#cow-boy/outlaws

[queenlakiefer]

Watching Young Guns and OMG…Keifer Sutherland as a cow boy 😍❤️

Doc Scurlock is so hot 🥵❤️

[princessbrunette]

HOLD ME, KISS ME ♡

♪ the little dippers — forever ♪

WANTED: JOHN BOOKER ROUTLEDGE - SUSPECTED MURDER - $1000 REWARD - DANGEROUS! IF SPOTTED DO NOT APPROACH!

pairing: outlaw!johnb + sheltered!reader ⋆₊⊹♡

synopsis: your wishes come true when a beautiful boy is found sleeping peacefully in your barn. much to his surprise, you don’t care about who he is or what he has or hasn’t done — you just want to ensure he stays forever.

cw: mentions of prayer, religion and god (for plot purpose) reader has two parents, western!au, innocence kink, slight manipulation, mentions of crime, breeding kink, smut ♡

“Please deliver me a man, save me from this loneliness. Make him kind, and strong, and handsome. I vow to make him the happiest man alive.”

Your forehead rests against your clasped hands where you kneel beside your bed, speaking out loud as there was no one else to speak to. Your parents had gone on a trip for two weeks, leaving you in charge of the farmhouse all by your lonesome.

Isolated didn’t feel like the correct term. You were grateful, happy to live off the fat of your father’s land in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes you wished you had someone to share it with. Someone your own age who was there to see you. You had become the perfect host, thrilled when your parents would bring home guests once in a blue moon. You’d tie ribbons in your hair and pick the perfect dress and set the table like your mother taught you. You often imagined setting the table for a family of your own.

Your own farm house. The thought sent you off to sleep each night, walking through the home in your mind as if it were really real, feeling the creaking of the painted wooden porch beneath your feet as you enter, the distant cooing of your baby being comforted by your husband in the next room. White shabby-chic panels across the walls with oak furniture and knitted throw pillows and lots and lots of warm light. The kitchen table would have the perfect lace floral embroidered table cloth draped across it which you’d serve the heartiest dinners on each night. The babies room would be painted mint green, no— maybe pastel yellow, with handmade toys and a music box that played your song and oh, the master bedroom… where you and your husband rest your head would be flooded with natural light. A haven. All yours.

The details to the decoration often changed, new inspiration plucked from the papers that father would bring home and new favourite colours integrating themselves into your home plans but one thing remained the same each time. Your husband. He never had a face, but it wasn’t important. He was warm, strong without having to prove just how macho he was, kind— you could feel his love from the next room on. That was all you really wanted. You could forget the house, forget the land, live in a barn for all you care — you just wanted to experience a love like the ones in the fairytale books stacked high in your room.

It had been a week already of this routine you’d grown used to. You wake up, feed yourself and then the chickens, come inside, clean yourself and then the house, paint, crotchet or read — however the mood takes you, eat lunch, tend to the crops, brush the horses, maybe milk a cow, come inside and cook dinner, bathe, think about your dream husband and grind your wet messy cunt into a pillow, feel guilty, beg for forgiveness and then sleep. It was an easy life, and you couldn’t complain— but you couldn’t help feel the world had more to offer.

Your mother often told you that gifts from above come when you least expect it, you just had to keep your eyes open. You always wondered how one might find these gifts with no idea where to look.

Your gift arrived bright and early the next morning.

Well, not technically as early as it should have been, infact you probably nearly missed it. The roosters calls at 6AM each morning, but on that very day you had decided to sleep in. A few hours wouldn’t kill them, you think as you pull a plush white pillow to lay over your ear— it’s not like the chickens would starve.

At 11:45AM, you stumble bare foot onto the grass outside, setting out on your walk to the barn a little way up the land. Your pert nipples harden, awakened by the cool morning breeze as the thin white fabric of your nightdress blows in the wind. With the sunlight shining directly on it, it was sure to be totally and utterly see through— and you suppose that was one upside to living in the middle of nowhere, yards upon yards from civilisation. No one would see you. Sigh.

You feed the chickens, totally blind before it even occurs to you that anything might be astray. Infact, you don’t even seem to notice that the barn door was left ajar, as opposed to how you usually leave it bolted by a wooden slab to prevent the animals from wandering off or being massacred by foxes. You suppose that’s the price you pay for sleeping in, you live in dreamworld for the next few hours.

The Earth seems to stop turning for a moment when you see him.

You’re more curious than anything, wide eyed, holding your breath as to be totally silent despite having been humming and speaking to the chickens only a moment prior. You tiptoe through the hay, shards of straw sprouting between your painted toes and pin-needling your sole as you draw closer to the man. A fallen angel, your first thought.

He’s half curled up onto his side in the hay behind the stable for your white pony. He has thick-ish arms crossed over his chest, his hat laying over his face seeming to be serving as a purpose to block out the light. You figure as you hadn’t woken up him before, a closer inspection couldn’t hurt. Unhurriedly, you sink down into a squat beside him, knees pointed upwards and feet taking your balance. A real man, in your barn? It couldn’t be. You chew on your bottom lip, goggle-eyed and inquisitive as you cautiously lift the hat away from his face.

He doesn’t wake and you’re for some reason thankful. It gives you time to observe him, the breath all but knocked from your body as you take in just how beautiful he is. He was perfect, and just like what you were hoping for when you wished to be delivered a husband.

Dark eyelashes kissing at the rim of his closed eyes, pale lips and freckles, sunkissed across his nose. Your eyes trail over and across him, now with his face in mind taking in account what he looks like as a whole. You were still in disbelief, a real man sleeping in your barn. But then again, as your eyes skim lower and you notice the blood seeping through his shirt over his stomach — you wonder if he was sleeping. Surely he wasn’t dead? Only God could be so cruel to deliver you the perfect man without a pulse.

So, you press two cold fingers to his neck, searching for the rhythmic beats signifying life. As soon as you do so, the man jolts awake — wide brown eyes meeting yours.

“Jesus.”

This is where the stare off commences— you were sat in a squat giving him a straight shot up your night dress with dome like eyes and parted lips, observing him like he was some sort of alien life form that had happened upon your barn infront of your very eyes. Your chest rises and falls, and his gender fails to betray him as his eyes fall there for a moment, subconsciously noticing the way your bare tits strain against the thin fabric with each exhale. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can’t help but acknowledge that you’re a pretty thing, totally his type. In any other scenario, he might’ve seen you at a local tavern and introduced himself, getting you tipsy and loose, making you giggle beneath his soft gaze and coarse hands in some dimly lit booth before realising he’s far too respectful to take advantage of you like that.

With his eyes open, the picture is complete — and he truly is as beautiful as you thought. He had a puppy like quality to his eyes, they were big and brown but from the sunlight streaming in you could see specks of orange which intrigues you. You wish to look closer, but you feel it’s not the time. His adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow and he tears his eyes away from yours to look around, still disorientated from sleep. He touches his wound with gentle fingers and he winces, going to push himself up on his elbows.

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it, warm deep voice raspy from rest as he dives into a sequence of begging.

“Does anyone know I’m in here?”

“No, I—”

“Okay, that’s— okay, please — hey, please don’t tell anyone. I won’t lie to you, I’m in a little bit of trouble with the law, nothing super bad I swear just — I needed somewhere safe to sleep so I ended up here. Didn’t take anything and uh— and I’ll be out of your hair now that I’m up.” He rambles, continually glancing at the barn doors, expecting Sheriff Shoupe to bust them down and take him in at any moments notice. You say nothing for a moment and he pushes himself to his feet, eyes squeezing shut at the soreness of his injury. “Think it’s easiest if I just—”

He cuts himself off this time, because you slip your hand into his— stopping him from going anywhere. His eyebrows jump up and he freezes on the spot, staring down at your doe eyes with a wide and confused gaze of his own.

“…Hi?”

“You just got here? Why’d you have to go?” You sound sad, and he actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. Not only did he break into your barn, on private land — but he’d totally overstayed his non-existent welcome, and now you didn’t want him to leave?

“P—pardon me? Ma’am?” He tries to be respectful, when what he really wants to ask is along the lines of ‘What the fuck?’.

You scramble to stand up and he helps you using the hand that you’re grasping. “Well, you won’t get far with a wound like that. It could get infected. Maybe you could come inside, let me dress it. You can refuel… maybe stay a few days?” The last part sounds wrong coming from your mouth. He’s a stranger for goodness sake— everything your parents had taught you about safety went against this and plus you were practically begging. You might have been embarrassed, if there wasn’t such a nagging feeling in your stomach telling you that this was meant to be.

He scoffs out a chuckle, because he thinks there’s no way you’re serious— but when he sees your wide eyes bouncing between his own, searching for something he couldn’t quite put a finger on— he realises you’re being completely genuine and his expression melts into a more worried gaze, shuffling a little closer on his feet.

“Look, I really appreciate your hospitality, but you have done more than enough, really. Just the fact you didn’t have the sheriff busting in to drag me away is something I will be very grateful for. Believe me. But I can’t drag you into this. Anyway, don’t you have family? That you live with?”

You sigh, looking down at your intertwined hands that you had yet to release, staring as if you were trying to memorise the feeling of a man’s touch incase you really couldn’t convince him to stay.

“Well yes, but they’re on a trip you see — and they’re going to be away for another week and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m awfully lonely, and I know you’re a stranger and all but I could really use the extra set of hands… plus it’s the least you could do… for breaking in…” You feel you’re pushing it with that last part, but decide to proceed with it anyway, any means necessary to get him to stay. He bites his bottom lip in thought as you stare up through your lashes and he thinks screw it. He’s sure you’re not setting him up, a little thing like you would be far too weak to pull that off.

“Okay, I… don’t see why not then.” He doesn’t sound certain, but you make such a good offer he’d be a fool not to accept. He bends down and swoops his hat off the floor, holding it to his chest and you take his hand once more, guiding him out of the barn.

He presses his lips together in an awkward smile at the way you confidently lead him, almost having to break into a jog to match your eager pace. Once nearing the house, you tell him your name and he nods — taking in the scenery.

You’re sitting him down in the living room before he can blink, and he takes in the setting around him. A real cozy place, a family home for sure — with a pale blue couch, a scratchy patchwork blanket draped over the back and floral cushions. There’s photos of you in multiple spots around the room, an only child — he gathers. The main photo sits on the mantelpiece, framed, a set of parents curtaining your smiling face in the image. You seem to be a few years younger, fuller in the face, still cute as a button.

He doesn’t quite realise you’d gone anywhere until you’re returning — the contents of an old first aid box rumbling in your grip. You give him a reassuring smile and lower to kneel by his feet, opening up the container and fishing around for some cotton pads.

“Do you have a name, mister?”

He clears his throat, trying to gage your reaction once he speaks, attempting to work out if the name rings any bells. “Uh, yeah. John B. John B. Routledge. You might’ve… actually heard of me. If you have, uh— I’m sorry.”

You don’t seem to react in any kind of alarming way, a smile grazing your face as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a soft white pad.

“Heard of you how? Are you famous?”

“…You’ve never seen those big ‘Wanted’ posters up in town? Kinda got my picture up on one of them.”

You peel up his shirt revealing tanned, toned skin and a wound that had crusted over with blood. You press the pad to it and he winces, knuckles turning white in his lap and head lulling back against the seat for a moment.

“Sorry.” You furrow your brows apologetically before continuing to mop up all the dried blood. “Oh, and I’m not allowed up in town. Not by myself anyway. So, I don’t keep up to date with all that… stuff.” You pull away, rifling through the box for another clean pad. He nods, eyes jumping to look at his wound and then back to you, watching your face for any discomfort regarding his presence. Oddly, there was none. If it wasn’t clear before, it’s wildly apparent now that you’ve truly been sheltered your whole life. There was this innocence you carried that was hard to come by, a lack of judgement that was sweet but made him worry for you slightly. You were lucky he had a good heart.

“That’s… probably for the best, actually. You know, they like to tell lies. I’m being falsely accused.” He speaks a little slower, and enunciates the last part as if you might not understand, and as expected— you hang onto every word, lips a little parted and wide eyed. It’s pretty cute, albeit inappropriate considering he’s a stranger.

As he speaks, you wrap his wound, pressing the sticky part down onto his skin before gently pressing the cotton covering his injury. “Well I’m really sorry about that John B. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” You chirp, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss over the dressing, pulling back to offer him a sweet smile. The lines on John B’s forehead smooth out, his concerned expression melting into his own gentle smile of disbelief.

He wonders what the odds are that he’d stumbled upon a real life angel. Well, it was that — or you wanted to chop his body into tiny pieces whilst he slept and add it to your cauldron. He couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but you were pretty — and he was a total loverboy, so stupidly he was willing to take that risk.

He pulls his shirt back down over his now dressed wound and you begin to clear your things back into the first aid box.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Like, anything you need help with around here?” He offers and you look up at him, brows furrowing with adoration.

“Goodness, no— I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Said you needed an extra pair of hands earlier.” He challenges with a smile.

“I only said that to get you to come inside. With your injury, I couldn’t possibly put you to work.”

He scrunches his face a little with a half scoff, half smile and shrugs one shoulder. “Please, this thing? It barely even stings. Come oooon.” He croons with a smirk, and you really feel the full effects of his charm now— the warm timbre of his voice headed straight to your clit giving it a heartbeat of its own.

“Fine.” It comes out airy with a giddy smile and you take his hand yet again, almost getting distracted by the coarseness against your palm, the sight of bulging veins along the backs of them.

Your bare feet are treading lightly over soft wood chip once more as you lead him toward the destroyed fence round the left side perimeter of the farm.

“So… I suppose you could carry all the planks back from the fence that fell down in that awful storm last week. I was gonna wait for my daddy to get home to get him to do it ‘cus I’m much too weak for something like that.” You point, and John B’s brown fluffy head follows your finger to the destination at hand. He nods, a doable task.

“Well a girl like you shouldn’t be lifting a finger anyway.” He turns his head back to face you with a smile, eyes squinted in the sun. He looks radiant, no sign of pain anymore and you look down at your night gown, scrunching it in your clammy hands with an uncontrollable grin at the floor, harbouring such an innocent crush on the boy already that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

His gaze stays on you for a tick whilst you step quietly and he speaks up again, tilting his head a little inquisitively. “I really, really hope this doesn’t sound rude… ‘cus I don’t mean to be. But… are you not… married?” He trails off, thinking of all the times he’s been walloped round the head in taverns for asking questions of a similar nature. Your smile doesn’t go away, your gentle nature not retiring for a moment.

“Oh no, no. I don’t meet boys often. Thats why I’m happy you came!” You chirp, hand reaching out to softly squeeze his arm. “Can be like husband and wife whilst you stay round.”

He just laughs in response. Not necessarily in a mean way, but the same way you laugh when a child tells you they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up.

The brutal beating of the sun does nothing to stop the honest work you’d put the self proclaimed outlaw up to, he seems to be deep in thought often — carrying the planks to and fro. You slip inside for a while to change into something more appropriate, a sweet and floral sundress that ties up at the straps and hugs you in a more womanly way. You’d rubbed your lips together as you fixed your hair in the mirror before bringing him a sandwich in the early afternoon. “You are adorable.” He grins when you do so, and it wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for on your dress but it still made you warm in the face. He simply brought out a true primal bodily reaction from you— that’s why you’d skipped the panties under your dress. He was making you excited and slippery down there and you just didn’t see the point. You stay out for hours at a time to chat with him. Your affections grow.

John B. Routledge finally returns back to the house when he’s all finished and you let him lay down for a nap on your couch, finally getting some real rest in. Whilst he does so, you spend hours preparing a hearty meal — the type you reserve for when mama and papa have guests round. As the pie browns off just a moment longer in the oven, you come to the man’s side, kneeling beside him and stroking his fluffy hair back.

“I made dinner. Sure you’re really hungry.” You whisper and his eyes flutter once more, the arms that were crossed over his chest stretching out as he wakes. You sit back to give him space, and when he opens his eyes you’re there with a smile — the orange beam of sunset haloing your head. Something about an angel drafts through his mind once more and he stretches.

“Oh boy, I slept longer than I was meant to huh?” He sits up and you shrug, leading him through to the kitchen where you’d laid the round table. Steaming seasoned vegetables in a bowl, freshly picked by you. Warm bread, baked and scored by you with flowers the centrepiece of the table. A jug of gravy there too. There’s a tray of mashed potatoes waiting, creamy and delicious looking. Routledges stomach audibly growls and he chuckles at this as he sits down, taking in the scenery you’d laid out. “You… have spoiled me. All this for someone who breaks into your barn?” He chuckles as he lowers himself into the seat.

You follow him round the table with a giddy smile. “Told you I like havin’ guests.” You perch your bottom on his leg, an arm wrapped around his neck as your feet swing. It felt right. You’d always wanted to sit with a man this way, you’d seen it before in the picture shows. Man and wife, domestic bliss. His brows jump up and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Oh… sweetheart, you shouldn’t do that. I am a— a stranger, after all.” He tries to do the responsible thing, even though there was something about your innocent brashness that was turning him on beyond belief. Your eyebrows knit in the centre, a line between them and your bottom lip seems to have doubled in size from how it pushes out.

“But I like you?” You mewl, rejected. It all seems so simple to you, which is probably feels super unfair. No one had taught you how to address men because you were so sheltered, and now it was giving you all of these complicated feelings that John B would have to deal with.

“And I like you — a whole bunch. You know I’m super grateful for you taking me in and… all that good stuff. But sitting right here is gonna… make me excited. Because I’m a guy. Go ahead and hop off for me.” He taps your lower back gently and you huff, feeling upset and rejected about the whole thing. His eyes are all wide and hopeful as he stares at you, like he wanted to make sure you were okay. The way he handles you so sweetly made your stomach stir despite your current mope.

You drag your feet to the oven comically and he stifles a chuckle at how dramatic you were, despite his sympathy. You place your hands into oven gloves and take out the pie— perfect and golden. You walk it to the table and John B sits up a little straighter, eyes darting between you and the food.

“Did this all by yourself? You have got a real knack for cooking. Should put you on the TV.” He grins, switching on the charm to attempt to loosen up your silent sulk. You nod, eyes casted down childishly and he reaches out to touch your arm. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

A small smile slips out, and he flickers his eyes over to the heart shape you’d scored onto the pie, his own lips twitching up into a smirk. “That for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

You end up giggling, his smile too infectious and your bad moment is all forgotten as you serve him a slice, plating up for him and then yourself before you eat. John B digs in ravenously, it’s almost erotic — the way he’s groaning at how good it all tastes, gravy dripping from his lips as he licks more off his fingers. He was clearly less proper-mannered than you, but you liked that. Table manners were for boring old people anyway. Maybe everything about him got you going, but you had to really concentrate on getting some food inside you instead of just watching the show of eating he was putting on.

Once you’re finished, and he’s finishing up on his third helping — you let your giggles die down from the wild goose chase story he relayed for you, one where he of course wound up the hero which only made your heart beat harder for him. Your socked foot begins to prod at his ankle, sliding up his leg until it rests in his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, the food having lowered his guard just that bit as he leans back in his chair, undoing his belt. He adjusts his hips on the seat as he does so and your thighs clench.

“So what did you think?” You ask, though you think it’s clear that he liked the meal from the empty plates and unbuckled belt. He lets out a long satisfied sigh, gazing at you for a moment with a kind smile.

“I think, whoever gets to marry you is a lucky son of a bitch.” He presses his lips together, almost like he was disappointed about the idea of you with another. You blink, the hands resting beneath your chin dreamily slowly falling to play with eachother on the table.

“Why not you, John B?” You question sadly, giving him those eyes again. The ones that tug on his heart and made him wanna give you everything and anything you ask for. He lifts a napkin, bringing it to his mouth as he shakes his head dismissively, closing his eyes with a frown.

“Mm—mm.” The tissue fabric muffles the sound. “You don’t wanna marry me, believe me — okay, I’m an outlaw. Your parents would never in a billion years accept me. Anyway you… you deserve someone less rough and tumble, you know? Like a prince from a storybook. A bubblewrap life. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures to himself, more so the browned blood stain on his shirt.

You sigh, determined. “My parents would understand. They’re — they’re generous people.”

“Really? ‘Cus they don’t even let you leave the house.” He quips quickly in response, smirking at your naivety and you fall silent for a moment. His face flattens just a tad from guilt. You were far too soft for that kind of tone.

When you look up at him again, your face is more solemn — wide eyes searching his for a shred of understanding. “You don’t understand, John B. There are actual scary, dangerous men out there that would take me and do terrible things to me.”

The outlaw leans his elbows on the table, his lips stretched into an amused smile at the irony. There wasn’t an inkling of threat about the gesture, pure amusement coursing through the energy between you from his side alone. “And how do you know I’m not one of those scary, dangerous men. Hm?” His voice is warm, it seems to rumble straight from his chest. You release a shaky sigh.

“Well you haven’t hurt me yet?” Your voice lilts out, and you engage in a long stare off. There’s a different kind of tension in the air now, it’s hot and feels heavy on you. It oozes into the nooks and crannies of your balmy skin and slithers between your thighs. You can’t take the heat and you stand, beginning to bring his dishes to the sink to wash. It’s quiet for a while, John B watching you with this thoughtful and almost knowing smile as you tidy up around him. Even he couldn’t run from how good ‘domestic bliss’ felt.

You let yourself indulge in the fantasy too. Wife cleans up, husband sits behind at the table and sips at the drink she poured him. You wanted nothing more than to experience this everyday, and your heart sinks sadly at the fact that this will probably be the last. You lose yourself to thoughts and daydreams as you scrub away, to the point you nearly don’t hear him stand up, slowly walking to lean against the sink beside you.

You smile at him politely as he eyes you, and return your gaze to the plate in your hand. You mustn’t dwell. He moves, and soon he’s behind you, a hand resting against the sink beside your hip, head craning round to look at you from the other side. “You’re really serious about this husband and wife thing, aren’t you?”

“Very serious, sir.” You bat your lashes at him earnestly and his cock stirs in his pants at the title, unexpected but not unwelcomed. Bless your heart, you were only being courteous. He presses his lips together in thought and the side of your face warms with his slow exhale. Turning your body, you face him fully now. “I just think it was divine intervention that you wound up in my barn. You’re like an angel sent to take away my loneliness.” You’re shy, a little bashful about your beliefs and without thinking he cups your cheek in reassurance, thumb swiping slowly over the skin.

His eyes take in your every detail, and your lips part with a wobbly breath, nervous. “May I kiss you, John B?” You address, just as his thumb strokes the delicate skin below your eye. He grins, slightly amused by your formality and simply nods his head.

You stand on tip toes to reach him, socked feet almost knocking at his boots as your body presses to his, lips meeting. You’re a little messy, inexperienced— which comes as no surprise to the boy as he tilts his head, welcoming your mouth at another angle and taking control in order to guide you. You’re mostly a quick learner, slowing your pace to something much more sultry and he nearly can’t contain his excitement. He wants to be a gentleman, but as soon as he introduces his tongue — you lose composure, needy and all but panting into his mouth right then and there in the kitchen. He pulls away and breaks the string of saliva that connects your lips with his thumb, stroking it over your moist bottom lip as you stare at him readily.

He tilts his head, eyes wide and almost innocent as he gestures away. “You… want me to show you what husbands do with their wives?”

You nod so hard your eyes nearly roll back like one of those baby-dolls.

John B is the one to take your hand this time, leading you slowly and carefully through the house. You partially think he’s giving himself time to rethink what he’s about to do, but from the way your pussy is drooling into your panties — it feels set in stone. He finally reaches your bedroom and you watch his head move left and right as he takes it in, cheek lifting with a smile at the China dolls on the wall and the frilly white bedsheets. It’s clear your room hasn’t changed since you were a little girl. The sun is just starting to disappear behind your lace curtains and he switches on the lamp, sitting you down.

The man joins you, easing himself down at your side and cupping your cheek as he begins to kiss you again. He takes it slow, but the passion and need only grows as the splayed hand on your back begins to slide upwards until its cupping the back of your head and he’s beginning to slowly lower you to lie down like you’re made of glass.

Naturally you shuffle up the bed and he follows, hovering over you and leading with his tongue this time — the wet muscles wrapping around eachother languidly making you moan, legs falling wider apart.

“I wanna make you feel really good, okay? That okay with you?” He asks gently and you nod, sucking in a breath. You’d waited for something like this since you knew what pleasure was, craved the touch of a man with strong coarse hands and a wet mouth. Routledges thumbs swipe across your tits through your dress, massaging them until your nipples were poking painfully through the fabric as he burrows into your neck, licking and sucking.

Your whole body feels like it’s on fire as he tugs gently at your dress, eyes meeting yours once more.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?”

He tugs the garment up and over, puffing out his cheeks as he blows air out his mouth, brows raised at the sight of your naked body. You look so soft, so pliable beneath him. He was already hard just from kissing you, but this made him feel like he might combust. “Took your underwear off?” He smirks, pressing kisses to your stomach and between your tits before bringing his face up to eye level with you, same kind but teasing smile on his face. “Have you been needing me aaall day? Hm?”

You turn your head to the side, flustered and clammy with a whine— eyes screwed shut. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“No, s’just — when you speak like that— n’say stuff like that… makes me hurt…” You’re breathless, hips twitching and bucking slightly as he grins, pearly whites showing.

“Aw.” Is all he manages before continuing his descent down.

He’s a real tease, spending an ungodly amount of time on your tits— sucking, licking and biting your nipples until you’re arched off the bed, teary eyed and wincing from sensitivity. It’s then, and only then he starts to kiss lower, pushing himself down your pristine sheets until he’s settling between your legs, gently easing your ankles upwards so that your knees faced the sky, your cunt fluttering and open right infront of his face.

“Well she’s very pretty.” He smiles up at you, thumbs coming up to spread you. He leans in slowly, hot breath fanning over your heat before he simply presses the softest kiss to your clit. He draws back again as you whimper, running the pads of his thumbs up along your spread folds. “Hear that? So wet, pretty girl.” He marvels in a whisper.

“Just want you to make it better.” You mewl and he nods slowly in understanding, tongue swiping over his lips as he observes you.

“That I can definitely do.” He confirms before leaning in, licking and sucking at your clit as his thumb automatically rolls downwards to massage your hole. You gasp, knees shooting up towards your chest as he eats you, similarly to the pure fervour and passion he only recently devoured the meal you cooked for him. You wondered how any appetite remained.

When he sinks his middle finger inside you, your stomach tenses — a high pitched noise of relief and utter devastation leaving you. You had no idea how badly you’d craved fullness to this very moment, and you weren’t even halfway there. He’s smiling against you, glancing up as you flutter around his single digit and make plenty of noise for him. “Yeah? Think you’ve really been needing some of that, little girl.” He nearly laughs at your extreme reaction. He had to admit, it was fun doing this with someone so inexperienced. Everything to you seemed like the best thing ever.

He eats and eats away, proving himself to have quite the monstrous appetite for your slick . Your feet rest on his shoulders at one point, lost in pleasure as you whine and writhe and to keep you out of the way, the outlaw pushes your legs up and pins them there, nose deep in your gloss.

“Feels too good— feels— hurts!” You cry, because you don’t know how to put that you’re simply aching to cum.

“Doesn’t hurt, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” He corrects in that low reverberation that you’ve grown to love. After a series of ‘Uh’ and ‘Mm’s, you feel yourself hitting that peak — the one you usually reach all over the soft cotton of your pillow, but ten times the strength.

As soon as he senses this happening, he doubles down and continues repeating the same action with his mouth over and over until you’re squealing and pushing him away, curling into a ball as your completion dribbles out of your quivering hole.

He grins, real proud of himself as he pushes up on his hands to near you, gently shushing you the same way you would to soothe a baby to sleep. “I know, that was a lot huh?” He coo’s, rubbing your back with his warm hand as you suffer the aftershocks, clenching and whimpering, a smaller clammy hand reaching out to his shirt to grab a fist of it.

He forces you softly onto your back, stroking a hand over your warm forehead. For someone so convinced the two of you shouldn’t be together, he sure did look at you like you were his entire world. By the gaze shared, you would never know the two of you only met that morning.

“What now, hm?” He smiles, quiet. You open your mouth to speak, and your voice rasps from the loud and explosive release that had you calling out.

“Wanna… make you feel as good as you made me feel, John B.”

He licks his lips, thinking over it. If it wasn’t already clear, his dick was throbbing in his pants just from pleasing you— and had you wanted to end things there he would be sure to take a trip to the bathroom to finish in his hand. Maybe swipe a pair of your underwear from the basin for inspiration, but that made his stomach tense with guilt.

“Think I can manage that, yeah.” He nods before reaching slowly for his belt. “Sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, good.”

His belt is still undone from after dinner so he slides the snakey leather from its loops with one hand, the act more attractive than you anticipated which made you clench once more with need. He sits on the edge of the bed and you usher up beside him, pressing your naked body to him and ghosting your drooly lips over his jaw line as he sighs, working his length out of his pants.

“Oh my.” You breathe, as soon as you look down. Now you hadn’t had much experience in dealing with the male anatomy, clearly — but you knew for certain John B had to be miles larger than the average man. His cock stood tall, straight — slightly mauve towards the tip with a beautiful blue vein drifting down his shaft like a river on a mountain. His balls sat beneath, heavy and pink — inviting in a way that made your mouth water primally.

“Yeah? This is… what m’working with.” He chuckles, sounding a little nervous.

“How do I…” You mutter after a moment and he’s quick to take your hand, pressing your fingers so that it forms a cup and bringing it to your mouth.

“You wanna spit for me, pretty? Right here.” He encourages and whilst you don’t understand, you do as he wishes, letting a bubbly glob of saliva drool out into the cupped crevice of your hand. You look up at him with wide unsure eyes, searching for praise or reassurance that you’d done as he asked. He presses his lips together at the sweet and submissive expression, shifting his hips a tad in excitement. “Mm, fuck.” He punctuates with an airy chuckle, ticking his head in a single shake.

He brings your hand down and begins to smear it all over himself, releasing a shaky exhale as he does so. “So, uh… you’re gonna wanna move your hand. Just like this.” He sighs as he works your hand up and down his shaft, slowly jerking him off. Your eyes flicker between his face and pretty dick to make sure you were doing it right. As you do so, he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, muttering a “So sweet, bubba.” Against your mouth.

This only encourages you to gain confidence, doing whatever feels right. You twist your hand— squeezing just a tad harder towards the tip as that seemed to be what made him release that heavenly groan, jaw constantly agape as he watches your hand.

“Theeere you go sweetheart. Easy right? Like milking a cow.” He kisses your temple briskly once more before his eyes screw shut, chest heaving with quicker breaths. You get carried away, fascinated by the pearly precum that seeps from his slit as you work him with your hand and following your own judgment you lean down. You figure if he used his mouth on you, you could return the favour.

His eyes open with a loud shudder when you tentatively wrap your plush lips around his tip, working your hand up and down to try and squeeze more of the interesting salty flavour from him. You let out a long drawn out moan of your own as you feel your clit throbbing with desire, liberating his precum from your mouth to let it dribble back down his shaft in messy bubbles.

He winces, placing a hand on your shoulder and removing you with such an abrupt speed that you nearly flew off the side of the bed. You sit up straight, slick mouth pouting as your eyes flicker between his, worrying that you’d done something wrong. There’s a second of just looking at eachother, before you stumble over some words.

“S—Sorry. Did I hurt—”

“No, no God no. I uh— I just wasn’t sure if I should make a mess all over that pretty face just yet.” His wide eyed expression melts into a reassuring smile, thumb rising to swipe lovingly at your cheek. You lick your lips, savouring the taste of him and nod — not quite sure where to go from there.

Your silence makes him question, and he eyes you. “Is there… anything in particular you want now?”

You think, blinking your doll-like eyelashes off into the distance before nodding once more— pushing off away from him and scurrying to the head of the bed where you lay yourself gently on the pillows.

“Hm?” He follows up in confusion, craning his neck round to watch you.

“Would… like a baby now, please.” You spread your legs a little, shy and bashful in your request like you wasn’t sure if you’d asked impolitely. His face falls as he stares at you for a moment before closing his eyes, rubbing over his face with an exasperated chuckle, elbows on his knees.

As you stare at him with with an upset little pout, already ashamed by your forwardness. “Like husband and wife?” You try to justify and he sighs out his nose, turning his body fully to you.

“Oh sweet girl.” He tugs you gently lower toward him by your hips, rubbing his thumbs at your waist. “We just met.”

You launch into full fledged begging, whiny and high pitched with tears threatening to dive over their trough. “I’ll make you so happy John B, I’ll make all your problems go away and you won’t have to run anymore. Please?” You were deadset on this man giving you your dream life, and you’d officially pushed shame to the side in order to get this. His brow is permanently creased, staring with those big wide puppy dog eyes, continually stroking your skin in hopes to calm you.

“Are you… sure that’s what you want? You’re still young. So much time for all that.”

“Just want it now. I’d never be lonely again.” You sound defeated, staring down away from him now. He felt bad, he’d always hated disappointing people. Once upon a time he was a fixer, always running to his friends aid to make their problems go away. That urge never died, just burned low and quiet like an old candle flame. He wanted to make your problems go away too.

“Okay.” He presses his lips together. “I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.”

He watches your devastated expression lift into a radiant grin, and it was like watching the sun appear from behind a grey cloud after weeks of downcast weather. “Yeah?” You chirp toothily as he crawls over you, leaking tip grazing your tummy and then your folds as he buries his face into your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

When he pushes his tip inside, John B says a prayer for the first time in his life.

He’d never really followed any religion. His father had been the type to say it was all a bunch of ‘Mumbo jumbo’ and that he should believe in the human psyche instead, or something like that. But as your wet folds swallow him and you release that high pitched mewl at the inevitable stretch — he finds himself asking God — please, please don’t let me knock this young girl up.

There’s a warm blanket of chills that cover his spine as he slowly sheathes inside of you, feeling like he was pushing deeper and deeper into a black hole that would selfishly keep sucking him inside for the rest of his life. It felt too good, calming — like falling asleep. He was euphoric.

“So — so big inside me!” Your cry knocks him out of his thoughts and he kisses your shoulder before looking down to watch himself push in all the way to the hilt.

“Feel okay, gorgeous?”

You nod, a pained whine falling from you as you dig your nails into his skin, walls fluttering around him like they were constantly trying to accommodate for this thickness. “Fuck.” He groans, before sliding back a little and starting to thrust. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna last too long— he needed to get to work on you fast.

As he gently fucks into you, your plush tits recoil with the movement and he can’t close his mouth, sounds and sighs leaving him without permission. A hand slides between the two of you, the other pulling his shirt up to grip between his teeth— giving himself a better view of the way he strokes at your clit — your legs being spread exposing it, making it easier for him.

You clench, and shudder — that sweet face contorting with each time his tip ever so slightly grazes your cervix, careful not to bruise it. You really were beautiful, that type of homely beauty he’d thought of marrying in his lonely nights of travelling through desert and grass. The type of girl you work for, the type that deserves spoiling, princess treatment. The more he fucks, the more he’s convincing himself that impregnating you might not be the most awful thing after all. Why should he chase away security?

Your fingertips grace his chest, and he takes your hand — pinning it to the bed as your fingers intertwine, using the grip to aid his rolling thrusts— speeding up the pace and force now he knew you could take it like a champ. His mouth opens to speak, and his shirt drops out of it.

“Taking me real good baby. You like getting fucked, don’t you?” He coo’s and you can only nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes before rolling down to your temples. Poor thing, lost for words.

There’s a wet slapping sound with each thrust, your cunt equally gushing as it was thirsty — hungrily welcoming each inch of his, and even demanding more by locking your ankles around his lower back. Perhaps you did it for comfort, or perhaps because you suspected a hesitance, the threat of him pulling out last minute too much for your baby-crazed brain.

“Jesus. Sweet little puppy.” He breathes like it’s a revelation beneath your ear, the curly tuft of hair above his shaft tickling you as he continues to rub your clit.

“S’gonna happen again, John B. The big feeling.” You strain, eyes clamped shut and sniffling— too overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. He kisses each eye lid and watches you closely, experiencing you unfold once more.

“Thats my good girl. Let me have it, pup. Gimme a good one.”

You’re an explosion of whimpers and moans, thrashing under his firm grip once more— and he’s not sure when your orgasm ends, if it even ends at all— he doesn’t care, the release pushing him close to his own. He speeds up his pace, hand that was at your clit now wrapping around your lower back, forearm pushing your lower half up and against him, forcing you to just keep taking him.

He was like a beast from a fairytale book, fucking wildly into you with a primal determination that had you struggling to breathe. You’re crying now, full out crying because it’s just so much. There’s still one last thing you require, and only he can give you it.

“You wanna make me daddy, huh?” He demands, that gentleness in his voice gone. It’s nearly unrecognisable from him, and you preen beneath the rough touch.

“Mhm!”

“Words.” He barks. He didn’t mean to be mean, he just got a little bossy when he was close. You’d come to learn that.

“Please give me a baby. Please just — make you a daddy! Need it!” You’re squealing, voice shaking from the hard ‘plap plap plap’ of his balls slapping against you. You feel you might pass out if this goes on much longer.

He releases with a long groan, lips dropping to the centre of your chest and back arching upwards. You register his sounds before you feel it, hot slimy ropes of him— shooting up inside you, warming your walls. You moan too, because it feels so good to be full. It feels right, like this was what had been missing after all.

Everything is a blur for the next few minutes. It’s like you black out a little, because maybe you forgot to be breathing like you should have been. You briefly recall John B scooping you up and helping you through that, ignoring the gooey seed dripping from you to cradle you like a baby, humming a calm “Breathe, sweetheart. In and out. With me, c’mon.” Your gentle boy was back, and through your haze you smile.

Once you’re tucked at his side beneath a soft cotton blanket, his hand stroking over your head after cleaning you up, a whispered conversation ensues.

“Do you really like me John B? Like, you really think I’m beautiful?” You inquire, gazing up at him with stuck together black eyelashes. The question was so innocent, yet he could tell it was so meaningful.

His expression doesnt falter, a gentle smile sat comfortably on his lips as he continues to pet you. “Baby, I think you’re the ponds swan. Just… gotta get to know you a little better, okay? ‘Specially if I really did put a baby in you.” Only then his smile falters, brows knitting as the reality sets in. Oh Lord.

“Okay.” Your eyes flutter closed, happy to leave it at that, happy to fall asleep right by his side under his watchful eye. It was unnerving how safe a lonely girl could feel with a stranger.

“Okay. Good girl. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He quietly reassures, watching you drift off. He’s not sure if he’s trying to dispel your fears, or his own.

[batsycline69]

Beneath Some Old Moon

Summary: After a close call with the Two Face Gang, you offer your savior--the mysterious Crusader--some hospitality.

(alternatively, save a horse...)

Pairing: Cowboy!Bruce Wayne x reader

Words: 5.9k

Content/warnings: old west cowboy au, historical inaccuracies probably, threatening scenario, guns, p in v sex, cowgirl (get it?), sort of sub!bruce, unprotected sex, reader is not described, reader's horse is not named

Wind whips across your face as you ride as fast as your horse will take you.

The Two Face gang hoots and hollers behind you. At the front, Harvey ‘Two Face’ Dent, leading his group of men.

You’d stayed in town too long, caught up in the gossip of a stranger riding in. The rumors were he was the same guy who stopped some bandits down in the prairie. Of course, your current predicament doesn’t really seem worth the whispers, because wherever his Crusader stranger is, it’s not here. It’s just you attempting to outrun a gang of five as they quickly gain on you.

Your horse may be well trained, but she isn’t used to this speed the way the gangs’ likely are.

Shots ring out around the ground by your horse’s hooves, drowning the men’s laughter. Dirt kicks up into the air. Before you really know what’s happening, you’re flat on your back, the air knocked from your lungs. Above you, clouds collect over the stars, leaving nothing but the large bright moon.

If you’re killed here tonight, you hope that’s the last thing you see.

The gang circles you on their horses. Yours runs off towards the ranch. You imagine it waiting by the stable for you, only for you to never arrive. You think of your cows, come morning waiting to be fed. You take what little solace you can knowing the widow nearby will notice when the animals begin to get rowdy from their hunger if the neighbor boy’s late to help as he often is.

Hooves trample around you as the men trap you. You feel something damp along your side, and for a moment, you think you might be bleeding. As you raise a trembling hand to your side, it takes you a second to realize it’s not blood at all. One of the jars of canned peaches you picked up in town shattered when you hit the ground. Shards of glass jostle in your satchel as you try to sit back up.

You’re still gasping for air, trying to fill your aching lungs with everything that had been knocked out of you. Thoughts race through your head as you try to think of any good way out of here, but you’re surrounded and unarmed.

A sudden yell snaps you from your oxygen-deprived daze. Dent is now on the ground with you, outside the ring of horses, and being dragged away.

Yelling and hooves trampling deafen you before you can process what’s happening. Shots ring out again, and you flinch, anticipating impact. Instead, powerful legs race by you as the horses charge towards a single man.

A full moon’s light illuminates the fight. You wheeze and stagger back. Two Face wriggles on the ground in the restraints of the lasso around his shoulders.

Though you can’t really be certain, you feel an innate sense of knowledge that this is the stranger people whispered about in town. You’d accidentally met his eyes this morning. They were bluer than the sky on a clear day. Like peering into a stream of crystal clear water.

Now he lures the gang away from you, his horse weaving to avoid their shots. You keep waiting for the moment he pulls his gun out on them, but the moment never comes. The stranger ducks as he guides the men between two boulders. Your vision still swims slightly as you squint to figure out why.

Your questions are answered when the first two men following the stranger hit something and spring back from their horses towards the other two men behind them. Dirt kicks up around them as the horses fall into disarray, bucking and crying out before running in all different directions.

The stranger turns his horse, dismounting before the pile of outlaws sprawled out onto the ground. You watch in stunned silence as he unties a rope from the boulders, wrapping it around the dazed group of men.

When his work is done, the man straightens up and turns towards you. Yet again, you’re stunned by the blue of his eyes. In the moonlight, they look almost ghostly.

He takes his horse and leads it over to you by its reins. He towers above you where you’re still on the ground. Embarrassment creeps up your spine as you think about the fact you should have stood up by now.

“Are you alright?” he asks, stretching out a hand dressed in black leather for you to take. His voice is gruff, the words clipped. In his other hand, he holds his hat. He took it off as soon as he approached you.

After a moment’s hesitation, your hand wraps around his. He pulls you back up to your feet with ease. You nod and manage to breathe a thank you, finally beginning to catch your breath. Your eyes drift towards the gang tied up on the ground. The sound of the stranger’s voice pulls your gaze back up to him.

“Were you out walking at this time of night?” he asks. His voice makes it sound as if he’s accusing you of something.

You huff slightly. “No, I wasn’t walking out here,” you snap. Guilt quickly takes over for your short fuse, but the stranger doesn’t seem startled either way. You imagine he encounters far worse than the likes of you. “My horse ran off when they started chasing us. They were shooting at the ground. She threw me.”

The stranger nods. “Where were you going?” he asks.

You have half a mind to lie. It would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it? All you know of this man comes from town gossip, and the incredible feat you’d just seen in front of you, neither of which give complete promise that you’re safe with him. What’s to say he isn’t going to want something in return for helping you? What good would giving this man your address do?

At the same time, however, you realize this really is no place for you to be wandering round at night, even with the moon so full and bright. The silvery light casts shadows over the man’s face, and you catch sight of a scar across his jawline.

“My ranch. Just that way,” you say, eyes flickering towards the small outline of the ranch at the top of the small slope ahead.

Wordlessly, the man mounts his horse again, gloved hand yet again out for you to take. What he expects of you is obvious.

“What about them?” you ask, looking back to the gang.

“Sheriff’ll pick ‘em up,” he replies. He hand still reaches out towards you like he knows you’ll take it.

You do.

He hoists you onto the horse behind him. Up close, he smells like earth and sweat and the smoke of a bonfire. Your arms wrap around his sturdy torso. You get the feeling that the display of skill you’d seen earlier is only a portion of what this strange man is capable of.

You catch yourself wondering what he must look like beneath the dust-coated clothes he wears. For your own sake, you write it off as being flustered from the whole ordeal.

You trot back to the ranch, your grip tight on the man. You realize he might be going slow for your sake. You could get there in half the time if you told him he could ride faster, but you don’t. The slower you go, the more time you have to digest everything that’s happened.

Silence falls between the two of you. You’re thankful he doesn’t ask questions. For a man of his reputation, you can only imagine what he must think of you getting thrown from your horse so easily.

Above head, thunder rolls, filling the lull. People in town talked plenty about the storm that was going to roll through. After the man your arms are wrapped around, that was the hot topic. You won’t admit it out loud, but you’re relieved then to have gotten a ride with him. At least you wouldn’t get caught in the rain.

From a distance, you spot your horse trotting around in front of the stable at home. The man slides off the saddle before holding out his hands to help you off. His gentlemanly charm catches you by surprise. The gruffness of his voice had led you to expect something else.

“Thank you,” you say again.

He regards you carefully with his icy eyes for a moment. “You should be more careful,” he says.

Suddenly, being whisked away by a mysterious stranger loses the allure.

You cross your arms over your chest. “That’s awfully presumptuous for a man who just road in,” you reply. “How do you know I’m not careful?”

“Because I had to scare the Two Face Gang off of you.”

The scowl deepens on your face. “How do you know I’m not usually careful?”

He holds your gaze a second longer than is comfortable. “Two Face isn’t in the business of asking if you’re usually careful,” he replies.

Your eyes narrow to slits at him. His expression has never changed—always a carefully guarded, unreadable frown—but you imagine he’s being smug, or whatever his version of smug is. You don’t appreciate this man you don’t know telling you what to do, and you’re sure as hell not going to let him think otherwise.

You scoff. “You have been here all of a couple of hours. Forgive me if I take whatever it is you think I should or should not do with a grain of salt.”

He stares at you. Already, this man prickles your nerves in a way no one else ever has. You’re not used to silence like this; he’s using it against you, but for what, you’re not quite sure.

“What’s your name, anyway?” you ask. Your weight shifts into one of your hips.

“They call me the Crusader.”

You try not to roll your eyes. “I know that’s what they call you. But what’s your name?”

Silence. Your eyes narrow even more.

“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

“Nope.”

You curse under your breath. “Fine. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for the ride home. You can leave.”

He doesn’t budge, nor do you. You want to scream in his face and ask him what he wants. If he’s not going to talk, why is he haunting your doorstep? You’re not sure what kind of response to expect from him with that kind of outburst, though, and you’ve pressed your luck enough as it is for the evening.

Finally, he speaks.

“I’m not...good at this sort of thing,” he says. His fist is clenched at his side, yet you’re not sure it’s meant as a threat.

“What sort of thing?”

He scowls at you like you’re supposed to understand someone you just met.

“What, talking to people?” you add when he doesn’t explain himself. “Yeah, I can kind of tell.” And everything starts to click. The silence isn’t that of a grumpy, worn cowboy—at least not exclusively—but of a man who spends so much time on his own, he no longer knows how to connect with anyone.

“What’s your name?” you ask again. This time, there’s more patience in your voice.

“Bruce,” he replies. For what feels like the first time in the very short period you’ve known him, you get a straight answer. You return the favor by giving him your name. He repeats it like he’s savoring a treat.

His loneliness is a ghost, threatening to haunt you if you turn him away.

Thunder cracks in the sky again. A heavy drop falls from the sky, splattering on your shoulder. The stars are blocked out by the heavy clouds that had been collecting all day. “You aren’t thinking about going out in that, are you?” you ask.

“Just some rain. Never hurt anyone.”

You purse your lips together. There isn’t a single reason you should trust this man enough to invite him into your home while you sleep. But you can’t just let him wander off into the storm, can you?

You don’t want him wandering around soaking wet, shirt clinging to his broad chest, pants tight across his thick thighs He’d catch a cold. Plus, the man is lonely. You can imagine the isolation of the prairies are something that could wear on a person. He could use someone to talk to. He saved your life, after all.

“You should stay,” you say.

He looks surprised. Or maybe his face hasn’t moved and it’s just your imagination. But he doesn’t respond right away. His horse shakes its mane. You turn away from him, grabbing your horse’s reins to lead it to it. You’re in awe when Bruce follows.

“Your horse have a name?” you ask, turning back over your shoulder to look at him. It’s a peace offering, of sorts.

He’s tall. You were able to more passively figure that out when you first saw him, but up close, it’s even harder to ignore. Not only is he tall, but he’s broad. You see manual laborers all day, but Bruce is something else. “I call her Bats.”

You laugh softly. “Why’s that?” you ask. Something about the name tempers your nerves. A name isn’t enough to totally give your trust over to Bruce, but you hear the fondness as he speaks of her. A man who has proven himself to be very gruff, with his reclusive nature, has a soft spot for his horse.

“Found her over in some canyons by a bunch of bats.” He rustles her dark mane. Your lips quirk up into a smile.

Bruce waits at the front of the stable as you stable your horse. You pretend like you aren’t unnerved by his staring.

“You’re welcome to keep her here,” you offer again.

A bright light flashes behind Bruce’s back. A few seconds later, a loud clap of thunder. Bats lets out a startled whinny.

“Alright,” Bruce says, though he makes no pains to sound happy about it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” you ask. Your knees are pulled to your chest. You watch the flames from your fireplace flicker across Bruce’s face.

He took his hat off when he came inside like a gentleman. Despite his brusque attitude, he has manners. One that seem deeply ingrained in him. You have more questions you’d like to ask, but considering you have to wrestle every piece of information about himself out of him, you decide not to press your luck.

“Nope,” he replies. Flames flicker in his eyes.

“Where are you from?”

The fire crackles. Rain patters against your roof. Thunder rolls in the lull of the storm. Bruce says it’ll come back. You trust him on this.

“Out east.”

You nod. “Did you save people out there, too?”

“No.”

A thin scar runs through his thick, dark brow. He stares into the fireplace like he’s hoping to learn a secret. You feel like you’re interrupting something every time you say something, so this time you don’t.

With how unwilling he is to speak, you worry you’re bothering him. He said he’s not good at talking with people, but you wonder if it’s because he just doesn’t like it. Or maybe he doesn’t like you. So you let the storm and the fire fill the silence.

You don’t mind Bruce’s presence, even if he might mind yours. He’s still a stranger in your home, but you’re becoming more convinced that he isn’t unkind, even if he is maybe unlikable. But unlikable feels like too harsh of a word, even for a harsh person.

“You get lonely out here on your own?” he asks. You hadn’t been expecting for him to ask you anything at all, let alone something so personal. Maybe you are a little lonely; you’d been pondering this man’s loneliness, hadn’t you? You’d guess he was something of an expert.

“I suppose I do.” A beat. “Do you get lonely out there?” You nod towards your rain-speckled window, though you mean the greater world outside of it.

“I’ve got Bats,” he says.

You nod again.

What’s he looking for doing the things he does? Despite your best attempts, he’s still a mystery to you. A hard shell with some sort of kindness buried inside, though what kind and for what reasons, you’re not sure. He helps people. You heard about his reputation in town. He’d helped you. He takes his hat off and helps people down from horses. That has to count for something.

Bruce doesn’t seem like the kind of man to get attached. Beyond that, you shouldn’t be so optimistic or naive to believe he’s the sort of man you want attachments to. A lifestyle like his isn’t one that lends itself to a long life.

“You’re welcome to wash up, if you’d like,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you saying I smell?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I’m just offering the accommodations I have.” But, truth be told, you were concerned about the dirt you’re sure he’s picked up traveling around. You’re the one who will have to wash the world out of your sheets once he leaves you behind.

He doesn’t argue with you, but there is a brief hesitation. You wonder how much of this is just who he is, or if it’s at all just a result of the world he navigates through. How many strangers has he encountered who took advantage of his trust. But surely he must recognize up against him, you’re not much of a threat. But maybe your attempts at getting to know him are threat enough.

You were the first to turn in. After tossing and turning for a while, worrying about the unattended stranger in your home, you fell asleep.

Darkness still swallows you room when you next open your eyes. You’re not sure what rouses you. The once violent storm has subsided to just pattering rain on your window. The house is still. For a moment, you think Bruce may be asleep, but the stillness feels more firm than that. It’s not a house asleep; it’s a house emptied.

You get up, and slip your robe on. You carefully avoid the creaky floorboards you know by heart as you creep to your door. You turn the knob slowly, not wanting to alert your strange new friend. But as you sneak about your own home, you realize he’s not here. The bed he’d been laying in is empty, sheets turned over.

Your sleep-addled brain wants you to rummage through the house, make sure he didn’t sneak off with anything while you slept. But an unfamiliar worry knots your stomach for a reason you can’t seem to pinpoint. Almost like you’re disappointed he’s already gone.

As you run out into the rain, you decide you’ll blame this all on waking up in the middle of the night. You’re clearly not fully awake just yet. You stagger through the mist and into the stable, expecting to see an empty spot where Bats should be.

Instead, you see Bruce, back against the gate, chin slumped to his chest. His black hat covers his eyes, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh,” you breathe.

As quiet as you’d tried to be, the soft utterance is enough for Bruce’s head to snap up. His muscles tense, and he looks very suddenly ready for a fight.

His eyes land on you, standing in the frame of the stable in your night clothes, and he relaxes some. “Just you,” he says, laughing to himself. He takes off his hat, and his heavy-lidded eyes land on you. You realize he’s expecting you to say something for interrupting his sleep.

“The storm’s passed. I thought you might have…” You trail off. What would it matter if Bruce had gone off? What difference would that make, and why do you you care?

He looks at Bats’ sleeping form in the hay. “She’s not much used to being alone.” His deep voice is rough with sleep. Your mouth feels dry. “Didn’t want her skittish from the storm.”

A nod doesn’t seem to be a sufficient reply, but what are you supposed to say? The kindness of this man sleeping out in your barn when he has a bed inside leaves you speechless.

“Right.” Your gaze follows him as he stands up.

“Everything alright?” he asks. He takes a half step towards you.

You nod again, your feet deciding to move up a step in return. “Yeah. Just…”

Just what, you don’t know. This is another silence with Bruce you don’t know how to fill. You watched this man outride the Two Face Gang. You watched him best Two Face himself when you’ve heard the whole town talk about how fierce he was supposed to be. And he’s sleeping out in your stable because he doesn’t want his horse to be spooked.

He’s a few feet away from you. Too far. Even when you sat beside the fire together, you were still too far away from him. You can’t stand it anymore.

You cross the stable, stopping only a foot away from him. You could reach out and brush your fingertips along his jaw if you had the nerve to raise your hand. He doesn’t step any closer, but right now, his attention is only on you. You feel naked before him, stripped just from his survey. Your breathing grows heavy just from the way he looks at you.

His dark, heavy brows only add to the intensity of focus. His chest rises and falls; you realize now he’s down to his undershirt, the cotton thin and worn. You catch sight of the dark chest hair sprawling across his skin.

Finally, just when you feel like you’re going to explode, you wrap your arms around him, your face angled towards his lips, hovering just before them. He doesn’t look away. His gaze is fixed on you, but he never makes any sign he wants you to stop.

His large palms reach for your waist, keeping you firmly in front of him. Your heart leaps. You want his hands all over you. You want to relish in him, marvel he is. Make this lonely man feel a little less lonely.

His lips are dry as yours brush over them. Riding out in the sun and the cold is tough on the skin; you know that well. You wonder what the last real taste of tenderness this man has experienced is.

If Bruce needs another place to surrender, let your body be it. Let him find peace with you, even if for a fleeting moment.

Finally, you press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips to test the waters. His fingertips curl into your clothes as if that touch alone would reassure you’d kiss him again. He may not have much to say, but even buried beneath all the stoicism, you find he needs touch just as much as anyone else.

You wonder how long it’s been since he’s touched someone else with tenderness.

Your drive comes from the eagerness of his response. You like to feel needed, too. Like knowing there’s a purpose you have here. You have a way to thank him for helping you, something more than a roof over his head. Something less temporary, because at least when he rides away, he’ll have something to remember you by.

When you kiss him again, you’re more eager, more confident of your goal. Bruce responds in kind. He kisses you like a man starved. You know almost nothing about him, and yet, you feel as if you understand him. Maybe it’s just the close call with a bad crowd. Maybe it’s just the fact that a man so worn by the weather shouldn’t be that gorgeous, and you just want a reason for wanting him this badly. Whatever it is, you feel like he might understand you, too.

He leans against the stable, holding you to his chest as a hand cups the back of your head. Your fingers fold into his hair, wishing you could wrap yourself around him fully. Wishing there was a way to get rid of all of the space between the two of you.

Your teeth graze his lip, poking the boundaries again. His grip on you tightens even more. You take that as a positive reaction and gently bite down on his lower lip, pulling back some.

By the time you pull away, you’re breathless and dizzy, drunk off his presence.

You grab him by the front of his shirt, tugging him out of the stable, still crowding in his space. If Bruce minds, he certainly isn’t giving any signs. He guides you as you blindly walk backwards through the ranch, his arm hooked around your waist to keep you upright.

The security of his touch has you pulling him back to you, crashing into a kiss yet again as the brim of his hat keeps your lips sheltered from the rain. He keeps the both of you moving. You let him; he’s been inside the house now. You know he knows where he’s going.

And soon, you feel your back hit the door. You reach behind you, not bothering to look as you fumble for the door handle, one hand still gripping onto Bruce like you can’t stand to lose him. He has you pressed onto the door. When you finally find the handle, the door swings open. On a different day, you would have fallen flat on your back. Bruce catches you. Not even that, because he’s holding you, you don’t even begin to fall.

You manage to tear apart long enough for him to pull his shirt off over his head. Your eyes widen at the sight of his scarred skin. Dipping in some parts, puckering in others. Carefully, you run a hand up the skin, fingertips brushing over the coarse hair on his chest.

There isn’t time for more observation before he’s working your clothes off as well. When you’re clothes are scattered all around the room, he pulls you back to him. Warm skin presses into warm skin. The feeling of him even just like this is intoxicating. You could bury yourself in him and be the most peaceful you’ve ever been in your life.

Bruce doesn’t resist as you turn him around, pushing him down onto the bed. It squeaks with his weight. He looks up at you, sitting off the end of the old mattress. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap.

He holds you against his chest. His lips brush over the skin of your neck. You sigh, fingertips tangling in the ends of his hair yet again. You feel a growing bulge against your thigh that has the corners of your mouth pulling into a smirk.

You grind your hips down, breath hitching at the rise of pleasure. Bruce sighs against your skin. The rush goes to your head; here you have a very skilled man with a reputation for being unstoppable in your bed. He’s surrendered himself to you, and you imagine that’s not something he often does.

Once more, your hips press down into his. Your head falls back as you let out a soft breathy moan. Bruce groans into your skin as his kiss trails down your chest. His calloused hands run up the exposed skin of your legs, gripping onto your hips. When you don’t move, he moves you himself. He grinds against you while rolling your hips towards his.

You let out another pleasured cry. Your nails bite into his shoulder, and his breath picks up. Figures he’s the kind of guy who wants it to hurt at least a little.

Bruce rocks you against him, but it’s just not enough. Not close enough, not full enough. You need more of him. You pull back slightly. The hand that isn’t clawing at his skin pulls his face back from your chest. Your nails drag across his back as you slide off his lap, bending down to undo his pants.

His cock springs up. The outline of it presses up against the thin cotton of his drawers. Warmth pools in the pit of your stomach. Your ache for him comes to a desperate mount.

When it’s nothing but the two of you stripped bare, you rest your hand back on his chest, pushing him down into the mattress. He smirks and goes down willingly, cock twitching as he stares up at you.

The mattress dips as you lean a knee onto the bed, moving to straddle him yet again. His eyes are intense in the dim light. Steely eyes fixed to you with such focus, you’d maybe be unnerved if having all his attention to yourself didn’t fill your stomach with butterflies.

You wrap your hand around his cock as you slowly sink down onto him. The weight of your head tips back yet again as you adjust to how very full he makes you feel. Burying him inside of you alone is enough to have you seeing stars; his cock hits a spot deep inside of you, something blinding you can’t quite reach on your own.

Bruce’s hands dig into your hips again like he wants to take charge, but he holds back.

When you get used to the sensation of him inside you, you pull his hands away from your hips, threading your fingers between his.

“Relax, cowboy,” you whisper, your cunt fluttering around him. You take his hands and pin them next to his head. “Lemme say thank you for saving my life.” You lean down, so slick you slide up his cock with ease. You feel him jerk against your walls as you press a soft kiss just below his ear.

You’re positive it would take no effort for him to flip you over, take you exactly the way he wants to, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even struggle against you. He’s at your mercy, but only because he’s allowing himself to be.

Oddly, you feel honored.

You sit back up, hands sliding down Bruce’s scarred arms, pussy engulfing his cock yet again. A breath catches in your throat as you hit that same spot deep inside. Your palms rest on his chest, fingers splayed out, and you begin to rock your hips against him. He doesn’t protest the weight of your hands. His palms ghost over the skin of your arms, sliding up your back to wrap into your hair. There’s no escaping his gaze except in the moments your eyelids flutter with bliss.

Grinding against him has a sweet warmth building in your stomach. You groan and sigh as you ride him, and he starts to smirk.

“You sound beautiful, darlin’,” he says, pulling you to his lips again. Your cunt is still wrapped around his tip as he cups your jaw with one hand, the other smoothing down the skin of your back. From this angle, you can’t sink back down onto him, and your pussy feels woefully empty,

But Bruce shifts suddenly, legs bent, and begins thrusting into you. His lips don’t dare to leave yours, muffling your gratified cry. He grips your ass, lowering you onto his cock as he thrusts up, getting deeper than even before.

You gasp, knowing you won’t be able to keep back your climax at this rate.

“Let’s see if you can handle some bucking better now than you did earlier,” he growls. You’d feel embarrassed that he’d seen your horse throw you if you weren’t so cock drunk. But it’s just enough to embolden you.

“I told you earlier, Mr. Crusader,” you say, swatting his hands away. “I know how to take care of myself.” You lean back onto your knees again, bouncing on his cock. His hands run over your chest, your ass, whatever he can reach, but he doesn’t seem to be able to get enough.

You can relate.

“Sit up,” you order breathlessly.

“Yes ma’am,” he complies with a playful smirk. The contrast between the gruff man who’d swept you away from danger is staggering. Now, you would even go so far as to say he seems to be enjoying himself.

His chest presses up against yours. You crash your lips against his as you ride him. He winds one arm around your waist again, the other back in your hair. For leverage, you keep your palms onto his shoulders. Your teeth graze over his bottom lip again before biting down. His grip only tightens.

The pleasure is mounting. Your rhythm begins to get sloppier, less steady as you try to chase your orgasm.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme see you take care of yourself,” he teases as you pull away from the kiss, working him deep inside of you.

Your nails dig back into his skin at the words. Your breath catches again. You grind down onto him at just the right angle and everything seems to fall away.

You cry out. If Bruce wasn’t there, you’d fall just like before, but he catches you as you release. Your cunt squeezes around him, and he growls again.

“That’s right. You got one more for me?” he asks. As you ride out the afterglow of your orgasm, Bruce takes your hips again, using his strength to keep you sinking down onto his cock.

“Uh-huh…” you pant, nodding as you give the work over to him.

With his hands on your ass, he moves you up and down onto him. His grip is secure. With what little focus you have at this point, you find yourself fixated by watching the muscles of his arm work your body weight with ease.

Without a break between your first orgasm and the now furious pace at which Bruce fucks himself with your cunt, you feel another climax approaching. Bruce knows. His focus has never waned from your face, infatuated with the details of your expression as you ride him.

Now that he’s doing all the work, you take your hands and cup his cheeks, your lips finding his again in a messy kiss. You’re ravenous for him, wired off of your own bliss. If you don’t ground yourself with him, this seemingly endlessly grounded man, you’d fly away.

Bruce bites down on your lip now, a forceful grip that has you moaning.

His hips stutter. You feel it just as you’re teetering over the edge. One hand moves from his cheek, tugging onto his hair. He moans, and the sound alone pushes you until you’re throbbing around him yet again, body shivering with the force of your release.

Bruce marvels at your open mouthed cries, eyes pinched shut. He slams you down onto his cock, his grip almost bruising as you feel him twitch and cum inside of you.

There’s a beat as you both float on your high, still clinging to each other. Your heart hammers against his chest. Bruce breathes against you. It’s still not close enough, but it’s the closest you’d likely get.

You duck your head into his neck, resting your forehead against his sturdy shoulder. Half-moon indents linger on his skin from your nails. You just smile.

“How’s that for a thank you?” you ask when you finally catch your breath.

He chuckles softly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the skin of your back. “Well, next time you’re in trouble, just call for me. Me and Bats’ll come running.”

AN: huge shout out to @janybabyy, @fic-over-cannon, and @youknowwhoiamperiod for helping me with brainstorming this 💛 i appreciate it big time

[marksbear]

Could I ask for 141 with a southern male reader? I’d like to know what the boys would think of a heavy southern drawl (cowboys are all the rage now a days lol)

Wish I could write more, but I don't have much time rn. But I wrote as much as I could and on my blog theres more fics about y'know cowboy/southern reader

141 BOYS X SOUTHERN MALE READER

Price is probably the least bothered by your accent. But he is interested by it. It's not everyday that he hears a southern accent like yours.

He secretly likes the silly nicknames you give him.

Anytime the team has a free day or something you'll take him to see you ride at a rodeo.

He probably knows how to ride a horse so you and him would spend time together riding around valleys and mountains and hike and camp. Like some brokeback mountain type shit.

As you two grow closer one day you'll just plop down your cowboy hat on his head and just walk away like nothing happened. Like your hat would just be a symbol of y'alls friendship when you give it to him.

He's not a messy person, but when it comes to arguing and he hears your accent thickens as you argue with the person, he'll watch from afar only stepping in when it becomes heated.

You teaching him how to use a lasso and how to make a lasso.

He likes to playfully correct your grammar when you say things. "Ain't isn't a word L/n."

He likes to help out on your ranch/farm from time to time.

Likes to call you outlaw.

"It's hotter than a witches cooch ain't it soap?" *Soap stares at you like your were some fucking weirdo.* Your guys first ever conversation.

From that day forward y'all became the most annoying duo inside the whole military.

Steals your cowboy hat and boots all the time.

"Yer got a ol' lady at home or what?" Soap asks in a teasing tone.

Him laughing his ass off if you ever get thrown off a bull/horse.

If you have a ranch and you invite him over he would not help at all with chasing/ hurdling cattle. But he does help you groom the horses and milk the cows.

Him not trying to giggle while you scold him, because your accent is thicker and louder every time you do it.

Likes to poke fun at your accent even though he cannot be talking like at all.

Watching you in awe as you lasso an enemy and tie them up as if they were just some light sheep.

If you like to chew on wheat straw he'll side eye you a couple times as you just mind your business.

At your ranch he'll make a little competition to see who can lift more hay barrels.

Likes to watch you argue because you have a small temper and can be angered easily. So he just likes to see a good southern brawl from you.

He was finally at peace once that he heard a familiar accent from where he was from.

The boy was thrilled to hear an american accent let alone a southern one. He was over the moon.

He probably grew up with people with a southern accent so once he heard yours he knew he had to get you on his side.

He knows how southern people get with their temper and feelings so he tries his hardest for you to not hate him like the others do.

Slowly you two begin to bond.

And once you two become friends y'all begin to hang out. He knows alot about farm animals and etc so he would help out at your farm/ranch. He loves taking care of the crops and all that.

The others on the team call you crazy for trusting him, but with your small temper you shouted at them with your accent coming in full force.

You calling him "City boy." while he calls you "Cowboy."

Him picking up your accent and words.

Since your accent begins to rub off on him he'll start calling you"darling." or "sugar."

Slowly tries to make you betray the team with him. He wouldn't force you, but he'll just go on and on as to why you should side with him.

THE END

[rayveneyed]

cw: mentions + depictions of death, crime, alcohol.

it's difficult for nanami kento to leave behind the life of a cowboy -- but, truth be told, he's only ever wanted to live a quiet life.

god as his witness, he’s seen his fair share of trouble — train heists and bank robberies and turning sheriffs topsy-turvy, mostly at the behest of his more excitable companions. he's seen blood and guts and bullet wounds the size of his fist, and he’s damn sure seen too many good people bite the dust far too soon. the adrenaline and the money weren’t ever worth it -- but haibara had wanted to stay, and so he did.

haibara dies. it's no glamorous death. it's shitty, and dull, and it happens in the blink of an eye -- shot from his horse as he galloped down the side of a train, hitting the sand with a sickening crack. they hadn't even been able to recover his body, and it ruins kento beyond anything. haibara was his brother. they'd known each other since they were old enough to know what knowing someone meant.

his heart was never fully in it, but that was the nail in the coffin. he couldn't smile. couldn't find the will to continue on as he had before, like nothing had happened. what was it that made him survive, when so many died? why did haibara die -- good haibara, ditsy, smiling haibara -- while nanami lived? why was he seemingly deserving of life, when others weren't?

he didn't know. he doesn't know, but here he is, with a beating heart and a furrowed brow and a pistol that doesn't fit all too well in his hands anymore.

it's all enough to have him yearning for a home and a bed and the country, with it's silence, with it's peace. the country, like he lived in when he was a boy. the country, where haibara had run through the grass and caught cicadas and geckos.

if he can't swap places with haibara, he thinks, then surely he can try to repent for all he's done. turn his life around. live as an honest man.

so — with a heart as light as a lump of stone — he retires from the outlaw life. says goodbye to the crew. sets himself up in a quaint town with a little cottage to himself, some land to farm on and some cattle to wrangle. it’s far away from the big cities, but there’s a train station the next town over and everything he needs a short horse-ride away: a general store, a saloon, a doctor. he can live simply. he can live honestly.

and so it starts. no use in making a name for himself as some sorta recluse, he reckons, so he forces himself to get to know the town, settle in. he’s a quiet man by nature, but they’re kind as most small-town folk are; the doctor is a weathered old man whose daughter is married to the town sheriff, and their niece helps out at the general store. the sheriff himself is stout and balding, with little experience in shooting a gun, but he's a good man. there’s a group of old, weathered farmers that seem to take him under their wing, though he tells them time and time again that he’s no spring-chicken when it comes to tending the farm — that was his father’s work, after all, before he died. and there’s families and kids and men his age, mostly farmers or sheriff’s deputies or soldiers. girls just barely women, tittering and blushing when he nods a good day to them.

life is good. he can live like this, he thinks. he milks the cows and sheers the sheep, hoists lambs over his shoulders and sweats, sweats, sweats. gorges himself on whisky and beer and hearty food, spares some money for a little piece of toffee if he has it. walks himself home from the rowdy saloon with his jacket over his arm and his cheeks flushed, eyes counting fireflies in the evening sun. it’s all hard work -- he's left aching and sore each day -- and it’s good work, anyways. at least out here no-one’s hankering to put a bullet between his eyes.

and yes — he gets lonely sometimes. he’s so used to running with a pack of seven or eight, staying up ‘til dawn, trading stories ‘round the fire. laughing more than he knows how to, hiding smiles around the rim of a cup of moonshine. now, his nights are filled only with the calls of cicadas, the sound of dried grass brushing against itself in the wind. the days are long and hard and he has little to return to by its end.

probably why he spends all his time at the saloon, drowning out the quiet with the noise of it all.

probably why he spends all his time glancing at you out the corner of his eyes.

now, look here: kento doesn’t consider himself the kinda man deserving a wife — but you’re… you’re kind. kind and pretty, serving up drinks and putting the town drunkard out on his ass when he gets too riled up (if kento doesn’t get to him first). slipping the kids sugar cubes when they sneak in past their bedtime.

his first day in town, you never made strange; you remind him of his old crew, in some ways, with your open brightness, your ability to welcome him so easily. you’d told him that his first drink was free of charge, a smile on your lips like a secret. and you walk past his home on your way to work, your dress swaying ‘round your hips, your face all dewy and plump — you're a summer evening, strawberries sweet and syrupy, and he can't help himself: he glances over sometimes, and you always call his name in greeting, like you were expecting it.

(in the back of his bad, no-good mind, he wonders if you talk about him the way the other town girls do — if you giggle over the size of his arms, or the colour of his hair, or his voice. he shakes the thoughts away with a disapproving grunt.)

but it doesn’t matter — it doesn’t matter that sometimes you end up late for work, stuck standing at his fence and talking for far too long; doesn't matter that you bake him loaves of bread, using the excuse that there's too much at home. it doesn't matter that he fixes the porch of your house and you make him lemonade, batting away your younger siblings with a tea-towel and scolding them for bothering him -- doesn't matter that, for a second, he imagines a life like that.

and it sure as hell doesn't matter that, when the old doctor swings an arm around his neck and teases him something terrible, drunk off his head and slurring — “i reckon you’ll be wantin’ a wife soon, big man like yourself!” — that his eyes cut to you. and it doesn’t matter that you’re already looking at him, knowing.

men like him don’t deserve lemonade or apple pie or sweet summer strawberries. not now, not ever.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 21: Cowboy!AU/Ranch

love is a cowboy | @deancaskiss Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 8,183 Main Tags/Warnings: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Jack Kline, Fluff, Kissing, Ranch, Cowboy Dean Winchester, Cowboy Castiel, farm, Horses, Cows, Chickens, Bees, Sunsets, Horseback Riding, Gardening, Teasing, Cowboys Boots, Domestic Fluff, Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Retirement, Found Family, mentions of Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy, Gentle Kissing, Boys Kissing, Rough Kissing, French Kissing, Flirting, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, Romance, Rancher Dean Winchester, Rancher Castiel (Supernatural), Picnics, House Hunting, Surprises Summary: Retirement. Something Dean never expected he’d get to have, especially with Cas by his side. But here they are, and Dean knows it’s finally time. After months of searching, when Cas finds them the perfect forever home to make their own, it feels too good to be true. But it’s real. And it’s all theirs to start something new together. What was once bags packed with weapons and salt becomes cowboy boots, baskets of homegrown herbs, and feed for the animals. But Cas knows there’s one part of the hunting business that Dean still needs. Saving things. And luckily Cas knows exactly how to make that happen to turn their ranch into a home to create their own found family.

Wild Blue Iris | @Sunkenfox Rating: Explicit Word Count: 38,818 Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, major character death, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Alternative Universe - Western, outlaws, eventual smut, slow burn of sorts, sheriff Sam winchester, gunslinger Dean Winchester, bartender Castiel, period typical violence, period typical racism, tuberculosis, period typical bigotry, Found family, top castiel/bottom Dean winchester, implied/referenced abuse, bandits & outlaws, cowboys, revenge, murder, friends to lovers, bisexual dean winchester, slow build, angst, bittersweet ending, stubborn dean winchester, rimming, anal sex, oral sex, emotional hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed Dean Winchester, Summary: Five years after the Winchester Gang went their separate ways, Dean Winchester retuned home to Seneca with the hopes of seeking revenge for his father’s death. Setting his sights on the vicious leader of the rival gang, the Leviathans, Dean sets off on a journey to bring his family back together for one last ride. But the handsome bartender that joins makes Dean reevaluate nope only the vengeance that fuels him but his own self. Battling his own inner demons, and the truth of what happened to his mother, love beings to grow on the trail, and a mysterious illness that is slowly beginning to plague him.

Winchester 275 | @mittensmorgul Rating: Mature Word Count: 56,666 Main Tags/Warnings: Horses, Horseback Riding, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut, after the requisite pining, accidental almost-nudity in a hot tub, Cowboy Hats , First Kiss, First Time, Cowboy Dean Winchester, Astronomer Castiel (Supernatural) Summary: Seven years after Sam left the family's ranch to attend Stanford, Dean's completely transformed the family's failing cattle business into a growing horse ranch. Sam's only got one condition for coming back home after graduation-- let him have a shot to build something of his own, the same as Dean's done. The catch? Sam and Eileen, along with their architect friend Hannah, want to turn a tiny corner of Dean's slice of heaven into a dude ranch. The land itself might be heaven on earth, but Dean's invested his entire life into it. He'd made his peace with being alone, until he meets Hannah's brother. Castiel is a solar astronomer who is reluctantly coerced into helping his sister charm Sam's gruff and stubborn brother into saying yes to what has become her dream project. He doesn't imagine he'd have anything in common with a cowboy, but he finds that Dean's the one who ends up charming him. Cas won't do anything to jeopardize Hannah's shot at her dream, and Dean is reluctant to put Sam's homecoming at risk. If only Dean and Cas could keep their distance from one another, maybe they could set aside their attraction for the sake of their siblings’ business plans. The heavens seem to have other plans for them…

Of Dust, Gunpowder and Holy Water | @melancholictearz Rating: Mature Word Count: 104,940 Main Tags/Warnings: Temporary Major Character Death, Western!AU, Vampire!AU, Vampire Hunter Castiel, Outlaw Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst and Fluff Summary: Castiel is a vampire hunter tracking the creature that doomed the rest of his family to damnation. He crosses paths with Dean Winchester, a cocky outlaw wanting to escape from his mysterious past. They travel together all around the West to fulfil Castiel’s revenge, at the cost of Dean’s life… But what happens when Dean comes back wrong from the dead and has become one of the bloodthirsty creatures Castiel always swore to kill?

The Moonlight Rule | @thefandomsinhalor Rating: Explicit Word Count: 129,320 Main Tags/Warnings: Ranch AU, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Panic Attacks, Home Invasion, Grief/Mourning, Trauma, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Bottom!Dean/Top!Castiel, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Summary: Castiel Novak loves living in Manhattan and feels like he has finally reached a more serene part of his life. After years of hard work at The Lazarus, a boutique luxury hotel, a career opportunity he’s been waiting a long time for presents itself. At last, his problems are behind him. That is until he randomly encounters Henry Winchester, the grandfather of his childhood friend, Dean. Castiel and Dean haven’t seen each other in over ten years. Not since Castiel’s parents stopped visiting the Winchester family ranch. Left somewhat contemplative by this blast from the past encounter, Castiel is then altogether shaken by it when he hears a week later of the sudden passing of Mr. Winchester, as well as the surprising repercussions that come along with it. It seems that their recent and unexpected run-in inspired the late Mr. Winchester to make last minute changes in his will: Dean will only inherit the ranch he’s been running if he marries Castiel and stays married for at least six months.

[pupsmailbox]

COWBOY ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　abeline. adeline. alfred. anderson. annie. archer. arthur. ash. aspen. austin. automata. axel. barett. beau. beckett. belle. bennett. betty. billy. blaise. boone. bree. brooks. bryce. cade. caleb. callen. callie. calvin. carson. casey. cassidy. chance. chase. clayton. clementine. clint. clyde. cody. colby. cole. colt. colton. connor. coraline. county. cree. cyrus. dagger. dakota. dallas. dalton. damon. darby. darla. delta. denver. dove. east. easton. edgar. eliza. elliot. ellis. emmett. emmylou. everett. everly. fallon. fang. farmer. fletcher. flint. flynn. fritz. gage. georgia. georgina. grant. graves. hank. harrison. harvey. hattie. hawk. hayes. heidi. holster. hudson. hunter. ida. jace. jack. jackie. jackson. james. jed. jesse. jessie. john. jolene. josh. joshua. jude. knox. leroy. lewis. loretta. lucille. luke. luther. lyle. maple. marshall. mason. maverick. meadow. millie. misty.��myra. nash. nell. nina. oakley. oscar. otis. owen. pace. pamela. penelope. phoenix. pierce. pollyanna. prairie. quinn. ray. reed. reid. rhett. rhys. riley. river. rochelle. rory. roscoe. rosie. rudy. ryder. rye. sadie. savannah. sawyer. scarlett. sedona. selena. shep. shepherd. sienna. sierra. silas. skye. spanner. sparky. sterling. stevie. stormy sullivan. sundance. tallulah. tate. tess. todd. tucker. twila twyla. verily. wade. walker. walt. walter. waylon. wayne. weston. wilde. will. willa. willow. winona. wren. wyatt. zachariah. zane. zeke. zinnia.

PRONOUNS ⌇　ace/ace. aim/aim. badge/badge. bandana/bandana. barrel/barrel. boot/boot. boy/boy. brash/brash. buck/buck. bull/bullet. cattle/cattle. clad/clad. clash/clash. colt/colt. cow/boy. cow/cow. cowboy/cowboy. cy/cyborg. denim/denim. dirt/dirt. dive/dive. drive/drive. fang/fang. farmer/farmer. fence/fence. fire/fire. foal/foal. gold/golden. gra/grass. gun/gun. hat/hat. herd/herd. hill/hill. hit/hit. hold/holdem. holdem/holdem. hoof/hoof. horse/horse. iron/iron. jack/jack. jump/jump. kick/kick. lasso/lasso. law/law. lawful/lawful. lone/lone. mech/mecha. metal/metal. mount/mountain. mustang/mustang. noon/noon. officer/officer. out/out. outlaw/outlaw. poker/poker. protect/protect. pry/pry. punch/punch. punish/punish. ranch/ranch. ranger/ranger. rev/rev. rev/revolver. rev/rev. revolvers/revolver. river/river. ro/ro. robo/robo. rug/rugged. run/run. rust/rust. ry/ry. save/save. sharp/sharp. sheriff/sheriff. shoot/shoot. shot/shot. shot/shotgun. shout/shout. spark/spark. spur/spur. star/star. steed/steed. steel/steel. sun/sun. thief/thief. tumble/tumble. weed/weed. wheat/wheat. wood/wood. yee/haw. yeehaw/yeehaw.

[forcebutch]

hey man love ur work. just started t and trying to figure out if im a butch [currently id as bi but also not sure if i might be a lesbian] whos on t or if i might be like. an actual man. the thought of being a gay dude terrifies me but i cant tell if its scary bc im in denial or if its scary bc its not true.

i guess im wondering if u have any tips on figuring myself/shit out? i think part of it is feeling like i'll lose being butch if i'm also attracted to men?? any input or thoughts u may have are helpful tyy

i was gonna tell you you shouldnt source your info from porn blogs (and i should ABSOLUTELY NOT be your only source. i'm serious) but considering that i've been through that particular existential crisis multiple times i have some experience with it, let's do this anyways.

i am not even half as confident in my personal life as i am on this blog. my gender-sexuality is fluid and i do not fit nicely in categories, but that can feel like it leaves me either labelless or a liar. life as a gender-sexuality weirdo is not kind on anybody, and that pain really erodes away your concept of what parts of your self-image you are Allowed To Be, especially if you rely on others who agree with strict untouchable boundaries between genders and sexualities. frankly the strict no-touching model of gender-sexuality is really bad for questioning and gender/sexually fluid people. i think at some point in the 2010s we lost the idea of a queer spectrum and continued on with policed modes of gender-sexuality.

that's all theory, though. you can litigate your gender and sexuality to line up with cliquey queer ingroups or gender-apathetic academics or return-to-tradition het truscum until the cows come home and still never feel like yourself.

as my wife says, there's a reason science degrees require a number of lab hours. at some point you just gotta do it. no more theory: turn off brain, start. you have several hypotheses and they need some actual testing. flirt with somebody at a gay bar. do drag. buy syd sixx's or carta monir's t-masc-featured porn, take an edible, and have a night to yourself. watch an archived copy of bloodsisters with your pants off. fuck a friend who's gay in a different way than you. ask your partner to switch between calling you a good boy and a good butch in bed. call yourself a faggot while you're jacking it. 69 another gender outlaw. Do Something. you can figure out labels as you go.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Day of the Cowboy

Saddle up and get ready to ride into the sunset with the thrill and excitement of the Wild West! Cowboys are the ultimate symbol of grit, determination, and adventure.

Giddyup! Ride ‘em Cowboy!

Celebrate this symbol of the American West by learning about and appreciating the National Day of the Cowboy.

History of National Day of the Cowboy

Following the Civil War, many men moved west looking for ways to work and make a living. One of the attractions of the American frontier was the relative freedom, as well as the option to become cowboys who could access free range cattle.

The “Wild West”, beginning in the 1860s through the end of the 19th century, became a time of a bit of chaos on the frontier where gangs of criminals were easily bred. Infamous cowboys, like Billy the Kid, Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and John Wesley Hardin were outlaws who committed various robberies, cattle rustling and even murder.

First sponsored in the US Senate in 2005, National Day of the Cowboy was originally brought about by Wyoming’s US Senator at the time, Craig Thomas.

Former president Bush said this about the National Day of the Cowboy: “We celebrate the Cowboy as a symbol of the grand history of the American West. The Cowboy’s love of the land and love of the country are examples for all Americans.”

National Day of the Cowboy Timeline

1725

The term “cowboy” is first being used 

Jonathan Swift uses the word in his famous book, Gulliver’s Travels, but it really just means a boy who tends cows.

Mid-1800s

The “Wild West” period begins

After the American Civil War, many men head to Texas where free-ranging cattle are available for any cowboy who wants to round them up – and the popularity of eating beef increases.

1875

“Billy the Kid” is first arrested 

This infamous cowboy criminal is a gunfighter, murderer, fugitive, cattle rustler, and eventually dies at the young age of 21.

1930

John Wayne first appears in film 

The Big Trail is the first movie that actor “Duke” Morrison makes in what will be a series of more than 75 films over his lifetime.

1960

Dallas Cowboys are founded 

In the early days of the National Football League (NFL), the Dallas Cowboys franchise was established and went on to become an extremely popular team.

How to Celebrate National Day of the Cowboy

Celebrating National Day of the Cowboy can be loads of fun in a variety of ways! Try out some of these delightful ideas to enjoy the day:

Dress Like a Cowboy

This can be a way to connect with your inner cowboy by wearing some special gear to work, to school or just while running daily errands. Try out some basic blue jeans, some clever cowboy boots, a leather vest and a western shirt (complete with shell snaps!).

Perhaps try a bolo tie or a handkerchief tied around the neck. And, of course, it would be appropriate to top it all off with an enormous cowboy hat. The bigger, the better!

Listen to a Cowboy Song Playlist

Because they typically hail from the southwest, cowboys may have a particular style of music they enjoy. National Day of the Cowboy would be a perfect time to create a list of songs that give a nod to the tunes of these unique characters:

Mommas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboysby Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson (1978). This one was originally recorded by Ed Bruce in 1976, but this more popular version was recorded two years later.

Cowboy Take Me Away by The Chicks–formerly Dixie Chicks (1999). A play on the phrase “Calgon Take Me Away”, from the famous slogan from bath product commercials, this song reached #1 on the US Billboard Hot Country Singles and Tracks chart in February 2000.

Cowboy Cassanova by Carrie Underwood (2009). Released on Underwood’s third studio album, Play On, the single was certified 2x Platinum.

The Cowboy in Me by Tim McGraw (2001). Written by Jeffrey Steele, Al Anderson and Craig Wiseman, this song made it to #1 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles and Tracks chart that year.

Visit a Rodeo

A great time for enjoying all things related to National Day of the Cowboy, visiting the rodeo can be an amazing experience! Regular events include activities such as steer wrestling, bull riding, calf roping, steer roping, bareback horse, barrel racing and saddle bronc riding. Of course, don’t forget the scorecard for keeping score.

Don’t forget to wear the above-mentioned cowboy gear when headed to the rodeo. Those who are lucky might get to see a rodeo clown. Perhaps even try riding the mechanical bull!

Follow Some Sage Cowboy Advice

Cowboys from the Wild West have lived a great deal of life and have tons of experience! With all of that experience comes a great deal of wisdom and they have often been known to share their advice with others in clever phrases, like “Don’t squat with your spurs on”, or “Never corner something meaner than you”.

Enjoy a few of these phrases and consider sharing them with friends, family and coworkers in honor of National Day of the Cowboy. Some of them might even be fun to have printed on a t-shirt to wear on the day:

“Don’t go in if you don’t know the way out.”

“If you get thrown from a horse, you have to get up and get back on, unless you landed on a cactus; then you have to roll around and scream in pain.”

“Some cowboys have too much tumbleweed in their blood to settle down.”

“If you’re ridin’ ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it’s still there with ya.”

Watch Some Cowboy Movies

One of the great film settings of all time, the Wild West is the perfect place for cowboy movies to be made! This day offers a great time to enjoy a collection of classic Western movies in honor of National Day of the Cowboy! Try out one (or all!) of these:

True Grit (1969). One of John Wayne’s most famous movies, this film features a US Marshal and Texas Ranger who chases down a murderer in dangerous territory. It was remade in 2010, starring Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Hailee Steinfeld and Josh Brolin.

Rango (2011). Fun for adults and family members alike, this computer animated Western comedy film stars Johnny Depp who voices a chameleon character who accidentally gets stranded in the desert.

The Lone Ranger (1956). This classic cowboy film was based on the American television series of the same name that was from 1949-1957, starring Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels.

No Country for Old Men (2007). Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, Josh Brolin and Woody Harrelson are the all-star cast in this modern Western crime thriller movie created by the Coen brothers. Based on the 2005 novel of the same name by Cormac McCarthy, this film won a huge array of film awards.

Are cowboys real?

Yes. Although they are less common than they may have been several decades ago, the American cowboy continues in places like Colorado, Texas, Montana, and even Connecticut.

How did cowboys dress?

Cowboys are known for their pointy leather cowboy boots, vests with pockets and very large cowboy hats.

What are cowboy hats made of?

Cowboy hats are typically made of either felt or straw. Less commonly, they can be made of leather.

Do cowboys ride cows?

No! Cowboys ride horses, of course. They are called cowboys because they take care of and drive cattle herds.

How do cowboys talk?

Depending on where they are from, cowboys may have unique phrases like “Howdy Partner”, “Giddyup”, “City Slicker”, and “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out”.

Source

[ckret2]

Writing really is a process of

"Oh yeah I've figured out these characters I'm writing, I know what they're gonna do. I know exactly how cagey Bill is about his past. He plays the truth close to his chest. We're probably not gonna get anything but lies and misdirection out of him until we're well over halfway through the fic—"

Bill went on, "And what about those sweet men who look up to you—those criminals who see you as their little angel? You give them such hope. What would they think if they heard you reoffended first?"

"Don't bring them into this," Gideon said hotly. "What would they think if they heard I'm making deals with you again? After all I put them through because of you—!"

Bill placed a finger over Gideon's lips. "Shhh." He whispered, "That's the great thing, star boy. They don't have to hear a thing. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut—and so will I."

Gideon fell silent.

Bill straightened up, wiped his finger on his pants, and grinned with too many teeth. "You know, you've got a good thing going with those thugs of yours," he said. "Take it from one child psychic to another—your mainstream audience will lose interest as soon as you're too old for adults to find the baby-talk cute. You're lucky you're short, you can milk that cow a few more years. But when they're gone? The freaks, outcasts, and outlaws are your core audience. A man who's been kicked to the curb all his life will do anything for a guy who smiles and calls him special."

He tilted his head, giving Gideon a wry, knowing smirk. "But I think you've figured that out on your own, haven't you?"

Gideon's stomach flipped. "I-I don't—I'm not using them like you're talking about! I'm there for them because they're there for me—"

"Core audience," Bill said gently.

Sorry Bill excuse me I think I missed that, "Take it from one

what

to another"?

[phantomwritezstuff077]

The Runt - Billy the Kid

Warnings for this chapter: Jesse Evans, swearing, slight misogyny?, mentions of abuse, PTSD

Chapter Ten

The next day, Laurie, Billy and Pat galloped through the plains in the direction of where Jesse and his gang were apparently now residing. Artax whinnied with glee upon feeling the wind in his mane, tossing his head around like an energetic colt with a snort. This caused Laurie to smile a little bit, she was feeling incredibly nervous about reuniting with Jesse, so it felt nice to have her best friend distract her for a moment, but she couldn’t help but let her mind wonder back to how Jesse might react to seeing her after all these months.

Would he be mad at her?

Would he hate her more than he already did before she left?

As they approached the ranch, a man stood up with a shotgun, he seemed ready to shoot them dead until he recognized Pat and called out to his buddies, letting them know that their comrade had returned with guests. Artax skidded to a stop as Laurie turned to Billy, she was visibly nervous and Billy could tell right away. The outlaw gave her a reassuring smile and nod, letting her know that it’ll be okay. It helped a little bit but it did not completely calm her nerves.

“Jesse, you may wanna come out here,” a man that Laurie immediately recognized as Bob called out into the house, taking a drag of his tobacco filled cigarette as he did so. Laurie took a deep breath, stroking her horse's fur as she waited for Jesse to come out. Her heart was pounding and she felt like her blood vessels were going to burst due to the adrenaline. 

Jesse walked out of the house, a cigar in his mouth. It was hard to tell what he was thinking when he saw Laurie and Billy on their horses, standing side-by-side. Laurie took another deep breath before she spoke.

“Hi, Jesse,” she said, adjusting Artax’s reins in her hands. Jesse didn’t say anything as he took a drag of his cigarette, Laurie recognized the gaze that was plastered on Jesse’s face.

And it was safe to say that the blond son of a bitch was beyond pissed at her. 

“We met Pat Garret here out on the road, minding our own business,” Billy jumped in, trying to take Jesse’s glare away from the already nervous teenager. Jesse just hummed in response as Billy looked around at the small ranch. “It’s a neat little hideout.”

“Oh, I like it. Real private,” Jesse answered, throwing away his cigarette, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked over. “You remember the boys?”

“Sure do,” Billy answered, his horse subtly taking a step forward, almost acting like a shield for Laurie. “This okay, Jesse?”

Jesse simply smiled at Billy, nodding his head. “Sure it is, Kid. I’m really glad to see you, Billy. And I’m even more happy to know that Lauren is safe.”

“She prefers Laurie,” Billy said to Jesse, who simply nodded with a shrug.

“Surely fate’s brought us back together again,” Jesse continued, “You gonna ride with us this time?” Jesse looked over at Laurie. “And actually stay with us?”

“Depends, you gonna treat Laurie like a human bein’ now?,” Billy asked, glancing at Laurie and then at the cow that was in the process of being prepared for food. “Also depends on what you’re cookin’.”

“Rustling John Chisum’s cattle. You’ve heard of John Chisum? They call him the Cattle King of America. He’s got cattle here in Texas, in New Mexico, all over Lincoln County. He is one rich son of a bitch, and we’re making good money selling his cattle to the army,” Jesse replied, “And as I’ve said before. I am gonna make it my life’s mission to make it up to Lauren for how I treated her. It was wrong.” He paused for a moment. “You two back in?” 

Laurie immediately called bullshit, she knew he didn’t regret a single thing when it came to how he treated her. Men like that never feel bad for what they do to the people who trusted them. But she nodded, saying yes for Billy’s sake. Because either it was to stay with the gang or go to some shitty orphanage. 

The red headed girl dismounted Artax, stroking the stallion’s neck before gently leading him to the water trough where she began to untack him. She gently tugged the bridle off of his face, giving him a mint before hanging it up on the fence post when she heard someone behind her. Laurie had memorized footsteps long enough to recognize it was Jesse who was approaching her. The young teenager whipped her head around to face him, she was still like a jumpy doe because of him.

“Runt,” Jesse said.

“Jesse,” Laurie sighed, hearing the all too familiar nickname never got any easier. Artax pinned his ears upon seeing Jesse, the stud never liked Jesse and the feeling was mutual on Jesse’s end as well.

“The hell were you thinkin’, running off like that?,” he hissed. Laurie took a slight step back, afraid that he would hit her again.

No, he wouldn’t do that.

Not when there were so many witnesses.

“I’m sorry, okay?,” Laurie responded, swallowing as she turned back around, undoing the cinch on Artax’s saddle. Jesse would’ve said more if Billy didn’t walk over to them, leaning on the fence as he tilted his head to the side.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Jesse reassured, seeing the look of suspicion on Billy’s face. Billy nodded, the look on his face screamed ‘better be.’ 

Laurie removed Artax’s saddle and rested it on the fence before gently putting a rope over the horse’s neck and leading him into the small pasture, but Artax didn’t leave Jesse unharmed. The stud purposefully stood on his foot and once that was done, he swished his tail, directly hitting Jesse in the face, whinnying in amusement. Laurie giggled quietly, secretly giving him a treat for that as she let him go into the pasture. 

ⅠⅠⅠⅠ

Later that night, Laurie sat at a table with Billy, eating her dinner quietly while the two friends engaged in conversation. She wasn’t really contributing anything but she knew that the two older men knew that she was there and that she was also listening. 

“What happened to Barbara?,” Billy suddenly asked, Laurie lifted her head upon the name. Even though Barbara did little to nothing to stop the ongoing abuse that Laurie would receive from Jesse, she also couldn’t help but wonder what happened to her, especially because she hadn’t seen her around. 

“Oh, you know, she, uh… moved on,” Jesse explained, “She left not long after Lauren ran off.”

“Moved on to where?,” Billy asked, wanting to know more as Laurie reached over, taking his whiskey and drinking it. 

“If you must know, she got herself a job as a schoolteacher,” Jesse sighed, getting a little annoyed at the constant stream of questions about his ex. “Can you imagine that? Miss Jones.”

Laurie shrugged, putting the bottle down and sharply inhaling. Her head becoming fuzzy as the alcohol clouded her mind, she shook her head, feeling rattled. SHe really needed to stop stealing drinks.

“Actually, I can,” Billy chuckled, smiling a little bit at the thought.

“Is that right?,” Jesse responded, “You didn’t think for a second that she was too beautiful just to waste her life as a teacher in school?”

“It ain’t a waste, Jesse,” Billy countered, adjusting his posture in his seat. “There are plenty of kids out there who would kill to be able to learn how to do stuff like readin’. Besides, Barbara was always a teacher. Shit, I think she taught me and you more than we could ever know.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse scoffed, “What do you figure you can learn from a teacher in school you can’t find out for yourself?”

“Reading,” Laurie suddenly said, the alcohol she had just consumed making her a lot more confident now.

Jesse just shrugged once more, not really wanting to hear anymore of this as he got up. Billy looked over at Laurie, confused at her newfound confidence but when his eyes landed on the whiskey bottle he shook his head.

“Lightweight,” he sighed, standing up and helping the drunk teenager to her feet, taking her to where she would be sleeping that night. 

A/N:

LAURIE IS MY BABY

Artax's beef with Jesse is my new favorite thing ever

Will Laurie find her Mama? Or is she gonna remain motherless?

Tag:

@slutforsnow

[shares-a-vest]

Steve takes one last look in the mirror and frowns at his store-bought cowboy costume. He looks positively lame, more like a spoilt child rather than a Wild West outlaw. But Robin insists he wears an actual costume because, "putting on sunglasses and saying you are a Tom Cruise character isn't a costume, Steve".

Eddie says as much when he heads over to the new trailer to pick him up. But he has no clue Eddie practically stumbles down the front steps because he's too busy staring at the cow-print chaps that frame his butt in the best way possible.

Steve chooses to ignore Eddie's outfit: a homemade vampire bat costume he had been threatening to wear for weeks. They already argued about its tastelessness when Steve walked into the trailer last week to find Eddie sewing clumps of black furry material to the shoulders of a sweater and sculpting felt ears. But hey, if this is how Eddie wants to deal with them almost dying from the undead Upside Down equivalent... Steve just has no intention of defending him against a gaggle of teenagers when they are all supposed to be enjoying a Halloween party in the safety of Steve's house. 

Robin and Nancy have finished the party planning, dressed in a failed couples costume (Robin's neon green jumpsuit and inflatable alien head far from complementing Nancy's impeccable Ellen Ripley). And Nancy is genuinely pissed about it because Argyle and Jonathan are dressed as a zombie bride and groom and look fantastic.

Steve stubbornly spends far too much of the night manning his parent's liquor cabinet for fear the kids will sneak a drink. And Eddie's smart enough to not tell him he saw Dustin (dressed as Gandalf the Grey) and Max (similarly controversial as Freddy Kruger) take a drink from a rogue beer can, gag and set it down on the Harrington's expensive coffee table without a coaster.

Eddie eventually drags Steve away to the downstairs bathroom, intertwining their pinkies, with a "come on cowboy" he'd waited all night to say. He managed to convince him that Will (aka Luke Skywalker) would take over as resident party-pooper at the liquor cabinet - even though Eddie did have to relinquish one Hellfire campaign to the kid so he could finally show off his Dungeon Master skills. Plus, it gave the kid a distraction from pining over Mike (who somehow managed to make Dracula look pathetic).

"You wanna kiss me, bat boy?" Steve asks with a little liquid courage and a blush as he closes the bathroom door and crowds Eddie against the vanity. 

"Yes," Eddie says, suddenly completely panicked.

He didn't think they'd get this far considering they had almost kissed countless times before now, but were always interrupted. By Eddie's recollection, the last time was about 78 hours ago outside his trailer when Steve looked like he was about to kiss him goodbye until Max came running over with candy to share.

He leans in but Steve holds up a hand in protest. 

"Um, Eds? Your fangs."

Eddie remembers his plastic vampire teeth and claps a hand to his mouth, utterly mortified. He spits them clean out into his palm and dumps them in the sink. 

"Dude, ew," Steve says, screwing up his nose.

Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and rubs his spit-covered palm on his jeans. He then removes Steve's cowboy hat and combs his non-spitted-on fingers through his flattened hair. They look at each other for a moment before Steve leans in and places a soft kiss on his lips. They separate and sigh with utter relief.

They proceed to furiously make out and forget the party outside until someone comes banging on the bathroom door, at which point they exit, entirely flustered and awkwardly duck their heads out of view of whoever it was at the door and head for Steve's bedroom with lightening speed. Days later they find out it was a traumatised Lucas (he dressed as Maverick from Top Gun) who of course, blabbed to everyone before the party was over.

[princessbrunette]

future into life with outlaw!johnb with a chubby baby 😢😢😢😢😢😢😞😞🥹🥹🥹

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.

running away from your family farm house and starting a life with john b means you get to work pretty quickly. they can’t send him to jail if he’s got a family, right? it would be cruel and unfair.

when john b first brings you to your new house, you’re uncertain. it’s falling apart a little on the outside, the land is dry and slightly barren, there’s no animals in the farm — but the brunette had a way of making you believe everything would be okay. he turned your face in his hands and stared into your eyes with that reassuring smile and told you that he was going to work tirelessly to make this place a home, and he did.

over the coming weeks, your soon to be husband would often arrive home with a new animal — at first a horse, and then some cows, followed by some chickens, and then soon goats and sheep. you had no idea how he was doing it, aside from the knowledge that your man had some serious swindling skills on him and knew how to throw a gamble.

you began to enjoy the little routine the two of you were falling into after that. he’d hammer away at fences, walls, doors, the porch — anything he could get his hands on all day in the blistering heat — sweaty and shirtless until the sun would start to set and he’d be coming inside for the hearty meal you’d put on the table. no matter how much physical labour he’d subject himself to in the day, he would never be too tired to pin you to the bed and fuck you open at the end of it.

which is how you ended up with a sweet, happy, well fed baby on your hip a year on — the two of you in the shade on the porch as you sip on your iced tea with one hand, watching your man pull together the finishing touches on the barn, paint and saw dust staining his jeans.

he wipes his hands on the white tshirt he wore and adjusts his heavy belt before turning to you, his face of concentration melted into a loving smile upon seeing his beautiful wife and the baby that had just awoken from his nap. since entering fatherhood, john b had taken on a whole new level of physical manliness that had you itching for another baby. stubble dusted his cheeks, his body was thicker and more toned from all the food you’d been making him and physical work he’d been putting in, and he looked overall a little more rugged. he grins, stepping up to the porch as his baby boy squeals and bounces on your hip, knocking his fat fists against your shoulder excitedly.

“are you happy to see daddy?” you coo, bursting into your own giggles.

“heeeey my sweet boy!” john b approaches, tickling the babies ribs causing him to kick about with an elated laugh. he turns his expression to you, his smile fading into a smirk of sorts, tilting his head. “my girl.” he greets, and even after all this time he still makes you shy. you stand on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his lips— knowing later on that night you’d be begging for another sweet baby.

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.

[therealbeachfox]

"So Outlaws should’ve been doomed from the start, and almost was. The thing that saved it though, strangely enough, was that fucking décor.

For those of you who never set foot inside one while they still existed (and good on you, you are truly wise) and don’t want to sit down with any of those old YouTube “Live Commentary of my Outlaws Trip Experience” videos (also good on you. No one has enough life-span to be wasting any of it on crap like that), it can be hard to describe. You had your cow skulls painted with American flags and wearing giant rhinestoned purple cowboy hats. You had guitars with red and black lightning bolts and flashing LEDs hidden inside. You had railroad crossing signs covered with barbed wire, shotguns with screaming eagles painted across the barrels in gold paint, and on and on and on.

Just… Truly godawful shit.

But this was Gotham, and that décor did not last long. I mean, around here most restaurants know better than to cover their walls with easily snaggable crap like that. It’s just free shit as far as most of the late-night customers are going to be concerned, especially when your business model is so heavily focused on the 20-somethings and teenagers with good fake IDs demographics like Outlaws was.

But this was Gotham, so we didn’t just steal all that shit, oh no. See, here’s what the rest of you don’t get about Gotham. It’s not that we’re all a bunch of amoral murderous criminals. Sure, our per-capita rate of those is truly unsettling compared to the rest of the country, but they’re still very much the minority. No, what makes a Gothamite truly a Gothamite is the utter gleeful perversity we take whenever we’re gonna be a shit. It can manifest in all sorts of ways (Just look at our own Bruce Wayne, who manifests his as pure ‘fuck the rich’ energy, setting his money on fire, pratfalling into fountains, and then grinning at all the other rich-people who have to put up with his bullshit because despite it all he’s still way richer than they’ll ever be.), but very often it manifests in not doing crime in a straight-forward manner, but insisting on being a little fucking bitch about it.

So people didn’t just steal that gaudy bullshit wall art; they replaced it.

The cow-skulls got switched out for manikin heads, still wearing the same gaudy cowboy hats. Then the hats were exchanged for headwear that was even weirder. Railroad signs were taken away, even with the barbed wire, and for awhile the walls were plastered with “Warning! Live Mines!” signage left over from No-Man’s. That terrible LED-illuminated lightning guitar was replaced with a full-ass gargoyle someone managed to pry off one of the smaller spires of St. Marie’s, and I really fucking wish I could claim credit for that one, but I have no idea who did it much less -how-. "

(494 words from chapter one of TCAKMJT) I would love to know about how you came up with the idea of Outlaws, because I (non-american) had to actually search up if it existed or not!

Hoo boy! Going from 0 to 60 right out the gate on this one!

*deep breath*

Outlaws (the restaurant) is what happens when I'm allowed to let an idea peculate for the better part of a year in the back of my head.

While I was in the process of pulling together Conrad the Crime Alley Kid from the various in-character comments I'd made on TaxiCabToSlowtown's "Am I the Bathole" series, TaxiCab was busy making their own version of the (at the time) nameless not-hench, which turned into How to Get (a) Partner(s) Through Reddit. In it, the big mask-off reveal that Red Hood was Jason Todd was made in the back alley behind a nameless East End bar with Starfire and Arsenal in attendance, and just as with Jason's screen name being TheFredHood, I knew I had to borrow/steal/homage that for my own version as well.

When I got to that point.

*Spongebob voice* 11 months later.

So during all the time I was working on the earlier stories, I had this scene churning away in the back of my head. The first thing I -knew- I had to do was name the bar they met at Outlaws. Because I strongly feel like Jason and pals would be unable to resist grabbing 1 AM burgers and beer while plotting out their next technically-not-a-crime-spree from a place called -Outlaws-.

However, Outlaws lead my mind to Outlaw Country music and all of its assorted motifs and flair, and I floundered around on how to reconcile my version of Red Hood voluntarily eating at a place like that. But that was fine, I had a bunch of other shit to write ahead of figuring out how to handle that.

A bit into all this, I came across the Skrunkfest post series, and my brain promptly shoved it into the Outlaws box and went "Eh? Eh??" at me while waggling its eyebrows, but it still wasn't jelling.

A bit after -that-... I can't remember a specific post or image or thing I read triggering it, but that doesn't mean there wasn't one, but I had the sudden mental image of a western-cyberpunk bar with the fog-machine ambiance and weird lighting, and walls covered with Batman villain gear with green and purple fairy lights strung through them, and just a total Skrunkfest style vibe as you got served at a grungy funky bar with a cracked Red Hood helmet mounted between one of Harley's hammers and a razor-wire wrapped "No Man's Land - Landmine Warning" signpost. And went "Okay. Something like -that-."

So by the time I sat down to start writing that story for reals, I had the mental image of "Outlaws: A kitchzy Western/Outlaw Country restaurant/bar turned Gotham Skrunk/Villain den." and began writing it based around that concept sketch.

Small digression: I usually write my stuff multiple times. I write the chapter, get out everything I feel needs to be in there. Then I put that to the side of the screen, and start writing it again from scratch. Now that I'm not coming up with the ideas fresh, I can write them... smoother? More detailed and more comfortable. Taking a sander and sculpting knife to it all. I honestly usually repeat this process two or three times before moving onto reworking stuff within the document instead of making a new one.

All that to say, the first... three? versions of the chapter still weren't working for me. Then I remembered: Oh wait, I don't need to have Conrad give a mental description of the place as he walks through the door, I have social media posts!

And it was while rewriting that whole section as Conrad's online review-slash-teardown that the full Outlaws experience jelled into being.

Outlaws, pre-Gothamization, is everything about American chain restaurants I hate. And everything I hate about the 2000's faux patriotismgasim that overtook and consumed Country music then swaggered around in it's skinned hide.

On the restaurant front, I started with the "Stick everything on the walls" philosophy you get out of Cracker Barrel or *deep sigh* Red Robin. I don't know how common this... concept is outside of the USA, but it's basically taking the contents of some barn's storage shed and just nailing it all to the walls. "Crazy Crap on the Wall decor", pastiche americana, faux Americana, "like a telekinetic went crazy at a flea market", there's no common name for it.

Basically, taking that concept, and blending it with all the insane-ass "We're calling ourselves Outlaw Country, but we've got million dollar budgets for this show tour" stuff I've seen over the years, shoving in the weird over-abundance of sauces that all taste different variations of sickly sweet you get out of places like Buffalo Wild Wings, and just everything that comes from the "A bunch of venture capitalists with too much money decide to just brute force a new dining institution by opening 80 branches all at once and money-bombing an advertising spree across every form of media at once" phenomenon.

So that left me with the original Outlaws, and I knew what I wanted the final results to look like. Then once I was writing Conrad writing about it all, the exact progression of how the former became the latter finally came together.

Ta-Dah!

Honestly, the Outlaws restaurant has one of the highest number of contributing concepts out of anything I've come up with so far. Which, again, is what happens when you get an entire year to just let something brew in the back of your head.

And I'm glad that it felt real enough to have to google because there are honestly so many places like this. I just sort of smooshed them all together and bumped the dials to max because comics!

[i-will-not-be-caged]

Free Books!

It's Stuff Your Kindle Day(s), so a bunch of romance authors have stuff for freeeee today. I've read some of what's being offered, so I figured I'd give you a list of recs. And I'm even gonna put it below a cut to save your dash

The Endgame by Riley Hart When an out-and-proud Senator from California sets his sights on a beautiful man in a bar, he has no idea he's a closeted professional football player from Atlanta. Between texts, phone calls and secret meetups, the two men fall in love. The odds are stacked against them, but this is a game both men plan to win. Keywords: sports romance

My thoughts: this is one of my absolute all time faves. Seriously, I've read it so many times now. I don't even really know why, there's just something about it

Lost Touch (Mismatched Mates) by Eliot Grayson After a year of imprisonment and experimentation, Ash is finally free—but not unscathed. Amnesiac and unable to feel pleasure or pain, he’s at the mercy of his rescuer: an alpha werewolf who promises he’ll protect Ash no matter what. But if Drew can’t control himself, Ash could suffer a worse fate than the one he escaped… Keywords: M/M, alpha werewolf, knotting, no mpreg

My thoughts: I don't remember a ton about this series, much less this particular book, but that's par for the course for me. I liked it enough to read the whole series, so take that for what it's worth.

Egotistical Puckboys by Eden Finley and Saxon James Ezra and Anton are doing it "for the team" in this rivals to lovers hockey romance. With a price as cheap as our guys, see where it all starts for the PR nightmares of the NHL. Keywords: Hockey Romance, Enemies-to-Lovers, Teammates

My thoughts: if you read hockey romance, you've probably heard of this author duo. Their stuff is always fun and funny, and definitely not the most inaccurate hockey books I've read.

Devil's Dance (Rebel Kings MC, #1) by Garrett Leigh Opposites attract. The outlaw biker and the accountant. Straightlaced vs straight to hell. Strap in for this bestselling angsty MMM romance. Keywords: Biker romance, MC romance, poly romance, MMM romance, MM romance

My thoughts: I'm not often in the mood for angst, but when I am, Leigh is my go-to. While labeled MMM, most of the full triad relationship is actually in the second book, so it might be helpful to know that going in.

Pick Me (Sunday Brothers) by May Archer A laugh-out-loud rom com about a lumberjack-loving, cow-phobic human ray of sunshine who moves to small-town Vermont for a temporary gig at an apple orchard… only to find himself falling for the quirky town and a certain gorgeous, grumpy man who’s got “permanent” written all over him. Keywords: mm romance, small town romance, grumpy/sunshine, age gap

My thoughts: if you like small town shenanigans with quirky supporting characters, May Archer's Sunday Brothers series is for you. Think Stars Hollow, but gayer

Right As Raine (Aster Valley) by Lucy Lennox As the first openly gay professional football player, I can’t afford to make any mistakes, on or off the field. And the absolute biggest mistake I could make right now would be to fall for Mikey Vining, my best friend, employee and, more importantly, Coach’s baby boy. I might fantasize about Mikey at night-—every night—but actually touching him would be a serious personal foul. Keywords: mm romance, football, forbidden romance, sports romance

My thoughts: another one where I don't remember a ton of details, but I've never regretted picking up a Lucy Lennox book

The Necromancer's Light by Tavia Lark Lonely, touch-starved necromancer Shae will die without human touch. His new paladin bodyguard didn't know cuddling would be part of the job. MM High Fantasy Romance. Keywords: m/m, gay romance, hurt/comfort, huddling for warmth, grumpy/sunshine

My thoughts: I'm obnoxiously picky about gay fantasy and Tavia Lark's stuff scratches the right itch. I didn't like this series as much as her Perilous Courts series, but it was still good.

Natural Twenty (Roll for Love Book One) by Charlie Novak A gruff florist falls for an anxious bookseller with a broken heart in this low-angst contemporary MM romance featuring Dungeons & Dragons, secret flower language bouquets, steamy dreams and sofa smut, and melt in your mouth sweetness. Keywords: Contemporary M/M romance with a low-angst HEA, spice and sweetness.

My thoughts: Novak does low-angst SO WELL. This whole series is just a warm hug.

Shades Of Lust (The Carnal Tower Book One) by E.M. Lindsey Stone is well aware he can’t mix business and pleasure, but when August comes to him with a proposal for a trade—seven paintings for seven nights with Lust—he can’t say no. Not when it means he’ll be able to have August exactly the way he wants him. Stone has every plan to strip August down to his very soul, but the longer the week goes on, the more Stone comes to realize that August might very well be his undoing. Keywords: Virgin Hero, Disabled Character, Bisexual Awakening, Mental Health Rep, M/M

My thoughts: not my favorite series of Lindsey's, but their disability rep is always on point and the writing is top notch

And here's the ones I'm downloading, all because I've enjoyed other stuff from the authors:

Favor (Forever Family Trilogy Book 1) by Kiki Clark Jeremy knows better than to fall for the hot guy doing renovations on his house--especially since that guy's his brother's best friend. And most likely straight. Except... why is the smokeshow of a contractor smiling at him like that? Keywords: m/m, bisexual romance, brother's best friend, blue collar character

Lacuna by N.R. Walker Lacuna is a 92,000-word MM love story of swords and sorcery, action and adventure, and fated romance. Two kings in a game of chess they were never supposed to win. Keywords: Fantasy, gay romance, fated lovers, swords and alchemy

Between the Pipes (Watkins Glen Gladiators #1) by V.L. Locey Between the Pipes is a low angst, age gap gay hockey romance that features an outgoing young goalie, a cautious older race car driver, two families who are not above meddling just a bit to see their loved ones happy, lots of on-ice and high-speed action, and a straightaway sprint to a happy-ever-after. Keywords: Hockey romance, age gap, low angst, family, M/M

Go forth and read!

[delopsia]

Little Wolf | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 6,300 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Fem!Reader, wolf!reader, outlaw!Rhett, unprotected sex, mild breeding kink, pregnancy, usage of firearms (you get shot at), general running from the law stuff with a dash of running Perry over💃 and a cute little bonus scene at the end

"Quit staring at that saloon girl before you make her uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry, ma'am; I just thought she was pretty. Didn't mean nothin' by it."

Curse your sensitive hearing.

Shifting your gaze to the floor, you tilt your head back down, feigning interest in this old lumberjack's tall tales. His hand trembles as he lifts his glass of beer, the golden liquid sloshing around the inside. Yet, that cannot and will not stop him from downing the entire glass. A skill acquired only after decades upon decades of afternoon drinking and drunken midnights.

This isn't usually your cup of tea, but it's the only thing stopping you from burying your face in your palms and screaming into them. 

No good woman should be so affected by an outlaw like Rhett Abbott. Fugitive. Rogue. Robber. Wild-eyed cowboy with a smile that warms your heart like an open campfire.

You need to stop this.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to place a Saloon and a Jailhouse in the same building should be hauled out back and put down with the nearest rifle. Because how the hell is a woman meant to focus on her job when there's a good-looking outlaw just waiting to meet her eye?

"D'you know that Abbott boy?" Your ogling has been caught, that old gentleman's eyes may be clouded, but they're sharp as a tack. 

"No sir," folding your hands in your lap.

"'ts for the best; that's the kind of man you want to stay clear of," as if to punctuate his statement, he slams his glass against the old oak table, "fetch me another one of these, would ya?" 

Your nose twitches. 

Though you've only been working at this establishment for three days, you've learned something very key. All the men in this town are the damn same. Nice until they feel they no longer have to be. Their sweet tones are nothing more than a clever ruse, fading away the moment they want something.

The glass is sticky in your hand as you carry it back to the bar; had he been nice about it, you would request a new one. Lumberjack will have to get over it.

Every movement you make is carefully watched by dazzling ocean blues, the kind of color that threaten to drown you in them. Rhett Abbott. Jailed for the attempted robbery of Luke and Billy Tillerson and the suspect of Trevor Tillerson's murder. The ghosts of this town whisper their mountainous accusations as if they are true.

One mouth tells you with confidence that he is a wanted killer, and another claims him to be responsible for destroying his crops and killing his milking cow. This morning the mailman accused him of breaking into the mailroom because a handful of letters were misplaced. 

It's difficult to pry your thoughts off that quiet outlaw. 

Your senses have always been rather sensitive; maybe those are to blame. Ears always managing to pick up on his noises, the way he hums when you look at him, beckoning you to speak to him. Nose so sickly aware of the peppermint he's sucking on, eyes always straining to catch glimpse of his handsome face in your peripheral.

When you're not entertaining customers, your fingers distract you with daydreams of what it feels like to touch his hair. Running your hands through it, watching how those eyes flutter. You have to toy with the leather body harness beneath your dress to keep from losing your mind.

Even when you're forced to pry the jeweled dagger from your boot, daring this old lumberjack to try and touch your ass again, you can't forget him.

"Who gave you that dagger there?" The bartender asks you in passing; you've already forgotten his name, something along the lines of Kirk. 

"My husband," it slips from your mouth so quickly that you've hardly processed his question. The bartender's eyes narrow. "He uh...passed a few years ago."

"Ah," visibly taken aback, "well, I'm...I'm sorry to hear that." 

That outlaw keeps staring. Filling your bones with jelly and forcing every last second of your shift to drag by like molasses. Almost. You're almost free when the bartender abruptly stops you. 

"I need you to stay and close up for me," he's not telling; he's ordering, "I need to tend to a family matter."

Before you can utter a word, the door is slamming shut, echoing through the unfamiliar, empty saloon. So quiet that you can hear the faint breathy noise that leaves your outlaw. Even the sound the lock makes as you slide it closed sounds far too loud.

"So watcha fixin' to do now, little wolf?" 

A tiny shiver runs up your spine. 

Ugh, wait, no, that's not something he's allowed to elicit out of you yet. 

"I 'oughta rip those iron bars off the wall and kick your ass," growling, you turn to face him, eyes ablaze with something new. Something that only Rhett Abbott does not fear. "How am I supposed to get you out of this one?"

Rhett taps on the bars with his boot, "rip these off the wall and kick my ass."

The twitching of your tightly-wound muscles threatens to do just that, but that creates noise. Noise attracts nosey onlookers. Nosey onlookers attract men with firearms; you'd like to avoid getting a scar on your other hip.

Or right between the eyes, for that matter.

Boots click across the floor as you approach his cell, heart hammering a little heavier with every step. All it could take is one wayward visitor to see you interacting with the outlaw, and your plan will be foiled. But you can't help it. It's been three weeks since the last time you've see his face. 

Your hand shakes worse than the lumberjacks when you reach through the bars, only steadied by the scruffy cheek that leans into it. It's hard to believe that this is where he's been this whole time, and not...

"We were almost out of there," kissing your wrist, "we had the money, but then Perry—"

"Perry caused this?" That lying, good-for-nothing moron. "He told me he didn't know what happened to you."

Dryly, Rhett laughs, "he outta know. He's the sidewinder that pulled a LeMat on Trevor when he didn't need to." 

And if that's not enough to get a rise out of you, you don't know what will. Liquid fire bubbling in your veins, threatening to take over if you don't get a handle on it soon. It collects in your ears, joints, and tailbone, tingling as the blood there begins to boil. 

"I hid the money in the old milk crate by the well," all this, and he's still managed to get away with the money. "All we need to do is break outta here, pick it up, and we're set."

"Set until when?" His hair is tangled, catching on your fingers when they try to run through it, "until the next time Perry asks you to help him rob someone?"

Those perfect features contort, smile falling, eyes searching your expression, "what do you mean?"

"I thought you were dead," your voice breaking, as watery as your eyes, "do you know how fucking horrible that feels? To watch the clock pass the time you were supposed to be home?"

Rhett's gaze drops to your hip, reaching out to touch it. Palm so warm that you can feel it radiating through your clothing. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't what I'm looking for, Rhett," how are you meant to sound serious when you've every reason in the world to melt into a puddle of tears? "I don't—we can't keep doing this. One of these days, one of us isn't going to make it, and what then?"

His hand tightens, stopping you from moving away. 

"What happens to that family you've always promised we'll have?" This isn't the time nor the place to be discussing matters such as these, but now that the dam has broken, your mouth can't stop moving. "Or what happens to the poor bastard that has to suffer through losing their partner over some fucking money?" 

By the time your words have stopped, you've become breathless, so worked up that you've forgotten to take a breath.

Rhett's silent, but you can hear the gears turning in his head as he processes your words with care. Each syllable carefully wrapped and understood. A new habit developed after he mistook your words during an argument a few months ago. 

But then he stands, reaches through the bars, and pulls you into him the best that he can. This old iron makes this hug the chilliest one you've ever felt, but the kiss pressed into your temple threatens to change that. 

"We won't have to do this again," he says, after a while, "there's more than enough money to get us by for the rest of our lives." 

You're about to speak, but he's already heard the words that lie unspoken on your tongue.

"As soon as we're out of here," Rhett's hands curl around your cheeks, cradling them like glass. You nod. "I promise I'll give you every bit of that lil' family you've been wantin'."

Weak, you blink until your vision is no longer blurry, "even if I want eleven kids?"

"You scare me," he chuckles, "but if you want eleven, then I'll give you eleven."

And you'd kiss him, but he's talking again.

"On one condition," stealing a chaste peck from your lips, reading your mind so, so easily, "you gotta quit tellin' everyone I'm dead."

Beaming, you lean up to catch him again, savoring how those chapped lips feel against your own, bitten and swollen, "I think I can live with that." 

Voices echo just outside of the building; men, multiple of them, maybe five or six. An icy hand grips your heart like a vice. Squeezing. Sending snow flurries tumbling through your body. Shit, shit, shit. 

The bartender's coming back. 

"I don't—" tripping over your own tongue, "do I? Now?"

"If you think you can do it quick enough," but he already knows you can because he's stepping back before his sentence is finished. 

But that ice has already settled in, and as you pull on these thick, cold bars, you find that you've got the key in the ignition, but you can't turn it. Again. Harder this time. An old engine in your gut twitching and grinding as it attempts to start. No dice.

A tingle is settling into the tips of your ears. Familiar. Telling. You've almost, almost got it. Metal groans as it distorts. Muscles trembling with the effort of it all. But you can only move them an inch at best. Not enough for Rhett to squeeze through.

The front door handle rattles. 

"Hold on," licking the pads of his index and middle fingers, he reaches behind your neck. Wet fingers find two pressure points at the base of where your neck meets your skull, pressing down. 

A shiver ripples down your back. Shaking pools of fire from the crevices of your spine, flooding your bloodstream until your eyes glow with it. Is that your heart or a heavy fist beating on the front door? You can't tell.

That old iron squeals as you bend it. Ears pinned. Jaw clenched under the strain of it. 

Ears pinned.

Shit.

"Maybe I gave you a little too much juice," rambling, Rhett squeezes through the gap you've created. He just barely fits through, "how long?"

Something heavier strikes the front door as you scurry out the back; you've no idea where you're going. Have no memory of when Rhett grabbed your rapidly warming hand. Winding past corner after corner, a maze that doesn't guarantee a safe exit. With every step, your heart rises higher into your throat. Fragile; one wrong move, and you'll burst. Every inch of your skin tingles, invisible pins and needles prodding at you. 

"Few seconds," your voice is already fading. 

Wood splinters as you take a hard right. Racing down a hallway that's identical to the one you were just in. Are you going the right way? How is Rhett so sure that you're supposed to go left here?

Joints are starting to swell. Difficult to move, like they've been filled with putty. In your mouth, your tongue feels too large, so heavy that you can't form a word. 

Rounding another corner, your vision begins to collect with spots. Static clouding your vision. Foreign voices are yelling for you to stop. Rhett's saying something about 'this is the one, this is the door'. And it doesn't matter if this is the door or not.

because you can't stop moving.

Your shoulder hits something heavy. It should hurt. You know it should. But the feeling is lost to the overwhelming ringing in your ears as you burst out the door. Muscles shift. Bones crack as something familiar washes through your body. 

Time stops. 

Or at least, it feels like it does. Hyperaware of every little pop and crackle of bone and muscle, how delicious it feels to stretch these muscles after weeks of disuse. 

The next time your eyes open, your view of the world has shifted. Higher than before, too aware of the newly formed snout in front of you. 

"Come on," someone's tugging on the leather harness around your torso; Rhett, "come on!"

Stumbling over your own four feet, you start to move, racing alongside him toward the back of the building. It's a straight shot out of town from here. You can come back for the money in the milk crate—

something whizzes past your ear. 

No, no, no, that's the Sherriff. 

Spinning on your heels. Turning back. Rhett skitters past you. Unable to come to a stop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. People are spilling out of their homes. Men, women, and children alike. All to watch the spectacle of a wolf and an outlaw. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where do you go?

Your answer comes in the form of a tug on your harness, a familiar weight settling on your back. There is only one man on this earth who is crazy enough to climb on top of a wolf. Firm legs squeeze on your ribcage. 

Forward. 

Blindly, you follow his lead, unsure of where he's sending you. Dirt kicks up under your feet, sending a plume of it floating through the air like a veil. The main stretch of town isn't but five paces ahead of you. 

There's pressure on your left.

Veering in that direction, a stray bullet whizzes overhead. The tip of your left ear begins to sting. It's impossible to focus on. Not when your sharpened gaze fixates upon a familiar grey cowboy hat. There's a face you don't want to see.

"Perry?" Rhett echoes your thoughts.

A tacky button-up jumps out in front of you. Arms outstretched. Rhett's weight shifts left. Heavy enough to send you moving leftward too. The man's fingertips graze your flank. Nothing more. 

"Stop!" Perry's shouting, waving his hands above his head, "stop!"

Rhett's ears aren't sharp enough to pick up on it. You're unsure if he'd listen, even if he could hear that far. The fragments of a buckshot squeal past. Once on your right. Then overhead. Perry's not moving. Rhett's not telling you to stop.

Five strides away. Raising your head uncomfortably high.

Four. Bracing for impact.

Three.

Perry realizes your intentions too late. His head knocks painfully against your breastbone. Knocks the breath from your lungs. With an audible thunk, his back hits the ground. Below your feet, his body is surprisingly squishy. 

If anyone asks, you didn't realize he was there.

By the time you stumble into another town, dark has fallen. You've long since returned to your former body, dressed in nothing but Rhett's button-down. The remnants of your dress are nothing but tatters, clinging to your exhausted frame. Had you known you'd be doing this, you would have planted a bag of clothes to pick up on your getaway. 

"Have those ears gone down, Princess?" Rhett's hands squeeze your naked thighs, where they're wrapped snuggly around his hips. 

The left one twitches; God, that's sore. "Not yet," though you're hesitant for them to morph back. Still processing that you're now missing the tip of your left ear. 

It's hard to miss the big 'Hotel' sign that displays proudly at the edge of town, just as visible as Perry had been when you ran him over. You hope you broke a few of his ribs. Maybe an arm. Something he'll have to live with the pain of.

"Tail?" His question is met with a swift thump from the foreign appendage right against the curve of his ass. 

Squirming, you pull yourself a little higher, eager to leech off more of his body heat. Your chin is sore from resting on his hard shoulder, and there's only one other place you know to rest your head.

"What're you doin'?" Rhett's words are slightly distorted from how you've squished your cheek against his, rough stubble tickling your sensitive skin. 

"Capitalizing on the situation," shivering at the breeze that wanders under your meager clothing, "you haven't cuddled me in three weeks, mister." 

That get's him; it always does. 

Dramatic, he rubs his cheek against yours, grinning when you giggle and return the motion. Every second of it is worth the irritation it may cause to your skin later; it's been so long since you've seen those hooded eyes crinkle, can't remember the last time you got lost in the sea of those ocean blues. 

Just before reaching the hotel, Rhett stops, "think those little legs can hold ya up now?" Even though he's asking it, he lets you squirm down from his back. There's only one way to find—

your ass hits the dirt. Tail pinned between you and the ground, each and every muscle in your legs cramping. This whole wolf thing was a design flaw.

"Guess I got my answer," as if you weigh nothing, Rhett scoops you back up, cradling you in his arms. Limp, your legs dangle, skin twitching with the worst of the cramps. In hindsight, maybe you should have at least stretched before you, and your husband decided to play horse and cowboy. 

"Are you about to put me between these shrubs?" You chirp, painfully aware of the answer. 

"Yes, ma'am," placing you between the two towering plants, he ruffles your ears, the motion flopping them back and forth, "can't have no outlaws gettin' ahold of ya, now can I?"

He doesn't leave you there for too long. But it gives you enough time to fully take in your surroundings. This town is large, you've barely even seen a quarter of it, but it's uniquely quiet. Residents have long since tucked into their beds, ready for tomorrow to come. The only sign of life is the light that peers through the windows of the local saloon, a muffled piano playing, accompanied by the cheers of a couple of men singing about a ball of fire.

They seem to be having a great time.

"Room eighty-six," Rhett announces, and to any onlookers, they'd probably think he's talking to a bush, "you look mighty cozy down here." 

"Man," pouting as he scoops you up again, "I was just starting to make friends with these guys."

There's nothing quite like the struggle of trying to unlock a door while you're being carried like a bride, but you make it work. Only dropping the key when you're halfway into the room. 

The next thing you're aware of is your body soaring through the air. Stomach curdling as you fall into the soft mattress, surrounded by the fluffy comforter. 

"Did you just throw me?" Incredulous, you sit up, mouth agape. 

That shit-eating grin of his is all the proof you need; guilty as charged, "What can I say? You're the perfect size for tossin' on beds."

Your ears flatten against your head, "quit calling me little."

Bending down to meet your eye, Rhett reaches out with a singular index finger. You know it's coming, but you're too stunned to dodge it.

The asshole bops you right on the nose.

"But you're my little wolf," he says it so innocently that you nearly drop the argument right here and now. 

Your legs may be out of order for the time being, but there is no amount of exhaustion that can stop you from grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him down, falling into a messy heap on the bed. Devilish hands dance at your sides in perfect unison with his laughter.

"Big mistake, darlin'," placing big, wet kisses against your exposed neck, making you squeal. 

Heels digging into the bed, you try to push yourself out from under him. Those tired muscles are giving it everything they've got, slipping out from his grasp with surprising speed as you roll over onto your belly. You've still got some fight left in you.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, and his hands catch on your harness, yanking you right back down, "where you think you're goin'?"

Fuck this stupid fucking enchanted harness. You knew it would bite you in the ass one of these days. Floundering only makes it worse; because he takes hold of the base of that flailing tail of yours and squeezes. 

The gasp that it wrenches out of you is so instinctive that you hardly realize it was you who made the noise.

"Sweet, sweet little wolf," there's pressure between your shoulder blades, pushing you into the mattress. Ass in the air, all for him to see. "Look at you, so fuckin' pretty in my shirt."

It's hard to miss how he makes sure to tuck your tail between your legs when he leans down to rest his body against yours. There has only been one instance where he hurt you by trapping it between your bodies, but he's made sure never to let it happen again. Wet kisses pepper over your neck, sucking gently beneath your ear in that annoying fashion that makes heat blossom in your core.

"Rhett—" 

"Y'can play coy all you want," teeth nipping where ear meets skin, "but that little tail's a waggin'." Curse your instincts.

Canting your hips back into his, you crane your neck to the side, swallowing his groan with a kiss. The angle strains your neck, not made to be turned in such a way, but you can hardly focus on it. Rhett's lips taste like heaven, entertaining so delicately with yours that it quiets all the noise rattling around your head.

"You'd best be careful with those hips of yours," he grumbles, though there's no attempt to stop you from blatantly grinding on his rapidly hardening cock, "or I might wind up givin' you that baby earlier than you thought."

Your tail smacks his inner thigh. "Maybe that's what I was wanting you to do."

And that is the last thing you say before your back is hitting the bed again, head spinning to catch up. The moment your thighs part, he's settling between them, hips forcing them wide. Oh, it's been so long since the last time you've felt that pressure between your legs, old jeans rubbing against what little of your panties remain. 

"Yeah?" God, those eyes have nearly gone black, "that what you want me to give ya?"

Nod.

For a hot, burning second, he's quiet; you can practically see those gears turning in his head. Did he just realize you were being serious?

He grabs the edge of a pillow. "Lift your hips." You don't know what for, but you obey.

Oh.

The pillow feels strange beneath your hips, forcing your back into the most delicate of arches, putting you on display for his greedy eyes to swallow up. The pillow is pretty flat, but it feels massive at this angle. 

You hardly expect the gentleness that comes with this. How carefully Rhett comes to lay on top of you, tummies pressed together as he drowns you in another kiss. Fitting against you so perfectly, shoulders just broad enough to cage you in, hands that know you like when he rubs behind your ear. You're far from a feline, but he just about makes you purr against his lips. 

Nothing can stop you from tangling your fingers in the curls that rest against his neck, drinking in that heavy grumble as his mouth opens to yours. A little swipe of his tongue against yours, retreating, before he comes back even bolder, tilting his head to the side to properly explore you.

Nails bite into his shoulders as hips grind against yours, jean-clad cock so close to where you want him. Taunting enough to make your head spin with want and need.

Then he's leaning back, peeling that white t-shirt from his body, distracting your hungry eyes with miles upon miles of perfect, milky-white muscle. The curve of his pectoral fits perfectly in your hand, jumping when you flick your thumb over a dusky pink nipple. 

"Don't know why we even kept these on ya," one little pull is all it takes for the fabric of your panties to give way, mere shreds of what once was. 

It's almost strange not to see him fumble with one of his gaudy bull rider buckles, too big for practicality but not big enough to carry the smugness of placing number one in this past season. Just big enough to confine the heavy cock that falls free as he steps out of his jeans, smacking against his thigh.

"'ts the matter?" Cocky as ever, "fixin' to start droolin'?"

"Uhuh," shameless. Absolutely fucking shameless. Shaken into a stupor over the sight. 

A wandering index finger slides up between your folds, glistening in the poor lighting of this hotel room, and rises to Rhett's thin lips. He smiles at your taste.

That dripping head nudges against your entrance, applying enough pressure to feel you flutter but not enough to press in. On their own, your hips squirm, changing the angle and letting him slide up between your lips. Oh, that's—that's different.

"'Dya like that?" Tentative, he does it again, length messaging your neglected, swollen clit. "That tail of yours is just a goin'." 

All on its own, it thumps back and forth between his thighs, unable to get a full swing in. One of these days, you'll remember to control it, but today isn't that day. How are you meant to stop when he chuckles at how it's tickling him?

"What would you do if my tail weren't there to tell you what I liked?" Intentionally flicking it up to smack against his heavy balls. God, how his breath hitches at that. 

Your smug satisfaction is short-lived, cut off by the blunt mushroom tip that pushes into you, forcing your lips to part with a gasp. Completely bare, raw, withnothing there to stop him from delivering upon that promise he made. You've done it like this before, but something about the intent makes it feel so much different. 

"Fuck," bracing his weight with his right hand, planted next to your head, while his left traces the stretch of your quivering entrance. You can only imagine how obscene this must look from his perspective; those eyes shamelessly fixated on how he disappears inside. 

Easing into you inch by inch is an overstatement because Rhett's moving millimeter by excruciatingly slow millimeter. And you are going to lose your ever-loving mind if he doesn't hurry up.

"Patience, wolf," he hisses, although, by the sounds of it, he's struggling with the concept of patience himself, "don't want you sore for the next round."

Blink. 

Double blink.

"What?" Leaning all the way down now, forearms caging you in as he touches the tips of your noses together, "don't tell me you thought I'd only cum in you once, darlin'."

Riled up by his own words, he slides deeper, quicker, fat head nudging against a little bundle of nerves on its way past. It's impossible to stop the high-pitched whine that ripples up from your chest, spasming around him as his hips become flush with your own. 

"At this rate," you're trying to hit him with your tail again, but it's disappeared; only those expressive ears remain, perked high on your head, "we'll be dead by round two."

Rhett's not the wolf here, but he's the first to growl. You know you've gotten into his head when he wrenches his hips back, leaving you so abruptly empty that you worry he's pulled out completely. Only for him to slide back in so fucking slowly. Has you squirming by the time you feel his swollen balls meet with your ass again.

"So tight for me, sweetie, fuck, you feel good," starting to work his hips properly now, still irrationally slow, each meeting of your hips so sharp that the room resonates with the sound of your bodies smacking together. "Y'like that? All nice and slow?"

Whimpering, you nod, hands smoothing up his biceps and across his shoulders, nails biting into what skin they can get ahold of. Careful not to draw blood, though Rhett's never complained about having any more marks added to the catalog of scars he carries.

"Can you tell—" cut short by a thrust that rips the words right out of your mouth, "can you tell that I haven't been fucked in a while?"

As if to return for the way your nails are raking down his back, he nips at your jaw, tugging the skin between his pearly white teeth, "believe me, you ain't goin' that — oh, that fuckin' long ever again."

Soothing over the freshly bitten area with a kiss, Rhett leans back onto his haunches. Big hands seizing each of your thighs, guiding them up until your legs are properly hitched on his broad shoulders. 

"I know I said I was goin' slow," his eyes fluttering as he picks up his pace, "but I can't hold back when it comes to this cute little pussy of yours."

The pillow is doing you no favors, tilting your hips to the perfect angle as he starts to fuck you in earnest. Nothing can stop the way he massages that gooey spot that never fails to make you whine into the open air, your sounds dancing with the deep, guttural sounds you're downright milking from the cowboy. 

A calloused thumb nudges past your parted lips, pacifying your cries as you suck on it, working the pad of it like you would the head of his cock.

"That's a good girl," his praise makes your ears flutter with pride; your tail is back by its own accord, wagging double-time like you're a goddamn labrador, "so sweet for me."

Those grunted words travel directly between your legs, heat stirring as you feel yourself grow wetter. Even more so when he plucks his thumb from your lips and begins to work over your neglected clit, rubbing the swollen little button in tight little circles that never give you a chance to recover. You've nothing but the sheets to ground yourself with, clutching the fabric so tightly that you fear they'll rip.

"Look at you, little wolf," he marvels, in absolute awe of the sight below him, "fuck, you're gonna look so beautiful, all swollen with our baby."

You can't tell if it's due to his words or the slight change in angles, plush head kissing a certain little bundle of words, but whatever it is, it's got your legs trembling around Rhett's shoulders. They can hardly stay up, shaking so hard that they slip right off. Only allowing Rhett to come back down to meet your lips, giving you no escape from how his cock plows right into you.

"Gonna fill this little pussy of yours up with my cum," and that's not just a warning that he's murmuring against your mouth; it's a promise, "over and over, until your cunt is so swollen and sore that you can't take any fuckin' more of me."

Humming, you force your quivering legs to hook around his hips, heels digging into his ass, "please, Rhett—ah~!" That thumb is spinning harder against your clit. Too much, too much, but not fucking enough. 

"Jus' keep takin' my cock for me," the motion of his hips are becoming unstable, falling out of their rhythm, "'m breed you like y've been beggin' me to."

And he doesn't need to tell you he's close; those breathy little grunts are enough of a sign all on their own. Each whispered, thrown-away obscenity kindling the fire that's growing in your core, cinching you tighter and tighter around his fat length. His thumb is falling off your clit, gripping your hip to prevent you from sliding up the bed, but that doesn't matter.

Teeth sinking into that pretty collarbone, clenching and unclenching around him. Electricity rippling from the tips of your toes up to where he's ruining you, your eyes fluttering into the back of your head as you cum around his cock. Muscles tighten, trembling so hard that you can feel the shockwaves up in the tips of your ears. 

So completely, utterly lost in the abyss of it all that the shaky moans you're working out of Rhett feel like heaven. His hips stall as an unfamiliar heat spurts against your swollen walls, filling you so, so well.

You can't move as your orgasm leaves; it takes all of your energy with it. So exhausted that it takes you a moment to hear the 'I love you's that Rhett is whispering into your skin, following each reminder with a chaste kiss. 

"Y'still with me, little wolf?"

Weakly, you nod, "uhuh."

That earns you an amused chuckle that shakes his whole body, reminding you of the length that's still lodged deep inside of you. Your eyes flicker to where your bodies meet; how obscene it looks to be split open on him, even after you've both cum.

"G'na stay in you," running his thumb against your cheek, Rhett smiles with all the sweetness of a pound of sugar, "can't risk any drippin' out, now, can we?"

"I can handle a little risk," flicking your tail up to smack him in the ass, can't help but laugh when he jumps, "just means you'll have to cum in me again."

Rhett rolls his eyes so hard that he winds up giving himself a migraine.

"Excuse you."

Rhett stops in his tracks, a deer in headlights, as he peeks back around the corner, "did I knock another pillow out your nest?"

No, your pillows are all accounted for, and so are your blankets and the box of snacks by the freshly built bedside table. You're not worried about those, even in the slightest. The silence only serves to make your husband nervous, placing the cardboard box he's carrying onto the floor.

"Darlin'?"

It's impossible to fight the shit-eating grin that spreads across your face, "come here."

He's got no idea what you're summoning him for, but those shoulders visibly drop as he crosses the room. Clueless as you take his big hand and guide it to your swollen belly. 

Those eyes of his go comically wide. "Good lord, 'r those little bank robbers havin' a brawl in there?" God, you hope they have his eyes.

"They've been keeping me up ever since you left," you'd roll onto your back, but you're genuinely concerned about what organs they'd crush, "make your kids quit heckling me."

There's that laugh you were looking for, so completely amused by the little kicks against your poor belly. He's got nothing to say, too busy leaning down to press kisses to your tummy, chuckling with every unruly kick. There's no telling how many are in there; Rhett's thinking two, but you're concerned that there's a third hiding next to your liver. Or, it could be just one very, very unruly baby with just as much rebelliousness in them as their father.

"I know y'ain't fixin' to listen to me," he says, in between kisses, "but please quit kickin' the over lovin' hell out of your momma's belly."

Another kick. You think that one was aimed at his nose.

"We've got our work cut out for us," your words strained around a yawn, watching contentedly as he settles down next to you. 

It's hard to cuddle when you're this pregnant, but Rhett's figured out how to comfortably make it work. Foreheads pressed together, one hand reaching over to rub the back of your neck, ghosting over your ear on its way. It's a strange feeling; you don't think you'll ever adjust to having the tip of it missing.

"Can't be any worse than what adventures we used to get up to," can robbing the wealthy be compared to raising children? 

Another yawn overtakes you, lasting so long that those damned wolf ears spring out. Curse pregnancy and making it so easy to shift forms that you do it by accident.

"I hope they get your little wolf thing," Rhett muses, scratching behind them, "I can hear the little tails thumpin' already."

That...might be your own tail that he's hearing. Thumping away against the mattress, such a common thing as of late. In the past, it would have bugged you, but Rhett loves it so much that you can't hate it. 

"Do you want me to stay and take a nap with you?" 

Practically purring, you nod, "you just read my mind."

You can't reach your favorite blanket, a fluffy, pale pink thing that was given to you by the elderly couple next door. Rhett's got it, pulling the material up over your exhausted frame and tucking it in. The wife really wasn't kidding when she said it was the perfect thing to snuggle up in, warm but not too much so. 

Rhett's chest is the perfect pillow to snuggle up in; big, inviting and made just for you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, "I'll be here when you wake up, little wolf."

"Thank you, Mister Outlaw."