#old west AU

[bluejulius]

What if HTTYD but cowboys?? Finally finished the lines and colours for the gang 👇

Dragons and their horse breed counterparts;

Toothless - Black Mustang

Stormfly - Andulasian

Hookfang - a very tall Arabian 🤣

Meatlug - Icelandic Horse

Barf & Belch - Splashed Quarter Horses

So glad the refs are out of the way bc now I get to draw them more 🔥🔥 lmk your headcanons and I might draw em if I have time 😳

[theplottdump]

There's a movie playing in my head that I've seen a thousand times. I can't seem turn it off, and I don't even want to try. (🎻)

[andorerso]

Owl Hoot Trail - for @spookyjyn SURPISEEEEE!! it's moi, your beloved Santa 🤶

“I have a job,” she said. “And I need the bettermost sharpshooter I know.” He glanced down at the headline again. “What’s the job?” OR, Jyn and Cassian are 19th century outlaws. And also ex-lovers.

read it on ao3

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

• Cowboy!Steve Harrington x Reader •

• Old West AU •

Summary: You’re a prostitute in a small 1800’s Western town. It’s terribly hot, and ‘business,’ is as dry as the weather. So far, the most interesting part of your day has been the unfortunate discovery of a hole in your boot. But the arrival of a handsome stranger in town shakes things up considerably…and leaves an impression on you that won’t be forgotten anytime soon…

🥀 PART ONE

You sit down heavily on the saloon porch, pushing back sticky strands of hair from your forehead. The heat is sweltering, unseasonably warm for late Spring. Your eyes sweep over the dusty street, assessing the men passing in front of you. Your goal is to make eye contact, and hold it long enough to lure them closer…to notice the way you extend your leg, letting some skin peek out from under your gown, ‘just for them.’ It’s subtle enough that the sheriff can’t accuse you of lewd and unlawful behavior, but suggestive enough to remind the men in town what you have to offer. These men are your potential clients, after all, and it’s never too early to give them a bit of a show.

A hot wind whistles through the buildings lining the road, wooden beams creaking above you. Despite your best efforts at wooing townsmen into the saloon, the street seems to have cleared itself of people. A mangy stray dog picks at a bone outside the inn across the street. A few tumbleweeds roll past you. The breeze kicks bits of dirt onto your boots, and to your dismay, you realize there’s a hole in your right shoe.

You remove it and inspect the damage, running your finger along the tear. The sound of hooves thrumming against the ground grabs your interest. A man approaches on horse, his frame a dark sillouhette against the sun. As he moves closer, you begin to make out his features. He’s handsome, this stranger. You haven’t seen anyone like him in town; you’re sure of it. Having become familiar with the faces (and cocks) of most men in town, you’d have remembered his, if you’d seen him before.

He guides his horse to a stop in front of the saloon, dark hazel eyes raking over you, an approving grin turning his lips. He swings a leg over the saddle, dismounting his horse, securing it to a post with rope. There’s an intensity in his presence you can’t define. He comes across as intimidating, yet down to earth at the same time. You find yourself feeling uncharacteristically shy, bashfully glancing down to avoid his gaze.

“Somethin’ on the ground caught your eye, darlin’?” he asks, through a sleepy Texas drawl. You smile up at the stranger, taking in his handsome features. Chestnut hair lays in a slight wave, tapering at the nape of his neck. His nose and jawline are well defined, sharp in just the right places and soft where they need to be. His hands rest on his hips as he observes you from beneath the brim of a tan cowboy hat.

He points a slender finger at the damaged boot in your hand. “Looks like that boot of yours needs mendin’ ,” he comments. Your cheeks go red, feeling silly for sitting there with a shoe in your hand and your bare, dusty foot on display from under your petticoat.

He senses your embarrassment, and finds it adorable. “Y’don’t have to be nervous, darlin,” he teases. “I don’t bite.” The stranger winks down at you. “Not much, anyway…”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds “Your Ma teach you not to talk to strangers? Well that’s easily fixed, I reckon.” He tips the brim of his hat towards you in a gentlemanly gesture. “Name’s Steve,” he says. “There. Not a stranger anymore. And you are?”

“(Y/N),” you reply, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Steve shakes his head. “No ma’am,” he replies. “Just passin’ through on my way to the coast. There’s gold out there, I’ve heard.”

You’ve heard similarly, from countless other men spending a single night in town on their way out west. Men who all share the same goal, of reaching California and finding their fortune there. Despite meeting and sleeping with so many men like Steve, there’s something different about him. He’s obviously incredibly attractive; but good looks aside, you feel a sincerity from him that seems…genuine. It will be your pleasure to help this traveler relax and unwind, to allow him the use of your body in exchange for a small fee.

“Are you thirsty, cowboy?” you ask. Steve nods his head, “Yes ma’am,” and follows your lead through the saloon doors, removing his hat as he walks inside. You move toward the bar to fetch Steve a drink. He doesn’t miss the way your ass rubs slightly against his thigh as you slide behind the bar, reaching for a glass. “Whiskey,” Steve says. “And I won’t be needin’ a glass, sweetheart.” He places more than enough money for a shot on the bar, explaining “I’ll take the whole bottle. And the rest is for the uh…” The devilish grin he flashes has you feeling weak. “…For the other services I’m assuming this establishment provides…?”

Steve leans over the bar, watching you reach for a tall brown bottle on the top shelf. His eyes drink in the shape of your body in the dress you’re wearing, the way it clings to the curve of your hips. You turn to face Steve, handing the whiskey over to him; but he stops you. “Just bring the bottle with us, darlin,” Steve says. “You seem like the type who can handle her whiskey-.” He flashes that devastating grin at you once more. “-Among other things…”

🥀 PART TWO

In an upstairs room, the one you use to service clients, Steve is sprawled back on your bed, stripped to his jeans. He’s watching you undress, the way your fingers tease the front laces of your gown undone. He strokes the raised outline of his cock through his jeans, the wet stain of precum darkening the denim. Steve clicks his tongue, calling you over to his lap. You’ve seen a hundred different men in this exact same spot; this should be business as usual for you, but it’s not. You want to fuck Steve; he wouldn’t have needed to pay you a single cent.

He threads his fingers through your hair and guides your mouth to his crotch, grinding against your lips. The scent of Steve fills you, a masculine musk of leather, tobacco and sweat. He lifts your chin to his briefly, seizing you tongue between his lips. Steve’s mouth tastes like whiskey and cigarettes; but he’d prefer his tongue taste like you. With his hand on the back of your neck, Steve guides you to the bed. You’ve traded places now, with you on your back and Steve kneeling in between your thighs. His hands disappear beneath your petticoat, groping his way up to the fattest part of your thighs. Here, he pauses to savor the woman he’s about to taste, the way her flushed skin feels inside his hands.

As his fingertips brush feather-soft against your lips, Steve feels how wet you already are. His cock aches to feel that slickness all over it, to fuck the tight little cunt that’s making such a pretty mess for him. He pushes your petticoat and dress up around your waist, holding the fabric back with one hand while leaving the other free to explore you. The sight of your glistening pussy nearly takes Steve’s breath away. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a prettier one; labia plump with arousal and slippery with cum, the tiny hole between them that puckers like a kiss every time Steve teases his finger around it.

He looks up from between your thighs, his expression hungry. His eyes hold contact with yours as he sinks his lips over your pussy. You instinctively roll your hips, pushing your cunt into Steve’s mouth. He rocks his head slowly side to side, smearing your cum across his lips. The stubble peppering Steve’s face tickles your pussy like delicate kisses, the soft grit perfect for grinding against. He extends his tongue to dip inside your pussy, letting you fuck yourself with it. You roll your hips in a circular motion, coating Steve’s tongue in your creamy arousal. He feels the contractions begin inside you, the way your moist walls flutter around his tongue as your orgasm begins.

You grip Steve’s hair in your hands, dancing on his mouth as he tastes your release washing over his tongue. After you finish, Steve tosses you back against the bed. He climbs up between your legs and pulls down the waist of his jeans. An impressively thick, ruddy cock and heavy balls hang between Steve’s legs, his wet tip brushing your stomach as he positions himself on top of you. He strokes himself over you a moment, enjoying the way your eyes widen at the sight of his cock standing thick and firm above you. “Don’t be scared, darlin,” Steve murmurs confidently. “It’ll fit; I promise…”

He guides his cock lower, rubbing the plump tip over your clit in circles, making you whimper. Steve chuckles, “Y’want it that bad, do ya?” and slides his tip to your entrance. Spreading you open as he sinks inside you, Steve’s jaw falls slack as the soft, slick walls of your pussy envelop him. He exhales deeply as he fills you up, grunting as your pussy spreads to accommodate him. Steve’s stomach and chest press flush to yours, his coarse body hair tickling your breasts.

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him even deeper, silently urging Steve to thrust. Instead, he stills his hips and lingers, taking time to explore the texture of your body, to savor the unique feel of your wet velvet hugging his cock. Steve rocks his hips slowly side to side, eyes drifting closed as he basks in the pulpy warmth of your cunt. You need him to thrust, the muscles at your center desperate to be stroked. Wriggling your hips beneath him makes Steve groan, your eyes watering with need as you can’t help but beg. “Please,” you squeak softly, canting your hips up to meet his. “Please fuck me…”

The roguish glimmer in Steve’s eyes is sinful; your pussy clenches around him in response. “What was that, sugar?” he asks, lips curved into a grin. “Couldn’t quite hear you-.” Suddenly, Steve plunges his hips forward in one rough, beautiful thrust. You cry out in a mixture of surprise and pleasure, your fingernails digging crescent shapes into Steve’s back. His breath fans hot against your forehead as he chuckles, teasing you. “D’that feel nice?” he coos, watching your features contort in utter bliss. “Want me to do it again?”

And he does. Once, twice, three times, till he’s drilling your cunt at a brutal pace. Your knees squeeze around Steve’s sides, bearing down as he belts your pussy in a way you’ve never had. The sunlight is starting to fade, thinning the light in the room through a small window. It casts amber on your body and Steve’s as they rut together, two shadows blending into one on the wall behind you. His hands prowl up and down your body, groping the fat of your hips like he’s committing them to memory. Your nipples stiffen against Steve’s palms as he kneads your breasts, manipulating the supple flesh in his hands like dough. He burrows his lips in the curve of your shoulder, sucking light bruises up your neck and finding your lips. The muscles at your center pulse and flutter around Steve, your cunt thirsty for his release. He whimpers against your lips, his painfully-hard cock throbbing as your pussy milks him for every drop he’s worth.

Steve grips you by the hair and tugs your head backward, sweat and spit landing on your face as he watches your features contort in ecstasy, another climax overtaking you. Your whole body convulses beneath his, a heat blooming between your bodies at the place they’re connected, radiating from you to Steve. His lips crash over yours, the taste of whiskey long forgotten, replaced by the headier drug of sex. Steve growls into your mouth, a primal sound of dominance, claiming you. The rhythm of his hips becomes messy, frenetic, as Steve’s orgasm consumes him. His thrusts falter, his body stilling inside yours as his cock pulses streams of semen against your walls. Steve’s seed is warm and abundant, squishing audibly inside your pussy. He’s fucked you so well, every nerve inside you is teeming, buzzing; you can feel Steve’s cum gurgling inside you, a warm, contended hum radiating up to your womb…

🥀 PART THREE

Crickets sing outside your window, moonlight cascading into the room. You watch Steve wetting his hands in a basin under the mirror, splashing water over his face, pulling it through his hair. He’ll be leaving soon, and unlike most of the men you provide services for, you know you’ll miss Steve.

He turns toward you, that damned gorgeous smile on his face even more disarming when he’s naked from the waist up. “Gonna miss me, darlin?” he asks, as if reading your mind. He lifts the whiskey bottle from the dresser and brings it to the bed where you’re still reclining. Swirling the remaining liquid, Steve asks if you’d like to share the last drink. He glances at the window. “Here’s to finding my riches out there-” Steve says, raising the bottle in a toast. His voice softens, his eyes on you. “-And to the riches I leave behind…”

You swallow, a lump of emotion in your throat you’re not accustomed to feeling. Steve puts the bottle to his lips, taking a large sip and holding the liquid on his tongue. His hand finds the back of your neck, guiding you into a kiss. Parting his lips, Steve shares the last of the whiskey between his mouth and yours, a gesture so intimate, you feel your body respond to him again. Steve releases your neck, stroking your hair before rising from the bed. He pulls on his shirt and vest, buckling his belt and holstering his gun. Steve removes more cash from his pocket and places it on the dresser. “Buy somethin’ to remember me by,” he says with a wink, tipping his hat before turning for the stairs.

As the sound of Steve’s footsteps fade, you move to the window to watch him leave. He unties and mounts his horse. Steve rubs the horse’s mane and takes hold of the reigns, before glancing one last time up at the window. He smiles when he sees you; Steve was hoping you’d be there, to see him off. He clicks his tongue and presses a heel against the horse’s side, encouraging it to move. You watch Steve ride down the dusty, deserted street that leads out of town, listening to the sound of his horse’s hooves till they’ve disappeared. You know that with every horse you hear from now on, you’ll wonder if it’s Steve’s. And you’ll never stop hoping that it is. 🥀

[rynwritesstuff]

Into the West - Sheriff!Flip Zimmerman x Reader

Sheriff!Flip Zimmerman x Reader

Warnings: Brief period-accurate shittiness towards women, mentions of blood, brief violence, NSFW, (unprotected) PIV sex, dirty talk

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Based on a request by the magnificent @safarigirlsp! Sheriff Flip and reader have some eye-opening sex after an incident at the saloon, which reader runs.

The sun is setting over the small Western town. There’s a breeze – soft but there nonetheless – and Sheriff Zimmerman’s hair blows gently before he puts his hat back on. His boots dig into the sandy road as he walks along. His head is held high and his gun is holstered at his hip. Women turn to look as he passes by, and he bites back a smile as he chews on his tobacco. 

Horses whinny and neigh, carriage wheels turn, and working men grunt. The sounds of the town are music to Sheriff Zimmerman’s ears. Nothing is awry. Nothing is out of place. Nothing is wrong. He turns the corner, brows furrowing as the bright sunset peers down at him through the clouds. Zimmerman brings a hand up, blocking the light from his view as he continues on down the way. 

“Sheriff?” a voice calls. Zimmerman looks around as quick footsteps approach. The Sheriff smiles, glad to see his good friend, John Bartlett, approaching. He’s a small man with strawberry hair and red cheeks to match. His brows are knit together, but Sheriff Zimmerman hopes that it’s because of the bright sun and not out of concern. “Ah,” Zimmerman says, “John. Evenin’–”

“There’s a tussle in the saloon,” John tells Zimmerman. “The owner, she–”

John is hardly able to get his words out before Sheriff Zimmerman is taking off down the road, hand flying down to his gun. He knows you’re working tonight. Oh, for Christ’s sake, you work every damn night. You work too much, you deal with too many men who wanna play with fire, something was bound to happen at some point, wasn’t it? 

Zimmerman bursts into the saloon, hand still resting on his holstered gun. People’s heads turn. The music isn’t playing, but Zimmerman figures that it hasn’t been for a while. It almost always stops when something starts happening. It’s in people’s nature to wanna hear the goings on, he supposes. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” comes a loud, familiar voice. Your voice. Zimmerman’s eyes widen, and as he surges forward to round the corner, he hears the sound of glass shattering, then stumbling. He turns the corner, and just as he does, a man falls to the ground in front of him. Zimmerman moves back so that the gentleman doesn’t fall on him, then looks up with wild, confused eyes. You stand in front of the floored man, a broken bottle in hand. Your chest, which is accentuated by your corseted dress, rises and falls quickly.

Your eyes meet the Sheriff’s and he steps up to you as everyone in the room goes silent. He says your name, soft and purposeful. You watch as he approaches you. 

“Let me have that,” Zimmerman says, reaching for the jagged bottle top. You move away. He pauses, then says your name again. 

“The fucker came at me,” you say quickly. You gesture to your arm. “He grabbed me right here, right here–”

“If he tries again, I’ll shoot ‘im,” Zimmerman says in that honest tone of his. You know he’s not lying to you like all the other men in this town do. “Give me to bottle, I don’t want you t’cut yourself.”

You exhale softly, then hand it over. Zimmerman looks at the man on the ground. His head is bleeding where you hit him, and he’s groaning softly. He’s covered in beer and broken glass, and you clench your jaw at the sight. He tries to get up, but Zimmerman nudges him back down. He groans. 

“Let him get back up,” you say, adrenaline pumping. “Let him come at me again, I swear I’ll–”

“I’ll take it from here,” Sheriff Zimmerman says firmly, looking back at you. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. His eyes dart down to your hand, the one holding the bottle. You look down too. Blood drips from your hand to the hardwood floor. You didn’t even feel it. You bring your hand up to rest against your chest carefully, letting yourself bleed onto your dress. It’ll come out, you remind yourself. It’ll come right out. 

Zimmerman grabs a pair of cuffs from his belt, then demands that the man on the ground roll onto his stomach. He does so slowly, clearly not wanting to get further hurt by the glass, but the Sheriff doesn’t seem to care all that much about the glass as he leans down and chains the man’s wrists together. He yanks him up to his feet, then starts towards the door. You let out another shaky breath, then look around the saloon. 

“Get back to your drinks,” you say grimly. You turn away as the music starts back up. You throw the bottle top into the trash, then reach for the broom with trembling hands. Your hand. You feel it, now, the sharp, throbbing pain in it, and pause. One of the barkeeps approaches you with a small smile. 

“I’ll get the mess,” she says to you. “Go wash up.”

You nod, then silently move upstairs to your quarters. There’s an angry lump in your throat. The audacity of that man, you think as you start the water in your washroom. The fucking nerve of him to put his hands on me. I should’ve jammed that broken bottle right into his–

You shake your head as you pull some alcohol from the cupboard and unscrew the top. 

“Fuckin’ Zimmerman,” you whisper. You pour the alcohol over the cut, cringing as you do. “I had it all under-control. Everything was under fuckin’ control.”

The sun has almost completely set, now, and when you put your hand beneath the warm running water, you glance out the window at the town you love so dearly. You really do find this town beautiful and full of hope – if only the men would stop treating you like garbage. 

How many times have you had to defend yourself like this? How many times have you had to push back or pull away or tell a man off? What a curse it is to live in a time where men don’t know how to treat a goddamn woman right.

Still, life goes on. The saloon draws in money, enough for you to keep this place open and thriving. You’ve made a name for yourself out here. You know damn-near everyone’s drink orders by heart, you know names and faces, you know the different walks of life your patrons come from. That’s a gift, being able to hold all of it.

But sometimes you’re tired, and tonight is one of those nights. You dry off your hand and wrap it up, not knowing how much time has passed. On your way back downstairs, you hear feet coming up. The footfall is heavy – a man’s. Your heart surges, and you consider turning back, going to get your gun, but it’s pointless when you see who it is. You exhale. 

“You fuckin’ scared me, Zimmerman,” you huff as the Sheriff ascends the steps. He offers you a smile. 

“You’ve got a filthy mouth, ma’am,” he tells you as he continues towards you. 

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” you say, crossing your arms. Zimmerman stops on the step beneath yours, but he’s so tall that you still have to tilt your head to look him in the eye like this. His smile widens. 

“I thought about you all day long, miss.”

The corner of your mouth turns up. You hate how soft he makes you, but you also fucking love it.

“All day? How’s that?”

“Well,” the Sheriff starts, sliding his hands over your hips, “I woke up and thought about you while I washed up. Then, I thought about you while I got dressed, and headed down to the jail, and–”

“Alright, alright,” you say, pushing at his chest. “Enough’a that.”

Zimmerman catches your wrist. His smile fades slightly. 

“Your hand. It’s alright?”

You nod. 

“Just a small cut,” you say. 

“I’m glad you got ‘im before I did,” he says. You sigh. You know what he means. 

“I know,” you say, looking away. Zimmerman squeezes your hips. 

“Lookit me.” You do. “I’m here to give you a good time.”

Somehow, that lump in your throat is back. Are you angry, still? Or is it something else, do you think? You’ve got half a mind to wrap your arms around him and cry. That’s so unlike you. He knows you’re sweet on him, though, and he is, too. He’d probably welcome any crying, any tears you’ve got in you, but you just can’t. 

“A good time. Zimmerman, what–”

“Don’t call me that,” the Sheriff says quietly. It’s a soft request. A prayer. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck. 

“Flip.”

“Mm.”

“What’re you gonna do to show me a good time, Flip?”

“The same thing I do everytime.”

“No. Give me more than that.”

Flip looks taken aback. His brows furrow slightly. 

“More?”

“That’s right. More. I give all’a myself to this town just to be met with perverts and angry prostitutes and people tryin’ to take down my business, so yes.” You clench your jaw and bring your hands to his cheeks. “I want more.”

Flip glances at your lips, then presses his firmly against them. You sigh, letting your body move forward against his. You pull yourself into him, kissing him back with fervor. 

“I’ll give ya whatever you want, sweetheart,” Flip breathes in-between kisses as you grab onto his collar and tug him up the stairs with you. He goes willingly, and when you reach the top step, Flip pulls you down the hallway to get to your quarters. He turns the handle, and the two of you move inside. He kicks it shut behind him. You unbuckle his belt and toss it aside, letting his gun and other things clatter on the dresser. You unbutton his shirt quickly. 

“Get me out of this dress,” you tell him. He begins to undo it, kissing you again. He lets out a soft grunt against your mouth. He must know that you need this. He must be alright with that. The thought makes you want to weep. 

Flip pulls your dress off and throws it aside, then tugs your shift up over your head, leaving you bare in front of him. You reach down to undo your boots and toss them aside while he shrugs off his shirt. Your body is properly revealed to him when you get your boots off and stand up straight. Flip looks you up and down as you move towards him, and he puts his hands on your cheeks. 

“Prettiest girl in the West,” he says. He kisses you, then, and you never were a religious woman, but this is how you imagine Heaven. If you were to die tonight, you’d die happy and needed. Flip Zimmerman always makes you feel that way. Christ, maybe Heaven isn’t a place, but a feeling. Maybe it’s the way the sunset turns the sky pink and orange. Maybe it’s the way the saloon feels after nine o’clock when the drinks are strong and the music is loud. Or, maybe it’s the way Flip Zimmerman holds your face like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever seen – like you're the only woman around.

Either way, you’re here now, and you have him like this, and anything else happening outside of this room is unimportant. You get on the bed and Flip follows after you eagerly. 

“Take the rest of your clothes off and get over here,” you tell him, leaning back and watching as he undresses. He chuckles softly. 

“You’re mighty bossy tonight.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” you tell him. “I’ve got a lot that I want.”

Flip finishes undressing, his cock hard and proud, you see, and you beckon him towards the bed. He gets on top of you easily and nudges himself against your core. You spread your legs further for him, inviting him to press on.

One of your hands moves up to hold onto his hair, and the other hand rests on his shoulder. You lean up and nibble at his jaw as he presses his tip inside of you. You inhale sharply, then let out a satisfied hum. 

“C��mon, Sheriff,” you breathe, “give it to me rough.”

Flip smiles against you, then thrusts the rest of the way in. You gasp again, brows furrowing.  “Oh, right there,” you sigh. “Right there, give me more, Flip.”

Flip draws his hips back, then pushes them forward again. Your body bounces with each fast thrust. His cock hits your sweet spot over and over and over, and your moans get louder each time. Surely they can hear you downstairs, but you don’t care. How could you when you’ve got Flip like this? How could you, when he’s making you feel this fucking good? You tug at his hair. 

“Is this – Mmm – enough?” Flip asks as he fucks you harshly. You tug on his hair again. 

“Yes, it’s enough, Zimmerman. M-Making me sound n-needy . . . Oh, fuck . . .”

“Not needy,” Flip shakes his head. “Just a woman w-who knows what she wants.”

Your grip on him tightens. He gets you. You like to pretend that he doesn’t sometimes, but he truly does. There’s not another man like Flip Zimmerman. You’ll never need another man as badly as you need him. Hot tears spring into your eyes. 

You’ll never love another man the way you love him. 

“I like a man who u-understands,” you breathe. You smile at him as he pounds into you. Your core clenches around his cock, begging him for more, and he obliges without needing to be told. He gets it. Whatever it is, he gets it. You can always count on that. 

You wrap your legs around him as you pull him closer. You hold him against you, keeping his firm body against yours. It almost feels like an embrace, holding him like this. It almost feels perfect. It almost feels like Heaven. 

“Please,” you breathe. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Flip grunts. He’s close. You moan. 

“Mm, please!”

“I’m almost there,” Flip promises. Sweat beads at his hairline as he continues, and you groan. 

“Fuck, fuck . . . Flip!”

You feel him pull out suddenly, and he grunts as he jerks his cock until he’s cumming across your stomach with a moan. His eyes flutter and his cheeks flush. You love seeing him come undone for you. Your chest rises and falls quickly as you look up at him. You tuck a few pieces of hair behind his ears, then smile at him. 

“How was that?” Flip asks. He goes to grab his handkerchief off of the floor, but you stop him. You don’t want him to pull away just yet. You nod, then kiss him again, blissed out from what he gave to you. You moan quietly against his mouth. 

“More than enough, Sheriff.”

Tagging a few friends: @mrs-gucci @babbushka @safarigirlsp

rynwritesstuff, 2025 | Divider by saradika-graphics

[renzuiin]

More stuff on my L4D2 Old West AU:

The Green Flu/ Apocalypse:

-The apocalypse is still here lol

-It’s seen as a more “biblical” event (if that makes sense…)

Survivor’s Journeys:

-The l4d1 crew start in the East Coast and head to New Orleans. Bill sacrifices himself and the crew head to the Florida Keys (more or less the same story..)

-The l4d2 crew start in New Orleans and are trying to head as far west as possible. so basically their end goal is California lol (they don’t rely on the military in this one)

-They all don’t meet in the same place.. they meet each other at different points in the journey.

Ex. Coach and Nick meet first in New Orleans, then Ellis in the wild somewhere, then Rochelle in a deserted town.

L4D2 Survivors:

-Coach was a stagecoach driver in New Orleans until the apocalypse hit.

-Nick was in an american gang in NYC. He was in New Orleans for some business until he encountered the infected.

His gang is inspired by the Five Points Gang and is also rival gangs with Francis’.

-Ellis was in a ragtag outlaw gang with Kieth, Paul, and Dave. he was separated from them when they encountered the infected.

His gang wasn’t all that dangerous, they just stole farm animals and drank. They were more nuisances than anything.

-Rochelle was a typist for a local newspaper before the apocalypse. She was left behind after the whole town left overnight.

She was able to survive since she was taught how to use a gun by her father (something something baby blue bedroom)

Horses:

-All the horses love Ellis

-All the horses hate Nick (even his)

-Nick has never ridden a horse before the apocalypse—was bucked off his a millions times before he finally got a hold of it.

-Rochelle has a bad habit of feeding the horses too many treats

-Ellis and Coach are the main caretakers of the horses. It was also both their ideas to head west.

That’s all for now. No ideas on the l4d1 crew—only ideas i have for them was Francis’ gang and Bill being a Union veteran.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

dandelion sun - prelude

din djarin x f!reader

summary: you thought your life was over when your father signed you away to a lumber baron. you wish it was over when he hires a washed up old cowboy to drag you across the country to your betrothed. you know it's over when they start firing at your stagecoach.

aka hired gun bodyguard old west Din Djarin x mayor's daughter reader in an enemies to lovers adventure for @kedsandtubesocks A Wild Ride writing challenge

and YES this is a prelude because I didn't finish the whole thing yet. life said no but I still wanted to post part of it today at least.

words: 367

warnings: none for this part except a passing mention of menstruation. the whole fic will have more, including canon and era-typical violence, gun violence, blood, hurt/comfort, bondage, arranged marriage, p in v, oral, etc. also blanket warning for inaccuracies to the time period because my research was MINIMAL ok sorry. reader is able bodied, menstruates, and wears skirts/dresses. other physical attributes are undescribed. mando can pick you up but he's mando and i believe he can bench press a brick house. no use of y/n.

NOTE: Din's appearance in this fic was inspired by the Space Cowboy art from @pinkiemme. Check out some of the art:

pin-up style

smoking in a tank top 🥵

Marlboro-man style

on horseback

smoking gun (this one makes me so feral fr)

b o l o t i e

belt buckle

boots

long story short I'm OBSESSED with him. you don't have to picture him this way, but pls look at the art, it will change your life.

*title from "where have all the cowboys gone?" by paula cole

dividers by @saradika-graphics

They say Djarin is the most dangerous motherfucker this side of the Mississippi. A bounty hunter whose coal-black heart burned slow and smooth, embers flickering in his soul as if the Devil himself had lit the match.

They say his eyes are yellow like a pit viper. 

They say if you’re close enough to check, the only person you’ll be telling is God Almighty. 

If only they could see him now.

The legend himself is leaning against the hitching post, one foot up against it, arms crossed. The tip of his dark leather hat skews down, casting shadows over his face. A dusty bandana is tied over his nose and mouth. He heaves a heavy sigh, raised boot hitting the dirt with a thump. He stalks back over to the outhouse two paces to his left, and raps his gloved knuckles on the door. 

“You dead or something?” he says with all the social grace you’ve come to expect. And by the way, his eyes are brown. Boring. Just like the man himself. 

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “It’s incredibly rude to bother a lady while she’s freshening up,” you snap.

“I’m not bothering a lady. I’m bothering my pain-in-the-ass cargo. Hurry on up,” he retorts, stalking back to his post with a huff. His stallion nudges his shoulder with a matching huff, equally put out at your delay.

“You have a menses, and see how you like it,” you grumble though he’s out of range. 

You met the man two months prior, when you had come home from Miss Tilly’s with a basket of fresh bread on your elbow. The great oaf, as tall and broad as a wall, had stepped out of your father’s study just as you were headed to the kitchen. 

“Move,” he had barked.

“You move,” you had snapped.

And then the bastard picked you up by the waist, turned, and set you aside like a sack of flour. You sputtered, indignant, until your father emerged to find you furious in an empty corridor. 

If you had known his purpose in your home, you might have run like your head had a price on it.

(to be continued)

[mothandpidgeon]

The Outlaws (outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader) Masterlist

pairing: Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader rating: E 18+ MDNI

summary: Wanted for murder with a bounty on your head, your only hope of escaping the Pinkerton detectives is an outlaw named Joel Miller and his sidekick Ellie. But Joel has other plans for you. series contents : old west au, train robberies, enemies to lovers, grumpy Joel, handcuffed together, forced proximity, smut, period/genre/canon typical violence, alcohol, morally grey characters, assuming Ellie’s gender, reader has backstory, only one bed, no use of y/n. [check chapter warnings…I’ll update here]

about the reader: Reader is able bodied, bisexual, and has hair. She is an outlaw in her own right– a criminal and killer and frankly slightly unhinged (affectionate). She hails from Missouri and has a tragic backstory but, as always, I try not to include physical descriptors. Her age isn’t explicitly mentioned but she is an adult woman.

Moth's Masterlist - follow @mothandpidgeon-updates an turn on notifications so stay updated with my fics!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

MORE

Playlist

Moodboard by @ezrasbirdie

[mysteria157]

I'm so excited that I couldn't help but make this ahead of time. I may change the title simply because I am absolute booty with story and chapter names, but it's sticking so far lol. I hope to have this up soon and thank you all for your support so far!

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: You have a system, and it's worked perfectly until now. But in this dusty Western town, Sheriff Nanami Kento is making things...complicated.

By day, you're the town's sweet schoolteacher, loved by all. By night? You're the very secret that drives Nanami to sleepless nights and relentless pursuits.

You're drawn to each other, so it makes keeping your worlds separate a dangerous game that you can't help but play.

CW: mild intoxication, brief violence, cowboy activities?, fluff, smut, angst, explicit sexual content, mentions of oral (f! receiving), cowgirl, vaginal sex.

WC: ~7.4k

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

Here it is!

[str1pmallchurch]

shoutout to @hurtmuscle for the suggestion of a tango and cash old west au…. very big brain idea and I just had to have a good excuse to draw these two as cowboys (well one of them is at least a cowboy.. the other is a lawman)

[bluejulius]

h-howdy train your dragon… I have the brainrot

and ofc it has eretlout in it! they were trying to sneak into an outlaw gang’s camp and got captured

my ask box is open for requests of this AU or just discussion

some things about this AU:

- Hiccup lost his leg in a horse-related accident before he met Toothless, and was kept away from horses despite still wanting to ride them post-accident

- Eret is in a shady outlaw horse trading business run by Drago, he would do anything to escape it.

- Astrid, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff are a gang of travelling cowboys, but they also do errands and other odd jobs for money too. Snotlout insists he is the leader but Astrid is the actual leader. They find Hiccup and Fishlegs in the town of Berk, shenanigans ensue and Hicc & Legs have to join the gang on their trail.

- Tuffnut wears skirts sometimes and he mostly says it’s because they’re more “breathable” but really bro just likes wearing them

- Astrid assigned Ruff & Tuff to manage the wagon. When Hiccup questions this she says it’s the “least destructive option”. Ruff & Tuff are always arguing about who is really in control of the wagon

- Chicken is also in this AU bc what is HTTYD without her🫰😔

feel free to make some stuff if this inspired you <3 this is just my own personal take on this concept!

[jezebelletauralene]

Waiting for a New Dawn - Part 1 and Part 2 of 7

A cinematic Old West AU | Sanji x Zoro. Think of it as if I cast them to be in my short film.

I wrote it with my partner @vigori-the-imp for Yeehawgust / @/chyexmix on twitter!

(Mobile users, please use landscape mode! 📲🔄🧡)

3 & 4 || 5, 6, & 7

[andorerso]

in celebration of me finishing chapter 3, here's another snippet for you all:

She snapped her head up when horse hooves approached, then breathed a sigh of relief as Cassian’s frame silhouetted in the pale moonlight. “I said I’d catch up later,” she grumbled, unsure if she was grateful for his presence and his quick hands, or annoyed that he didn’t trust her. Cassian trotted closer on the Captain, his face unreadable, though his eyes skimmed her up and down once. “And I said I’d have your back.”

[mumms-the-word]

On the Run

Characters: Gale Dekarios x Tav (Dalia) Summary: In an Old West AU, Gale finds himself on the run from something or someone back East and lands himself in a saloon with the gorgeous singer (and possibly more than singer) Dalia. Someone is out to get him, but she has a plan. A/N: This is inspired by @orangekittyenergy's fanart of @magspeaches's Tav, Dalia for magspeaches's birthday!! The art was just too inspiring, so I tried my hand at a Western AU for Gale and Dalia. Happy birthday friend!! I hope you enjoy this little start to a Western adventure. Who knows where they go next! (I don’t haha this is just a oneshot sorryyyyy)

Every time Gale walked into the saloon at the center of this dusty town, there was always the same beautiful girl sitting atop the same bar, her stockinged legs crossed and her voice trilling out the words to whatever song the pianist nearby banged out on the out-of-tune piano in one corner. Somehow, despite the discordance of the instrument, she always seemed to round it out with her voice, so that the music they made together was not only pleasant to hear, but practically mesmerizing. It had caught his ear the first time he walked past the saloon his first day in town, and it had drawn him in like a siren song every day since.

She was stunning, whoever she was. Her blue skirts were hiked up and fastened at about the middle of her thighs, leaving her long, trim legs and delicate ankles visible for admiration. Today she had ornamented them with thin white stockings and lace-up boots, the tall heels slender and elegant. When she shifted, Gale could could see the hint of a black lace garter and the silver flash of a small revolver before she smoothed her hand over her skirt to cover them again, each movement natural and casual. She’d abandoned her white chemise from the day before to wear an embroidered maroon corset flush against her sunkissed skin, leaving her arms bare and the swell of her breasts a tantalizing treat with every breath she took to sing her next few notes. Even Gale, gentleman that he thought he was, couldn’t entirely tear his eyes away.

He still didn’t know her name, and he’d been here a week, skulking around town trying to figure out where to go or what to do next. He always wound up here eventually, claiming a chair at a back corner and watching as she sang or poured drinks or played cards with the other patrons.

Now, as he searched the room for an empty table, glancing periodically at her, he saw her turn her head toward him. Her gaze swept over the room as she began the next stanza of her song, but when her eyes landed on him, hovering near the door, they lingered. She smiled at him through her next few words before leaning back on one hand and turning her face away again, drawing out the last few notes.

It felt like an invitation. Grab at seat at the bar, why don’t you? Right here by me. But he didn’t dare.

He took a seat at an empty table instead, setting his hat on the surface and combing his hand through his dust-gritty hair. He’d spent more than a week in this town, bunking in an old hotel across the street, and despite his eastern city wardrobe and polished accent, he was starting to look like the locals. Sun-tanned, with a layer of dirt, and in need of a good shave.

But that was a good thing. The less he stood out, the less people knew about him out here, the better. If word got out back East…

Well, suffice to say there was a rather powerful entity back home that would be all too happy to send forces out West to drag him back. Better to lay low. If people believed he was here to settle in for a while or just passing through, then the wary glances would stop. He wasn’t the only man trying to travel West.

He was pretty certain he wasn’t the only man escaping trouble back East, either.

He glanced around for one of the serving girls, hoping to wave her over to place an order, but before he could say a word, the singer from the bar was in front of him, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two tumblers cradled in the other. She offered him a red-rouged smile.

“Care for a drink?” she asked, setting the bottle on the table.

Gale blinked at the bottle and then at her. “Oh, I—”

“First glass is on the house,” she added, setting the glasses down. She poured a measure of amber-colored liquid in both tumblers before sitting down across from him. He glanced beyond her at the bartender, but he was busy with other patrons and the other girls in the saloon were making their rounds with fresh pitchers of beer or trays of whiskey glasses.

When she noticed he didn’t immediately reach for the glass, she raised her eyebrows. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, no, of course not,” he said quickly. He lifted his glass in a toast to her and knocked the whole thing back in one burning swallow. He fought against a grimace—the whiskey out here had all the kick of an angry mule but none of the age or elegance of the whiskey back home. And there was always a strange aftertaste that suggested the barkeep added God-knew-what to it on the side. He set the glass back down with a slight clearing of his throat.

Her lips twitched at a smile, as if she found something about him funny, and she took her own glass in hand, swirling her whiskey idly. “I noticed you come here often these last few days. What’s your name, stranger?”

He thought about lying, but decided against it. He’d already made the mistake of giving his actual name at the hotel register. It was already known by a few others in the town as a result. “Gale Dekarios.”

She didn’t even bat an eye. “Fancy name.”

“So they tell me.” He put his arm on the table, inclining his head toward her. “And yours? May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

“You can call me Dalia, Mr. Dekarios. Pleasure’s all mine.” She shot him a quick wink and took a sip from her tumbler. He couldn’t help but notice the lip rouge mark left on the glass when she set it down again. “What brings you this far out west, Mr. Dekarios?”

“Hm? Oh.” He forced a smile and poured another shot of whiskey, trying not to linger over the mark on her glass or the red of her lips. “Nothing much. Just looking for…opportunity.”

Dalia chuckled and rested her chin in her hand, watching him with a knowing smirk. “You don’t walk this town like a man going after…opportunity.”

He paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “What do I look like to you, then?”

She tilted her head slightly, chin still in her palm, and let her eyes drag slowly down over his form, lingering around his collar, then the buttons of his shirt, then where his body disappeared beneath the surface of the table. She flicked her gaze back up to meet his and he was struck with the range of colors he saw there—steel gray mixed with a sprinkling of gold and a bloom of green, like stumbling upon a sudden vein of gold on a mountainside. The corner of her mouth twitched, as though she were amused.

“Like a man on the run.”

He tried to hold her gaze, but his mind was running a mile a minute now. What gave it away? His attire? His behavior? The way he spoke or acted? He’d seen his wanted poster—he’d grown a beard to help confuse anyone not looking too carefully. It seemed as though more was needed. He tapped his fingers against the side of his glass and finally set it down again, whiskey untouched.

“Whatever could I possibly be on the run from?” he asked, leaning his elbow on the table and raising his own eyebrows at her.

She pursed her lips and leaned back in her chair, idly twisting the two long curls that she’d left unpinned from the rest of her dark hair. As she wound the curls around her finger, she let her eyes sweep slowly around the room again before lingering on a table in the far corner. She indicated it with a little jerk of her head.

“I don’t know your story,” she said, “but something tells me they might.”

He followed her gaze to the distant table, squinting through the dusty afternoon light to see two men seated there. At first, nothing seemed all that remarkable about them…until one of them shifted and the light caught a little silver badge that he had pinned to his vest. An eight-pointed star.

Her mark.

Gale resisted the urge to sink down in his chair or hide his face beneath his hat. He’d hoped she would give up by now.

But he had something she wanted. Until she got it back she would hound him for days. Even with a few days’ head start, her men had already caught up with him.

But then again, they didn’t seem to notice him. Yet. There was still a chance.

Dalia turned back to look at him, interest sparkling in her eyes. “Should I introduce you?”

“No,” he said shortly. He glanced at the two men and away again. Dammit.

Dalia glanced over her shoulder at the men and then moved her chair a little to the left, blocking his view of the men—and their view of him. It brought her even closer to him at the table, so much so that he caught a whiff of the perfume she wore. This close, he noticed the little beauty marks on her face, one just above her mouth and the other on her cheek. They practically beckoned him closer for a kiss, and for a moment he was distracted by thoughts of pressing his lips tenderly, lovingly at each mark before taking her lips with his.

He blinked, hard, to banish the images.

“Seems like you’ll be leaving soon, Mr. Dekarios,” she said, seemingly unaware of his train of thought. She finished her glass of whiskey and then gave a theatrical sigh, setting the glass to the side. “A pity. The two of us haven’t gotten to know each other yet.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Is that…something that interests you?”

“You interest me, Mr. Dekarios,” she said smoothly, taking his hand and setting his glass of whiskey in his palm. “You and those two bounty hunters in the corner.”

“Bounty hunters?” He scoffed. “That’s one way of thinking about them.”

She shrugged her bare shoulders with feigned nonchalance. “I don’t know what else they could be. The reward they’re offering seems pretty high.”

“A reward for what, exactly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You, of course. Curious thing, though…they’re real keen on bringing you back alive. I wonder why that is…”

“Ah…fantastic.” He was about to take a drink again when a thought occurred to him. He set the glass down again, looking suspiciously at Dalia. “If the reward’s so high, why haven’t you turned me in?”

“Why, Mr. Dekarios.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I barely know you. Who am I to decide a man’s fate before I even know his name?”

“Is that what this is?” he asked, gesturing to the whiskey between them. “A test to see whether I deserved to be handcuffed and dragged away?”

“Are you always this suspicious of people?” she asked, but the tilt of her head and the glint in her eye suggested she found the whole conversation entertaining, rather than annoying. “Don’t you worry. I don’t plan on blowing your cover anytime soon. In fact, I have a bit of a business proposition for you.”

His eyebrows drew together. “A business proposition?”

She pressed a finger into his chest, drawing his gaze downward. “You need to get out of town, don’t you?” she asked. She dragged her finger slowly up his chest, up the column of his throat and to the tip of his chin, raising his face slightly so he would look at her. “And I can make that happen, on one condition.”

“Just the one?” he asked warily. He knew firsthand the consequences of taking a deal before you knew the full terms. It was part of what got him in this mess in the first place. “What is it?”

“You take me with you.”

He blinked, surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

She leaned back in her chair, suddenly cool and aloof. “Not interested?” She shrugged and started to rise. “Then I can just—”

He grabbed her hand hurriedly. “Wait, wait, hold on, settle down.” He gestured for her to sit again, glancing anxiously at the bounty hunters in the corner. They didn’t seem to notice them. Dalia settled back in her chair, deftly removing her hand from his but watching him silently. He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why do you want to leave?”

She snorted. “Why shouldn’t I? D’you think I want to spend my life serving drinks and singing the same six songs? The pay isn’t bad but this isn’t living. Not the way I want to live.”

Her voice suddenly became soft and thoughtful toward the end, her gaze shifting to stare out the nearest window. He could guess what she saw through those dusty panes. An open sky that stretched on farther than the eye could see, blue and cloudless and bright. An open expanse of land that changed by the day as you traversed across is, from gritty sand and rock to hard-scrabble brush, from hardy, stubborn trees to the sudden, breath-taking rise of a mountain range, snow-capped and standing sentry-like in the distance, like a gateway to paradise. You could walk or ride for miles out here without seeing a single soul. Just you, your horse, and the wildlife that called these plains, deserts, and prairies home.

It was freedom. Illusive freedom, a siren song of its own, but better than the chains that weighed them down where they were now. Gale wasn’t very good at carving out an existence outside of a settled town, but Dalia…she struck him as a resourceful type. Longing for the finer things in life, but not afraid to get her hands dirty, so to speak.

Gale had the sudden impulse to reach for her hand again, but he stopped himself. “I can understand that,” he said quietly. “But what’s keeping you here now? Why wait for me to leave?”

She shot him a wary look. “That’s my business.” And then, after a second, she relented and added, “I’m waiting for someone.”

He arched an eyebrow. “A lover? Husband?” He paused. “Ex-husband?”

She scoffed. “A friend. She and her partner are out on a job right now. Once they’re back, we’re packing up and heading out. I don’t have any plans to stay here.” She plucked his untouched glass of whiskey from the table and took a long sip, eyeing him over the glass. Then she smiled sweetly again, tilting her head coquettishly. “Do you?”

His mouth was suddenly dry, but she was keeping his glass hostage in her manicured hand. He licked his lips, trying to remain as subtle as possible. “Is that an invitation, Miss Dalia?”

“Could be.” She dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth, letting her finger drag slowly along her bottom lip. He followed the motion with his eyes, enraptured. Her next smile was like honey, enticing him to draw closer to what he knew must be an inevitable trap. “Interested?”

Oh, he was very interested, but his interests were in a bit of a tangle just now. “I’d…have to think about it.”

“I’d think a little more quickly if I were you, Mr. Dekarios.” She set the glass down and folded her arms on top of the table, leaning forward to study him. The posture pressed her corset up and into her chest, the swells of her breasts nearly spilling out over the top of the embroidered fabric. Suddenly it was all Gale could see. “That beard and long hair’s not going to fool those two for much longer. I’ve already heard them asking questions. The clock’s ticking.”

Gale tore his gaze away from her breasts to look her in the face. “What exactly are you offering, Miss Dalia? And what, exactly, is the cost?”

She sat up straight in her chair, suddenly all business. “You want to go farther out west? We can take you. You want to disappear? We can make it happen. In exchange, all we’re asking is a reasonable cut of that cash you got on you. Call it a small fee for our services.” She smirked faintly. “And don’t lie to me about the cash. I’ve seen how much you carry. You can easily afford us.”

Gale frowned. “Why do I get the sense that your definition of ‘disappear’ and mine are different? What’s to stop you from robbing me blind and leaving me for dead the moment we’re out eyesight of town?”

She lifted her eyebrows a fraction. “You don’t trust us?”

“Would you, if you were in my shoes?”

The question seemed to amuse her. She twisted one of her curls again, putting on a thoughtful expression. “You want to take your chances with those bounty hunters instead? I could bring them over.”

“No, no thank you,” he said quickly. He sighed. He was running out of options. The noose he’d flung around his neck the moment he escaped out West was starting to tighten around his throat. Dalia was handing him a knife to cut himself free…but who was to say she wouldn’t use that same knife to stab him in the back? Metaphorically, of course. Or perhaps literally.

She tilted her head again, watching him thinking, and then leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “Tell you what. I’ll arrange for you to meet my associates in two days. My friend and her partner. We can negotiate a deal with them. Something that satisfies all parties.”

“And in the meantime?” he asked. “Am I supposed to hide in my room? Camp outside of town and hope those two don’t come looking for me?”

The flicker of a smile on her lips told him she wouldn’t give him a straight answer. She took up his tumbler again, studying the last swallow of amber liquid in the glass, holding it up to the light. “Something tells me you’re a smart man, Mr. Dekarios. You’ll figure something out. And if not…” She toasted him with the glass. “You know where to find me.”

He watched her knock back the rest of the whiskey and set the glass down with a satisfied clack. Like she’d already closed the deal. “Why are you helping me?”

She gave the question some thought, her expression playful and coy. After a second, she refilled his glass, the one she had taken from him because hers had been empty, and set it down in front of him, leaning over the table, her fingers on the rim of the tumbler.

“Because I like you, Mr. Dekarios,” she whispered. With a swift, practiced twist of her wrist, she turned the glass clockwise on the table until the red-tinged mark left over from her lips faced Gale. She left the glass there and stood. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

And then she was gone, sauntering back to the bar and disappearing into a back room, out of Gale’s sight. He stared down at the tumbler on the table, his eyes on that curve of red lip rouge, a lush half-moon broken by little lines and cracks. The shape of her bottom lip, temporarily branded into the clear glass, as unique as a fingerprint. Hers and no other.

After a moment, he raised the glass to his mouth, lining his lips with the mark, and savored the whiskey as it burned down his throat.

[the-kr8tor]

Hello!!! here is my first potion request! the ideas have finally finished cooking up in my brain!!! the apothecary is so cute!!!!!!!!

Can i please get flax seeds in ❣️bottle please with r and hobie getting their first farm together

🕊️anon

Dovey! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, set in the our place in the middle of nowhere AU, cowboy AU, talks of pregnancy, lovestruck! Hobie, Cowboy! Hobie, Old west AU, CW death mention, Fluff!

Our place in the middle of nowhere masterlist

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

You whistle lowly at the dusty barn looming over you. “She's a beut!”

The red paint is chipping from the elements, its hinges are rusted, and there's a huge hole in the ceiling. You're sure that's not a feature.

Hobie luggs around a heavy bag of tools borrowed from the people in town. Although his hand is occupied, he still takes the time to hold your hand under the blazing sun. His eyes squint at the building, neck straining to look at the hole where he definitely needs to patch up lest Bucky and Cherry start sleeping inside the farm house. His scar catches your eye, no longer hidden by a bandana. He looks comfortable, more at home standing on his land with you right next to him.

After cleaning up the house as much as you can, (or until you stopped sneezing every minute,) and patching up all the holes he missed the first time which suspiciously look like bullet holes, you and Hobie aren't even half done with renovating the whole property. When he first bought the place, he never thought that you'd be living with him, now that you are, he has a proper excuse on why he bought what Miguel and Riri called a ‘dirt farm.’ At least you two have a stable place to eat and sleep in instead of staying at a roach infested and mold ridden hotel somewhere in town.

Even with all the hard work that you two have and will need to put in to make the farm a home you're both proud of, you wouldn't have it any other way. You'd choose this every time as long as he's with you. You haven't even thought about your old life ever since you both slept for the first time under the same roof you both could call home.

“You said that when you first saw the farm house.”

You nudge his shoulder, leaning closer, and cheek pressed on his warm skin that's in full display because of an old work shirt that he had to cut the sleeves off. The bleached overalls and cowboy boots makes him look infinitely more handsome under the western sun. Noticing his squinting, you take your (his) hat off and place it on his head to help shield him from the sun. He gives you a look, smile etched on his face as his eyes conveys something else that has your heart jumping in place.

“And I was right,” you glance at the farm house a few ways away. After three whole days of painting the outside, the house now looks shiny and new with its light blue paint that reminds you of the sea, and brown inlays basking in the sun. “We just gave her a makeover.”

“More like a facelift, lovie.” He tilts his head to make you look at him, index and thumb cupping your chin. “Think you can handle this one?”

You blink at him, face heated at the close proximity as his breath fans your cheeks. “Yes, because I know if we go back inside then we really won't be able to do anything else today. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and—”

“I bloody get it, I'm insatiable.” He rolls his jade eyes, lips already puckering up to meet with your own. “Can't help it when you look at me like that, love.”

“Hobie, I love you so damn much but at this rate we'll get a surprise down the road.” You reluctantly lean away, earning a pout from one of the most feared outlaw in the west. “Think nine months down the road.”

He grins at your last sentence, then his expression morphs into contemplation, then to panic. Giving you a front row seat to his crisis.

“While you think about that,” you pat his cheek lovingly before walking away. “I'm going to check the barn.”

“Wait, love, are you—?!” He calls after you, quickly running right behind you.

You laugh loudly, sprinting away as you push the barn door open, getting a full face of dust and cobwebs once you get inside. Coughing, it's Hobie's turn to laugh at you.

“Shit! I underestimated how dirty this place is.” Wiping your face, the tool bag thumps on the hay filled floor, then you feel his calloused hands cup your face as he gently wipes the dust and cobwebs off of you. “Thanks, Hobs.”

He hums in reply, taking his sweet time in cleaning you up. His brows pinch together, lips frowning. “Don't panic but there's a big spider on your hair.”

“What?!” You frantically shake your head, hands scratching and waving your hair away all over the place. “Get it off!”

Hobie's amused laugh stops you in your tracks. Your hair is a mess, face all scrunched up because of his little prank. “C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, but you refuse to move. “‘m sorry, c’mon, let me make it better—”

“No,” you pout while trying to fix your hair. “You've betrayed me, Hobie Brown.”

He tilts his head playfully, green eyes shining with affection. “You wanna duel for it then?”

You stare at him with feigned shock. “You know I'll lose—!” Side stepping away when he tries to make a move on you, your pout turns into a smile. “No!” You point accusingly at him.

His and yours echoing laughter can be heard outside as you two play tag inside the dusty barn. His fingers brush along your arm but you escape his hold by jumping on the ladder leading up to the hayloft. The creaking is tamped down by your giggles as he pretends to yank you off the ladder.

“I said sorry!” His grin shines bright as sunlight filters through the cracks.

“No, you're mean!” Climbing higher, the creaking turns into wood splitting away. “Oh shit—!” You begin to fall down, still holding onto the ladder.

“Oh shit!” Hobie panics, arms ready to catch you. “Love!” Chest aching, and legs shaking, he catches you in time before you could fully fall. You land with a grunt, eyes shut closed as dust and bits of hay fall down on the two of you like snow. The loud clang of the ladder rings in your ears. “Got you,” he sighs in relief, heart still thudding in his chest from the sudden shot of adrenaline. His knees almost buckle from under him, hip and elbows aching from the impact. “Fuckin' hell.”

You crack one eye open, finding yourself in his familiar arms. “I thought I was a goner.” Patting his chest, your palm stays there until his quick heartbeat subsides. You smile at him apologetically, “thank you, Hobie. I'm sorry, I got carried away— achoo!”

Your sneeze breaks the tension, making Hobie's worried look turn into surprise then to a gleeful smile. As you stare up at him with those shining eyes and shy smile, he can't help but lean closer to you despite his aching muscles telling him to put you down.

“You'll be the death of me.” He whispers to you with a soft smile. “And I'll die happy.”

“You're not allowed to die on my watch, cowboy.” You say as his lips give you a peck right on your forehead. He traces your nose down to your cupid's bow, pausing when he lingers just above your lips.

“Yes, ma’am.”

[kkpwnall]

haven't got a penny, haven't got a dime || rated t || 1.3k words

[read on ao3]

for the one and only, my dearest @judasofsuburbia <33 i simply could not resist writing a little cowboy wild west something for your birthday!! hope you like it!! shoutout to lou @cheatghost for beta reading fic and title inspired by a bank robber's nursery rhyme by goodnight, texas

"I need to make a withdrawal from my father's safety deposit box," Steve says, sliding a crisp sheet of paper across the polished counter to the teller.

The man eyes him over a pair of reading glasses, skimming over the paper, lingering on his dusty boots and jacket. "I'll have to get the bank manager…"

"Please do," Steve waves him off and leans an elbow on the counter.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as the two converse in hushed tones, throwing pointed looks his way. But the only thing they'll find on that sheet are the account numbers and precise signature of one Richard Harrington, detailing exactly what should be given into the trustworthy care of his son.

or: steve walks into a bank...

[keep reading on ao3]