#gunslinger oc

[shehungers]

BOUNTY

hot gunslinging outlaw x reader | 18+ | 2.7k

immediately following your mother's gruesome death, you come to find out that your father is the wealthiest industrialist on the continent of san-am and is on his deathbed, leaving the entirety of his vast wealth to you—a man you've never met. along your way across the continent, your train is abruptly highjacked and you come to face-to-face with a handsome outlaw coming to claim the massive bounty on your head.

story warnings; 18+ for kidnapping, graphic + grotesque details, worldbuilding, heavy prose + descriptions, implications of matricide, reader has a bounty on them, reader gets a gun pointed in their face, roughly proofread

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

this is a concept piece for a significantly larger project, see how the cat jumps.

petition for me to rewrite this darker bc this shit doesn't match up to my current style. let me know if you'd like to see it revisited?

would love and absolutely appreciate feedback + reblogs 💕

Mother died a week before the lawyer showed up on your doorstep with an inheritance letter and half-hearted condolences for your absentee father’s poor prognosis.

A day after that, your life was stowed into a pair of suitcases and a heavier hard case that you barely justified bringing aboard the train. In three weeks and three layovers, you would be across the continent in St. Corpus, the industrial heart of San-Am, where your father awaited you on his deathbed.

Horace Grissom had fathered a new age of industry and outward expansion in lands once believed to be sprawling metropolises centuries long gone. They had been left behind as skeletons of steel and rust from a time of global war, reclaimed in totality by the roots of elder trees, the decay of salt and sea, the precarious will of mountains, and the great sinkholes and corrosion of sand and time.

Traces of that old world had survived thanks in part to the rigorous efforts of archaeologists and conservationists at the University of San-Am in Grimerise. With each new discovery, opportunistic vultures like your father blotted their pens to their tongues to their pocketbooks and readied themselves to own the patent of it like history had a price and could only belong to them. Indeed, anything could be bought, because with those fragments of history, he built the San-Am Continental Railroad which crossed through each of the five territories and was considered the premier way to travel.

You were never allowed to ask questions about Horace under Mother’s roof as the very mention of his name would set her ablaze in some pettish, garrulous tantrum that, oftentimes, ended with you going to bed before dusk without dinner until the next day.

She loved that bitterness up until the very moment she died, clawing your clothes, your skin, her nightgown, her own throat because she couldn't breathe and there was nothing you could do to save her from succumbing.

“Go in peace, Mother.” you said, kissing the back of her sun-speckled hand even as she tried digging her nails into your face. “I love you.”

She did not waste peacefully, nor did she end by staring up rapturously at the ceiling as though something else waited for her beyond it.

Mother passed in blood, vomit, excrement, and all her hatred while you bade her farewell and considered who was best to call to have her body carted away to burn with all the others that had also succumbed that day. You made sure to label that as the cause of death on the official paperwork.

After that, you had made quick work of piling all of her things into boxes to be incinerated as well, certified the house was safe and in a liveable state (besides her old mattress, which was the first thing you disposed of because of the smell) for another family to move into.

Once all of that had been finished and you gained the time to rest, you got a knock at your door, a bald, sinewy man with a round hat claiming to be Joseph Whitwald—estate planning lawyer, he made sure to specify more than once—and that you needed to leave post haste to your father's estate in St. Corpus before he perished.

“You have significant placement in his will, illegitimate or not. This is what he wanted, this is what shall be done,” said Whitwald assuredly as he rooted through the pockets of his pants and white suit vest for something. He found it and made a sound and a flourish, revealing to you a red ticket. “Take this. It's for one of the elite cabins in first class. Your father wanted you to have the best amenities that the San-Am Continental has to offer.”

Even with such luxuries available to you with the sound of a bell on string, you eventually found yourself exchanging tickets with a young woman traveling solo for the first time. She went red in the eyes, asserted her appreciation, and scooped you into a hug before taking the ticket and her belongings to the first car.

The passenger car was considerably noisier with children running amok, drunks and musicians belting tunes while dancing in the center aisle—doing poorly to keep their balance as the train navigated the terrain beneath the rails, and ladies in bustles and fashionable blouses screaming like hens over fresh gossip. The stewards were frustrated that they couldn't get their trolleys through all the bodies, whereas some passengers let their stomachs roar through their mouths as they assailed anyone nearby (especially the poor lads just trying to deliver food) with complaints.

You liked everything happening around you; it was a good distraction from the way life had twisted your arm behind your back. The cacophony of laughter and anger felt like home, a comfortable companion to sit there with you on the empty, thinly padded benches while you stared uselessly at the inheritance papers—uncomprehending.

A gasp shot up your throat and made you bite your tongue as you were launched forward onto the adjacent bench (also empty) when the train suddenly began to slow—brakes engaged with such quickness that the wood beams under your feet vibrated up through your soles into your bones and teeth and skull until you became lightheaded and collapsed back into your seat.

The squeal and grind of steel worsened your confusion, turned the fuzz in your head into dull drumming—aches that pulsed to a beat you couldn't figure out, but it deadened the screams all around you and bodies hitting the floorboards in thunderous heaps.

And then, there was silence.

The other passengers kept their voices low as they climbed back into their seats, children were smothered deep into their mother’s bosoms as they wept, and no one dared to investigate what had brought the train to such a violent stop.

“Mummy, what's happening?” asked a girl from the benches behind you. She couldn't have been older than ten, from the sound of her. “Mummy, why—”

“Lottie!” the mother hissed at her daughter, “Shhh! Say nothing else, child.”

From a few seats away, closer to the front, you recognized the gruff, muddled voice from one of the drunkards who had been dancing in the aisle a while ago. Now, he had a bloody nose and a nasty knot growing on his forehead.

“What the hell is the big idea of them scarin’ the piss outta us like this? Do you see my face? They gonna do somethin’ to fix it?” he complained, then swigged liquor from a flask he had smuggled on. “I should go up there and give ‘em a piece of my mind. Bastards.”

“Peace, friend,” soothed a musician with an unfamiliar accent and stringed instrument. “Don't be hasty. I'm sure there’s a good reason why they had to stop. Let them find a solution, we’re just here for the ride.”

Just as the chatter was rising up again, commotion from the first class car stifled it hard, prompting some folks to abandon their seats near the door separating the cars to crowd into the rear. You were tempted to flee with them, join their pack so if they were going to find a way off the train, you'd be mixed up in their stampede and have a better chance to get away.

Except, you simply packed away your inheritance paperwork and sat there with your chin tucked to the collarbone, the visor of your baseball cap pulled lower over your sunglasses to seem as nondescript as possible. Meanwhile, the sounds from first class grew intense; glass shattered, passengers screamed and shuffled around, something you knew to be true because you felt the floor rumble under your feet again.

And then, the passenger car door slid open without the ferocity you had expected. The door scraped along its metal rail, allowing the body to pass through in heavy, languid steps. You paced your breaths to hear it all; the boots and clinking spurs striking wood with dull thuds, a baritone hum that you were convinced you could feel reverberate in your own chest as it came closer, the scuff of thick fabric and creaking leather.

You waited for it all to pass, to move on like a slow-moving rain cloud amidst a humid summer day, but it stopped at you instead. The tips of the man's boots were within view, as were slithers of tattered, black fabric from a long duster that fell short of his shins.

And then, there was the barrel of a gun. The breaths you had been holding shivered out of you, cold dread sank deep into your stomach and bones as the gun flicked upward a few times.

You obeyed and raised your head up to look at the man—tall, broad-shouldered, a rugged face with dark features mostly obscured by the shadow of his wide rim.

He tilted his head, gun higher as he flicked it down and you understood that to mean to take off your sunglasses. When you did so, offering him a full view of your face, his lips lifted crookedly into a half-smile.

“Well then,” he took the bench adjacent to you before holding something up to your head, seemingly a piece of paper, and shifted his gaze between you and it just twice. “Aren't you something special? Found you, darlin’.”

“What?” you frowned. “Found me?”

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. You're definitely his kid. It's all in the eyes, really.” He said, turning the paper around to reveal a photograph of a man who you did share an eerie likeness to. It was the sameness in the eyes—the color and shape and emotion they evoked through a simple still image. “Horace Grissom had an illegitimate kid a long time ago. Turns out, not everyone is so pleased for that to become public knowledge. Turns out, someone wants you to bite the ground.”

“I've done nothing wrong!” you bristled.

He settled on the bench and hiked an arm up across the back of it. “That's usually how it goes, hun. Puttin’ holes in types like you really ain't my favorite thing to do. You'd be surprised how many people get put in your exact situation. Well, eh, not quite. ‘Cause not everyone is Horace Grissom’s kid.”

“Who hired you?” you demanded.

His lopsided smile remained. “Can't tell you that, darlin’. Confidentiality an’ all that.”

“So, then, you're a bounty hunter?” At this point, you weren't sure if you were trying to stave off an inevitability, or he had just riled you up that badly. “How much are you getting?”

“Enough to live the high-life for quite a while, I'd say.” He continued, “but I ain't no bounty hunter. Them folks gotta play by rulebooks an’ a bunch of codes and whatever. Not my thing.”

“A criminal, then,” you said. “An outlaw.”

He shifted the rim of his hat away from his eyes and leaned towards a pillar of golden, midmorning sunlight that came in through the window. “Sure, if that's what'll make you feel better about this entire thing.”

You could actually see him now—the contrast between the ambery hue in his rich complexion and pale green of his eyes. His skin had some weather to it, enough to prove that he had seen the worst of every season for years on end without it wearing him thin, along with thoroughly kempt hair on his face and loose waves that draped slightly beyond his shoulders.

“I…” the longer he stared at you, the less you were able to think. That was ridiculous considering you had survived the soul-crushing burden of engineering school and all of the personalities therein. “I can offer you something better than what you were hired for.”

He did a fast sweep of the colossal heaps of fabric hanging from your frame, a style you preferred to keep eyes off of you on the best and worst of days. It didn't do much to deter him as it did others.

“Oh, yeah? Whaddya got, hun?”

You lifted your shoulders and stacked your bones right. “I've got a vast inheritance that I'm not interested in. Horace is dying and I’m in his will to receive half his properties, along with his shares in the San-Am Continental Railway and Subsidiaries. If you can get me to St. Corpus, you can have the inheritance—every last gris.”

A shrill whistle echoed around your head, tuneful and mocking. The sound of it whittled your confidence back down to nothing, filling the space of your throat with a vise that you couldn't seem to swallow around. That same great unease you had felt before weaseled around in your chest, coiled your ribs and then plunged straight down into your gut.

“Good offer, but it ain't on the table.” The way he spoke was easy and slow, a thick drawl that suited every bit of him up to even now. He acted as though he weren't essentially holding a gun to your head, threatening your life in the name of money—or something else. “Gris is always good to have lyin’ around, but, honey, it don't really mean a lot to a man like me. Why, then, d’ya think I take on work like this? Why do ya think I trek halfway across the five territories time and time again? What really keeps a man goin’ out here in this godforsaken place?”

You felt yourself shrink in your seat as he leaned forward over his thighs, coming closer still like he had a secret to keep. “It's for the thrill. The hunt. The challenge of it all. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't actively seek out men to shoot or… nice types like you, but part of the fun is trackin’ down, the other part is just havin’ a chat—just like this.”

Then, he had the picture of Horace held out to you between two fingers. “Tell ya what, I see that hard case you brought aboard. I know what it is, but I want you to offer me somethin’ more interesting than a bunch of gris.”

You scrunched the photograph against your palm once you had it, hoping the sweat off your skin would ruin his face and make the ink run, but looked to the aforementioned hard case instead.

It was made of a hard plastic shell with strips of rubber outlining the odd shape of the thing. Inside was your handheld welding gun—one of many—that you had decided to bring along for little reason besides thinking it could be of use at some point during your time away. It wouldn't be enough to handle larger jobs such as the ones you were accustomed to in the workshop back in Grimerise, but it could fix a wagon or two, glue some pipes together, and do some damage if need be.

“C’mon, darlin’, sell yourself to me.” he pressed, gesturing his impatience with winding fingers. “What do you do for a living, huh?”

“I'm an engineer,” you continued hastily, “I-I can solder, weld, braze, cut, and saw. I can do anything if I have the right equipment.”

In turn, he asked, “Does that mean you can cut open a safe?”

“If you give me what I need, I can do anything.” you said.

A new sort of look overcame his features, one of great fondness and admiration that made the green of his eyes take on the milky luster of jade. You had the hope that this unique softness would gain you freedom from a shallow, empty death; a chance to go forward to seize the assets sworn to you by a man you'd never known.

His hands came forward to take your wrists, the weight of them first heavy and then cold as a pair of handcuffs were locked around you, knocking bone when you lunged back into your seat and fought against them.

“I've got myself quite boon!” In the next moment, he had hauled you up across his shoulder, retrieved both your suitcases, and called one of the stewards to carry your welding gun after him. “Time to go. Gotta introduce you to the crew and get ya settled in.”

“Wait, I don't even know your name!” you shouted and thrashed from shoulder.

He grinned. “Jericho, darlin’.”

[speksshortcut]

this is dutton ford i love him and i have too much story and lore for him

—

he technically started as a rdr oc but like it quickly just morphed into its own story so :3

[spaceferren-comics]

Sun-Slinger headbust!

[jammerspyjammass]

Doodle of Bishop

Lowkey sick rn so ill probably just be posting doodles

[soil-flavored-soda]

Howdy ma’am

[imnotacryptid]

Russel Byrd

Wake up babe a new DnD furry just dropped <3

Anyway I love him so much he means so much to me :3

Read below for Lore and Character Info!

Current Name: Russell Byrd

Previous Name: Rushtail

Age: 25 Years Old

Race: Tabaxi

Class: Fighter [Gunslinger subclass, Healing feat]

Rushtail was born on the Mossy Cliffs [20’s Island] to an upper class family with a long history and ties to the vampiric mafia. As a child he was unwanted. The youngest son to a large family that did not need him. He was not partial to violence or blood and was deemed useless at best, and a liability at worst. In his later teen years he fell in with a bad crowd himself, partially due to the already established ‘friendships’ of his family, and partially due to the company he himself kept. He was a partier, drinker, gambler, drug-user, and pretty much a part of whatever other time-passing pleasure he could get his paws on. While still the black sheep of the family in terms of participation in the more deadly side of their business, they allowed, and sometimes encouraged, this behavior as it fit together with the front of their own gambling halls and clubs. He was the pretty face to their operation.

But with the crackdown from Governor Patspy on their vampiric support, the family lost a lot. Money, property, and most of all, protection. They are struggling to uphold their gaudy way of life, and Rush was only a drain on their funds now that he was just an addict with a face that didn’t belong to anything they could market. But while much of their network was dead, imprisoned, or in the wind, the family saw one last chance to secure their position, and get rid of some dead weight.

Within the criminal underbelly of the Mossy Cliffs one vampire still held onto a lot of sway and power. Her name was /////// And Rushtail had happened to catch her eye.

The family makes a deal with her, where they promise her Rush in marriage, in exchange for protection and support. A guarantee at regaining their own wealth and status. Rush is forced through withdrawals, cleaned up, and told that he belongs to Her now. 

The man is washed up, struggling, and in no position to complain, so he does not fight this new stage in his life. He is married to  ///////, and for the first time in his life, his family is happy with him. 

But /////// is is a harsh partner, and she abuses Rushtail. His home life is now the worst it has been since he was a child and living with his family, when he could not escape the abuse by running to the clubs or gambling halls. He deteriorates quickly. A year passes, and he is a shadow of himself, barely recognizing his reflection past scars, bites, and bruises. 

He does not know what finally broke him. But when he breaks, he shatters.

Rush cannot remember exactly what happened, but one moment /////// Is  is sinking her teeth into his neck, and the next he is standing above her corpse with a bloodied hammer, her face unrecognizable where it has been smashed to pieces. He runs.

He has little he can truly call his own, but he still has the money from the wedding stashed away, a mocking inheritance the family handed over once he had finally ‘done something worthwhile for them’, so he takes it and flees. Hiding away is hard with the connections his family has, and with //////. Dead, and Rush as the obvious culprit, they now possess even more power and friends who will hunt him down and kill him. Rush uses his tiny fortune to put together a new identity, with just enough to purchase one ticket on a blimp to one of the farthest islands away from Mossy Cliffs: Spectra Falls [50’s Island].

Russell Byrd is running from a past that has turned him into someone he hates. He has no skills, no money, and a desperate need to never let himself feel helpless again.

He finds himself at a shelter on Spectra Falls, and there he slowly gets himself back on his feet, teaching himself self-defense and promising himself that he will always be able to fight back. He finds solace in firearms, a nostalgia from some of the few happy memories from his childhood before he had been deemed worthless, when a cousin or Auntie would teach him how to shoot. He also befriends some of the volunteer medics at the shelter, who work at a nearby hospital. He convinces them to teach him first aid and some healing skills in their spare time, hoping that one day, maybe he can finally leave his past completely behind and become a doctor.

Common attributes/symbols: His large red scarf is a comfort item, as is his large coat (he likes to cover the evidence of scarring and healed vampire bites)

Common activities/hobbies: He is twitchy and paranoid, but enjoys cleaning and working on his pistols

Additional stuff: The epitome of ‘I attract people due to my weird and off-putting rizz’

[mossrotts]

maybe these guys would be friends... or maybe silas would hunt down stoat.

stoat is budderapple64's (AF username), and silas is @kittentoyys!

[council-of-phantoms]

An upgrade to Gabrielle's zombie-ish form. Good to see I improved over the last....year? Yeah, year.

I think it was a year since I last drew her flayed face.

[zoethehead]

so i was playing the roblox spaceship roleplay game, and i had made a gunner called Clive Torres

[pepsdraw]

Yuuka

[leidensygdom]

Giveaway for @tamathotchi-art of her Aasimar gunslinger, Montoya! I haven't done a character with a cowboy fit in... Forever, I think, and this was such a treat to do~

[zephyrbug]

Secret satan time!! Here’s the piece I did for @//meadow_cryptid (insta) of their character Reykur!🥀🌅♦️

Thanks as usual thanks to @leidensygdom for running the event! 

[royalbeemilk]

my poor lonesome cowboy

•••

[spaceferren-comics]

Solibri Cowboys

[evgar]

w- women 😳

[soil-flavored-soda]

Odie Ref for artfight!