#cowboy copper red

[houseofhairla]

HOUSE OF HAIR

[fshfish]

meow

[sapphicwitchstudio]

I felt like a little fluff today given the week we’ve had. Arthur and his dog Copper in a time they were happy.

I love how much that sad cowboy loved that dog. I miss mine.

[renslo161605]

Dogs are Part of the Family

Me and my silly angst headcannons

Coppers buried next to Eliza and Isaac.

They make me extremely sad

[inkdrinkerworld]

Fake I.D

synopsis: cowboy!james is infatuated with you and your flirting, so you take him line dancing to get him to make a love

cw: suggestive content, 18+ only, grinding, flirting, use of the word pervert, James and reader are kind of idiots in love

Your hot pink and white boots will be the death of James and he knows you know that.

He can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you out of them and the total number of times is one- every other time, it’s been those godforsaken hot pink and white boots with a thick heel that makes your legs look like something out of his teenage wet dreams.

You’re not new in town, you and James have known each other since primary school but it was in secondary school that you really plagued his every waking thought. You were pretty, and kind, but also confident and didn’t take shit from anyone. James found it wildly attractive.

You and James hadn’t been close friends, but you’d always been friendly. His friend Sirius had introduced you both at a party, and you’d been friendly since that.

The turning point in you and James’ friendship had come not too long after you’d started working at a salon.

James’ parents own the biggest horse farm in town, and you’d rescued a tiny colt that had been trapped up in some bushes while you were on a hike, and drove it to James’ family ranch in the back of your pickup with tears in your eyes because of the cuts on its legs.

James had never seen you, loud, confident you, in tears like that and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest as you hiccuped through your words to tell him about the colt. He and his dad had taken it out of your tray and everyday the colt was on the ranch, you went over to check on him.

Eventually, James was able to nurse the poor thing to perfect health and then asked you if you wanted to name it after his dad told him they’d keep it.

James wasn’t shy himself, but sometimes when you looked right into his eyes, lashes framing your eyes, it made his heart stutter.

“You really think I should?” You had asked, eyes wide with excitement but also a bit of apprehension.

“Yeah, ‘course. It’d only be right.” and as you had stroked the near blood coloured mane, the face of the horse in your other hand, the name came to you easily.

“Copper.”

You and that horse and James had been inseparable after that and James nearly lost his breath every time you went to the ranch after that- cutoff shorts, hot pink and white boots and shirts James swore made him feel like a pervert.

Now, you’re at James’ ranch, a brush in Copper’s mane as you look at James tending to his own filly- Moondancer.

“Please Jamie? It’s fun and you never stay for the dancing.”

He knows he’s fighting a losing battle. You’re doing those puppy dog eyes and you’ve got red eyeliner on to match your shirt and James feels a little overwhelmed with his attraction to you.

“I’ll be your partner all night, Jamie. Won’t leave you to be eaten up by the ladies- save that luxury just for me.”

You giggle when he sputters and his cheeks flush. “Alright, angel. What time do I meet you at the Boneyard?”

You gasp, all faux aghast. “You won’t pick me up at my house? Where’s your southern hospitality?”

James rolls his eyes, “I can do that too. Say eight?”

You pop your hip as Copper nuzzles into your hand. “Will you be all done by then? I don’t want you to cut into your chores and stuff Jamie?”

You’re so earnest, and the flirting has been put to a pause making James turn to goo.

“I’ll be all done, angel. Don’t worry.”

At seven thirty, you’re all finished with your makeup, nothing too extreme, just a smokey eye with glitter on your lids and the heavy black eyeliner you noticed James likes.

Your hair is out and ripples down your back in loose curls, your most recent haircut making them look even better than usual.

You’re not trying to impress him, but you have a plan for how tonight is going to end and you want James to finally take all your flirting as seriously as you mean it.

So you dress up and pull out all the stops that you know he likes- the hot pink boots a must, your low rise jeans, and your skirt that says, ‘save a horse.’

When James knocks, you squeal, boots clacking as you race to the door.

“Hey Jamie,” you sing-song as you pull the door open, James taking in a deep breath as his eyes rake over you.

“You look stunning.” There’s a little husk to his voice that you love.

As he gives you a once over, you do the same. He’s dressed in his most relaxed pair of jeans, a blue wash that makes his already thick thighs look ever thicker, a black t-shirt that clings to his arms and nearly makes you drool and his hat. God you love and hate his hat- you love it because he looks stunning in it; but you hate it because it hides away his pretty curls. God you love those curls.

“So do you, Jamie. I like your shirt, it makes your arms look nice.”

He smirks, a little emboldened. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping out of your door, “Ready to go?”

James nods and holds his arm out to you, smiling to himself when your hand wraps around his bicep and not his forearm.

The Boneyard is packed as it usually is, most of the patrons are already more than a little drunk, but you spot some of the girls at your salon, some of James’ friends and some tourists who’re no doubt in tonight for the line dancing.

“A cherry vodka angel?” James asks, wanting a drink to dispel some of his nerves.

“Yes please, James. I’ll go see what songs they have for tonight.”

James nods, watching you walk off first before going over to the bar. Sirius is working tonight, a smirk on his face as he spots James and then spots where he’s looking.

“Finally doing something about all her flirting, Potter?” he asks and James flushes a little as Sirius passes him a beer and then makes your drink without James saying a word.

It takes him a little by surprise that Sirius knows it, but then it dawns on James that he talks about you a lot to his best friend. A lot.

“Trying, but she makes me so fucking nervous, Pads.”

Sirius laughs, patting James on the arm.

“Doesn’t sound so bad, Jamie. You’d be a fool not to be nervous about that girl. She’s trouble all over in the best way.”

James is very inclined to agree.

“Hey Siri, you being nice to James?” You take your drink gratefully and take a sip.

“I was about to ask you the same thing, trouble.” You shrug with a pretty devious smile on your face- James’ heart rate picks up. “Saw you looking at the setlist, you and Potter planning on dancing?”

You nod, smiling when you look up and find James looking at you with fondness written boldly on his face. He’s easy to read, never one to guard his feelings, James.

“Yeah, they’re finally doing Fake I.D again so I figured I’d take James’ virginity in that regard.”

James, bless him, doesn’t sputter, which he’s eternally grateful for. Sirius shares a wicked grin just like yours.

“Don’t make it too vulgar, Remus’ll run you off the dance floor.”

You put your hands up, “I make no promises.”

James is saved from any more teasing from either of you when the song starts playing.

“C’mon Jamie, it’s starting.” He lets you pull him after he downs the last of his drink.

“What if I mess it up?” He whispers as you tug him along. Your hair whips at his chest as you turn to look back at him and he can smell your vanilla shampoo and shuts his eyes for a brief moment.

“You won’t, just follow my lead. You’ll be perfect.”

It takes him a couple steps to get into the song, but seeing you smiling and giggling makes James fall deeper into the music.

The floor rumbles with everyone’s steps, but all you can think about is James behind you as you dance in a circle.

“James!” you squeal when you feel his hands hold onto your hips, James smiling wide as you lean into him a little.

As the guitar solo riff continues you know you have to stay close to James for this part. It isn’t hard because it seems like you’ve both magnetized to each other more than before. As the beat drops, you feel like time has slowed, the words filter into your ears all muffled and soft as you pull James close by his shirt, your chests pressed together. “Hey mister, won’t you sell me a fake i.d.”

You see his breath hitch more than you feel it. You’re both grinding on each other on the dance floor, and it’s way more erotic than anything else either of you could’ve been doing.

“Fuck,” you feel the whisper as James’ hand cements itself to your hip and one of yours buries in his hair.

You tip his hat onto your own head and you swear James’ chest rumbles. “Angel.”

You’re breathless as you and James dance, you feel like you’re the only people on the dance floor.

He dips you backward and you bite back a moan when one of his hands travels up your back to keep his hat on your head. As he picks you up, his fingers knot in your hair and your lips just barely meet.

“James.” You breathe his name and he groans.

“You really are trouble.” his lips meet yours, tentatively at first, and then his mouth consumes yours the moment you kiss him back.

You pull apart and smile, “Took you long enough, James.”

He shakes his head, his dimple poking out as he chases your lips. “You look so good in my hat.”

His stare turns you a little shy and you duck to hide your face in his chest; James laughs at the action.

“Come outta there, sweetheart. Can’t hide those eyes from me now.”

You groan, but look up at him. “Have you always been this smooth?”

James nods, tipping your chin up just a bit higher to kiss your lips again. “Just for you,” you beam at that. “My heart’s thumping.”

“Mine too,” You kiss his jaw, teeth scraping a second path. “Wanna get out of here?”

James slips his hand in your back pocket eliciting a keen he wants to hear more of. “Get your cute butt in my truck, angel.”

You giggle as James squeezes before releasing you, holding your hand with his hat sitting proudly on your head as you stomp your feet out of the bar to his truck. He really does love those hot pink boots.

[yeyinde]

hoooooo boy. m!mc anon here - your response was extremely interesting and i am a little obsessed with your brain (i’d like to study it, you truly come up with the most delicious ideas)

but i also have to say that out of all of tf 141, that idea for soap was actually so delicious that i had to physically put my phone down for a while. respectfully, that is the hottest thing i’ve probably ever read. even more feral soap?? forcefem?? phew. amen.

thank you for giving me more material to zone out to in the middle of the day (praying hands emoji)

ahhh thanks!!! i started to drag on more about m!Reader and Johnny, but. this happened lmao. so here is some nasty Johnny picking up m!Reader in a bar.

forced!fem. switch Johnny. m!reader is described as being very masculine presenting. but in the flavour of Will Graham's whole aesthetic

All things considered, it's a little clichè.

Older man (—ish, you amend mentally, remembering the birth year on his driver's license when you chanced a peek over his forearm as he rifled through his wallet: 1982—millenial) hits on a younger man in a crowded sports bar. Opens the conversation with haven't seen you around here before, and let's the defined chisel in his jawline do the heavy lifting in place of a personality. Adds a wink to that line, too.

Thighs pressed tight against each other on the stool. Arms brushing. Speaks purposefully when it gets rowdy so he has to lean in close, stubbled jaw grazing your cheek as he mock whispers his lacklustre response to a question you didn't ask. Buys you beer. The expensive kind, too. Laughs when you ask what he's drinking and orders something that makes him seem like he's more of a man than you are.

For a brief period between intermissions—when it gets quieter and he conveniently sneaks off to the washroom—you debate picking up the heavy innuendos he's trying to put down. It could be worse, you think, staring at the only other potential lay you've been entertaining over the last two weeks.

You could be getting mediocre sex from a guy who keeps sending you unasked for pictures of his cock and hole. One you keep dodging by adding an appropriately enthused wow, all this and it's only 10am on a Tuesday to every "yep, that's a dick" image he sends in place of a real conversation.

The sarcasm gifting you yet another unasked for picture of his hand around his cock. Sure is, baby. But—

"be better if ye were 'ere wit' me."

You startle, phone cracking off the edge of the counter. "Shit—"

The person over your shoulder peels away for a moment. "Ah, sorry. Ack—is yer phone alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," you breathe, tapping on the screen. It flicks on. You're graced with another picture of his ballsack. The caption—

"need yer cock s'fuckin' bad—"

You cut him a sharp glance over your shoulder. It's rude. You're a little annoyed at having your travesty of a sex life aired out for every obnoxious wannabe cowboy to overhear, but the irritation is stemmed by the fill of liquid hazel—and flecks of blue, you think; a pretty blue ring around oxidizing copper.

Larimar. Marbled with umber. Framed around glossy white streaked with small rivers of red. Tinged slightly yellow—undoubtedly from the pack of cigarettes you find stuffed into the breast pocket of his red, gingham button down when you tear your eyes away from him. The look too intense. Too much.

Taking stock of everything else about him is just as flustering. The gingham draped loosely over him. Wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Collar opened until the last few buttons around his navel. He's wearing a black shirt beneath that glues to his skin, pulling taut around his sternum and collarbones. A gold chain with a thick, heavy cross sits in the valley between, swinging when he rocks back on his heels.

Thick thighs stuffed into jeans that stretch to fit. The bottoms tucked half-heartedly into a pir of black, leather boots.

The shirt shifts when he moves, pulling tight around his broad shoulders as he lifts the last swig of a beer bottle to his lips. Beneath the coarse, black hair that dusts over the pale, peachy skin of his forearms, the back of his hands, his knuckles (Jesus Christ), his muscles flex. Bunching tight under veined flesh.

It makes sense to follow the trail to those sucking lips, but you catch a flash of pale pink, the sweep of a blood-red tongue through the hazy brown of the translucent rim of the bottle and feel your heart lurch in your chest.

You try to swallow but your throat is dry.

He makes a noise as he drinks. A sucking slurp, the plop of his lips unglueing from of the mouth of the bottle. A quiet, groaning ahh whispered under his breath.

It pulls your eyes up, forcing you to fill in the rest of this puzzle, and you know, even before the same dense cropping of hair that covers his arms (hands, fingers) starts to show at the black hem of his Henley that you made a mistake. A grievous one. He's handsome.

Defined jaw. Implish lips. An angular nose. Thick, full brows. The same pale, peachy skin sloping up his neck, chin, cheeks, and forehead before disappear into dark brown, almost black, hair. An untrimmed mohawk. A scar on the side of his head, cutting clean along his temple and stretching back to his ear. The hair around it is sparse. Shaved. The gorge of his scar a dark pink inside. Healed, but—

Raw.

A little like the rest of him. Rougish, in a way. Fractured.

His hair is matted down on top. Toussed along the unblemished, overgrown side, but flat on his crown.

The mystery, however, is solved when he flicks a ballcap onto the table beside you with a crooked quirk of his mouth. All teeth. White, sharp.

The man slips into the stool your date was occupying with a sniff, the smooth ridge of his nose bunching up. Displeasure drapes itself over his expression, a little rumple in his brow. "Screamin' Jesus. Dunno wha's thicker. His cologne or his come-ons."

The barb is unexpected. You try to hide your snort behind a grimace, rubbing the tip of your nose with a rough finger. He catches it, though. The pinch in his brow smoothing out as he grins wide, vicious.

Your heart lunches. Stutters uncomfortably in your chest. "You watchin' me or something?"

He turns in the seat, knee bumping into your thigh. Crowding you easily as he folds over the tabletop, elbow dropping to the table with a muted thud. His cheek slides into his palm, head tilting as he considers your words. The implication.

And then he grins wider. "Or somethin'."

Cocky. You scoff, but it just makes him look more amused.

"Tha' yer type?"

"Hmm?"

He motions to the nearly untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. Then to your phone.

"All talk," he enunciates each word, letting his accent pull taut around the syllables. "An' no action."

"No action? You don't think buying me beer and sending dick pics, begging for a fuck, is no action?"

"Aye—" he reaches for the beer he placed down beside his cap, and takes a generous swallow as you pretend the shift in his throat isn't making you a little light headed. He peels away with a grunt. "Ah do."

"Yeah?" You scoff, bringing the nozzle to your mouth to quench the ache in your throat. The soft preen coiling in your chest. Stupid words like, so what about it, pretty boy? wanna take me home. "What would you do instead?"

"I'd split yer pussy open on my cock in the loo. Let everyone in this bar hear ye moanin' fer me—"

You choke, barely have time to put the bottle down before you're haccking into your fist. He has the decency to pat your back as you wheeze.

"Ain't got a pussy," is what you settle for after a beat, voice hoarse. Wrecked. The way he shudders at the sound is unmistakable. Your neck feels hot. Itchy.

"Oh, sure ye do," he leans in close, warm breath fanning over your cheek. "A nice, tight little pussy fer me to fuck—"

"I'm a man." You feel a little stupid saying it. As if any part of you could be mistaken for slight. For soft. Feminine. You work with your hands. Grew up in the backcountry. Fishing before you could talk. Chewing tobacco before you hit puberty. Your old man made sure to pound that notion into your head before you even know what it meant to be a child. "I don't know what kinda games you're playing, but—"

"ahm no' playin' games," he shrugs, leaning back. It gives the idea of space. Distance. But his hand finds its way your denim-clad thigh, nails skimming the inside seam of your jeans wear the material is softer, worn down from friction. Too high to be appropriate.

You should move. Snap at him to take it off. Growl the words out if you have to do.

(Punch him, maybe. But he looks like the sort who would like that too much, you think. Rough. Dirty. Not afraid to fight back with his teeth if he needs to.

come on, baby, hit me harder—)

Your knee jerks. His grip tightens. "I got a cock. Not a pussy."

He makes a face at that. His full bottom lip juts out, angling to the side in confusion. "Ah ken? Ahm plannin' on ridin' that cock tonight, aye. The one yer little date is so desperate fer—"

"Jesus—" you wheeze, cock thickening in your jeans. Men aren't—

They're not usually so forward with you. It's nudging innuendos. Beer. A whispered wanna get outta here when the bar is about close and no one else is around to see it. You know what you look like. And it's not—

Soft.

"Easy," he taunts, grinning. "Don't choke so soon. 'aven't even go' ma cock out—"

You're not entertaining this. Absolutely not. He's—

Well. You're not sure what he is, but he's not normal. Not right. And you're not that desperate.

(maybe)

But the words die in your throat when his bright eyes glance down at your empty bottle, a frown forming over his pretty, pink lips like you not having anything to drink right away was somehow the most inconvenient thing to him.

"Get ye a drink?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. Then: "thanks."

It's softer. Gritty. The word scrapes over your throat in a way that almost hurts.

You blame it on the beer you drank before. Sloshing around your empty stomach and making you feel wildly off-kilter. Tipsy, maybe. Too drunk. Vulnerable to kindness (however threadbare it might be) when you usually get lewd pictures and beer you didn't ask for.

He flags the bartender down with a flick of his wrist. Keeps his eyes listed toward you as he leans over the counter, whispering something in his ear that you can't hear. Unease knots in your stomach. Cold fingers linking together, pressing frigid knuckles to your soft lining.

You look away when he drops back into his seat, hand finding its way back to your thigh. Gripping tight. Possessive. It curls around you. His warmth, his touch. The smell of him—sweet wheat, lemongrass; something earthy, like the damp, wet scent of mid-autumn; maple leaves stuck to the pavement after a late night rain shower—and you breathe slowly through your nose, both eager for the smell and sick of it. Sweet maple. Tart pumpkin. Your fingers twitch. You fold them into fists, glancing down at the spread of his hand on you.

His knuckles are red. Blotchy. Raw. The skin on his middle finger is cut across the wrinkled folds of his joint. The knick is deep. Almost a circle if not for the way it tears on the side, streaking outward. The outer edges of the crater are white. The inside pink before it turns to a deep red in the middle. Clotting already.

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. Unhinging your jaw takes more effort than you can expend, and you pant, a little, when your mouth finally pries apart. The words thicken on your tongue.

What happened—

The bartender comes back, his shadow falling over the counter. You jerk your head up, blinking at him as he places something down in front of you.

Something pink.

You swallow again. "Uh, what's this?"

"Sex on the Beach," the man answers, waving the bartender off. "Pretty drink fer pretty little thing."

"You wanna get punched? Because this is how you get your teeth knocked out—"

"Oh, baby," he purrs, accent rolling over the words in a way that goes straight to your cock. "If that's what yer intae, ah don't mind gettin' a little bloody fer ye. Might make suckin' yer pretty little cock easier."

Little. Your throat aches. Your mouth is dry. The beer is gone, cleaned empty bottles cleaned up by the bartender. Trying to swallow only makes the sting in your throat more prominent and does little to relieve the burn.

In front of you, the pink drink sits mockingly. Beads of condensation drip down the glass.

It's not even the stupid implication of a man drinking a cocktail that keeps you from reaching for it, but the fact that he ordered it for you with that in mind. Pretty drink fer a pretty—

Your throat clicks. Flesh glueing together when you swallow. Peeling away painful when you breathe.

Fuck it, you think. It doesn't mean anything. Not to you. Not at all.

When you reach for it, his head jerks over to you. Staring, unabashedly, as you bring it your lips and take a sip.

He groans. The hand on your thigh tightens. "Good girl."

It heats you up. Buzzes in the back of your head. You should get out of here. Leave. Go home and sink your head into your pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until all these terrifying feelings are snuffed out. Smothered. Tucked back into a box you didn't realise you had—

"Wanna come home wit' me? Let me fuck yer pretty pussy until I cum?"

The swell of anticipation in your chest makes you flinch. "I told you—"

"Ye want it, don't ye?" His hand moves higher up your leg, bleeding warmth through the denim. "Want me to make fuck ye. Make ye cum around ma cock. Bet ye have th' sweetest little cunt—"

"Fuck—" you shiver. His word wrap around your hindbrain, a soft touch that makes you feel hot. Itchy. Your heart pounds. You wonder if he can hear it. "I don't—"

"Gonnae let me taste it. Sit tha' pretty arse on ma face, aren't ye? Ride me until ye cum."

"I can't—" you force the words out of your throat, feeling the scrape against the soft tissue inside until it hurts. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"

"ahm tryin' tae take a pretty girl home—" girl. Girl. You shudder, feeling sick. Nauseous. "'ave her spread her pretty legs fer me..." he leans in, lips brushing your warm cheeks. "Let me ride that pretty cock until she cums—"

"Stop it—"

His hand finds your cock, thick in your jeans. Pressing tight against the zipper. "Gonnae fuck me so good, aren't ye? Not gonnae let ye cum unless it's inside me—"

"You're—ah, fuck—" his hand rubs over your bulge, eyes hooded, heavy, as you twitch. A wet spot grows, dark and unmistakable against the cool blue denim. "A—anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a freak?"

"an' yer a messy girl—" another pulse. The patch grows. It shouldn't turn you on. This sort of talk—it's not something you've ever been interested in before. Ever tried. Outside of porn—big, barrel chested men crushing another in their arms, growling about how they're gonna knock them up—it never surfaced. Never reared. "Gonnae let me clean ye up?"

You should say no.

It's on the tip of your tongue. No, leave me alone. Get the fuck off of me. Say that shit to me every again, and I'll—

His hand slides up, fingers curling over your clothed cock in a way that knocks the thoughts from your head, leaving nothing behind but an empty space. An ache. An itch. Something that needs to be filled.

Your phone chimes. Another text. You don't have to look down to know what it is, but his hand slides over, fingers dropping to the sleek, black surface. He pulls it to him with the pads of his index and middle finger. You should stop him. Grab it back. Leave—

"Need yer thick cock inside o'me," he narrates, mouth ticking up in a terrifying smirk. All teeth. A dogtoothed grin. "Now, there's a thought."

He dips his chin, tongue poking out from between his lips as he types something back in response. You can't see what it is from this angle, but the pinch in his brow, the glimmer in his eyes—you're sure this guy, potential candidate; looming mediocre lay, will have you blocked in five minutes. When he glances back, a tendril of something darkly satisfied brimming in the amber of his eyes, you amend it to right now.

You huff. "Shouldn't take things that don't belong to you."

The man stares at you for a moment, the corners of his eyes creasing in that same soot-stained amusement he had when he ruined your chances with the too-pink tip of his tongue hanging out. Satisfied dog. It's unnerving.

You think it scares you.

Or—

It should.

Whatever he finds as he fossicks through the fragments of your shattering composure, it seems to make him purr. His pupils expand. His nostrils flare. He leans in again, and you taste ash on your tongue. "M'ready tae leave."

It's not a question. The with you rings out like a gunshot in the back of your head.

You should say no. It's been on the tip of your tongue this whole time. No. No. Leave me alone. Go away—

But each time you try to pry apart your clenched jaws to say it, the look in his eyes make you think dogs and their bones.

You swallow this rancid thing in the back of your throat down. Make a jerking movement with your shoulder—a shrug, maybe. The twitch of your aching cock gives you away.

"C'mon, wannae fuck tha' little pussy o'yers," he rasps, words a tangled growl in the thick of his throat. Accent eliding. Slurring together. "Or ah'll have tae drag ye back tae the bathroom. Fuck ye in the shall. Make yer pussy cum on ma cock—"

You shiver. It's disgust. It's anger. It's—

His hand peels away from your thigh, reaches for your phone. He leans toward, and shoves it into the back of his pocket.

"what ahm I gonnae do tae ye?"

You know what he asking for. Feel the heat smoulder inside of your veins, burning up your neck. Be a man, you think. Be a man. Tell him to fuck off. Punch him. There's nothing soft about you. Nothing delicate. He's crazy. You're not—

His stare is paralyzing. You feel dread thicken in your stomach.

(dread, you think; your cock jerks. The front of your jeans are damp. The sticky drag of them on your groin calls you a liar.)

"Ahm no' askin' again, hen."

Your jaw unlocks easy this time. Opening with a quivering sigh that makes him groan low under his voice, eyes fixed on you. Drilling holes into your head. Needling his warped desire into your mind.

"You're gonna," your voice shakes. Heat sears your skin. It feels you're going to melt. "You're gonna fuck my—my pussy—"

The noise he makes is sinful. Liquid. Rich. A groan that breaks into a thrilling moan. Your stomach knots. Churns. You'd be sick if you had more to drink.

"C'mon—" he jerks his head toward the door, eyes blazing. "Gonnae ye exactly what ye need."

You go. Stand when he does, chin dropping to your chest in humiliation when your cock jerks at the idea. Sliding your jacket off your shoulders, holding it in your trembling fists as it covers your pelvis. The unmistakable need there for everyone to see.

Fuck yer pussy so good, he growls, ripping his wallet open and shoving a fistful of neat, straight notes on the counter. "Ain't gonnae need anythin' else when ahm done wit' ye. Gonnae be beggin' fer my cock inside ye—"

You should run. And when he steps back, motioning for you to move first, it feels like he's giving you the perfect opportunity to escape. To flee. You want to. You should.

But you don't. Something holds you back. Makes your teeth sink into your tongue. Jaw hinging shut. Snuffing out the words rotting in the back of your throat with a swallow.

You follow him quietly as he paws at you, rutting his cock against your thigh, whispering in your ear about all the terrible things he's doing to do. A better, more sensible man would've run, something holds you back.

The same thing that makes you ignore the reason why you haven't asked about his bloodied knuckles or wondered where your date is.

You know the answer already, don't you?

"Ahm gonnae fuck ye so good, hen. Won't be thinkin' about anyone else when ahm done wit' ye—"

It's what you've been looking for since the beginning.

[retrospacejelly]

A Western Vendetta

Pairing: Ex-outlaw!Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

Summary: A look into Miguel’s past, and why he was given the title, El ángel vengador.

Warnings: Angst, Guns, Mentions of the devil’s tango, typical cowboy things, language, death/murder, gore, alcohol

BEFORE YOU READ: This chapter is very dark! It is a huge contrast from the last two chapters so please read with caution!

Part: 2 ½ /?

Part: 1, 2, 2 ½ , 3

Not proofread

A/N: I had this idea brewing for a while, and character AI helped push the plot!  (Thank you Monstera for letting me expand on the plot!)

Reach out if you want to be on my taglist!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Red. Red was all he could see.

“Mamá…? Papá…?”

A young Miguel, only eighteen, had just finished work for some extended family in another town. He was delighted to be back home. 

“Mamá, Papá?!”

He runs through the house, stopping suddenly at the sight before him.

In front of his eyes, the bodies of his parents lay lifeless on the parlor floor. The stench of iron flooded his nose, and his stomach churned. He looked around. Except for a tossed chair, nothing seemed to be out of place.

-------------------------

Miguel stuck the shovel into the cold dirt, makeshift headstones staring back at him. Reciting a quiet prayer, he turns to make his way back into the house. 

He had walked throughout the house, looking for anything of value that might be missing. 

Nothing.

Money that was kept in his father’s nightstand and safe was untouched. His mother’s jewelry was still organized in her cedar jewelry box; an anniversary gift from his father. 

When he opened her jewelry box, he took her beaded rosary and a copper ring. He smiled sadly at the copper ring. Shoving them into his vest pocket along with some money, he made his way to the parlor.

Whoever had done this was going to pay. Whoever had done this would meet the wrath of Miguel O’Hara. 

Miguel snatched his father’s trusty pistol from its spot on the mantlepiece. As he made his way to the front door, he slipped on his cowboy hat and set off for the town. 

-------------------------

He first made his way to the saloon, its bright and cheery atmosphere a stark contrast from himself. He quietly made his way to the bar, ordering a whiskey. 

He needed to come up with some sort of plan. He couldn’t just go around asking people if they’d seen any suspicious folk. He didn’t even know who he was looking for.

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of loud, boisterous laughter. Moving his head to the side, he noticed two seemingly drunk men four seats down from him. He shook his head, annoyed.

“...Yea, that bitch squealed like a damn pig, I tell ya! Had it comin’ too.”

Miguel’s attention was piqued.

“Don’t ya…don’t ya think killin’ ‘er was a bit much, though, Butch?” his friend asked.

The man named Butch scowled at his friend. “Hell nah! She made a damn fool ‘outta me when she turned me down at the market. I’m fuckin’,” he hiccups, “Fuckin’ Butch Wyatt. And no one makes a fool ‘outta me!”

Butch slams his glass down. “Planned on jus’ killin’ ‘er and leavin’ the body for ‘er husband to see. But that Bottom-Feeder came home early. Had to kill ‘im too.”

His friend tries to calm Butch down, not wanting to cause a bigger scene. But Miguel had heard. Oh, he heard well. He had to set his now empty glass down so as to not shatter it with his hand.

He watched as they made their way out of the saloon, swaying drunkenly out the doors. They wouldn’t make it far. 

After a couple of minutes, he stood from his seat, placing some coins down by his glass. Nobody seemed to notice as he made his exit.

The street was silent save for the drunken laughter of the two men and Miguel’s heavy footfalls following behind them. 

He watches as they turn into an alleyway, and speeds up his pace. His blood starts to pump faster as he closes in on the two. He slips the gun from its holster and calls out to them. 

“Hey, Bastardos.”

They turn around, their eyes slowly trailing up to his own.

“Whatdya jus’ call me…?” Butch blurts out, reaching for his gun. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Senor,” Miguel answers, his dead eyes trained on Butch. Butch’s friend tugs his arm, a look of dread on his face. “C’mon, now Butch, you don’t know who he is?” he asks.

Butch looks over to his friend. “Am I supposed to know who he is, Casey?”. Casey leans in. “That’s Miguel O’Hara, I’ve seen ‘im doin’ work around town…”.

Butch lets out a laugh. “O’Hara?! Yer’ the bitch’s son?! What? Come ‘ere to seek revenge, boy? It’s two against one, ya know.”

Miguel doesn’t respond.

“Yer’ mother was a fuckin’ whore. When I pointed that gun at ‘er, boy was she-”

“Squealin’ like a pig. Yea, I got that.” 

The sound of a gunshot rings throughout the alley, Butch’s body slumping to the ground. And before he knows it, he aims at Casey and shoots.

-------------------------

The sun had risen just above the hills, and roosters crowed from their perches. 

The Mayor’s wife was taking her usual morning walk with her mutt, Captain, humming happily to herself. She always awoke before the town to get a peaceful walk in.

She sees something hanging from the square’s stone statue (the statue being her husband of course). The sun blinds her vision of the statue as she squints to get a better look.

She walks closer, bringing her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.

And then.

“AAAAAAAH!”

Her shrill scream alerts the homes nearby. She drops Captain’s leash as she covers her mouth, sobs racking her body.

Joshua, the storekeeper’s son is the first to stand by the wife’s side. When he looks at the statue, he retches. 

As more and more townsfolk gather in the square all hell breaks loose. Shouts of fear and surprise fill the air but are soon quieted down as the Mayor makes his way through the crowd.

Looking up, he gasps, horrified.

There, hanging from the Statue’s arm were the mangled corpses of Butch Wyatt and Casey Brown. 

And as Miguel stands at the top of a hill overlooking the town, mounted on a stolen horse, he can’t help but smirk as one of the residents shouts, “El ángel vengador!”

From that day forward, Miguel O'Hara would venture from town to town seeking retribution on other outlaws. Word spread fast of an Avenging Angel making its way throughout the West.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the people of Miguel’s hometown to figure out just who this Avenging Angel was. Word of El ángel vengador’s identity spread even faster and soon wanted posters of Miguel O’Hara were posted on every surface throughout every town.

Some argued that  El ángel vengador was helping towns that were being terrorized by outlaws while others argued that vigilantes had no place to go around killing people. 

As the years passed, Miguel made a realization that killing outlaws wouldn’t bring his parents back and would only make the reward for his head higher. 

-------------------------

As he sat on the small bed in Y/N’s guest room, fiddling with his mother’s rosary, he thought to himself.

It had been a decade since the end of his murders, and five years more since the death of his parents. Even after all these years, he is still considered a wanted man, although the hunt for him has simmered drastically.

He couldn’t help as a tear escaped his eye, bringing the rosary up to his lips. 

Tomorrow would mark the anniversary of his parents' deaths.

______________________________________________________________

This was a dark segment! A huge contrast from the previous chapter, I know. There might be some confusion, so here’s some clarification on age:

Miguel is around 33 when he meets Y/N. His parents were murdered 15 years ago, but he quit his murders 10 years ago.

Y/N is around 26. Her ex-husband cheated on her when they were both 21. 

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Reach out if you want to be on my taglist!

@codenameredkrystalmatrix @slushycoookie

[reds-writings]

Red, my beloved!

May I request fluff prompt 20. (playing with their hair before falling asleep) for old man Rust? May it be the first time his hair is being played with after he grew it out? :)

Thank you so much darling, much love!

a lil mini blurb before i go night night. hope you enjoy!

The light breeze that had traveled from outside caressed your face as you lay entwined with Rust in the late afternoon. It was warm out but not sweltering enough where it was insufferably suffocating. Instead, it had made you both rather lazy, causing you to forgo any sense of productivity or duty you had initially intended for the day’s affairs. You tried to tidy whatever few things needed tidying but eventually found yourselves on the couch curled into one another. Wanting to just be and soak up the sun’s beaming rays from the nearby window. 

Your nimble fingers had worked the ragged hair tie from the sandy tresses threaded with silver so they could card through mindlessly. The act made it easy for both of you to fall into a hazy state of existence. His head resting at your chest with arms curled around your midsection like amorous vines to steady his thoughts with the repetitive thump, thump, thump of your doting heart. Silence blanketed the room to trap you in your own heavenly bubble. Enticing you to lull away into the plane of dreams and unbothered rest. The beloved wind chimes from out front could be heard from a distance, drawing your mind to similarly pleasant days experienced all too long ago. 

“We need to get you some products if you ain’t cuttin’ this anytime soon.” You murmured gently as you eyed a lock of hair pieced between your fingers that almost shone like dusted copper in the light. 

“You sayin’ you don’t like it?” His mumbled drawl rang back to you just as softly. His head jostled slightly at your small huff of laughter. 

“It’s grown on me. Just feels drier than straw s’all. I remember you used to preen plenty about your hair back then so I know you’re capable of takin’ good care of it when you want to.” You flicked at his head when you felt a retaliating pinch at your side which was soon followed by a lethargic kiss at your breastbone.

Shaking your head, your fingers continued their journey to pick out any small tangles or knots. Your eyes were growing heavier by the minute and you could tell he was reaching the same state as his breaths were becoming steadily deeper. Soft palms met coarse stubble to thumb at the wiry mustache taking residence on his handsomely worn face.

“We need’ta trim this too soon. Don’t let me forget.” Sleep kept dragging you down further. It was no use trying to stay present for much longer. Not with your own personal weighted blanket in the form of a cowboy bringing you such great volumes of comfort. You forgot how seamlessly rest came with his presence. 

“Tomorrow.” He dissuaded and all you could do was nod slightly in agreement before finally letting go.

“Tomorrow.” 

[yourlocalmechanism-dr-carmilla]

FELLOW THE MECHANISMS ARTISTS (and inspectors second class)

i am unable to draw üroeprly so I propose this:

THE MECHANISMS BIT DRESSED UP AND THE CLOTHES MATCH EVERY ALBUM-

Once upon a time in space - medieval clothing mixed with sco fi elements, armour and chains and cybernetic elements. Colours: red, white, golden, black, silver, dark blue, dark green and dark red

Ulysses dies at dawn- mafia/noir movie type attire, suits and elegant gowns, mixed with vintage technology (cables, steel and buttons, not futuristic exavtly) Colours: black, dark blue, silver, all shades of grey, dark red (but only hints of it), beige and sandy tones, hints of white

High noon over camelot- cowboy attire basically cattlepunk (steampunk plus cowboy aesthetic), give everyone cowboy hats and bandanas, colours: black, all shades of brown, red, golden, copper, sand coloured, dark red, orange, yellow, the colour of whiskey (i canmot describe.it)

The bifrost incident: norse mythology inspired, lots of accessoires ESPECIALLY hair decorations-pearls and beads in the hair, fake hair strandes, hair clips, etc. Skirts for men >:), intricate patterns, colours: black, purple, green, soft orange, rainbow colours, bright colours liek green and blue and yellow, abit of grey, soft yellow, red, silver, golden, abit lf brown

Yeah ^^

And either you dress them up fitting for their roles or disregard the roles :)

Anyways, i hope i can inspire, i mean i BET my idea isnt new so

[maddsmallow]

madyy do you have any hankcon fics for me im on a kick (￣▽￣*)ゞ

@subway-dove i went thru my ao3 bookmarks, here's literally all of my favorites that i can remember by the plot summary LMAO

just a little scheme-lady drace

found (my) family (in the woods)-lady drace

aging with grace-trash_heap

stupid sexy priest-connorsjorts

ruining a perfectly good mattress-lady drace (NSFW)

calling in a favor-halcyandream (NSFW)

red all over-ghost_teeth (NSFW)

7 human habits you should try at least once-moonwalkingcrab (i dont remember the plot of this one but i have a feeling i really liked it) (NSFW)

promise-jerk3max (FUCKING SAD BUT GOOD)

dieu et mon droit-plutoandpersephone (NSFW) (also this one is a staple hankcon fic)

two different stars in the same sky-blackeyedblonde (NSFW)

the mermaid of fox creek-atropaazraelle

blue canary-beepgrandcherokeeper (NSFW)

though bright be the morning, brighter still be the stars-bibliomaniac

bend, twist, and shape-dbhprincess

the other way to someday-bigspoonnoya (NSFW) (this one is also another staple hankcon fic)

bound to you-mango_lioncat (NSFW) (this was a twitter fic and it's written in a way that makes that super obvious lmao, but the story is still really good imo despite that)

a tourist in a dream-octobig (NSFW) (this fic was technically never "finished" because the writer didnt really have an end in mind, but it leaves you very happy even so! no major cliffhanger or anything)

the gap in between-molias (NSFW) (another staple fic)

lilacs in bloom-molias (NSFW) (again, another staple fic—to be fair, basically all of this person's fics are fucking fantastic)

too much, never enough-jolli_bean (NSFW) (this is another hankcon fic writer whose fics are like ALL staple hankcon fics)

he's making a list; i'm checking him out-connorsjorts (NSFW) (ABSOLUTE STAPLE FIC)

blue skies, white slopes-highlyexplosivecontent (NSFW)

peppermint mocha-gildedfrost (NSFW)

the copper valley cowboy-highlyexplosivecontent (NSFW) (i made some art kinda sorta inspired by this for an art exchange!)

be brave, my heart, winter is coming-lady drace (not really nsfw but makes references if i remember correctly) (ALSO THIS IS MY FAV HANKCON FIC OF ALL TIME)

getting home-atropaazraelle (NSFW)

H & C, '39-blackeyedblonde (NSFW)

downloading to paris-sevdrag (the fact that this fic still isnt done is kind of a meme at this point. feel free to bully sev about it 👍 (only slightly joking LMAO))

eighteen wheels on an uphill climb-blackeyedblonde (NSFW) (this is like THE staple hankcon fic)

from the window-sumoattack (NSFW)

slow down, you're doing fine-jilliancares (NSFW)

i'm sure there's been plenty more that i have enjoyed, but if they're in my bookmarks, i didn't remember the story by the summary 😅 enjoy!!! if any of my mutuals have any to add, go ahead!!

[houseofhairla]

HOUSE OF HAIR LA

[girlsurvive]

the two of them were going to a light display, excited beyond belief to be witnesses the likes of it. going out at night was one of their favorite activities. the both of them didn't have anything to worry about when the sun was no longer out. the woods would be decorated in brightly colored bulbs, illuminating their path. ART walked at a speed slightly faster than he should have - walking up slightly closer than he should have to each display. like an excitable child about the fact that he could see christmas lights in the pattern making out santa claus. whenever he would see the man in red, he would start pointing at it - making sure that jessi had noticed it, as if she was not taking in the sights herself.

Colorful lights cast a bright hue across the woman's face — the vampire watching as the bulbs flicker off and on. she follows behind the killer clown she's accompanying, hands stuffed into the pockets of her denim jacket as she walks slower than her companion. The winter breeze feels like needles on her cheeks, copper colored strands trailing behind her whilst her gaze floats between different light structures. Jessie nods her head at Art's pointing, a kind smile grazing her features while she claps her hands quietly. Jessie loves christmas, she also loves the lights, but being out in the cold and having it hurt is still something she's getting used to. she's a vampire, she's supposed to be immune to the cold. but Art is having fun, that's all that mattered. excited , like he's never seen lights before. it's charming, cutesy. "You love the big guy, eh?" Jessie muses, tapping her cowboy boot against the snow. "I get it. When I was little I was obsessed with him too."

[chevvy-yates]

[NC_RES]_27022048-NCA steyr_j_portraits_008_LC_MB.file ///core:_jaysen_steyr.file\\\ —

⚠️ READ: Please do not repost/reupload any of my art here or to any other platform, or I will be forced to do anything to get it annihilated. —

Jaysen had to hold back long enough, right? So have a bratty rowdy netrunner gunslinger! <3

Spontaneous pics as always. I've tried to re-outfit JayJay yesterday. Was a bit complicated since I'm thinking about giving him a different tattoo ate most of the time but this is a task for another day.

As always I didn't feel comfortable closing the game without taking at least some random pretty pics. See it as a first attempt to venture further into his netrunner cowboy/gunslinger theme. Not sure if the outfit stays as it is because the cyberdeck clips minimal into the coat but it def looks like I could let it stay there — like it's made to be clipped onto the coat in some way? And the belts could as well be a holster underneath the fabric x)

The gun is wrong though. Jaysen prefers to use revolvers (Malorian e.g. the Overture a.k.a. Crash but dunno if I make him a Techie or not, so far all have Power weapons because I love Power Weapons uwu). Jaysen stole borrowed Arki's glasses when Arki was too busy helping his lil' twin brother V.

My goal with Jaysen is to bring out his chaotic good character in the best way possible in future vp. And somehow I find it funny because Jay is in fact something between Arki and Vijay. His color scheme is close to Arki's, though Jay wears more red and orange instead of black with gold and red details (I wish there was more copper in the game though so he often has gold elements too now). He's the aggressive offensive runner, Vijay is the reserved defensive one.

In fact Jaysen is how I wanted Vijay to be first but couldn't make him because V was so cute and I loved the 80s theme for him once I did that graphics posts. But Jay is more like I have played PS4-Version Vijay and imagined him to be if I could use mods: Hack n blow em up, if RAM needs recovery; just bullseye 'em all.

Here's another two: one with the awesome golden glasses. But I prefer the red round glasses more I gotta say.

[neopronouns]

flag id: six flags with 9 stripes, with the second and eighth being smaller than the others, the first and ninth smaller than those, and the fifth the smallest.

the top left flag's stripes are dark greenish-yellow, mustard yellow, light copper brown, copper brown, dark dull brown, dull red-brown, light brown-grey, very light orange-grey, and dark turquoise. the top right flag's stripes are dark copper brown, red-brown, dull light brown, light sandy brown, copper brown, light brown-grey, orange, orange-brown, and dark red-brown.

the middle left flag's stripes are dark faded brown, dull brown, soft brown, faded light brown, faded brown, light caramel brown, caramel brown, brown, and dark brown. the middle right flag's stripes are brown-black, very dark red-brown, dark faded red-brown, dull red-brown, very dark brown, dull brown, dark dull brown, very dark dull brown, and dull brown-black.

the bottom left flag's stripes are dark red, bright red, red-orange, light red-orange, dark faded red, pale orange, light brown, medium copper brown, and copper brown. the bottom right flag's stripes are red-brown, faded red-orange, light faded red-orange, light sandy brown, dark red, tan, dull light brown, faded medium brown, and red-brown. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

hickorycolauric | bronzecolauric browncolauric | umbercolauric tawnycolauric | terracottacolauric

hickorycolauric: a colorgender related to the color hickory, felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, and dark rooms

bronzecolauric: a colorgender related to the color bronze, leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, and hourglasses

browncolauric: a colorgender related to the color brown, wicker baskets, bookstores, wood rings, chocolate bars, suitcases, mochas, and teddy bears

umbercolauric: a colorgender related to the color umber, book spines, suits, coffee, deep soil, violins, bear fur, and staircases

tawnycolauric: a colorgender related to the color tawny, fall leaves, candles, blood oranges, hawk feathers, ladybugs, clay dust, and toadstools

terracottacolauric: a colorgender related to the color terracotta, canyons, woven rugs, bandanas, pottery pieces, matchsticks, cattails, and broken nails

[pt: hickorycolauric: a colorgender related to the color hickory, felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, and dark rooms

bronzecolauric: a colorgender related to the color bronze, leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, and hourglasses

browncolauric: a colorgender related to the color brown, wicker baskets, bookstores, wood rings, chocolate bars, suitcases, mochas, and teddy bears

umbercolauric: a colorgender related to the color umber, book spines, suits, coffee, deep soil, violins, bear fur, and staircases

tawnycolauric: a colorgender related to the color tawny, fall leaves, candles, blood oranges, hawk feathers, ladybugs, clay dust, and toadstools

terracottacolauric: a colorgender related to the color terracotta, canyons, woven rugs, bandanas, pottery pieces, matchsticks, cattails, and broken nails. end pt]

eighth set of colorgenders based on the results of this 'what color is your aura?' uquiz for anon!

these are in the colorgender flag format with the aura color from the uquiz as the center stripe and colors inspired by the listed things as the rest of the stripes. the terms are the aura color, 'col' from 'color, 'aur' from 'aura', + 'ic'!

tags: @radiomogai, @colorgendered | dni link

[princess-of-the-corner]

K, as of right now, I’m calling Koda’s dog Blue. I’m picturing her as a German Shepard-sized, wolf looking dog with blue-black fur, and yellow eyes. You may change her name, gender, breed, whatever. HOWEVER, I am going to post the list I ended up with, cause I hyper focused. It is now 1:30am. I need to SLEEP.

Whisper (Sonic the Hedgehog)

Moro (Princess Mononoke)

Hayate (Black Hayate, FullMetal Alchemist)

Jump (Page: Lady Knight Series, Tamora Pierce)

Ammy (Okami, video game)

Chibi (Okamiden, sequel to above)

Grimm (myth reference)

Lockjaw (Fantastic Four)

Lucky (generic; also from Hawkeye/MARVEL)

Rex (the Wonder Dog)

Snowy (the Adventures of Tintin)

Streak, the Wonder Dog (Green Lantern)

Titus (Batman)

Ace (Batman)

Antoinette (Ouran High School Host Club)

Astro (the Jetsons)

Balto (movie, Balto)

Blue (Blue’s Clues; also Wolf’s Rain)

Bolt (Bolt, movie)

Buttons (Animaniacs)

Clifford (Clifford the Big Red Dog)

Dante (Coco)

Goddard (Jimmy Neutron)

Lady (Lady and the Tramp)

Magenta (Blue’s Clues)

Perdita (101 Dalmatians)

Pongo (101 Dalmatians)

Pluto (Mickey Mouse)

Rowlf (the Muppets)

Scooby-Doo (Scooby-Doo)

Winona (MLP:FiM)

Courage (Courage the Cowardly Dog)

Diogee (Milo Murphy’s Law)

Duke (Captain N: the Game Master)

Ein (Cowboy Bebop)

Genevieve (Madeline)

Bronx (Gargoyles)

Naga (Legend of Korra)

Pupcake (Strawberry Shortcake)

Sherlock Hound (Sherlock Hound; anime)

Sprocket (Fraggle Rock)

Gromit (Wallace and Gromit)

Olive (Olive, the Other Reindeer)

Scraps (Corpse Bride)

Zero (Nightmare Before Christmas)

Trusty (Lady and the Tramp)

Blacktoe (Star Trek: the Next Generation)

Wishbone (Wishbone)

Bruiser (Legally Blonde)

Buddy (Air Bud)

Chance (Homeward Bound)

Copper (the Fox and the Hound)

Dewey (Firehouse Dog)

Domino (102 Dalmatians)

Friday (Hotel for Dogs)

Gladstone (Sherlock Holmes)

Hubble (Good Boy!)

Junkyard (Race to Witch Mountain)

Luath (the Incredible Journey)

Shadow (Homeward Bound: the Incredible Journey)

in the end, it has to be a random reference to something Koda actually watched and liked, because he is blurting out a name at random so he Can claim her as his dog, so these random people won’t take her away. So, if you think of a better name, by all means, use that.

-

GOD there are so many good doggos to name her after. I think I might need to just kinda roll with writing the dog more before I pick a name? Sometimes animal names just happen as you vibe their personality.

[marlodalton]

everything ends and that's the saddest thing i'll ever hear.

⸻ backstory. pinterest. musings. playlist.

quick stats

name: marlo dalton

gender: cis woman

pronouns: she/her

age: 34 ( thirty four )

dob: September 10th

pob: paxton, az

orientation: bisexual

affiliation: cowboy mafia

appearance

height: 5′ 6¼″ ( 1,68 m )

build: slim athletic

eye color: blue

hair color: copper-red

tattoos: horseshoe ( inner upper arm, left )

piercings: lobes ( both ), conch ( right ), helix (left)

personality

positive traits: driven, loyal, attentive, gregarious, quick-witted

negative traits: impulsive, relentless, restless, daring, explosive

summary: marlo is a wild girl who had to grow up in an instant. growing up at the rodeo with her father, she was used to an exciting and fast pace of life, seeking thrills from a young age. anything would do as long as it was exciting which often got her in trouble. in her teenage years, her relationships reflected that mindset. she had many friendships with different people from different backgrounds, always able to make them all work. however, her romantic relationships were rather short-lived, her focus remaining on the fun of it, never putting enough effort into her partners to make it work. her passion was always barrel racing and she gave it her all, thriving on the thrill and challenge it presented. things changed after her father's accident, forcing her to mature quickly. some people might consider marlo difficult, others challenging. she has a sharp tongue and quick mind, making her an entertaining friend or an adequate enemy. she values the people she cares about, her experiences and losses making her fiercely loyal and protective. even though she's become less hot-heated than her younger self, her emotions often still drive her to act impulsively, especially when she's backed into a corner or when she feels like she ran out of options.

career & education

current occupation: owner of horseshoe hospital

past occupation(s): barrel racer

education: doctor of veterinary medicine

significant relationships

vaughn dalton ( father / 1972 - alive but comatose ) : vaughn became a father at 18 and raised marlo in paxton with the help of his family. in his lifetime he became a accomplished bull rider. in 2011, at the age of 38 and towards the nearing end of his career, he had an accident during an event and suffered a brain bleed. he's been at an assisted living facility in phoenix ever since, with marlo visiting often. they were close and vaughn had a significant impact on marlo.

monica cooper ( mother / 1973 - alive ) : monica didn't want to be a mother and was willing to give marlo up after birth, moving to phoenix. their relationship was limited to birthdays and rare visitations. since vaughn's accident, monica has been visiting her ex and trying to upkeep a civil relationship with her daughter, although marlo is rather cold towards the woman.

rhett dalton (uncle / 1966 - 2023 ) : rhett was vaughn's older brother, the former owner of the horseshoe hospital and like a second father to marlo. he helped raise her and they were always close, although their bond became even tighter after vaughn's accident. rhett paid for her education and supported her growth at the clinic. his death broke marlo's heart and she's still grieving both men who raised her.

booker ( labrador / 2018 - alive ) : booker is an one-eyed rescue someone brought into the clinic. no owner ever showed up and marlo adopted him soon after.

skipper ( grey tabby cat / 2020 - alive ) : skipper was brought into the clinic by two tourists visiting from out of town. when marlo announced that the cat would have to get his front right leg amputated, the owners agreed but never picked him up after. marlo adopted him immediately, changing his name from ferdinant to skipper.