#deadmanstrail

[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.

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: Rattlecreek County. 11:45AM. Somewhere... in the middle of crops and a lone dirt road.]

You knew you shouldn't have bought that busted old Chevrolet—thing ran like it was one bump from the grave—but the minute you saw her, you fell in love. Vintage cars, vintage love, vintage life.

Hell of a start for your new beginning.

You sighed in frustration, half-buried in the engine, 'bout ready to cry right there in the middle of nowhere. You’d been hoping to drive into town—Pumpkin had encouraged it, said not to let the stares scare you off—but your new place sat a few miles deep into farmland.

Dirt roads and rows of corn as far as the eye could see.

You were good and fucked.

Groaning, you wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, debating whether to call Pumpkin. The sultry woman had given you her number when you'd both first met last week, but you felt hesitant. You didn't know her that well, and while... she seemed nice, she had a look in her eye that gave you the shivers.

You nearly missed the sound of hooves.

Your head jerked up just in time to catch sight of a rider cresting the dusty road. He was tall, lithe, with dark hair tucked beneath a black Stetson. Sharp eyes. Sharper jaw. White tee stretched across broad shoulders, jeans worn and dusty, boots to match the hat.

Good lord.

Your breath hitched the second your eyes locked as he pulled the reins gently, halting just a few feet away.

"Hey there," he said smoothly, voice covered in velvet, "car troubles?" He asked, eyes flicking toward the heap you were halfway inside. There was a teasing note in his tone, but not unkind.

"Yeah, something like that," you mumbled sheepishly, ducking and coming up from beneath the hood, food on the air filter inside. With your vision obscured, you couldn't see the way he swallowed thickly, eyes stuck on how your ass locked in those denim jeans propped up on the front bumper. "Usually I can just jimmy these things myself, but I'm having a hard time today. I was just trying to get into town." You murmured, easing your way off the front of your truck.

"You mind if I lend you a hand?" Suguru asked, clearing his throat, face passive even though his thoughts were everything but. He'd heard that there was a new face in town, word travelled fast. Far. As far as county lines, but seeing it for himself had his jaw going slack. Mouth drying. Just at the sight of you. "Geto Suguru. I work nearby." He offered to make you feel more at ease. He hadn't wanted to tell you he worked on old man Yaga's ranch, much less dive into the county politics of who, what, when, where, and why. Didn't even want to tell you that you were trespassing on private property using a private road. Did you even know where you were going?

"No, not at all, thanks for stopping," you said as Suguru threw his leg over the saddle, the pretty large brown horse huffing as its rider descended from his seat. "I really appreciate it." You continued to make small talk, introducing yourself in the process, as Suguru held the reins while he walked over; tying the horse to a nearby post of the wooden fence lining the road.

He glanced at you as he tied the lead, watching the way your eyes crinkled, cheeks puffed up ever so slightly as you spoke. It was cute. He gave you a quiet nod, a ghost of a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. Something about the way you smiled when you introduced yourself made his chest ache — round cheeks, bright eyes, like you didn’t even know what kind of trouble you’d walked into. He approached the Chevy, sun beating soft on the back of his neck, and all he could think about was how damn lucky he was to be the one who found you first.

[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: Behind the bar at Pumpkin’s Place, 11:47 PM. The jukebox is humming low.]

The screen door slapped shut behind her with a twang. Miss Portia lit up like it was part of her religion — cherry red lipstick, cigarette, suspicion. The alley behind Pumpkin’s Place was quiet, usually. But tonight?

Something rustled. A thud. A moan.

Portia froze, narrowed her eyes at the shadows shifting near the empty crates. She didn’t have to check. But nosiness was a cornerstone of her character, and she’d been bored since her ex remarried.

She leaned closer. Another thump, then a low, breathless "Oh god."

Miss Portia clutched her pearls—literally—and stormed back inside, heels clicking like a threat.

“Pumpkin,” she said, tossing her clutch on the bar. “There’s a situation out back. Sounds like a raccoon in heat and a crime scene had a baby.”

Pumpkin, unbothered as ever, just grinned behind the glassware. “Ain’t no raccoon, Portia.”

Portia blinked.

“Oh,” she said. Then, after a beat: “Well. I hope she stretched.”

Pumpkin winked. “She did.”

Interested in one of Miss Portia’s Tall Tales? It's smut, heat, and fluff served neat, pick your poison. Just be careful, flavours vary.

[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.