#West Spring Gun

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

└➤ series masterlist 。✑ ───┐

Colorado Springs was a myriad of things. The mountain backdrop and seemingly endless blue skies were beautiful. The wide openness of it all was daunting. The town itself: a single dirt street of businesses, a church, log houses, a military camp - was dirty in a way Robert Floyd wasn't used to. Grime and hard work.

He thanked his wagon driver with a smile and nod, then he pulled his trunk from the back.

There were people milling about the main street. Going to the general store. The butcher. And every one of them looked at him at least once. Was it that obvious that he was a newcomer? Robert tried to ignore their quick glances and words exchanged behind palms as he pulled a telegram from his breast pocket. Opened it with his free hand.

Seresin Boarding House. Right.

Hoisting his trunk into both arms, he began his search. He passed the bakery, the cobbler, the blacksmith, the saloon - then finally, at the end of the street, was the boarding house. It looked like any large lumber-built home he would see in New York. Two stories. Double door entrance. A large front porch with rocking chairs. Blue shudders. He wondered if it was once the Seresin family home.

The front door opened, and there was a woman inside. Her hair, bright red like fire, hung over her shoulders in messy waves. The end of her apron was tucked into her blue skirt. There was something smeared across her cheek. Maybe flour? Her face looked kind, quiet, if not a little sad. She looked like a ray of sunlight.

She placed a cast-iron doorstop out on the porch to let the cool spring air inside, then looked up at him, surprised to see him standing in the middle of the street staring at her. Robert quickly looked away.

"May I help you?" she called to him, hands on her hips.

"Um, y-yes - yes!" he replied, adjusting his grip on his trunk and crossing to the steps of the porch. "A-Are you Hattie Seresin?"

"I am. And you are, stranger?"

"Dr. Robert Floyd, ma'am." He wanted to take off his hat, show her some respect, but he didn't want to let go of his trunk.

Hattie's eyebrows lifted as she stepped away from the open door. "The doctor! From New York! Of course. Come inside, please, and we'll get you settled."

"M-Much appreciated," he replied as he went up the steps and went inside the boarding house.

As he passed her, he noticed the ring on her finger. Gold and thin. Ah. Of course, she was married. Not surprising in a small town like this with a beauty like that. But Robert couldn't help the way his heart sunk only slightly in his chest.

"Please, set down your trunk. I'll have Freddy bring it up to your room. Freddy!" She called as they entered the lobby, where a desk and a few chairs awaited them, then a boy no older than thirteen rushed into the room. He was blond and lanky, and his shirt was slightly untucked. "Take this man's luggage up to room three."

Freddy gave her a mocking salute but did as she said. Hattie rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she rounded the desk and opened a book.

"If you could sign our guest book, please," she said as she handed him a pen.

"Of course," he answered then did as she asked.

"How was your journey?"

"Long. But not much to complain about. I'm simply tired."

"I'm sure that you are." She handed him a brass key. "Your room is up the stairs to the right. I'll let you get settled in - lunch is in a few hours."

"Thank you, Ms. Seresin."

"You're welcome, Dr. Floyd."

[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.

[zaddizu]

𝓜Y OWN 𝓢𝓤MMER

(shove it)

xᴀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴢᴇᴘʜʏʀᴜs sᴏʟᴀᴄᴇ . 29 . ᴏᴜᴛʟᴀᴡ

Derived from the Latin word noua domus, meaning the new house, Xavier carries with it a sense of renewal and progress. Its roots can be found in ancient Rome, where the idea of a new dwelling was often associated with the promise of a bright future.

The name Zephyr means "west wind". It's a Greek name, originating from Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind. Zephyrus was also known as the god of spring and a gentle, refreshing breeze. The name Zephyr, now often used as a gender-neutral given name, evokes a sense of calmness, lightness, and freedom

solace; comfort or consolatiron in a

time of distress or sadness.

.

.

.

WANTED : DEAD OR ALIVE

male . brunette . green eyed

typically seen wandering town dressed in chains and a button up, just raised enough to show off his belt.

a scar stretches across his neck.

has been sitting on an $1000 bounty since the incident in black water. now that the gang has moved east, towards rhodes, he has a clean slate. kind of. as long as as no unlucky person recognises him. joined — more so taken in — the van der linde gang at the ripe age of thirteen after his mother was wrongfully killed. was raised around dutch, didn’t know much else about life before hand.

SIGHTINGS ,

ACCORDING TO THE LOCALS.

spotted near the valentine town stables; gets around on a mare, its main falling down in a wavy brown curl, covering its light brown fur, which stays dotted with white. he carries a journal and what seems to be a gun with handmade engravings carved down the side of the silver metal.

he has been heard calling the mount fawn, claimed by the general store owner, perhaps because of its resemblance to the likes of a baby deer.

on multiple occasions, xavier has been seen with a man now identified as as javier escuella. the long haired, mexican man is often seen associated with other supposed members of this gang and is suspected to be involved in this case.

❛❛ him and a few others, ❞

stated a bypasser,

❛❛ i’ve seen them, down by the saloon.

lenny, i heard one say, ❞

AND NOW,

A LOVE STORY.

xavier has had his fair share of love interests, ranging from pathetic to serious, men to women. if you looked back into his journal, you could find the god forbidden pages of his 16 year old self ranting about them. humiliating, really. it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・༶

despite being in a big, scary gang, he found himself a girl at seventeen. lily was her name. safe, sweet, sometimes a bitch but in the best way. of course, that ship sunk as soon as her father laid eyes on the gentleman, battle scars and all. it was to be expected, she was a well off girl with a future, xavier was… well, a broke outlaw who’s been in a gang all his life.

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ . ғᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ

┆ i still think of her sometimes, but i don’t regret a thing.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・༶

and now? javier. javier escuella, the man xavier’s been eyeing for years, yet pushed to the back of his cluttered mind. perhaps it was the accent. maybe the way spanish rolled off his tongue like honey, the way he harshly whispered his name and tugged his arm whenever he did something stupid during a mission. or maybe he was just hot. either way, that’s his current love interest right now. of course, i didn’t list all of them, just a few, as im not going to bombard you guys. plus it’s humiliating to think i was kicking my feet like a loser for these people. (cough cough sean)

ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs . sᴇᴄʀᴇᴛʟʏ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ . sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

┆ i fell first, he fell harder. (like face planted.)

could you tell i had fun making this? anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this!!!! (*ˊᗜˋ*)

[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.

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[driedposies]

If you climb into a saddle, be ready for a ride

Summary: You were never one for taking in strays, but when you discover a wounded man hiding in your barn... well, you've never rejected another helping hand.

Warnings: gun violence & the gore that comes with it, smut implications (18+), wild west period, robbery, sexual harassment, minor character death, small dose of angst (sorry, i had to)

Word Count: 12.1k

Song inspirations: "Short Change Hero" by The Heavy & "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac

Notes: I went to my very first rodeo, and I've been ✨ inspired ✨

Part I, Within the Whale's Underbelly

The land of Kansas, as you first knew it, was a tapestry woven with the gold of prairie grass and the deep umber of earth, stitched together by the ceaseless wind that howled like a lonesome coyote at dusk.

The sky stretched wide and unbroken, a bowl of blue so vast it threatened to swallow the world whole, and beneath it, the sun baked the land until it cracked and yawned, thirsty for rain that seldom came. This was the world into which you were born, a world both cruel and wondrous, where every sunrise brought with it the promise of hardship and the hope of survival.

Your earliest memories are painted in the hues of hardship. Your father, a man of sinew and grit, taught you the language of horses and the art of silence. He was not a man of many words, but his hands spoke volumes; callused and steady, they could gentle a wild stallion or mend a broken fence with equal care.

Yet even the strongest oak may fall to the axe of fate, and so it was that your father’s life was snuffed out over a neighbour’s claim to a stallion as black as midnight, his blood soaking into the Kansas soil as if to nourish the land with his sacrifice.

After his death, your mother and you became shadows slipping through the tall grass, your hearts heavy with grief, and your eyes wary of every stranger. You left behind the only home you had ever known, your footsteps muffled by sorrow as you both made your way to Hays, a fledgling town born of ambition and desperation, its streets little more than muddy veins pulsing with the lifeblood of pioneers and outcasts.

Hays was a place where hope and despair clashed together in the dust. The town rose from the prairie like a mirage, its wooden buildings standing stubborn against the wind, their facades painted in the faded colours of dreams long since surrendered.

Saloons and brothels flourished like wildflowers after a spring rain, their doors swinging open to welcome miners, drifters, and men with the haunted eyes of those who had seen too much. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, whiskey, and gunpowder; a perfume as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

Your mother, ever resourceful, set her sights on the business of horse propagation. She was a woman of iron will and gentle touch, able to coax life from the most reluctant of mares. But the world was not kind to women alone, and so you were pressed into service as soon as you could reach the counter and pour a shot of whiskey without spilling a drop. The saloon became your second home, its smoky haze and raucous laughter a constant backdrop to your days and nights.

The men who frequented the saloon were as varied as the stars scattered across the Kansas sky. Some came seeking solace at the bottom of a glass, their faces etched with the lines of a thousand disappointments.

Others came to gamble away their meagre earnings, their eyes glinting with desperation and hope. There were men with hands stained black from the coal mines, men with silver-tipped canes and gold teeth, and men whose names were whispered only in the shadows, for fear of drawing their attention.

Marriage was a distant dream, a luxury for those with time and means to court. Suitors came and went—a coal miner with a heart as heavy as the stones he hauled, a saloon owner with a tongue as slick as an oil lamp, a wanted man whose smile was as sharp as the blade he kept hidden in his boot. But for nineteen years, your mother and you managed to keep food on the table and a roof over your heads, and in the Wild West, that was more than most could claim.

The arrival of the railroad changed everything. The iron serpent slithered its way through your young town, bringing with it a flood of new faces and fortunes. Goods arrived in wooden crates, stacked high and left unguarded, tempting even the most honest of men to consider a life of crime. The sound of the train’s whistle became a lullaby and a warning—a reminder that the world was changing, and not always for the better.

With prosperity came peril. Lawlessness flourished in the shadows, and the streets of Hays became a stage for violence and vice. It was not uncommon to hear the crack of gunfire echoing through the night, or to see bodies dragged from dry wells, their stories ended by greed or vengeance. You learned to keep your head down, to mind your own business, and to wave away trouble with a practised smile.

But fate, ever capricious, had other plans for you. In the year 1871, your world shifted once more. Your mother, worn thin by years of toil and heartache, passed away in her favourite chair, her hand still clutching the cup that had held her final comfort. The loss was a wound that would never fully heal, a hollow ache that echoed through the empty rooms of your home.

Left to fend for yourself, you traded three horses that year, unable to care for more than a handful of wild and unruly beasts. The money went to repairing the fence, a futile gesture, perhaps, but one that gave you purpose in the face of grief. The small spit of land, once alive with the sound of hooves and laughter, became a place of quiet solitude.

And then, as if guided by some unseen hand, Harriet entrusted her newborn daughter to your care. Harriet, who had once been your closest friend, revealed herself to be as insubstantial as a desert oasis. She sought escape with another man, leaving behind her child as if she were nothing more than an unwanted burden.

Em became your new salvation. She was a creature of light in a world grown dim, her golden curls and honey-brown eyes a daily reminder that beauty could still exist amidst the ruins. She clung to you with the fierce devotion of a child who has known too much loss, and you loved her as fiercely in return. She was more yours than Harriet’s, a gift you had never expected but could not imagine living without.

The years passed in a blur of hard work and quiet joys. Em grew strong and clever, her laughter ringing out across the fields like the song of a meadowlark. You taught her the ways of horses and the secrets of survival, preparing her for a world that would not be kind to a girl alone. You knew that one day, suitors would come knocking, drawn by her beauty and spirit, and you could already imagine shooing them off with a rifle to boot.

But happiness in the Wild was always fleeting, balanced on the edge of a knife. Trouble found you in the form of Luis Curry—a man whose name was spoken with equal parts fear and contempt. Luis was a creature of shadow and smoke, his eyes cold and calculating, his smile a mask for the rot beneath. He prided himself on his reputation as the best train robber in Kansas, a title earned through blood and betrayal.

Luis took an interest in you, circling like a vulture drawn to the scent of death. He saw in you a challenge, a woman who would not be easily broken or bought. His words were honeyed poison, his touch a threat disguised as a caress. You learned to watch for him in the corners of the saloon, his presence a dark cloud that threatened to blot out the sun.

Yet even as danger loomed, you refused to yield. The West had forged you in fire and sorrow, and you would not be cowed by the likes of Luis Curry. You kept your rifle close and your wits closer, determined to protect Em and the life you had built together.

The days stretched on, each one a battle against the forces that sought to drag you under. The wind whispered secrets through the cracks in the walls, and the stars watched over us with cold indifference. But in the quiet moments, when Em curled up beside you and the world seemed to pause, you found a measure of peace.

You forced yourself to remember your father’s lessons; the strength of silence, the power of patience. You remembered your mother’s resilience, her ability to carve out a life from the unforgiving land. And you remembered that even in the West, where life was cheap and death came swift, there was still room for love, for hope, and for the promise of a better tomorrow.

Part II, Eternity in an Hour

Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying light, swirling with each gust that barged through the batwing doors. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, old wood, and the lingering tang of spilled whiskey—a perfume as familiar to you as the lines on your own palm.

By late afternoon, the place began to fill with the regulars. Farmers with hands like gnarled roots, faces browned and cracked by sun and wind. Coal-streaked miners, boots caked with the black blood of the earth. 

Ranch hands, drovers, and drifters, each man bearing the day’s labour in his slouch and the dust on his hat. They’d shuffle in, boots thumping hollow against the plank floor, voices rumbling like distant thunder as they called for beer and company.

You worked the bar, sleeves rolled, arms moving in a rhythm as old as the land itself—pour, wipe, pour again. The kegs were warm, the beer flat, but nobody much minded; thirst in these parts was a beast that cared little for quality. Every so often, you’d glance down the bar to where Em sat perched on her stool, legs swinging, nose buried in the battered copy of Peter Parley’s Tales About America and Australia. She’d read it so many times the spine was near broken, but she never fussed, just turned the pages with a quiet patience that made your heart ache and swell all at once.

You caught yourself smiling, soft and secret, as you watched her. She was the one good thing you’d managed to keep safe in all this wild, ragged world.

A voice cut through your reverie, rough as gravel and twice as unwelcome. “What a pretty smile you’ve got, lamb.”

You looked up, cloth pausing mid-swipe. There he was, Luis Curry, leaning over the bar with that crooked grin, the scar on his lip twisting like a snake in the grass. His cattleman hat was tipped back, shadowing eyes that missed nothing, with a breath that smelled of tobacco and trouble.

You dropped your gaze, set your jaw, and scrubbed at a stubborn ring on the counter. “Can I get you somethin’, Curry?” You asked, keeping your tone flat as a dry creek bed.

Luis leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, the edge of his voice curling around your ear. “Oh, I reckon I’d like a whole heap of things from you, darlin’. But two fingers’ll do for now.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Just fetched a glass, poured him two fingers of whiskey—no more, no less—and slid it across the bar. He wrapped his hand around it, knuckles white and scarred, and watched you with that wolfish look, waiting for something you weren’t about to give.

After a long moment, he chuckled low and took his drink, sauntering off to a table in the corner. Your silence was answer enough, for now.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding, glancing back at Em. She was still lost in her book, oblivious to the interaction. You prayed she’d stay that way, at least a little while longer.

Old William, the saloon owner, sidled up behind you, moving quietly as smoke. “Want me to run that snake off for good?” he rumbled, voice deep as a well. “Got a rifle out back. Ain’t too old to put the fear of God in him.”

You smiled, small and grateful. William was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, with a stare that could freeze a rattler mid-strike. Folks said he’d once stared down a whole gang of Jayhawkers without so much as blinking. Even now, pushing fifty-odd years, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“No need, Will,” you replied, shaking your head. “I ain’t a woman to be trifled with, and he knows it.”

William grunted, lips twitching in approval. “That’s the truth, missy. Still, you holler if he tries anything. I’ll have his hide nailed to the barn door, see if I don’t.”

You laughed, the sound brittle but real. “Appreciate it, but Luis Curry don’t take kindly to threats. Best let sleeping dogs lie, for now.”

William nodded, but his eyes lingered on Curry, hard and watchful.

The saloon buzzed with the easy chaos of evening. Glasses clinked, dice rattled, and the piano man in the corner coaxed a tune from the battered keys, his fingers nimble and sure. Laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional curse or shout. Outside, the wind carried the lowing of cattle and the distant whistle of the evening train.

A pair of ranch hands bellied up to the bar, hats in hand, faces red from sun and drink. “Evenin’, miss,” one drawled, voice thick with prairie dust. “Reckon we could trouble you for a coupla beers?”

“Comin’ right up, boys,” you replied, filling their mugs and sliding them across. “Y’all keepin’ outta mischief?”

The taller one grinned, showing a gap where a tooth used to be. “Ain’t no mischief left in this town since you started pourin’, ma’am. You scare it all off with that mean look.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “If only that were true, I’d be outta work by now.”

Em giggled from her stool, peeking over the top of her book. “Mama’s got the sharpest eyes in Kansas,” she piped up, pride shining in her voice.

“That she does, little miss,” the ranch hand agreed, tipping his hat to her. “You listen to your mama, now. She’ll keep you outta trouble.”

Em nodded solemnly, returning to her book.

The evening wore on, the saloon filling with the music of voices and the clatter of boots. You moved through it all like a ghost, hands steady, eyes alert. Every so often, you’d catch Luis watching you from his corner, his gaze heavy as a storm cloud. You ignored him, pouring drinks and swapping jokes with the regulars, but you could feel his attention like a brand on your skin.

At one point, a miner with coal-black hands stumbled up to the bar, slurring his words. “Miss, you got anythin’ stronger than this piss-water beer?”

You poured him a shot of rotgut whiskey, sliding it over. “This’ll put hair on your chest, Hank. Or burn it clean off, dependin’ on your constitution.”

He laughed, a rough bark. “You’re a peach, darlin’. If I were ten years younger, and a sight less ugly, I’d ask you to marry me.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “If you was ten years younger, I’d still say no.”

The bar erupted in laughter, the sound rolling through the room like thunder. Even William cracked a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

As the sky outside deepened to indigo, the mood in the saloon shifted. The laughter grew louder, the tempers shorter. A card game in the corner turned sour, voices rising.

“You callin’ me a cheat, you son of a—?”

“Easy, boys,” William warned, stepping from behind the bar with the slow, deliberate menace of a man who’d seen his share of trouble. “Ain’t no need for gunplay tonight. Take it outside, or leave it at the table.”

The men grumbled but settled, cowed by William’s presence.

Luis Curry, meanwhile, nursed his whiskey, eyes never leaving you. Finally, he rose and sauntered back to the bar, boots thudding slow and purposeful. He leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Y’know, girl, you got a way about you. Tough as old leather, pretty as a prairie rose. I like that.”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “You like a lotta things, Curry. Don’t mean you’re gonna get ‘em.”

He laughed, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Maybe not. But I ain’t one to give up easy.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t mistake stubborn for smart.” You shrugged, pouring him another shot.

He downed the whiskey in one gulp, setting the glass down with a thunk. “You ever get tired of this place, you come find me. I could show you a world outside these dusty walls.”

You shook your head, lips curling in a half-smile. “The world’s plenty big right here, far as I’m concerned.”

He studied you for a moment, then tipped his hat. “Suit yourself, darlin’. But the wind’s always blowin’ somewhere new.”

With that, he turned and strode out, the doors flapping behind him. You watched him go, tension draining from your shoulders.

“You all right?” William sidled up again, voice low.

You nodded, glancing at Em. “Long as she’s safe, I’m just fine.”

He squeezed your shoulder, rough hand warm and reassuring. “You’re tougher than an old boot, girl. Don’t let nobody tell you different.”

You smiled, feeling the weight of the day finally settle in your bones. The saloon buzzed around you, alive with the wild, untamable spirit of the West. Outside, the stars began to prick the sky, cold and bright.

Em looked up from her book, eyes shining. “Mama, will you read to me tonight?”

You brushed a curl from her cheek. “Course I will, sugar. Soon after I give feed to the horses.”

She grinned, swinging her legs. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

The prairie night was a velvet shroud, stitched with the silver thread of a waxing moon. The last echoes of the saloon’s laughter faded behind you as you and Em made your way home, boots crunching over the hard-packed earth. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of wild sage and the distant promise of rain, a rare blessing in these parts. 

Your small property sat at the edge of town, a modest clapboard house with a lean-to porch and a barn crouched behind it like a faithful old dog.

Em skipped ahead, her book clutched to her chest, curls bouncing in the moonlight. You watched her with a weary tenderness, letting her joy be your lantern through the gathering dark.

“Hurry on inside, Em,” you called, voice low but firm. “It’s late, and the coyotes’ll be yowlin’ soon enough.”

“Yes, mama!” She chirped, darting up the steps and through the door, the lamplight inside painting her silhouette gold for a heartbeat before she vanished. You listened for the click of the latch, the familiar rattle as she checked it twice, just like you’d taught her.

Turning away, you let your gaze drift to the barn. The horses would be restless, their bellies rumbling for the evening feed. You crossed the yard, boots silent in the grass, the night alive with the chorus of crickets and the far-off hoot of an owl.

The barn loomed ahead, its weathered boards silvered by distant firelight. You slipped inside, the familiar scent of hay, horse, and leather wrapping around you like an old shawl. The horses nickered softly, ears pricking as you moved down the row, murmuring their names; a litany of comfort for both them and yourself.

You reached for the pitchfork, muscles moving on memory, and began to toss hay into the stalls. The rhythmic scrape and toss, the soft thud of hay hitting the ground, the gentle snorts and shuffling hooves, it was a ritual as old as your grief, as steady as the rising sun.

But tonight, something was off. A prickle ran up your spine, the hairs at the nape of your neck standing alert. You paused, pitchfork in hand, and listened. At first, there was nothing but the usual barn sounds, the shifting of hooves, the creak of old wood. Then, beneath it all, a ragged breath, sharp and wet, like a saw biting through green wood.

You set the pitchfork aside, moving slow and careful toward the haystack at the far end of the barn. Your hand found the handle of the old revolver you kept tucked in your apron pocket, a habit born of necessity, not fear. You stepped around the pile, heart thumping, and there he was.

A man, half-buried in the hay, his clothes smeared with dust and blood. He looked up as you approached, eyes wild and bright in the moonlight. His hand went to his throat, where a makeshift bandage, torn from a once-white shirt, was stained dark and glistening. The wound was ugly, puckered and raw, the kind of hurt that spelled trouble.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made him gasp, his face twisting in pain. “Don’t shoot,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. “Ain’t lookin’ for trouble, ma’am.”

You kept the revolver steady, jaw clenched. “You picked the wrong barn to bleed in, mister. Who are you?”

He coughed, wincing. “Name’s Cassian. Got myself in a mess, is all. Just needed a place to lay low for a spell.”

You studied him, weighing his words. He was maybe not much older than yourself, but the lines around his eyes spoke of hard roads and harder choices. His boots were worn, his coat patched and threadbare. The gunshot wound at his neck was ugly, but not fresh—he’d been running, and running hard.

“Who shot you?” you asked, voice flat as the prairie.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the door. “Didn’t catch his name. Fella on the road, wanted what little I had. Guess he weren’t a good shot.”

You snorted, not bothering to hide your skepticism. “Folks don’t usually get shot in the neck by strangers for nothin’. You runnin’ from the law, Cassian?”

He shook his head, wincing again. “Ain’t no outlaw, ma’am. Just unlucky.”

You considered your options. You could send him packing, let the coyotes and the cold finish what the bullet started. Or you could let him stay, patch him up, and risk bringing trouble to your door. A risk you couldn’t afford, not with Em sleeping just yards away.

Cassian must’ve seen the calculation in your eyes, because he spoke again, voice raw and pleading. “Please, ma’am. I ain’t got nowhere else to go. Just need a night, maybe two. I’ll be gone by sunrise, swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like a saddle on a green-broke colt. The West was no place for mercy, but you remembered the cold bite of loneliness, the way the world could turn its back on you and never look back.

You lowered the revolver, just a fraction. “If you so much as breathe wrong, I’ll put a finishing bullet in you myself. Understand?”

He nodded, relief washing over his face. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You knelt beside him, inspecting the wound. The bandage was filthy, the edges of the cut angry and red. You’d seen enough injuries, on horses, on men, to know infection when you saw it.

“This’ll hurt,” you warned, pulling a rag from your apron and dousing it with whiskey from your flask.

He gritted his teeth as you pressed the cloth to his neck, the whiskey hissing on raw flesh. “Hellfire, woman, you tryin’ to kill me?”

You snorted, but not unkindly. “If I was, you’d know it. Hold still.”

He obeyed, jaw clenched, as you cleaned the wound and wrapped it with a fresh strip torn from your petticoat. When you finished, he sagged back against the hay, breath coming easier.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse.

You stood, brushing straw from your skirt. “Don’t thank me yet. You bring trouble to my door, you’ll wish you’d bled out on the road.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He managed with a weak smile.

You turned to go, pausing at the door. “I’ll bring you some water. Don’t move.”

He nodded, eyes already drifting shut.

You stepped out into the night, the weight of your choice settling heavy on your shoulders. The prairie was silent, the stars cold and indifferent. You crossed the yard, glancing back at the barn, half-expecting to see a posse riding up, guns drawn. But there was nothing, just the wind and the endless sky.

Inside the house, Em was curled up on her cot, book clutched to her chest, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Mama?” she murmured, half-awake.

“I’m here, sugar,” you whispered, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Go on and lay back down. I’ll be right back.”

You fetched a tin cup and filled it with water from the pump, your mind racing. Who was Cassian, really? A drifter, a thief, a man running from something worse than the law? Or just another soul chewed up and spat out by the West?

You carried the water back to the barn, the revolver remaining tucked in your apron, just in case. Cassian was still where you’d left him, eyes closed, breath shallow but steady. You set the cup beside him, watching as he roused and drank, the water dribbling down his chin.

“Thank you,” he said again, voice stronger.

“Don’t thank me,” you repeated, softer this time. “Just rest. You can stay the night. But come morning, we’ll see what’s what.”

He nodded, settling back into the hay.

You lingered a moment, watching him. There was something about him, something familiar, maybe, or just the echo of your own hard luck reflected in his eyes. You turned away, closing the barn door behind you, and made your way back to the house.

Inside, the lamp flickered low, casting long shadows on the walls. Em was asleep, her breaths slow and even, unable to fight the sleep in favour of your reading. You sat beside her, smoothing the blanket over her small form, and let your thoughts wander.

The West was a wild, hungry thing, always looking to take more than it gave. You’d learned that lesson young, and you’d taught it to Em with every story, every warning, every night spent listening for trouble in the dark. But mercy was a rare and precious thing, and tonight, you’d chosen to offer it.

You sat in the quiet, listening to the night, the horses shifting in the barn, the wind sighing through the grass, the distant yip of a coyote. You wondered what tomorrow would bring, what new dangers or blessings might find their way to your door.

But for now, you had done what you could. You had chosen kindness, even when it cost you sleep and peace of mind.

The dawn crept over the Kansas prairie, slow and golden, brushing the world with a gentle hand. The sky was a pale wash of lavender and rose, the kind of morning that made even the hardest days seem possible. You woke to the familiar sounds of the house settling, the soft sigh of the wind through the cracks, and the distant nickering of horses eager for their feed.

Em was still asleep, tangled in her quilt, her hair a golden halo on the pillow. You paused a moment, watching her breathe, the peace on her face a balm to your tired soul. Then you slipped from the bed, pulling on your boots and shrugging into your work-worn dress. The day waited for no one, least of all a woman with mouths to feed and fences to mend.

You moved through the kitchen, lighting the stove and setting water to boil, the motions as familiar as breathing. The memory of last night lingered, a wounded stranger in your barn, the sharp tang of fear and the heavier weight of mercy. You wondered if he’d be gone, as promised, or if you’d find trouble waiting in the morning light.

You stepped out onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath your feet, and scanned the yard. The barn stood quiet, its weathered boards glowing in the sunrise. You could hear the horses, restless and hungry, and, fainter still, the sound of a man’s voice, low and soothing.

Curiosity prickled at your spine. You crossed the yard, boots crunching in the dew-wet grass, and pushed open the barn door.

Inside, the horses were already nosing at their feed troughs, the air thick with the sweet scent of hay and the warm musk of animals. And there, moving slowly but steadily, was Cassian. There was an evident pallor to his tanned skin, the bandage at his neck stark against his throat, but his hands were sure as he filled the troughs, murmuring to each horse in turn. At full height, he was the largest man you had ever seen.

You watched him a moment, arms folded, suspicion and gratitude warring in your chest.

He looked up, catching your gaze, and offered a crooked smile. “Mornin’, ma’am. Hope you don’t mind—I figured I’d get a jump on the chores. Least I can do, considerin’.”

You studied him, noting the stiffness in his movements, the way he favoured his left side. “You oughta be restin’, not workin’. That wound’s liable to open up again.”

He shrugged, scooping another forkful of hay. “Ain’t the first time I’ve been shot, and likely won’t be the last. I’m no good at sittin’ idle, ‘specially when there’s a debt to be paid.”

You snorted, unable to hide your amusement. “Debt, huh? You sound like a man with somethin’ to prove.”

He grinned, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don’t like owing folks, ‘specially not folks with kind hearts and quick hands.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Suit yourself. But if you keel over in my barn, I’ll have to haul you out to the well, and I ain’t got the back for it.”

Cassian laughed, a sound roughened by pain but genuine all the same. “Reckon I’ll try to spare you the trouble.”

You moved to the nearest stall, checking the water bucket and running your hand down the mare’s flank. The horses were calmer than usual, their eyes bright and curious as they watched Cassian work. Animals had a way of knowing a person’s true nature, and you trusted their judgment more than most men’s.

Cassian worked in silence for a while, his movements careful but competent. He handled the horses with a gentle touch, speaking to them in a voice low and steady. You found yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders easing as the barn filled with the quiet rhythm of morning chores.

When the last trough was filled and the stalls swept clean, Cassian leaned against the back stall, wiping sweat from his brow. “You got a fine herd here, ma’am. Strong stock. You raise ‘em yourself?”

You nodded, pride warming your chest. “My mama started the herd. I kept it goin’ after she passed. Ain’t much, but it’s honest work.”

He nodded, respect in his eyes. “Honest work’s hard to come by these days. Folks’ll do near anything for a dollar.”

You studied him, curiosity getting the better of you. “What about you, Cassian? What kind of work do you do?”

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the dirt floor. “Whatever needs doin’, I suppose. Been a hand on ranches, driven cattle, even tried my luck at the mines. Trouble seems to find me, no matter where I go.”

You considered that, weighing his words. The West was full of men running from something; past mistakes, lost loves, the law. You’d learned not to ask too many questions, not if you wanted to keep your own secrets safe.

A sudden commotion outside caught your attention, the sharp, panicked whinny of a horse, the crash of wood splintering. You exchanged a glance with Cassian, both of you moving toward the barn door in unspoken agreement.

The fence at the far end of the pasture had given way, a section sagging where the posts had rotted through. One of the younger colts had slipped through the gap, now prancing in the tall grass, tail high and eyes wild.

“Damn fool animal,” you muttered, grabbing a coil of rope from the wall. “That fence’s been threatenin’ to go for weeks.”

Cassian stepped up beside you, rolling his shoulders. “Let me help. Two sets of hands’ll get it done quicker.”

You hesitated, eyeing the bandage at his neck. “You sure you’re up for it?”

He flashed that crooked grin again. “I ain’t dead yet. Besides, I owe you.”

You relented, tossing him a pair of work gloves. “All right, but if you drop, I ain’t carryin’ you.”

He chuckled, slipping the gloves on. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

Together, you crossed the pasture, the grass whispering around your boots. The colt danced away as you approached, tossing his head and snorting.

“Easy, boy,” Cassian called, his voice calm and steady. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you.”

You circled wide, rope in hand, moving slowly and deliberately. The colt eyed you warily, muscles bunched to bolt. You crouched, holding out your hand, murmuring soft nonsense the way your father once had.

Cassian moved to the flank of the colt, hands out, his presence quiet and unthreatening. The colt flicked an ear, torn between flight and curiosity.

“Now,” Cassian said, nodding to you.

You tossed the loop, catching the colt’s neck in one smooth motion. He reared, fighting the rope, but you held firm, muscles straining.

“Easy now,” Cassian called, moving in to steady the colt. Together, you soothed the animal, your voices blending in a low, steady hum.

After a tense moment, the colt settled, sides heaving. You led him back through the gap in the fence, Cassian following close behind.

“Good work,” you said, breathless.

Cassian grinned, sweat shining on his brow. “Teamwork, ma’am. Always works better.”

You tied the colt in the shade, turning your attention to the broken fence. The posts were rotten, the rails splintered and sagging.

“Gonna need new posts,” you muttered, eyeing the damage.

Cassian nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll dig the holes, you cut the rails?”

You hesitated, but his determination was plain. “All right. But take it slow. That wound of yours ain’t healed.”

Cassian winked. “Yes, ma’am.”

You fetched the axe and saw, setting to work on the nearest fallen tree. The rhythm of chopping and sawing filled the air, the scent of fresh-cut wood mingling with the prairie breeze. Cassian dug the holes, muscles straining, sweat darkening his shirt. You worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the rasp of the saw, the thud of the post-hole digger, and the distant calls of meadowlarks.

When the new posts were set and the rails nailed in place, you stood back, surveying your handiwork. The fence was sturdy, and the gap was closed.

“Not bad,” you said, wiping your brow.

Cassian leaned on the fence, breathing hard but smiling. “Oughta hold, at least ‘til the next storm.”

You nodded, pride and relief mingling in your chest. “Thank you, Cassian. You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, shaking his head. “I did. A debt’s a debt. Besides, I ain’t had honest work in a long time. Feels good.”

You studied him, seeing the truth in his eyes. The West had a way of grinding a man down, but it could also build him back up, if he let it.

The sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning chill. You led the colt back to the barn, Cassian trailing behind, his steps slow but steady.

Inside, Em was awake, watching from the porch with wide, curious eyes.

“Mama, who’s that?” she called, voice bright.

You smiled, waving her over. “Come say hello, Em. This is Cassian. He’s helpin’ out today.”

Em approached, shy but curious, her gaze flicking from you to Cassian and back. “Did you get hurt?” she asked, pointing to the bandage at his neck.

Cassian crouched to Em’s height, offering a gentle smile. “I did, little miss. But your mama patched me up right as rain.”

Em beamed, clearly pleased. “Mama’s good at fixin’ things. She fixed my doll, too.”

Cassian laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I can see that.”

You ruffled Em’s hair. “Go on inside, sugar. I’ll be in soon.”

Em nodded, skipping back to the house, book clutched to her chest.

You turned to Cassian, gratitude softening your features. “You hungry? I got some beans on the stove, maybe a bit of bacon if you’re lucky.”

Cassian grinned, rubbing his stomach. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am. Been a while since I had a real meal.”

You led the way inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around you like a blanket. You ladled beans into bowls, slicing bacon and setting out bread. Cassian ate with the hunger of a man who hadn’t seen a meal in days, pausing only to thank you between bites.

Em watched him with wide eyes, clearly fascinated. “Where you from, mister?”

Cassian swallowed, considering. “All over, I suppose. Texas, mostly. But I like it here. Feels…honest.”

Em nodded, satisfied. “Mama says Kansas is the best place in the world.”

You smiled, ruffling her hair. “That’s ‘cause it’s home, sugar.”

Cassian finished his meal, pushing the bowl away with a sigh of contentment. “Thank you, ma’am. That was the best breakfast I’ve had in years.”

You shrugged, trying to hide your pleasure. “Just beans and bacon. Nothin’ special.”

He shook his head, eyes serious. “It is to me.”

The day stretched ahead, full of chores and small comforts. Cassian insisted on helping, mending tack and hauling water, his movements growing easier as the hours passed. You found yourself grateful for the company, the easy camaraderie that grew between you.

As the sun dipped low, painting the world in gold and shadow, you sat on the porch with Em and Cassian, watching the prairie come alive with the songs of crickets and the distant call of a whippoorwill.

The night settled around you, soft and peaceful. Quiet enough to make you realise your new predicament.

"You said you ain't got nowhere else to go," you start, staring down at Em's soft expression. You're only reminded how strung thin you are. "You seem to know horses pretty well. And... well, I hardly got the time to always be lookin' after them, let alone tame them into something rideable."

Cassian was watching you now, waiting for you to lay down your offer.

"Til' that wound of yours has healed over, I'll let you stay in my barn and have a plate at my table in return for your work," you state, firm, nothing else you're willing to give than that.

"Well," Cassian starts, a grin pulling at his stubbled cheeks. "I ain't never one to turn down such an honest offer of work."

Part III, One Life with so much Consequence

Hays stretched endlessly under a sky bruised purple with twilight, the air thick with the scent of sage and impending rain. Cassian’s silhouette cut a sharp line against the horizon as he mended the corral fence, his movements steady but guarded.

You watched him from the porch, Em’s voice drifting through the open window as she practised writing her letters. The rhythm of your life had shifted these past weeks, a stranger’s presence now as familiar as the creak of the windmill.

Even after Cassian had long ditched the linen that wrapped around his neck, you’ve grown to have little intention of reminding him of his impending leave, marked by the healing of his wound. And by his returning silence, it seemed he shared your similar sentiments too. 

Part IV, No Place to Call Home

The night pressed close, thick as molasses and twice as heavy, the hush broken only by the restless sigh of wind through the cottonwoods and the distant, lonesome wail of a coyote. The barn was a shadowed cathedral, beams arching overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, and Cassian sat hunched in the straw, sweat slicking his brow, the rusted spur gripped in his fist as though it might anchor him to this world and not the one that haunted his sleep.

You stood in the doorway, lantern trembling in your hand, the golden light trembling across his haunted face. “Cassian?” you called, voice softer than a moth’s wing.

Cassian jerked, wild-eyed, the whites showing stark in the gloom, but then his gaze found yours and the storm in him ebbed, just a mite. “Just dreams, darlin’,” he rasped, voice gravelled and raw as a dry creek bed. “Ain’t nothin’ but ghosts gnawin’ at my bones.”

You stepped closer, the straw crunching under your boots. “Ain’t never nothin’ when it comes to dreams like that,” you said, kneeling beside him. “You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, jaw clenched tight as a trap. “Ain’t fit for decent company, what’s in my head.”

You reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then let out a breath, the tension bleeding from him slow as sap from a wounded tree. “Ain’t no shame in carryin’ scars,” you murmured. “World’s full of folks actin’ like they ain’t never been cut.”

He managed a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got a way with words, I’ll give you that.”

You squeezed his shoulder, then stood, the lantern light flickering between you. “Come on. Air’s cool out, and the stars’re worth seein’.”

Cassian followed you out to the porch, the night wrapping around you both like an old quilt. He lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark, and you sat beside him, listening to the hush between your heartbeats.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The prairie stretched endless and black, the sky a river of diamonds overhead.

Then, out of nowhere, Cassian’s voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain. “You ever regret choices you made?”

You turned, the moonlight painting his scar in silver, the lines of his face etched deep by sorrow and time. “Every day,” you answered, honest as the dawn. “But regret don’t feed horses, nor get tips pourin’ whiskey. All you can do is keep movin’, one foot in front of the other.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, bitter as burnt coffee. “No. It don’t. But sometimes it feels like the past’s got claws, draggin’ me back every time I think I’m free.”

You watched the smoke curl from his lips, drifting up to join the stars. “Ain’t a soul out here don’t know what it is to be hunted by their own mistakes, Cassian. But you’re here now. That’s somethin’.”

He looked at you, eyes shadowed but searching. “You ever think about runnin’? Leavin’ all this behind?”

You shook your head, the wind tugging at your hair. “Ain’t nowhere else for me. Kansas dirt’s in my blood. Besides, I got Em to think of. She’s my whole world.”

He nodded, silent for a spell, then said, “You’re braver than most. Braver’n me, that’s for damn sure.”

You snorted, a smile tugging at your lips. “Ain’t bravery, Cassian. Just stubbornness. World keeps knockin’ me down, I just get up meaner.”

He grinned, the first true smile you’d seen from him in days. “Mean suits you, darlin’. World could use more women like you.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Careful, or I’ll start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

He flicked his cigarette into the yard, the ember winking out. “Maybe I am,” he said, voice low as thunder. “Ain’t had much to believe in, not for a long while. But you… you make a man wish he was better.”

You felt your cheeks burn, but you held his gaze. “We’re all just tryin’ to be better, Cassian. Some days, that’s all we got.”

He reached for your hand, rough and calloused, and you let him, the warmth of his skin grounding you both. The night stretched on, the two of you side by side, sharing the silence and the scars, the wind carrying your secrets out into the wild, wild dark.

The truth came on a Tuesday, the sky a bleached bone-white, heat rippling off the prairie like a curse. You’d sent Cassian to town for nails, and he’d returned quiet as a shadow, his eyes avoiding yours like a sinner dodging the pulpit. The sack of supplies sat heavy on the kitchen table, and there, nestled between hammerheads and coils of wire, was the Dodge City Times—its ink smudged, its edges frayed, its headline screaming like a bullet through glass:

“WANTED: Cassian – Bounty Hunter Turned Traitor?”

The sketch beneath was crude, all harsh lines and shadow, but the eyes, those hard, haunted eyes, were his. The article spat venom, each word a barb: Cassian, once a respected bounty hunter, implicated in the robbery of the Santa Fe payroll. Suspected of collusion with the Red Canyon Gang. Armed and dangerous. Reward: $500 dead or alive.

Your hands trembled, the paper crinkling like dried leaves. Outside, Em’s laughter floated through the open window, sweet and bright as a meadowlark’s song. The sound sharpened your fear into something jagged, something that clawed up your throat.

You found him in the barn, brushing down the chestnut mare with slow, deliberate strokes. Dust hung in the shafts of sunlight, and the air smelled of hay and horse sweat and the faint tang of gun oil. Cassian hummed low under his breath, a tune you didn’t recognise—something mournful, something old.

“You lied,” you said, voice colder than a winter creek.

The brush stilled. Cassian turned, slow as a rattler coiling, and his smile died when he saw your face. “I didn’t—”

“Bounty hunter. Traitor. Criminal.” You flung the paper at him, the page fluttering like a wounded bird. “You brought your war to my door!”

Cassian caught the paper midair, his gaze skimming the words. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—you saw the raw, flayed thing beneath, the man who’d been hunted longer than he’d been free. Then his jaw tightened, and he crumpled the paper in his fist. “It ain’t like that. The Red Canyon Gang set me up. I was trackin’ ’em, but they turned the law against me. That bullet in my neck?” He jerked his collar down, revealing the puckered scar. “Came from a sheriff’s gun, not some two-bit outlaw.”

Em’s laughter rang out again, closer now. She darted past the barn door, chasing a barn cat with a ribbon of sunlight in her hair. Your heart squeezed. “Get out,” you hissed, stepping closer, your voice a blade. “Before trouble follows you here. Before they come for her.”

Cassian flinched, hat crumpled in his hands, his knuckles white. “I’ll go. But know this,” he met your gaze, his eyes burning like coals in the dim. “I’d sooner die than let harm come to you or that girl.”

You followed Cassian to the porch, the sun hammering down like a blacksmith’s fist. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, his movements stiff, his back to you. The wind carried the creak of the windmill and the distant lowing of cattle.

“You think I wanted this?” he said suddenly, voice rough as a saw blade. “You think I woke up one day and said, ‘Hell, I’ll be a wanted man’? They took everything. My name. My reputation. My—.” He broke off, throat working.

You crossed your arms, the wood of the porch rail biting into your palms. “And that gives you the right to drag your mess into my life? Into hers?”

Cassian turned, his face a map of old pain. “Ain’t about rights. It’s about survival. You of all folks oughta understand that.”

The words hit like a slap. You thought of your father’s blood staining Kansas dirt, of your mother’s hands, cracked and bleeding as she gentled wild horses. Of nights spent listening for the click of a lock, the creak of a floorboard.

“Survival ain’t the same as trust,” you said, quieter now.

He stepped closer, the scent of leather and sage sharp in your nose. “You think I don’t know what I am? What they say about me? I’ve seen the way folks look at a man with a price on his head—like he’s rabid, like he’s already dead.” His hand hovered near yours, not touching. “But you… you looked at me like I was whole.”

Cassian mounted his horse, a rangy bay with eyes as wary as his own. The prairie stretched behind him, endless and indifferent.

“They’ll come,” you said, voice fraying. “The law. The gang. They always do.”

Cassian adjusted his hat, shadowing his face. “Let ’em come. I’ll lead ’em so far from here, they’ll never know this town existed.”

Em appeared at the corner of the house, her cheeks pink, hands full of dandelions. “Mister Cass! Look what I found!”

Cassian’s breath caught. For a moment, you saw the man he might’ve been, the one who could’ve knelt in the grass and named each flower with her. 

Then he nudged the bay forward, tipping his hat. “Keep your rifle close, darlin’.”

You watched Cassian ride out, dust rising in his wake, until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon. Em tugged your skirt, her voice small. “Where’s he goin’, mama?”

You knelt, brushing a curl from her face. “Where the wind takes him, sugar.”

But the wind, you knew, was a fickle thing. And the West had a way of circling back.

Part V, Crowded in the Absence

The heat that day was a living thing, coiled in the saloon’s shadows like a rattler ready to strike. Sunlight sliced through the gaps in the storeroom’s warped planks, painting Luis Curry’s face in jagged stripes as he crowded you against the shelves. His breath reeked of rotgut and decay, a sour cloud that made your eyes water. Barrels of pickled eggs and sacks of flour pressed into your back, their familiar scents drowned by the stench of his intent.

This was always going to happen, you think. A man with such pride never takes silence for an answer.

“Been waitin’ for this,” Luis slurred, his words thick as tar. A drop of sweat slid down his temple, cutting through the grime on his skin. His fingers, calloused and dirt-caked, brushed your waist. “Ain’t no one to play hero now. Just you ’n’ me, darlin’.”

Your hand closed around the neck of a whiskey bottle behind you, glass slick with condensation. “Touch me,” you said, voice low as a blade being drawn, “and I’ll split your skull like a melon at a harvest fair.”

Luis barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the jars of preserves. “Feisty. I like—.” His grip tightened on your wrist, yanking you forward.

The door exploded inward in a burst of splinters and sunlight.

Cassian stood framed in the wreckage, revolver steady in his hand, his silhouette sharp enough to cut glass. The light haloed him, dust motes swirling like gold dust around his boots. “Let. Her. Go.” Each word was a bullet chambered, his drawl colder than a Colorado winter.

Cassian’s face was enough to shock the fear of God out of you, like he were a ghost come back to life. 

Luis’s sneer twisted the scar on his lip into a serpent’s grin. “Or what, Cassian? You ain’t nothin’ but a washed-up bounty hunter with more bark than bite.” His thumb dug into your pulse point, a mockery of a caress. “Hell, I heard the Red Canyon Gang’s still laughin’ ’bout how you tucked tail and—”

A whiskey bottle connected with his temple in a shower of glass and amber liquid. Luis crumpled like a puppet with its strings slashed, his grip falling slack. You staggered back, shards crunching underfoot, the tang of spilled whiskey sharp in the air.

Cassian was on him before Luis hit the floor, a knee planted on his chest, revolver pressed to the soft hollow beneath his jaw. “You look at her again,” Cassian growled, the sound reverberating deep in his throat, “breathe her air, think her name, I’ll bury you so deep even the crows’ll starve tryin’ to find you.”

Luis wheezed, blood and whiskey matting his hair. “You’re… dead… Cassian,” he spat. “Law’s coming. Heard ’em in Dodge City… sniffin’ your trail.”

Cassian’s thumb cocked the hammer. “Let ’em come. I’ll save ’em a bullet with your name on it.”

The saloon’s piano music stuttered outside, patrons oblivious to the scuffle in the storeroom. You pressed a hand to your racing heart, the other still clutching the bottle’s jagged remains. “Cassian,” you breathed. Not a plea—a lifeline.

He glanced at you, his gaze softening for a heartbeat before hardening again. “Fetch the sheriff,” he said, voice rough. “This gutter snake’s got a date with a cell.”

You hesitated, your boots rooted to the floorboards. “He’s right, ain’t he? The law’s coming. For you.”

Cassian stood, dragging Luis up by his collar. The man sagged, half-conscious. “Ain’t the first time,” he muttered. He met your eyes, the storm in his own momentarily still. “Go on. I’ll handle this.”

You fled, the taste of copper on your tongue. The saloon’s main room blurred, faces of regulars, the glint of shot glasses, Old William’s brow furrowed as you flew past. The sunlight outside was blinding, the street a blur of dust and distant shouts.

By the time you returned with Sheriff Hayes, Cassian was gone. Only Luis remained, slumped in the corner, wrists bound with baling twine, a bloodied bandana stuffed in his mouth. The sheriff spat tobacco onto the floor. “That Cassian boy do this?”

You nodded, your voice trapped somewhere beneath your ribs.

Hayes chuckled, hoisting Luis up. “Reckon he saved me the trouble. Red Canyon’s put a bounty on this one’s head, too.” He tipped his hat. “You tell that boy… I ain’t forgettin’ what he did here. But the law’s the law.”

That night, you found Cassian on your porch like he belonged there, his profile etched against the indigo sky. The scent of sagebrush and gunpowder clung to him.

“You didn’t have to run,” you said, leaning against the rail.

Cassian didn’t turn. “Ain’t your trouble to bear.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the cry of a nighthawk.

“Why’d you come back?” you asked, the question hanging like smoke.

Cassian finally looked at you, his eyes reflecting the stars. “Told you I would. Ain’t a man who breaks his word.” A beat. “The Red Canyon Gang’s comin’. They’re plannin’ to hit the railroad shipment Friday.”

Your breath caught. “And you aim to stop ’em.”

“Aim to try.” Cassian stood. “But I need you to take Em and ride north. Just ’til it’s over.”

The fear surged; sharp, familiar. But beneath it, something warmer flickered. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Cassian moved towards you, towering over you, his scent of leather and gunpowder dizzying. “Maybe. But I’d rather die clean than live like a ghost.”

Your hand found his, calluses grinding. “Then we fight this together.”

Somewhere, a coyote yipped. The wind carried the promise of rain and the faint rumble of thunder.

The days that followed were a fragile truce, uncertain and strained like a taught fiddle string. Cassian’s presence was a shadow at your heel, steady and sure, yet never quite within reach. He moved through your world with the quiet grace of a man who’d spent too long watching his own back, but in the golden hours between chores and dusk, you caught glimpses of something softer beneath the grit.

He taught you to shoot, and not just for show. 

“Ain’t no sense in pointin’ iron if you ain’t ready to use it,” he said, voice low as thunder rolling on the horizon. He’d stand behind you in the pasture, the scent of gun oil and grass thick in the air, his hands guiding yours. His palm settled on your shoulder, steadying your aim, and the heat of his touch burned through your dress like wildfire.

“Keep your elbow up, darlin’,” he’d murmur, his breath grazing your ear, “and don’t blink. World don’t wait for blinkers.”

You squeezed the trigger, the Colt bucking in your grip. The tin can atop the fencepost spun off into the grass, and Cassian’s laughter—warm, surprised—rippled over you.

“Well, I’ll be. You got a mean streak when you want it.” His eyes crinkled, the harsh lines of his face softened by pride. “Remind me not to cross you come supper.”

You tried to hide your smile, but it bloomed anyway, wild and bright as a prairie rose.

At night, Em would chatter at the supper table, her voice a river of stories and questions, while Cassian whittled a scrap of pine into a horse. His hands, so sure with a pistol, were gentle with the knife, and you watched the shape emerge, a proud little steed with a flowing mane and a crooked mouth. He handed it to Em with a wink, and she clutched it to her chest like treasure.

“Thank you, Mister Cass!” she beamed, and he ducked his head, a flush creeping up beneath his tan.

“Just a bit o’ nothin’, little miss. But every cowgirl needs a trusty mount.”

You watched them, something aching in your chest, a longing for a life you’d never dared to dream.

The evenings grew heavy with the scent of rain and the promise of summer. One night, as you scrubbed the supper dishes, Cassian’s reflection swam up in the window, ghostly in the lamplight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

“You’re a hard woman to figure,” he said, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as dangerous.

You didn’t turn, scrubbing at a stubborn bit of gravy. “And you’re a fool to try.”

He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “Maybe I like fools’ errands. Gives a man somethin’ worth failin’ for.”

His breath warmed the back of your neck, and your hands stilled in the soapy water. The bowl slipped from your grasp, splashing in the sink with a sharp, final note. You flinched, heart thundering, and he reached for you, fingers brushing your arm.

You jerked away, the memory of his touch searing your skin. “This ain’t… I can’t—” The words tangled in your throat, thick with fear and longing.

He held up his hands, palms open, voice gentled. “I know. I ain’t askin’ for what you can’t give. But when this is over…” He let the promise hang between you, heavy and bright as a lantern in the dark.

You fled, the screen door banging behind you, the night air sharp in your lungs. The barn loomed ahead, sanctuary and prison all at once. You pressed your forehead to the rough wood, breath coming fast, the echo of his words chasing you through the shadows.

Inside, the horses shifted in their stalls, their soft nickers a comfort. You buried your face in the mane of your old mare, the familiar scent of hay and sweat grounding you.

“Fool woman,” you whispered, stroking the horse’s neck. “Ain’t no sense wantin’ what you can’t keep.”

The wind rattled the eaves, and somewhere out in the dark, a coyote called, a wild, lonely sound that made your heart ache. You thought of Cassian’s hands, steady and warm, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

You stayed there until the moon climbed high, silvering the prairie and painting your troubles in softer light. When you finally slipped back to the house, Em was asleep, clutching her wooden horse, and Cassian’s boots were by the door, a silent testimony to the man waiting for a tomorrow you weren’t sure you could promise.

But as you lay in the hush of your little house, the memory of his touch lingered, hope and warning, sweet as honey and sharp as whiskey. And you wondered, not for the first time, if maybe, just maybe, there was room in this wild, unforgiving land for a second chance.

You slipped through the door, boots silent on the worn floorboards, the hush of midnight pressed close about your shoulders. The lamplight in the kitchen cast long shadows, pooling gold across the battered table. There, as if conjured by longing itself, sat Cassian, hat in his hands, elbows braced wide, head bowed as though in prayer. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath sun-browned skin, and the lamplight caught the gold in his curled hair, turning him half-myth, half-man.

He didn’t look up when you entered, but you felt the pull of him all the same, a gravity as sure as the moon’s. You hovered in the doorway, heart tripping, the silence between you thick with all the things unsaid.

Cassian finally glanced up when the wood beneath your foot waned. You met his gaze, throat too tight for words. You crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate. The air between you shimmered, charged with something wild and dangerous.

He watched you move with eyes that had your heart skidding like a stone over a lake, the colour of sunshine and whiskey, rimmed in weariness and want. “You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin’.”

You managed a crooked smile, nerves jangling. “Maybe I have. Or maybe I just seen a man too stubborn to quit waitin’.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, the sound soft, almost reverent. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth waitin’ for in this world.”

You stood at the edge of the table, hands twisting in your skirt. The hush stretched, taut as a wire. Cassian watched you, every muscle in his body drawn tight, like a wolf scenting blood.

Finally, you spoke, voice barely more than a whisper. “You meant what you said?”

Cassian nodded, slow and sure. “Ain’t never been one to say what I don’t mean. Not to you.”

Your hands trembled, so you pressed them flat to the table, anchoring yourself. “I’m scared, Cassian. Scared of what I want. Scared of losin’ it, too.”

He pushed his chair back, the scrape loud in the hush, and stood. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared. World’s a mean place. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without.”

He crossed the space between you in three strides, boots scuffing on the boards. He stopped just shy of touching you, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes searching your face like a map to salvation.

“Tell me to go,” he said, voice raw, “and I’ll walk out that door, never look back. But if you want me to stay—if you want me, even a little—just say the word.”

You looked up at him, the ache in your chest blooming into something fierce and bright. “Stay,” you whispered, full of conviction.

He reached for you then, hands gentle but sure, rough palms cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t know you’d started to shed. “You sure, darlin’? Ain’t no goin’ back from this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I ain’t never been more sure of nothin’.”

Cassian’s mouth found yours, slow and searching at first, as though he feared you might vanish if he pressed too hard. But you met him, hungry and desperate, pouring all your longing and loneliness into the kiss. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into his heat, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies.

He tasted of whiskey and smoke, of promise and regret. His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, anchoring you to the earth. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.

Cassian broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “You’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart.”

You smiled, wild and reckless. “Maybe I wanna burn.”

He laughed, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and kissed you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and need. You clung to him, the two of you swaying, lost in the storm you’d both tried so long to deny.

He lifted you, easy as breathing, and set you atop the table, dishes clattering aside. His hands found your waist, thumbs tracing circles through the thin cotton of your dress. You arched into him, gasping as his mouth trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse.

“Goddamn, woman,” he growled, voice thick with want. “You got no idea what you do to me.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. “Show me, then. I ain’t made of glass.”

Cassian grinned, wicked and soft all at once. “That so? Reckon I’ll take you at your word.” He kissed you again, slower now, savouring every inch of you. His hands roamed, reverent and rough, mapping the planes of your body as if memorising you for the hard days ahead. You shivered beneath his touch, every nerve alight.

Cassian murmured your name, a prayer and a promise, and you answered with a gasp, your own hands hungry and bold. You tugged his shirt free, fingers splaying across the hard muscle of his back, feeling the scars beneath your palms. He pressed you down, the table cool against your back, his body a shield against the world’s cruelties. He worshipped you with his mouth, his hands, every inch of him singing with need. You gave yourself to him, fierce and unafraid, the two of you tangled in the golden lamplight, the night wind singing at the window.

Part VI, By love, With love, In love, For love

The night had been restless, the air thick with the scent of sage and the uneasy hush that settles before calamity. The Kansas grass, silvered by moonlight, whispered secrets to the wind, and every creak of the old homestead seemed a warning. When dawn finally bled across the horizon, it brought no comfort, only the silhouettes of ten riders, their horses frothing and wild-eyed, their faces shrouded in dust and bandanas, as if the very land itself had conjured them from shadow and vengeance.

Cassian stood by the split-rail fence, boots planted in the churned mud, your Winchester cradled in his arms. His silhouette was etched against the pale fire of morning, broad-shouldered and unyielding, a lone sentinel before the tide. The riders fanned out, horses snorting, breath pluming in the chill. Their leader, a man with eyes like flint and a voice rough as gravel, reined up close, the iron of his revolver glinting in the half-light.

“Last chance, Cassian!” The gang leader barked, his words slicing the hush. “Hand over the woman’s deeds, and we’ll make it quick.”

Cassian spat into the dirt, the gesture defiant. “You’ll get nothin’ but lead, you snake-bellied bastard.”

A hush hung, thick as molasses, before the world exploded.

The leader’s pistol barked, sharp and merciless. Cassian staggered, a crimson bloom spreading across his shirt, but he did not fall. Instead, he dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, eyes blazing. 

You screamed, the sound torn from your throat, and fired from the porch, the Winchester’s report echoing across the yard. The shot went wide, splintering the fence. The gang surged forward, a pack of wolves scenting blood.

You worked the lever, heart pounding, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Click. The sound was a death knell. One of the riders, a brute with a scar twisting his cheek, vaulted from his saddle, knife flashing. He loomed over you, shadow long and cold, the blade raised for the kill.

Then Cassian was there, moving with the desperate strength of cornered prey. He tackled the man, both of them crashing to the ground. Blood soaked Cassian’s shirt, but his fists were iron, his resolve unbroken.

You dropped the empty rifle, hands scrambling for anything, anything to fight with. Your fingers closed around the handle of a pitchfork, its tines rusted but sharp. As another outlaw lunged for the porch, you drove the pitchfork into his thigh. He howled, crumpling, and you wrenched the weapon free, the taste of fear and fury bitter on your tongue.

Inside the house, Em’s wail split the air, a sound of pure terror. Through the open door, you saw her, small and wild-eyed, as a bandit seized her by the arm and dragged her toward the yard.

“NO!” Cassian roared, his voice raw and ragged. He lurched to his feet, revolver in hand, and fired. The bandit fell, dropping Em, who scrambled free and ran to you, her arms flung around your waist, sobs wracking her tiny frame.

The remaining outlaws, seeing their leader dead and their numbers dwindling, broke. They turned tail, spurring their horses, leaving behind two of their own sprawled in the dust and the scent of gunpowder thick in the morning air.

Cassian staggered to the well, collapsing against the stones, his face ashen. You knelt beside him, pressing your frayed skirts to his wound, hands trembling.

“You idiot,” you choked, tears streaking your cheeks. “You stubborn, reckless—”

Cassian caught your face in his bloody hand, thumb smearing crimson across your cheek. “Worth it… to see you… fight like hell.”

You kissed him then, salt and iron mingling on your lips, the taste of survival and love and loss. Cassian smiled against your mouth, breath shallow.

“Knew you’d come around,” Cassian murmured, his voice a rasp, but his eyes bright.

The wind carried the scent of blood and gunpowder, the sun climbing higher, indifferent to the carnage below. You pressed your forehead to Cassian’s, your breath mingling with his.

“Damn you, Cassian,” you whispered, voice thick with tears. “Ain’t no sense in dyin’ for a fool’s cause.”

“Ain’t no sense in livin’ if you ain’t got somethin’ worth dyin’ for, darlin’.” Cassian grinned, teeth stained red.

Em clung to your skirts, her small hands shaking. “Mama, is it over? Are the bad men gone?”

You gathered her close, voice gentle. “They’re gone, sugar. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you now.”

Cassian coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Reckon I’ll need a new shirt,” he drawled, trying for levity.

You snorted, tears and laughter tangled. “Reckon you’ll need a new everything, you mule-headed fool.”

Cassian squeezed your hand, eyes soft. “Long as I got you, reckon I’ll make do.”

The sun rose higher, painting the world in gold and crimson. The bodies of the fallen lay still, the silence broken only by the soft sobs of a child and the laboured breaths of a man who had given everything for love.

As the day stretched on, you and Em tended Cassian’s wound, binding it as best you could with trembling hands and whispered prayers. The land, scarred and bloodied, seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if you would endure.

Cassian drifted in and out of consciousness, his hand never leaving yours. Each time his eyes fluttered open, he smiled, stubborn and sweet.

“Don’t you go leavin’ me, you hear?” you whispered, fierce.

He chuckled, weak but unbroken. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’. Got too much hell left to raise with you.”

The breeze sang through the grass, a mournful, hopeful tune. The homestead stood battered but unbowed, a testament to the grit and stubbornness of those who called it home.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fire and ash, you stood on the porch, Cassian’s arm around your shoulders, Em nestled between you. The world was changed, marked by violence and loss, but you remained.

Together, you watched the stars blink to life, each one a promise that the night would end, that dawn would come again, and that you would meet it together, unbroken and unafraid.

“Ain’t nothin’ in this world worth havin’ that don’t cost a piece of your soul,” Cassian whispered, voice soft as the dying wind. “But I reckon you’re worth every drop.”

And you believed him, with every beat of your stubborn heart.

[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..."

[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.

[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.

[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

[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.

[gnsrsesgaja]

Former Guns 'N Roses drummer Steven Adler was sentenced to 150 days in jail on Thursday for attacking two women in separate domestic violence incidents,

which also violates his probation from a 1997 conviction in another domestic violence case. He pled no contest to two counts of battery in a dating relationship and admitted the probation violation in West Los Angeles Municipal Court. Adler was also sentenced to three years of summary probation, with the conditions of undergoing a year of domestic violence counseling and a ban on using illegal drugs. Additionally, a protective order was issued by Commissioner Joseph S. Biderman in respect to both victims. Adler is required to turn himself in to the court at 1:45 p.m. on October 29 to begin serving his sentence or show proof that he's turned himself into a city jail.The two incidents in question occurred on January 27 and on June 7, respectively. The first erupted from a verbal argument spawned between Adler and a 43-year-old woman in his North Hollywood apartment over his alleged drug use. The victim was allegedly thrown against walls and furniture during the attack. She called 911 for assistance, however, Adler had already left the premises and couldn't be located at the time.He was eventually found in the spring, living in a condominium in Century City, California, where he was taken into custody on an arrest warrant regarding a probation violation. He was then booked and released after posting bail.The warrant had been issued in August of 1997 for failing to appear in court for a February of 1997 domestic violence case, which involved the woman he was living with at the time. In the 1997 case, Adler pled no contest to disturbing the peace and was sentenced to four days in jail. He was also placed on three years of summary probation, with a condition of attending 52 Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.In the spring arrest, Adler was charged with this probation violation as well as for the January incident. While he was awaiting his trial, he allegedly attacked another woman at his condominium on June 7. Adler allegedly pushed the 35-year-old woman's head into a wall and threw her clothes off a balcony during a dispute over money. 

Every time i learn something about GNR members its not good. This is the smiley Stevie? Even if he was on drugs.. crazy

[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 💖