#marvel western au

[girllock-writes]

"Daddy's Money"

Pairings: cowboy!bucky x rancher's daughter!reader

Summary: Bucky notices someone from his past and it's distracting him in church.

AN: Based on the song Daddy's Money by Ricochet, I needed more cowboy Bucky, so here yall go ig. No warnings, just me being a fangirl :)

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Bucky sat in the wooden pew, barely paying attention. The small church was warm and crowded as the small town of Montgomery gathered on a particularly sunny Sunday. Reverend Cole spoke enthusiasticly about whatever passage he was preaching on, but Bucky didn't care.

Up in the choir loft, the robed figure looked like an angel.

It was y/n l/n. She was back in town. Her father, one of the richer ranchers, had made sure she always had the best of everything. She wasn't the type of person to advertise it, but her daddy had money.

Her hair curled around her bright smile. She was twice as pretty as her mama. There was no question as to where she got her good looks from.

Bucky rememberd the last time he had heard her voice. She had made a joke about their mutual friend, Sam Wilson, being more difficult to tame than a wild horse. He remembered almost spitting out his water. Sam, being known for his charm with the ladies, was a hard one to tame. She wasn't just well off and pretty, she was funny too. He remembered her getting into trouble for sneaking out when they were younger. She had never liked to stay in when all her friends were riding out to the lake in the middle of the night. Wild was another word Bucky would use.

Y/n l/n had been away at college for the past six years. Bucky had heard she had visited a few times over breaks and holidays but he had never seen her. She had done a dual program with a bachelor's in history and a masters in agricultural science and administration. Smart too.

He wondered how many of the other young men in the congregation were distracted by her. She had everything. A deadly combination of beauty and brains. He'd seen her fish, she was damn good at it. He'd seen her kiss too, she had been no stranger to the local teen hangouts. She was dynamite. Country through and through.

Bucky’s mind began to wander as he reminisced about y/n. He hadn't seen or spoken to her in years. How was he supposed to now? Her second cousin had been his thrid grade teacher, but that side of the family had moved out of town about a year ago. That was probably no good. He remembered doing her grandmother's lawn a few times back in highschool, but that wasn't much to go off of.

Bucky gave a small smile, remembering how y/n had looked as a high schooler. A little lanky and awkward, sure, it was high school, but she had always been the life of the town. Getting into trouble then turning around and helping out more than anyone at the annual hoedown. He remembered how she had grown much more quiet after her sophomore year. She got into less trouble, but got better at hiding her wild side. He wondered how much she had changed.

She was really gown up now. Grown into herself, that's to say.

And she was gorgeous.

“Let us pray,” Reverend Cole said, snapping Bucky from his daydream.

As everyone bowed their heads, Bucky closed his eyes tightly. *Lord… if you happen to have an extra miracle or two, spare me one. Let me walk down the isle and say “I do” to Y/n l/n. Please…*

“Amen!” Cole boomed, as the congregation followed in suit. The choir began to sing the last hymn before the church was dismissed.

Bucky's mouth moved, but his eyes and mind were fixed only on one thing. The angel in the choir loft. Y/n.

He grinned as her eyes met his, her voice ringing out with the others. It was heavenly. She didn't look away. There was a sparkle in her eyes.

The service ended and Bucky made his way to the far side of the rows where Sam and his family had been sitting.

“Did ya see who's back,” he said lowly.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “L/n? Yeah, I heard she was commin back from her cousin.” Bucky looked over to where y/n stood, greeting a fellow choir member. Sam laughed at his friend. “Looks like she's got her daddy's money and her mama's good looks. Looks like you'll have a challange on your hands with that one.”

Bucky smiled as y/n met his gaze again. He leaned over to Sam, not breaking her eye contact. “Yeah, but look who's lookin at me.”

[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.

[unholyhelbig]

Cowboy Kate is about to fuck me uppp

Title: Outlawed (1/4)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Main Masterlist

Summary: When y/n returns to her hometown of Barton Hollow she stumbles across an outlaw in dire need of help. Together, the two navigate complicated feelings, and demons from their past that are determined to destroy them in the way only the Wild West could.

Warnings: blood, urban legends, grave robbing, religious trauma, guns, droughts, horses (?), tattoos (also ?), horrible medical knowledge that is impossible I know give me a break, bad language, sexual content, bad grammar, I don't proofread these.

[A/n: This is my time to shine, right? I live in the wild west! No. I am a city girl through and through. This first chapter is dedicated the wonder @noturlondonboy and @thinking1bee because they are always phenomenal, give them both a follow and also lmk if you want to be tagged in future parts!]

“Easy girl,” the words pushed past dry lips that tasted vaguely of dust and the metal of blood. The heat of the sun had cracked them to all hell throughout the day, burned them past salvage. You’d worried them enough to strip two layers before the sharp sting became too much and the change in your horses behavior became the more pressing matter.

Othello came to a slow trot at the mouth of a canyon, a large and sparce mouth lined in red rocks. The foliage was dried out with the rest of the drought afflicting the land, raking across his chestnut fur that reminded you cruelly of fingers against windowpanes. Incessantly tapping and scratching to bide your attention in the dark of night.

Your mama told you to keep your back to the noise and to never, no matter what, open the window. Even if the thing begging to be let in on the other side of the glass sounded like something you knew. It was a regular occurrence at the farmhouse, and eventually, after being ignored for so long, you figured it had grown bored of you and chose another family to torment.

Out here, there was nowhere to turn your back to. Closing your eyes brought more darkness, and a window didn’t separate you from the horrors that liked to tap on glass. You listened to your horse, and the unease in your gut. That was another thing mama taught you.

The plains dropped to a lower temperature at night, your breath a specter in front of you, giving away your panic in each pant. Othello had slowed to a trot, her hulking form making slow work of a path many had traveled before you. It was something you’d much rather do by the rays of the sun, not the silver light of the moon. Othello kept her head down, streams of breath leaving her nostrils.

You tightened your grip on the reigns, muscles taut with fear and sweat soaking through the layers of fleece around your shoulders. Othello wasn’t partial to snakes, and neither were you. Your lungs began to ache with the cool breath you held, not quite sure if you preferred something hiding in the foliage with no legs, or too many.

Othello gave you a warning snort before she bucked you off. It was indignant but gave you a moment to unwrap the cured leather from your palm prior to her hollow back leaving you entirely. Your horse never went far. She wasn’t the type to traverse plains without you, but she would get herself a good distance away from danger, effectively depositing you right in it’s path.

A groan escaped you along with the air you’d been holding. You made quick work of canvassing the red clay you’d landed flat on. Four fangs hadn’t dug themselves into soft skin yet, nor had clawed hands stripped you of your hide. Instead, you felt the uncomfortable tip of a boot against your side.

“Shit,” you rolled onto your back, releasing a train of expletives “What the fuck?”

In the pale moonlight, you caught a sticky burgundy puddle that collected the dessert dust. The land was greedy for moisture, and it didn’t care if it was in the form of blood or water. A drought was a drought in these parts. Bodies would be picked clean and the same boots that dug into your ribs would be the only thing that remained.

A metallic scent tickled your nose, too much blood to be survivable. Shell casings littered the area, and you sat up with an indignant huff, taking stock of the mass of body that was slumped against the cracked sandy ground. She was dressed in mostly pitch, skin gaunt from her wounds.

An equally as dark cattleman hat was just out of reach, as if her fingers had brushed it’s rim but she hadn’t the strength to grasp it. Your father valued his cowboy hat more than he valued you, and if this woman was the same, then there was something to be said about her dying moments.

Her lips were parted, void of color. There was a beauty to her that made your heart pound in a strange type of longing. You hadn’t seen another soul in about a week, and your chest ached for someone who had died in the line of fire for god knows what. It was an ambush, you were sure. A beautiful woman who had been struck down and had died all alone, left for the coyotes to pick apart with their rotted teeth.

Regardless of her current state, and your reservations, you started to dig through the girls pockets, careful to avoid the saturated fabric. There were some russet-colored bills, and some loose bullets that you shoved haplessly into your own pockets. A pearl-handled colt pistol, tinted in a strawberry color, slippery in blood.  

Your thumb swiped over the sloppy engraving in soft silver; K.B

Your fingers found a chain around her neck, a thick gold with a nephrite Wyoming Jade in the center. Valuable. Too valuable to be left if she was shot at close range. Whoever had done this had aimed to kill and had succeeded. You wrapped your fingers around the bulk of the chain, ready to pull with enough force to snap the clasp.

Deathly cold fingers suddenly wrapped around yours, bringing your heart into your throat. They didn’t squeeze hard, weren’t able too. But it was a warning. Her skin was tacky and barely alive. When your panicked eyes moved to hers, they had snapped open. Grey and ghostly.

“Graverobbing before I’m even in the grave, sweetheart?” She croaked out. “No respect for the dead.”

You were effectively straddling a dead body. A half-dead body. A mostly dead body, and shame was rushing to your cheeks. If you stayed still, you were sure her hand would drop from yours and you could mount Othello and be on your way. It wasn’t something you could do with a good conscience.

The strangers hand fell limply to her side, but if you focused hard enough, you could feel her shallow breaths. When you laid yourself flat against her and pressed your ear to her cold chest, there was a cracking inhale and exhale. Far apart, but still there. Another groan pushed past your lips, drowning out the girls pitiful attempts to hang onto life.

Othello chuffed next to you.

“Don’t give me that look.” You glared up at her. She was judging you. The whites of her eyes were visible and narrowed and you hated it when she took on this stance. “She could be some horrible criminal that’s murdered a whole orphanage.”

Another indignant noise.

“Well yes, I was robbing her, but objectively murder is worse. And who says I can even nurse her back to health?”

This time, Othello didn’t even make a noise. She didn’t have to. You were a physician, one of the only ones on this side of the country who hadn’t fallen for the fad of radium water, of course you could nurse her back to health, and you could do it well.

It would be easier, simpler, to let her parish. As dark as it had sounded to your own ears it would prove to keep your soul intact for just a little while longer. You weren’t practicing anymore. Couldn’t, and part of you wanted to refuse coming out of self-induced retirement for the likes of a stranger bleeding out a few miles from your hometown.

Othello pushed her nose between your shoulder blades, shoving you forward enough to see the constellations of freckles that were losing pigment fast on the girls cheeks. She’d gotten them from spending too much time in the heat of the sun as a child, just like you had. She had a family. Friends. People who you were sure loved her, someone who had given the gun you shoved into the breast of your own jacket.

A growl pushed past your lips, hands gripping her lapels “You better be worth it, K.B.”

A fine layer of dust coated the three-room farmhouse that had been long since abandoned. Most of the room was taken up by the kitchen, a wood burning stove the center piece that you begged to light. It was too damp, ironically. The musk that filled your lungs made you want to vomit, but you swallowed it down.

The kitchen table that your father hand carved still stood but one of the chairs was missing, pushed up to the ice box where it had been rifled through until it was picked clean. Iron pans were still hanging where your mama had left them and you didn’t’ dare look down the hallway towards where your room sat, likely untouched, but coated in the same red dust that the looming winds brought the rest of the land.

Despite your aching muscles and protesting bones, you deposited the stranger onto the bare mattress in your parents abandoned room and pawed around for the oil lamp on the bedside table. It ignited easily enough, filling the room with a kerosene scent that tickled your throat.

A squelching grumble pulled from the girls lungs that sounded too pained for your liking. It was almost a death rattle, and you couldn’t have that. Not after you’d pulled her so close to your front and kept your arms looped around her to keep her steady on Othello’s back.

It had become clear that she’d been shot through the center, something that had gone straight through and tore through organs cleanly. What you needed to do now was staunch the blood, to make sure her lungs hadn’t been clipped in the process.

You made quick work of stripping her of her coat, tossing it over the chair in the corner of the room. It was harder to remove her shirt, soaked so fully in blood that her pearl buttons were nearly impossible to get a grasp on. You were a professional, and a decent one at that, but it was hard to ignore the beauty of the girl underneath you, the tautness of her muscles as they contracted under your fingers, searching for her outward wounds in the soft yellow light.

Another gurgled sound and you grabbed the scalpel from your leather bag, turning her slightly to the side before you made a calculated slice, drawing more blood. It seemed counter intuitive, really, drawing in the scent of more metal, coating the bare mattress in even more blood- but it had culminated within her lungs and you needed to release the pressure, clear her airways.

It was a risk, something you’d only seen done once in a small town down south in a marsh area teeming with mosquitos that swarmed the wound before it had so much as dripped an ounce of color. This was different. The girl coughed wetly and expelled a mix of dark red blood and bile onto the front of your shirt and down her own chest, finally getting in a good breath.

“Disgusting,” You snarled, scooting back from her. “Seriously, this is how you thank me?”

You didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one, either. The stranger, slightly less pale, flopped back down, her unbuttoned shirt riding up uncomfortably. But she was breathing better and there was color to her cheeks now. It was enough for you not to be as worried about her. Enough to where you could patch her up the rest of the way without questioning her mortality.

Exhaustion seemed to catch up with you as surveyed her. Most of her wounds, save for the lead slug to the gut, were superficial. She was dead weight, it was impossible to peel the shirt away from her entirely, but you caught the edge of black ink that escaped from the white fabric near her shoulder, your fingers running absently over the scarring, trying to identify something you couldn’t quite pin.

It was useless, blotchy and impossible to read. You had seen a handful of tattoos in your day. Not so much in the south, with it’s cloying heat, but the Appalachians, with it’s thick foliage and thicker legends, were wrought with them. The same needles you used to stitch up bleeding men were dipped into indigo ink and pushed past the first two layers of skin in an artful, tasteful way.

The daughter of the family that was kind enough to house you in a town just west of North Carolina had a beautiful etching of hemlock that stretched across the greater part of the back of her neck and dipped under the sheer white of her nightgown. It stretched it’s roots between her shoulder blades. You had brushed the whisps of mousy-brown hair to the side and kissed a venomous trail that had left her fisting the sheets.

Her sounds of ecstasy had woken her older brother, who kicked down the door with a double-barrel shotgun in his grip and a fresh handful of chew shoved in his bottom lip. He slurped through every other question, but it didn’t matter much because you were crouched under the girls window, hastily buttoning your shirt with one hand and biting the inside of the other to stop from laughing.

You bandaged the stranger as if it were habit. Medicine was like riding a bike. You had little to work without in the field and here, in the childhood home that you refused to rummage around, you figured that this was enough of a distraction to keep you from dwelling on the foreclosure. On being back here in the first place.

When you were satisfied with your work, you discarded your own blood-soaked jacket and plopped down into the nearest chair. It was coated in the same red clay dust that infiltrated the rest of the place. You breathed in the chalk. It masked the scent of your mama’s cooking and your fathers cologne. Small mercy’s.

He kept a marked-up bible in the bottom drawer of his dresser that you knew would still be there. That was the common law of the land. Of all land, you supposed. Not messing with a man’s bible.  You weren’t particularly religious, despite attending Pastor Barton’s services every Sunday and swallowing the bland chili that his wife served up in the small patch of grass behind the chapel.

The thin pages were something to flip through, and you were always curious about your fathers beliefs. He was a stoic man with a heavy hand, speaking in violence rather than words that often evaded him. It wouldn’t’ shock you if many of the underlined passages emphasized hard work, and penance for wrongdoing. You stopped believing in God when he drank hard and came home hitting harder, with closed fists.

The leather was worn, and there were smudges where he had turned the paged methodically in a achingly human habit. You leaned back in the chair and propped your boots up on the side of the bed where the stranger lay, her fingers splayed on her chest. Your eyes started to grow heavy with sleep, scanning the text of the book, but not retaining a single thing.

It was your full intention to stay awake, to make sure she was still breathing through the night. You had done it countless times before for patients on the battlefield, and those who were spewing blood into cut blankets donated to consumption clinics to staunch an illness already too far gone. This should be no different. But the comfort of home, the weight of your fathers bible in your hands and the familiarity of a pillow your mama had stitched started to take it’s toll.

The dust that coated the windows only allowed odd streaks of sunlight through, skewing your assessment of time. When you jolted awake, you did so ungracefully and wobbled in the chair enough to plant your booted feet on the floor and let the sacred text fall flat on the stained wood, bending the pages towards the very hell it forsake.

Your body ached from your last day of travel, but more than that, it ached from your lack in judgement.

The stranger was awake.

There was no lingering grogginess from her recent unconsciousness. She had been watching you for a while, possibly hours, but was powerless to do anything about it. The frustration that was etched into her features was adorable, really. Those grey eyes were less ghostly in this light, and there was a semi-healthy color to her cheeks. She had pushed herself up against the headboard.

“You undressed me.” She rasped.

“I saved you,” You corrected, “I unbuttoned your shirt to address a gunshot wound.”

The stranger glanced down at the clinic wrapping around her midsection, and the incision you had made against her chest to release the blood building up in her lungs. She didn’t say a thing about it, likely didn’t know why you had done it in the first place. Her voice was still haunting, you realized. But you wouldn’t let it rattle you in your own home. The banks home.

So, you stood and picked up the bible, not bothering to smooth out the pages before putting it back in it’s proper place. It would most likely remain until the house was destroyed. Rotted through, or leveled into the dusty abyss until Barton Hollow was no more.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot through the stomach, left for dead, robbed, then brought back to life.”

You clenched your jaw, arms crossed over your chest as you stared deftly at her. She had a smug look on her pale, beautiful face that almost infuriated you. Almost. You should have listened to your better judgement and not your horse. She was a bastard, and she had a warm blush against your cheeks. You had tried robbing her, but then you saved her, and that should count for something.

“Well,” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “You should be fine in a few days. Bullet went straight through. If we can avoid an infection, which, if you stay in one place we can do relatively easily, then you should be fine.”

She frowned, pushing a small breath through her lips. The look of indignance you gave her only spurred on her movement as she swung her legs off the side of the bed and began to shakily lift herself up. “No can do, sweetheart. I have a lot of people trying to kill me, so if you’ll just-“

A pained grunt cut her off, shaky fingers finding their way to the bandaged edge of her ribs, hidden under the fabric of her shirt. A wetness filled the stormy grey of her eyes and you wanted to feel bad for her, you did. But you knew her type. She wasn’t going to listen until she tested her pain.

You stood in front of her now, head cocked, lip turned up into a ghost of a smile. “If I’ll just what?”

“Fuck off, Doctor dumbass” She gritted through pain, no doubt opening her wound once more.

“It’s Doctor y/l/n, actually. You can either lie back and be a good little patient, or I can leave you here to bleed out. Again. It’s not a pleasant way to go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like you.”

“I’m not too fond of you either, gorgeous. You ruined my mattress and pissed off my horse. But you preemptively paid for my services with the cash you had in your coat pocket, so we’ll call it even, K.B”

She mustered a pitiful growl through her pain but did as she was told, lowering herself back onto the down pillow with only a few soft exhales. Her temperature was running hot and her skin was fresh with a fever that you didn’t like the looks of. The stranger had torn through the only healing her body had thus far allowed. Figured.

Shockingly, she let you work in relative silence, training her eyes on a spot of worn wood on the ceiling that you used to stare at as a child yourself. She seemed to flinch under the coolness of your hand, and you muttered a small apology, tender with your touch.

“It’s Kate.”

You frowned, working a small bit of iodine onto the gash you had created just below her sternum. “Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Kate.”

“Kate,” the name fit her, something that could punctuate the end of a sentence. It could be called out in annoyance, too. A simple syllable that rested at the tip of ones tongue. “You said people were trying to kill you. They close?”

“Closer now, I assume.”

You hummed. “The people in this town, Barton Hollow, they have a fine bounty on my head. So, you’re in good company. I’ll stay still if you do.”

[babybatscreationsv2]

Silk and Gold

Marvel | Starker

When a train robbery goes wrong, Peter takes the blame a man's death. Weeks pass while Peter hides out from Sheriff Stane and his men, but eventually it becomes clear that he'll never be able to go home unless he can get them off his back. Anthony Stark is notorious in the crime world and getting Peter out of trouble would be child's play for him, but he doesn't just give things like that away for free. Gold and silk mean little to a man who can take whatever he wants.

Rating: Explicit

Prompt fill for anon

Warning and tags below

Warnings/tags: romnoncon/coercion, humiliation, pain kink, first time, rough sex, face slapping, breed kink, size kink, minor character death, western AU

They knew the dynamite would give them away, they just didn't know how quickly the sheriff and his men would be on them. It took longer than Peter expected for the train to stop even as it crashed. It continued to skid an impressive distance, tearing apart the ground beneath it. Peter and his posse cheered as it finally came to a stop beside the blasted tracks. It was gonna cost the rail company a pretty penny to replace all of this. After they refused to hire Peter on for so many months and left him hungry and lost, he reckoned they deserved the trouble it got them.

Harry went right for the cargo while MJ went to fish the stunned conductor from the wreckage. He was banged up good, but alive. She tied his arms to his back and marched him away from the train in case it blew. Peter figured it was good for Harry to bring his wife along for jobs like this. Kept him righteous.

He joined his friend in the cargo car. Harry has the biggest smile on his face.

"Look at this! Nothing but fine jewelry and look!" He held up a sheer white scarf. "Silk all the way from China. Do you know what this is worth?"

"Hope it's worth as much as gold since that's what you promised me." Peter looked around the crates. They were chest high and stuffed to the brim with goods.

Harry scoffed and tossed him something. Peter caught it in his hands. The gold gleamed in the low sunlight. "A pocket watch? What's the point in making something like that out of gold?"

Harry laughed. "What you gotta learn, Pete, is that the people who have gold want to show it off. Leaving it in a vault for folk like us to break in and steal? Where's the fun in that? No, they want everyone to see what they've got and writhe with jealousy."

"Writhe?"

"Yeah it's like... squirming in pain. Writhe."

Peter nodded. He pushed open another crate and started digging in. Scarfs, skirts, watches, and necklaces all were stuffed into his bag. Then they heard MJ call.

"It's the sheriff! They're on us!" she shrieked.

They both jumped and ran to the door. Sure enough five horses were barreling their way. Peter looked for his own and found it far out of reach. If he whistled it would only reach him as the sheriff did. They might even shoot her down.

MJ appeared at the back of the train car, sitting atop her and Harry's horse. He climbed on behind her.

"Come on, Pete!" He offered his hand.

Peter looked at the horse, then back at the sheriff. She could handle the weight if only for a mile or two. They just needed to get away. He grabbed Harry's hand and jumped up behind him. He clung to his friend's chest as they both leaned in.

Bullets pinged off the metal of the train. Harry took out his gun and fired back.

"Don't hit them!" MJ warned.

"I'm not, I'm not," Harry soothed. "Just tryin' to keep them back."

"It's not working," she huffed.

Peter clenched his jaw. They were too heavy. The mare wasn't strong enough. The longer they drew this out, the weaker she would be. If he let go now, she might have enough in her for them to get away.

So he let go.

"Pete!" Harry called. He reached back for him, but Peter slipped back right off the horse's rear. Harry screamed his name.

Peter hit the ground and rolled as best as he could, but the angle was wrong and he still twisted his ankle. At least nothing felt broken. He sprinted for the nearby hills.

MJ turned the horse around. Peter waved her off, silently begging her to go. They'd follow the easier the target. Or better yet, they might split up. Either way, that horse was fast and she knew this area well. They'd be okay.

Peter could just make out her frustrated huff as Harry convinced her to go.

He kept running. A bullet struck the ground not far from his hip, but he didn't look back. There were two behind him, maybe three. They were gaining fast, aiming for his legs. But they didn't reach him before he reached the hills.

"Peter Parker! We know that's you, boy!" The sheriff called across the distance. "Stop now before this gets ugly!"

His anxious stomach didn't care for that idea, but he kept running anyway, right into the old mine shaft. It had been abandoned for only a few years now. The place was overrun with snakes and the miners had left after the third death. He couldn't be sure if they would follow him inside or that they wouldn't try to stake him out, but he couldn't outrun a horse.

The mine sloped down, blocking out the light from above. Peter slowed to a quick walk until finally he couldn't see past the end of his nose and he stopped. He squatted down in the dark and felt around in the dirt. His hands found the cold metal of an old mine cart. Careful not to make a sound, he crawled behind it.

"Parker!" the sheriff called as he reached the entrance. He heard one of the horses whinny.

"Careful, Sheriff. There's snakes in there. Horses can tell," one of his men said.

"The only snake in there is Peter Parker," he huffed. "And I ain't leavin without him."

Peter jumped as a loud sound came from not too far away. He felt the slightest tremble in the ground.

"What the hell?" someone said.

"Down there! The base of the mountain is smoking!"

"That damned Osborn. He set off an avalanche!" the sheriff said.

"What about the others? They could have killed them. They could need our help."

"Dammit!" They were quiet for a moment. "Alright. You stay here and wait for the boy to come out. We'll go and check it out. Do not leave until you have him. Ya hear?"

"Yes, sir."

Two horses galloped away. It was silent. Then he heard feet shuffling in the dirt and an irritated huff. Peter leaned his head back against the cart. No one seemed keen on following himself at least. He could rest for a few minutes. He hoped the others were okay. They'd probably done that for him. Too bad it would be for nothing if he couldn't get away.

He couldn't see any deeper into the shaft. There was only the light behind and slightly above him. He could feel a breeze coming up from below. Somewhere down there must have been a second entrance, but it was too dark to see and he'd never been that deep.

"Come on out already! We already know how this ends!" the man at the entrance hollered. "Either you get bit down there or you come crawling out and we drag you down to the jailhouse."

Peter didn't respond.

"Unless you've been bit already..."

He just breathed. Thinking. There had to be a way out of this. He'd done this plenty of times before. There was only one of them. The only problem was that Peter didn't have a gun. He didn't like the things. It seemed wrong to kill a man so impersonally. Killing shouldn't be easy. Not that he wanted to kill anyone.

He got an idea.

"Alright, you win!" he called up. "I'm coming out! Just don't shoot!"

"Why the change of heart?" he called back suspiciously.

"I heard something moving down there. I don't know what it is, but better a jail cell then a rattler!"

"Yeah? Come on out then."

Peter stood and shuffled his feet around in the dirt. After a moment he cried out.

"My foot! It's stuck! I stepped in a hole or something!"

"That ain't my problem. You got yourself in there."

"Please! There's something in here! I can't move!"

The man sighed. "Dammit... you better not be pullin’ my leg."

Peter stayed hidden behind the cart as he heard him approach. "Thank you! You're a good man!"

"Yeah yeah- holy hell..." the man stopped. Peter's heart sank as he heard it. A rattle.

"Aw fuck! You tricked me! You damned bastard! When I get ahold of you I'm gonna put on between your eyes and push right into the bottom of this mine. Stane won't know what happened to ya!"

"Shut up!" Peter hissed. "You're gonna piss it off. I didn't know it was there, okay? I was bluffing."

"You're a liar and a coward, Peter Parker!" The rattling stopped. The man took a step and it started up again. "To hell with this."

Peter flinched at the sound of a gunshot. There were two more. Then the man screamed. Peter closed his eyes. The gun shots stopped, but the screaming continued.

He peeked around the cart. He couldn't see much, just a shadow of something squirming. Slowly, he came out of his hiding place.

"You alright?" he asked.

The man sobbed.

Peter approached slowly. There was no rattling. No signs of any snakes. As he came close, he could see that the man was pale in the face. He clutched at his chest. There was a lot of blood. The thing had bit him multiple times on the legs and hands. As he came close, the man collapsed. He was still breathing, but he needed a doctor.

He could hear horses in the distance. There was no time for sympathy. Stane would find him and take care of him surely. He had to worry about himself for now. He'd be okay.

Peter ran from the mine. Behind him he heard the tell tale rattle, but nothing bit at his ankles. Lucky.

He found the deputy's horse a few paces from the mine. It must have balked when it heard the snake. It didn't mind Peter climbing onto its back and let him ride it back toward town. He rode for a while, sometimes doubling back, leaving a mess of tracks in the dry soil. Then he rode off into the pastures.

He managed to hide out for a few days before someone spotted him and sent Stane after him. He couldn't go back to MJ's farm while Stane was looking for him, so he left town altogether. Only to find that the next town over had already been alerted about the train robbery. And not just the robbery, but the dead deputy, too. Sheriff Stane blamed him. Despite the obvious snake bites and the fact that Peter was far from a snake charmer, he was still wanted for murder. Everyone was looking for him and once he was caught, he'd be hanged. He had nowhere to run.

The golden pocket watch bought him a room and some food and the silence of a gruff old man who didn't seem to care who he was or what he was up to. Then he was on the run again. But he couldn't run forever.

That's how he ended up back home. He kept his head down. The brim of his hat shaded his face. His heart pounded. He'd heard word that the sheriff and his crew were out dealing with bandits down by the mill outside of town. Even if someone recognized him and wanted to turn him in, they couldn't. So long as no one wanted to take the law into their own hands. But it wasn't as if he'd hurt anyone.

He'd hear whispers in his travels about a man thought of as a king among criminals. He'd never met Anthony Stark in person, but he was notorious in his town. Despite being a gangster, the law looked the other way when it came to Stark. If only because he owned the only brothel for miles around. Others swore he'd saved all sorts of criminals from fates as grim as the noose. Appealing to Stark might just be his only chance.

Peter entered through the swinging doors. Inside seemed nothing more than a dimly lit saloon. A woman tended the bar. She was beautiful with a face caked in paints and powders and her hair done up in curls that fell around her round face. She smiled kindly as he entered.

"Can I help you, mister?" she asked sweetly.

Across the room, a man played a soft and soothing tune on the piano. A patron was asleep with his head down on a table and four empty bottles beside his head. Peter approached the bar.

"Yes, ma'am, I hope so. I'm looking for Mr. Stark."

Her smile fell. Her eyes ran over him coldly. "A boy like you?" she tsked. "What'd he rope you into?"

Peter shook his head. "Nothing like that, ma'am. I just need his help."

She laughed bitterly. "Oh sure. I suppose you just need him to help you patch your momma's fencing." She rolled her eyes. "It ain't none of my business. I work up front so I ain't gotta know."

With her hands on the bar she looked at a door at the back of the room. "Let me just see if he's available, alright kid?"

"Thank ya, ma'am." Peter nodded his head politely. He leaned against the bar as she walked away. His heart raced. Sure, he was a criminal himself but that was largely out of necessity. He'd tried doing things the honest way. Stark was different. They said his father had been a gangster and his father before him. They were criminals before they'd even crossed the pond.

The woman returned to the bar. "He says he'll see you, but don't waste his time," she sighed. "He's been awful bored lately. Mind you don't piss him off. He'll take great pleasure in making you regret it. He might cure his boredom using you for target practice."

"Thanks." Peter swallowed, doing his best to shove his anxiety down with it. He walked past the bar and into the next room.

It was a large bedroom. As big as MJ's whole house. One massive bed sat against one wall along with a desk and a wardrobe. On the other side of the room was a couple of sofas in front of a fireplace. A man sat in a chair facing the door. On the table beside him was a book and a glass of whiskey with little more than a drop left at the bottom.

"Mr. Stark?"

"That's me," the man said. He crossed one leg over the other. His jaw rested against his knuckles as he examined him.

"It's nice to meet you, sir. My name's Peter Parker." He stepped forward and offered his hand, but the man didn't move so he let it fall.

"I know. Who else would be so desperate as to come to me?" He smiled. "I'm awful scary, ain't I?"

Peter smiled back. "You seem decent to me, sir. I hear you're someone to admire."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. They say you're brilliant. But I didn't come here just to flatter you, sir." Peter opened up his bag. He froze as Stark pointed his gun at him. "I'm not armed, I swear."

"You just show me what you got, nice and slowly."

Peter nodded. Shaking, he pulled a silk scarf from the bag. "See? I took a few things from that train a couple weeks back. It's all yours if you help me."

"You did an awful lot more than rob a train. They say that deputy died quite a slow, awful, death. A bit of silk can't get you out of the pinch you're in."

"I know that. There's plenty more. I went and buried it, but I'll show you where if you promise to help me. Please, sir."

Stark didn't look impressed, but he put his gun away. His eyes seemed to roam Peter's body. Perhaps he was bored already.

"Listen, I have tons more silk, just like this one. And jewelry, too. Diamonds and gold, a pearl necklace..."

Stark rose from his seat and walked towards him, one heavy step at a time, as Peter babbled. His voice trailed off as they were nose to nose. Stark lifted his hand slowly like you might around a stray animal. His fingers dragged up his throat and up to hold his chin. With the other hand, he took the hat from his head and tossed it onto the bed.

"Baby, I don't want your jewels," he purred.

Peter swallowed. "Then what..." He shivered as he realized. He couldn't mean that could he? But those eyes, those dark and dilated pupils. The way he looked at him with more hunger than he'd ever seen in a man before. Tony's lips curled into a lazy grin as he watched his face.

His hand slid along his jaw to the back of his neck. Peter stood frozen in place as Stark leaned in and pressed their lips together. He'd always heard it was bad etiquette to kiss a whore. It's too intimate. Save it for your wife, they say. He understood why now. Stark kissed like he was savoring the taste of him as if he were the finest wine or the juiciest cut of meat. His lips felt so unexpectedly plump and so enticingly warm. Then they parted so slightly and the tip of his tongue teased the seam of his lips. Peter sighed, longing and deep. Pleasure flowed like whiskey through his blood. It made him feel warm and hazy and found himself reaching for him, kissing him back with a hand on his waist.

When realized what he was doing, where he was, and why. He pushed him back, taking a step back, himself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," he gasped, panic jolting through him. "I can't- I-"

"Do you want my help or not?" He looked at him, both eyebrows raised. His face was flushed. "I hate to ask twice."

Peter swallowed. He straightened his back. "No, sir. I'm sorry. I'll find some other way."

"Think you can bribe Stane with those pretty silks of yours? He can just take them off your corpse when they're done hanging you, sweetheart."

He took another step back. His heart pounded in his ears. "I'm sorry," he said again. Then he backed out the door. He ran through the bar and back outside.

The afternoon sun blazed against his face. He was still holding the scarf in one hand and people were staring. He stuffed it into his bag and hurried down the street. He had to find somewhere to hide for the night, get out of town in the morning. Maybe he'd be better off heading east. He could use the jewelry to buy a train ticket. He was mapping it all out in his mind, putting a new plan together when someone pulled a sack right over his head.

Peter lashed out, swinging his fists, but someone grabbed him around the middle.

"Just you hold still," they laughed.

"You ain't goin nowhere!" said another. They dragged him, kicking and fighting, down the dirt road. He couldn't see, but he felt it when his feet hit the wooden deck. They dragged him inside, out of the sun and into somewhere stuffy.

"Let me go!" he screamed.

"Alright, here ya go," someone mocked. He heard metal clanking. Someone yanked his bag off his shoulders and over his head. Then they shoved him.

He fell face first, catching himself on his hands and spraining his wrist. He yanked the sack off of his head and turned around to see three men slamming the cell door. They turned the key in the lock.

"You've got a lot of nerve comin' 'round here, Parker," one of them jeered. He looked scruffy and his clothes were spotted with sweat stains.

"Don't you know how much Stane is offering for ya? We're all takin’ our retirement tomorrow," another one said. This one had sun dark skin that was still peeling beneath his eyes. They didn't look any different than your average working men. They had a lot to gain from a bounty. He'd been an idiot to come into town.

"I didn't kill anyone! You're hanging an innocent man," Peter tried.

"That's too bad. We get paid either way. Doesn't matter what the sheriff does with ya."

"Are you sure?" One of the guys said. "What if he's really innocent?"

Another guy laughed. "Yeah, right. He'd say anything to get himself out of there."

The door opened and in walked Obadiah Stane. He smirked when he saw Peter in the cell.

"Nice work, fellas. Go and talk to Beck about your payment."

They hurried off without so much as a look back at Peter. Then it was just the two of them alone.

"Thought you'd got away with it did ya, Parker?"

"I didn't kill him. You know I didn't. You have to. You saw what that snake did to him."

Stane looked surprised, but Peter didn't buy it. "Snake? No, you hacked him up like the lunatic you are and dumped the pieces in the bottom of that mine."

"You can't do this! I'll tell the judge everything!"

"What judge?" Stane chuckled. "Don't ya know he's out of town? Been gone a week now already. Won't be back for a month or two. And I ain't waitin' that long. Not when I've got such a cruel, sadistic, killer on my hands." His lips spread into a wide, cruel grin. Then he burst into laughter so strong that he held his belly.

"Someone's gotta pay for this, kid. I ain't sorry that it's you. All you and those Osborns do is cause trouble. Only I can't bother them can I? The town'd have a fit if I messed with Norman's son. You, though, nobody will miss."

Peter swallowed. He was right. He should have thought about that back at the train. Not that he would ever willingly throw Harry to the wolves, but maybe they could have come up with a better plan. "What about the goods? All the jewels and silk that I took? I'll tell you where I hid them if you let me go."

Stane turned around and walked to the desk. He picked up Peter's bag and rifled through it. "There's more out there somewhere, that it?"

"I buried it."

Stane looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Now what would you do a thing like that for, son?"

"I'm not just gonna walk around with valuables like that on my person. I'm not an idiot."

"Aren't you just?" Stane chuckled. He patted the bag. "This'll do just fine. It's a steal for me either way. I get to hang the bastard that killed a dear friend and I get a couple of prizes."

"I didn't kill him, Stane!"

The sheriff shrugged. "It was your fault he was in that damned mine, wasn't it? Sounds to me like you killed him."

Peter clenched his teeth. There was nothing he could say and nothing he could do. He sat down on the bench against the wall. Stane left him alone. He kicked his feet up on the desk and took to reading the paper. He wasn't sure how he fell asleep, but a while later, he woke to the feeling of being watched.

The sun was low, now. Dawn or dusk, he wasn't sure, but it was dark. Stane wasn't at his desk, but someone else was looming outside his cell.

"Come to say I told you so?" Peter asked. He sat up on the bench and rubbed the sleep from his face.

Stark smirked. He leaned against the bars. "I didn't come to talk." He held up the key to Peter's cell.

Peter jumped up and ran to the door. "You're getting me out?"

"That depends on you, doesn't it? I know I said I hate to ask twice, but it's a damn shame to let such a pretty thing go without a fight."

Peter paled. He couldn't believe he was still asking, but dammit if he wasn't desperate enough now.

"What do you say, pretty boy?" Tony reached through the bars to pet the side of his face. Two fingers traced the shape of his lips. He had a curious look in his eyes. Peter watched him with a racing heart. Then those fingers pushed past his lips. He didn't know why, but he allowed it. He shivered when he tasted them on his tongue. They pushed back into his throat and Peter swallowed.

"Are you gonna be a good whore for me?" Tony whispered. He thought about telling him no, but the threat of the noose made his blood run cold. He'd do anything and he hated himself for it, but he would. Peter nodded, fingers still between his lips. "Yeah, you are. Look at you."

He took his fingers from his mouth. Peter swayed, off balance by the sudden movement. Tony unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Peter felt cornered as he approached.

"You ever been with a man, Pete?" Peter shook his head. Tony smiled. "Good. I like to play teacher."

Peter backed into the wall as Tony came closer. His fingers touched his lips again. "You seem like a smart kid. I bet you already know what a whore uses this for."

Peter's face grew hot. "Go on, sweetheart. What's it for?" His fingers brushed over his lips, tracing them in circles. Peter closed his eyes and shook his head. The back of Tony's hand battered the side of his face. A startled cry escaped him. His whole body tensed for a fight, but Tony grabbed him by the throat. Peter glared as Tony pried open his jaw and forced his fingers inside, stretching his mouth around four of them.

"What's this fucking hole for, Pete? Huh?"

Peter struggled. He tried to tell him to stop, but his mouth was stretched to its limit as Tony tried to fit his hand in wrist deep. He held it back as long as he could, but two of Tony's fingers brushed the back of his throat and he choked. Tony slapped him again.

"Come on, you're a smart boy." He jerked his arm back and forth like he was fucking his mouth with his fingers. His face was a mess of spit. As he tried to escape, Tony's hand left his neck to grab him by the hair instead. It was much more effective at keeping him still, forcing him to submit. When he stopped struggling, he realized it was much easier if he relaxed. He blinked back tears and looked at the man's face.

"That's a good boy," Tony cooed. "Tell me."

"For..." Peter tried to speak around Tony's hand. Smirking, Tony pulled his fingers out of his mouth and held his chin.

"For sucking your cock, sir."

"Very good," Tony purred. "You're gonna be a good student, aren't ya? You gonna make me proud?"

Peter blushed as he realized the man was waiting for an answer. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

"What was that?" Tony barely tapped his cheek, but Peter still flinched.

"Yes, sir," he said louder.

"Good boy. So where should you be?"

Peter's eyes widened, then they flicked to the floor. It wasn't that he'd thought he was joking, but if he had to go through with it, well, he hadn't counted on being an active participant in his own violation.

He slid down the wall to his knees. He stared firmly at Tony's thighs, hands refusing to move.

"Are you waiting for permission? We're well past that, cock sucker."

Peter pressed his lips together and swallowed down the insult. He focused straight ahead, pushing any singular thought to the back of his mind as he unhooked the man's belt. He slid it through the loops and unzipped his pants. Shame heated his skin, but still he wrapped his hand around Tony's cock and pulled it free, sliding his pants down just enough. He just had to get through this. Then he would be free. He started to pump his cock in his hand, breathing steadily, refusing to react. He could go back to Harry and MJ and finally take them up on that offer to be their farm hand. Even if it was a hand out. It was better than this.

Tony's hand connected with his face again. This time Peter glared up at him, body gone stiff on instinct. Tony grabbed him by the hair, capturing both of his wrists in one hand when he reached for his arm. He shook him, hair tugging at his scalp.

"You're here with me, kid. I don't want any glassy eyed 'close your eyes and dream of London' bullshit, you got me? If you're gonna do it, do it right."

"Sorry, sir," Peter cried. Tony let go of him. He was shaken. The fight fled his system leaving him docile, even tamed.

"Try again," Tony ordered.

Peter tried again, this time focusing on what he was doing. Shame twisted in his stomach like coiling snakes.

"That's much better," Tony praised. He ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "Open up, now."

He let Tony pull him in as he parted his lips. His cock was bigger than he'd thought, forcing him to open wider to take the head into his mouth. He shivered as the salty taste touched his tongue. At least it didn't taste too bad. He focused again before Stark could get mad at him again. He licked all around the head and traced the ridges with his tongue. He wasn't sure he was doing it right, but if he did a decent job, this could be over quicker. He tried sucking on it and running his tongue down the length. None of this seemed to get much of a reaction until he looked up. Their eyes met and he felt it as Tony's cock throbbed against his tongue. His hand tightened just a bit in his hair and he pushed into his mouth just a little bit more.

"Such a pretty thing," Tony sighed. With one hand he pet Peter's cheek. "You want to please me don't you? I can tell."

There was something to his words that made him blush. He tried taking more of him into his mouth, moving up and down his length, all while gazing up at him. It was embarrassing, but Stark seemed to enjoy it. He watched him with those dark, hungry eyes. Rich sighs and moans left his lips. Peter kept going, undeniably proud of himself as he puzzled out what the man liked. He didn't hate it. The friction, the fullness, it felt good. And he liked getting such reactions out of a man so powerful. A man with countless whores at his disposal, no less.

Tony grabbed his hair and stopped him. "Keep your mouth open," he ordered. Then he trust his hips, fucking into his mouth as if it were a cunt. Embarrassment burned even hotter under his skin. It was one thing to suck a man off, but it was another to have his mouth as if he wasn't even attached to it. But he sat, still and obedient, mouth hanging open. Drool ran over his chin and he ignored it. Tony's cock, forced open his throat, drawing obscene noises out of him, but only seemed to make Tony moan, so he didn't protest. He thought for sure the man was close to the edge, for sure it was almost over. And then he stopped and released him.

"Strip and get on the bed."

Peter stared at him for a moment as he tried to decipher what he was being asked. He wiped the drool off his face and stood. He yanked the laces on his boots and kicked them off. Then hesitantly, he started to unbutton his shirt until Tony smacked his hand.

"No. You can't please a man like that, sweetheart. You gotta work a little harder. Go slowly."

Face burning, Peter unbuttoned his shirt while Tony watched. "Good. Now let it roll off your shoulders. There now you can pull it off your arms."

Peter swallowed. The way he looked at him, at his body, felt violating. Almost more so than the way he'd brutalized his throat. He grabbed the back of his undershirt and pulled it over his head, going slowly in hopes of avoiding any more criticism. Right or wrong, Tony allowed it. He stood ogling Peter's toned chest down to his abdomen. His tongue slipped out, running over his bottom lip as he admired his narrow hips.

"Keep going."

He couldn't look at Tony, but he couldn't pretend he hated his eyes on him either. Coerced though he might be, the guy was still handsome, still powerful, still kissed as if he would devour him. He wanted that again.

Peter unhooked his belt and pulled it slowly through the loops. He unbuttoned his jeans and slowly dragged them down to his knees before he let them drop and pushed them aside along with his socks. Then he stood, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his underwear. Bravely, he looked up and met Tony's eye before he pulled them down and added them to the mess on the floor.

It startled him how fast Tony moved and how violently he grabbed him. His fingers dug into his arms and his neck. Their mouths latched together. His back hit the wall, but he didn't care. Tony was kissing him, making him gasp for breath, making him moan when their tongues brushed together. He pressed in closer, pushing Peter harder into the wall. His thigh was against Peter's groin and as he moved, Peter whined, his cock hard and overstimulated by the rough texture of his still open jeans. His hand squeezed his throat. Peter felt like he was melting. There wasn't a thought in his head beyond wanting more.

When Tony stopped, Peter ached for him. "Get on the bench," he ordered. He let Peter go and took a step back. He watched him with predatory eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Peter swallowed. He slowly stepped to the side as he might startle a wild animal. He found the bench and bent over it, bracing himself on his arms. His heart raced. Surely it couldn't be that bad.

"Oh no, baby boy," Tony chuckled. "This is your first time. Lay on your back."

Face burning, Peter turned around and laid back on the hard wood. The bench wasn't long enough to stretch his legs out, forcing him to bend his knees. The embarrassment could have killed him. Tony looked down at him, ogling his body while he stroked his cock. He'd coated it in some kind of lubricant at least. It made a vulgar wet sound as he touched himself. Still it looked huge from this angle. Like it might truly break him in half.

"That's a good boy. I want to make this special for you, sweetheart. Just like a honeymoon." He stepped in between his legs and knelt on the bench. There was barely enough room for the both of them. Tony hiked one of his legs up and put it over his shoulder. Peter's hands went up to cover his face, but Tony pulled them back down.

"None of that. Can't have my beautiful bride hiding away." He winked.

A retort came to his tongue. Then Tony started to push his cock inside him and all Peter could get out of his mouth was, "Ah ah ah," he was split open.

Tony bent and captured his lips. Peter let him have whatever he wanted, following him in the kiss, entirely submissive to his whims. As easily as if he'd flipped a switch, he felt like he had no resistance left. He didn't know if it was the pain or the pleasure that had overwhelmed him, but he was done for.

Tony moaned against his mouth. "You like that don't you? I knew you would. I've got an eye for boys who need to be bred."

"Hurts," Peter gasped.

Tony chuckled. "Does it? Does it hurt, sweetheart? Or does it feel like the best fucking thing that's ever happened to you?" He moved his hip, just a fraction, but Peter wailed. It was good. It was so good. It burned and he felt stretched open and humiliated, but it felt so good. Blindingly good.

His cock just kept going deeper all while Peter could do nothing but moan in pain and pleasure. If you'd asked him, he would have sworn it was in his stomach.

"Look at that," Tony mused. "You're just the right size." He smacked his hips against Peter's ass. His eyes rolled back in his head and for a moment he saw spots. Peter gasped as his cock was touched. The shock of it made him half sit up, moving the cock inside him and melting his brain once again. Tony pushed him back down with a hand on his chest.

"Just relax, pretty boy. You're my playing thing now. I can touch whatever I want. Can't I?"

Peter stared up at him dumbly, words a million miles away. Tony's eyebrow twitched and he knew what was coming but he couldn't move to stop it. His hand struck his cheek. It brought him back to life, if only a little.

"Yes, sir," Peter gasped.

"Yes, sir, what?"

"You can... touch whatever you want... sir."

"That's a good boy." He leaned in closer, folding Peter in half. Peter's eyes widened and his lips fell open as he felt his cock go even deeper. It really hurt now and somehow he loved it. Somehow he wanted more. His fingers dug into the sides of Tony's jeans as he tried to pull him closer.

"You want to be full," he teased. Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm gonna fill you up right." His hand wrapped around his throat again. Then he started to move his hips. Peter didn't let go of his jeans though his grip was loose. That cock moving inside him was everything he didn't know he'd ever wanted. Whatever Tony wanted, he could have it as long as he kept fucking him. He'd take up walking on all fours and barking like a dog if he asked him to.

"You've got tears in your eyes, Pete. Did you find god hanging off my cock?" he teased. "You love it, don't you?"

"Yes," Peter gasped, only now, no shame followed the admission. He couldn't feel anything but pleasure. Greedy with it, he reached out and pulled Tony in for another kiss. He felt him grin against his mouth before giving him what he was asking for.

After a moment he stopped and grabbed Peter's wrist, pulling his hand away and pinning it beside his head. He grabbed Peter's hip with the other hand, holding him down as he fucked him hard, as deeply as he could get. Each thrust of his hips made him gasp, the sound of his own voice pitched higher each time, pleasure growing. He barely touched himself before he came, crying out, the sound echoing off the brick walls.

"That's my good boy," Tony purred. "You learn quickly don't you?" He moaned. He moved his hips faster now. It hurt as the pleasure of his orgasm faded, but just like the pain of his cock all the way in his stomach, it felt incredible. He only wanted more.

Peter whimpered, crying like an injured puppy, entirely shameless. He still wanted more. He needed it.

"That must hurt by now," Tony commented. "Don't tell me you like that, too."

Peter chewed his bottom lip. He didn't meet his eyes. Tony grabbed him by the hair, pushing his cock all the way in and holding him there like a fish on a hook.

"Tell me," he growled. He pulled so hard that his eyes watered.

"I liked it," Peter gasped. "I like the pain, sir."

Tony pulled harder and Peter moaned. "Fuck," Tony gasped. He let go of his hair to hold both of his hips. He fucked him like he wanted to snap his spine while all Peter could do was hold on. He slowed only enough to speak.

"Tell me you want me to breed you. Beg me for it."

Peter licked his dry lips. "Please, sir... breed me please," embarrassment broke his voice. "Please, Mr. Stark. I need it, sir." He wrapped his legs around the man's waist, caging him in. Moaning, Tony fucked him deep and finally came. Peter's eyes widened as he realized he could feel it. It was hot and wet and deep in his gut. He moaned and his own cock throbbed, begging for more. He stroked himself while Tony came inside him. When Tony realized what he was doing, he grinned lazily.

"What a little whore," he teased. "Keep going, sweetheart. Make yourself cum for me. Getting bred was more than you could handle, huh? Fucking cock hole." He grabbed him by the hair again and Peter moaned, cumming hard, his whole body shivering. He melted into a limp puddle beneath him.

Tony gave him another kiss. He almost wanted to cry as clarity returned to him. What the hell had he just done?

Peter cleared his throat. "Am I free now, sir? You'll get me out?"

Tony smiled. "Oh, you're free from the noose. I'll make Stane drop the charges against you."

Peter eyed him suspiciously. "What else do you want from me?"

"You're not finished with your end, Pete," he said as if speaking to a child. "That was just the trial run, sweetheart. I'm gonna take you somewhere nice and private for the real thing."

[renif]

bucky in a cowboy au again because i genuinely love the concept.

[dirigibleplumbing]

1872 Steve's desk and journal, pre-canon, for @msermesth for the 616 server's stocking exchange.

big thanks to @kiyaar for pointing me in the direction of the right kind of gun for 1872 Steve. any historical inaccuracies present in this pic are because a wizard (Doom) did it.

[nathanfrazers]

you know, when nova and i dove into the cancerverse as the fault was closing around us -- we really did think we were butch cassidy and the sundance kid.

riderquill as the bcsk poster because of this line that made me crazy

[mr-bigdaddy]

Okay, I got disenchanted with the whole thing somewhere around the stage of starting the sketch, but I decided to keeping it as a rough idea for a outfit. Another variant, yes, Lucky Luke.

[supercowgirl04]

Felicia and Miguel out riding on a cold snowless day

[ragingphantom666]

Marvel Worlds project plan: Hawkeye (Vol. 1)

This series is not an assured project. It is a concept that can still be changed or scrapped.

Synopsis

A plan to start a family has been thrown into jeopardy. Clint Barton, the Avenger known as Hawkeye, has been targeted by a mysterious enemy. He must protect his wife and home from the merciless Crossfire.

Characters

Clint Barton/Hawkeye - An Avenger and former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He lives on a farm in the plains with his wife. He is still an active Avenger, but he spends some time at home with his wife while she is pregnant.

Barbara "Bobbi" Barton/Mockingbird - A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who goes by the codename Mockingbird. At the time of this volume, she is on maternity leave.

William Cross/Crossfire - A mercenary and assassin hired by a mysterious client to capture Clint Barton by whatever means possible. He believes he is the better marksman.

Other Information

I wanted this to feel like a western film.

Bullseye was originally meant to be the big bad, but his personality did not fit the tone and I'm saving him for something else.

[jihef03]

Electric Yeehaws

[girllock-writes]

"Risk"

Pairings: cowboy!bucky x rancher's daughter!reader

A/N: i had coffee way too late so here's some late night thoughts, sam and steve show up but i just like excuses to be silly, no warnings? they kiss ig A/N pt 2: the update: Lol, apologies to everyone who read "Risk" last night and was super confused. Half the fic didn't copy over and the spelling errors were crazy. (Can you tell i'm dyslexic ahaha) My bad all, ive updated it so its right now. x_x

Summary: Cowboy Bucky convinces you to take a risk and live a little. You find out cows are soft and so are Bucky’s lips.

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

The sun was not merciful to the western plains. On the BlueStone Ranch, you stood in the shade of the barn as you watched the ranch hands try to tame one of the new horses.

You laugh to yourself as Sam fell off the bucking horse, dust flying up around him.

“You gotta stay on longer than that!” Steve laughed, as he jumped over the fence to help his friend up.

The men began to discuss the wild horse. You wished yoi could tame horses. You could ride fine, but your father had practically banned her from going near the untamed ones. You understood his concerns about your safety, but you had been kept from doing the “hard” ranch work all your life. You were an adult now, you should be able to do something more than stand around the ranch and look pretty.

Heavy footstep made you turn your head. Bucky Barnes, another ranch hand, made his way from the back of the barn. His dark hair was glued to his temples by beads of sweat. “Ain't it a little hot out here for you, doll?”

You shrugged. It was rather warm. Even in the shade of the barn, you could feel the heat forming sweat on the back of your neck. You had chosen to wear a light skirt and blouse to keep yourself cool, but it did little to help. “It's not much better in the house.”

Bucky gave a laugh, leaning against the wall.

You eyed him “Do you ever think they're gonna figure it out?”

He smiled, watching as Steve helped calm the horse so Sam could get back on. “I'm just glad I work with the cattle instead. They're much nicer.”

Bucky gently touched his right hand to his prosthetic left.

Realizing you was staring at him, you quickly looked away. You wanted desperately to say something, but didn't want him to think you pitied him.

“Aren't cattle dangerous? I've seen some of the roundups you do,” you say finally, trying to break the awkward silence.

“I suppose,” Bucky replied, looking over at you. “But what's the fun in it if there's no risk?”

Meeting his gaze, you saw a glint of playfulness in his blue eyes. You swallow dryly. “I wouldn't exactly be the right person to say.”

Bucky scoffed with a grin. “What? Ya never done a dangerous thing in your life?”

“I think my father would kill me before I could,” you laughed, looking down.

There was a moment of silence between the two of you as Steve cheered on his friend as the horse began to buck again.

“C'mon then,” Bucky stated, taking your hand. He guided you around the barn and toward the grazing pasture. As you left the shade, the sun blazed on every inch of your visible skin. You were glad you had worn a hat.

Bucky hopped on the fence that kept the cattle enclosed on the ranch. Still holding your hand, he nodded for you to join him.

You tried to pull away, looking down at your skirt. “I dont think the fence is going to agree with my choice of dress…”

Bucky shook his head. “You’ll be fine.”

Looking around to make sure no one would see, you slowly grasped the wooden frame and hoisted yourself up. You hadn't sat on a fence since you were a little girl. Bucky jumped down and lifted his hands to help you. You leaned forward and he grabbed your waist, lifting you down.

There was a brief moment where you lingered in his arms. Your heart skipped a beast and you pulled away.

Bucky turned and strode toward one of the cows grazing nearby. He walked around to the front of the beast and gently reached his hand out.

“C'mon!” He called.

Taking a minute, you watched as he stroked the nose of the cow; it's tail waving contently. Walking slowly, you kept your distance.

“She's soft,” Bucky assured. “And she's not gonna run ya over… Unless you plan on spookin’ her.”

Stepping back, Bucky placed a hand on your shoulders and pushed you toward the cow. He took your right arm and stretched it out, his body hot against yours. Your hand met the surprisingly soft hair on the cow's nose. You realized that it was odd, you having lived on a cattle ranch your whole life and having never touched a cow. You turned to look at Bucky, his face surprisingly close.

“And you thought it was dangerous,” you joked.

He smiled. “Sure, doll.”

You looked back at the animal, scratching it gently. Your ears pricked as you heard Bucky inhale deeply. You felt your shoulders tense as his hand on your upper back moved slowly to your waist.

Instinctively, you took a step forward and away from him. “I should probably get inside before daddy realizes I'm out here.”

Bucky straightened up. “You've taken one risk by coming out here… Why not another?”

You eyed him. “I don't know what you mean,” you say. The heat began to ring in your ears.

His blue eyes twinkled. “Yes you do.” His hand reached up, grabbing the hat off your head. Your hair began to frizz and you swipped at him.

“Bucky!”

He lifted it high in the air, well out of your reach. Glaring, you lunged for it. On the very tips of your toes, you fell forward and onto him, your hand still reaching for your hat. “Give it back,” you demanded.

He raised an eyebrow. “Say please.”

Unable to reach higher, you lifted one foot to try and jump with the other. Bucky’s free hand was wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly. You glare ay him. “Please,” you say finally.

Bucky paused. He lowered his hand, you hat still in it, but didn't give it back. Still pressed against him, you hoped he couldn't feel your heart pounding in your chest. The sun was blinding and it was much too warm for two people to be standing so close together.

Bucky stared at you for a long while. “Did you know you have the prettiest eyes either side of the Mississippi?”

If your cheeks hadn't been red from the heat, they most certainly would have darkened by his compliment.

“Why don't you live a little, huh?” He asked smoothly. “Take a risk every now and again. It's healthy.”

Your mouth went dry. “I… You don't know what you're saying.”

“I ain't much of a talker,” he grinned.

He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against yours. The wave of shock ran like a chill through your body. For a moment, you could have sworn you were cold. When he finally pulled away, you could only blink in surprise.

“Y/n!” You heard a voice call from close to the house.

You pulled away from Bucky. His eyes pleaded with you to say something. Looking between him and the direction of the voice of your father, you felt your heart doing somersaults in your chest. You pointed at him. “No one gets to know. Not yet.”

He smiled. “Good enough for me, doll.”

You squared your shoulders and walked away. You were halfway back to the house before you realized…

Bucky still had your hat.

[artficlly]

a dish served cold [masterlist - completed]

Marvel Western AU

outlaw!bucky x reader

after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, kidnapping, murder/death, attempted sa, vomiting, violence, death, blood, injuries, choking, guns, alcohol, smoking, swearing, creepy men, period typical attitudes, bounty hunters, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, bucky has issues, mention of robbery & crimes, mention of police (law), mention of flooding & drought, vague mention of animal death, betrayal, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each chapter

main masterlist

CHAPTERS - THIS SERIES IS COMPLETE

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven

[samsseptember]

September  18 - Western AU | Cowboy  

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, what is a princess to do when she's caught between two dashing princes, both of which are her childhood friends? — one her betrothed and the other her past love... 4.7k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, use of regency era terminology, longing and more longing.

🪷 taglist : (lmk if you want to be added or removed!) @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnabooonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog

CHAPTER ONE. . . ˚ ༘ *

L'INCOMPARABLE.

Talks of betrothal began in the last Spring of your youth.

Under the cherry blossom trees, you sit in silence, fuchsia petals decorating the length of your hair in messy scatters.

Satoru Gojo, crowned prince and heir to the Gojo throne, picks the fallen remnants of flowers from your hair one by one as the nobles watch on.

Whispers of ‘they would make such a beautiful match’ and ‘look how the Prince dotes on her’ echo in the brush of the gardens, women whispering among themselves and the men chortling between swings of their mallets — in a near deathly game of pall mall.

“Don’t hide from me,” Satoru dips his head, breath fanning the shell of your ear. If possible, the whispers intensify, cutting past your ears and you bite back a giggle, stifling down the thought that crosses your mind, attention whore.

“I’m not hiding, your highness.” You counter, shifting to the side, your smile hidden behind a porcelain teacup, swift sips of ginger warming your cheeks.

“It’s improper, you know.” The words linger in the air between soft wisps of wind, flurries of foreign fabrics and bright layers of skirts pass your vision — and yet, all is drowned out by him.

Your anointed Prince, the attention whore.

“Improper to gaze upon my companion?” Satoru scoffs, grinning wide, toothy, dimples.

Childhood found you both tethered like bee and nectar, always close, always coming back.

At first, it was through duty, sharp tongued ten year old Satoru Gojo, a prince born with a halo and the title of the realm’s strongest to his name, meeting you, the humble princess of the Western kingdom, born in valor and sprouted in pride, a warrior’s code.

It was a disastrous first few encounters—

(—but then he was your bestfriend, and you his. )

His dear mother, bless her soul, had taken the time out to host this marvelous garden party to welcome the newest maidens into their debuts – moreso, to marry Satoru off quicker than he could leave for another battle, chasing another war – and yet, he cared not to meet with any of the women or entertain them beyond an inch of his being.

Not around you, at least.

“You shouldn’t jest about these things—!” A snort leaves your mouth, and whereas the ever uppity ladies of the palace court gawk at you in utter disbelief and mild disgust, Satoru finds himself bellowing a boyish laugh.

That was the last time he’d laugh like that with you, before a warm spring of youth turned to a burning summer, hot with passion, scorched with lust.

THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT.

Dearest gentle reader,

As all royal scandals do,

It started with an invitation.

We cordially invite you to the Gojo palace grounds to celebrate the betrothal of our crowned prince Satoru Gojo and his bride to be [name] [name].

This author finds herself compelled and rather . . . intrigued.

What a match made in heaven! Our beloved Prince Satoru and his most dearest childhood friend!

Your fingers tremble at your sides, the aura that is the strongest permeates your very being. The soft hum of piano keys coupled with string and bow becomes near inaudible – the power Satoru Gojo has on you is like a moth to a flame, lamb to slaughter.

But I assure you,

When it comes to matters of the heart —

Carefully, your feet carry you across the crowded ballroom, mass of bodies parting the instant they catch a glimpse of your eyes – that desperation is familiar in young women like you – and they pity you.

You, who should be above them, who should be the next Queen, the current Princess consort to be.

And yet.

“I’ve told you endlessly, I will take no wife!” Satoru’s voice is a staccato, bouncing off the walls of the vacant corridor adjacent to the ballroom, echoing past your ears.

Dare I say, our beloved crowned Prince

Is not the strongest.

“Some nerve you have, boy.”

Satoru’s father, the King, is a stoic man.

You’ve come to know this well in your youth. He rules firm and his word remains law. By no means is he the strongest or possesses any more battle capacity than that of any other noble, but he remains a political stronghold.

And his grip over his family — his subjects, remains unwavering.

“I don’t care for your affairs or your crown,” Satoru’s gaze remains hard, even as he meets his father’s ire in tow, and in such a barely secluded place too. “Let one of your bastards have it, my place is on the battlefield doing what you are too cowardly to.”

Your mind runs rampant, palms pressed against the cold wall concealing your presence.

You wonder what Satoru might be thinking — if he’d be so foolish as to forsake his lineage and do away with his duty, if he’d give up simply because his fate was not his choice — he wouldn’t.

No, Satoru is good and kind, and he would see this kingdom to a new realm of peace just with his bare hands alone.

“And that is all? You wish to do away with it simply because it does not suit your childish desires? I have given you everything! And the one thing I ask of you—”

You still yourself at the near animalistic growl that leaves Satoru’s lips.

“She will never be Queen.”

It cuts through you like blades of grass, familiar, scratching at your skin softly, pinpricks of green drawing blood from your calves.

It reminds you of when you were younger, more naive and susceptible to the follies of men and matters of the heart.

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

Three months, thirteen days.

Your betrothal has long exceeded and broken the record of engagement wait time.

Most women would be married within the same month of betrothal, the longest and most respectable wait time being a month and a half, only due to cases of overdue dowry payments.

Three million dollars was your reverse dowry.

Paid directly from the royal treasury to your father, and four million dollars paid in return. That was how much yours and Satoru’s hands were worth to your families, a testament to the weight you’d both bear by wearing a crown.

Except, you hadn’t been crowned yet. Or married for that matter.

“—summer solstice hunt!” It’s Yuji who exclaims, voice filled with childlike wonder. Recently knighted by Satoru himself and a renowned protege of the Kingsguard, the boy is eager to please. “Who will you cast your bets on, your grace?”

The confines of Satoru’s private study function as a meeting room for idle chatting — he leaves the letters to his advisors when they are of little importance.

Or discards them entirely when he has company, like now.

You sink deeper into the cushioned seat, Satoru’s arm draped over the back of your chair. A tuft of snowy hair falls over his forehead and he breathes a chuckle, your weight curling in on itself with every rise and fall of his chest.

why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don't you want me

“It’s out of question to bet on one’s self, no?” Satoru chuckles and it earns a cackle from Yuji, who, despite himself, has already casted his own bet on his annointed Prince. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone’s head bigger than it ought to be.”

The summer and winter solstice brings with it two separate ceremonial festivals — the hunt being the most anticipated due to its cutthroat competition among nobles and peasants alike.

That, and the prize.

The winner of the hunt, the man or woman to capture the famed primordial stag — which is really a regular stag trained and bred to elude even the most skilled knights — would be rewarded a grand jewel from the Queen’s vault.

Gentle reader,

The famed jewel for the taking

This summer, is none other than—

“I’ve placed my bet on you,” you comment plainly with a shrug and Yuji beams.

It isn’t unlike you to root for one of Satoru’s proteges, the ones fairly skilled and new to knighthood – you’ve always found yourself cheering for the peonies in a garden full of roses — the underdogs full of potential . . .

Satoru glances over to you, and for a second you miss how his gaze lingers.

“You’re too kind, Princess…” Yuji sighs, near dreamily. “I will no doubt do well now that I have your favor on my side.”

( losing dogs, satoru wants to say. all you ever do is bet on losing dogs. )

“You have her bet, not her favor.” Satoru scoffs dramatically before you can even think to lend Yuji your well wishes. “It isn’t something given, it’s something won. And from a maiden, not a Princess consort.”

She’s spoken for, is all you hear though.

There’s an air of uncertainty that passes between you and Satoru that only thickens with your closeness.

A pale palm curls around the cross rail of the back of your chair and you lean into his touch subconsciously – it’s warm, secure – he’s saying, I have your favor, don’t I? Tell me I do.

—The champion’s jewel,

A wraith necklace fit for a Queen.

The L’Incomparable.

“Nevertheless, you have my good faith.” You interject, followed by a sharp inhale, and you stand abruptly from your seat. Satoru’s hand falls to his side. He knows what you're thinking.

Three months, thirteen days.

You’ve sat by and watched Satoru deny you marriage – his excuse, that he’s waiting for his coronation first – you’ve watched him continue to entertain the women around him like he’s done since he was merely a squire, plastering a smile on his face from this glass castle he calls home.

He’s close, but never too close. Stringing you on then letting you loose— it’s routine.

It’s eerily similar to your childhood.

“Yuji,” Satoru speaks, soft yet firm. The young boy is on his feet immediately and offers a swift bow to his majesty, handing his service in tow to the call. “Leave us.” Satoru commands, and just as swiftly as he came, Yuji is bowing to you and exiting through the study doors.

L’Incomparable.

The largest internally flawless diamond in the kingdom and the most expensive chain sitting in the Queen’s vault currently, worth eight billion dollars alone.

Allegedly, it was handcrafted as a gift from an ancient Gojo king to his mistress — whom he had knighted and sent off to fight in the war at her wishes once their affair had been brought to light and scrutinized.

A gift he only got to place on her corpse.

Even in death, he loved her. More than he loved his own wife and Queen.

And though many attempts had been made to destroy the necklace, it remains near indestructible.

“Something troubles you.” Satoru murmurs the moment the door clicks shut. His gaze remains strained forward on your form, from where you fiddle with the frayed hem of your gown, back turned to him.

“I simply think of the prospects of the hunt,” you retort. “There are many promising young competitors traveling to partake— I fear my Prince would simply be. . . thwarted, is all.”

L’Incomparable is not a jewel of love.

It's a sickening story of a woman who loved a man who could not love her back in the way she deserved.

A woman who took what she was given, secret meetings, hushed whispers and fleeting gazes.

And when he did, finally love her back wholly and ardently, unable to bury it behind a locked door in the dungeon he called a heart — she was already gone.

“You doubt me?” Satoru’s voice is closer now, and you wonder when he even stood up – if he'd been taking small steps toward you the entire time.

“No.” It leaves your mouth like a prayer, an oath, worship. Every ounce of confidence you have is in him. He has protected you, kept you, safeguarded your sanity and treated you with grace— “Never that.”

( —he is your friend. nothing more than that. )

He exhales, and you hear the faint sound of a swallow, the click of his tongue. Your ear feels hot with the proximity, yet, he inches closer still.

“Will you give this to me, then?” He whispers, faint, uncertain — almost desperate.

And you turn, faces inches apart, breath mingling. “What is it you wish of me, my Prince?” Your pupils dilate.

“Your Prince,” Satoru repeats, like it knocked the wind out of him. It's a common way to address the monarch, you’ve said it before as have others. “. . . asks for your favor in the upcoming hunt.”

He keeps his hands folded behind him, curled into fists and trembling. Your Prince. Yours. Yours.

He’s a gentleman. He was raised right.

This urge—

( you’re his friend. his advisor. his confidant. this is not what he wants. )

The urge to strip you down to nothing but your chemise, lay you on his desk and hike your legs over his hips, show you things you’ve only seen in dreams or read in books — like he’s done to so many women before — he promises himself he’s not a rake, he’s just a man, but when you look at him like that and say his title so softly—

( it will pass. )

“Then,” your breath slows as he steps forward, so easily leaving you pressed back against the hardwood desk, caged by him. “I will grant my Prince my favor.”

Satoru watches in earnest, places his hands on either side of you on the desk as you remove one of your gloves.

Pure white, pearl decor, lace trim.

He would've laughed if he wasn't so enthralled by such a simple thing. Satoru wants to pull the other glove off with his teeth.

“I’ll return it to you,” he says, a promise. He takes the glove as you hand it to him, leaning forward and chasing the remnants of your fingertips against his once you pull away. “When I win.”

( and maybe then, you’ll understand i am devoted to you, wholly and utterly, if only in these moments and never again. )

There's a knock at the door, brief and soft. A maid, come to drop off another stack of letters.

And just as quickly as Satoru had found himself against you, he’s across the room, opening the door.

As if you had never been there.

The only evidence that he had even touched you is the lace cupped in his palm, middle and index tracing over a minute pearl.

L’Incomparable is a jewel of longing.

Morrow brings with it the beginning of joyous festivities.

You woke to another trousseau. This time, from a distant cousin in the Easternmost kingdom.

Attached was a letter of the newest development in her love life – said development being a defected knight nonetheless.

It made you giggle.

The palace corridors are bustling with life.

Servants and attendants eager to welcome early visitors who have come for the summer solstice, robust back and forth on decorations and food and gossip and many a’ things outside the realm of possibility to be discussed in one sitting.

Your lady in waiting, Areta, whom you’ve known since your youth, creeps into your room with a grin as wide as a war banner – you immediately assume the worst, mischief is your pastime but you fear the poor girl takes ‘eavesdropping on court gossip’ to another level.

“My lady, you would not believe—” Areta huffs, journeying to sit with you on the balcony, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “The things I’ve heard today!”

“You hear things everyday, I fear.” You indulge her, as always. And she begins to talk your ear off, all in good faith of course.

Down below in the courtyard, is the sound of smacking wood and the occasional chorus of baritone conversation.

Satoru, who should be attending treaty meetings with his father, bides his time sparring on the cobblestone with the other men of the Kingsguard – the noise wakes you most mornings.

“—talking to Julietta, you know? The girl who attends to the countess? And she said—”

You hum along to Areta’s words, eyes peering over the edge of the balcony, gaze fixed on the crown Prince.

His snowy hair is damp with sweat, Victorian style dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, every swing of his wooden sword causes a commotion — muscles in his back flexing under the sunlight, so easily seen beneath the thin white fabric.

“—that her lady told her that she heard from a cousin-in-law who works at the docks that—”

You wonder what expression Satoru has as he pummels through his underlings playfully, hardly sparring but more play fighting. You imagine he’s grinning wide, crystalline blue eyes shimmering with glee—

“—that Prince Geto is coming for the hunt!”

You choke. Audibly.

Areta is quick to shut her mouth and lend you a concerned gaze. “Princess, are you—”

“I’m alright.” You wave a hand, catching your breath. Prince Geto. If you think about it too hard, you fear your chest might burst open and spill out your insides.

Oh, fair reader, it seems

Our dear protagonist has come upon

A treasure trove of memories.

“You were, ehem, saying?” You twirl your index finger in the air as if to prompt a rewind. “About. . .”

Areta raises an eyebrow, but nods slowly. “About Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law?” The girl questions, dim.

“No!” You interject immediately, twirling your finger in the other direction. Fast forward. “The other thing— the thing you heard!”

“Oh, about Prince Geto!”

Dearest reader,

Suguru Geto enters.

A man of great mystique,

the northern Prince.

And striking opposite of

our beloved crowned Prince Satoru.

“Yes! About him—”

Suguru Geto.

In many ways you could say he was Satoru’s best friend, his greatest rival and worst enemy all at the same time.

Through solstice events, formal gatherings and other royal duties, the same way you met Satoru, you met Suguru through him.

“Well, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law works at the docks,” Areta begins again, regrettably. “You know? The private harbor where all the spirit and wheat shipments come in, but that's besides the point—”

( suguru was your bestfriend too. in every way it counted. )

“Areta.” You coo, coaxing her to get back to the main point. Why was Suguru coming for the summer solstice hunt? After being away in the North for so long, why now?

The only correspondence you’d had with him was a few letters years ago. And then he stopped writing.

“So, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law saw the Geto family's ship dock in the private harbor!” The girl exclaims hushedly and you hum to yourself, curious.

Rightfully, you’d hold a grudge about never hearing from Suguru.

But in this moment, you feel no resentment or hurt. Instead, excitement that you might see your old friend once more.

And maybe, you, Suguru and Satoru could spend the summer solstice together— just like old times.

( and that’d be enough to get rid of the heat in your chest when satoru gets too close to you. )

Faithful reader,

she could not have been

more wrong.

Four days remain until the summer solstice hunt.

Satoru is scarce around the palace in preparation for his coronation coming soon and treaty arrangements.

You, on the other hand, have exhausted all your hobbies, biding your idle time helping the other ladies at court pick their gowns for tomorrow's feast — the first of seven nightly ones during the solstice.

Another trousseau is delivered to your chambers when you wake.

This time, you’re taken aback.

Instead of an elaborate stack of gifts, a box of jewelry or even a scandalous collection of seductive corsets and nightgowns to remind you of your predicament—

There's a long wooden box, coupled with a sealed parcel.

Inside the box is a beautiful gown, deep burgundy and shapely. Fitted with a low bust cut and short sleeves. It's a mouth watering dress, one you would've bought yourself if you even knew it existed.

But you've never seen a dress designed like this before, down to the intricate details of the underskirts and the hemming.

It's almost intimate.

When you finally open the parcel, you expect a note, but there's none. Instead, inside is a pair of black silk gloves, so smooth it melts in your palms – your mind immediately goes to Satoru and the glove he still holds hostage for you.

You don't think twice before telling Areta that this is what you’ll be wearing to tomorrow’s feast.

( you ought to thank satoru for this gift by wearing it, no? )

˚ ༘ *

The lights in the dining hall are dimmed perfectly to match the moonlight.

When you slip in from the adjacent corridor, greeting visiting nobles and residents of the palace court alike, a sense of nausea floods the pit of your stomach – what will Satoru say when he sees you? Will he like how the dress looks – or rather how you look in it?

Wait, why do you even care?

You’ve never really cared for these things— it must be the tea you had earlier. You nearly feel faint.

Darling reader,

it was in fact,

not the tea.

Your thoughts don't get the chance to linger very long, as the soft hum of music slows to a halt, and everyone begins journeying to their assigned seats.

Naturally, you fiddle with your gloves, not wanting to sit down at the second table yet.

One, it would be very impudent of a lady of your caliber to be seated without a proper escort by a gentleman.

And two, even though you did decline the few men who asked to escort you, you can't help the anxiety that floods your veins when you begin to realize that so many people are sitting already and you're not!

Sure, you're a Princess, but can't a girl be a little shy?

( not that you were waiting for satoru or anything of course. )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

is in denial.

“It pains me to see such a beautiful lady left unaccompanied.” A voice flits past your ears, so close you can taste it on your tongue — incense, sandalwood.

( oh god, no. )

Your body turns in an instant, almost too quick, and your underskirts almost trip you as the weight sends you wobbling forward.

“Easy—” Suguru Geto’s arm darts out to curl around your waist, steadying you.

“You're here—” “You’re still clumsy—”

The both of you lock eyes at your shared unison of speech, then chuckle to yourselves.

You let your eyes wander over his features, how much he's grown over these past years.

He’s still as ethereal as the royal painters would describe. Prince Geto, the joy to paint, once in an era type beauty, born to be depicted in art, they’d say.

You don't doubt that.

“You look well,” you say. Suguru glances down at you and shakes his head, as if that is too much of a compliment for him to take. “No, honestly— I don't tease, you look very. . . stately.”

“Are you trying to call me old in a polite way, my lady?” He feigns offense, tilting his head to the side a little. You cover your mouth to laugh.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on your gloves.

( oh, the gloves ! )

“Your highness,” leaves your mouth in a whisper, half teasing, half regal, and you give a brief curtsy, which he counters with a swift bow. “Would you do me the pleasure?” You grin, extending your hand to him.

Suguru — never Prince Geto, not to you at least — had been your solace, your comfort and your refuge.

The greatest friend you could have asked for in your youth.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Suguru whispers, taking your hand in earnest, escorting you over to the table and pulling your chair out for you — settling himself in the seat across from you, on the other side of the table.

( what a coincidence. )

˚ ༘ *

Time passes in waves.

People are whispering, no doubt. As they always do about you. No matter how hushed, you always hear them.

‘Look at the poor Princess consort, sitting beside an empty chair.’

‘You’d think she’d refer to herself as Lady now instead of Consort—’

‘To think even a Princess is not immune from such things. . .’

‘These things happen when you're sold off to a future King.’

“Bitter.”

Your head snaps up at the sound, dessert fork halting mid stab into your slice of cake.

Suguru’s eyes meet yours, as if he’d been looking at you the entire time, like he reads your thoughts as his own.

The people sitting at the table alongside you both fix their attention on him, the whispers halting.

“The cake,” he leans back in his chair, shrugging strands of his hair out of his face, looking down the length of the table at the spectators, nonchalant. “It's terribly bitter.”

You think you’d open your mouth to scold him a little, to not joke about what people say, royals should never engage in such petty gossip – but instead, you smile in gratitude.

( bitter. everybody's so bitter in this place. )

“That's quite unfortunate.” A familiar voice rings out, your fork sliding out of your hand to rest on the edge of your plate. “I hoped it would be rather sweet tonight.”

When you look over your shoulder, Satoru is already at your side, bending a knee and outstretching an open palm to you. “My Princess.”

He looks. . . disheveled.

Not completely out of order, it's something so small — so minute that only those who know him well would be able to point it out. From the crease of his vest to the shaky rasp in his voice—

And the woman in your peripheral stumbling back into the dining hall from the garden entrance on shaky legs. . .

( so that's what he was doing. )

“Your grace,” leaves your lips in a whisper and he kisses the back of your palm before sinking into his seat.

The way he presses his middle finger against his bottom lip like he’d been burned by the silk makes you raise an eyebrow. Does he not even have the common courtesy of pretending to like the gloves he gifted?

“I’m pleased you took time out of your busy schedule for us regular people.” Suguru chuckles, and Satoru’s mother, sitting near you all at the head table seems far from pleased.

“Well, a small act of kindness goes a long way.” Satoru parries and you force a smile, stabbing your dessert once more. “Especially for someone as regular as you, Prince Suguru.”

If you had initially thought this would be a quaint rekindling of an old childhood friendship, you never felt more wrong than in this moment — the air settles thick between you three.

“Isn't the future King Gojo just so kind?” Suguru addresses you, and you swallow, stifling your laugh.

“I pray for your marriage. . .” One of the Dukes seated at the table jests, to which you fiddle with the hem of your dress, the burgundy falling over your palms as a chorus of laughter ensues.

Marriage.

Suguru notices your gaze on him – or rather far away – and he smiles to snap you out of it. “Lady name?”

Just then Satoru’s hand reaches for yours under the table, halting your fiddling with the fabric, his grip steady and soft.

“Princess Consort.” Satoru interjects with a flat lipped smile, which could be perceived as kind, but to Suguru. . . “She changed titles.”

When was the last time someone called you by your name and not Princess consort? Always that. Not even Princess name.

“Pardon me,” you mumble beneath your breath, your grip on your dress going slack. You shrug your hand free from Satoru’s grip, abandoning your seat in an instant.

Satoru rises from his chair only four seconds afterward.

“Name—” he calls to you, following you out of the dining hall and down a vacant corridor.

Your footsteps evade him as he chases after you wide steps.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he hears you slam the door to an empty side room shut.

My dearest reader,

brace yourself for the

next publication.

Your kind author

bids you farewell.

[mesdelostrescaballeros2024]

Mes de los Tres Caballeros September 2024!

Tradução /Traducción/Translation Here!

September 1st - 7th : Zé Week!

1: Dança - Baile - Dance

2: Episódio de Praia - Episodio de la Playa - Beach Episode

3: Saudade

4: Cidade Maravilhosa - Cuidad Maravillosa - Marvelous City

5: Esquema - Planes - Schemes

6: Comunidade - Comunidad - Community

7: Feriado - Día Festivo - Holiday

September 8th - 14th: Donald Week!

8: Reunião - Reunión - Reunion

9: Super-heróis - Super héroes - Superheroes

10: Passado/Presente/Futuro - Pasado/Presente/Futuro - Past/Present/Future

11: Donald Duck’s Quacky Duck City

12: Crossdressing

13: Cartão Postal - Tarjeta Postal- Post Cards

14: Festa - Fiesta - Party

September 15th - 21st: Panchito Week!

15: Conto - Cuento - Story

16: Roupas Coloridas - Vestuarios Coloridos - Colorful Outfits

17: Charrería

18: Cidade dos Palácios - Ciudad de los Palacios - City of Palaces

19: Lotería Mexicana (jogo/juego/game)

20: Falso Noivado - Compromiso Falso - Fake Engagement

21: Noite de Show - Noche de Espectáculo - Show Night

September 22nd - 28th: Three Caballeros Week!

22: UA de Celebridade - UA de Celebridade - Celebrity AU

23: Seres Fantásticos - Seres Fantásticos - Fantastical Beings

24: Esportes - Deportes - Sports

25: Crossover

26: Velho Oeste - Viejo Oeste - Western AU

27: Comida de Rua - Comida Callejera - Street Food

28: Família - Familia - Family

September 29th, 30th: Free Days!

Honorable Mentions and Challenges:

Thank you to everyone for your prompts! Some were so fun and exciting but there are only 30 days in September and only 7 days in a week. As a result, here are but some of the optional challenges and themes for you to include in your fan creations!

Magia - Magia - Magic

Terapia - Terapia - Therapy

Confete - Confeti - Confetti

Apelido - Apodo - Nickname

Ovo - Huevo - Egg

UA Humano - UA Humano - Human AU

Aracuan Bird

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