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Last Hand - Doc Holliday x Reader One-Shot

❝ If Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it. ❞

[doc holliday x reader]

~6.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit content, suicidal ideation, grief, terminal illness (TB), canon-typical violence, themes of death/loss

implied past relationship. a town held together by dust and bullets. he tries to die quiet—you won’t let him.

notes: This was a request for my lovely friend @milesalexanderteller. She’s been going through it IRL lately and she really deserves this. I added my own little twist for the end. I'm sorry if I make you cry!!

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The dust hadn’t even settled yet.

It still hung in the air, clinging to your skin and clothes like a second layer, gritty and bitter. You could taste gunpowder in the back of your throat. Could still hear faint echoes of shouting somewhere down the street, like Tombstone itself hadn’t quite caught its breath.

You hadn’t seen Doc since before the shooting started.

He hadn’t come back yet. Certainly not to you, at least.

You were moving quickly, boots crunching through the dirt as you cut behind the building, hoping maybe he’d circled around. That maybe he was leaning somewhere, cigarette lit, with that infuriating half-smile like the day hadn’t nearly ended in blood.

Instead, you heard your name—low and steady.

“Hey.”

You stopped short. Turned.

Wyatt stood just beyond the edge of the alley, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rough—his usual crisp lines undone, hat crooked, dust clinging to every part of him. There was blood on his shirt, high on the shoulder, but it didn’t seem to be his. A dark smear ran across his jaw like someone had tried to grab him mid-fight. His holster was still unbuckled, gun half-loose at his side.

But it was his eyes that made your stomach twist. Wyatt Earp always looked ready for a fight, whether he wanted to be in it or not. But right now, he looked… tired.

“Got a minute?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before turning and nodding toward the alley.

You followed in silence. The light was dimmer there, the buildings blocking the last rays of sun. The sound of the street faded behind you until all you could hear was the quiet scuff of boots, the soft creak of wood, a few flies buzzing lazily near an overturned crate.

Wyatt didn’t speak right away. He came to a stop by the back wall of the saloon, hands resting on his belt like he was weighing the next few seconds in his head. He didn’t look at you—just stared out toward nothing.

You crossed your arms, heartbeat already picking up. Something about the way he held himself—the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw—it put you on edge.

Then he said it.

“Doc’s been tryin’ to get himself killed.”

It was flat. Not dramatic. No buildup. Like it hurt less if he just ripped the damn thing open.

You blinked a few times.

“What?”

Wyatt glanced at you, then looked away just as fast.

“I finally saw it for what it was today. Clear as anything. He stepped right into the open in the middle of the shootout. No cover. Nothin’.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, like saying it left a taste he didn’t want.

“Didn’t duck. Didn’t even flinch when bullets started hittin’ the walls around him. Just… stood there. Took his shot at a man with his gun already drawn, like it was just another hand of cards to play.”

You felt your body tense, muscles coiling so tight it made your ribs ache.

“He’s been doin’ it more and more lately,” Wyatt continued. “Starting fights with men twice his size. Drunk half the damn time. And he doesn't wait for backup—hell, sometimes he doesn’t even tell us he’s goin’.”

He shook his head, voice low.

“It’s not just recklessness anymore. It’s suicide.”

You stared at him, throat dry, chest tight. Your mind tried to argue—tried to reach for some rational excuse—but it landed on nothing.

Doc hadn’t told you any of this.

And that silence suddenly meant more than anything he could’ve said.

Wyatt shifted again, his expression cracking under the weight of it.

“I tried talkin’ to him,” he said. “He just laughed. Told me if death was comin’, he’d rather it take him sooner than later. Said at least out there, he gets to choose the time and place.”

You swallowed hard. It felt like your body had turned to stone.

“I ain’t tryin’ to guilt you or anythin’,” Wyatt added after a beat, more gently. “But I’ve seen you be the only person in this whole damn town he listens to. Even when he pretends not to.”

He paused. Let it hang.

“I don’t want to have to drag his body out of the street. And I certainly don’t want you to have to see it.”

The words hit you low. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just kept staring ahead—past Wyatt, past the alley, past the part of you that wanted to crumple where you stood.

You felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up between the buildings.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

You turned without a word.

Didn’t wait for Wyatt to say anything else. Didn’t let him see what was happening behind your eyes.

You walked back toward the saloon with fire building in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like the truth he’d handed you was too big to carry—but you’d carry it anyway.

Because if Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it.

The noise hit you before the doors even opened.

Laughter, clinking glasses, the clatter of poker chips on oak, boots on floorboards, and someone hammering out a tune on the piano that had long since fallen off-key. The room pulsed with heat and whiskey sweat, and under it all, that constant hum of men who thought they were untouchable—full of guns and bravado and cheap beer. Even after the happenings of the day.

You pushed the saloon doors open with a little more force than necessary.

For a moment, no one noticed. You were just another body walking in off the street, swallowed by cigar smoke and dim light.

But then you stepped in fully, boots echoing sharp against the floor, and the crowd seemed to shift. Not with words. Just a subtle awareness—like animals catching the scent of something coming that wasn’t good.

And then you saw him.

Doc Holliday sat like a goddamn centerpiece at the farthest poker table, sprawled in a chair like it was a throne. One hand held a fan of cards, the other rested casually on a half-empty glass of bourbon, the deep amber catching fire in the low lamplight. His hat was tipped back, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and he was smiling—that slow, lazy, devastating smile that could smooth over murder if he wanted it to.

He looked relaxed. Smug. Untouched.

He looked like he hadn’t almost died.

And something inside you snapped.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was laughing at something someone said—low and smooth, smoke curling from between his teeth, eyes shining with the thrill of the game. A few men groaned and tossed in their cards. One cursed and leaned back, scowling.

And then he spotted you.

His gaze cut through the room like a blade, and that smile—God, that smile—grew just a fraction wider. He stood up in one fluid motion, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, cigarette perched between two fingers like a punctuation mark.

“Well now,” he drawled, like you were a pleasant surprise. “Ain’t you a—”

Your hand moved before your mind could catch up.

SMACK

The slap rang out like a gunshot. Loud, sharp, final.

His head turned with the force of it. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, still lit. His whole body froze—so did the rest of the saloon.

Silence bloomed in an instant. The kind that feels like thunder in reverse. Someone coughed, somewhere near the bar. The piano keys fell quiet mid-note. The dealer’s hand hung in the air above a split pot. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Doc didn’t look at you. Not at first.

He just stood there, jaw tight, cheek blooming red beneath your handprint, eyes cast downward like he was running through a thousand possible reactions and finding none that fit.

You were shaking.

Not with regret. Not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak so sharp it made your bones feel like glass.

You stared at him like he was a stranger.

“You selfish son of a bitch,” you said, voice low, steady, but trembling at the edges.

He finally lifted his gaze to you—slow, searching. And maybe, just for a second, the smugness fell. Not gone, but hollowed out at the center.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out.

Each step felt louder than it should’ve. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed through the saloon doors and into the cold night air, where the dust had started to rise again with the wind.

Behind you, the crowd stayed frozen in that stunned silence. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. Another voice said “Holy hell.” You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. You shoved the swinging doors wide and stepped into the cool night air.

You were halfway down the steps when you heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a glass hitting wood, and boots—heavy, purposeful—coming after you.

You didn’t have to look back to know it was him.

You could feel it, like a storm at your heels.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the hinges, slamming into the wall with a bang that shook dust from the beams overhead. After the door steadied from the prior abuse, Doc slammed it closed back behind him, unceremoniously.

You didn’t flinch.

You were standing near the dresser, back to the door, staring down at your hands. They were still shaking. You hated that.

“You got a hell of a lotta nerve.”

His voice was sharp, low, laced with the kind of fury that didn’t come from pain—it came from pride. From being caught off-guard. From being made a fool.

You turned slowly. Not with fear—with purpose.

Doc stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his face still flushed from the slap. The print of your hand burned red across his cheek. He hadn’t wiped it away. Maybe he hadn’t had time. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

His hat was gone now. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shoulders tense, boots hitting the floor like gunshots.

His face was still flushed. The red mark on his cheek stood out, stark against his pale skin, and his jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped. “Or should I guess?”

He laughed—once. Harsh. Hollow.

“Whole goddamn saloon starin’ at me like I’d said somethin’ vile. Like I deserved it. You blindside me in front of half the town and walk out like you’re the one wronged?”

He stepped closer, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist at his side.

“Did I cheat you? Did I lie? Did I forget your damn birthday?” His tone was mocking now, but the edge behind it was real. “Or was that just for show? You get somethin’ outta that?”

Now he was pacing, boots scraping the floor, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to pull his hair or punch the wall.

“You think that’s what this is about?” you said, low and sharp. “You think I walked in there just to bruise your pride?”

Doc didn’t back down. He turned to meet your gaze head-on, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“Well I certainly think I deserve to know why I got blindsided in the middle of a damn good poker hand.”

You stared at him, then laughed. Not with humor. It came out raw. Broken.

“You deserve to know?” you echoed. “You want to talk about what you deserve?”

You closed the distance between you in two furious steps and shoved him—not hard, but enough to make his boots scrape against the floorboards.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” you hissed. “That you could just keep throwing yourself in front of bullets like it’s nothing and no one would notice?”

His brows pulled together.

“Wyatt told me,” you spat before he could speak. “He told me everything.”

Doc froze. You saw the mask start to slip.

“He told me how you walked straight into open fire,” you continued, stepping closer. “Told me you went after a man already drawin' on you. Like you didn’t give a damn whether you made it out.”

You were inches from him now, breathing hard, staring up into those pale eyes that always held a joke—but not tonight.

“I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you bleeding. I’ve seen you cough your lungs up and spit red into a handkerchief like it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. But this?” Your voice cracked. “This is you giving up.”

He looked down at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. But he didn’t answer.

So you hit him with the one thing he couldn’t dodge.

“You were ready to up and die,” you whispered. “And you didn’t even think I deserved to know.”

That landed.

He stepped back half a pace, like you’d struck him again.

His mouth opened, then closed. His tongue wet his lips, slow. You saw it all happen in real time—his ego folding in on itself, that anger unraveling into something thinner, sadder. Guilt. Shame.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said finally, voice hoarse, “because I didn’t want you lookin’ at me the way everybody else does.”

You swallowed hard.

“And how’s that?”

“Like I’m already in the ground.”

Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick, choking, unspoken things hanging in the air.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said. “The way people look at me when I cough. Like they’re just waitin’ on me to drop.”

He took another step forward, slower this time, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“But you didn’t look at me like that,” he said. “Not once.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Shake him.

“I still don’t,” you whispered. “Yet you still chose to keep me in the dark. You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you.”

Doc’s breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, then slowly came up—reaching for you like a man touching water in a desert.

“You’re the only thing I got left that makes me feel like I’m still here,” he said stepping toward you, holding a sincere eye-contact.

Your chest cracked open.

You didn’t move when his hands cupped your face. Didn’t flinch when he brushed his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head back like he needed to see all of you. His touch was trembling. He was trembling.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Mouth crashing into yours, breath hot, hands threading into your hair like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before death took him away from you. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to you like you could break the habit of death with your body alone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you like he was trying to live.

The kiss slammed into you like a wave breaking a dam.

There was no warning—just hands, heat, and the raw sound of breath catching in the back of his throat as his mouth crushed into yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent in its urgency, desperate in a way that bordered on collapse.

You tasted smoke and bourbon on his tongue, tasted the fear he refused to speak out loud.

And you gave it right back.

Your hands slid into his hair. His fingers dropped to your waist, gripping the layers of fabric at your hips in frustration.

“Too many goddamn clothes,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-growl. “You tryna drive me insane, sweetheart?”

“You first,” you gasped, stepping back from him.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—like you’d just dared him—and the look he gave you was half fire, half challenge.

Then his hands went to his waistcoat.

He didn’t waste time. The buttons came undone fast under his fingers, and he flung the thing off like it had no right to be between the two of you. His gunbelt and holster followed with a dull thud on the floor, then he was at the buttons of his shirt—no finesse now, just a frenzy of motion. He popped them open down his chest, and when one stuck, he tore the fabric loose, baring pale skin and a body cut hard by illness and held together by sheer will.

He returned to you and spun you gently—urgently—until your chest pressed to the wall, your hands bracing yourself against the wood. You felt him behind you, breath hot at your shoulder, hands already at the back of your corset.

“You wear this thing like a goddamn suit of armor,” he muttered. “What’s it protecting you from?”

“Men like you.”

He made a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh—and then you felt the tug of his fingers against the laces.

They didn’t come easily. Corset laces never did. But he worked fast, muttering curses under his breath as he loosened them enough to let you breathe. The pressure in your ribs eased. His fingers slid up your back, slipping beneath the loosened stays, tugging the entire thing over your head without ceremony.

The shift underneath clung to your skin, sweat-slick and thin. He spun you back toward him, ran his palms down your sides, up under your arms, then cupped your breasts through the damp linen. His mouth found yours once again for a kiss almost as desperate as the first.

“Still mad?” he panted, voice hoarse against your lips.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Furious.”

“Good.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, dragging down to the hinge of your throat where he bit—not hard, but enough to make you gasp again. “Don’t want you soft. Not for this.”

You barely had time to take in the sight of him—long lines, lean muscle, sharp hips, and heat in every breath—before his fingers were at his belt buckle, pulling it loose in a swift, practiced motion. His trousers hit the floor with a low rustle, and then he was stepping forward again, stripped to skin, eyes locked on you like he was starving and you were the last thing left worth tasting.

His hands slid to your waist—not rough, but insistent—guiding you backward through the glow and stillness, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back with a soft laugh of breath, landing on the mattress in a rush of tangled skirts and flushed skin.

He followed you down immediately—slow, controlled, lowering himself over you like gravity was finally on his side. One arm braced beside your head, the other still dragging your shift higher, fingers shaking with need.

You looked up at him, every inch of your body already singing for more, and the words tumbled out like a secret slipping past your lips.

“God,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stars. “I love you.”

He went still—not in surprise, but in triumph.

His grin was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he drawled, eyes gleaming even as his breath still came in short, ragged bursts.

Your face flushed hotter. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off with a kiss that tasted like sin and smoke.

“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth, like he was trying the words on for size. “Say it again. I want to hear it when you're lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I love you, Doc.” You cupped his face with both hands, even as your hips ground against him. “I love you, you reckless, brilliant bastard. Even when you scare the hell out of me.”

He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. “I ain’t worth that kind of love.”

“Tough,” you said. “You’ve got it anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you—something wrecked and reverent flickering behind his eyes—and then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less hungry. Like the words you’d just spoken had knocked the wind out of him, and now he was using your mouth to pull breath back into his lungs.

His hand slid lower, under your shift and over the bare skin of your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs like he’d been there a thousand times in his mind. When he found how wet you were, he groaned low in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “That all for me?”

You couldn’t speak—just nodded, breath catching as his fingers stroked through the slick heat of you.

He kissed you again, open-mouthed and aching, while his hand worked slow, steady circles against your clit. Every flick of his fingers made your hips rise, your legs tighten. The warmth coiled sharp and fast, your body already trembling from the tension that had now broken since the moment you slapped him in that saloon.

His mouth moved to your throat, lips dragging down to your collarbone. “Let me hear you,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”

You moaned as he slid a finger inside you—then another—stretching you just enough to make your back arch, your breath stutter. His fingers curled, searching, teasing. His thumb circled with steady pressure, pulling you closer, closer—

But before the wave could crash, he stopped.

You whimpered.

He pulled his fingers free, eyes locked on yours, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean.

Then he rose to his knees between your thighs, gripping your hips as he shifted you towards the center of the bed, moving with you. Your skirts were still rucked around your waist, drawers shoved aside, shift hanging loose over your breasts. You were a mess of fabric and sweat and need.

He looked down at you like a man who’d finally found something to live for.

And then he lined himself up and pushed into you with one long, devastating stroke.

Not gentle—but not brutal either. It was pure need, sharpened to the bone. You gasped, one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other tangled in the sheets, your body clenching around him like it already knew he wouldn’t last long like this.

He pulled back and drove into you again—rough, deep, each thrust a little more ragged, a little less controlled. He groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

But he was breathing too hard.

You felt it—heard it—in the way his rhythm started to falter, his weight sagging more into your body. A soft cough rattled from his chest, one that he tried to swallow, but it pushed out between clenched teeth as he rocked forward again, slower now, less force behind it.

He kept going—God, he tried—but his arms were shaking, his breath was stuttering, and after one more broken thrust, he dropped down beside you, chest heaving, one arm slung across your stomach.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry. I can’t—I want to—just can’t keep it up.”

He turned his face into the pillow, coughing softly, wet and low in his lungs.

“I want to fuck you through the damn floor,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “But I’m so goddamn tired already.”

You looked over at him—his hair damp with sweat, his skin pale and burning, the fever hiding just beneath the surface—and something inside you melted. Not out of pity.

Out of need.

Because he was still trying.

Because he hadn’t given up.

You reached out and touched his face, fingertips trailing along his cheek, then his throat. His eyes opened—barely—and when he looked at you, something in them flickered like he didn’t know what to expect.

So you straddled him.

Slow. Sure. A deliberate climb over his hips as he blinked up at you in open surprise.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, hands finding your thighs instinctively, voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Then let me do it for you.”

And before he could stop you, before he could find the strength to argue, you reached between your bodies and guided him back inside you—slow, deep, all the way down with a breathless moan that made his hands grip tighter.

His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bobbing with a swallowed groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips, slow and controlled, pressing your palms to his chest as he gasped beneath you.

“No,” you said, eyes locked to his. “It’s my intention to keep you here as long as I can.”

A beat passed, heavy with anticipation. His breath hitched, he stifled a cough, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, his head fell back, mouth slack.

“Fuck,” he rasped, head falling back, mouth slack. “Jesus. Goddamn.”

You were shaking already. From the stretch, the pressure, the sight of him undone beneath you. He was so deep, your thighs already trembling from how tightly your body gripped him.

You started to move—slow, steady rolls of your hips, every grind dragging another sound out of him that made you throb around him.

But Doc wasn’t going to just lie still. Not even broken, not even panting beneath you like the breath kept slipping away faster than he could drag it in.

His hands yanked you down harder.

“Faster,” he growled, voice dark and ragged. “Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You gasped, hands braced on his chest. “I don’t want to break you.”

He let out a low, vicious sound—half laugh, half threat.

“Too late for that.”

He bucked up beneath you the best he could, hips snapping with sudden force, catching you mid-thrust and driving himself deeper, harder than you were ready for.

You cried out, full-body shudder, your hands scrambling for balance as he kept thrusting up into you, every motion fueled by something furious and raw.

“You think I’m just gonna lie here?” he bit out, voice hoarse, sweat slicking his chest. “Think you can get on top and make me behave? You know I'm not one to behave darlin'.”

His mouth was at your breast before you could answer—teeth scraping over your nipple, tongue hot, hands bruising your ass as he shoved you down, used you to do what he couldn’t do himself.

“Ride me,” he growled against your skin. “Come on, darlin’. Give it to me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You moved—hard and fast—grinding down with a gasp as he met you halfway, every thrust of his hips sloppy now, but still fierce, still intentional, like he was fighting the weakness in his limbs with everything he had.

Your forehead dropped to his as you bounced in his lap, both of you slick and shaking, skin slapping hard with every ragged thrust. He was breathing like he was about to collapse, but his hands were still firm, still dragging you down onto his cock like he couldn’t stand the thought of you pulling away.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted. “Like heaven. Like fucking heaven.”

His voice was breaking. So was his body. But his eyes—his eyes were locked on you, wide and hungry and alive, like this was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, half-wrecked. “Don’t stop, darlin'. Not yet.”

You didn’t.

You drove down like it was the last thing either of you would ever do—hard, fast, your nails digging into his chest, your hips stuttering as the pressure built fast and furious.

“Doc—” you gasped, head falling forward. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

His hand shot up to the back of your neck, pulling you down, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. His eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, desperate.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not yet. Hold on for me, darlin’.”

Your whole body seized, trembling from the effort to stop the climb. Your thighs burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your cunt clenched around him like your body didn’t care what your mind was trying to do—it wanted release. But you obeyed. You stayed right there—balanced on the edge, muscles coiled, every nerve frayed, every breath a battle.

“I wanna feel you break with me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Don’t let go without me. Not yet. I need—” His voice cracked. “I need this right now.”

You nodded—barely, shakily. “Okay. Okay, baby.”

You rocked your hips slower now, grinding down onto him with control you barely had. Every drag of him inside you made you shake, made your breath falter, made your walls twitch around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

He felt it. He groaned—deep and ruined.

“You’re so close,” he said, almost to himself. “I can feel it. Fuck, you’re… you’re shaking.”

“I have to come,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please—please, Doc—”

“Not yet,” he said again, rasping like it cost him to say it. “Almost, darlin’. Just—almost—”

His hands were all over you now, frantic. One gripped your waist, trying to guide your rhythm, even though his muscles trembled with the effort. The other slid up to your breast, squeezing rough and clumsy, thumb flicking over your nipple like he was trying to coax you into holding out just a little longer. His mouth dragged up to your throat, kissing, biting, panting.

You buried your face in his neck, moaning, biting down to keep yourself from breaking. You could feel your orgasm right there, clawing at the edge of your spine, demanding release.

He bucked up into you again—sloppy but deep—and choked on a groan. “Just a little more, sweetheart. Stay with me. Please. Fuck—I’m so close.”

And you did.

You held out for him.

You held it until your muscles locked, until your legs were shaking and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his chest and shoulder. You held it until your body screamed, until you thought you’d explode just from the tension.

“Now,” he whispered. “Come now.”

Your body obeyed like it had just been waiting for the command.

The second the words left his mouth, everything inside you snapped. Your hips slammed down on him one final time as the tension that had been coiled like wire through your spine exploded—hot and all-consuming.

Pleasure ripped through you so hard it hurt. You clamped down around him, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic waves that left you gasping, keening, grinding against him like you couldn’t get close enough. Your fingers scrambled for purchase—his chest, his shoulders, the slick heat of his skin under your palms—anything to anchor yourself while the world dropped out from under you.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Your mouth opened but no words came out, just ragged moans and desperate little sounds you couldn’t hold back.

The pleasure hit you like a storm—sharp, shaking, so big it felt like grief and joy all at once. You weren’t just coming—you were coming undone.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, in his hair, in his shoulders—anything to keep yourself grounded now. But there was nothing solid. Just him. Just Doc. Just the sound of your name falling from his mouth like a prayer as he gripped your hips, holding you flush to him, thrusting up into you with the last of his strength.

Doc cursed—loud, broken—his hands flexing hard on your hips as your release hit him, too. He came with you, gasping your name as his head fell back, voice ragged and ruined.

“God—fuck—yes,” he groaned, hips jerking once, twice, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had into you.

He held you down, buried deep, and you felt him throb inside you as he came—red-hot and thick, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like it cost him everything. His head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body taut with the effort of staying in it until the end.

You rode it out together, bodies shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. You collapsed onto his chest, limp and shaking, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. Sweat soaked the hollow of your back. You could feel his own heart thundering beneath your cheek—wild, irregular, but alive.

His arms slid around you—not tight, not strong—but present. Warm. His chest rose under you, then hitched once. A dry cough broke out, muffled against your temple.

He stayed there, head bowed against you, breath shallow.

And after a long moment, voice worn thin as paper, he said,

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.”

He didn’t say it like a gift. He said it like a confession.

Like it scared him more than the dying ever did.

You tipped your head closer, your voice steady when everything else felt like shaking.

“Then stay alive. For me. For as long as you can”

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his arms around you, fingers trembling where they held on.

And for a while, that was enough.

Seven months along, and you could still feel the weight of his hand on your belly like it had only just left.

Most nights, that memory was the only thing that kept you steady.

You'd learned how to move with the weight of him still inside you—not just the child, but the memory. The ghost of his voice, the echo of his laughter, the shape of his hands cupped over your belly like he could protect it, and you, from what was coming.

You knew the exact night the baby had happened.

Not just because of timing—but because everything about it had been different. No distance, no jokes, no walls between them. Just truth. Desperation. Love, raw and terrifying. He’d held you like he was trying to memorize you, whispered things he’d never dared say before.

You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

And you’d told him to stay alive for you.

That was the night you'd made the baby. You were sure of it. The way he’d looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world he couldn’t let go of.

He’d softened in a way you hadn’t thought possible, even as the light behind his eyes began to fade. At first, he’d joked—called you Mama, teased the child to come, offered names both ridiculous and oddly sentimental. But the jokes didn’t last. The coughing got worse. He slept more, ate less. You grew rounder, fuller with life, while he shrank into the bed like the world was letting go of him one piece at a time.

Still, he tried. He rubbed your back when the morning sickness took you under, kissed your neck with lips gone dry, told you you were brave even when he couldn’t lift his head. Once, in the dead of night, fever burning through him, he told you he wished he’d met you when he still had time to become the man you deserved. You held him through that too.

Near the end, words and wit came less often. But when you pressed his hand to your belly, he smiled—small and tired—and closed his eyes like he could feel the future.

“You’ll tell ‘em about me?” he’d rasped one evening.

You'd nodded, kissing his hand and blinking tears into his palm. “Every day.”

He left not but a few days later. No drama. No last gasp. Just a breath that didn’t return, and the sound of the wind outside like it was bowing its head.

The shame came soon after.

Unmarried. Alone. A woman with a swollen belly and no ring, no name but your own, and the memory of a dying man, whispered in your bones. They watched you pass in town—some with pity, others with tight-mouthed judgment. A gambler’s bastard, they said. A disgrace. A foolish girl who’d let love make you reckless.

Some nodded stiffly when you passed, like it pained them to acknowledge you at all. Others looked straight through you, eyes fixed ahead like you weren't even there. A few murmured your name in church, always just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to offer comfort. No one said his name. Not in public. Not where it might stick to them. As if mourning a drunk gambler made you foolish.

But you kept walking. Chin up. Spine straight. Hand resting on the life inside you like it was the holiest thing you'd ever carried.

He’d asked you to live. To carry on.

And so you would.

You talked to the baby when it kicked, when it quieted. Told stories—about his sharp tongue and wicked grin, the way he held a pistol, the way he’d held you. You told it about the night the baby came to be. How he’d fallen apart in your arms and found something worth holding on to, if only for a little while.

Your house was quieter now. Lonelier. But when the wind rustled the curtains and the floor creaked just so, you liked to believe he was still here. Watching you. Walking beside you. Waiting for the child you made between heartbreak and hope.

You would see it through. For him. For what you’d made with him in the space between living and dying.

notes: AHHH @milesalexanderteller!!! I'm so sorry dude :'(

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hotboyhottub-reboot · 2 months ago

Text

The Ringing Gun

- Doc Holliday x Fem! reader

18+ // He's an undercover train robber // She's on the hunt for her missing husband // second and final part is being edited as we speak // ya they're gonna bone

After a day or two the thumping and squealing of metal against metal subdued into an ignorable hum. A young unaccompanied woman on a train across the wild west was tossed about as much by the rocking as she was by the flighty fear of discovery. Thea let her mourning chain lie empty across her chest, its normal bead, her missing husband's wedding ring, worn again on her finger as a guard against any impropriety. The lap of luxury in the first class cars meant she rode with gentlemen of title and their women, but it would not guarantee that any of these wild men would treat her passage with kindness.

She had just enough room in the smallest single cabins to have the ends of her skirts brush against nearly every wall at once when she moved about, but two days cramped in one room was a meager excuse for nourishment.

The dining car was draped in bright blue velvet, dark wood with copper gildings framed the perimeter of the ceiling. Chairs and couches all low to the ground escaped the hanging smell of cigars and pipe tobacco. Just as fear had predicted, bristly moustaches turned as she walked by towards the kitchen window.

"Rough riding so far?" a voice called behind her, and turning carefully with a warm bowl of soup Thea was cornered on all sides by Americans. A dozen or so greetings from newly exited socialites flew at her, and she realized the moment a word left her lips ten or so would follow. Good manners and breeding superseded any prey drive that she should have been armed with.

"Plesant day gentlemen" her inflection stepped downwards, signaling the hasty retreat back to her quarters. Eyes lit up around her.

"An Englishwoman?" one gentleman shrilly chirped.

"My cousin was with an Englishwoman once," another chimed.

Fear throbbed like a drumbeat in her chest. Men of the west were as rude and inappropriate as her aunt had warned. as she pushed her way back out the way she had come, a set of eyes at the poker table followed her in amusement. They belonged to an incredibly handsome cardsharp. Slicked hair and polished garb complimented the charismatic way he raised his eyebrows and nodded a solemn tip of his hat. She flashed them back with a look of furious disapproval.

The light of the afternoon lit up the cramped closet of a bedchamber, the empty bowl of stew becoming the only new sight in Thea's small world. It was too small, hours had passed, but with each jostle of the car reminding her of the last, time seemed to loop indefinitely. Anatomy and surgical textbooks she had brought with her had already lost their luster after the first day of her ship voyage, on the train they were just thirteen pounds of dead weight.

Under cover of the late evening Thea ventured back into the dining car. Soft oil lights flickered in tune with the swaying of the car. Surely by the third day, the excitement of riding cross country had dipped to it's lowest. The lights were low, turning bright blue curtains dark, reflections of lamplight along the grain of the velvet lined ceiling sparkled like the stars. Just a few men sat alone at one table, and two women in a small cloister on the other side of the car. Something about the free strides across the carpeting made Thea feel as if she was marching across the grand expanse of the wild west herself. The moonlit view of the prairie turned the normally green grass as blue and pillowy as the cushions. Thea didn't know how desperately she had been searching for a moment's peace of mind before it had seized her in sapphire brilliance. Warm plate of mutton in hand, Thea nodded to the women chatting before taking a seat across the car from them. The tall grasses of the prairie whipped against the side of the train, large rolling hills beyond looked too familiar to the lengths of crashing waves of the Atlantic Thea had braved before boarding this railway.

She smelled the men before she registered that she was cornered. An instinctive glance back towards the women and Thea realized she was the sole woman remaining. Pungent whiskey wafted from uncombed beards with every breath.

"Where do you hail from?" one walrus barked, unintroduced. A drunken hand from another reached over to touch her shoulder before a challenge wafted from across the car.

"Please gentlemen refrain from pawing at my dear sister over there" Thea glanced to see the brazen poker player from earlier that day, firmly planted where she had seen him last, hours and hours ago. The challenge seemed to excite the men more, but this sisterly lie by a stranger was at least a hint of social protection.

"Come sit behind me dear one, eat your meal in peace" the tipsy southern drawl in his voice seemed to stir no command, yet the gentlemen surrounding her leaned back the slightest amount in response, giving Thea enough room to slip her skirts past them on her way to protection. An unwise choice, an unwise choice. These doubts seemed to drill into her head as she took her place behind the gambler, at a table just behind theirs. It was an ill advised decision to antagonize a herd of drunken men, but an even more ill advised choice to call out a gentleman's blatant lie. Thea made her stance. Tonight she was the gambler's sister.

As she approached, those same green, piercing, eyes followed her as she walked. He seemed so expressive as he played, holding the attention of everyone at the table, no matter who’s turn it was. Closer than before, she could smell his southern cologne, the unmistakable scent of magnolia. Embroidered jacquard vest and cravat in brilliant shades of red blended warmly against the equally brilliant fabrics of the railcar. Doubled over the table, tipsily gripping his cards and his chair, the tailoring on his suit looked artisan level. This man knew wealth. Thea nodded politely in response to his saving her, but he decided to show off his cards to her instead of anything gentlemanly.

"See what we're working with here? a great set of cards for the great Doc Holliday" he enunciated with such southern drunkenness, slurring even more profoundly than any man she'd ever met before. A glean in his show was just for her, his name. What sister could forget? "See what we're working with here?" he repeated again, a glint of hurriedness in his tone. Truth be told, Thea was never allowed to gamble with men, if he was holding up a great set of cards for their game Thea would have no clue. Something in his eyes was begging for a response.

"Just ante up or fold, dammit!" a man across the table growled, carved mulberry pipe bouncing as he ground it between his teeth. Doc Holliday's gaze seemed to sober as he awaited her response. Without a cover to introduce herself she leaned towards the gentleman to whisper her name in his ear.

"Good advice, darlin" his gaze broke, and in one swift movement stacked chips in the center of the table.

"Would you introduce me to yer sister, Holliday?" a wiry fella inquired before Thea could turn her attention back to her meal.

"No I will not, lefty!" His voice boomed. "I couldn’t introduce you to a snake if it bit ya" he laughed as he signaled two drinks from the bartender. "So just fold while you still got some sense in you?" The man scowled as he looked anywhere but his antagonist. "A couple of duces? a four perhaps?" Holliday followed up his insult with another. The man laid his cards face down on the table and looked to the next man in turn. Thea was beginning to suspect her "brother" had well earned his silk cravat by his gameplay over the years, but was a truly untrustworthy foe to face. She'd spend as little time as possible sheltered behind his brazen protection.

A bickering among gentlemen across the table drew itself out, and with it all the air from the room. Thea's meal was interrupted by a cough signal. A pale hand offered up a highball of whisky. She shook her head at the southern gambler, looking up politely through the corner of her eyes.

"This aint no european malt by any means but you must accept" He whispered. She offered only silence. "I can't gamble these pompous men dry when they're pawing at an unaccompanied young gentlewoman" He slicked his moustache back nervously. "as a thank you, darlin" he left the glass untouched at her table as if at an altar. Laughter was the transition between him hunched over cards and then extended upwards with excitement. Thea sat shielded by such a polished figure.

Suitjackets and stacks of chips dwindled with the lamplight. An extended hand interrupted her focus.

"Walk with me" The pale gambler was overextending his welcome. Thea glanced towards the door to her sleeping cabins, her home base. He pursed his lips in rejection. "The other way". She knew better than to accept, but something in his stature, his movements, his face, said earnestness. He was a true gentleman, Thea's honor felt in civilized care for the first time since she left England. When she took his hand in hers, something in his eyes said he did not expect this reception. He led her across the barest gatherings of two or so gentlemen sitting in hushed discussions in the next car towards the back of the train. Beyond was just the caboose. The wide expanse of the west was just a dark unfocused force beyond the window's gildings at this point. He ushered Thea into a small corner with two plush chairs. In one charismatic snap, two whiskeys in highball glasses were placed at their table. Before she could resist, her own two hands placed the glass at her lips. The burning sting of consciousness stung the back of her mouth as it passed through. It must have been the comfort of dinner that let her so loose she concluded. Momentarily distracted, Thea nearly missed the sight of her companion tossing something from the cracked window.

"What was that?" Thea's interest fully piqued.

"So one cushion goes missing" He resigned, not satisfying his companion in the slightest. "I love a good game" The gambler mused, changing subject before she could protest, changing the subject and slicking back his moustache into its sharp shape. "Let me guess..." he trailed off, ignoring the lady's guarded scowl. "Off to handle your late husband's assets?" He leaned forward, with a cardsharp's precision in reading his opponent.

"My husband I'll have you know is alive and well" Thea's hand shot to spin the band across her ring finger.

"...and you've been advised to not make this journey" His pressure continued, over enunciating each word as it fell through his teeth. Thea motioned as if to stir, but swallowed the final inch of her drink in a huff.

"Where does this come from?" Her posture shot up in defiance, his eyes only widening in amusement. He procured a flask and sipped. Thea couldn't believe its drink did not spill from such a cemented smirk. He offered her a sip, a hand extended again to cross formality. He waited the cold moments before it's mouth met hers before he explained.

`"No man would let his wife cross the west unaccompanied." the statement hung a moment on its own before he shrugged. "what's your plan, little sister?"

"My husband is not dead" Thea shook with the jitters of booze, but remained steadfast.

"A woman of your standing" he let on softly, "gives a ring like that to her husband" his tone shifted to sympathy. "You received that ring in the mail, presumably when he passed" His hand once again reached out, this time to comfort. "Does he... Is someone waiting to meet you at your destination?"

"His brother spoke of him in letters, to cousins, well beyond when an account of his death reached me" The words tumbled blindly to the thick carpeted floor. Holliday leaned back, tongue pressed firmly against the roof of his mouth. The right words weren't on the ceiling or out the cabin window, searching as he might.

"He would have written to you" the gambler encountered new questions at the strange behavior before him. Thea's expression did not change. "Let me clarify, darlin'" he held both her hands in his own. "A man worth crossing the prairie for would have written to you." Her resigned expression remained unchanged. It met his own unimpressed, soured, glance.

"I can't sleep" The truth pierced like a bullet. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing more fitting could be said. Holliday sighed.

"He gives you back his ring, a signal of his fidelity, Returns it. Is that not enough?"

"He's a fool," Holliday concluded. Thea could not protest. "A man knows well ahead of time before he marrieds her, whether she would cross an ocean and a continent for him" He reached for the flask and swallowed hard "If he aint sent for you he's dead or unfit"

"And i suppose you would recommend i turn around on a dime like that, give up on my husband"

"I know what you should do." His eyes were a flame with emotion "but i'm in reverence for the reasons i know you wont"

This response sat lighter than any other she had received before her journey. A barrier between her and the male sex had been lifted. Someone who understood too well the burn of loyalty. A breath of fresh air filled her lungs. She smelled at once through thick smoke to the winds of the prairie as it slipped gently through the cracked window.

"What should I do?" Her nose high as pride would let her.

"There's something i must tell an englishwoman such as yourself, before you head even one more mile down this track" His tone had changed, oiled hair falling gently out of its place. his chest heaved with a sigh "Out here it's work, every day your meal comes from someone else's plate. I'm in the business of people, I make my money off a man who can't read faces, and I defend my job with two ivory hilted pistols"

"Are you carrying them right now?" Thea interrupted, barely hiding the way her eyes darted towards his jacket pocket

"Yes, I am" He leaned his elbows on his knees, gravity pulled thea into his hushed tone

"Women in the west make their money every day or..." A nervous glance to the doors of the railcar took his breath for a moment "or it all gets taken from them."

His warning was laced with magnolia and whiskey. The same that Thea could taste in the back of her throat. It was warm for the first time on her journey, not blisteringly hot from the sun through her window, not cold as the night, as the ship was tossing itself across mountainous waves, warm like an embrace. Honest familiarity for the first time in over a year.

"I want that context to preface my advice" She watched his lips as they enunciated each word in lengthened southern drawl.

Whisky's charming effect could not be sobered by such a warning, especially not when it wasn't the first time she'd heard it before.

"If you find your husband, You should kill him" His blunt assertion startled any tipsy fantasy Thea had found herself wrapped about. Nothing out the window caught her eye, but she looked anyways. It was a long time before she turned back, impolitely reaching for the flask and finishing the final swig. He held back a proud smile.

"you've killed someone?" her crossed legs shifted and rested, breaking the space between his legs. Holliday knew intimately, the pivot she was on right now. Holiday took one or two improprietic gestures before he learned how to pull a trigger. She was trying to establish some sort of power over him, over her own imposed social limitations, the limits to her docility expanding socially as he reached down to touch the folds of her skirts across her thighs. Fear crossed her eyes, he saw himself a young man in her, the fateful night when he was held at knifepoint in a carriage robbery many many years ago.

"I was in Atlanta as a teenager, on my way back to college" His carsharp fingers ran themselves across the seams of her skirts, pushing down to feel the thickness of her skin beneath them, challenging her comfort further. "A masked vagrant wanted my coinpurse, his machete was a foot long and soaked in the blood from the carriage driver's throat" His hand inched further up her thigh. Her hand slapped it away with nervous force. He looked up at her disappointed. His hand moved its careful placement back, this time in a firm grasp at the flesh of her leg. Her startled yelp was barely audible. His other hand pointed an index at his cheek. This time, dulled by invitation, her hand met his cheek with audible force. All her strength didn't shake his placement a hair, but he smiled with pride. "Good girl"

With some careful direction, his hands moulded hers to a perfect fist.

"How did you kill him?"

Holliday reached to the inner linings of his coat, glancing about the completely deserted dining car. Two beautiful ivory hilted pistols felt like cold ice beneath her fingers. Carved metal must have been embossed by hand, and the tiniest chisels imaginable. Before he could respond, a cough seized his upper half, he wretched forward in pain. Again and again he could barely breathe between violent chokes. Thea patted him on the back encouragingly, but when his hands fell from his face she saw the smearing of blood across his palms.

In a hurry she composed their items, and had him sit back in the chair. Water from a nearby pitcher to soothe his wheezing throat. She stood to call for help but the crumpled cardsharp had her by the wrist

"It's ok it's..." a cough choked it's way through his throat "Darlin please"

Thea's panic subdued, hearing some sort of signal. He wiped the rest of the blood from his face, but even breathing seemed to be a labored movement. "It might be time for me to retire for the night" He seemed anxious to quit the room, hide from view. Thea's eyes watched his rise like a hawk. He could barely stand without swaying. "I need to lie in bed"

He came back to consciousness in the arms of that pretty woman, barely holding his weight as she held his shoulder and arm behind her neck. dizzy from drink or lightheadedness, he couldn't discern, but he could feel the ruched lace of her sleeves between his tightly clamped fingers. Then he felt the soft tap of her fingers against his cheek.

"Hey, where's your cabin?" she asked softly. His square toed boots shuffled pitifully inch by inch, backed up by her own careful sturdy gait.

He came to again in a heap of the morning's unkempt sheets. A cold and damp towel was laid across his forehead. Adrenaline begged him to search for more evidence of her about him in the dim moonlight. His coat was off, he had been stripped down to his shirt. Cravat was folded in a neat square at the sill of the window, pin placed neatly on top. Confirmation it was not a night where he had removed it in it's usual furious yank, but a woman’s hands had touched his routine with new care.

"Thea..." he spoke, and his lungs heaved another bloody spasm.

"Shhh" a coo came from the darkness, a lump, previously fully asleep at the little bedside desk soothed his confusion. "consumption's got you right now, don't thrash about again" her face leaned into the cool blue light that came fogging in through the window.

"How do you-" the hoarsest petition escaped his lips, this time too low for the seizing cough.

"Hush" she snapped this time, slapping gently at his hand. If he was in any less pain he would have smiled proudly yet again. "I studied at the royal medical college" Thea explained "you're..." she searched for the right words, but found it just as difficult as anyone in her position "You're a very strong gentleman" Better than nothing. Poor bedside manner was better than rude bedside manner. Holliday knew what she spoke of.

The train turned a bend and his face shifted into the path of moonlight, "I'll be fine" he mouthed the words to his doctor. "Please don't leave me?" he asked, but his eyes, watery and red, begged.

"Okay-" she began but was interrupted by his tone

"No, here" He spoke audibly, touching the soft sheets directly beneath his hand.

"I can't sir i'm-" he interrupted her again

"how long?" he paused to swallow "It's been since the ring returned?"

She indignantly let his question hang in the air.

He did not relent

"Three years"

He huffed.

"You're a free woman" a wheeze left him "In a free land". He stared up out the window, and waited for a response.

He came to again, a rag covered in spattering of blood lie newly arranged on the windowsill, and a grieving widow next to him in the simple bed, her arm across his chest. The soft lull of her breath fell at his shoulder, a tender refuge. He had one hand free to comb through a section of hair, feeling soft fibers beneath the pads of his fingers, grounding him in some sense of the world, the most soothing part of everything about him.

#doc holliday x reader #tombstone 1993 #doc holliday

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