#cut-price

[evermoreal]

thinking abt some kind of outlaw!au where the 141 walk away from a raid with a lot more than they bargained for.

౨ৎ *· edit: this is now a series!

a few weeks back they’d received word of a nobleman and his wife who’d be leaving for their honeymoon, valuables aboard the carriage. after a bit of lurking and bribing, they’d narrowed down just which road was desolate and wild enough to get away with the raid.

concealed by the bordering forests, they’d waited. an embarrassingly opulent carriage came dawdling down the road (polished wood, velvet curtains, ostentatious engravings) & they pounced.

the drivers & guards, they’d expected. the gunshots, the shouting. what took them by surprise, though, was the wife, who did not fight as gaz wrestled her into his arms. who watched a little too closely when ghost dragged his blade across her husband’s chest, demanding the location of their funds.

“where’s’a money?” price questioned, moving towards the woman when her husband’s pride weighed heavier than his cowardice. his broad palm gripped her jaw as gaz held her arms behind her back. “hm, lovey? y’speak english? y’better tell me, or your sweetheart ‘ere ‘ll be gutted before tha night’s over.”

she watched her husband writhe for a long moment, before meeting price’s gaze. her voice was flat, steady. “kill him.”

soap barked a laugh. ghost cocked his head.

price, though, was intrigued.

“kill ‘im?” he echoed. then, he lifted her hand, yanking the diamond ring off her finger and pinching it between his fingers. “wha’ bout this? just a rock, is it? ‘till death do us part’ mean nothin’ to ya?”

“words don’t mean much when you’re forced to say them, sir.”

“forced?” price questions, narrowed eyes flicking across your features. he looks to your husband, then, who’s soiled his pants. “tha fuck is this muppet forcin’?”

price is quiet for a while, watching your husband as he wriggles in ghost’s grip. when he meets your gaze, there’s a small, barely-there curve to his chapped lips. “you really want ‘im dead?” there’s an amusement to his tone, a disbelief.

you steel your gaze. “yes.”

the curve of his lips bends into a grin, and you’ve barely exhaled before he’s lifting his pistol, aiming it at your husband’s head, and shooting.

limp, he falls to the ground.

you don’t flinch. in fact your voice is steady when you state, “the money’s in the chest, beneath the seats.”

once again, price approaches you. grips your jaw, tilts your face this way and that. he taps your cheek twice, and says, “you heard the woman. soap, get the money. gaz, tie ‘er up, she’s with me.”

[hinamie]

completely innocuous vash sheet :) fr practice

[clairedelune-13]

I’m sorry, but I’m genuinely obsessed with this part of the outtakes, cuz when David finally gets Michael to break, he adopts this adorable expression… I can’t...

David, you little angel, you won this round 😂

[joehills]

Giant sign at butcher’s shop: “WE NO LONGER SELL MEAT BY THE POUND, ONLY BY THE CUT.”

Me: huh?!

Butcher: what would you like today?

Me: well, I was going to ask for a pound of ground beef, but then I saw your sign. What is a “cut” of ground beef, do I order it by the strand?

Butcher, looking at me like an idiot: no, we sell ground beef by the pound.

Me: one pound of ground beef, please.

[yeyinde]

Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.” 

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?” 

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.” 

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs. 

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped. 

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man. 

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy. 

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere. 

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to. 

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder. 

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark, 

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter— 

Still. 

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or— 

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil. 

Rock, hard place. No escape. 

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod. 

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even. 

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask, 

what have you done?

[chubbychiquita]

also hello sorry for being xtra chaotic lately, it's kitten season, i'm trying to take advantage of my good insurance before i turn 26, and they gave me new adhd medicine that makes me go 😬😬😬😬😬😬 balancing work (getting enormous) vs. work (social media, dms, content creation, taxes, llc formation) vs. cat volunteering vs. other life stuff has been tough

[evermoreal]

here’s some more outlaw!au <3 thank u guys sm for all the love u showed on the first part of this. makes me so happy knowing people enjoyed the silly little idea that’s been terrorizing my brain.

the ride was long and wearisome. the adrenaline, like milk left on the counter, quickly began to sour into terror.

after gaz tied your hands behind your back and handed you off to a grinning price, he’d positioned you over the saddle of his horse — a broad, chestnut roan — climbing behind and wrapping his arms around you to steer the thing. his chest was shoved against your back, holsters poking against your spine and suffocating you in with an unappealing cocktail of leather, tobacco, dirt, and blood.

beyond lessons as a child, you’d never ridden a horse — not how they did, at least. the gnarled terrain made for a rough ride, and within the hour your thighs began to ache. you kept quiet, listening instead to the trotting of hooves and the sporadic remarks thrown between the men.

the men who now held your life, your will, in their hands.

you’d done your very best not to think about it — tried not to think about anything at all. you’d kept your gaze on the passing wilderness, studying the shapes of trees and wildflowers, imagining what lay beyond. the shadows, the shrubbery. coyotes, perhaps. foxes and deer.

it could only keep you occupied for so long. the silence pressed in, and it clawed it’s way to the forefront of your mind.

the gunshot still echoed off the walls of your skull.

“yer shakin’, swee’eart.” price’s breath was warm against your throat, and his voice was rough. “havin’ regrets, are we?”

swallowing whatever fretful sound that tried to escape, you answered honestly: “no, sir.”

“sir.” his tone was mocking, edged with a low chuckle. “so polite. how could a sweet thing like you be so willing to kill, hm?”

your breath shook, and you knew he’d heard it, no matter how much you hoped he didn’t. “i didn’t kill him,” you said. “you did. sir.”

“oh, lovey. i was jus’ holdin’ the gun — you told me where to aim.” his chest flexed against you as he heaved a sigh. “all i wanted was the money. without yer insistence, poor fellow’d still be ‘live an’ breathin’.”

the words knocked something loose. for all intents and purposes, you were a killer.

and worse, no matter how desperately you search, you could not find any regret.

“tha’s right,” he murmurs, as if you’d voiced the thoughts aloud. calloused fingers grip your chin, turning your face towards his. a light spattering of dirt covered his face, crawling along his crows feet and laugh lines. “just like us, ain’t you? dressin’ y’up in this pretty little outfit can’t change wha’s underneath.” he tugged at your dress. “‘s a good thing we found ye, ain’t it? what if ye’d made it to yer honeymoon an’ he’d tried to touch you? what would you have done?”

uselessly, you tried to pull away. price held firm, gripping you tightly. “answer me, sweet thing. what would ye have done?”

an ache had begun to thrum along the side of your throat; his fingers were calloused and tight around your jaw. your breathing was jagged around your words: “i wouldn’t have — i wouldn’t have let him.”

“no?” his voice was softer, like he was pleased. “how would you have stopped him?”

the terror was red-hot, and the acceptance was a balm. “he keeps — kept — a gun in the closet. no matter where we were staying.”

“yeah?” though he didn’t release your chin, his grip gentled, and he traced his thumb back and forth along your jaw. “you ever shot a gun before, love?”

“no,” you answered. “i’ve watched my father load them enough times, though.”

his lips had curved ever so slightly, and his eyes had softened, like you were proclaiming your love for him instead of explaining how you’d planned to kill a man.

“you’d have made such a mess,” he said tenderly, gently. “you don’t know the first thing about gettin’ rid of a body. his blood would’ve been everywhere, swee’eart. all over this pretty face, these clothes.” his thumb traced your bottom lip. “y’don’t have ta worry ’bout that now, though. y’ve got us for that, yeah?”

as his eyes bore into yours, brimmed with something you couldn’t quite read, you belatedly realized he wanted an answer. though your mouth had gone dry and a heavy pit had formed in your stomach, you nodded along to his words, murming a quiet, “yes,” before you could think any better of it.

[leeflings]

his worst customer ever ( she only came in once )

[papermonkeyism]

You know those wooden dinosaur skeleton models you can buy from museum gift shops, that are usually simple and variably off-model? I used to have a tripod Tyrannosaurus back when I was a kid decades ago.

So there's a company in Chile that makes those, but scientifically accurate! Wonder Artistic Models. I've known about them for couple years now, I think, but after losing my job couldn't afford to buy one.

Untill now.

They had a pretty big discount campaign last month and hey, guess how that went.

Oh, boy, let's see how well this goes!

[lazylittledragon]

exciting things are happening :)))

[temeyes]

hey you know how you’ve made Ghost, Soap and Gaz (sorta) belly posts?

Can we get a Price one next? 😼

ALSO I JUST WANNA SAY UR ART MAKES MY SKULL SO ITCHY IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLE I LOVE IT SM ‼️‼️

poor captain was a little hesitant, but here ya go!

[beacon-lamp]

etho and his fiscally responsible adventures in the hermitcraft shopping district

[beaft]

multiple people came by my stall yesterday at the art market and told me i was lowballing myself and i should be charging way more, and i'm like, on the one hand Thank You and you're probably right, charging £15 for a sculpture or painting is ridiculous when you factor in the costs of materials and how long it took to make. but on the other hand this art fair is mostly populated by gay twentysomethings who would not spend £100 on an original painting even if they had it to spend

[ruegarding]

the set up of annabeth saying i know you to percy, percy thinking and you still like me anyway? in moa, and then in hoh percy reveals a part of him that annabeth didn't know and it terrified her. both that it was there and that she didn't know abt it. and it's the worst-case scenario for both of them: annabeth that she was wrong, percy that he was right.

[corviiids]

i made a redbubble

[gomzdrawfr]

BOO!

pumpkin ghosties coming at ya (based on a set of figurines from my supporter!)

They also requested my OC to be included <333