#behindthebar

[SCENE: Pumpkin's Place. 10:56PM. The saloon’s full. The men are fuller.]

"I hear you, give me a second," Pumpkin lazily called back to the men rounding the bar. The women had a bit more class, but only before they had a few drinks pumped in them. Right now, the women had zero decorum, laughing and chatting so loud, Pumpkin swore the wooden floors shook with the weight of their words. Not to mention, the daring ones who commanded the dance floor. Good grief, she'd have a mess to clean up once the night owls filtered out.

"And another tequila and pineapple!"

"If that's you ordering that, Maggie, I'm cutting you off," Pumpkin said over her shoulder as she poured a round of shots for some of her heavy-hitters tonight; once their tab closed, Pumpkin's night would be written off completely. "Because you can't handle your drink and last time, you almost humped Daryl on the dance floor."

"That was one time." The older woman spoke, slurring her words.

"One time is one time too many, Maggie, I'm sorry," Pumpkin shrugged her shoulder, denim vest tight as she moved about the bar. "Call your husband." With a beat, Pumpkin set the tray of eight shot glasses in front of the group stationed at the bar. They parked themselves there an hour or two ago and haven't left. Pumpkin pretended to be oblivious to the lecherous looks they shot her when her back was turned, and she wasn't looking. "Alright, boys, here's your round. Bottom's up."

They cheered, thanking her as grabby hands snatched a glass off her tray—downing the shot in mere seconds. A mix of middle-aged men—fathers, husbands, and do-gooders who promised to never sin in church—couldn't tear their eyes off her. Pumpkin didn't mind. It was good for business that way.

Only when they touched did her mood sour.

"Pumpkin, why don't you take one with us?" One of them asked, eyes half-lidded with the liquor. His hand landed heavy as a cattle brand, curling around her wrist like he bought it. "We don't bite. You know us."

Here we go.

"I do know you, Mr. Ulrich. I know you've had a lot to drink." Pumpkin rolled her eyes, her retort dry on her pretty, plump glossed lips. "You want to keep drinking? You need to let me serve. I ain't got the time to be sitting and sippin' around." She informed them helpfully, trying to gently free her wrist from the man's hand, but his grip was iron clad. Sometimes, she forgot these men harvested crops, polished guns, and then used those same hardened hands to pray for a living. "Hands off the goods, Mr. Ulrich." She said pointedly, eyes flickering to her wrist that seemed so abnormally tiny in his large hands. He pawed at her because he thought he could. Thought he should.

He thought wrong.

Pumpkin kissed her teeth, having half a mind to pull her shotgun from beneath the bar and scaring him with it for even daring.

"Simon, you know she don't like it when you bother her while she's working."

Forearms braced against the bar counter was Geto Suguru, looking half-bored in the midst of the loud crowd, eyes laser focused on the way Simon Ulrich's calloused hand curled around Pumpkin's wrist. Anyone could see the way his jaw tightened at the sight. Had he slipped away from Satoru without the light-haired man noticing? Interesting.

For little 'ole Pumpkin?

"I think you should step outside and get some air," Suguru stated plainly, tone flat as ever. For a second, Pumpkin was distracted. Suguru's long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, black Stetson perched on his head; dark flannel stretched across his chest, cuffs rolled up to his elbows. "How's that?" That voice of his was silk with a blade tucked under it—smooth ‘til it cut. It was posed like a suggestion, but it wasn't. It was a command. Despite being decades younger, Simon Ulrich immediately relented, letting go of Pumpkin's wrist. The woman's lips pursed as she stared down at the man.

"Kid's right, Simon," another man nearby chimed in, sipping his own beer—nobody could ever mind their business. That was Rodney Yates. "Go on before you embarrass yourself. Or he embarrasses you." Rodney said, nodding towards Suguru.

"He's done enough to embarrass himself—go home, Mr. Ulrich, tab's closed. I'm done serving you tonight." Pumpkin informed him with finality, writing off his name in her book. She read out the total, wordlessly telling him to pay up, and the man looked like a soggy noodle as he gave Pumpkin a few hundreds to cover his ass for the night. All the while, Suguru watched like a hawk. Watched the entire exchange up with sharpened eyes until Simon Ulrich walked his sorry-self out with his buddies who did nothing to nurse his broken spirit. "Thought you liked being seen and not heard, sugar." Pumpkin started, redirecting her attention to her white knight.

Sugar. She'd called him that since she found out his first name was Suguru—sounded close enough, and he always looked at her a little funny every time she said it.

"Yeah, but not when people are grabbin' at you like that." He muttered under his breath, sounding tired of the festivities and about ready to go home, but he wouldn't. On days like this, when Satoru dragged him to the saloon with a promise of only a few drinks, they—namely Suguru—stayed until the last stragglers left and Pumpkin began tidying up for the morning. Cute. "Why didn't you threaten him with the gun like you did with the last one?" He asked, lifting his hat up briefly to run a hand through his hair. Damn ponytail was falling out anyway.

"Because I know I always have someone watching me," she winked at him, shuffling over to his side of the bar. She planted herself right in front of him, in favor of ignoring the other patrons. "Maybe a little too closely. Weren't you across the room with Satoru chatting up those pretty dames?"

"Ain't nobody chatting up nobody," Suguru shook his head, cracking the faintest of grins, "you know that."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Pumpkin sang, poking his nose with the tip of her finger, "thank you for the assist, sugar, but please tell your friend to get off my damn table."

Because of course, Satoru had ended up on a damn table. With Suguru shooting her an apologetic look, moving to contain his best friend, Portia saddled up to the counter in his place, eyebrows raised up into her hairline.

"Don't ask." Pumpkin said dryly as she watched Suguru wrangle Satoru off her wood table, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I wasn't," Portia replied, just as dry, eyes scanning the younger woman up and down, “just wondering if I needed to grab my pocket book,” she said, already reaching down like she meant it. A glint of brass flashed in her purse. Portia wasn’t one to bluff.

A person with an art degree walks into a bar.

Sweet nothings whispered in pickup trucks and hotel bathrooms. Soft looks across the bar. Rough hands that know where to rest. Every fictional man I shouldn’t love, but do—because he says it like a promise: “Pumpkin.”

CATEGORY I: JUJUTSU KAISEN

First runner-up: GETO SUGURU — tthe quiet ranch hand who always smells like cedarwood and smoke. He’s got eyes that’ve seen too much and a voice like dusk. Keeps to himself mostly, but I catch him watching me like he’s memorizing every blink. There’s something about him— something old, something aching—like he’s been waiting lifetimes to be loved right.

FUSHIGURO TOJI — widowed dad, ranch owner, and master of doing just enough to keep the lights on. He’s the kind of man who works when he feels like it, but somehow always gets the job done.

RYOUMEN SUKUNA — he ain’t from Rattlecreek, but the stories start and end with him. Name’s been carved into bathroom stalls and whispered over campfires since before I can remember. All silver rings and a stare that makes you forget your own name. Folks say he’s cursed. I think he’s the reason we started praying.

KINJI HAKARI — gambler, heartbreaker, and certified chaos in a leather jacket. We grew up side by side, raised on the same dust and dares. He calls me “baby” like he’s always meant it—but he’s never stayed long enough to prove it.

ZENIN NAOYA — born rich, bred ruthless. Struts into Pumpkin’s Place like the floorboards owe him rent, but somehow always ends up in the best seat in the house. Slick smile, sharper tongue. Thinks the whole town’s beneath him—except maybe me, when he’s bored enough.

CATEGORY II: HAIKYUU

WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA — a quiet cowboy with weathered hands and eyes that’ve stared down storms you can’t imagine. Doesn’t say much, but when he tips his hat at me, it’s like a rare confession—rough edges softened by something real and steady underneath. Soldier through and through, but somehow still gentle where it counts.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME — the man I call when my truck won’t start, my porch step breaks, or my heart’s hangin’ by a thread. Gruff voice, broad shoulders, and hands that know how to fix damn near anything — except maybe how he feels about me.

CATEGORY III: BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA

BAKUGOU KATSUKI — the boy I’ve loved since I was dumb enough to call it a crush. He’s a volunteer firefighter now—all smoke and fury, sirens and soot. Shows up when things are burning, even when it’s me. Swears he ain’t got time for love. But he always makes time for me.

[SCENE: Pumpkin’s Place. 12:20 PM. The bar hums low. Day-drinkers linger. Ceiling fans spin lazy.]

"It's about time for me to head out, Miss Portia," Toji muttered, tipping his hat towards her. Portia raised an eyebrow, nursing her vodka slow, glancing towards the doors of the saloon. "C'mon now, a man's got to work sometime." Really, he didn't, but with nothing but Portia's tales of small town news for company... he figured he might as well spend a few hours at the ranch. Pick up Megumi from the neighbor's...

"A man should be working all the time," Portia tutted, turning her chin up at him, "we're only a few drinks in. Why cut and turn tail now?"

"I think you're forgetting Mr. Fushiguro has a son waiting on him at home, Portia," Pumpkin interjected, sauntering over to their side of the bar. "You ready to close that tab out now, sir?" Pumpkin asked, leaning against the counter, ready to draw up his tab with ease.

Her breasts pushed against the wood, curls cascading down her shoulders and bouncing with every slightest movement. She was wearing a simple sundress, breezy and light; it was barely half past noon, the day had barely started. The last thing she needed was Fushiguro Toji overstaying his welcome at her bar.

"I told you, Pumpkin... call me Toji," he drawled, eyes dragging slow down the curve of her dress. "You pour me a drink, you earn the right to call me by my name."

A smirk followed. Bold. Familiar. "I’ll take another before I go. My usual. Keep Miss Portia company ‘til her gossipin’ biddies show up."

"You 'bout gossip just as much as I do," Portia scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest like she was ready to fight him and win.

"Coming right up." Pumpkin said, unfazed, gliding back toward the shelves. Bottles clinked soft as she reached for his glass. Her hips swayed with every step—dress light, legs long, sway deliberate.

Toji watched. Didn’t even pretend not to. Hungry and greedy.

Portia caught the look and shook her head.

"One more drink, my ass," she muttered, not bothering to hide the grin curling at the corner of her mouth.

[SCENE: Pumpkin's Place, 3:42 PM. Pumpkin's brewing somethin', witchcraft or beer... nobody knows.]

The polished wood of the bar gleamed under the soft light as Pumpkin shook up something in a tall glass. The sweet scent of berries mixed with a sharp bourbon bite filled the air.

“Alright, Portia, this here’s our new special,” Pumpkin said, sliding the glass across the bar. “Berry Bourbon Breeze. Sweet, smooth, with just enough kick to keep you honest.”

Miss Portia eyed the glass like it might set her back a few years. Her lips twitched into a smirk as she took a slow drag of her cigarette.

“Berry Bourbon Breeze?” she drawled, voice thick with skepticism. “Sounds like a drink for a woman who’s got more sugar than sense.”

Pumpkin just chuckled and grabbed a small tray with three more glasses, each a different colour.

“Try ‘em all,” Pumpkin challenged. “Strawberry, melon, cherry—flavors for every kind of trouble you wanna get into.”

Portia wrinkled her nose and waved her hand like she was swatting flies. “I don’t do fruity, Pumpkin. Give me something that bites back.”

Pumpkin shrugged, grinning wide. “Suit yourself. But if you ever wanna trade that cigarette smoke for something sweeter—you know where to find me.”

Portia rolled her eyes but let out a reluctant laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re just the right kind of impossible for this place.” Pumpkin winked. "Keeps me in business."

[SCENE: Pumpkin’s Place, 9:40 PM. New girl just walked in. Portia’s already writin’ the ending.]

"Aw, now, ain't she sweet?" Portia cooed as she sat amongst some of her oldest friends, sharing a drink and whispers that would spread through the small town like fire come the morning. "She don't know what to do with herself." She lamented to the women who solemnly nodded, taking in the sight of the woman who walked in through the bar doors.

You were gorgeous, curves in all the right places, hair primped and done up just right. But you were nervous, eyes flitting from corner to corner, taking in the busy saloon for what it was. Pumpkin's Place. You'd heard it was the go-to spot in town. For drinks, finger food, drama, gossip... and more, if you got lucky.

You were standing closer to the back, hoping to blend in or make your sudden appearance look more natural, but your efforts were in vain. You hovered toward the back, trying to blend in—but it didn’t matter. You stuck out like a fresh manicure in a dirt fight. All you’d done was stand there, and already the crowd was looking.

Pumpkin whistled, shaking her head as she stepped out from behind the bar; ignoring the few men who were hankering her for a few more drinks. They could wait.

"New face. That's not somethin' you see everyday," Pumpkin called out to you, strutting across the floor like she owned it. She did, but that was beside the point. The crowd parted for her effortlessly, the nobodies shuffling out of her way to make way for Pumpkin, who looked every bit of a woman on a mission. "You got a name, girl? You're real pretty. Pretty enough to eat." She asked, eyes raking over you with bold approval. You stammered out your name — unsure, maybe, but Pumpkin had a way of reeling folks in. You were no different.

She slung an arm around your shoulder—short as she was even with her boots on, but she didn't let that stop her—steering you towards the bar, smile wicked and warm. A drink first. Then she'd park you with Portia. You’d be in good hands. Probably.

Hopefully the old hags wouldn't run you out of town before the sun rose.

"Alright, girly, one thing I got to say is: that shirt?" Pumpkin stated, eyes glancing down at the fabric and the slogan across its front like a warning. "You're going to get a lot of attention here. Believe me." She laughed, tossing her head back.

You didn't know whether to be reassured or horrified by that fact.

Kiss a cowboy.