thinking abt some kind of outlaw!au where the 141 walk away from a raid with a lot more than they bargained for.
a few weeks back they’d received word of a nobleman and his wife who’d be leaving for their honeymoon, valuables aboard the carriage. after a bit of lurking and bribing, they’d narrowed down just which road was desolate and wild enough to get away with the raid.
concealed by the bordering forests, they’d waited. an embarrassingly opulent carriage came dawdling down the road (polished wood, velvet curtains, ostentatious engravings) & they pounced.
the drivers & guards, they’d expected. the gunshots, the shouting. what took them by surprise, though, was the wife, who did not fight as gaz wrestled her into his arms. who watched a little too closely when ghost dragged his blade across her husband’s chest, demanding the location of their funds.
“where’s’a money?” price questioned, moving towards the woman when her husband’s pride weighed heavier than his cowardice. his broad palm gripped her jaw as gaz held her arms behind her back. “hm, lovey? y’speak english? y’better tell me, or your sweetheart ‘ere ‘ll be gutted before tha night’s over.”
she watched her husband writhe for a long moment, before meeting price’s gaze. her voice was flat, steady. “kill him.”
soap barked a laugh. ghost cocked his head.
price, though, was intrigued.
“kill ‘im?” he echoed. then, he lifted her hand, yanking the diamond ring off her finger and pinching it between his fingers. “wha’ bout this? just a rock, is it? ‘till death do us part’ mean nothin’ to ya?”
“words don’t mean much when you’re forced to say them, sir.”
“forced?” price questions, narrowed eyes flicking across your features. he looks to your husband, then, who’s soiled his pants. “tha fuck is this muppet forcin’?”
price is quiet for a while, watching your husband as he wriggles in ghost’s grip. when he meets your gaze, there’s a small, barely-there curve to his chapped lips. “you really want ‘im dead?” there’s an amusement to his tone, a disbelief.
you steel your gaze. “yes.”
the curve of his lips bends into a grin, and you’ve barely exhaled before he’s lifting his pistol, aiming it at your husband’s head, and shooting.
limp, he falls to the ground.
you don’t flinch. in fact your voice is steady when you state, “the money’s in the chest, beneath the seats.”
once again, price approaches you. grips your jaw, tilts your face this way and that. he taps your cheek twice, and says, “you heard the woman. soap, get the money. gaz, tie ‘er up, she’s with me.”
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here’s some more outlaw!au <3 thank u guys sm for all the love u showed on the first part of this. makes me so happy knowing people enjoyed the silly little idea that’s been terrorizing my brain.
the ride was long and wearisome. the adrenaline, like milk left on the counter, quickly began to sour into terror.
after gaz tied your hands behind your back and handed you off to a grinning price, he’d positioned you over the saddle of his horse — a broad, chestnut roan — climbing behind and wrapping his arms around you to steer the thing. his chest was shoved against your back, holsters poking against your spine and suffocating you in with an unappealing cocktail of leather, tobacco, dirt, and blood.
beyond lessons as a child, you’d never ridden a horse — not how they did, at least. the gnarled terrain made for a rough ride, and within the hour your thighs began to ache. you kept quiet, listening instead to the trotting of hooves and the sporadic remarks thrown between the men.
the men who now held your life, your will, in their hands.
you’d done your very best not to think about it — tried not to think about anything at all. you’d kept your gaze on the passing wilderness, studying the shapes of trees and wildflowers, imagining what lay beyond. the shadows, the shrubbery. coyotes, perhaps. foxes and deer.
it could only keep you occupied for so long. the silence pressed in, and it clawed it’s way to the forefront of your mind.
the gunshot still echoed off the walls of your skull.
“yer shakin’, swee’eart.” price’s breath was warm against your throat, and his voice was rough. “havin’ regrets, are we?”
swallowing whatever fretful sound that tried to escape, you answered honestly: “no, sir.”
“sir.” his tone was mocking, edged with a low chuckle. “so polite. how could a sweet thing like you be so willing to kill, hm?”
your breath shook, and you knew he’d heard it, no matter how much you hoped he didn’t. “i didn’t kill him,” you said. “you did. sir.”
“oh, lovey. i was jus’ holdin’ the gun — you told me where to aim.” his chest flexed against you as he heaved a sigh. “all i wanted was the money. without yer insistence, poor fellow’d still be ‘live an’ breathin’.”
the words knocked something loose. for all intents and purposes, you were a killer.
and worse, no matter how desperately you search, you could not find any regret.
“tha’s right,” he murmurs, as if you’d voiced the thoughts aloud. calloused fingers grip your chin, turning your face towards his. a light spattering of dirt covered his face, crawling along his crows feet and laugh lines. “just like us, ain’t you? dressin’ y’up in this pretty little outfit can’t change wha’s underneath.” he tugged at your dress. “‘s a good thing we found ye, ain’t it? what if ye’d made it to yer honeymoon an’ he’d tried to touch you? what would you have done?”
uselessly, you tried to pull away. price held firm, gripping you tightly. “answer me, sweet thing. what would ye have done?”
an ache had begun to thrum along the side of your throat; his fingers were calloused and tight around your jaw. your breathing was jagged around your words: “i wouldn’t have — i wouldn’t have let him.”
“no?” his voice was softer, like he was pleased. “how would you have stopped him?”
the terror was red-hot, and the acceptance was a balm. “he keeps — kept — a gun in the closet. no matter where we were staying.”
“yeah?” though he didn’t release your chin, his grip gentled, and he traced his thumb back and forth along your jaw. “you ever shot a gun before, love?”
“no,” you answered. “i’ve watched my father load them enough times, though.”
his lips had curved ever so slightly, and his eyes had softened, like you were proclaiming your love for him instead of explaining how you’d planned to kill a man.
“you’d have made such a mess,” he said tenderly, gently. “you don’t know the first thing about gettin’ rid of a body. his blood would’ve been everywhere, swee’eart. all over this pretty face, these clothes.” his thumb traced your bottom lip. “y’don’t have ta worry ’bout that now, though. y’ve got us for that, yeah?”
as his eyes bore into yours, brimmed with something you couldn’t quite read, you belatedly realized he wanted an answer. though your mouth had gone dry and a heavy pit had formed in your stomach, you nodded along to his words, murming a quiet, “yes,” before you could think any better of it.
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