#fic: western au

[ghostlynimbus]

So I've been thinking about that Western! Hellcheer AU idea i had some more. And I have vague plot ideas planned for hellcheer and harringrove. And those plans involve Eddie and Steve being part of a gang of outlaws.

But who else should be part of their gang?

[arelliann]

My second piece for @blipblot’s Western AU fic ‘A Lick and a Promise’ Which has now finished posting!!! You can read it on a03 here

Blip has been so incredible to work with for the @steddiebang2024 and has done such an amazing job writing, you should 100% check it out, it’s got enemies to lovers sexual tension galore! <3

[ramonadecember]

For the WIP ask meme 👀

I think I have an idea about what some of them are BUT. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t harass you with asks xD

Tell me something about lasso, lasso 👀

wip meme.

western au! more cullrian. sheriff's deputy Cullen is in for way more than he signed up for when agreeing to what should have been a quiet, easy job when the outfit that Dorian, hailing from an area with more... lose definitions of the law, is a part of moves in. to make matters worse, it turns out Dorian can use magic, something outlawed in their parts. and on top of it, Cullen is in love with him.

this is related to that love realization believe it or not lmao:

“What do you say we grab a drink?” Cullen asked.

“After everyone saw you drag me out of a brothel—”

“Social club.”

“—Social club by my ear like a misbehaving child—for the second time, mind you—I’m not keen on facing any of the charming townsfolk right now.” He already knew Sera and Lace gossiped about him at their little table in the corner of the saloon, he didn’t need to be there to witness it firsthand.

[birrdies]

dead men walking

[anartisticalniche]

Virtual Western Love is NOT abandonned btw, so have an old doodle (yes again...) of the cowboys making out x3

[cspcrashing]

☠️: kurosaki. what the hell kinda shirt is this ?

🍓: i only said it would fit you, not that it would be your style. besides, it looks fine on you.

☠️: you— fuckin' whatever doc'.

🍓: you like it, don't you.

☠️: shut it.

[houseofpsychoticwomxn]

Cowboy!Frank goes out of his way to greet you every morning — ignoring his own rules of professionalism and emotional avoidance to give a courteous wave and nod in your direction, trying to avoid the soft ruffled fabric over your skin that taunts him from the front porch and keep his eyes locked on the work in front of him.

Cowboy!Frank can feel your gaze on the side of his face, disguised by the book in your hands that’s been on the same page since the moment he stepped out of his truck. he’s no fool, he could smell the mischaracterized innocence from a mile away, and if he didn’t know any better he might’ve fallen right into the carefully construed idea you’d painted of yourself. but he does know better.

Cowboy!Frank knows how to control animals, how to communicate with his hands in a way that every element of the farm can understand, it’s all second nature to him. the only unsure part of himself is the one devoted to keeping his distance from you — from anyone with the undying ability to mean anything to him. it’s better this way, a friendly space between the two of you keeping his self-control tied up in his own rough, cracked palms.

[blackseafoam]

I’m too excited about this WIP to not share it, big group shot for the next update! Gonna color this one :)

[ench6nt]

been in my cowboy era... pro bullrider!rafe & his sweet gf that tamed him from his crazy lifestyle. not a want... a need!!!!!!

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

thinking about this again

and unfortunately for jason he forgot something

that tim runs in the same circles as the waynes

and of course bruce wants to talk to his favorite son's jason's beau

tim is very confused at first but he realizes that bruce wayne thinks his very fake boyfriend is tim's first crush jason todd

thankfully for everyone this is one of the few events that jason showed up to and, after causing a distraction to keep bruce busy, he pulls tim into an empty room

"look i know it's a lot to ask and it will probably annoy your boyfriend but please don't tell my family we're not dating, they're finally leaving me alone about making more friends"

tim's brain stalls and instead coming up with a lie to smooth this over the way he knows he can he says

"there is no boyfriend i just made it up so the press would leave me alone"

there's a moment of quiet and both realizing that they can just fake date and both get to left alone

so they hash the basics out (like when and how they met) with plans to "go on a date" so they can get the specific figured out,

and leave the little room to lie their asses off

(also for the shenanigans tim does know that the waynes are the bats but only dick knows that tim knows bc in this au tim is successful in getting dick to play leash for bruce when he lost his shit when jason died)

[artficlly]

king of pentacles [one-shot]

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x fortune teller!reader when your travelling circus rolls into town, you are warned that bucky barnes is the outlaw who rules these lands. you plan to keep your distance, but he and his men can not resist a little entertainment.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, blowjobs, begging, p in v, cowgirl position, bit of teasing, soft sub bucky??, if you squint theres some plot, fortune telling, tarot cards, violence, choking, blood, mention of death, mention of torture, mention of beatings, implied previous non-con to reader (not from bucky), protective bucky barnes, smoking, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: i literally cannot even tell you where this idea came from. i had a vague thought about a travelling circus, tarot reading character. i wrote this out and edited it in like two days?? insane. i don't normally write smut so let me know your thots lol. if you enjoy western marvel aus, please check out some of my other works. i have a one-shot called 'me & the devil' and a mini-series called 'a dish served cold'! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

It was a windy autumn night when James Buchanan Barnes and his pack of vermin invaded Elkhorn’s Travelling Circus and Freakshow. 

There were scarcely few in the area who had not heard of Barnes and his gang of outlaws. From the moment your caravans had pulled across state lines, you had been warned not to cross Bucky Barnes or his dogs. The law did not concern itself with this place, a place so far west that civilization had been left behind. The memories of cities, people, and culture were a mere whisper on the winds, a fleck of sand in an endless desert. This place was ruled by barbarians, and Bucky Barnes was their king. 

You had heard stories of the fabled man. Some said he was the devil himself, that he sported horns and hooved feet. Others said his eyes were black as the night but reflected the light as if he were part beast. Those terrified people would recall his wrath and how his enemies were never afforded a simple, painless death. No, those who crossed the King suffered for their crimes. 

So when that twisted, cruel man of legend stood before you... You were surprised to find he was none of what he was rumoured to be. 

It had only been an hour since the nightly show had wrapped up, darkness falling quickly due to the colder months looming. The gang of outlaws had stormed your small campsite, locating your leader and employer, Duke Elkhorn, and demanding they be entertained! The candles had been lit, and the music was playing. The animals had been brought from their cages once more, and dancers and performers were laced back into costumes. Barnes had asked for entertainment, so you would provide it, lest you find yourself dead in a ditch. 

Thankfully, you had not yet taken off your own outfit and makeup. A kohl to line your eyes; your lips painted red; hair loose with intermitten beading and braids. You wore large jewled earrings and layers of necklaces that partially covered the deep v of your neckline. Your dress was tightly fitted, your breasts were pushed upwards by the corset beneath, and your skirt was a deep green that swirled around your legs with each movement. Your small tent was filled with a haze of incense, lavish velvet, and silk used as draperies. Your tent was divided into two sections—your working space and your personal quarters. You had been checking your appearance in your cracked mirror when the ruffle of fabric alerted you to his presence. 

He stood with an unquestionable air of confidence, a cigarette in hand. His eyes narrowed as he looked you over, a cruel smirk playing across his lips. He was large and burly, with muscular forearms that bulged against the fabric of his sleeves, which had been pushed up to gather at his elbows. Blood stained his collar and sleeves, and a gold pocket watch was tucked into his vest. His dark hair was windblown, bits peeking out from under his black, cattleman hat. 

As he flicked his cigarette, you realised his knuckles were bruised and split. A subtle splatter of blood across his cheek, smeared, as if somone had reached up and grasped his face in their dying moments. 

“Our mutual friend, Mr. Elkhorn, told me that if I was lookin’ for a pretty thing to come find ya.” His voice was deep when he spoke, gravelly and rough. It sent a shudder down your spine. Damn Elkhorn. You always knew he was a coward, even though he thought himself a big man. You and the other performers were not strangers to his temper and desperation. You all tended not to challenge it, as he could be a cruel man as equally as he could be fearful. 

“He weren’t lyin’ was he?” He lets out a low whistle, exhaling smoke. “How’s he kept you a secret for so long, huh? Guess mah boys don’t come pokin’ in the tents that often. Too busy pokin’ their bits into them dancer girls.”

You remain silent as he chuckles to himself. He eyes you greedily; his icy blue eyes are anything but discreet. You could feel how his gaze rested on the curves of your hips and breasts, watching how your skin moved with each breath. Desire was a strange thing—how easily you might shift from feeling confident and powerful to nothing at all. 

You certainly felt like a squirming idiot under his gaze. 

“I’m not a whore.” You speak up, though your voice is hushed, hesitant, or even uneasy. You knew men like Barnes would not take being denied well. If you thought Elkhorn’s brutality was something to fear, your knees would positively buckle before Barnes. 

Barnes barks out a laugh, his brows raising in something between delight and surprise. He strides towards you, grinning as you flinch back. “Yer employer seems to think differently.”

Your eyes slide closed as he reaches forward, a finger sweeping a strand of hair from your face to better look at you. You swallow hard as he chuckles, smoke blowing across your face. Teeth grit, you slowly open your eyes, a shuddering exhale leaving your nose as he runs a finger across your cheek.

“He’s a spineless excuse of a man.” You dare to bite back, your voice wavering, but you stand tall. His amused expression has morphed into one of intrigue. His actions falter; hesitation is clear in his demeanour. 

“He make ya do things ya don’t wanna do, darlin’?” The outlaw asks, his voice surprisingly genuine. He is still close to you, close enough that you can smell the tobacco on his breath and feel the vibration of each word in his chest. 

“Sometimes.” You admit, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze. He curses under his breath, rubbing his jaw in annoyance. Barnes backs off a few paces, putting out his cigarette on one of your sidetables. From your side view of his chiselled face, you see a muscle in his jaw tense. 

“Well, sweetheart. I ain’t in the business of bein’ with women who don’t want it.” He says with a roll of his shoulders. He has stalked over to your reading table, bruised knuckles white as he grips the back of your chair. 

You are at a momentary loss for words. You had anticipated being repulsed by this man, the one who repeatedly terrorised these lands and enabled his dogs to do what they wanted and take what they pleased. There was something strangely endearing about his care for your consent. 

“Well, I am glad to hear it.” You finally uttered. “Can’t say the same for some of your boys, though.”

A tense silence washes over the tent, and you almost immediately regret your words. Against your better judgement, you creep towards him. He doesn’t flinch away from your touch as your hands smooth over the top of his hands and wrists. Beneath you, he feels like stone, each tendon and muscle expertly chiselled like the statues you saw in the big cities back east. 

“Yer right. Pack o’ wild mongrels they are. Good for puttin’ folk in their place. I think I’ll get ‘em to pay yer employer a little visit. Remind him whose land he’s on.” 

Barnes goes to leave, pulling away from your touch. A wave of horror washes over you at his implication. You find yourself reaching for him again in an unexpected panic. Your hands latch around his bare forearm, tugging him back an inch. 

“Wait.” You shake your head, gripping his forearm. The outlaw looks back at you in curiosity. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt anyone else, sweetheart. Just him. ” He drawls, eyes darting to where you hold his arm. You drop it immediately, backing off. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. 

“He will think your lesson is because I turned you down or because I wasn’t good enough for you.” You explain desperately. His eyes narrow, as if offended on your behalf. “Whatever you do to him, he will do to me twofold. As punishment. He is a cruel man, you understand?”

“Yer definitely not pleading his case well, darlin’.” There is impatience in his tone and ire that you could not even begin to comprehend. Your eyes flicker to his bruised knuckles, the splatters of blood. If Elkhorn found out, well, you would have to wear a veil for the rest of your life. Your face would be so mishapened and destroyed that you would bring fear into the hearts of anyone who laid eyes upon you. You would no longer be a fortune teller but a featured freak of Elkhorn’s sideshow. Men and women alike would pull faces, with children throwing food and rocks. The deformed woman— another beast in a cage. 

You have seen this fate play out too many times. Too many were lost to Elkhorn’s wickedness. 

“Please.” You beg. His brow arches and his adams apple bobs. 

You swallow nervously, then hesitantly step forward. With gentle hands, you take his forearm once more, guiding him to your reading table. “Just… I will entertain you for a suitable time. I can read your cards. Then, you can tell Mr. Elkhorn that you laid with me; embellish it if you wish.”

Barnes seems too intrigued to protest. 

He unbuttons his vest with a soft grunt, taking a seat at the table. His legs are spread wide in a domineering pose as he leans back into the seat with cool confidence. As you take a seat at the opposite end of the table, he reaches into his vest pocket. 

“So, how does this work?” He asks. You can tell he is irritated from the way his brow twitches and jaw muscles are still tense. He is playing along for your benefit, you realise. He is looking to you for amusement to stop himself from marching out of the tent and dealing with Elkhorn as promised. 

“I will shuffle the cards, then draw three. Each card has meaning, and all together, it will tell you the message you need to hear.” You explain. Barnes had pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one. You decline with a wave of your hands, instead taking the cards into your palm. He shrugs, lighting it with a half-interested sigh. 

As he inhaled and you shuffled, you noticed his interest lay closer to your exposed skin. Even if he had backed off per your request, it did not seem to stop him from undressing you with his eyes from the opposite side of the table. He seemed emnamoured by the layers of necklaces and how they clinked and rolled across your skin. 

As you shuffled, the first card fell out. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip as he watched you work. You slid the escapee card onto the table, facedown on the red tablecloth. 

“Anything in particular that you want to hear, hm?” You ask. As you lift your gaze, you find Barnes enraptured by your movements, so much so that he has forgotten to take another drag. “Most people want to know about their careers… their families. Love.”

“I don’t believe in love.” He says, sucking in a breath. You tilt your head. He didn’t believe in love, no. He believed in lust. Desire. From the way his pupils were blown and his lips parted in awe, he was positively eating out of your hand. A second card falls. You slide it next to the first. 

“Business it is, then.” You breathe. The final card falls from the deck just as the words leave your lips. You put it in place, then place the stack of the remaining deck to the side. Barnes is transfixed as you lean your arms parallel to the table and tilt forward. “Flip one.”

“Does it matter which order?”

“No.”

With unwavering confidence, he reaches forward, flipping over the first in the row. Your gaze falls downward to view the card, a frown pulling at your lips. You examine the familiar figures on the card. Two figures stood on either side, naked and chained. Behind them, in the darkness, loomed a beast with claws, horns, and wings. The Devil. 

How fitting. 

Barnes seems to find it ironic as well, as he scoffs in disbelief. “Ya playin’ a trick on me?”

You look up at him. The tension in the small tent is as thick as the smoke that hangs in the air. “No. The cards tell the truth, if you want to hear it or not.”

You reach out, stroking a finger over the card.

“The figures, they are chained. They don’t want to be there, but if you look closely… their chains are loose. They could escape at any moment.” If Barnes had a snarky comment, he does not say. He hung on to your every word. “And the longer they remain, the longer they become more like the devil. He represents the darkness within them, their shadow selves. It is the evil within you—the short-term pleasures—to ignore the long-term pains. Instant gratification. Greed, violence. You think you have free will, but you have sold your soul to the devil.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know darlin,” The outlaw says with a chuckle. You notice that his shoulders have relaxed, a cool amusement embodying him. 

You hold his gaze. “Next card.”

His fingers brush yours as he flips over the centre card. The King of Pentacles. 

“The Devil and now the King? You’re spoilin’ me, sweetheart.” He chuckles. 

You eyed the card. The king sat upon his lavish throne, surrounded by wealth. You tap your nail across the yellow pentacle symbol, humming in thought. “King of Pentacles. It represents wealth and abundance. He has influence and is a skilled leader.”

Your head tilts. “It’s a warning.”

“A warnin’? Sounds like a good card to me.” 

“The king has all that he wants. An abundance of wealth. Everything he touches turns to gold, like King Midas.”

“King Midas?”

“It’s an old tale. One of caution. About a king who was blessed with the power to turn anything he touched into gold. His kingdom flourished with wealth, but he soon found himself to be unhappy. He could not eat, as any food that touched his lips turned to gold. He could not know the comforts of the flesh, for the women would also turn to gold. Everything he once cherished…gone. Then, one day he lost the one thing he loved most, his daughter. She kissed her father upon his forehead and instantly became a statue of gold.”

“I would be a far richer man if I were this…King Midas.”

“But don’t you see? You are him. You are a king who is flush with wealth; your influence is strong. Your people flourish. Everything you do and everything you touch becomes profit. But at what cost? How much more will you lose? How much more will you give up for greed?” You finger turns to point at the Devil card. His lips are set in a straight line as he scowls at you. 

“You best be careful now.” He warns. You shudder, leaning back in your seat, motioning for him to flip the final card. 

You stare down at the table, your breath held in horror. The figure in the card sits up in bed, hands to their face in anguish. Decorating the wall behind them are a row of swords, two of which could be seen to be piercing through the figure. Stabbed through the back. The frame of the bed is carved, illustrating two figures fighting. Nine of Swords. 

Your mouth feels dry as Barnes peers at you expectantly. “Well?”

You can’t find the words; your brows are scrunching as you try to find the best way to articulate the meaning without triggering the brooding outlaw’s wrath. Your finger taps on the table, and you clear your throat, squirming in your seat. 

“Nine of Swords.” You utter quietly. “The figure… they are troubled by their own thoughts. Their worries, speculations… so much so that they manifest it into reality.”

Your fingers trace over the fighting figures. “You worry of a rising conflict.”

You ghost over the swords next. A backstabbing. 

It was all very clear to you how it all intertwined. Barnes was a man possessed by evil and greed. He had sacrificed much to accumulate his wealth; like King Midas, he had all the gold he could need, but at what cost? His followers, his people—they were afraid. Weary of their cruel leader. A coup was in the works. Jealousy brewed within his men; all they knew was evil, so all they could give was violence in return. 

“A betrayal.” You breathe. Your eyes snap up to meet his. His pupils were no longer blown, instead replaced with an icy rage. 

“How do ya know this?” His voice had dropped, low and threatening. His cigarette was discarded, flecks of burning ash glowing across the floor. His shoulders were tensed, straining against the fabric as he began to loom over you, slowly standing from his seat. 

You shrunk back. “I don’t, I just read the cards—” 

You let out a shriek as Barnes gripped the table, flipping it in one solid motion. The cards fluttered to the ground around you, the glossy paper flickering in the low candle light. You recoiled in your seat, limbs trembling as Barnes stood over you. 

“Did Rumlow put you up to this, huh? I know what him and his little pack of vermin have been whisperin’.” He spat on the ground beside you, and you flinched back. Barnes reached down, gripping your throat as he forced you to look up at him. 

“I don’t know anythin’. I swear—” You begged, tears prickling at your eyes. 

Barnes scanned your face, then released you with a huff. You scrambled away, retreating to the furthest corner of the tent. Barnes waved his hand at you with a sigh, re-buttoning his vest and straightening his shirt. 

“I’ll give ya the benefit of the doubt, darlin’. But if I find out you’ve been lyin’...I’ll kill ya myself. Ya understand?” 

You nodded wordlessly, whimpering as the outlaw marched out of your tent without a glance back. 

—

“Where is she?” The enraged roar of Bucky Barnes sent a nauseating wave of panic through your body. 

A couple weeks had past, and Elkhorn’s Travelling Circus and Freakshow were wrapping up their stay. Duke Elkhorn wanted to push further west, bring entertainment to the drivers and rustlers of the far reaches of the country. Within two days, you were set to leave this awful place and flee the clutches of Barnes and his boys. 

Well, it seemed that had been hopeful thinking. 

You were in your tent, in your personal quarters. You had pulled shut the draperies to allow yourself privacy. The strong men, slick with oil and always sporting toothy grins, were always eager to deliver you water to bathe in. It had become a sort of ritualistic routine of yours to undress and wash the makeup from your face. After hours of sitting in a stuffy tent stinking of incense, it was a relief to wash the smell from your body. 

You wore a silk robe, loosely tied at the waist. It had been a gift from a patron back east—some rich city boy who had a fascination with you. When Barnes crashed through your draperies into the back of your tent, chest heaving with a livid look in his eye… you froze. You were perched on a stool before your cracked mirror, pulling a brush through your long locks of hair. 

You stumbled to your feet, stool knocked to the ground. 

Barnes was covered in blood, his shirt so drenched that it clung to his skin. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his teeth were bared in a growl. The blood was still fresh on his arms and neck, the liquid glinting in the candlelight. He had not bothered to wear his hat; instead, his hair was messy, with a splattering of blood across his cheek.

“I told ya I would kill ya myself.” The outlaw snarled. 

You backed away, back meeting the tent wall. “I didn’t do anythin—”

You were cut off as Barnes marched forward, large hands wrapping around your throat. He squeezed tightly, a breathless whimper escaping your mouth.

“How did ya know?” He demanded, his face twisted into a look of rage. 

You claw at the front of his shirt, sticky blood coating your palms as you struggle. 

“Ya knew about Rumlow. Ya warned me of a betrayal.” 

He releases the pressure on your throat, and you meekly gasp in air, nails digging into his shoulder as you try to keep your knees steady. 

“I didn’t know, I just said what the cards showed—” You rasp. Barnes doesn’t seem pleased by your answer, jaw muscle ticing. 

“I don’t believe in yer magical horseshit. I know it’s all tricks and acts. How did ya know?”

“The cards aren’t magical. Each card has a meaning that can be understood in different ways, it’s my job to apply them to whoever walks into my tent. The cards just reveal thoughts you have not quite spoken aloud—ideas at the back of your mind. They ask you to confront your inner self. You knew Rumlow was a traitor before the cards, you had a suspicion, but you did not act on it until prompted by the cards.” You wheezed out. The outlaw slowly releases your throat, his face controrting into something closer to frustration than rage. Your palms brace flat on his chest as you steady yourself against him. 

“Deep down, you already knew he was a traitor.” You reiterate. 

“You’re a fuckin’ witch.” He breathes, then runs a hand through his messy hair. Blood streaks across his forehead, clumping his strands of hair. His head tilts as he looks down at you. His face has relaxed, as if a silent clarity had overcome him. “Even if ya deny it… ya did warn me.”

You clear your throat, hand raising to your neck as you brush your fingers over the tender flesh where he had gripped you. “You warned yourself.”

He stares down at you, then frowns guiltily. “Apologies, darlin’. I shouldn’t have done that to ya.”

You believe him.

You hold your breath as his fingers briefly skim over your neck. His gaze falls deeper, his eyes following the curve of your breast that was half-exposed by your robe. The fabric was bunched into a deep v, leaving the swell of your breasts, sternum, and skin down to your belly button exposed. The outlaw sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, then stalks away with a frustrated growl. 

“Barnes—” you call to him softly.

“Bucky.” He corrects.

You catch a glance at yourself in the mirror. The silk robe hangs perfectly from your curves, blood smeared across your chest and neck. You suck in your own deep breath, sweeping your hair over your shoulders as you hesitantly approach the outlaw. He paced like the beasts Elkhorn kept caged up, endlessly forced to perform for cruel crowds. You knew what he needed. A delicate touch, a sweetness to lean on. 

“Speak to me.” You whisper to him, gentle hands guiding him to the edge of your bed. The canopy was draped with deep purple fabrics, furs, and blankets over the straw mattress. He silently obliges. 

“One of my boys, one I thought I could trust. He betrayed me. Thought he could make a little gang of his own and overthrow me from the inside.” The outlaw explains. His voice is stiff, and his posture is tense. You smooth a palm over his forearm, and your thigh presses against his as you sit closely together. 

There is a distant look in his eye as he stares past you at the wall of the tent. It shifts with the cool breeze outside, rising and falling like the night itself breathes. “I dealt with it.”

You cock your head to the side, hand running up his arm as you examine his face with a frown. “Dealt with it?” 

His eyes snap to yours, and your hand wavers in hesitation. There is a darkness in his eyes. His expression made goosebumps rise across your skin. You could only explain it as something primal, something caught between violence and arousal. 

“I made them pay.” He explains, his body twisting as he faces you fully. A bloodied hand raises, his thumb rubbing across your cheek as he cradles your face. “After two days, they begged me to end it. To end their lives.”

“And did you?” You dare to whisper back. His thumb traces inward, across your lower lip. 

“No.” He says simply. “I cut out their tongues so they could no longer beg. I made them pay.”

Your eyes must have been wide in shock because he chuckled, his hand sweeping through your hair. Then, with an uncharacteristic softness to his tone, he utters a question. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart thunders in your ears, a short gasp leaving you as your lips part. In all your travels, you have heard stories of women who could make men fall in love with them with just their eyes. Women who used their bodies and seduced their way to the top. Even violent men like Bucky had one weakness—a woman who showed them kindness. A woman who could momentarily take control. The men would let their minds drift away; the burdens were lifted, if only for a night. 

Heat pools between your legs. You nod, a hand reaching to stroke across his jaw. The two of you meet in mutual desperation and touch once gentle, now needy. His tongue brushes against your lips, effortlessly parting them as he licks into your mouth. A moan escapes your throat at the taste of his tongue.

Your hands find the front of his shirt, blindly unbuttoning as he grips your hair in one hand. The outlaw groans as his hand slides across your shoulders, pushing away the robe. Your top half is exposed, nipples have hardened, and silk has pooled at your waist. 

As your tongues tangle, Bucky tilts his head to gain better access to your mouth. Your gasps meet his as he moans heavily into your mouth. His hands trace along your body, one squeezing your waist and hips, the other coming to grasp your breast. 

With a tug, you pull his shirt free. The two of you part, your head lulling back as he paints sloopy, feverish kisses down your neck. A groan rises in your throat as you lean into him, one hand gripping his dark hair and the other beginning to palm him through his pants. 

His kisses move further down, head dipping as he licks a stripe across your breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, kissing and sucking as you gasp and lean into him. The space between your legs is throbbing; a wet neediness rising. 

You clutch his thigh, squirming with desire. The stubble along his jaw prickles your flesh, and a shudder runs down your spine. Your hands find his, easing his grip on your hips as you slide off the bed. Lowering yourself to the floor on your knees, you sit between his legs. Bucky lets out a groan as he looks down at you. His pupils are blown, and his lips are swollen and glossy. Your hands trace up his thighs, and your quick fingers relieve him of his belt. 

“Let me.” You hum to him. You tilt your head, your cheek brushing against his knee. His adams apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I can make you feel good.”

You can see his bulge under the fabric. He eagerly helps you pull his pants down, his cock springing free already fully hard. You press a kiss to the tip. His cock twitches in response and a low moan vibrates in his chest. You look up at him through your lashes, biting your lip. He leans back, looking at the tent roof, as his chest rises and falls with a loud, satisfied sigh. 

There was a power that resonated in your chest, seeing the outlaw so vulnerable under your touch. He did not protest your lead, instead eagerly following your command. You take him into your mouth slowly, one hand running up his thigh as the other wraps around his length. 

You bob your head, feeling him tense with pleasure beneath you. As you come up, you whisper to him quietly. “Relax.”

As your tongue swirls over his tip, then down his broad length, you feel his hips rock beneath you. His hand comes to fist your hair, subtly guiding you as you take him fully into your mouth once more. You follow his needs, taking notice of each pleasured twitch or motion in response to your touch. His fingers tangle in your long locks of hair, tugging as you pull unimaginable, explicit sounds from the outlaw. 

“Fuck—” He groans above you, his breath coming in short pants. You hum in response, relishing the sensation of him falling to pieces beneath you. The spot between your legs was slick, and wetness was beginning to drip down your inner thigh. There was a selfish urge within you that desired to reach down between your legs to gift yourself some friction. 

You swallowed him down deeper, flattening your tongue against his ridgid length. His hips started to jerk, stronger than the previous gentle rocking. You could feel him growing undone, his breath coming shorter, and his nails desperately digging into your scalp as he desperately tried to guide your head deeper and deeper. 

You obliged, but only as you felt his cock twitch once more did you pull away fully. Not yet. You weren’t finished with him yet. The outlaw let out a pained grumble. His hands caressed your shoulders as you rose to your feet. 

“Darlin’—” Bucky protests, but you shush him. 

“How much do you want me, hm?” You ask him. He has propped himself up onto his elbows to look up at you. His cock was still erect, glistening in the candlelight from your saliva. 

“I want you.” He affirms.

“How desperately? Would you get on your knees for me? Beg for me?” You say it breathlessly. You take one of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to the palm. 

His breath stutters. “Yes.” 

“Go on then.” As the words leave your mouth, your eyes flicker upwards. You look at him through your lashes.

“Please, sweetheart—” He whines. You cock your head to the side, peppering more kisses along each fingertip. 

“Louder.” 

“Please.” He begs. You smirk down at him wickedly, shifting closer. Your palm meets his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed as his elbows buckle beneath him. 

“Lie back.” You instruct, helping guide his legs so he lies flat along the bed. In one fluid motion, you straddle his waist, his silk robe still pooling around your hips. You lean over him, taking one of the waist straps of your robe. With slow breaths, you move the soft fabric across his bloodied chest, tracing each vein and muscle before finally grazing it across his nipples. He shudders beneath you, his grip bruising where he grasps your hips. 

“Say it again.” You breathe. You are embarrassingly wet as you sit perched upon him. 

“Please. I need you.” He obeys, and another wave of arousal washes over you. Only now did you give in to your selfish desires, dead rolling back as you ground your hips slowly. Your lips parted, a small mewling moan leaving you as you clenched around nothing. You flatten a hand over his chest, allowing him to help guide you as you raise onto your knees. 

With one gentle movement, you lower yourself onto him. Your wet heat engulfs him, and the two of you groan in unison. You feel yourself stretch around him, and you moan as you allow your body to take him in completely. His hands tighten their hold on your waist. 

Bucky looks at you with a slightly slack-jawed expression. “Fuck, sweetheart. I think I’m gonna make ya my wife.”

You manage a smile through your own arousal, your hand gliding up and down his chest as you move your hips in a grinding motion. You gasp out a low, “Oh yeah?”

His head tips back with a moan as you clench around him. You experiment momentarily, brows drawn and biting your lip, until you find a grinding rhythm that ignites a fire within you. Bucky meets you halfway, helping guide you with his hands still gripping your hips. Your head lulls forward, small panting gasps leaving you as your eyes squeeze shut. 

“I’ll make you beg for that too…Fuck—” You whine, and Bucky chuckles beneath you. He continues to help direct your hips, and your thighs begin to shake as you lower and raise yourself. 

A strangled cry leaves you as Bucky’s hand lowers, his thumb circling your clit. Pleasure spikes up your spine, your knees wobbling as you nearly double over at the sensation. His fingers swirl with purpose, pulling all manner of illicit words and sounds from your throat. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” Bucky hummed.

Just as you feel like sobbing from the pleasure, you cock your head to the side. With a deep breath, you tug Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him upright to meet you. The two of you clash, breath hot. His arms wrap around you, pinning you to his chest as he kisses you with a primal hunger. You moan into his mouth, your tongue sloppily moving against his as he begins to thrust vigorously. 

You could feel your climax building steadily within you, the peak of a tumbling wave that had not yet crested. Bucky was a panting, sweaty mess beneath you. He greedily kissed and sucked along your neck, head dipping as he ran his tongue along your collarbone. 

Your own head fell, teeth grazing across his neck. He tastes like salt and copper. You nuzzled your nose against his jaw, taking his earlobe between your teeth. Deep within you, you felt his cock twitch. 

You wrap your arms over his shoulders, your fingers tugging at his hair. That pulled a groan from him, the noise vibrating across your skin. With a devious smile pressed against his cheek, you lean in close to his ear. Breath hot, you whisper into his ear. 

“Come for me.”

As if he had been waiting for those exact words, he explodes within you. The sensation tips you over the edge, a thundering in your ears defeans you as your eyes roll back into your head. You clench around Bucky tightly, your body milking every last drop of him as he lazily ruts the last of his energy into you. 

The two of you pant, catching a breath as you both come to a halt. The outlaw nuzzles your neck with a content sigh, then laughs against your sweaty skin. 

“I wasn’t jokin’ earlier.” He finally speaks up, his voice somewhat more dignified now that he wasn’t a moaning mess beneath you. 

“Hm?” You respond sleepily, too fucked-out to be bothered opening your eyes. 

“I’m gonna steal ya away from here. Make ya my goddamn wife.”

Against your better judgement, you believed him.

[moonshynecybin]

honeysuckle: how our love unites enemies

honeysuckle:

scream okay i just edited some of airport au before getting these so it was rattling around in my head. and this ask made me think it would be funny if casey stoner showed up. so here. bad comedy. for those who do not remember last we left marc “the weirdest rumor i ever heard about myself was that i was gay” marquez, he had just had a sex dream about valentino rossi, who has recentlyish decided to be his friend again. as you can imagine he’s a bit confused about all this:

Marc decides that he should probably avoid Valentino for a while, after a dream like that. Get some distance and get his head on straight.

The problem is, Valentino apparently very much does not want to avoid Marc.

It’s in the chaos of the flyaways, that long slog at the end of the season, and Marc doesn’t have anything to prove at this point except for all the different things that he does, and it’s Phillip Island, a track where he can make a difference. He knows he has an opportunity where he can really sink his teeth into something here.

All said, it’s his favorite track, he’s looking forward to the weekend— and he’s really looking forward to approximately 9,000 miles between him and Valentino Rossi and his long fingers.

Which of course means that when he wheels around a corner on his scooter that Friday, he doesn’t expect to see Vale standing next to the media center with a day old scruff decorating the cut of his jaw and Casey goddamn Stoner bitching away about aero at his elbow.

Marc, shocked and in his raincoat, applies the brake to his scooter in an acute fashion and skids a little, motocross style.

Vale, under his neon yellow umbrella and always attracted to the sound of screeching rubber, sees him.

He starts walking.

Horrifically, Casey follows.

Marc smiles.

“I’ve been cornered.”

“Put your hands up in the name of the law,” Vale says in a terrible imitation of a cowboy, and then greets him. “Ah, you are ready for tomorrow?”

Marc nods before he can tell his neck what to do.

“Looks like no practice today, and more rain,” What would he normally say to Valentino. Well, normally he wouldn’t say anything. So that’s probably not a viable strategy.

“That’s good for you, yes?” Vale says, blue eyes intent on him, like he’s genuinely interested.He steps close to Marc, including him under his umbrella, and Marc tightens his fingers hard on the handlebars of the scooter. “Less practice for others and then— with the rain, easier to catch? A left-hand circuit, so you have more room to outpace the factory bikes.”

Casey, walking slowly, arrives in time to catch the tail end of Vale’s statement, and his eyebrows twitch up, gaze ping-ponging back and forth between them.

Marc waves.

Vale, though blunt, is not wrong, and Marc will take a win in the wet of it comes to that, but the forecast clears as the weekend progresses, and the thing he’s really missing so far this year is a clean win. No wet, no sand, just him and the motorcycle and everyone else behind him. The GP23, despite being unequivocally weaker after he exploded in Indonesia and they removed his improved flywheel, is still a bike that he has enough experience on that he can use his style a bit more and manipulate it the way he needs to, so the parts change hasn’t made too much of an impact on his pace. Plus, this is also one of Pecco’s more mediocre tracks, something he knows that Vale knows but will never say to Marc. Honestly, if it’s not for Pecco or the floundering VR46 team squad (unlikely), he has no idea why Vale is here. Maybe Casey invited him to do some dirt track.

He opens his mouth to twist all this into something shiny enough that it can be outwardly verbalized to two other world champions when Casey, so far neglected by Vale, speaks.

“Wow. You know, I really didn’t believe it.”

They pause.

“That you two had made up again, I mean,” He throws a thumb Vale’s way. “I thought this one would take it to his grave, he’s good at that.”

Marc hits him with a weak smile and Vale doesn’t even look over, eyes still on Marc and whatever he sees on his face.

Casey seems to notice, and a divot appears between his eyebrows. Marc scrambles to find something to say that will make this interaction end in the next ten seconds.

“Um, so what convinced you that he wasn’t evil?” Casey asks. So much for that dream.

“Same thing that convinced me that you weren’t,” Vale quips.

“Jury’s still out, then?”

Vale puts a hand on Marc’s shoulder and laughs at Casey beatifically. “Ah, no. Maybe he is just prettier than you? Better in bed, you know.”

Marc laughs, high and shrill, and Casey and Vale both turn to look at him.

“Okay, Marc?” Casey asks, and Marc nods. It’s a normal joke— it’s the kind Vale’s made before. About him, about Jorge Lorenzo, probably about Casey. If 20 year old Marc were here right now, he would just be thrilled that Vale was teasing Casey and using Marc to do it. That idiot would sit here and smile and think about women when he went home to jack off and go on with his day. No such pleasures for 31 year old Marc.

He swallows. He hasn’t responded quick enough. Vale’s eyes narrow, and Marc feels horribly exposed. He’s gotta get out of here.

“Yeah, yeah. Something in my throat, you know? Gresini— uh, they need me in the box, I have to go over something. For tomorrow, the sprint. So. I should go. It was nice seeing you both, I’ll see you later— “

He punches the gas, and as they scramble away from the scooter to avoid getting any toes caught in the crossfire, he zooms away before he can hear their responses.

When Vale’s hand slides off of Marc’s shoulder as he accelerates, the places where his fingers touched Marc burn all the way back to the garage.

[renzireads]

One drink and straight to bed, he vowed to himself.

“A water?” The barman scoffed. “The poor man’s choice, I see.”

Wally chuckled. “The choice of a man who just got here from a trip longer than you can imagine. D’ya got any rooms free up in this place or?”

The barman’s face softened, and he laughed as he went to grab a glass of water. Returning, he leaned in as he handed Wally his drinks. “We do, but tell me, have you ever been here before?”

A blush rose up his cheeks as Wally shook his head. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure where ‘here’ is,” he laughed awkwardly. He suddenly felt very looked at.

“Curious.” The man pulled back, then nodded to himself. “Gotham usually doesn’t show herself to people who haven’t been here before, well, unless she has plans for you. Or so they say.”

“Gotham?” Wally blurted out, eyes widened in shock. “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” He laughed, not because he was happy, but he couldn’t help himself from laughing at his own stupidity. Of course, with all the weirdness going on around here, how didn’t he realize this sooner?

He did it. He found the no-man’s-land that was particularly starting to look like an any-man’s-land to him. The place he had been looking for all along.

“You know, there’s some rumors about-” The bartender started, then stopped dead in his sentence and looked up behind Wally. Right then, Wally felt two, strong hands clasp onto his shoulders.

“You’re in my seat.” A deep, bouldering voice said, the two goons behind him snickering loudly.

Wally looked around him and noticed the two chairs besides him had indeed come up empty. Still, he shrugged and tipped his drink back. “And I was having a really good conversation.” He shot back, not getting off the chair. “Please, do continue.”

He heard a couple “Ooh”’s and “Shit”’s and snickers behind him as the saloon fell silent. All eyes fell on him, or well, them, as Wally shrugged the hands off his shoulders and leaned forward.

“Funny, kid.” The man all but growled. The bottle in his hand -some dirt cheap brand of beer, Wally guessed- came into his view as Wally skillfully -although accidentally- dodged the bottle when he turned the bar chair around. The glass made a painful shattering noise as it came into contact with the edge of the bar, sending shards everywhere.

His attacker staggered back, the intoxication visible in how he tripped rather gracefully against one of his back-up buddies. Immediately, everyone at the bar shot up from their seats and started screaming. Some people saw this as the perfect time to throw some punches around, and Wally winced as he heard the rough sound of a cracking bone right next to him.

It all happened in the blink of an eye, the way this bar fight came to be, but now everyone was in on it. Everyone, except for Wally. Shit, had he really just started this? He frantically looked around, hoping to spot a way out of this mess he had so swiftly created. Hells, he hadn’t even been here for over ten minutes and he already-

A hand slipped around his wrist, and the strong grip pulled him out of his thoughts as fast as he was pulled out of the saloon. When the cold night’s air pushed his hair out of his eyes, his mind cleared. Loud screams and thuds against the walls and floors, although a bit more muted now, made him look at one of the windows.

What just happened?

“You’re really quite something, y’know?” An amused, cocky voice startled him fully away from whatever was happening inside the saloon now, and he traced his eyes to the figure in front of him.

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — bull-rider!MATTHEW TKACHUK x barrel racer!hughes!reader (can be read as an unnamed oc) wc — 1.8k synopsis — wear the hat, ride the cowboy—even if it might get you disowned.

note — there's one line referring to the reader as jack's twin, but no physical description is given. also, this one-shot is a "party favor" from our feb slumber party

specific content warnings under the cut.

cw — quinn being a dramatic, misogynistic douche-canoe 3000 for the entirety (ratty matty has his moments, too), no actual smut but it's heavily implied they do the dirty on the reg, a disgustingly intimate situationship — ick, off-color comment(s) relating to first times and the concept of virginity, lots and lots of familial angst (jack is a snake), oh! and more than a few loose ends... but you know the drill by now, i'm incapable of keeping a story contained

“Go on, Palomino Princess. Ride me like one of your ponies.” 

Condescension drips from the lazy taunt. Matthew earns a palm to the chest for it; her ire lands with a faint thud, but he doesn’t mind. He gets off on riling her up, and after two years of backseat meetings and hushed phone calls, he’s damn good at it too. That, and she might be the most reactive person he’s ever met—and that’s saying something. 

Matthew’s been going head-to-head with all three of her brothers for over a decade, and he’s known their family for even longer. Having a short fuse must be genetic.    

“Y’won’t break me if that’s the hold-up. S’gonna take a hell of a lot more than a dry humpin’ buckle bunny to put me outta commission, sweetheart.” 

He knows damn well she ain’t anywhere close to the derogatory term, but he likes what the complete disregard for her accomplishments does to her deceptively cherubic face. 

It may look less harrowing than every other event on the card, but barrel racing ain’t for the faint-hearted. The event is a death wish personified, and it feels about as good as someone taking a metal pipe to both shins. It takes balls—metaphorically, in her case—to charge into an arena on an American Quarter horse with the intention of guiding it through a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels while sprinting at top speed, but it takes dedication and skill to succeed the way she has. The winner is determined by just thousandths of a second. 

The woman perched on his tailgate is unmatched—undefeated.  

Flames of pride lap at his loins, the fire of desire stoked by the wicked roll of her hips. 

“Ohh—shit!” Matthew hisses, his head lolling back as his hips buck into her heat. 

She smirks, apparently vindictive as ever. “How’s that, cowboy? Everything you dreamed?” 

“And more,” he growls as he grabs a fistful of her backside. 

His grip is tighter than it needs to be as he switches positions. Not nearly as rough as she would prefer it; beggars can’t be choosers.  

Matthew steps between her knees, and, despite herself, she shivers with anticipation. Chuckling, amusement twinkles in his baby blues. “Now give me a kiss, sweetheart. My lips are feelin’ a little lonely tonight, and you happen to be wearin’ my hat, Little Miss.” 

He flicks the brim of his hat. She catches it before it hits the ground before plopping it back on the rightful owner, the damage already done.  

“You just love that antiquated rule,” she shakes her head while most definitely laughing at his expense. “Y’wouldn’t see any action without it, now would you?” 

Matthew grins. Trading insults is his favorite form of foreplay. “Neither would you. Isn’t that your signature move, outlaw?”

“I should kick you to the back of the line with that attitude. Hell, I’d probably be better off keeping you at a distance anyway.” 

“Keep mouthin’ off and see how far it gets ya. Definitely nowhere near that McMansion castle you call home, that’s for sure.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout me, sugar. I’ve got plenty of options if I need a ride home.” 

“I’ll bet, show pony. Sexiest can chaser east of the Mississippi; who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to carry Cinderella home to her Daddy?” 

Men have a habit of gawking at her; Matthew has a habit of relieving them of their teeth. 

He leans in to taunt her ear with greedy lips and barbed arrogance. “Best of luck finding one that’ll fuck you better than me.”     

“Do you think about other guys fucking me often?” she fires without missing a beat.

More than he would like, actually.

With a heavy, drawn-out sigh, he runs a hand over his face. His patience is running thin, and his jeans are starting to chafe. Exasperated, he tries coaxing her to reason, “Sweetheart, c’mon. We both know you want this—want me. Stop makin’ this so damn hard.” 

“Why? Because you already are?” 

Matthew makes an exaggerated show of play-biting her scrunched-up nose. 

“Woman, you drive me insane.”

“It’s why you’re so obses—“ 

Her teasing is thwarted by the sound of her own name. Spat out of her older brother’s mouth like a heirloom gone sour, it's no great surprise Quinn looks at her like he can’t recognize her. Like a stranger—like a traitor. 

Guilt, thin and fleeting, pieces the tenderness between her ribs. 

She squirms, attempting to put some distance between them as if that could erase the discovery—and her culpability—from his mind. Matthew and his shit-eating grin keep her from getting too far but don’t be fooled. This is no chivalrous encouragement to stand her ground. It’s got nothing to do with her and everything to do with her brother. 

Quinn rages outside the hauler housing Matthew’s precious 3500 Laramie. Walking by, seeing the main trailer hitched Brady’s F-350 made his stomach churn. It didn’t sit right, and now he knew why. 

“You can’t be serious! Nuh-uh, no—no fucking way. Get out here before I drag you out myself.”  

At his tone, what little remorse she felt dissipates. They were both far too old for his tired, overbearing song-and-dance. 

“Who died and made you king?” 

Quinn, blinded by overripe anger, sweeps over the irritation, twisting her tongue and the disbelief arching her brow. “I thought I made myself clear last time. Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“Oh, crystal, Quinny.” Matthew snorts at the juvenile nickname but is swiftly cajoled into silence with a pinch to the side. “Message received.” 

“Then quit screwin’ around and get your ass back to the truck before Dad blows a gasket. He’s been lookin’ all over for you. So, you best be thanking your lucky stars I got here first. That its me catchin’ you red-handed colluding with the enemy.” 

He’s so serious, nearly shaking with rage, it’s difficult not to laugh. She can count on one hand the instances wherein her brother became visibly angry—all of them involving the man standing between her dangling feet. She fares better than him, but that’s to be expected. Unlike her accomplice, for her, there’s real risk involved. 

“Just ‘cause I heard you don’t mean I have to listen.” 

Lips pressed to her temple, Matthew clicks his tongue in approval. ‘Bout damn time she started giving back what Quinn so readily dishes out. 

“Look, y’can spread your legs for anyone with big dreams and a buckle some other night. Parade around the circuit acting like a slut, see if I give a shit. But not tonight. And not with him.” 

The knowing glint in Quinn’s blackened eyes is telling, but it isn’t as menacing as he thinks it is. The Hughes heir apparent couldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have a lick of proof. Just suspicion and a personal vendetta the size of Texas. 

A safety net swaying below, Matthew decides to have a little fun. “Whoa, settle down, Trust Fund. Y’can’t talk to a lady like that, ‘specially not your sister.” 

He’s no white knight, but he can pretend. 

And isn’t that what you’re all doing? Pretending to be people you aren’t. Acting out your roles, putting on a show. After all, a performance will always be more entertaining than the truth. 

“—and here I thought etiquette classes were a Rodeo Royalty rite of passage. Glad t’know she ain’t the only roughneck hellion in your family tree, Huggy.” 

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His tongue threatens to put a hole through his cheek. Hands on his hips, the eldest sibling only nods. He ignores Matthew entirely. 

“Real winner y’got there. A class act. You really know how to pick ‘em—cream of the goddamn crop. Say, what’re you gonna do when he inevitably gets bored of you? When he gets his hands on a fresh doe-eyed virgin to tarnish?” 

After she finishes with Matthew, she’s kicking Jack’s sorry ass. 

Those anxieties—and that majorly personal tidbit of information—were shared in confidence. Because unlike her older brother, she trusted her twin. Well, she used to, at least. Luke’ll be over the moon at the chance to be her favorite. 

She bares her teeth like a scorned lapdog. “We’re not kids anymore, Q. You can’t push me around whenever you want or tell me what to do like you’re my father. And you sure as shit can’t bully me into submission, either. Give it up, or get lost.” 

“Whatever,” Quinn barks as he backs away from the trailer. “Your fuckin’ funeral.” 

Listening to the fading sound of her brother’s Ariats pounding through the dirt, she buries her face in the warm, familiar crook of Matthew’s neck; she needs a moment alone. He seems to understand this, his mouth zipped shut as he runs calloused hands up and down her sides. She’s breathing heavily, but he does her the simple mercy of leaving it be. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was growing on you,” Matthew hums, a low-maintenance attempt to lighten the mood. 

They don’t do the touchy-feely BS. It’s one of the things that reeled him in—and kept him coming back. 

“But you do.” She pulls away to look up at him, chin resting on his sternum. He hates that her melancholic eyes are red-rimmed. “—and stop thinking, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“And what does, princess? I’m dyin’ for your insight.” 

“Shut the door and I’ll show you.” 

He blinks, taken aback. Who is this brazen tart, and when did she take your place? Matthew wonders to himself. Maybe he is the bad influence everyone paints him as… He hasn’t really thought about it until now, and it's troubling the way it makes his chest tighten. 

Matthew clears his throat—and, from his mind, the distressing notion that he’s ruined someone good with his carelessness—as he leans over. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He pulls the hauler’s heavy metal door shut with clamorous finality.  

Matthew Tkachuk might be the most self-serving swindler on dirt, but Quinn Hughes is just another name on his list. A box to tick and then forget. He wouldn’t lose sleep, it wasn’t like their friendship meant a damn thing. Not anymore. A friend turned foe, reduced to another obstacle in his way, a hurdle to jump. 

Tonight, his sister’s fealty; tomorrow, his title.

Retribution is at his fingertips, so close he can taste it. Yet, it would seem that Matthew merely traded one hornet’s nest for another. 

At least this one’s easy on the eyes. 

⤑ to my inbox💌

⬸ back to the catalog  (writing masterlist) 

⬸ back to the main blog 

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2024 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

[arcane-vagabond]

Don't Hang'em Til Noon Masterlist

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a notorious leader within the Dagger Gang of the old western territories of the United States. You, a recently orphaned socialite from the eastern seaboard, find yourself swept off to live with your older brother who has set down roots in said western territory. Determined to to make the best of your situation, what will you do when said outlaw sets his sights on you?

Series CW: Swearing, violence, period related violence and swearing, slow burn, fluff, (eventual) smut, enemies to lovers in a way, suggestive language, references to prostitution, firearms, etc. Chapter specific warnings will be included.

A/N: This is gonna be my first ever fanfiction series that I've ever written. Kind of excited for it, not gonna lie. Anyway, started this blog because I have very specific needs for fanfic, and apparently I've gotta do everything myself, so...enjoy. This work is also being published on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator.

All posts related to this series will be tagged as "DHTN" and "Don't Hang'em Til Noon"

*Denotes smut

Meet our heroine!

Last updated: 11.27.23 (Complete)

Masterlist || DPU Masterlist || Fan Art || Moodboards || Playlist 1 || Playlist 2

Series;

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five*

Chapter Six*

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine*

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve*

Drabbles;

The first time Jake sees Scout...

Scout gets the laundry

Jake teaches Scout how to play baseball

Scout and Jake spend Christmas together

Scout finds Jake asleep

Scout and Jake wake up

Pregnant sex with Jake*

Jake gets hired on as a ranch hand

You call Jake "baby boy" in bed*

Isaac's attack from Jake's POV

The morning after Chapter Six

Scout talks to Jake while he sleeps

Jake carves the horse for Scout

Jake thinks about his and Scout’s fight

Jake's POV while being arrested...

Penny and Mav talk about Jake and Scout...

Scout meets Sarah and Billy

The jail scene from Jake's POV...

Tom and Jake's Relationship...

[starry-eyed-adam]

ROTTMNT HEAD OVER BOOTS MASTERPOST

ART CREDIT: @aversiteespabilas THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH!!

FIC LINK

100 follower DTIYS / CTIYS!

Hello!! This is a future, Leoichi, Western/Cowboy ROTTMNT au that takes place in Montana, USA. Loosely based on the song linked above. It is a fic on AO3 that is updated every Sunday night CST. Occasionally I will upload early :)

SYNOPSIS:

Yuichi Usagi, former samurai, recently relocated to Montana from the headache that was New York, looking for a fresh start. The clear skies and mountain air provides a lot of calm—and new opportunities, he discovers when he meets four turtle brothers down the street from his farm, each with their own captivating personality and kind souls. One in particular has started to make his heart pound a little faster, and yet he can’t shake this strange feeling that he knows him from somewhere…

Leonardo Hamato has lived in the same rural community almost his entire life. His family packed up and left the city when he was seventeen, and there isn’t much he remembers from the months leading up to their move. One thing he does know is that this handsome stranger is about to make his life much more interesting.

Donatello Hamato has been described as a gunslinger, a vigilante, a cold force of unstoppable nature. That’s certainly what he looks like to Yuichi, and the rabbit yokai can’t explain the man’s unwelcoming attitude towards him. But as Donnie begins to block him out of Leo’s life, taking down old pictures from the wall, silently conveying that some things are best stayed buried, well… something is definitely wrong here.

CHARACTER REF SHEETS:

Yuichi Leo Donnie Mikey Raph

TAG:

#Head Over Boots, mostly where I draw, write, and reblog other people’s cowboys :))

2058 (CW: death)

parts 1 2 3

more updates to this post to come! if you’re reading the fic, thank you sooo much!!