the uneven landscape, Lute found herself beginning to doze. She begrudgingly had to admit that Adam was a good rider and Dick obviously trusted and listened to him well. 

Her eyes were closed, and she rested her head against his back as the sun shone high above her, beating down on them and coating her in a gentle warmth. She could almost forget her worries. 

Almost. 

A shot rang out and whizzed past them, spooking the horse and them. 

“Shit!” Adam yelled, kicking Dick hard in the side and urging the horse to run faster. Lute turned to see a masked rider quickly gaining on them, a rifle in their hand as they aimed to take a shot once again.

Adam reached for the pistol at his waist.

Boom

Another shot rang out, this one more precise than the last. Lute didn’t think. She acted. She grabbed the rifle from the scabbard. She pulled the lever, readying the rifle. She hoped to God that Adam had loaded the gun. She turned and took her aim. 

One moment. 

She held her breath. She could hear her father’s voice in her ears, telling her aim true. Breathe with the shot of the gun. Adam was yelling something she couldn’t make out. He had turned to look behind. 

Two moments. She breathed out. 

Boom. 

The gun kicked in her hand, pushing her back with more force than she was expecting. She felt an arm wrap around her waist, the hand holding a loaded pistol. The arm kept her steady. Grounded. 

The masked gunslinger fell to the ground and lay there, unmoving. His horse kicked and bucked at the sudden loss of rider. 

Adam brought Dick to a halt, his arm still holding her steady. The horse stopped, and Adam jumped from the saddle, grabbing the rifle from Lute’s oddly steady hands. He looked up at her, the sun catching in his eyes. 

“Where the Hell did you learn to shoot like that?” He asked, his breath escaping in shallow pants. She seemed to return to reality at that moment. She gazed down at him from his horse, her pretty, golden eyes ablaze. 

“My father taught me.” She said slowly. She grabbed the revolver from her rope belt and opened the cylinder, handing him the gun. “I think I’ve paid my collateral.”

The sun seemed to form a halo around her features. He looked at her in awe as he took the gun from her and loaded the bullets back into the cylinder. “Anything you say, Sweetheart.” 

[bluecanvasshoe]

I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive

Chapter 5 of Everything Eats and is Eaten (Time is Fed)

Red Dead Redemption 2 x reader

Warnings: Animal death, blood, panic attacks, ptsd?, guns, alcohol relapse, trauma, passing out, drunk people, angst in general

Summary: You desperately keep your mind off of the gang, but bad things seem to follow you regardless. You lose a lot, but maybe you gain some, too.

Word count: 2.7k

Title from 'I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive' by Hank Williams

Previous chapter | Next chapter

A/N: Hey everyone! So sorry this took a while. My lungs decided to stop working and one of my pets died, so I've been struggling to write. Hopefully we like this one!

----

Days had passed.

Your back is killing you, and the insides of your thighs are irritated from constant riding. 

The gang still plagued your thoughts, but it became too painful to think about. Anytime they’d weasel into your brain, your mind would shut everything out again.

The weather was a gamble each day; the damp forests of West Elizabeth were rainy and cold. The trees would act as a canopy from rainfall, but thick branches would become heavy with rain and dump whatever water they'd been holding onto you and your horse. Thanks to the late spring season, mosquitoes terrorized you constantly. Irritated red bumps came and went on any exposed skin.

Past the forests of West Elizabeth were the Heartlands, a dusty, dry environment. 

Valentine was a nice break from the riding, and you managed to get a hotel room, a bath, and a hot meal for a night before having to move on. You would’ve taken odd jobs to earn a bit more money, but a strange, frantic anxiety tugged at your heart; you couldn’t waste more time than you already had.

And now, here you are. Riding through the Heartlands to Lemoyne.

Your eyes hurt, and the sun has only just reached the middle of the sky. You almost feel nauseous, something in you begging to stop. But when you do, your heart starts beating that frantic rhythm, and you can’t seem to sit still.

Your horse is likely tired, but he’s been treated kindly; frequent stops for water and a near-constant stream of treats or food kept him in higher spirits than you.

When you were forced to spend a night resting, he’d keep you company by nudging your shoulder and huffing. You’d feed him an apple or an oatcake as a treat, satisfying the horse.

The days dragged on, and your mind grew incredibly weary.

Still, as you saw dry ranch country turn to rolling meadows, it was hard to deny how beautiful the scenery was.

An old, crinkled map was held in your hands. You had to keep an eye out for landmarks, anything to help you guide yourself to Saint Denis as fast as possible. 

Birds chirped too loud, and the occasional yowl of a fox was heard. Your horse’s hooves languidly hit the ground, steadily carrying you closer to Saint Denis. 

Your gear clinked and jostled with each step, the sound practically becoming background noise.

You tried to distract your exhausted mind with songs, but couldn’t remember much past the first few lyrics of most. Your head fell forward, and you blinked yourself awake. 

Your horse grunted, huffing with a flip of his mane. Your head lifted, the aching vertebrates of your neck supporting your overly heavy noggin.

Just a bit longer, you told yourself.

—

It was getting close to dusk, and the lights of a town entered your vision. It was Rhodes; you were undoubtedly close to Saint Denis.

With a click of your tongue and a gentle nudge of your spur, your horse quickened his pace.

You neared the small town, the sound of crickets mingling with faint chatter. Streetlights lined the main road, and cute buildings framed the paths. Reaching the red, dusty paths of Rhodes, you froze.

A white building stood not far away.

You walked past that one a few years ago.

You remember looking at that building.

You distinctly remember hearing a gunshot, and a whir of red cross your vision. Something hit the ground, a bag of bones and flesh.

Your body tensed, knuckles turning white and clenching your horse’s reins. Your already frazzled mind was startled when the sound of a boot hit the ground, and it instinctively urged your hand onto where the holster of a gun would be on your belt; if you’d bought a revolver, that is. 

Your head snapped to the side, surprising an approaching man. Frantic eyes darted around.

Your chest heaved, your vision caving in as white crept in around your eyes. Your hands trembled and your heart beat horribly fast. Everything suddenly felt too close, and you had trouble focusing your eyes.

The man in front of you waved his hand. “Howdy, miss, er, I’m not quite sure how to say this, but have we met before? You seem awfully familiar.”

“Met before…?” you muttered.

Shit. He remembers you from when the gang shot up the town in 1899.

He’s getting the law. They’re probably close, with their shotguns and horses and you’ll be put up in the gallows. You’ll die here or rot in prison. 

You idiot.

It’s your fault that you’ve been caught; maybe you shouldn’t have come here. 

This is a nightmare. This isn’t happening.

“Miss?” He said. You couldn’t make out his expression; everything was a blur.

A door opened not far away; bar music stopped. Glass broke. Men shouted at each other.

At you?

You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t talk; everything mixed together. White clouded your vision, your eyes hazy. Nothing is processed through your brain. Not the desperate command you gave your horse nor the worried call of the man behind you. Dust kicked up as your horse grunted; that didn’t register, either.

You blinked, and you were suddenly riding as fast as you could. Pitch dark surrounded you.

Distant shouts were heard in the background; from what, you couldn’t make out. Only one thing was on your mind; the law was coming.

You looked over your shoulder, and your horse hit a tree. You were sent tumbling, rolling on the ground amidst soil and brush. 

After a moment, your limbs began to work again. A horrible ache resonated through you, your stomach and lungs empty as you gasped for air.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, getting to your feet and running to your horse.

You could barely walk as your legs shook violently. You stumbled to the ground, crawling the rest of the way toward the horse lying on the soil. Trembling, unsteady hands roamed his neck and eventually his head, eyes zeroing in on the blood spilling.

Your ears hardly picked up how the pained cries of the animal died out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you chanted, your voice coming out as a choked plea. 

“What do I- what do I do? I can’t…” you heaved, hands clammy.

You leaned forward, resting your head against the horse’s shoulder. Your mind raced, and you could barely think. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Nausea crept up your throat, and you had to look away. Gathering your things as fast as possible, you stood and ran.

You stumbled over tree roots and uneven terrain, branches and plants brushing at your ankles. You’d usually jump in surprise, but your heart is pumping too fast and too hard to make out any sensation other than the desperate flutter in your stomach.

Your legs gave out not five minutes later, leaving you defenseless, exhausted, and hurt on the forest floor.

You became lightheaded, unable to bring in enough air.

Your hands grasped at your throat, and it suddenly felt like your lungs were choking themselves.

You wheezed violently, but air refused to go further than your mouth despite the quick succession of your breaths.

A hand searched for something; you didn’t know what. 

Your body hit the ground.

—

When you awoke, your head felt as if it had split open. Like you had been pelted at the earth, a stone cracking your skull and crushing your bones.

You sit up with squinted eyes and quickly realize you’re in a forest; how did you get here?

Looking to the ground, you spot your bag and rifle. Thank god.

The sounds of nature surround you as if you hadn’t existed there at all; birds chirped and animals yowled, running across the forest floor. Sunlight filtered in through tall, leafy trees and hit the ground in dotted shadows. 

Stumbling to your feet, you gasp in surprise when a sharp pain shoots up the bone of your ankle, sending you down again. A memory comes back to you; white creeping around your vision and overwhelming dark, black night. You trip over a tree root but keep running anyway. There’s no pain.

You groan, your upper body hitting the ground again. 

Your horse. 

You run your dirtied hand down your face; it hardly matters, considering you likely have a week’s worth of sweat, dust, and who knows what else covering your body. It was your fault; of course it was. You did something stupid. You’re paying the price.

Getting up carefully to avoid irritating your ankle, you grab your bag and decide to find a road. It doesn’t take long to find a dirt path next to a rolling meadow with fresh horse tracks; hopefully, it was used often.

Your prayers are answered when a young man comes riding on a shoddy cart, a shire pulling the wagon. The wheels clatter as they roll, the links and parts of the horse’s tack clinking like bells or a ring of old keys.

“Sir!” you wave him down, balancing on one foot to the best of your ability.

He slows the large horse with a click of his tongue, appraising you with scrutiny. He scrunches his large nose, his mouth curving downwards. His cheeks are covered in sunburn-afflicted freckles, a tan covering the high planes of his face. A brown hat sat upon tawny hair. “You alright there?” He asks.

“Um, yeah,” you mumbled, looking back at the forest briefly. “Look, sir, my horse, uh… you see, he died a little further... in the forest, and I need to get to Saint Denis. Are you heading in that direction?” you sounded more desperate than you preferred, your voice more pleading than it was asking a polite question.

He looked at the back carrying splintered crates and labeled burlap sacks, sighing before shuffling to the side. “I’ll getcha there,” he nodded. 

You loaded the small bag and rifle you had onto the seat, stepping up and into the rickety driver’s bench. “Thank you, sir,” you smiled, though you’re sure it came off as more of a grimace.

You probably smell awful; you probably look awful, too. 

The closer you get to Saint Denis, the swampier the air is. Maybe the stench can cover you? Are you really that bad?

…Probably.

An awkward silence falls upon the two of you, occasionally jostling and bumping into each other within the tight confines of the bench. 

“So, uh… Why’re you headin’ to Saint Denis?” The man awkwardly piped up, not looking away from the beige, dusty road.

You blink for a moment, your brain processing at the speed of a snail. “I’ve got some family. A distant uncle,” You settled upon the idea of estranged relatives, hoping he’d buy it. He seemed to be convinced if the nod and an absence of suspicion was something to go off of.

“I see. Um, my pa’s got a sister who lives there. I’ve hardly met her, can’t say I’m looking for her.” He said, adjusting the hat on his head. Sunlight shined upon your backs, heating up the top of your scalp uncomfortably.

You sighed, brushing your hair back in hopes that it’d lay flat. “Why not?” 

“I ain’t ever met her.” He shrugged. “My name’s Martin.”

You nodded at his introduction, your hands settling upon your knees. You introduced yourself, clearing your throat. 

The conversation between the two young adults soon flowed into something comfortable, a nice distraction amidst a warzone of a mind.

Fields and meadows surround you and the boy, golden sunlight bringing out hidden hues of trees and flowers. It’s peaceful.

—

The smoke-filled streets of Saint Denis soon enveloped you. A faint haze of grey shrouded the city you came to hate, the smell of smoke and sewers filling your aching sinuses.

“I’ve never liked this place,” you said, shaking your head.

Martin tilted his head. “Really? I’m not against bein’ in the big city.” His voice carried an indifferent lilt as he shrugged.

“It’s not that I hate cities,” you corrected, looking at the working-class folks who wandered the streets. “I just hate the atmosphere of this city in particular.”

“Hate’s an incredibly strong word,” Martin pointed out, almost sounding cheeky. “Are you sure it ain’t a subtle dislike? You can’t hate it.”

“I do hate it.” You insisted, watching the people go about their lives.

Some swept streets, and others took a smoke break from their smoke-filled factory jobs. Haughty men on horses occasionally passed by, his lips turned in a grimace as he looked upon those he deemed less than himself; he who works four days a week and sips tea from delicate china. The muddy streets squelch and it’s a wonder how no one loses their footing. Big, proud signs and murals display the names of companies, their establishing dates set an unimpressive twenty years prior.

Martin stops, pulling to the side of a polluted street. “I ought to drop all this off. I’ll leave you here.”

Gathering your things hastily, you step down from the wagon and look back up at him with what you hoped was a grateful look. “Thank you, Martin. I uh, I really do appreciate your help.” 

“Don’t thank me, miss, it was nothin’. Good luck findin’ your uncle.” He replies humbly, clicking his tongue with a small flick of the reins. The large shire horse begins walking again, its steady gait carrying them away and down the corner of a street.

You look around where you were dropped off, vaguely remembering how to navigate the muddy labyrinth. The lonely grey of the sky presses upon the looming structures of connected buildings, the sad atmosphere of workers weighing on you almost immediately. With a sigh from your nose, you turn and set off to find the nearest bar.

Just this once, you tell yourself. Just one time, you’ll be fine.

—

You have hardly any money in your bag anymore.

The bartender scoffs, his lips curled in disgust as he ushers you from the warmly lit bar. You stumble onto the streets, swirling vision and muddled mind altering your surroundings. Sunlight invades your eyes.

You lean against a wall, ignoring the awful ache of your ankle as you try to collect your thoughts.

God dammit. Charles is waiting!

Your heart rapidly increases its beating, and you push yourself from your support.

You stumble down cracked and uneven sidewalks, vaguely remembering the area in which the fighting ring was reported.

Your confused, hazy mind gets you there, and totally not because you stopped multiple strangers on the road and asked for directions.

You find a white-bricked building, a path curving around it. Tripping through, you’re met with a rotting, wooden apartment and staircase, the ground packed with dirt and framed by flimsy fencing.

A muffled shouting comes from further down, and you get yourself there after ignoring the shouts of strangers around you.

Shouting? 

The law?

Nah. Probably not.

“Charles!” You call, your voice slurred.

A crowd fills your vision, men erupting into a cacophony of cheers for a person beyond your sight. Another, however, takes your attention.

Your befuddled mind couldn’t believe what it was seeing.

Charles was speaking to a man. He was a little ways away from the onlookers, their backs turned. 

“You’re a killer, Charles. Remember that.” a man with a moustache said, a hand on your old friend’s shoulder. Upon hearing footsteps, the stranger giving the pep talk narrowed his eyes that landed on you. “I’ll… be off now…?” He said, turning away and walking towards the loud group.

Charles sighs before noticing you. 

“Charles!” you cheered.

His eyes widened, and he said your name with an air of disbelief; said shock quickly morphing into exasperation and his own kind of worry when you threw yourself at him.

“Charles! I’ve been- Charles, I’ve been looking for you, Charles,” you smiled lopsidedly, looking up at the long-haired man. He furrowed his brows, unsure of what to do. 

Carefully pushing you off of him, he sighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, surely recognizing you. “Are you drunk?”

“No, no, I’m not,” you slur, shaking your head with a goofy expression.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, grabbing one of your shoulders and guiding you away from the crowd. He stopped at some crates, putting on a blue shirt and a leather vest. Another man wearing a brimmed hat approached him. They exchanged words your brain couldn’t quite process before Charles turned back to you.

He led you outside the alleyway, stopping when you crouched down unexpectedly.

“What? Are you alright?” He asked, bending at the waist.

You don’t remember anything after that.

---

Taglist:

@gallantys, @justsomereaderwholikesanime, @shackspossum, @photo1030

[quixoticall]

To Hell I Go

MASTERLIST

Suggested Listening: Anything Zach Bryan but particularly, "Something in the Orange", “Open the Gate”, and "I Remember Everything"

Chapter Warnings: Gun violence, injury, some light death ideation, Billy is here, death of an animal

WC: 2.8K

Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while! Please know I'm working on TCGU! But I've been really inspired by Zach Bryan recently and this concept of the Final Girl of the West which is how this idea was born. I hope you like it!

_______________

“Sheriff Hopper’s after us. Has his new Pretty Boy deputy with him too.” 

The sun is high and bright and bothersome but you’ve been on a job for the last month, which paints everything bothersome,  even Max’s warning. 

“Didn’t know Hopper was working with anyone,” you muse, as you dismount your horse, Calliope, and hand the young girl the reigns. Your muscles are stiff and achy from riding so long and you smell like a manure pit. You desperately want a proper bed—or a shallow grave—to fall into. 

“He’s new. Hops probably needs the help on account of his leg being fucked up since you shot him,” Max responds, admiration tinging her voice. 

You scoff, “I didn’t fuck up his leg, he’s just old and fat.” 

You had barely even grazed him. 

“Pretty Boy, huh?  I’m sure your brother is seething about that.” 

Max glares at you through her lashes, “he’s not my brother,” she warns. 

You know this, of course, you’re just in a bad mood and looking for a bruise to poke. You should probably apologize but Max’ll get her lick back soon enough—it’ll be easy with you, too. You’re all bruise. 

“Billy hates him, already ran into him and the Chief in Amarillo. Came home all black and blue from their scuffle, ended up running him off the trail and he fell off his horse.” 

You whistle lowly, knocking Billy Hargrove off his horse is no easy feat. He must’ve been angry after that.

“He said that they had a list of all the gang’s members. Not our names or nothing, just descriptions, I guess. Apparently, Hopper has you on the list as ‘crack shot girl’. ”

You drink this information up, eyes scanning the horizon, half expecting Billy or Hopper or even Creel to spring out any moment.  Nothing but the wind through the grass, though. 

“What does he have you as?” You probe. 

Max nearly pouts in response, “Red.” 

You’re trying not to laugh, and instead grapple to change the subject. 

“What about the ‘Pretty Boy’ deputy? Does he have a name?” 

You don’t care too much, you want to keep the conversation going, it’s the only real one you’ve had in weeks. 

“Heard it was Harrington or something like that,” Max shrugs, quickly losing interest in favor of brushing Calliope’s mane. 

It has to be “something like that”, you decide, because you knew for a fact there wasn’t a single Harrington west of the Appalachians. There hadn’t been in years. 

_______________

Steve Harrington was the first in his family to leave Wyoming in thirteen generations. It wasn’t by choice. 

Steve’s daddy had been a cattle rancher. He hadn’t owned any land like yours had but he was the best bull rider in all the West. That was, until his fatal fall off the saddle when Steve was barely old enough to ride himself. 

The heartbreak of her true love’s death had made a ghost of Steve’s mama, effectively making him an orphan. 

He was thirteen when he had come to your Daddy’s ranch, threadbare hat clutched tightly in his fists nervously as he asked for work. 

You were twelve then and watched the whole exchange from the top of the stairs with your sisters, the three of you drinking him in with an odd curiosity. He had been all limbs back then, thin and awkward but as tall as a man. His face was uncreased and fearful, giving away his true age. You listened, unseen as the young boy stuttered through an explanation of his pitiful circumstances. 

He wasn’t looking for charity, he made a point to specify, but work. He could ride and wrangle and he knew how to work the land, too, he explained, chest puffing with pride. He would earn his keep, he propositioned. 

The ranch was always in need of hands, and your father was always benevolent to necessary causes and in circumstances that made him seem like a better man than he was, so it was a done deal before night’s end. 

_______________

“Son of a bitch,” you exhale through gritted teeth, desperately trying to reload your goddamn shotgun. 

It was supposed to be an easy enough job—a little stagecoach stick up right outside of Tombstone. You had been scoping the target for days, a miner and his family making their way back East after striking it big in the mines. They were obnoxiously flagrant about their wealth—just like all New Money—and it was obvious that they were traveling with their coffers full of that fine California Gold. The plan was that you, Billy, and Tommy would ambush their stagecoach sometime around twilight before they reached Tombstone proper but then Max had decided to tag along and, while she was your favorite member of the gang by miles, she had no place at an armed robbery.  

The whole operation was slowed down to accommodate the tagalong and suddenly it had become too dark and late to hit them before they arrived in Tombstone, so you had to adjust and hedge your bets on ambushing them when they left the small town the following morning. Someone must have recognized the crew that night and tipped off the sheriff, though, because next thing you know, the four of you are about to run the stagecoach off the trail when you hear gunshots and Hopper’s gruff demands for your surrender.

There goes that easy $800, you sigh to yourself, steadying your aim over your shoulder. You’re a lousy shot at this angle especially while riding a horse, but you’re not hoping for a miracle, only to distract long enough to give Max a chance to get away. She’s the slowest of the four and you refuse to leave her behind. (Even if all of this is kind of her fault.) 

On the opposite side of the road from behind the stagecoach, you see a sharp movement— the deputy, you’re sure. From the corner of your eye you catch fragments of familiar hair, eyes, lips and suddenly your finger slips on the trigger, a stray bullet flies behind you, spooking a horse and causing some commotion. You hope it’s Hopper’s but you can’t bring yourself to check. You can’t bring yourself to do anything. At all. Because there, on the other side of the road, all tan skin and freckled-faced is Steve Harrington, alive and older and looking at you with an expression of shock matching your own. 

“Sunshine?” He shouts over the gallop of hooves and in hearing his voice you’ve lost all doubt that this was some sort of joke you managed to play on yourself. 

It’s him. Truly. 

What you say back is lost to the wind as a lone shot rings out and suddenly you’ve lost your balance on your horse and you’re sent tumbling down, fingers fighting for purchase along your reigns. 

Steve’s stunned face and the smoke from his gun are the final things you see before hitting the ground. 

Son of a bitch.

_______________

You and Steve became fast friends, being close in disposition and most importantly, age. 

While you loved your younger sisters they were just that: younger. At six and eight respectively, Hattie and Lottie were far too preoccupied with dress up and tea parties, hobbies that you had also adored at their age, but at the mature age of twelve, no longer stimulated you. In Steve you found a confidant and an accomplice. 

You snuck him extra portions at supper and spent your spare moments following him around reading aloud from one of your many books. He had a penchant for war epics and horror while you liked romance and mystery. Both of you could agree, though that Westerns were the best. 

In exchange for your generosity, Steve taught you how to ride and shoot and lasso.

He was the best teacher truly and would often outdo men of twice his age and size when it came to rearing and riding. He learned everything from his daddy, he had told you.  Steve talked about his father a lot. About what he was like and everything he was exceptional at and how the crowd had gone stone silent when his broken body hit the dusty ground. 

“That’s how I’m going to die too, one day,” he had told you, grim but not sad. “On a bull in Cheyenne. Probably the same one, he’s the only one that could take me out.” 

“How do you know how you’re gonna die?” You awed at him.

“Just a feeling in my gut. Sometimes you just know,” he shrugged sagely. 

You nodded along and tried, desperately so, to will your gut to give you a precognition about the circumstances of your own death.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna die,” you admitted to Steve after a long moment of self-assessment, “but I know you’re gonna be there.“

You had no clue what possessed you to say that other than the fact that you knew it to be categorically true. 

Steve smiled in response, pleased. 

_______________

You wake up under a sky of pinprick stars. Dreams of childhood vows and muddy fields filled with promise fade as you take in your surroundings.

There’s a fire burning next to you and a sharp pain running along your entire body, burning to match. Max suddenly appears by your side, looking equal measures relieved and frazzled. 

“What happened?” You ask weakly. 

“Pretty Boy shot Calliope and you fell into the ravine. Had to fish you out of there and find a place to lay you down.” 

“What about Billy and Tommy?” 

“They left us.” 

Of course. 

“Bastards.” 

“Bastards,” Max agrees. 

“And what about the sheriff… and the deputy?” 

“Sheriff fell off his horse when you shot him and his deputy went after Billy. Didn’t see where though, but I’m sure he didn’t catch him.” 

“Probably not,” you croak before accepting the canteen Max brought to your lips.  Billy was a menace on a horse, agile and quick in ways most men could only dream and he already had too much of a head start. 

You try to stand up now, too fast evidently, since Max rushes to your side to help you along when you waver.  Eventually, you’re on your feet, stumbling forward with only Max keeping you upright, your whole body screaming at you to stop. 

“Come on then, Red, let’s go back home.” 

Your whole body aches so much your vision blurs and there’s a pain along your ribcage that may hint at a broken bone. The ride back to the Creel House on the back of Max’s scrawny horse is utter agony but at least Max has gifted you a mercifully silent journey by not trying to make conversation.

“You know him,” Max murmurs. It’s nearly morning when she finds enough courage to bring it up.

“Pretty Boy called you ‘sunshine’,” she continues, “I heard him.” 

You freeze. 

“You must’ve heard wrong then. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

You leave it at that.

_______________

By the time you were sixteen, you felt like you knew Steve better than you knew yourself. You could read him like a book—every crook of an eyebrow, every sideways glance, and their meaning were neatly categorized in your mind. Part of that was the familiarity bred by endless idle hours together and part of that was the burgeoning ache that had been festering inside of you in the past months; the soft, comforting ember of friendly affection had given way to something hotter, something you couldn’t bring yourself to define yet but singed your skin at the sight of him and made you want to chart his every mood like sailors charted the stars. 

This was exactly why you could tell he was upset even though he denied it. Something about the way he clenched his jaw while he aimed his gun at the row of cans sitting on a broke down fence a little too hard indicated that he had something weighing on his mind. 

“You’re meant to hit the targets, you know,” you goaded after he had missed all of five shots. 

His jaw clenched harder. 

“You can’t be cross just because I’m the better shot than you,” you needled further. 

“I’m not cross,” he argued back, crossly. 

“Yes, you are! You’ve been sullen and cross three weeks now even though you say otherwise and it’s driving me mad so, why don’t you stop being stubborn and tell me what it is that’s making you act like this and we can fix it and be back to normal. I don’t want to spend my last week here watching you pout all over the ranch.”

He sighed a drawn-out, guttural thing, and then suddenly, it hit you. 

“Wait, are you mad I’m leaving?” Your tone wasn’t accusatory as much as it was curious. Truthfully, when your parents had share the news that they were sending you to a finishing school, you had been devastated at the prospect but you tried your best to keep your true feelings from view. Your father had made it known that he had gone to great lengths to secure your spot and your momma got misty eyed when she spoke about how many doors this opportunity would open for you.

“No, I’m not mad you’re leaving,” he argued back and flinched at how unconvincing he sounded. You knew deep in your bones that you'd miss Steve the most when you were gone. No matter how fair you'd go or how'd long you'd be apart, you're sure you'd miss Steve.

“Steve, you know I’d rather be here, shooting cans than anywhere else, even that fancy school,” you cajole. It's a simple, earnest statement but as far as you could trust yourself saying without confessing your devotion.

“You say that now,” he petulantly threw himself down on a tree root and you moved to sit next to him, “but as soon as you make friends and meet new people, I’ll be dust.” 

You laughed at the uncharacteristic display of self-pity. “You really think I’d find someone I would love more than you?” 

The idea of it was so ludicrous you didn’t even realize the carelessness by which you threw out such hefty claims of affection. Of course, you loved Steve and he you, and while you were never scared to voice that to each other before, now the word meant something different—at least to you it did. 

Your eyes shift down to your boots, hoping he didn’t pick up on the change in your heart. 

“Not more, just different.” 

“Different how?” 

“You're going to find someone,” it was his turn to get flustered and glanced at the ground, “... someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.” 

“Well, I want that to be you,” you responded, not thinking and far too quickly. 

“No, I mean, someone you want to marry,” he spits out, exasperation being quickly replaced with embarrassment as his words sank into place.

You stalled at the implication your heartbeat becoming almost deafening. Steve was afraid you were going to go out and find someone else to marry and leave him behind. Was it possible that he was equally consumed by that same burning affection that had been sieging your heart for months?

Out of the two of you, you had always been the braver one. The one that always jumped in first, the one to take a risk on a whim. And, while it terrified you and made your voice small and wavering, you couldn’t help but say right back, “I want that to be with you, too.” 

Steve beamed in response. 

_______________

Tommy and Billy had beaten you and Max back to the Creel house. At least the bastards had the decency to look a little ashamed as they watched Max support your limping form through the threshold. Mostly, though they looked surprised. 

“Thought the deputy had gotten you,” Billy whistles lowly through the toothpick that is perpetually resting in the corner of his mouth. 

“He killed my horse,” you bemoan. “ Max had to fish me out of the ravine on her own, no thanks to you two.” 

The blond man shrugs in response, “We couldn’t go back. Thems the rules, you know that.” 

You do know that but you are miserable and tired and just looking for someone to blame for the life you had fallen into so you glare back. 

Billy is unfazed by your glare and in a rare moment of kindness, offers to acquire a horse for you during his next round through the nearby ranches.  This uncharacteristic show of pity makes you realize you probably look as bad as you feel and for a brief moment wish that Max hadn’t pulled you out of that ravine. 

You manage to stumble onto your cot, body raked with pain and you lay there, unmoved until night comes and it’s not until the dark has truly settled and you are sure that no one could possibly see, that you begin to cry.

Silent tears stream down your face for your companion, your horse, the last thing you called your own. One more thing stolen away--and this time, by a ghost no less. A gift from your daddy when you had turned seventeen, her name plucked from one of your books on Greek mythology she had been your companion when you had felt most alone.

Calliope was the final reminder of a life long gone and now she’s just another thing you’re left mourning.

Next

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: The battle begins, and the past is revealed.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Warning: Graphic depictions of violence, blood and gore. Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 6 - As When The Summer Days Were Nigh

“I’d known death since I was a child. It’s everywhere. In every form you can imagine. And a few your worst nightmare couldn’t muster. As if death was not the result of accidents and disease, death was its own disease. But it had never touched me. It had never placed its rotten finger on my heart. Yes, freedom has fangs. And it sunk them in me. ” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883 

Lorena's hooves pounded against the slope, carrying Kate down into the valley where a few wagons had come to a halt, isolated from the main caravan. Raiders swarmed around them, gunfire echoing in the night as chaos unfolded. With the sun sinking below the horizon, Kate strained to discern the attackers' numbers in the darkness. 

Six horsemen emerged from the west, joined by several more riding over the slope from the north. Kate's mind raced as she tried to make sense of the situation. What are raiders doing this far south in the plains? She asked herself, trying to plan a course of action.

They used the cover of night to their advantage, weaving between trees and shrubs, it was difficult to get a clear shot of them. But she witnessed Charles and Arthur spring into action. Their guns blazed as they lit up the night with each round sending orange sparks into the darkness. As Lorena closed the distance, Kate spotted two wagons left behind: one belonging to John and Abigail, and the other a supply wagon driven by Lenny and Sean. She knew the raiders would target the supplies and likely attempt to steal their horses too.

This left the fighting to Arthur, Charles, and Javier. Who turned back at the sound of the commotion. Lenny and Sean leapt into the wagon for cover as they began shooting blind into the night, the horses crying out in fear. Kate couldn't see Abigail, and she prayed she was well hidden in the wagon with Jack. She made headway to his wagon first. 

She pulled her rifle from her saddle and called out to John, who was firing round after round from his revolver, doing no good against the fast riding raiders. 

“John!” she shouted, catching his attention, he looked down from his seat in the wagon. 

“Kate?” He said, taken back by the sight of her, “you need to find cover!” Concern laced his voice. 

She ignored his statement, holding the rifle up for him, “take this, it's a better shot. Aim for the shrubs, they're using them as cover.” She urged. 

John nodded and took the weapon without hesitation, quickly counting the rounds in the ammunition, “thanks, what will you use?” He asked, already getting in position to take aim. 

“Don’t worry about me,” she answered, determination in her voice, “protect your family.” 

Lorena brought her around to the back of the wagon and she peered inside, sure enough Abigail was clutching Jack to her breast, white knuckled and face scrunched in silent fear. As if she was hoping this was just a bad dream they would wake from. Jack, trying to be brave, trembled in his mother's arms. Without hesitation, Kate leaped into the wagon, placing a comforting hand on Abigail's shoulder. She startled at her touch, “easy Abigail, it's just me, you need to take this.” She held out her own revolver. Abigail opened her eyes and shook her head with a sob. Kate's heart throbbed at the sight of her. 

"I’m not letting go of him!" she cried, her voice quivering with emotion. "When is this going to end?" Her plea carried the weight of past traumas, threatening to overwhelm her.

Knowing they had no time to waste, Kate pressed the revolver into Abigail's trembling hand. She needed a means to defend herself if the worst was going to happen. Jack whimpered at the sounds of gunfire coming from John at the seat of the wagon. She gave him a reassuring look, “be brave for your momma okay? If anybody comes, you shout for me and I’ll come runnin’,” she added with a smile, placing a hand on his little head. He nodded in understanding. 

Lorena waited at the back of the wagon as Kate mounted her and took off towards the fray. She needed to come up with a plan, and fast. She gave her firearms to the Marston family. Which left her with only close range weapons. She reached into her saddle bag and pulled out a tomahawk. It had been a long time since she’s used an old weapon of war. 

With determination she nudged her mare in the belly and took off. The familiar leather grip of her tomahawk left her with a sense of bitter nostalgia. Memories of an old friend came flooding back, and old instincts she had long buried bubbled to the surface. 

In the distance, she spotted Arthur, locked in combat with a raider. His skill and ferocity were undeniable as he dispatched two foes with swift precision. Kate watched, her heart heavy with unspoken truths.

Arthur is wrestling with a giant, Charles' words sounded in her mind. She had faced her own giants, and kept them at bay like a hunter taming a wild beast. She never got the chance to tell him. She would release her giant tonight, and if they survived, she vowed to share her secrets with Arthur, laying bare the depths of her soul.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Under the cloak of night, time seemed to stretch endlessly, though mere minutes had passed. The raiders fell one by one, a testament to their careful strategy. It dawned on the others that shooting wildly was futile; they needed to close the gap.

For Kate, the chaos played to her strengths. While she lacked skill with a gun, in close combat, she was unparalleled. The sickening crunch of bone echoed as her tomahawk met the skull of a raider, sending him crashing to the ground. The scene before her, once familiar yet now unsettling, reminded her of the darkness she had left behind. Yet, there was no joy in the violence; only relief that she no longer found pleasure in such brutality.

With only a few foes left standing, Arthur's gaze found hers, his worry palpable. She reassured him with a nod, urging him to focus on the task at hand.

Scanning the chaotic scene, Kate spotted a lone raider sneaking up on John's wagon, his focus fixed on protecting his brother. With a swift movement, she sprang into action.

She hollered to get the man's attention, as well as Johns. It didn't matter who took him down, as long as he was stopped. Closing the distance, she gripped her weapon high, readying for the strike. The raider turned just as Kate swung, narrowly missing his head as a shot rang out. She was unsure if it was John’s or the bandits until pain shot through her side. The man barely squeezed by her horse and the wagon, and took off in the opposite direction. Ignoring the pain, Kate followed. 

Arthur joined the chase, and together they pursued the raider. Lorena surged forward, fueled by the thrill of the chase. Leaning down to her horse's ear, Kate whispered, "Feels like old times, huh, girl?" Lorena snorted in agreement. Despite her clingy and skittish nature. She was bred to be a war horse, and in her blood she fought just as savagely as her rider. 

She closed in and brought her mare tauntingly close to the last man. With a swift motion she collided the blade with the man's ankle, nearly cutting his own foot off, causing him to fall out of the saddle. He did not reach for his weapon, as he used his last round in an attempt to kill her, instead he lay on his back and put his hands out in mercy. 

Kate dismounted and trudged over to him. 

“I-I’m unarmed!” He pleaded, “please miss you wouldn’t kill an unarmed man!” 

She tossed the tomahawk to the ground and the man eased for a moment, until she pulled her hunting knife out of her belt. His eyes widened and he tried to stand, but his ankle was only holding on by a bit of flesh. 

Arthur finally caught up to them and dismounted, “don’t kill him yet Kate, we need to find out who they are. They could be O’Driscolls.” Kate ignored him, the pain in her side igniting into a blazing fire. The metallic tang of her own blood filled her senses, but she pushed past it with a fierce glare.

“Don’t look like an O'Driscoll to me,” she rasped. Fighting the urge to drive her knife into his belly. Echoes of an old mantra rang in her ears, “our job is to ensure our enemies fear is greater than their greed.”  

“I-I aint an O’Driscoll, we’re just a couple of horse thieves. That’s all,” the man pleaded, using his forearms to distance himself from her. 

The world felt dizzy, her memories of her past began mixing with the present. “That’s all?” She mocked, “you would take these people’s lives,” her voice hoarse, “just for a few horses?” Before he could answer she forcefully kicked him in the belly, hard enough to break a few ribs. The man rolled onto his stomach and spit up blood. 

In a flash, Kate mounted the man from behind, gripping a fistfull of his hair and forcefully pulling back towards her chest. She placed the knife at the edge of his throat, Arthur saw the fire in her eyes as she ended the man's life, sickeningly slow. 

As she drew the blade over his neck she muttered the words low in his ear, “what you take from the land will be taken from you. Know that I am the land, and the land is killing you.” 

As the raider choked on his own blood, Kate dropped his head in the dirt. The wound was not deep enough to kill him quickly. He would asphyxiate for the next several hours, a combination of bleeding out and choking to death. He would teeter on the brink of consciousness, not knowing if he is alive or dead. It was a slow sentence, a merciless one. It was pure torture.  

Arthur stood in stunned silence, his gaze fixed on Kate. He had witnessed his fair share of violence, and dealt with his own. But the intensity in her eyes was unfamiliar, unsettling. She seemed transformed, a wildness emanating from her like a primal force. 

“I didn’t know you could fight like that,” he said awkwardly, unsure if it was the right thing to say at the moment. He had seen a different side of her. And he had a feeling it was one that she was clearly trying to keep buried. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, and he was left grappling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Kate retrieved her tomahawk and mounted her horse, her movements strained with pain. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Morgan," she replied tersely, her usual sharpness replaced by a somber tone. "We need to keep moving," she added, urging her horse forward. She felt sick to her stomach, the pain mixed with rage and shame and fear. A whirlwind of emotions, it had been years since she killed somebody. She vowed to give that life up. And now, she was riding off with a bunch of outlaws. Leaving behind a bloody battlefield. Arthur watched her ride off, a knot of worry forming in his stomach.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

They rode past Dewberry Creek and down to Clemens Point. A hidden spot on the peninsula of the lake, only a few miles from Rhodes. It was a decent hiding spot. As the last of the caravan pulled in, the members who made it ahead of the chaos came rushing out to greet them. 

As Kate was the last to reach Clemens Point, the weight of the recent events hung heavy on her shoulders. She gazed out at the lake, its surface reflecting the dim light of the moonlit sky. A secluded spot on the beach offered a brief respite from the chaos that had engulfed them, and Kate welcomed the solitude.

Dismounting her horse, she felt the exhaustion settle into her bones like a heavy blanket. Her hands, streaked with dirt and blood, trembled slightly as she reached for the saddle buckles. With a heavy sigh, she removed the burden from Lorena's back, the weight of it suddenly feeling unbearable. As Lorena trotted off to the water's edge, letting out a contented sigh as the coolness soothed her weary joints, Kate couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps she had pushed her loyal mare a bit too hard today.

Grabbing a brush from her saddlebag, Kate set to work cleaning Lorena's coat, the rhythmic motion a comforting distraction from the chaos that had unfolded. In the distance, she could hear the other members of the gang recounting the night's events, their voices a mix of concern, exhaustion, and celebration.

As a pair of hooves approached, Kate knew without looking that it was Arthur. Dismounting, he joined her by the water's edge, letting Belle cool herself alongside Lorena. "Mind if I join ya?" he asked quietly, uncertainty lacing his voice. Kate nodded in response, and Arthur settled onto the sand beside her, kicking off his boots to let the water lap at his feet.

The air was thick with humidity, and the sounds of frogs and cicadas filling the night. It felt strange to be going back east, but somehow it didn’t bother her that her journey had been interrupted.

After a moment of silence, Kate broached the subject that had been weighing on her mind. "You wanna tell me what happened in Valentine?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Arthur sighed heavily, his gaze distant as he recounted the events of the day. "It started with the train job. The law showed up fast, too fast, and we barely made it out of there," he explained. "Cornwall's men nearly killed John the next morning. We made it out, but not without killing half the town.”

Kate shook her head in disbelief, her heart heavy with the weight of Arthur's words. Before she could respond, Arthur spoke again, his voice filled with remorse. "I'm so sorry, Kate. I never wanted to drag you into all this mess. Especially after what Micah did," he added with a bitter scoff. "I don’t know why you turned back." 

"I didn't do it just for you," Kate replied after a moment, her gaze meeting Arthur's with unwavering determination. "I did it for Abigail and her boy. From one mother to another." Arthur looked at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He caught the new information, but his heart fluttered at the idea that she turned back for him as well. 

“I’ve never seen a woman fight like that, it was,” he trailed and Kate was the one to interrupt this time. 

“I know, you don't have to say it. I’m not exactly proud of it,” she looked down in shame. 

Arthur offered a warm smile, “I was gonna say it was real brave.” 

She smiled sadly and shook her head, “still don’t make it right.”

“It was either us or them Kate, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Arthur reassured her. “You know, I’d understand if you still want to leave. But we could surely use some of that bravery around here.” 

Kate nodded and took a deep breath, steeling herself to share something important. “I’ll stay Arthur,” she began, “but, there’s some things I think you should know about me.” 

“We all come from different places, your past is your past,” he said sincerely, “If you don’t wanna share that I don’t want you to think ya have to.” Her heart warmed at the gesture, he was being considerate. After everything he saw he would still grant her the privacy of her past, but that wasn't her plan. 

“No, I want to tell you,” Kate paused, collecting her thoughts, “I think you’ll understand me better. And after what happened at the Downes ranch, I owe it to you.”

Arthur’s curiosity peaked, the conversation from a fortnight weighed heavy on his mind. And he wanted to know how her story tied into that. His mind already raced with assumptions, after seeing the way she fought he couldn't help but wonder if she was on the run from the law too. Or something worse. 

“Alright,” he settled back against the sand, giving her his full attention.  “I’m here to listen, Kate.” 

With a heavy sigh, she decided to start from the beginning. “I’ve known death since I was a child. It began with a railway accident in Boston that took my mother and little sister from me, leaving behind my father and older brother. At the time, my father owned a ranch where we raised dairy cattle. He didn’t take their deaths well, and fell into a depression. My brother and I couldn't keep up with the work alone, so we were forced to sell and move. Thankfully, a family friend took us in on their farm. It was there I met my husband, and for a while, we were sweet on one another.”

Kate recalled the memories, her heart flooding with grief, “we lived there a few years. And when my brother was old enough he joined a mining company, and it was another accident that took his life too. It sent my father over the deep end, and so he hung himself in the barn. Like he suddenly forgot he still had a living child.”

Arthur's face softened, understanding the weight of her losses. To him, it sounded like Kate had a proper family—one that truly loved and cared for each other. 

“I got married the next year, and finally things felt like they were turning for the better. My husband and I built a little ranch together. In a few years, we welcomed a baby girl into our home.” Her voice choked with emotion. “My life felt as perfect as it could get. I miss my family dearly, but I felt like I was carrying on their memory by starting my own.”

Arthur didn't want to think about where her story was going; it was painfully familiar to him. Kate shifted in the sand, wincing as a sharp pain shot up her side. She had forgotten about the bullet in her flesh. The area had gone numb, and the mixed feelings of grief and searing pain caused tears to stream down her cheeks.

“Lorena didn’t even make it through her first summer before disease took her from me, and as if death couldn't have enough, it took my husband from me too.” Her voice shook with pain. 

Arthur sighed, his heart full of sympathy as he observed Kate's emotional turmoil. "Oh, Kate," he said softly, reaching out to comfort her. However, his concern heightened as he noticed the sand around her stained red. "Kate, you're bleeding!" His voice rose with worry.

She nodded, wincing as she reached around her side. "I got shot," she answered, her voice trembling.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" Arthur was already getting up to inspect the wound. "Let me see."

Kate untucked her shirt and lifted it up for Arthur to examine. The bullet had entered just above her hip bone, lodged in the fatty area of her waist. "How bad is it?" she asked, her voice still shaky.

With gentle fingers, Arthur prodded at the wound. It was angry and swollen, and she winced at his touch. He concluded that the bullet was still inside, "the bullet’s still in there, but I think I can get it out. I don't think it hit anything important," he noted, assessing the severity of her injury.

Kate nodded and lifted her shirt further, revealing deep faded scars scattered across her back in the moonlight. “Jesus, Kate,” Arthur muttered softly in surprise. He paused before touching her again, afraid that she might break beneath him like an old clay pot. "What happened?" His voice was as soft as a whisper, fearful of what her answer might reveal.

Closing her eyes, Kate winced once again as Arthur’s hands returned to her wound. “I’ll tell ya once you get this thing out of me,” she replied.

Arthur nodded and, with a gentle hand, held the front of her waist while using his other hand to extract the bullet like it was a cyst, squeezing it out agonizingly slow. Instinctively, she grabbed onto his hand around her waist for support, finding solace in his warmth.

“There, got it,” Arthur said, a hint of pride in his voice as he handed Kate the small pebble that had caused her so much discomfort. “Think of it like a souvenir,” he joked.

“I’ve got plenty of souvenirs,” she mused, tossing the bullet into the lake. Arthur understood she was referring to the scars.

“Come back to my tent,” Arthur suggested, “I’ll stitch you up while you continue to catch me up on the last 10 years of your life.” His tone was playful, an attempt to lighten her mood. Arthur could already tell that her life had been incredibly hard, and seeing the marks on her back only confirmed his fears. Kate nodded, and Arthur helped her walk back to his tent.

To her surprise, the camp was put together rather quickly. Most of the members had settled down around the fire or had gone to bed. Arthur’s things were off to the side of the small clearing, offering him some privacy. His wagon had not been completely unloaded, but there was a cot, as well as a milk crate and an oil lamp. It was no hospital but it would have to do. He gently helped her sit down on his cot while he rummaged through his belongings for the right supplies to stitch her wound. Kate took the opportunity to continue her story. 

“Funny thing about this land,” she started, “our constitution says all men are created equal. But I’m a woman, a widow. They tell us our land is free, but what freedom do I have? I cannot own land, can’t take out a loan, can’t purchase anything in my own name. Choices come with freedom, but I had no choices at all.”

Arthur gave her a sympathetic look, he wasn't always proud of his sex. Most of the men in his life were not good role models, and he himself couldn't understand why some men treated women the way that they did. 

“I had an aunt in Southern California, I never met her but my father had talked about her growing up. So I wrote to her, in a handful of pages I explained everything. And begged her to let me live with her,” she inhaled sharply as Arthur cleaned her wound with alcohol. 

“I was a sorry sight,” she remarked, “I was so terrified to be on my own, and travel across the entire country just to avoid being sent to a nunnery or sold to another man as his bride. I had enough money to get me to Virginia, and after that I had to find my own way.”

In the dim light Arthur sat crouched on the ground beneath her while Kate sat in his cot. She looked down at him, working diligently and so tenderly to clean her wound as painless as possible. His gaze was fixed and intent while he worked, but Kate knew he was taking in every word she said. 

“So I joined a caravan that was heading west to Arizona. I figured they could at least get me close enough. Only problem was they were all German, and had very little knowledge of how to travel across the American west," Kate said with a bitter chuckle, “there were a few ranchers that came with us, and we tried to teach them what we could. Most of them couldn't even ride a horse!” She exclaimed. 

Arthur blew out a breath, “oh they were doomed from the start.” 

“It started with 72 of us, and we began to lose people as soon as we hit the Appalachian trail. Their carelessness became contagious; sickness and snakes, bad horses and poison berries. But of all the perils awaiting us, there was one word so feared it was barely spoken and barely whispered… the river.” 

Arthurs blood went cold. He couldn’t imagine the fear and terror as innocent families were ripped apart by dark waters. Punished simply for seeking a better life. The land was more merciless than any outlaw he knew. He noticed Kate relax under his touch, he worked gently as he ran the pad of his thumb over the flesh of her scars. Small bumps and lines, like tiny mountains in a cartography map. Like these scars mapped her history. Where she stood tall and brave in the face of danger. He admired her, being young and alone in this world was terrifying. He knew that feeling well. 

“The Kanawha river nearly took all of us that day. We came out the other side with barely 15 people,” Kate shook her head at the memory, “I thought we had seen the worst. But it was only the beginning, Arthur.” 

He looked up at the sound of his name, her voice trembling with fear. Their eyes locked and he saw a broken girl looking back at him. They shared a silent moment of understanding. He had heard stories from Appalachia, it was something a child could not muster even in their worst nightmares. Reaching for her arm, he squeezed her gently, “Kate,” he said softly, like he was crooning a baby, “you don’t have to tell me if the memories hurt.” 

Warmth spread over her cheeks as silent tears fell, her heart was in her throat. It had been so long since she talked to someone about it. For the first time in years she felt like Arthur was the only person truly seeing her. 

“We had crossed into Lakota hunting territory,” she continued, “there was a feud over the land between the tribe and the Virginia government. But it didn’t matter for us, the Indians came anyway. They killed all the men, leaving only myself and two other girls. I couldn’t do anything but watch it happen. I was no use with a gun and I had no idea where to go. So they took me.” 

“And I knew I was going to die.”