Pretty Peach, Bad News
Wild West Outlaw!Frank Castle x SaloonGirl!Reader
Summary: The Punisher’s a notorious outlaw. You’ve been feeding him information for three months and bodies keep dropping. Now he’s back. For information. For you.
masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio.
Warnings: slow burn romance, likely historical inaccuracies, canon-typical violence, vigilante justice, verbal harassment, alcohol, reader a bad bitch. 18+, mdni, reader always consenting adult.
w/c: 5.2k
a/n: thinking of making a series because i fucking love outlaw!Frank and feisty reader and the Wild West. feels like it needs smut after hot slow burn. Let me know if you’d like more, reqs open.
requested by this absolute genius @heav3nb9by - see the req here!
song rec
When He opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, 'Come and see.' And I looked, and behold, a black horse, and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand.
And power was taken by them to kill with swift justice, mercilessly, with death, and by the beasts of the earth.
The wind’s got a way of blowin’ shit in with it. Everyone knows when The Punisher’s in town ‘cause bad news travels fast.
Hooves thunder an omen mistaken for a gallop. Waves of dirt left in his wake over the open desert. A stud darker than death, his eyes crimson pools of red. Two-thousand pounds of chisel-cut muscle. No brand on him. No need. A harbinger. A beast of divine proportions. But this beast? His purpose?
Retribution.
The rider—a man known as The Punisher. A man of divine strength, blasphemous wrath, making God’s work his own.
Blood-busted knuckles cinch and twist black leather reins; tandem efficacy between the creature and the man he’s been bred for.
What follows this horse—his rider—is Hell.
Black boots—scuffed, bloodied—jut the stud’s ribcage. No spurs. No unnecessary pain to the innocent. Only the direction of faster and obedience to the command. Brim of his hat over his face. Red bandana tied in a hard line under his eyes, stark against the black ensemble. A… warning. A promise of what’s to come.
Miles of dirt. Heat haze shimmers the barren landscape. Sun with such outrage it tries to melt the world. Parched fissures in the ground from the New Mexico drought.
Scorpions dart into the crevices as Frank and News breach the settlement of Crighton in a black storm of righteous fury. The scales teeter off kilter.
There will be balance.
A cleansing.
He just has to find it.
Inevitable sweat clings to your skin as you wipe the bar top with a browning cloth. Sticky cracked wood the humidity warps and the men spill on. Leaning over it, your breasts spill from the low square neckline of your bodice. A corset up your back cinched tight to plunge them up, bouncing silky skin and perky breasts like an invitation with ruffled layers of beige petticoats a deceivingly sweet flow over your body. Sweet. Sultry. Giving foolish, greedy men an easy show for large returns.
You look heavenly like this. Lowlight, only what the sun can bring through grime covered windows, with beads of sweat racing where men’ll pay the most to see, taste. They can look. They can’t touch. You’re curious about one particular man, though. Would he—the outlaw—wanna see you out of your dress? Taste you after a day’s work?
There’s murmurs all around you, the saloon at mid-day filled halfway. Cattlemen done early ‘cause of the heat. Bankers on break. Farm hands hydrating with warm corn whiskey. Liquor and you the highlight of their day. None of them compare to the outlaw.
Stale air whistles a hot, hollow moan through the saloon doors, clattering a hushed premonition. You glance up, wondering when—if—that outlaw’ll be back after last time. When you might see his hulking body silhouetting the entryway like he’s cut from shadow, or the cry of his stud outside.
You think about him. Frank Castle, the outlaw. More than what’s right. More than you should for a saloon girl. These men’re your money, and you, their company. Nothing to grow attached to, not these men. These men’re trouble. Get you killed. That’s why Daddy taught you to use a gun and gave you the revolver under the bar. Daddy’s long dead. Hubby’s in the ground all the same. Both of ‘em made for damn sure you didn’t need a man to protect you before they went to the pearly gates.
But Frank… Frank’s different. Frank’s not a man. He’s… judgement. A solution.
They tried to hang him in El Paso. Didn’t choke. Broke the rope.
They jailed him in Yuma. Neither steel nor man could hold him.
They branded him in Bodie; an unmistakable emblem they didn’t know would come to define fear. That very brand being the last thing they saw before he eliminated them all. A skull. On the side of his neck. A presage of what The Punisher brings with him.
Frank Castle — the once noble sheriff of Saraceno turned outlaw when he bludgeoned every member the very force he served and said he loved it. Said he’d do it again. But you’ve never heard him make a corpse outta someone that didn’t deserve it. So when you can… you… help. Give him the word of the word you hear from loose lip drunkards. Frank takes your word and does what he needs to with it.
You’ve only heard the stories. Never from him. And you’ve not seen the brand. It’s… a feeling. The way the wind stops. Birds don’t chirp. People look away ‘cause they’re too scared to look at him. And as hot as it is in the desert… it gets cold.
A curt whistle—a crude demand—breaks you from your thoughts. “Miss!” one of the patrons cries, a skinny fur-trapper with a thick mustache waiting for nightfall. “Another drink, Miss! Cleanin’ can wait—I can’t.”
“You’re gonna have to wait five seconds for me to get your drink, Richard,” you call back, tossing the rag aside. You don’t think about Frank as you turn your back, hands working a swift discretion behind the bar to dilute a whiskey with tea. The more you sell, the more you make, and Richard’ll get drunk anyway.
As you weave your way through the half-loaded bars, through the heckling praise over your breasts, your heaven-sent face, to the opposite end of the room and set the glass in front of the trapper, the air… shifts.
The wind gives one last shrill burst before it shrivels up.
Your hand tightens on the glass you can’t let go of. Your eyes fixate on the splintered wood of the table, heart rate climbing.
The wind’s stopped.
You don’t hear the birds.
No one speaks. Conversation severs as though someone’s pressed mute. Or the terror’s got such a grip no one can.
Heart going faster.
Pulse like mania in your chest.
“Jesus Christ…” Richard creaks out in awe, spine straightening to attention.
You freeze, blood shooting to an exhilarating ice in your veins.
There’s only one man capable of changing the wind’s direction. Silencing the birds. And hushing this saloon.
“That’s the outlaw, ain’t it?” he whispers, head bowed to hide the question by your ear. “That’s… The Punisher?”
“Oh, now…” you coo, mocking and relishing in his fear. “He’s just a man, hm? You’re fine, Rich.” Hand leaving the glass, you rub rough, attentive circles on the trapper’s back. Frank can’t have all the attention, you need your five cent gratuity. “You’re a big man too, aren’t’cha? Sit here, Rich, look pretty, and drink your drink. Day’s hot, night’s long, and it’s a good afternoon to cool down, wouldn’t ya say?”
Placated by the magnetism of your charm, Richard settles. Averts his eyes before downing the whiskey. You don’t have to ask. You take the empty glass—the perfect excuse to make your way to the bar, to Frank.
And when you turn…
There he is… The Punisher. The outlaw. Frank Castle.
Nestled in the comfort of isolation, he waits at the end of the bar. Waiting for you, a drink, without demanding anything. Not even a glance in your direction.
Your chest stutters with a hushed gasp, intrigue unrolling slow and thick in your stomach like tar.
All six-foot-two of savage muscle, hat tipped down in a modest attempt to lay low. But the bandana’s bright red around his neck, his chaps’re tacky with blood, and his knuckles still raw from the fight he inevitably finds.
You tear a hand through your hair to fluff it. Tug your dress down enough to make a generous pane of cleavage and tell yourself it’s not for the outlaw. But the last thing you do? It is exclusively for him.
You smile.
“Didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” you say, focusing every bit of your attention into pouring Frank a full, undiluted glass of whiskey. As if his presence doesn’t mean much.
From across the strip of counter, his eyes track your outline. Like he’s looking for changes; anything that wasn’t there before he left a month ago. “Yeah, well,” he answers, voice eroded by the wind, the dirt. “Finished early.”
You plop the glass on the counter closest to you—a tactic to make him reach for it—a heavy smack on the counter. Now you look at him. Your hands planted wide on the bar top, an easy loll to your head, your eyes fastened to him as though he’s the most important—only—man in the room. You’re good at it, that look. But it’s not an act when it comes to Frank.
He pins your stare. Bolts you in place with his own, the fierce cut of dark, relentless eyes from under the brim of his hat, his brow.
A game of chicken.
“Drink’s on the house,” you say, a casual lilt to your tone as if you’re not testing him. Daring him to grab it where it sits, just an inch in front of your sternum. Close enough he could cut your heart out, if he wanted to. You know better.
“Don’t need handouts.”
“Never said you did. It’s a thanks.”
“Nothin’s free. Everythin’s got a price.”
“Fine. Offer’s out. Pay full price, see if I care. Twenty-five cents, c’mon.” You hold a hand out, fingers wiggling.
“Overpriced shit,” Frank grumbles but goes for his money belt.
“Jesus Christ, Frank,” you huff, snatching your hand back. “Pullin’ your leg, you stubborn bull.”
“Ain’t playin’. Don’t like debts. I settle all mine.”
“Fine. Let’s try this. What do you think this’s worth, then, cowboy? Name the price, I’ll take it. Once in a lifetime offer.”
He’s darker, you notice, your eyes roving the dirt-caked lines of his face. The sun’s spared no mercy on him. Sun burnt and wind-whipped. A bruise cups his cheek, sprawling to disappear beneath the unruly fringe of his beard. A laceration hides its origins under his hat, but arcs down to his eye; a parentheses carved from a knife.
Days ago, you’re sure, he looked worse.
“‘Least ten cents,” Franks says without blinking, slapping down the exact amount under his fingers.
“Don’t go broke now on my account,” you tease, one sly brow raised. “Ten’s almost what I pay for the whole damn bottle.”
“Already broke ‘cause ‘a you. Christ. Gotta run ‘round here like that, bat your lashes. Half dressed. Makes me feel bad f’you, y’know, like I gotta pay f’you to get some damn clothes.” …but his nose twitches like he might smirk… and the corner of his eyes crinkle in a faux narrow. Yeah. That’s a smirk. “Make a guy a real jackass if he ain’t smart. Make a guy real broke if he’s stupid, huh?”
“Hell, maybe if I get enough pity, I can get a whole new wardrobe. Shit, maybe even leave this godforsaken place.”
Frank taps one finger against the coins, the rattle drawing your attention. Lashes bat down to the money, but his hand is your focus. Skin peeling in dried ribbons. Knuckles gooey with pink-marbled flesh, thin scabs around the edges.
Your shoulders deflate, staring at the gore of his hand in a trance. No posturing. Your voice quiets, a question to keep between you two. “…You get ‘em, Frankie? Get those nasty men out in Tombstone I told you about?”
Clocking the distance in your stare, Frank eases his hand forward. Leaves the coins. Collects the drink with just the tip of his fingers. Draws it back over the counter in a low scrape. “Yeah,” he says, throwing back the whiskey, the swallow rolling his adams apple. “Yeah. Got ‘em all. Women’re safe.”
“Good,” you nod to affirm, pulling back to hide your ire by wiping a glass clean but your movements are too stiff. “Bastard’s deserve what they had comin’. Then some. Brandin’ and sellin’ and tradin’ women like a damn herd of cattle. Disgustin’ pigs.”
Frank slides the glass back. Waves a hand to say no hurry when you go for an instant refill.
“Know where pigs go, hm?” Frank asks, head canting to the side as he watches you work. Noticing your knuckles pressing white, the strength in your hands disguised by the outfit, the visual exploitation of your body for money. But Frank notices. Notices everything.
“Where?” you huff, cheeks flushed—heat and anger.
“Slaughterhouse.”
Your eyes snap up. Meet his. Mutual ferocity. Mutual respect. A pact neither of you meant to make.
You—the informant.
Him—the executioner.
A match made in Heaven.
Or Hell.
Afternoon carries to night like it always does. Draws in a bigger crowd. Louder laughs, impatient demands. Drunken games of poker, hordes of men crowding the tables to watch, to play, to yell indecencies when the outcome wasn’t in his favor. Cowboys in chaps and vests. Trappers with coon-tail hats lopsided on their heads. Bankers in expensive suits. Don’t really matter who you are here—everyone’s here to drink and make merry ‘til they’re quenched or belligerent, whatever comes first.
Horses neigh and huff outside, idle at the hitching rail. You’ve gotta get them more water, you think, the horses, ‘cause they work hard too.
The familiar stink of hot whiskey, sweat, and kerosene sticks to your skin as you buzz through the saloon, refilling drinks, making quick passes to caress cheeks, rub a shoulder, pat a chest—small, obligatory gestures to keep them drinking and keep your income steady.
Cigar smoke hazes the candles and kerosene lamplight; something dirty about the romance of a hard day’s work and a harder thirst for fun after it. The skittering of shuffled cards. A lively pop in the air.
Sometimes you look over at Frank. Hasn’t moved since he got here.
Sometimes you catch him already looking at you. Other times he’s staring out the window, lost in that head of his.
When he’s looking? Your heart leaps.
When he’s not? Shit, you’d be a liar if you said your heart didn’t sink.
“How you doin’, cowboy?” you’d ask Frank as you dart by.
“Fine, sweetheart.”
“Good. Don’t got time for anything other than that.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Need a drink, Frank?” you’d ask on every pass.
“Tryna get me drunk? Still got the second one.”
“Drunk oughta get your wallet out more often.”
“Shit. All you do’s bust m’ goddamn balls.”
“Why come? Must like it.”
“Sucker for punishment I reckon, yeah?”
And you’d grin over your shoulder.
An empty in each hand, your petticoats kicking around your calves and heavy with sweat, you whisk behind Frank. You call it convenience, a quicker route behind the bar since he’s at the corner, but you know it’s bait. Not for his money, no… Just… him.
His eyes trail the hem of your dress, your tall boots—crusted in a thin layer of dirt from the real work you do, not the drink slingin’ with your tits out—until the bar cuts the sight off.
“What?” You ask him with a raised brow, hair sticking to your forehead, glasses clinking. “Sad I ain’t showin’ skin? Got a thing for feet’r somethin’, cowboy? They got soiled doves for that a few towns over.”
Frank’s expression goes so sour you bubble a laugh.
Something… about that, though… the sound… You look up just in time to catch the fleeting glimpse of a small smirk. All half-cocked to one side, a momentary spark of teeth, and his head bows so the hat hides it all when he adjusts on the stool.
“You sure, partner?” you prod more, sloshing the bottle of whiskey down four glasses in a neat, snappy pour. “Ain’t lookin’ for a good time, Frank?”
“F-feel— buuuuurrrrrrrppp g-good?” The slimy voice of a sleazy patron interrupts, the full weight of this bullfrog of a man slipping against the other side of the counter. Short squat toad in a fancy fifty-dollar suit, liquor running down his chin. Gluttonous bastard, hiccuping and choking on the reflux of his own bullshit. “I’m open to a trade, mm. Mhm. You—“ hiccup “—make me f-feel good. Pay f-for nicer company. Get a lil’ alone time with ol’ Carson Orville, mmmmm? I can, sh-, uh, make you feel so good, pretty peach.”
You recoil back with disgust.
Frank shifts his eyes, otherwise still; waiting.
“Carson Orville, how many times I done tell you I ain’t offerin’ up that kinda shit?” You snip, the four beverages bracketed by your hands. “Fuckin’ bankers,” you rip your head in a disapproving shake. “Always so damn greedy.”
“…Pretty peach,” Frank mutters, muffled into his glass before a sip.
Your glare shoots Frank head-on. “Fuck off.”
“What? S’cute.”
“Carson,” you growl, eyes narrowed on the sweating bloat in front of you as you start to walk away. “Get your ass back to the poker table ‘fore I throw you out myself.”
You storm off to do your work.
Carson turns in to Frank with a what the fuck? shrug.
Swirling his drink at eye-level, Frank watches the whiskey legs creep back down his glass. “Orville,” Frank says, a rumbling octave to his voice. “You know where pigs go?”
Carson tsks his amusement, a drunken pause to think on if he heard Frank right. “Psssst… s-stupid drunk…” Carson waves him off.
Frank polishes off his drink. Sets it down with an exaggerated finality as he says:
“Slaughterhouse.”
Twenty peaceful minutes go by.
On some sorta timer, that all ends.
Between the rows of tables you clear and the drinks you replenish, Carson’s on you. Trails after you like a stumbling, sick puppy, begging—to the point of nasty pathetic behavior—hands literally steepled in prayer.
You charge between men, shoulder through them, trying to lose Carson before you blow. Side-stepping, boots seismic on the wooden floor, all bark as you wind for the bite.
“Aw, pretty peach, c’mon now! S-so d-dumb if you ain’t wanna get with the richest man in all’a Crighton—”
“Crighton’s forty people, dumb shit. Ain’t shit—”
“—I c-could give you anything—buuuuurrrrrp—you want! Five minutes with me and I can show ya, sweetie, taste that pretty peach—”
With Frank two steps behind you at the bar… you erupt.
“Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, Carson! Here I am, tellin’ you again, to get your sorry ass far, faraway from mine!” Glass shatters as you throw two of them over the counter; implosions in your explosion radius.
Carson startles back.
You stand taller.
“I told you how many times, huh!?” You yell. The saloon continues as normal, halfway drowning out your indignation with indifference. “You wanna pay for pussy? Go the fuck elsewhere! Ain’t doin’ that here! I ain’t doin’ that! Ain’t never done it, ain’t ever gonna! Know what I should do? What I should do’s brand it on your damn forehead: Will pay for pussy. How’s that? Maybe then you’ll get some takers. Oh—or maybe not since you’re as ugly as a damn frog.”
Frank raises a brow, trigger finger itching on the countertop. You got this. He don’t gotta intervene. He will. But you don’t need ‘im to. Smart girl. Strong girl. Yeah. Yeah, Frank likes that ‘bout you.
Carson looks like he might cede. Glances around, wets his lips. But he ain’t done yet. “…P-please?” he asks and you nearly vomit.
You spin around to Frank, your hands thrown up. With wild eyes, you make your demand. “Can’t you fuckin’ do somethin’ ‘stead of sittin’ there lookin’ pretty, cowboy!? Useless! Fuckin’ usele— whoa!” You’re thrown into a literal whirlwind. The world spins as you do, rotation controlled by one massive hand yanking your hip. As fast as you twirl, you hit just as hard. Solid warmth stops your body, your hands flung wide and flat over… over… Jesus— over the dense mass of Frank’s chest. “I- whoa…” stunned, breathless, flushed… and flush against him, your curves a seamless slot against the hard edges of him. “C-Cowboy?”
On his feet, downright imposing in his leather and denim and hip holsters— “Spoken for,” Frank claims, tucking you into the safety of his side. “Wanna try that again, Orville? Try askin’ me, huh? C’mon,” Frank jerks his chin, goading. “Good ahead. ‘M jus’ lookin’ for a goddamn excuse t’night. Give me one.”
“Pft, I- I- I don’t—”
“I, I, I,” Frank mocks. “Don’t what, huh? Don’t wanna finish that? Don’t wanna fuck ‘round ‘n find out? Don’t wanna give me a goddamn reason?”
Carson gulps down a shaky breath, weak spine trying to stand tall as he smooths his suit. “Mm. I don’t want to wrinkle my suit. Your wench ain’t worth it.”
Frank’s brows lift under his hat. He looks down at you, your hands on his chest, body molded to his. Goddamn. Prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen. “You a wench, darlin’?” he asks, sounding a lot like foreplay.
“Accordin’ to the richest man in Crighton I am,” you say, the fire in your veins subdued by the unfamiliar shroud of… protection here, in this outlaw’s arm. His body stronger than steel. His hands more efficient than any gun. Above all? This is a righteous man.
A good man.
Using his available hand, Frank lifts his hat off. “Hold this f’me, sweetheart, yeah?” And he plops it on your head before you can agree.
Too big, too heavy, the brim slips down as Frank’s arm unravels from you. A play in motion. An insult meeting swift apology.
Using just one finger, basking in the residual heat from his head now on yours, you push the brim up just in time to see Frank Castle—the outlaw, The Punisher—pick Carson Orville up by the collar until his feet dangle.
The suit? Yeah. Wrinkled—and stained.
song rec
Afternoon to night. Night to midnight. Nothin’ good happens after midnight, so Daddy said. Daddy’s usually right, even in his grave. Usually. Maybe not with Frank still here.
Crickets chirp. The moon shines a generous beam. Air’s not so hot, giving you room to finally breathe. Seems… forgiving, out here. Quiet, like the town’s gone to bed and it’s making more room for something. Smells fresh, too… open, crisp, so good you almost wanna stay.
With the batwing doors closed around you, you lock up the second set of doors from the outside. Frank’s hat slides down your head again, and you nudge it up with your shoulder. Secure the locks, test the knob. No give, all secure. You glance back over your shoulder.
At the hitching pole, Frank unties his horse. A patient trot of thick legs, its veins the size of rope as it nickers a soft hello to his rider. A black so dark he’s the color of night, of secrecy. In the gleam of moonlight—his eyes… two blood-red masses in his noble head. You huff a silent disbelief. Black horse, red eyes. There’s beauty in it, the remarkable peculiarities of the horse. Things to fear, but to you, he’s simply something to learn. Much like the outlaw.
“He’s beautiful,” you say, the saloon doors clattering shut as you leave them.
The horse flaps his lips, agreeing.
Frank adjusts the saddle, traces the reins, occupying himself. “He ‘ppreciates that.”
You stroll over, pulling your buckskin fringe jacket tighter around yourself. “I ain’t ever seen a horse with eyes like that,” you murmur, stopping short of Frank and the horse. “He born like that?”
The question stops Frank, hands freezing on the saddlebag. A line of tension draws through his shoulders. “No. Wadn’t born like that. Made that way.”
“You get them, too, Frankie?” you ask, a clear whisper in the dead of night.
“Yeah,” Frank says, turning a brief glance over his shoulder at you. “Got ‘em good, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bad News.”
“…Now why in the hell…?”
“‘Cause bed news travels like wildfire.”
You hum soft satisfaction. In your quiet, Frank resumes checking his riding gear. It’s… soothing, in a way. Watching Frank like this. All fluid mastery, strong hands workin’, muscle memory so deeply ingrained you wonder if he learned this, or was born knowin’ it all. His hair’s longer than you imagined. Dark brown curls moving with the breeze, sweat dried. You wonder how it’d feel between your fingers, his beard in your palms… things you shouldn’t think, no. Not with cowboys, not with outlaws.
You shift your weight, boots scuffing dirt, reminding him of your presence. Just in case he’s forgotten. “Sheriff… can I ask you somethin’?”
“Ain’t been a sheriff f’ten years, miss. Drop the sheriff.”
“Drop the miss, cowboy.”
“Consider it dropped… pretty peach.”
You yip a shocked laugh. “No. No. That ain’t a thing, we ain’t gonna make it one, either. Stop that, right now.”
Reins in one hand, Frank turns to face you. Head slanted, thick slope of his neck exposed. Back against the horse’s shoulder.
Face smooth, eyes softened by genuine warmth, you try again. “Can I ask you somethin’, Frank?”
“Ought not to, hm?”
“There’s lots of things I ought not to, but I’m gonna do this one anyway…” you take one step closer, leaving only one step apart. Your voice drops, chin tucked to your chest. “…Did you kill all those people, Frank? Your boys on the police committee, out in Saraceno.”
His mouth compresses flat and thin. “Why you askin’ shit you already know the answer to, huh?” Flat sincerity on his end.
“‘Cause I wanna know why,” you press, a hand imploring. “You ain’t killed a person that didn’t deserve it. So why’d they deserve it? Why’d you go from an honest sheriff to an outlaw, Frank?”
“Ain’t no such thing ‘s an honest sheriff,” Frank says, upper lip tugging like the answer’s obvious. “No officer, no banker, no- no person in power, yeah? People don’t get power ‘cause they deserve it. They get it ‘cause they want it so fuckin’ bad they do whatever they gotta t’ get it. Means ugly shit. Nasty shit.”
“So what’d they do?” You pause, closing that final step. Your chin tilted up, chest out, unwilling to back down. “…What’d they do… to you?”
Frank stares down his nose at you, a tenacity in his glare you think he might not answer, might tell you to fuck off. But… it breaks. The severity of his snarl falls with a reluctant sigh, his eyes flicking sideways. “…Killed m’ whole fuckin’ family. All of ‘em. Wife. Boy ‘n girl.” His eyes jitter, a rapid back-and-forth over the landscape. “All ‘cause they wanted more ‘a that power ‘n I wouldn’t let ‘em fuckin’ have it. Every fuckin’ day, I hear ‘em. Hear ‘em say get ‘em, Daddy. Get ‘em, Frank. So I do, hm? ‘Cause that’s the only fuckin’ time it stops.”
Tears bite your eyes, chest heavy with another man’s grief. You look away, tucking your mouth in as you search for the right thing to say. “Doin’ right by them, Frank,” your whisper shakes a little. “I wouldn’t let it rest, either. Couldn’t. You’re the only thing standin’ between good people and misfortune, you know that? Savin’ a lotta good people from real nasty shit. My John coulda used a guy like you.”
Frank’s eyes flash to yours, a silent question in the crease of his brows.
“…I was married once, too, if you can believe it.”
“Believe it,” he gruffs, a surprised drawl to it.
“John was a good man,” you wipe the back of your hand under your eye, gathering a tear you didn’t know had spilt. “Barkeep,” you huff a humorless laugh, jabbing your thumb back at the saloon. “Probably rollin’ in his grave knowin’ I’m here, wearin’ this, doin’ this work…”
Another tear tracks down. As it forms a fine droplet on your jaw, Frank lifts a hand. Uses the rough pad of his thumb to brush it off before it falls. The gentle touch of a husband, a father; a reminder that man’s still in here, buried under the agony of loss. Your eyes flutter up to him, a comfort in his honesty, knowing your secrets are safe with a man like Frank.
“Bandits came in one night when John was closin’,” bitter rue shapes your smile. “Shot him between the eyes for one whole dollar. You believe that? One dollar.”
“Sorry,” Frank says, deep with sincerity. His hand lingers, the side against your shoulder, his thumb skimming the outer curve of your neck in placatory sweeps. “Shouldn’t’a had to go through alla that, darlin’.”
“You shouldn’t’a had to either,” you sigh, a release, leaning a fraction in the stability of his touch.
“Got my revenge,” Frank says, brows knotted as though it hurts him you haven’t. Rough thumb on soft skin, big fingers gently wrapping around the back of your neck to… hold you there.
“You think I didn’t?” Your teeth graze your bottom lip, the confession sitting just behind them. A defiant set in your jaw when you share. “Black Creek runs high and fast come July. Washes shit clean down the Rio Grande.”
Frank looks at you differently now. A puzzle solved. A respect earned. His brows pinch harder, unreadability steeled in his face. But his hand tightens on your nape. His thumb drags slow and intentional over your jugular. It’s praise. It’s apology. It’s smart girl. Strong girl.
“Don’t go pityin’ me now, cowboy,” you whisper, lower lip wobbling once under the consistency of his touch. “Lookin’ at me different.”
Frank’s eyes drop to your mouth, his own parting to mirror yours.
Lookin’ like he wants to kiss you.
Hesitation wires the air. It’s cold in the desert at night, but Jesus, hot standing an inch from his chest. An inch from the wall of muscle and leather where you’ve confessed murder and Frank’s the new keeper of your secret. Thumb exploring the line of your jaw, Frank lifts his other. Grabs his hat by the crown and pulls it off your head. Your hair spills out in wild freedom.
There are no words. Nothing can express the bond you two have. The anguish, the hurt, the blood on your hands, the holes in your chests you try to pack but they’ll never heal. Not fully.
Frank settles the hat back on his head. The hand on your neck starts to loosen. He’s retreating. Bastard.
“Frank—“ his name in your mouth seizes him. You just need one second. One second and you can kiss him, taste the whiskey on his breath, feel his beard scratch your skin. One second and—
“…Yeah?” Frank asks, voice rougher than before. His hands full of the reins now, body angled towards the saddle. Ready to leave.
“…I…” you blink from your trance.
The second?
Gone.
“…I, uh…” you shove your disappointment to the deepest pit of your gut. You manage a crooked smile, but it doesn’t come close to your eyes. “…Mind givin’ me a ride home? You tipped like shit tonight. ‘Least you could do.”
“Jesus Christ, still on that? Shoulda gone home with Orville, pretty peach.”
You laugh. Bright and genuine and on the back of Bad News, sitting in front of Frank with his arms on either side of you for the reins.
Into the night you ride.
Traveling like wildfire.
content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.
this is not a place for anyone under 18.
divider cred: @/lobster-graphics
please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!
Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @allinourprivate-traps
