#the plot is currently strangling me as I plead for mercy

[sterekotypes]

Snippet Sunday

I've been working on this cowboy AU for days upon days. I've tentatively named it Bite of the Hell Hound.

As usual this is an open call for anyone who wants to play along. Tagged by @dear-massacre. Wish I had something I was more dedicated to sharing, but we ball.

From Chapter 1:

Stiles heard the beat of hooves first. He couldn’t see through the dust storm stirring up around him. Squinting barely prevented the sands and dusts from stinging his face and eyes. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and the tallow and trudged in the direction he thought the bordello was in. He was a fool not to take the warnings of Old Man Grindle’s hip more seriously. The wind tugged him this way and that. At times it was all he could do to remain anchored to the ground. When he heard the quick beat of hooves, he dropped heavily to the shifting ground and ducked his head between the lapels of his jacket. The storm was loud. The dust particles were bruising. Each bit of dust carried on the wind needled into any bare skin it could touch. Stiles squinted through the debris.  The horse reared over Stiles. It’s massive hooves swinging through the browned air. The whiny was soft in comparison with the howl of the winds. Stiles ducked his head tighter.  He would be crushed. And before he could even get out of this putrid fester of a town. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut against the pain being trampled by a horse would surely bring. The dust stung at his eyelids. He was lifted. Sat on the firm curve of a saddle before he heard a “yah!” He was moving. Quickly. He wrapped his arms around the midsection of the stranger. The tallow he was still carrying pressed firmly between their bodies. Stiles was sure the tallow was seeping through his coat in the front and his shirts to his skin. It wasn’t long before the sounds of the dust trickled down to a muffled howl. Stiles didn’t need to wipe his eyes free of the dust to know that they were inside.  Stiles felt the person extract themself from Stiles’ arms before lifting Stiles from the horse and standing him on the ground. Stiles used one hand to wipe the dust from his eyes. Or he would have, if the other person hadn’t smacked Stiles’ hands out of the way. Gently swaying them from his face.  Then, the hands were fitted over his eyes, and with gentle sweeps they brushed the excess grit from Stiles’ face. The fingers left trails of blazing heat across Stiles’ cheeks. When Stiles could open his eyes again, he wished he couldn’t.  His gravel-laden breath caught in his chest.  It was the man from before. Stiles gaped. If god were real, this man would have been his seraph. Floating gently near God's feet, easily the favorite. Or perhaps, this man was Satan, if the look of rage on his face was anything to go on. Cast from the heavens and forced to walk the earth with mere mortals. Somewhere outside of the barn, the howl of the sandstorm lowered itself to nothing but a dull breeze. The storm had ended.  Stiles’ mouth was dry, and getting drier with each millisecond that passed that Stiles failed to rip his eyes from this man.  “Stay out of my way,” the man’s voice was gruff, probably rough from the sand. Stiles jerked back, his mouth clicking closed. Before Stiles could say anything, the man turned on his heel and walked his horse out of the barn.