#bullet dance saloon

[simplybolkonsky]

i haven't seen much of the bullet dance saloon extras from the japanese trimax omnibus editions but ever since i caught wind of their existence i have been deeply curious

here are the vol 5 pages ✨

[deathshadowed]

All it took was Striker (@strikers-saloon ) mansplaining rifles for Karma to already have second thoughts about quitting murdering people for money.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

boothill is many things. a gunslinging outlaw, a ninety percent metal man, someone who’s attitude definitely reflects in his appearance, but most importantly; a nuisance. a thorn in your side. an ear grating bother. he knows this and he takes advantage of it, especially when your hands are tied up with plenty other business. unfortunately, things took a more literal sense.

you had been sipping a glass of something at a table in a small saloon, celebrating a coworkers birthday who you couldn’t even remember the name of but it was an excuse to get out and, besides, they said they’d pay for the first round of drinks so who were you to decline? people had been dancing in front of you and perhaps your chosen activity of observing had gotten too meticulous as you hadn’t noticed the slinking shadow drift past, nimble fingers dropping a pill of god knows what into your drink. the sweet and citrus flavour of the cocktail masking whatever taste could’ve been left as you continued drinking with your head in your hand. as you got to the bottom of the glass, your eyelids felt heavy and thus did you take the cue to get going home. after bidding a couple farewells and good wishes to the birthday person who’s face was a blur, you stepped out into the cold breeze feeling sluggish; as if you’d had ten drinks and not just one. squinting, you steadied your breath before walking, neglecting to notice that same figure sauntering up behind you. it was the smell of gunpowder and musk that alerted you, spinning around faster than you should have and nearly hitting the ground if he hadn’t caught you in time with a half-hearted chuckle. bubbles clouding your vision, you could only internally groan at the smatter of white, black, and red before you were out cold.

coming to, the first thing you noticed were the tight bindings keeping your body uncomfortably still. thick rope wrapped around your torso and wrists, forbidding you from moving even and inch. wherever he had taken you, it was dark and damp with only the sound of your breathing to keep you company up until the telltale ‘click’ of his shoes and the concurrent ‘ting’ of his spurs. a cold metal finger slid across your chin and only then did you notice how blazingly hot you felt all over. you sucked in a breath, waiting for him, boothill, to say something but he uttered no more than a low hum as his fingers drew icy patterns down your neck and chest. a shudder wracked your body and he moved in front of you, his eyes holding some sort of emotion you weren’t quite familiar with on his face; somewhere between his ‘hand it over’ greed and ‘nice shot’ dry praise. he settled between your now untied, when did he do that you wondered, legs with his metal frame pressed firm into you. never before had you considered the intricacies of his body but with him so close and a different kind of pressure against your crotch, you figured he had some sort of… attachment. fear whipping through your chest, it was then you realized what exactly this evenings plans were for him and they were punctuated with his usual tacky speech.

“c’mon, darlin’, let’s play a bit. this cowboys gotta bullet special for ya’.”

[nataliasquote]

This is a snippet (edited) of Cowgirl Nat 🤠 pls tell me you love her as much as I do. That cocky cowgirl. Puts everyone in their place with a tilt of her hat and a shot from her gun 😏

-⧗-

Natasha pushed the wooden saloon doors open, the heels of her boots clicking against the tiled floor as she sauntered in. Her hat was dipped low over her face and she paused, surveying the room with a smirk before tipping it from her head, allowing her red waves to tumble around her shoulders. They were messy from hours of riding in the wind, but it suited her without fail.

Her green eyes darted across every familiar face, occasionally giving a slight smile if she felt that individual was worth her time. She held every single person in a trance, except the bartender who was all too familiar with her ways.

Natasha strolled up to the bar and leaned her forearms against the dark wood, crossing one leg over the other which accentuated the curve of her hips in her jeans. The brunette on a stool to her right choked on her beer and hid her spluttering mess behind her pitcher.

“My usual please, Barton,” Natasha husked with a wink to the bartender who pushed a bottle in her direction. As old friends, they went way back, and Clint was always delighted when she returned to pay him a visit. “Is this seat taken?”

The brunette, dressed in a plaid button down shirt, shook her head and scooted over, blinking in disbelief that she was being spoken to.

“Thanks darlin’.” If Y/n was stood up, she would have crumbled to the floor at those two words combined with Natasha’s southern drawl. She was new to the area, only stopping through to get her horse’s hooves checked over. But my goodness was she glad she picked this particular bar. She owed Clint Barton a massive favour.

Natasha slid onto the velvet-topped stool and sipped her drink, slender fingers tapping on the glass in her hand. She glanced at the woman to her right, taking her in with a simple flick up and down.

“I’ve not seen you before. You not from around here?” Natasha knew everyone who was anyone in this small town. It wasn’t hard to keep track, really, and visitors became fast spreading news.

“I’m only stopping by. Left my horse down at the stable at the end of town- gotta sort her hooves out.” Natasha nodded, knowing Bishop Stables was widely known for their services. “I’m guessing it’s obvious I’m a stranger?”

Natasha laughed around the rim of her bottle, green eyes sparkling in the dim light. “I know my people,” she replied, gesturing to the full tables behind them. “And I’d remember a face like yours, darling.” Y/n’s suddenly darted from Natasha’s face to the fringe on the waistcoat she wore. Never had she been such a mess in front of a stranger before, but this mysterious redhead was far more than just a regular stranger. She was captivating, and judging by the flirty glances she sent to several women scattered across the bar, she knew it.

“And does a gorgeous woman like you have a pretty name to match?” Natasha turned on her stool completely, resting a bare forearm on the bar in order to give Y/n her full attention.

“I’m Y/n. And you are..?”

“Natasha Romanoff, at your service.” The redhead quickly put her hat on and tipped it forwards, eliciting a laugh from the woman opposite. Clint eyed their interaction as he dried some glasses, grinning to himself at how effective Natasha’s charm truly was. She turned it on with the tip of her hat and a flash of her smile, making men and women alike stop dread in their tracks.

“Hey, Romanoff, give us a dance, will ya?” A leering voice echoed above the general hum of conversation and Y/n watched as Natasha rolled her eyes and adjusted her gun that sat in a holster on her hip.

“Give it up, Stark, you’re barking at a knot.” The man in question jeered at her and banged his beer bottle on the barrel table, several men around him doing the same.

But Natasha just stood up, squared her shoulders and fired her handgun in their direction, the bullet slamming into the wall mere inches above Stark’s head. She blew the smoke off her gun with a cocky smirk and shoved it back in the holster. The entire saloon fell silent, aside from Clint’s mutterings about yet another hole to fix thanks to his fiery friend.

Natasha waited a second longer, almost daring Stark and his guys to test her again. But they didn’t, now only watching her warily as she turned back to her new woman and held out her hand with a small flourish. Her other hand grabbed her hat from the bar and set it atop of her flaming hair.

“How about I show you around? And get you away from these coffee boilers before they start on you too.” Natasha nodded over to Stark’s table and Y/n shuddered, practically smelling their beer breaths from where she was sat.

“You’d do that? I haven’t had much of a chance to look around.” Y/n downed the rest of her drink and slid the pitcher back to Clint with a grateful smile.

Natasha helped Y/n down from her stool and rested her hand on her large belt buckle. “Well, lucky for you darlin’, you’ve got the best tour guide this town has to offer.” Y/n blushed and accepted Natasha’s arm, walking beside her as they stepped out into the blazing midday sun, leaving the darkness of the saloon behind them.

“Where do you want to start?” Y/n looked up and down the sandy street, eyeing the wooden and old stone buildings that faced her.

“You’re the guide, you tell me.” Was that just another reason to hear Natasha speak? Y/n would never admit the answer to that.

Natasha rubbed her hands together. “Perfect. My favourite place… the armoury. If you don’t walk out of there wanting a new pistol, then I really haven’t done my job right.” Natasha set off down the centre of the street, her boots crunching the gravel underfoot. Y/n just blindly followed, her hand resting casually on her gun in case anyone tried to challenge her. Small towns weren’t usually all that accommodating of foreigners, but she’d clearly done something right by befriending Natasha.

Everyone gave them a wide berth, gossiping and whispering to themselves as they passed. But Natasha was extremely well respected, so if she accepted a visitor, everyone else would too. The social hierarchy certainly placed her close to the top. And for Y/n? Well… she was just getting started.

[simpingforstardew]

misty [chapter two]

pairing: sdv harvey x reader

synopsis: harvey has always been a man of routine and order— although just as he begins to tire of his life in pelican town, a new farmer moves to the valley and turns his life around. chapter two.

warnings: some angst in this one (tw/ description of familial death). pure fluff and romance; eventual smut, but that'll be tagged when the time comes !! please enjoy my harvey playlist while you read ♡ (this is crossposted from ao3).

word count: 1.6k

<< last chapter | next chapter >>

The Stardrop Saloon, bathed in the soft glow of warm, dim lighting, welcomes its patrons with a comforting ambiance. The air carried the distinct aroma of aged wood and the faint scent of a crackling fireplace, giving the bar a rustic charm. The gentle hum of conversation mixed with the mellow tunes emanating from the vintage jukebox, creating an intimate symphony that echoed throughout the space.

In the games lounge, a haven within the heart of the saloon, the atmosphere took on a relaxed and casual vibe. Two arcade machines stand as silent sentinels; their screens flicker with pixelated adventures. The soft glow of the games cast dancing shadows on the well-worn couches nearby, a testament to the countless conversations and moments that must have been shared over the years. Adjacent stands the pool table adorned with worn-out felt and scarred by countless games. A haphazard arrangement of colourful pool balls wait patiently for their turn, illuminated by the warm glow of an overhead light.

“What the fuck? Fired?” Shane’s disbelief echoed through the saloon, as the cue ball he hits ricochets off the side of the pool table, “Just like that?”

“Yep,” You chuckle— both at the absurdity of your own misfortune, and Shane’s awful shot “HR claimed my ‘extended bereavement’ could lead to ‘performance issues’ and ‘wasting company resources’… Whatever that means”

Shane let out a snort, taking a swig of his beer. “And here I thought working in retail was a special kind of hell. Turns out even the corporate suits have their own issues.”

You accepted the pool cue he passed your way, unable to resist a playful jab, “Thanks, Shane. You’re making me feel so much better.”

The short man scoffs, grabbing his beer from the table behind him to take a long sip. “Just sayin’, you dodged a bullet getting the fuck outta there.”

Chuckling, you circled the pool table, searching for the perfect shot, “Well, it’s not all bad. Getting the boot from Joja pushed me to embrace farm life here. Guess I’m lucky in a weird way.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” he deadpanned, though a glimmer of curiosity flickered in his eyes. His attempt at sarcasm faltered as your shot proved victorious, sinking the 8-ball with a delicate tap.

“Talk shit all you want, but it seems like my luck’s holding up pretty well considering I just wiped the floor with you.” You flashed a triumphant grin, leaning the pool cue against the wall. Shane’s stoic exterior cracked, and for a moment, a genuine smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Beginner’s luck,” he huffed, yet the twinkle in his eye hinted at a begrudging acceptance of your presence, “That kinda luck doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, yeah— A win is a win, Shane!” You shrug on your coat with a smile, heading towards the front door of the saloon, “You owe me a drink next time I’m here!”

Without turning to see Shane roll his eyes, you step out into the quiet darkness of the night. Your smile quickly fades as the door of the saloon swings shut, leaving behind the warmth of the bar. As you enter the town square, a serene hush settles over Pelican Town, its sett streets bathe in the soft, ambient glow of vintage street lamps scattered along the thoroughfare. The spring breeze carries the distant melody of an insectile symphony, the noise of crickets underscoring the serene ambiance that envelopes the town.

Strolling through unfamiliar streets under the moonlit sky, your steps echo against the rough cobblestones beneath you. Your shoulders are hunched against the night chill and your gaze remains fixed on the ground, a mosaic of uneven stones beneath your feet. Each step whispers a story of the town’s resilience, of seasons changing, and the curious rhythm of life in Pelican Town.

Once inside the farmhouse, however, you realize that you have made a grave misstep. Arranging for your grandfather’s funeral, clearing your new land of trees and shrubbery, drinking with the townsfolk— these had all allowed you to keep your hands busy and your mind blank. Now, alone in your dark farmhouse, you had no distractions from your new reality.

The house itself was bleak. Each attempt to redecorate felt like an intrusion— as if the space itself was resisting your efforts to make it feel like home. The bed stood as a lonely sentinel in the corner of the room, illuminated by the crackling flames of the fireplace on the furthest wall. The room itself was adorned with remnants of your grandfather’s presence; even your sleeping cat— Pixel— was the runt of your grandfather’s cat’s litter.

A small pot of forget-me-nots, once vibrant, now drooped listlessly on the windowsill. You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against the frail petals, a silent acknowledgment of the grief that clung to every corner of the room. You are at least blessed with a working CRT television, although with access to only two channels in the valley, the device feels like a relic of a bygone era.

A cold draft sweeps through the room as you look above the TV: the otherwise barren wall displays a single faded family photograph, featuring your late grandfather, grandmother, and you. The glass of the frame cracked during the move and the photograph itself never seems to hang straight. You move to bring the photograph down from its place on the wall, holding it delicately in your hands— as if it could shatter at any moment. The photograph captures a moment frozen in the sepia hues of nostalgia.

In the centre, your grandfather stands tall, a patriarchal figure with calloused hands cradling a newborn lamb. His eyes, warm and crinkled with a lifetime of stories, radiate a quiet wisdom that guided your childhood. Besides him, your grandmother’s hands gently cup a cluster of wildflowers. The fabric of her apron was slightly swept, caught in the breeze. In the foreground, you: a child with innocent eyes and a smile that mirrored the joy of the moment. Clutched in your small hands was a clumsy, makeshift bouquet. The backdrop was the farmhouse itself, standing proudly amidst a sea of greenery; the sun bathed the scene in a warm glow. Yet, even in this idyllic tableau, there lingered a subtle melancholy, as if the photograph itself harboured the prescience of inevitable goodbyes.

The frame, once resplendent, now bears the scars of time—a crack here, a chip there. The glass that shields the captured memories has grown cloudy, as if the passage of years had draped a delicate veil over the faces of those who once shared laughter under the farmhouse’s sturdy roof. A sob escapes your throat as a tear splashes on the glass of the portrait; hesitantly, you place the photograph on top of your small table. You take a step back. You chuckle solemnly, wiping your eyes using the back of your sleeves as you yawn.

Pixel mews softly, as you climb into the cold sheets of your bed, before falling back to sleep. The silence of the farmhouse envelopes you like a weighted blanket, as moonlight floods through the windows of the farmhouse. It seemed that sleep was becoming increasingly elusive as you tossed and turned in bed.

The gratitude for your budding friendship with Elliot and Shane brings a bittersweet comfort, as you stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the moonlight casts a silver glow above. Elliot was the first person in the valley to approach you. His efforts to get to know you eased your anxiety about the new town. Shane was a tough nut to crack, but you suppose any stranger is your friend after too many beers— at the very least, you had a new drinking buddy.

The doctor you met before entering the saloon flashes through your mind as your eyes flutter shut.

‘Harvey,’ You mentally correct yourself, ‘His name is Harvey… and he doesn’t like decaf.’ You softly exhale, a smile tugging at your lips. He was… cute? A little bashful, sure, but he was more than gorgeous enough to make up for his nerves. Your face heats up thinking about his broad, towering figure; and the way his moustache curls up with his coy grin; and the way his dimpled, freckled cheeks blush so intensely when you look into his forest green eyes…

You turn to cover your face in your firm pillow, attempting to control your wondering thoughts; eventually, your breathing slows and your blush fades as you finally drift off.

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

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

word count: 14k

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

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

Read it on ao3!

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You lead the way, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you askin’ me on a date?”

“Maybe I am, sugar.”

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

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

—

PART I - Sorrow-Gilded Equals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.” you accepted plainly.

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

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

"Glad I could entertain."

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

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

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

“Only with you around.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps."

He paused, shifting to look you in the eyes.

"You're Jesse Blackwell, right?"

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jasper?”

“Well, it seems you do recall.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

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

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

—

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

Callie Weston

A strong mother, and relentless woman.

1846 - 1879

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

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

“Thank you.” Ellis whispered.

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

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

~

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

“Go home, you idiot!”

“Have a little compassion!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait a minute, kid.”

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

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

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

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

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

Ellis answered, looking down at you coldly.

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

He took the bag wordlessly, before shutting the door.

~

“I have some stew for you, mama.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

"Is this your dog?" he had asked.

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you headin' to school?"

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

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

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

"Why would you pick a job like that?”

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

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

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

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

“I guess.”

“Great,” he nodded.

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

~

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

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

“I… I’m honored, sir.”

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

“Thank you, Peter.”

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

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

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

“I appreciate it.”

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

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

“What’s weighing on you, kid?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright, boy?” Peter questioned.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”

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

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

“Can I come with you?”

“Of course.”

~

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

“What are you doing, Jas?”

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

“That’s not true.”

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

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

“I… think I’m not cut out for this.”

“What do you mean?”

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

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

The snorting of a nearby horse broke the heavy atmosphere.

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

“Alright.” he smiled smally.

“Hand me the bottle?”

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

“Come on, you can stay with me.”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah… yeah.” he sighed.

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

—

PART II - Redemption for the Wayward

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

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

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

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

He wouldn't have it any other way.

—

"I want to leave with you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

“Please… please just end me already.”

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

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

“That’s not true.”

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

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

“We’re talkin’ it out right now.”

“Don’t be like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Jas…”

“Stop wastin’ your breath.”

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

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

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

“Goodbye, Jasper.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I apologize-”

“There ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

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

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

—

“You've used a gun before, right?”

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

“Only once.”

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

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

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

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

“Not bad. Do it again.”

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

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

“Another.”

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

"Fall back into me a little bit."

"Why?"

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

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

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

“Well, I’m learnin’ from the best.”

“Got that right.”

“Are you always this smug?”

“Only with you.”

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

“Really now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talkin’ down to me?”

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

“What a show-off you are.”

“Quit talkin’ and start aimin’.”

“You’re on.”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

PART III - The Revenant of Vengeance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d have to agree.”

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

“We could take them.”

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

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

“Is my attention not good enough?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

—

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

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

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

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

~

It was an ambush, plain and simple.

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

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

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

How unlucky for them that Jesse was the same.

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

“Time to wake up, my friend.”

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

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

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

This body?

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

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

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

Reborn?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

After a brief moment, Jesse nodded.

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

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

Silence fell, as Jesse was confronted with rushing realization.

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

But what constitutes humanity?

Flesh and blood?

The ability to experience empathy and emotion?

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

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

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

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

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

Was his life even his anymore?

No. He couldn’t sink into that void.

~

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

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

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

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

—

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

“They’re on their way.”

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

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

"You goddamn idiot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hopeless, doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you best stay quiet.”

“Alright.”

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

“Are we still going north?”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

"Pardon?"

"Boothill."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

"My thoughts exactly."

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

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

—

PART IV - Death, the Range's Old Friend

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

“Mercy… mercy, please.”

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

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

“Yes, yes.”

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

They nodded weakly.

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

“Copperhead Mine.”

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

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

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

“How many’ll be there?”

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

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

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

“It’s better to stay realistic.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Really now? Who exactly told you that?”

“The bartender at the saloon.”

“Which saloon?”

“There’s only one in town, friend.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Lloyd?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” he spat.

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

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

“In- in Thatcher!”

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

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

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

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

“Does she have a full name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

“I’m not lyin’! She never told me!”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

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

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

“Did you get anythin’ out of him?”

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

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

—

PART V - Ballad of the Dead and Alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever thought about acting?”

“It’s never crossed my mind before.”

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

“And what about you?”

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

“You can call me Boothill, Ef.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

They weren't very intimidating to say the least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed.”

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

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

“Pardon?”

“You heard him, boy.”

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

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

“You think I would ever agree to that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You started this.”

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

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

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

“I’m gonna have to decline.”

Walker laughed as Arrington’s face went stoic.

“So be it.” a familiar voice spoke.

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two clicks of the hammer – a blank.

“Always walking around like you own the place.”

Another blank.

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

Blank.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

“Givin’ up that easily! Really now?”

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

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

~

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

“I suppose this is farewell.” she exhaled.

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

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

“How are you?”

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

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

—

Epilogue

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

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

“Look who made it big.” he chuckled.

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

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

You laughed, leaning back against rough bark.

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

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

“What?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

“Sounds nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Like?”

“Anythin’ you can imagine.”

“What a magician you are.”

“You flatter me, sugar.”

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

“Not at all.”

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

“Stealin’ my moves now, cowboy?”

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

[novasintheroom]

Okay but Vash slowly letting himself get used to touching someone again through you.

He’s so hesitant at first. So many people don’t like being touched by a stranger, and he’s probably the strangest stranger on the planet. He only touches you when he needs to – to pull you out of the way of a bullet, shield you from an explosion, catch you from falling off a ledge. He’s old, he’s used to doing this for others, and most of the time, people don’t mind the touch when they’re being saved.

But you’re in it for the long haul with him, and suddenly he’s faced with everyday touches. Handing each other supplies and fingertips brushing. Pats on the back. Pulling him into a hug when you finally, finally shot a bottle off the fence post for practice. He’s jumpy about it all at first, so used to touches being harsher. But yours aren’t. They’re kind, friendly.

And that isn’t to say he hasn’t come across friendly people in his life before. Of course he has. But those are few and far between, so forgive him if he yelps or apologizes a few times for touching you.

Easing into regular touches opens something in him that Vash long buried: he loves touch. Touch is his love language. And the longer you travel together, the more he looks for opportunities to touch you. Dragging you by the hand into a saloon to celebrate another close call, pulling you in for a wacky dance. Ruffling your hair or pulling at its strands when he wants your attention, or just to let you know he’s there. Leaving his hands on your shoulders a little too long. Leaning down to whisper when you’re hiding from some goons, just to feel his lips brush your ear. He’s thrilled the more you allow it, and how you actually seem to like it.

And when you do it back? Holy Hannah. Stars live and burn out by the strength your touch has over him. You sit by him and rub shoulders at the bar, and he stops himself from leaning his whole weight on you. You play with his fingers by the fire of your camp at night, trying to figure out how his robotic arm works compared to his flesh one. When your thumb brushes over his palm, he keeps himself from kissing your forehead. Even if he love love loves (you) your touch, he still knows boundaries. He’ll take whatever you offer. And if one day that involves more that friendly touches, if it means cheek kisses, long hugs, sleeping on each other’s chests, well, he’ll gladly wait for that day to come.

[gimmethosedaddymilkers]

The Stronger Desires

So, starting off strong, we're doing the request for @cantchoosejust1 first, who lovingly requested a femme fatale reader.

Now, I haven't written anything like this, so hopefully you enjoy my spin on things.

Now, let's see exactly what happens with these two.

*Side note, I may have a poll later regarding a pfp change, just to see everyone's thoughts.*

Warnings: Cursing, canon like violence, sexual innuendos, perhaps even fluff, Female reader

The gif is unfortunately not mine, and Tumblr didn't wanna work with me, so it's from Pinterest.

Anywho

Arthur wished, truly, that he could explain exactly how he ended up in this spot, but honestly he'd be just as lost as whoever he was telling the story too.

The night had started off pretty good in all honesty. The gang had been celebrating, enjoying their success on the last job they'd managed to pull off, drinking, laughing, and causing problems for everyone else around them in the saloon.

The place had been lively. Hell, even Arthur had ACTUALLY been having fun.

The biggest smile on his face as he took a seat in the far corner to catch his breath from all the dancing and singing he'd been doing, which he was sure had made him look like an absolute fool.

He chuckles to himself as he quietly lights a cigarette and places it between his lips.

The Saint Denis saloon was...surprisingly more lively than what he'd expected it to be. Rich folks sure knew how to party properly.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots something, a brightly colored dress, not out of the norm for this place, but, for some reason, this one seemed...different.

He turned his head to look, and he was honestly surprised he managed to keep the cigarette in his mouth with the way it nearly fell open.

The woman wearing the dress was far prettier than the actual dress itself.

A gorgeous face, and absolutely wonderful hair as well.

The only part that didn't quite make much sense to him was the fact that you were all over a fat aristocrat. Balding with an awful mustache, but you seemed to be rather excited to stand next to him.

He couldn't quite understand it, how absolutely stunning you are, yet you're following a man like that around.

It boggled him.

The night continued, as they usually do, but now that he'd seen you, Arthur couldn't quite stop staring at you.

You were absolutely beautiful. You were...stunning, and it was damn near impossible for him to focus on much else.

It was hard not to when they man you were clinging too was a big as a house, and being followed around by at least four body guards.

What he was doing in a saloon he'd never know.

It's pretty late at night when things really start to get confusing for Arthur. It's about here that he'd be a little...confused when trying to retell the tale.

Due to the confusing nature of it all as well as all the apple pie moonshine in his system.

Things seem to be going smoothly, until all the sudden the entire saloon is screaming rather than singing.

Instinct takes over and Arthur's hand grabs the butt of his pistol before he realizes exactly what's going on.

The crowd quickly disperses, and it's then that Arthur realizes exactly what happened.

You, you're what happened.

There, on the floor is the aristocrat, though he's much less lively now that there's a bullet wound through his head.

How the hell he hadn't heard the shot he still didn't grasp.

The body guards all surround...you.

Arthur almost jumped up right then and there to defend you. He could take out all four of them in a matter of seconds, and he knew that, but right as he contemplates it he watches you pull a revolver out from under your dress.

The evening suddenly got much more interesting.

"Back off! Or I'll kill you too, that fat bastard had more money than he needed anyway, and if he'd put his hand up my skirt one more time he was gonna die in a much worse way, so be fucking GRATEFUL!"

Arthur nearly laughs out loud at the venom in your voice. It was...well it wasn't funny actually, it was more...attractive to him than anything.

For a moment you make eye contact with him, and it's a strange sensation, the way the two of you seem to talk with your eyes.

Arthur gives you a soft nod, a small smirk on his face and then he nods towards the saloon doors.

You give a nod in return and Arthur takes it as his que to leave discreetly.

It's only a moment later when you exit the saloon at a sprint, and Arthur holds his hand out for you to grab as he sits atop his horse, a black Shire.

You take his hand and he hoists you up easily, as if you weigh nothing at all.

The moment you're on his horse he takes off, the remaining guards rushing out of the saloon too.

It's only seconds after that, that the sound of the lawmen's whistles can be heard. One of the patrons must have reported the gunshot.

You hold onto Arthur for dear life, an arm around his torso and the other holding out your revolver.

"Nice to meet you mister! I take it you aren't exactly a friend of the government either?"

"No ma'am!"

Arthur laughs at the absurdity of it and keeps riding hard as the lawmen start to gather behind the two of you.

"Quick on your feet back there!"

He states, taking a turn down an alleyway that appeared to be just big enough.

"Thanks, you too, saw you reach for your gun!"

You chuckle to yourself.

"Don't exactly look the rich type. In fact, don't look like the Saint Denis type. I take it you might be in the uh...'bodyguard' business."

"If ya mean shootin' fools who deserve it, then yes, I am."

"Yeah, that's what I mean."

"Arthur Morgan."

"Y/N L/N."

"Nice to meet ya. Let's get the hell outta here."

Arthur did his best to do just that, out running the law as quickly as he could get his poor horse to go.

Finally after quite some time the two of you make it into the woods, just outside Saint Denis, the sound of the lawmen steadily fading.

You're nearly out of the woods, metaphorically of course, when a stump seems to have other ideas.

Arthur and you both go flying off the horse, and directly into the mud below.

It's dark as hell and Arthur has no clue exactly where he is, and you just barely do.

Both of you are covered in mud and Arthur's horse: Mayhem, is currently writhing on the ground attempting to right itself.

You sit up in the mud, scoffing and trying to wipe mud off your face as Arthur does the same.

"Christ Alive..."

Arthur groans, flicking his arm downwards, trying to get the mud off.

You do the same, looking at him with a look of disgust on your face, only for a moment, before you start laughing.

"Well, Mr. Morgan, how very kind of you to dump me in the mud like this."

"Well I didn't mean-"

You laugh and stand up, before you tear off your skirt, now soiled with mud, to reveal your pants underneath it.

"I needed to get that thing off anyway, I was about tired of it."

You reach your hand out, and Arthur takes it, a sort of sheepish grin on his face.

"Well, glad ya ain't too mad at me."

"Nah...you ain't crossed the line just yet cowboy."

Arthur laughs this time and pulls his hand away to run it over his stubble in an attempt to try and get the rest of the mud off.

"I'll be stinkin' for weeks with this stuff, even if I take a damn bath at the hotel."

He sighs and takes his hat off, wiping mud off the brim.

He looks up at you.

"So...Miss L/N...You...sure seem more than capable of takin' care of yourself...I assume you got somewhere you can hide out for a bit until the law gets off you?"

"Course I do."

You laugh and step closer. You take the hat from his hand and gently place it back on his head, pressing your hand to his chest in the process.

"All worried about me there, Mr. Morgan?"

"Worried? No. Curious? Yes."

You offer yet another chuckle and then step around him, letting your hand travel over his shoulder, gently taking it away as you step closer to his horse, and offer it an apple from your bag that had been hidden beneath your dress.

"Well Mr. Morgan...if you're so interested, I suppose you'll have to bump into me again sometime soon, won't you? After all you did save me back there...even if you threw me into the mud afterwards."

"Hey I said-"

"So defensive."

You tease and step back towards him, you flick his hat, making it tilt upwards slightly.

"Send me a letter sometime Mr. Morgan...I could use someone like you for some of my...endeavors. If you're willing that is."

"Depends...You ain't gonna make me dress up and sing the can can are you?"

"No, I wasn't but...now I might."

You laugh and look towards Saint Denis' in the distance.

"Well...Mr. Morgan, if you could do me a favor and drop me off near Rhodes...I think I'd be forever in your debt."

Before Arthur could really register it, that's exactly where he was, stopped in front of the Rhodes train station, holding something you'd given him as he watched you climb onto the train.

A heavy locket, sat in his palm, as well as a handkerchief you'd insisted on giving him, with your initials sewed into the corner of it.

You smile at him, and wave from your seat as the train pulls away, and something within Arthur tells him that it won't be the last time that he sees you.

He couldn't quite remember exactly how he'd managed to end up here. In all complete honesty, the only thing he really knew for certain was that you were....something, that was for sure. Spitfire and kick to you.

He'd see you again. he'd make sure of it.

Okay, so, like I said, this is slightly different than what I write, not by much, but it is a little different, so I hope it was good, and I hope that you enjoyed it! As always, I'm always happy to rewrite something if it doesn't hit the spot just right!

[allzelemonz]

Watching: Charles Smith X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, implied homosexuality, Reader referred to as ‘feller’ and ‘mister’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Violence, murder Warnings: Soft Charles, protective Charles, unwanted flirting, kissing, fluff, unestablished relationship, sober consent, flirting, bar fights, babysitting drunk friends Summary: The Van der Linde gang in a saloon always spells some kind of trouble, so a few of you stay sober to watch the others.

There is not a care in the entire saloon. Dutch has put down enough money for the gang to drink itself silly ten times over and most have taken full advantage. There are a few, like you, Hosea, and Charles, that have been designated as responsible. Abigail is the other but you haven’t seen her in about an hour, you stopped worrying when you noticed John’s absence as well. You watch your drunken friends dance and pick petty fights, taking up nearly the entire saloon. There’s only a few strangers, mostly working girls getting cozy with free drinks until they pull someone upstairs, but there’s also a few troublesome men that you keep an eye on. One of them was hitting on Karen earlier and she made it clear she wasn’t interested. He kept coming back, so you broke a bottle over his head and Charles helped you drag him out. Overall, a standard night.

Until a man decides to talk to you. “Hey, darlin’.”

You glance at him. He has a crooked nose and skin peeling from a sunburn hidden behind an unkempt beard. At the very least, he’s bold for hitting on a man in a public space.

“Mister.” You give him a nod.

He grins, showing that he lacks most of his teeth. “Ya look like a strong feller.”

The glare you give him doesn’t seem to deter him.

“Got a handsome face too.” He giggles, leaning towards you. “Ya like fellers, mister.”

A hand lightly pushes him back before anything further happens, Charles steps between you. He stands up straight, crossing his arms. The man stumbles on his feet and opens his mouth to speak, but he stops when he sees Charles. You ignore the rest of the altercation, turning back to continue cleaning the ring you’d taken from the man that had bothered Karen. You assume the sleazy man that had been talking to you ran away because Charles sits next to you.

“I could’ve handled him.” You mutter.

Charles sighs. “I know.”

“You’re supposed to be watching the idiots.” You gesture to a drunken Sean as he attempts to climb onto a table. “Not me.”

“Maybe I like watching you.”

You look over at Charles and find his focus on the crowd and no discernible expression on his face. Then he turns, still no change in his expression, but now you can see a certain sparkle in his eyes.

“Are you suggesting something, Mister Smith?”

“Maybe.” He cracks a slight smile. “What if I am?”

Your attention is drawn by the sound of a gunshot and you turn, following everyone’s eyes to Sadie. On the ground in front of her is a man that you can assume deserved the bullet he got. In a second, once everyone registers the event, the saloon erupts in chaos. Hosea already has a few of the girls towards the door so you go to pull some of the others from the fight. Charles drags Arthur away just as you manage to shove Micah and Javier to the back exit. It takes a few trips, a few punches, even a disarming as one man drew a knife, but you get everyone out to the horses where Hosea waits. Abigail reappears as well, helping with the girls while Hosea gets everyone in some sort of formation on the horses. He places Charles in front to guide everyone back with himself, you, and Abigail along the sides to make sure no one does anything stupid along the way. If it wasn’t for the fight and the murder you’d stay in the hotel, but Hosea isn’t so sure that’s a good idea now.

So you ride back, only having to glare at a giggling Sean and Lenny a few times as they whisper about running off so you have to chase them. The trees are a welcome sight when they come into view. Getting everyone to bed doesn’t happen because Dutch makes a speech and Uncle passes out beers. A new party begins, this one not in need of babysitters. Hosea thanks you for helping before he goes off to his tent, leaving you and Charles with the mess of horses to get settled. Kieran offers to help, probably having been bored with most people and horses gone from camp, but Charles waves him off.

As you get the last of the saddles off, Charles leans against the hitching post you set it on. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you situate the saddle.

“So you do like watching me?” You ask, turning to him.

He shrugs. “Can you blame me?”

“What makes you so confident tonight?” You ask as you lean next to him.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Arthur might’ve given me a shot.”

“Just one?”

He shakes his head with a bit of a smile.

“Am I going to have to thank Arthur?”

“Depends.” Charles says, leaning a little closer. “Do you like watching me?”

You shrug. “Can you blame me?”

He slowly leans in and presses his lips to yours. Piece by piece, his hands find your face to hold it in place and yours find his waist to pull him closer. He’s warm and you can taste the whiskey when he deepens the kiss.

You pull away a bit. “I’m not doing this if you’re drunk, Charles.”

He hums. “I’m not.”

“You’re sure.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, ducking his head. “I promise, you’d know if I was drunk.”

You smile. “Are you a crazy drunk?”

He returns the smile, looking up at you again. “I can be a little stupid.”

“You promise you’re not drunk?” You sigh. “That you’re coming onto me sober?”

“I promise.” He mumbles. “Can you kiss me now?”

You oblige, pecking his lips. “Do you want to go to my tent?”

“Please.” He mutters against your lips before he presses another kiss to them.

[surreal-duck]

screw it. midoyuzu sdv au (very long bullet point post warning in advance)

midori inherits his late grandpa's farm. parents' greengrocers shop in the city used to get a good chunk of their crops from there til his passing and the farm was since abandoned

kanata is definitely handling the fishing shop. though he spends more time in the water puka pukaing than actually fishing and manning the store but its fine she manages somehow. when midori gets the fishing rod kanata just straight up pops outta to water to give him the rod and floats away 👍 souma helps out there also

chiaki owns the saloon and bartends even if he does Not drink himself and the only thing that ever plays on tv are tokusatsu shows

as for the others i havent thought abt as much and subject to change. kuro blacksmith with his apprentice tetora maybe . nagisa the museum and library curator (and by extension i think itd be really funny if ibara was a joja executive. mostly to keep an eye on nagisa but also keeping the yzib hostility). eichi is the mayor though keito his vice mayor does most of everything and his boyfriend wataru organizes the town events and such like the valley fair etc!! natsume is the forest wizard w his apprentice sora and tsumugi comes by weekly in that traveling cart thing. madara owns the ranch probably.

everybody else is probably just normal townsfolk, among others hajime and hinata take care of the towns plants n stuff!! tatsumi priest, mayoi is half shadow person and hangs out in the sewer (of which noritama at some point explore together and shinobu befriends and invites to visit the surface). i said i didnt think about this much but thats a lie at this point. mika stays in an atelier in the forest (owned by shu whos in the city but does visit on occassion) to cultivate his own art, still best buds with arashi. jun koga adonis and maybe hiiro part of the adventurers guild, trick5tar are their own lil band!!

some charas r not present most of the time or yet like tori who is off at uni w his longtime academic rival and childhood friend and also now roommate tsukasa. their presence is very important for later trust me. rich family rivalry still remains here (along with military camp Because)

due to tori being at uni and learning independence yuzuru is off of his usual butler work for a while and working in the general store owned by the himemiyas! partly to pass the time partly encouraged to find something new to do outside of his servant duties. he calls and nags at tori regularly to make sure hes fine and such

the request board outside of the store is always a good source for side jobs and one day a request for foraged spring onions is pinned up with a terrifying drawing scribbled on it. midoris head over heels Immediately and she already has a good amount to spare so why not take it

hes probably a week into living in the valley already? while yuzuru had just started working over at the store therefore she wasnt aware of this yuzuru fushimi and finds the very one while looking for who put up the request!! the master artist + fan dynamic goes from then on

other than the usual chitchats and more requests with encouraged atrocious drawings accompanying them, been thinking a good amount of the specific town events that happen through the year!! other misc things are various quests and errands from each of the characters, like helping mika gather cloth or hajime requesting various flowers to brighten up the town

Y1 Spring: egg festival, noritama hanging out, shinobu sweeping the egg hunt; flower dance , as they havent gotten to know each other to well enough to actually dance (just like in the game) (haley please. anyways) its mostly just small talk and maybe including some other side pairings i like djdhhfjdj chiaki with a suspiciously soaked kanata and hina dragging off tetsu

Y1 Summer: acquiring the rusty key from nagisa, noritama sewer exploration and befriending mayoi; luau, nothing special particularly for this one; dance of the moonlight jellies, from here yuzuru and midori get a lot closer playing in the sand and just getting along (a bit like siosai marina)!! probably some background drop for the both of them like takamine gramps' farm and yuzurus actual role as a butler while telling him about tori as well dkhdhdjs. they spot the rare green jellyfish together here too

Y1 Autumn (yeah im calling it autumn sue me): valley fair commences, led by everyones own wataru whos hopping here and there somehow managing three attractions at once. yuzuru obliterates the shooting game; spirits eve, chiaki is desperately being clingy out of fear. just more shenanigans in this one

Y1 Winter: festival of ice!! i kinda want to recreate the snow bunny/cute critter scene in jingle bells here, while the fishing contest isnt even a contest at all except between souma and kanata; feast of the winter star ill probably keep somewhat similar to that in the recent luck fest campaign gift exchange!! midori -> hajime and yuzuru -> kanata at the very least. just good vibes all around. community centre would also be finished by then so while joja closes, ibara ends up assisting at the museum w nagisa instead jshshdh

Y2 Spring: only thing of note is that This flower dance they do get to dance together!! 👍 had to get those hearts up beforehand sjhdhdjshd midori at this point fully realized he really does like yuzuru, but kind of the calm before the summer storms

Y2 Summer: gets a bit (a lot) more complicated from here. yuzuru receives word from tori that he'll be visiting from midsummer til the beginning of autumn, and coincidentally tsukasa is tagging along to meet up with his pen pal and friend sora!! bickering the entire way there and due to circumstances yuzurus hosting tsukasa as well in the end, having to share toris room with him aksjdhjwjs

tori gets introduced to midori. the famed young master of midoris crush and this random farmer boy tori had heard so much about for some reason. midoris rather intimidated in the end but it ends up not Horribly to say the least. didnt quite help how tori had noticed how yuzuru softened up even just a bit when interacting with him. sora as well finally meets tsukasa and "the torikun he's heard so much about through tsukasas letters" 🎉 toris awfully smug and tsukasa tries to salvage it saying he was badmouthing him the whole time (not completely a lie but definitely not completely the truth either. dork)

with toris arrival inevitably comes yuzurus duties as a butler, its plain to see his priorities and out of consideration midori backs off a bit. she thought he'd only have to keep his distance until tori's gone back but little did she know toris main reason for coming not only was to assess how yuzurus faring (well and to meet eichi again) but had planned on bringing yuzuru back with him too to which yuzuru of course though not without feeling a tinge of pain for a reason unknown to him agrees to it

midori hears this from tsukasa, how he didnt think yuzuru would stay in town for much longer. and of course midori ended up pretty devastated at the news but who is he to stop yuzuru from leaving? in the end yuzuru would all but abandon his duties, and after all that same diligence and devotion is what midori had fallen for in the first place. if this short year really is all he'd get to spend with him then at the very least she'll have to make the most of what time they have left

the moonlight jellies come around again, probably one of the last times they both thought they'd be able to spend together and went off with just the two of them. a bit of an awkward air around them, yuzuru comments on how toris been complaining about the sand and other attempts at casual small talk as usual but its painfully obvious theres still that tense atmosphere

midori finally asks if yuzurus really leaving after all, to which she got a yes. midori simply nods and had long since accepted that inevitability, and already resolved that when the time comes to put an end to his feelings and get rejected properly. and so he confesses, and while saying she didnt need yuzuru to give him any proper answer in return, all yuzuru could really say was an "i'm sorry" while finally realizing what that awful ache that has been eating at him the entire time was. even if he did realize he felt the same, no matter how much he wanted to say it back theyve both resigned to the fact that its not something that could or would really ever happen between them

once the jellies have all left, their parting was pretty awkward, with that one goodbye feeling a lot like their last. tori notices something off about yuzuru and that something had probably happened between them, but didnt pay it much thought until a while later

yuzurus made more mistakes than whats normal, miscategorizing the stock or putting salt in his coffee, tori and tsukasa are both shocked and tried to pry it out of him but hes a brick wall that wont budge even a bit. it was only when midori came around for his usual errands and groceries that tori could note how distant and awkward theyre both being and that slight bit of hurt behind yuzurus all perfect mask

after much uncomfortable tension and quietly longing gazes enough is enough amd tori eventually confronts him, that while he did say yuzuru could come back to the city asks him if thats really what he wanted. and of course, all hes ever wanted or rather, knew how to want was to be able to serve tori to the best of his ability and really theres no other reason to stay anyways. even more frustrated now tori brings up midori, if he really wont regret leaving things like that when theyll surely drift apart to the point of no return if he keeps it up

argues that whatever was between him and midori has nothing to do with it!! tori is Mad and says if yuzuru is hiding behind his role to run away from the depths of his own feelings hes being a freaking idiot. eventually tori calms down and while he did want yuzuru to come, never wanted him to tear himself apart so much and that he didnt need to sacrifice his desires or getting close to anyone else for his sake, and how before being a servant yuzuru is his family as well and he just wants him to be happy too. then asks one last time if leaving the valley really what he wanted

yuzuru finally thinks it over again and apologizes first. for letting himself get so caught up and carried away for even daring to get close to someone else (tori glares daggers at him. he stops) and affirms that while he did wish to stay, theres still nothing more important to him than tori and his wellbeing and even should he open up and find more people in his life its not gonna change that fact

toris finally satisfied, reminding him again that even if he were to run off to be with some farmer boy hed still be his butler and that he wishes them the best. then proceeds to grab the bouquet from over the counter, shove it into yuzurus hands and lock him out of the store until he has a proper talk with midori. yuzuru tries to argue but it all goes one ear and out the other with tori he is Not gonna let him back inside until then

eventually gives in and goes looking for midori. he asks all around town and seems to just miss him each time, til eventually it starts pouring and into a pretty hard rain. at this point all he could rly focus on though was wanting to see him so pushes on until running into her taking shelter in the forest. yuzuru is Soaked and disheveled and with the wind and rain the bouquet is stripped down to only a few of its flowers left but he does not care at this point

midori is understandably shocked and tries to dry him off with what he had, lending her jacket and asking what he was doing out in the rain like that. well with yuzuru only being able to think about wanting to meet him had completely ignored the rain and brushes it off saying there was something more important he wanted to say

even knowing that he'd (somewhat) rejected midori before, asks if he could give him a proper response this time if midori would give him another chance. she agrees, yuzuru lets him know he wont be going back to the city after all to midoris surprise. goes on that before he knew it midori had become important to him as well and that he truly does adore him, and if his feelings havent changed would like to court him properly. midoris just processing the entire thing before crying. never thought his feelings would be reciprocated and between sobs hugs him. rain clears up, a nice rainbow arches over and while midori accepts what was left of the bouquet they almost had a moment until yuzuru starts sneezing. cue them running back to the store before he gets sick

while yuzurus taking care of himself it leaves midori and tori in the store together. tori gives her a bit of a shovel talk and if he dared do anything to hurt yuzuru he could have his entire farm shut down. and asks to take care of yuzuru for him too. they do talk a bit and end up getting to know each other a bit more before tori and tsukasas impending departure

once midori leaves, tsukasa, having seen the whole conversation, asks tori if hes really okay with it and while tori cant say hes absolutely happy is glad someone cherishes yuzuru just as much. and even if he is a bit lonely will always have tsukasa anyways half as a tease and half being genuine

Y2 Autumn: tori and tsukasa leave the valley, promising to come back next year!! theres a lot more ive planned out from this point out but i am keeping it to myself for now. or maybe forever it depends 👍 my apologies if youve read this far you deserve a medal thank you for listening to my silly rambling 🏅

theres some other things like mini chara arcs/episodes and such (or stuff like specific "heart events" of a sort) i thought abt but among them is tatsumi and mayoi meeting and [omitted] or tetoras apprenticeship under kuro, or shus visit to observe mikas progress and [omitted], and specifically a certain trks episode also

[discount-shades]

Dead or Alive : Prologue

Prologue: Hang ‘Em High

A/N: So it’s gonna be a western. This part is partially based on the Cody Jink’s song Fast Hand. 

Pairing: Jake Seresin/Reader 

Warning: Western themed violence. Brief contemplation of suicide

Word Count: 1000 ish

Summary: Jake gets a new name.

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“Whoa Jet,” Jake felt the noose tighten as the black horse under him took another step forward. He could feel the coarse hemp rope abrading the skin of his neck and restricting his airways. He glanced up at the tree branch the noose was looped around. It was sturdy and would definitely hold his weight if, and when, Jet eventually walked out from under him and left him swinging.  

The thought of digging his spurs into Jet’s sides to just get it over with crossed his mind. With the life he led he was bound to die at the end of a noose anyway, why bother delaying the inevitable? He wiggled his hands again, trying to loosen the rope that had them tied behind his back but the rope just kept tightening and digging into the skin of his wrists.  

He took another strained breath and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Judging by the sun it was mid afternoon. He had been there for hours, sitting under the only tree for miles. Honestly he was impressed that the men who left him here had been able to find a tree in the dark to hang him under. With all the people he had killed, he was bound to run afoul of someone’s vengeful kin. Knowing this, Jake still felt that it was all a little unfair. After all, he only killed people that needed killing, or asked for it, no innocents. 

The men had been relations of some kind to the kid that had challenged him to a duel in a little town outside Fort Worth. He had tried to talk the kid out of it, tried to convince him that it was a fool's errand. But the kid had been adamant, and more than a little drunk so, rather than get shot in the back as he walked away, Jake had squared up. It came with the territory. If you had a fast hand every cowpoke and wannabe gunslinger wanted a turn to dance, convinced that they would be the one to finally shoot him dead.

It had never been his plan to become a gunslinger. When he had headed west at fourteen, after he had put a bullet between his fathers eyes, he had only wanted to escape. Ironically it was his father who had taught him how to quickdraw. One of only two things his old man had ever taught him. The other being how to take a punch. 

– – – 

Jake was recognizable, his reputation preceding him, and when he had walked out of the saloon through the swinging doors the men had grabbed him, and knocked him unconscious in the process. When he came to, his hands were tied behind his back and they were forcing him onto Jet under this lone tree. The noose was already tight around his neck. 

The moon was full and he blinked groggily at the faces around him. Now that he was on the horse, strung up and ready to swing, the men began glancing anxiously at each other. None of them made a move to smack Jet’s rump or fire a gun in the air to cause the horse to flee and leave him hanging. Hell, his own peacemakers were still sitting snug in their holsters slung low around his hips. 

“You do it.” He heard the man with a bushy beard say as he shoved a man with a grey hat. 

“I’m not going to.” Grey Hat said. He motioned toward a man with a tattered vest. “Bill, you lead the horse away.”

He watched the man called Bill shake his head and Jake rolled his eyes, glad of the dark masking his expression. Here he was ready to swing and everyone was too yellow bellied to make him. Self preservation kept him from mocking them but it was a near thing. 

The men stood around his horse, and glanced nervously at each other. It was one thing to plan a murder, to talk about it over some rot-gut. But the cool night air was sobering. Jake learned that when he had finally gotten sick of the beatings and killed his father. For the first few years he had thrown up every time he killed someone. Now he just felt a little bit of his soul leave every time he pulled the trigger. He wasn’t sure how much of his soul was left at this point. 

“We’ll just leave him here.” Beardy said eventually and the others nodded, all of them unable to follow through. Jake knew if he ever saw them again he wouldn't have the same qualms. They had mounted their horses and rode off, leaving Jake sitting alone under the tree. Tethered by a sturdy branch. 

– – – 

The sun was sinking when he finally heard hoofbeats coming up behind him. “Well look who we have here?” Jake groaned. He knew that voice. “How’s it going, Slayer?”

“Bradshaw.” He grunted out hoarsely as the riders rode around in front of him. He knew most of them only through aliases. The names they called each other while pulling jobs that needed more guns, when they didn't want their real names spoken. But Bradshaw he’d known for years. “You gonna stand there or are you gonna cut me down?”

“Maverick’s got a job.” Bradshaw slowly drew a knife and rode closer to Jake. “The payroll for that big ranch is supposedly going to be in a bank in a town south of here.” He casually flipped the knife in his hand. “I’ll cut you down if you join us. Coyote is already in.” He added mentioning the man Jake usually ran jobs with. 

“Do I have a choice?” Jake asked and Bradshaw laughed. 

“No you don’t, Hangman.” He leaned over and reaching up, he began to saw through the rope. 

[abigailnussbaum]

I put off watching it for a while because I was pretty sure I was going to have this reaction. But now that I've bitten the bullet, I'm sorry: the Strange New Worlds musical episode is bad. It's bad as a Star Trek story, it's bad as part of the Strange New Worlds story, and it's bad as a musical.

To start with, I think it's time to admit that the musical episode concept is pretty depleted. "Once More, With Feeling" was more than twenty years ago, and what was once fresh and shocking now feels almost rote. Very few shows really manage to earn it, because they don't have to - the musical episode of a non-musical show is an established trope, which means the very thing that made it so groundbreaking is now gone.

But it's specifically a bad fit for Star Trek, not because it can't justify the concept - there's honestly no daylight between Buffy's "a demon who makes people sing and dance" and SNW's "subspace anomaly pulls us into a universe where people habitually break into song" - but because that kind of fourth-wall-breaking, genre-aware storytelling doesn't belong in Star Trek (or, at the very least, it belongs in something a lot more heightened like Lower Decks).

Star Trek isn't knowing. It isn't genre-savvy. Star Trek is earnest. And it takes its world seriously and treats it like something coherent in its own right, not something you can poke holes in and peek into our own universe from. When it comes down to it, the core flaw of all NuTrek shows is that they're often less concerned with being Star Trek, the story, and more interested in being about Star Trek, the franchise.

Strange New Worlds is an odd duck in this respect, because there are parts of it that so clearly understand Star Trek, the story, and are so clearly interested in expanding it, that I can't help but fall in love. Episodes like "Spock Amok", "A Quality of Mercy", and "Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow" do such a great job of slotting into the existing story while making it their own (though I could wish the show was better at telling original stories). I'm especially wowed by how they're handling Kirk, who is such a smart, non-sensational take on the character while still having all the recognizable flaws and quirks of the original.

But it's also a show that thinks breaking the fourth wall is the height of sophistication, that is more than willing to comment on its storyness in a way that runs completely counter to its Star Trek-ness. You see this in episodes like "The Elysian Kingdom", "Those Old Scientists", and now "Subspace Rhapsody". And if the first two of those at least had a Star Trek link - "Elysian Kingdom" is essentially a holodeck episode (even if it isn't as good as any of them), and "Those Old Scientists" is obviously all about Star Trek (even if, like so many media franchises these days, it collapses living in the Star Trek universe into being a Star Trek fan). But "Subspace Rhapsody" is just a gimmick, fundamentally no different from similar episodes on Lucifer or Grey's Anatomy or The Flash.

And worst of all, it's a bad musical. One effect of the fact that this trope has become so familiar is that it has created an sideline for talented songwriters who can knock out an episode like this without putting much personality or style into it, just hitting the required beats. There's got to be a power ballad. There's got to be a comedy song. There's got to be a kicky saloon number and a big finale. "Subspace Rhapsody" feels like the nadir of that cottage industry's output. The songs are all generic. The lyrics are forgettable while you're listening to them. There's no unified theme or style, because the point isn't to be a musical. It's to convey a general sense of musical-ness. Beyond the novelty value of a Star Trek musical - which, as noted, is pretty degraded in 2023 - there's nothing here of artistic merit, much less something that feels uniquely like a Star Trek musical.

(Case in point: the Klingons. Having them do boy band music is a joke that's funny for the audience, probably means nothing to the characters, and most importantly, does not make sense within Star Trek. Of course Klingons would sing - they would sing opera.)

As if to add insult to injury, the biggest character development in the episode - which is also driven by the only memorable song - feels baffling, and ends up shortchanging a relationship that the show has been trying to get us to invest in for more than ten episodes. Spock and Chapel got together at the end of episode 6, had a crisis in episode 8, and are now, in episode 9, breaking up for another, unrelated reason. Seems like a better use of everyone's time might have been to let these characters and their relationship develop organically, rather than informing us, through song, that Chapel has suddenly decided to prioritize her career (by, um, leaving Enterprise for so short a period that most couples wouldn't even consider it a major relationship challenge). Are we meant to understand that something deeper was wrong, and that the internship has brought it to light? If so, why haven't we seen it? It's hard not to feel that the musical was being used as a shorthand for emotional development the show didn't feel equipped to deliver, which is only one more way in which it underserves the show.

[triplesilverstar]

A Gunless Duet

Rating: General

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Pining, vomiting

Word count: 1510A/N: Vash wanted to head to the local Saloon and you followed him there, too bad he tries to get you to dance with him and you don't know how

The town's saloon certainly seems to be a happening place tonight, you’re sitting at the bar sipping on a rare beer, enjoying the atmosphere. It’d been an interesting day to say the least, and when the disaster known as the humanoid typhoon that doubled as your traveling companion asked if you wanted to join him you saw no reason not to. 

You’d never been much of a drinker, never enjoyed the hangover plus you liked being in control of your senses and usually preferred water. A very different take on alcohol then Vash, who was currently red faced laughing with some of the townsfolk. Didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the show, and damn could that man put on a show. 

The first few times you had gone into a saloon and seen him there and the antics he pulled you found it annoying. How could anyone be that foolish? And yet, as time passed you started realizing it was all an act put on for the appearance of someone who belonged yet not quite. You’re still not sure when your own feelings towards the man changed from friendship and companionship, to wanting to wake up next to him everyday. How when he smiles a certain way, your heart starts racing loud enough you don’t know how he can’t hear it. Before you can go too deep down the rabbit hole of your thoughts however you felt a hand land on your shoulder. 

“Come dance with me” Vash had settled his arm around you and pressed in close, eyes smiling. You find yourself staring at him dumbfounded, the alcohol in his system making him a bit more physical than usual. Your ears are burning and you don’t know how he can’t see it. 

“What makes you think I know how to dance?” You tried to keep the bite out of your tone. It's not that you mean to have it come out that way but the statement just confused you too much. He seems equally as shocked, mouth slightly agape. 

“All those up close and personal moves of yours are you’re trying to tell me you don’t know how to dance?” Rolling your eyes you snort at him, crossing your arms in front of you. 

“Big difference between dodging bullets, punches, and with you falling building parts, then whatever dancing entails. Never took the time to learn.” Shrugging your shoulders at his words, or as best as you can with his hand against your shoulder, before taking the final mouthful of your beer, preparing to switch back to drinking water. 

“Well then, come on, I’ll teach you.” Oh hell no, and you tell him as much. “What, don’t tell me you’re worried you’ll be bad at it?” No, that is not your worry. It’s more the damage to your reputation. Sure the two of you always blow off how much he looks like Vash the Stampede by pointing out the “real” Vash wouldn’t be such a pushover. But you, most times the second you walk into a town and people take in your coat and rifle there is no doubt who you are. Having word get around that one of the best bounty hunters wandering Noman's land made an ass of themselves dancing in a Saloon makes you flush. 

“It’s not my thing. Besides,” you find yourself pointing at one of the pretty brunettes that has been trying to catch his eye all night “I think she might enjoy a dance or two with you.” He sighs just loudly enough for you to hear before he squeezes your shoulder and whispers a soft ‘next time’. Once the alcohol is out of his system, you know he’ll realize there won’t be a next time, you’re his friend, and only his friend. No matter how much it hurts to see him laughing with women that you doubt come with the same kind of baggage as you do. Hell Vash even knows what the baggage is and you’re still surprised you’re friends when so many others have cut ties long before this point in time. 

A few hours later you find yourself paying your tab and his before heading back to the hotel room, you make sure to wave at Vash so he knows you’re taking off. You’re barely ten feet down the street before he joins you. “You didn’t have to leave just because I was. You seemed like you were having a good time.” 

“I was” that rare infectious smile of his is gleaming in the sparse night light “But I’d rather spend the rest of the night with you. Plus that Brunette you pointed out to me was starting to get a little too handsy.” 

“What the great Vash the Stampede notorious skirt chaser found a lady that was too much even for him?” 

“Laugh it up Snipes.” he groans, hands digging into his pockets. “Maybe I'm just choosing to chase a skirt that is more my type.” You shake your head at him, some days he is just incorrigible, and lately the banter is hurting more than it should, your heart looking for something that just isn’t there. Back in the hotel you find yourself pulling your boots off and hanging up your jacket, when a hand is placed out in front of your eyes. Vash has the portable radio playing and some soft music is drifting around the room. “Will you dance with me?” You roll your eyes at him. 

“Didn’t get enough at the saloon?” 

“Not with the right partner.” You sigh, he still has his boots on but his own jacket and sunglasses have been discarded for the night. 

“Vash, I mean it. I really don’t know how to dance, plus I highly doubt I’m the right partner.” You find yourself whispering while still placing your hand into his. He’s always so warm, even through the fabric that makes up his glove. 

“And I meant it when I said I'd teach you.” The next few moments are spent with him adjusting both your position and posture, trying to walk you through the steps. “Wow. You. Are. Really bad at this.” 

“No shit.” It seems so strange to you, trying to follow his steps and with neither of you really moving. You think he’s about to give up on the idea and watch his eyes light up. 

“Stand on my feet.” 

“What” you laugh looking up at his face, there’s no way he said what you think you heard. 

“Stand on my feet. I have an idea.” You shake your head but do as he’s asked of you, his grin growing wider and shifting his grip. When he first moves you almost fall over off balance and grip him tighter. Before you can snap at him however he keeps moving. “Maybe an idea of how the steps should work might make more sense.” Another few moments and he’s gently swaying the both of you to the music, and while you’d like to get lost in the movement and being close to him like this, all you can think is how ridiculous this must look. Staring down at both of your feet, eyes narrowed trying to understand any of the steps, not aware that he’s simply swaying to the music and taking you along for the ride. 

“This, makes zero sense.” A soft chuckle escapes him at your admission, and you find yourself glancing back up at his face. A crimson flush settled across it “Vash. Are you drunk?” He starts to sputter at your question in denial, while you move and settle your feet back to the ground. “Sorry, but I just don’t think I’m meant for dancing Vash. Shooting and fighting, yes. But not this, you’ll have to keep trying to find the right partner at saloons and bars my friend.” 

Turning away from him, you miss the crestfallen look that crosses his face at your words, if you had of been watching him you might have seen the cracks in his facade. Shoulders slumping and a soundless exhale leaving his body, it seems no matter what he tries you never seem to get what he’s trying to wordlessly tell you. Tonight he thought with a bit of liquid courage he might find the words, instead you’d turned him away to another dance partner. It’s enough to make him feel queasy. Moving to grab his sleep clothes from his bag he freezes after the sudden turn, a noise of discomfort leaving him. 

“Vash, you ok?” facing him again, you notice a tint of green across his face. 

“I think I'm gonna be sick”

“Then get to the bathroom! I’m not cleaning up puke you dumbass!” Grabbing him and running into the bathroom while he holds his hand over his mouth. You flip the seat up in time to hear his retching, rolling your eyes “and this is why I don’t drink. I’ll get your clothes for you to change into.” Shaking your head at his antics, wondering why your heart is beating so hard in your chest. 

Back to Masterlist

[taggedmemes]

SENTENCE MEME ⟶ OXVENTURE PRESENTS: DEADLANDS / ch3 always feel free to tweak the sentence to fit your muse.

'YOU'RE A DEAD MAN! DEAD MAN WALKING, THAT'S YOU!'

'you can box him up to go.'

'isn't there some kind of gravedigger's union?'

'aw, you read the rules? aw dang...'

'you just stood there. you didn't do anything! you didn't even try!'

'now we've gotta get justice.'

'i wasn't there, but that sounds awfully wise.'

'oh, sorry, hang on. i've gotta kill someone real quick.'

'he'll think you're trying to kill him. which you are.'

'you've just gotta push that anger all the way down until the time is right.'

'well, it's already dusted in opium.'

'young man, do you know what jerky is?'

'can you move away from the house now, please?'

'we could pack the coffin with dynamite.'

'you'd be amazed how many people try to bribe me to declare people dead.'

'so you take bribes, you say?'

'people who love opium famously think they don't need any more opium.'

'well i enjoy getting paid money.'

'lost to a child. embarrassing.'

'doctors make mistakes all the time!'

'he might have the appearance of a dead child...'

'do you know what'll happen to me? do you know what he'll do to me if he finds out?'

'he won't be capable of anything when he's dead!'

'do what i tell you, or... i'm gonna have to hurt you.'

'man i get a kick outta you!'

'i don't know, i'm young, i don't think about illness.'

'looks like this chump doesn't wanna die!'

'i seen quicker molasses than her draw!'

'what kind of contest is this?!'

'i've been countin'. he's only got one bullet left.'

'i drank a lot of whiskey today, i could do with a milk.'

'once we've stripped anything valuable off the bodies what's the point?'

'then he comes back into town and he's all shooting the ground and making us dance and all that kind of stuff...'

'i'm increasingly not worried about making good decisions.'

'he seems pretty smart and pretty evil.'

'never seen him love on anybody.'

'he's very angry. that's a sort of weakness.'

'but you'll be dead because he will have shot you at the same time.'

'no one's this lucky this many years in a row.'

'does he look like his spirit has been crushed?'

'listen up fella, i didn't wanna do this...'

'you ain't so humble though.'

'let's push over something big at the same time.'

'there's a piano in the saloon; you go push the piano over.'

'we'll ask his cold, dead corpse, i guess.'

'well now i'm mad. i'm getting increasingly mad and vengeful.'

'it's like this fella's doing some kind of witchcraft or magic. i wish i knew more about this stuff.'

'i don't understand it, but there's something going on.'

'if things go weird, you throw this at him and i'll do the rest.'

'dynamite's not a weapon, it's a tool.'

'it's like any other tool. like a hammer.'

'this is just my walking-around dynamite.'

'if anything happens to me, you kill this man dead.'

'he was disinclined to hand over his weapons. it's his way, so.'

'I DON'T TALK TO DEAD MEN!'

'this is slightly awkward, i was mostly interested in talking to your friend.'

'i've been impressed by the way he killed those men.'

'you line your enemies up in a row and you gun them down.'

'i've not seen many come through with skills like him.'

'let me just go run it up the flagpole.'

'he's a big fan. he likes how you shot those people in the throat.'

'folks like that, i don't think they like people who're as good as them.'

'but... not above cheating. love to cheat.'

'if you get an opportunity to just outright kill him...'

'seems a shame for a young man of such obvious talents to die out here in the middle of nowhere.'

'i don't see your name on it!'

'there's no need to be raising your voice now.'

'this is the emergency prybar for when we put someone in a coffin who's not ready.'

'you're a dead man! the doctor said!'

'i'm glad you're back but, um, we're in the middle of a firefight outside.'

'springin' out of the grave!'

'did i get shot? or did i just get nearly shot?'

'we have a man to kill! shoot now, ask questions later!'

'i'll duel you right now! i'm young and i'm crazy!'

[2treez]

AN OLD WOMAN WALKED UP AND TIED HER OLD MULE TO THE HITCHING POST.

AS SHE STOOD THERE, BRUSHING SOME OF THE DUST FROM HER FACE AND CLOTHES, A YOUNG GUNSLINGER STEPPED OUT OF THE SALOON WITH A GUN IN ONE HAND AND A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY IN THE OTHER. THE YOUNG GUNSLINGER LOOKED AT THE OLD WOMAN AND LAUGHED, "HEY OLD WOMAN, HAVE YOU EVER DANCED?"

THE OLD WOMAN LOOKED UP AT THE GUNSLINGER AND SAID, "NO,... I NEVER DID DANCE... NEVER REALLY WANTED TO."

A CROWD HAD GATHERED AS THE GUNSLINGER GRINNED AND SAID "WELL, YOU OLD BAG, YOU'RE GONNA DANCE NOW," AND STARTED SHOOTING AT THE OLD WOMAN'S FEET.

THE OLD WOMAN PROSPECTOR -- NOT WANTING TO GET HER TOE BLOWN OFF --STARTED HOPPING AROUND. EVERYBODY WAS LAUGHING. WHEN HIS LAST BULLET HAD BEEN FIRED, THE YOUNG GUNSLINGER, STILL LAUGHING, HOLSTERED HIS GUN AND TURNED AROUND TO GO BACK INTO THE SALOON.

THE OLD WOMAN TURNED TO HER PACK MULE, PULLED OUT A DOUBLE-BARRELED SHOTGUN, AND COCKED BOTH HAMMERS.THE LOUD CLICKS CARRIED CLEARLY THROUGH THE DESERT AIR, AND THE CROWD STOPPED LAUGHING IMMEDIATELY.

THE YOUNG GUNSLINGER HEARD THE SOUNDS, TOO, AND HE TURNED AROUND VERY SLOWLY. THE SILENCE WAS ALMOST DEAFENING. THE CROWD WATCHED AS THE YOUNG GUNMAN STARED AT THE OLD WOMAN AND THE LARGE GAPING HOLES OF THOSE TWIN BARRELS.

THE BARRELS OF THE SHOTGUN NEVER WAVERED IN THE OLD WOMAN'S HANDS, AS SHE QUIETLY SAID, "SON, HAVE YOU EVER KISSED A MULE'S ASS?"

THE GUNSLINGER SWALLOWED HARD AND SAID, "NO M'AM... BUT I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO.

THERE ARE FIVE LESSONS HERE FOR ALL OF US:

1 - Never be arrogant.

2 - Don't waste ammunition.

3 - Whiskey makes you think you're smarter than you are.

4 - Always make sure you know who has the power.

5 - Don't mess with old women; they didn't get old by being stupid.

🌳🫶🏼🌳

[stegal]

A tale from the wild, wild West ...

"An old woman walked up and tied her old mule to the hitching post.

As she stood there, brushing some of the dust from her face and clothes, a young gunslinger stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

He looked at the woman and laughed,

"Hey old woman, have you ever danced?"

The woman looked up at the gunslinger and said, "No ... I never did dance ... Never really wanted to"

A crowd has gathered as the young gunslinger grinned and said, "Well you old bag, you're gonna dance now!", and started shooting at the old woman's feet.

The old woman prospector - not wanting to have her toes blown off- started hopping around. Many were laughing.

When his last bullet was fired, the gunslinger, still laughing, holstered his gun and turned around to go back into the saloon.

The old woman turned to her pack mule, pulled out a double-barrelled shotgun and cocked both hammers. The loud clicks carried clearly through the desert air, and the crowd immediately stopped laughing.

The gunslinger heard the sounds too, and turned around very slowly. The silence was almost deafening. The crowd watched tensely as he stared at the woman and the large gaping holes of those twin barrels.

The barrels of the shotgun never wavered in her hands as she quietly said, "Son, have you ever kissed a mule's ass?"

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, "No m'am, but I've always wanted too"

THERE ARE FIVE LESSONS HERE FOR ALL OF US:

1 - Never be arrogant.

2 - Don't waste ammunition.

3 - Whiskey makes you think you're smarter than you are.

4 - Always make sure you know who has the power.

5 - Don't mess with old people; they didn't get old by being stupid."

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