A SHADOW AT NOON
“What’s there to say about a shootout? One gun draws, another draws quicker.”
The Rider x The Whore [mary winchester x meg masters]
summary : a mysterious rider arrives at the Cathouse in search of information...
timeline : this is an homage to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth's western au masterpiece, Blackbird, and takes place after the events of the main story's epilogue. **spoilers for the end of Blackbird**
rating : 18+ NSFW genre/vibe : western. au. smut.
CW : wlw smut. prostitution. boot riding. fingering. cunnilingus. tribadism. gender fuckery.
word count : 6.1k
a/n : this is an ode, an homage, an obsession with H's Blackbird universe. i want to curl up and live in this world. if you haven't read the main series and the b-sides, please do. they're magical.
this is also my first foray into writing sapphic smut so, please, let me know how i did!
and, as always, please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
The Rider comes to Blackbird like a shadow at noon, hidden in plain sight as their mustang plods up the thoroughfare. Hat low, bandanna pulled high to keep the dust at bay, they sit tall in the saddle, reins loose though they move with deliberate purpose.
The doors swing open, a burst of light blotted out by the Rider’s silhouette. Spurred boots clip across the floor, coming to a halt at the bar, one foot comes up under a stool as they lean against it.
The bartender is a young man, scruffy, hapless. Not a simpleton, but nervous. The Rider beckons him with two fingers. “Whiskey.” Coins clatter onto the bar. “Leave the bottle.”
The boy’s hand shakes as he pours, spilling as he slides over the glass, fumbling to clear the coins from the bar.
“Owner here?” He shakes his head. Not simple, but maybe mute? “You speak, boy?”
“Y-yes.” He stammers, eyes flicking to the Whore eyeing the Rider from the end of the bar. “Miss Donna’s gone out but she’ll be back later.”
“Donna ain’t the name I was given.” They tug down the scarf to free their mouth to drink. They say a name and the barkeep shakes his head.
“She left.” The Whore speaks, the Rider turns, slides the bottle down the bar. The Whore takes a swig and slides it back. “’Bout a year back, met a man and went respectable.” It’s not quite sad, not quite a sneer, but almost. Almost. “I came with her from New York. Know all the same tricks. Whatever you wanted—“
“Not lookin’ for a girl.” The Rider pours another glass, rolls it between their fingers. “I need information.”
“Like I said.” The Whore sidles down the bar, dark hair and round face peering into the shadow beneath the brim of the Rider’s hat. “I’ve been here this whole time, got two eyes, same as anybody else. You wanna know something, like as not I can tell you, but if you want that spilled for free you’re in the wrong place, mister.” She picks up the bottle and takes another swig, giving the Rider a satisfied smirk. She nods at the girls hanging off the banister upstairs, tucked into corners with johns. The day is young and the place is still quiet, but nobody could mistake it for something it wasn’t. “It’s a whorehouse, see? You gotta pay for everything. Drink, pussy, even gossip.”
“I can see it's a whorehouse.” The Rider pulls up to their full height which is modest, all things considered. “And I've paid for my drink, yours as well.” It’s their demeanour that’s imposing, straight spine, square shoulders, the glint of twin pistols holstered at their ribs. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of commerce, or the methods by which a woman makes her way in this hard world. If you have information about your former employer, or the quarry I believe that she can lead me to, I have coin enough to compensate you. Fairly, even well.”
“Too good for pussy though, huh?” The Whore grabs the bottle to take another drink and the Rider stops her, hand firm on the neck, slamming the bottom back down on the bar with a thud.
The room goes tense, the only sound the rustle of leathers and the click of a pistol hammer from somewhere in a corner. keen eyes, watchful from their vantage. The scuffle tips back the Rider’s hat and a few golden curls spill out. Piercing blue eyes flash from under the brim, staring down the Whore. She doesn’t balk, though her mouth drops open in a surprised O, and the bottle pulls easily from her hand when the Rider takes it back.
”I am not too good for pussy, though I do not pay for it.” The Rider pinches their glass against the neck of the bottle, index finger tipping their hat up further before pulling down their bandanna so it falls in a loose cowl across their chest. Features bared to the light, they are hardened but delicate, a pert nose and plush lips beneath, high arching cheekbones, a smooth and angled jawline. “Being in possession of my own, with skill and experience therewith, most I’ve met who trade in cunt have been happy to negotiate barter agreements. Opportunity and circumstance being correct, of course.” The Rider’s lip curls, seductive, predatory, and she leans in close to the Whore. “You come have another drink with me, you do it from a glass."
The last thing she remembers is burning to death. Heat, smoke. Her infant son, crying in tandem with her below.
Mary Winchester died, and was dead for thirty three years.
The first thing she remembers is burning alive, thick heat and smoke licking her flesh, searing her back into existence.
Mary Campbell, soot blackened, scarred, naked as the day she was born, breathed life into her lungs for the first time in thirty three years on the charred floor of the house she died in.
Coming in from a shine, the Rider has no less allure. Wisps of gold frame her face, handsome despite, perhaps because of, the smear of grime high on her cheek. The Whore leans against the bar, not at the far end now but near the door, as if she’s waiting for someone.
The Rider smirks at her, sips from her glass, rests an elbow on the curve of the saloon door, duster and waistcoat hanging open, wide over her shoulders. Her shirt drapes loose around her, only half buttoned, whatever decency that may concern her preserved by the confines of her leather vest. She’s pulled her bandanna free, tying it around her, no need of it against the dust of the road for the moment. It accentuates her narrow waist and the curve of her hips, cocked to one side.
There’s a bullwhip hanging there, looped and lashed, though if she were hot on a quarry’s tail she’d have it looped around her, not on her belt. The sheath of a huntingknife rests in the small of her back while a skinning knife is concealed in her boot. The butts of matching, holstered Peacemaker revolvers gleam in the light that glances over her shoulder, leaving her painted in a mask of light and shadow.
The Whore turns, her back against the rail, fingers sliding out to either side of her so her arms stretch long across the front of the bar. The Rider releases the door and takes a step inside, regarding her. The light shifts and the Whore can see the spidery white pink fingers of scars puckering kisses up her neck and over her chest.
She raises her glass to the Whore, raises a brow too, and then strides across the room to settle into a chair in the corner by the window, boots shining and kicked up onto the chair opposite her.
It doesn’t take long for the Whore to join her, coyly flaunting an empty tumbler as she approaches. “Found a glass, per your requirement, if you’ll have me for that drink now.”
The Rider fixes a steady gaze on her, holding up the bottle to pour a drink. The Whore stands close, begins to lift her skirts to sit across the Rider’s lap but is stayed by a hand on her waist.
“As I’ve said, I don’t pay for pussy.” Fingers curl into the draping fabric of her dress, the slightest caress. “seein’ as how we’ve yet to negotiate a trade agreement, I’ll not have you giving for free what you’d rightly take collection for.”
“Such confidence, turning down a Whore’s affections.” The Whore curtsies, mockingly, and taps her glass against the Rider’s. “Truly, we are blessed to see the likes of such a gentleman.”
“I’m a cattle driver, hunt bounty some, too. Hardly gentle, regardless of sex.” The Rider’s smile is a slow drawl of soft lips and the hint of teeth. “Make no mistake, I’m not jilting you. I told you I had coin if you had information and my purpose will only be delayed so long before demanding satisfaction.”
“Talk may be cheaper, but I promise cunt will always keep you more thoroughly satisfied.“ She looks at the chair, the Rider’s boots unmoved. “May I sit?”
The Rider leans back, tightening the stack of her legs, the leather of her boots supple and gleaming. Immaculate, despite being well worn. She grins and it is white and wide and wicked. “By all means.”
The Whore looks at the Rider, around the room, at the man who appears to sleep in the corner but who is really watching everything around him like a hawk. She looks at the spurred boots, one atop the other, then at the Rider again.
The leather isn’t entirely smooth, the boots are worn enough that there are ridges across the front of the ankles, the seaming and etched details all give it a remarkably textured look.
“Sit.” The Rider holds up a coin, shows the Whore, and places it on the table. “Tell me about the shootout here in 1881.”
The Whore shrugs, lifts her skirts, and straddles the Rider's legs, settling her pussy along the front of her boot, carefully draping her skirts so they cover the seat enough to maintain the illusion of decorum. The contact is warm, the leather holds the heat of the sun and the Rider’s body. The curve of the boot nestles perfectly along her slit, all the way up the crack of her ass, a toe taps gently, just once, on her lower back. She hides the lick of her lips behind her glass, and the Rider sees it anyway.
“Comfortable?”
“It’ll do.” She shifts her hips, the pressure and friction causing more of a rise than she expects. Maybe it’s just this cowpoke and her occupancy in both realms of the harsh masculine and delicious feminine. “What’s there to say about a shootout? One gun draws, another draws quicker.” Something sad crosses her face, turns angry. “Neither much concerned for the cause of good, over their own.”
“I’m concerned with the course of one gun in particular, loaded with a single unique bullet, followed that day.” The Rider stretches, casual though it moves her whole body, rocks gently up against the Whore. She feels it, but buries the wave of titillation better this time. “Do you know the gun I mean?”
“I stole one to shoot a man for taking a life he had no right to take.” She leans back, dragging her cunt along the leather, feeling the press of a spur against her thigh. The sting is delicious. “That was the gun, and the bullet within, that focused my concern that day.”
“Did that man you killed have eyes different from yours or mine?” The Rider’s knees bend, bringing her legs, the chair, the Whore all closer to her. Flirtation all but forgotten in favour of something else. “Pitch black? Or yellow, perhaps?”
The change in pressure and the angle of it against her cunt, rocking her forward against the Rider’s shins, pressing into her slit as the toe of her boot drags up to graze her asshole, makes her mouth drop open into a soft round shape, puckering in surprise. A flare of white heat sparks up from her core through her sternum, spreading low and wide through her belly. Surely it’s just that, and not that this stranger knows about the demons. Demon.
“Worse.” Her lip curls in a snarl, rage and arousal simmering together in her. “A traitor, in the pay of those you describe.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, and that betrayal.” The touch on her knee was soft, gentler than the Rider or the Whore or the whorehouse perhaps deserved. The Rider turns, revealing what now the Whore can see are burn scars adorning the Rider’s flesh. “I know full well the insult that sort can deliver, and the need for retribution.”
The Whore looks over her shoulder to the man in the corner, he looks somehow more asleep than he did before, as if he’s trying to escape even her knowing eye. He knows, probably more than either the Rider or the Whore, about what happened in Blackbird that day.
The Whore looks down, the Rider’s fingers still brushing at her knee, then regards the Rider’s face, her scars. Her hips rock, softly, so that they can feel it but most won’t notice beneath the layers of her skirts. The pressure, the friction, is delicious, and she brushes her fingers down the trail of latticework scarring from the Rider’s neck until her hand disappears beneath the shirt.
“You got these everywhere, mister?” The Whore asks, and the Rider nods, tucks an arm behind her head, dragging the Whore closer still with the bend in her leg. One foot drops to the floor, the one saddled with the Whore’s cunt stays right where it is, heel gently rising and falling, softly bouncing on the edge of the seat.
There is a slight roll to the Whore’s hips now, the control on both of their faces focused. There is a light, deep burning and dangerous, in each of their eyes, if you knew to look for it.
A slickness starts to smear across the leather, seeping from her lips unencumbered by modesty or the garments that attend it, adding glide to the rock and roll of her hips against the Rider’s boot. Something about the intensity between them, the vice grip on what they are allowing their bodies to betray to each other, heightens the way it’s building. Immersive, nonlinear, a flood drowning out the room and the bar and the town, but not them.
The pace is barely a trot, but the slip and glide of her soaked nethers against leather feels frantic between the Whore’s legs. She blinks, holding fiercely to her composure, says nothing, but grins, widely, and palms the stacked coins and slips them somewhere hidden in her skirts.
Everything stops. The rock of the boot, the glide over leather, the building promise of pleasure, all ground to a halt. The Whore’s fingers curl, digging into scarred flesh, while the Rider’s grip on her knee turned to steel. The Whore grins, leaning down, soft belly pressing into the firmness of the Rider’s knee. “If you’re plannin' on staying, I’d recommend we withdraw to my rooms and begin our trade negotiations.”
The Rider is examining her fingernails closely, carving out grime from underneath the close cropped tips with her skinning knife. She’s washed her hands in the basin, is drying them slowly as she watches the Whore kick the door closed behind her, a fresh bottle in hand. She sets it down on the low sideboard, taking in the deliberate act of cleanliness.
At surface, it seems uncharacteristic, those so covered in the filth of travel rarely afford a moment for such fastidiousness. A hidden oasis collects between her lips, renewed from what had been smeared across the Rider’s boot already. She is reminded that she’s here to fuck a woman, and not for pay. She plans to take her fee out in pleasure, and those clean hands are a promise that the Rider intends to pay her well. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you, Cowboy?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t know the half of what I got in store for you.” They’re standing close together, the Rider looking down at the Whore, knuckles raised to graze across the softness of her cheek.
“You look about to kiss me.” The caress is so light, it almost tickles, barely ruffling the fine hair there.
“I am.” The Rider smiles. It’s the first truly feminine thing the Whore has seen in her. “Only question is, d’you want it like a lady, or something more fitting the frontier?” Her knuckles linger at the corner of The Whore’s jaw, thumb tracing behind her ear, slow and rhythmic. Her mouth goes dry a moment, the piercing blue intensity of the Rider’s eyes at once a challenge and a promise.
“You know how to kiss a lady?” Her hand is at the Rider’s lips, a rough kiss feathering across her knuckles. "Rough trade as you are, I’ve got my doubts.”
Callused fingers cup the angle of the Whore’s jaw, draw her in close. Blue eyes scan her face, the soft roundness of it, the plush bow of her lips. They darken, the colour of a stormy sea, and the Rider kisses her.
It’s soft, the fingers holding her face, the pressure against her mouth, the feeling of warmth against her cheek from the Rider’s exhales. She relaxes, leans in, allows herself to be guided, up, up, up. She removes the Rider’s hat, tossing it over onto the chair in the corner. A few sunny yellow curls shake loose and when the Whore pulls at the pins and fasteners, the rest of that golden mane tumbles free. She buries her fingers in it, winding them around and through the Rider’s locks, pulling her closer.
Their tongues dance, communing in the moist heat of each other’s mouths, and when they pull away spit clings to their lips and the skin beyond, evidence of their desire. Faces close, breath mingling, they embrace, hands halfway under garments, grasping at each other’s back and sides and faces.
The Whore’s chemise and shift comes off her quickly. The Rider steps back to take her in, fingers reaching to trace the curve of her breast, then her hand widens to cover it, fingers toying with the hardening nipple. The way it pebbles and contracts as the coarse pad of her thumb brushes over it seems to amuse her, and the Rider grins as she bends to lick a wet kiss over it. Tongue swirling, lips providing delicious suction, the Whore arches into her mouth, back bending over where the Rider’s hand holds steady at her back. She moans.
One hand on her back, the other on her ass, the Rider lifts the Whore, tucks one knee against her side, and carries her to the sideboard, rests her on the edge. “Reckon you believe I know how to fuck you like a lady, or do you doubt that, too?”
“One way to find out, Cowboy.” The Whore’s smile is slow and sultry. Seduction is an art she is well practiced in, and it shows. She spreads her legs, inviting the Rider between them, finding the lapels of her jacket to slide it off her shoulders along with her waistcoat, leaving her in just her tunic shirt and vest.
“Fair enough.” She shrugs, expression sly and perhaps a little smug. She steps into the space that was made for her, leaned back to look at where the front of her trousers almost brushes up against the dark promise of her curls.
The Rider’s touch is soft, incredibly so, ghosting across the Whore’s outer lips. Above, she looks down into cherubic softness, kisses her again, just as soft, just as slow. Until it isn’t.
Fingertips slide through wanton heat, spreading her arousal over her, teasing around her budding pleasure, but never quite giving in to the satisfaction the Whore craves. She rocks closer, leaning back on her hands, arching her back and offering her tits up, her neck becoming a long, curvaceous line for the Rider’s mouth to follow.
She does.
Open mouthed, lips dragging down the roped column of the Whore’s neck, tongue leaving a rapidly cooling trail of spit in its wake. She nips at her collarbone, at the hollow of her throat, traces down the armour of her sternum before heading west, to her breast.
“Your snatch feels like velvet.” The Rider whispers it against the delicate skin of her tit before taking her nipple in her mouth. Her fingers press, part, and penetrate the Whore’s entrance, her hips rocking softly with their movement, as if it were more than just her hand easing between the Whore’s slick folds. The Rider presses forward until their hips are flush together and her fingers are buried up to the knuckle, hand pinned between them.
“Fuck, Cowboy.” The Whore’s cunt twitches, squeezes, sucks the Rider’s fingers deeper. She can feel them stroking the soft, undulating ridges of her channel, directing pressure along the front wall of her. She lets out a soft cry, bucking into the Rider’s hand, its heel right there, a ready, firm pressure for her to grind her sex against. “I don’t think ladies get fucked like this. We didn’t in New York.”
“Better than a gentleman?” Hips and fingers thrust in concert still, the wave of the Rider’s body rutting into the Whore, adding extra sweetness to the drag of her fingertips over the place that keeps making the Whore contract around her. Another finger slides in, three digits folding around each other to make them feel almost like a singular appendage, thick and firm and offering fullness. The Whore begins to moan. “Never count on a man to invest in anyone’s pleasure but his own.”
Her hand fists tight into blonde hair and forces her mouth back to her chest, encouraging her roughness with a tug at the root. It sounds wet. Her cunt, the mouth on her tits, everything in between. She can feel herself getting close, soles of her feet digging into the Rider’s waist, using her hip bones for leverage. Her knees fall wide, backs of her thighs working to draw the Rider in closer. One hand still holds the Rider to her chest while she lifts herself up with the strength of her other arm and starts to fuck herself into the Rider’s hand.
The Rider grunts and the Whore pants and the sideboard rattles and shakes from their efforts. The Rider angles her wrist up, awkward, painful, and grinds the heel of her hand into the Whore’s pistoning hips. She’s strong, holds the rider steady while her arm becomes a girder to support herself. The Rider snakes her free arm around her back, folds over her, bicep flexing to take on some of her weight.
The press of body to body, the rough friction from the leather of her vest, the roll and thrust of her hips meeting the Whore’s is enough. She starts to tremble, thighs quaking, struggling to maintain coordination, control. The Rider holds her. Her wrist and hips still offer the stimulation she needs to keep going, letting her ride out her pleasure. The Whore’s hand drops from her hair to her shoulder and the Rider lets her nipple fall free, a gossamer web of saliva connecting them as she pulls away. She wants to watch her face, the ugly beautiful twist of feature that is the herald of pain and pleasure twining together that men so rarely understand.
The Whore’s legs stop shaking, drop away from the Rider’s waist, still framing it but no longer gripping tight. Dark hair clings to her forehead which she pushes back, shaking out the tension in her neck and shoulders. She settles her weight firmly on the sideboard once again, fingers the buttons on the Rider’s vest, tilts her head to offer a wry smile.
“I don’t think we need this.” Her fingers slip the buttons free one by one until the Rider sheds the vest and tosses it aside, the Whore already tugging at the hem of her tunic to pull it up and over her head. She’s about to say something else, witty and alluring, but her eyes land on the Rider’s body and the words go quiet on her tongue.
She’s lean, frame taut with muscle, shoulders and arms solid and defined. The curve of her hips and breasts and belly still belie her femininity and the contrast of the two together makes the Whore catch her lip between her teeth.
That isn’t what stills her tongue.
The delicate latticework of scars is woven like lace all over her body. Thin white threads matted down to the pink and tender skin beneath. It looks raw. New. Relatively speaking. It coils around her, licking from her back to her front, as if she’d been embraced from behind by something violent. It creeps up her neck to its nape, fingers threading through her hairline, cresting over the angle of her jaw. Seeing these scars before, peeking from under her clothing, doesn’t prepare her for this, and the Whore is mesmerized by their ruinous beauty.
The Rider is silent as she allows herself to be observed, slowly shedding the rest of her clothing until her body is bared for the witnessing. She has no shame, and seems to take the opportunity to regard her scars herself.
“Marked.” She says at last, taking the Whore’s hand and pressing it against her marred flesh. “By flame. By death, too, however temporarily.”
“By death, huh?” The Whore traces the fine webbing along the line of the Rider’s ribs to the underside of her breast. Very little surprises the Whore, at this point, her purview is that of the strange, sordid and deranged. Still, she lifts a brow, lets her hand wander, steps in closer so the front of her naked body moulds itself to the Rider’s bare back. “And how’s that work?”
“I’ll let you know when I do.” The Rider laughs, bitterly, and turns to look down into the soft round face of the Whore. “That’s why I’m doggin’ him; the man who killed me.”
“The Demon with the Yellow Eyes.” The Whore speaks softly, arm curling up the Rider’s chest, soft skin dragging over her nipple, fingers following the ghosts of long extinguished flames all the way up to where they kiss the rider’s face and neck. “We’ve seen others here after vengeance for his crimes.”
“Tell me.” The Rider inhales, slow and shuddering, leaning into the touch, gripping the whores elbow against her, chasing more. The Whore kisses her shoulder, wraps her fingers lightly around the Rider’s throat, squeezes lightly, making her gasp. “Who were they? Did they claim their retribution?”
The Whore just shakes her head slowly, a sly smile spreading across her lips. “I think that counts as commerce, Cowboy, and we’re not finished with trade yet.”
The Rider is about to protest, persistence clings to the tip of her tongue, but the Whore stretches up on her tiptoes, her hold at the rider’s throat helping her balance just slightly, and slides her tongue over that persistence to silence it.
The rider’s arm snakes around the Whore’s waist, drags her in close, bodies pressed together, thighs barely slipping between thighs. The whore presses her back, slowly walking them toward the bed, carefully, limbs and tongues still entangled when they bump up against the frame. They grapple, playfully, the Whore nipping at the Rider’s lips, her fingertips curling more firmly under the Rider’s jaw. The Rider in turn grabs at the Whore’s hips, hands making their way down her thighs, lifting her just enough to bully her back onto the mattress, earning light scratches overtop of the scars that wreath her neck.
The soft slapping of skin on skin mingles with the Rider’s throaty chuckle as she crawls over the Whore. Lithe fingers caress her scarred breast, soft lips wrap around her nipple and she arches, grabs the back of the Whore’s head, fingers lost in dark curls as she encourages the Whore’s lips to give way to her teeth.
Wet suction, soft lapping, barely audible breath huffs against the Rider’s chest, all serve to soften her enough that the Whore can flip her onto her back. She pins the Rider to the mattress, palm firmly planted on her sternum while the Whore attends to her other tit. The Rider arches, the back of her ribs rising from the bed, thighs parting to reveal a sheen of desire, musky, slightly sticky, and clinging to the curls at their apex.
The Whore pulls away, kneeling to take in the Rider. She looks more feminine now than she has since she strode into the Cathouse, soft and supple and curvaceous, blonde hair a tempest of spun gold against the pillow. Her scars flush a little pinker, close to the colour that blooms in her cheeks, her nipples a duskier hue on the same spectrum.
The rose backed intricacies of how her scars wind around her form invoke the image of a woman engulfed in flames. Her hands explore the muscular contours earned from a life on horseback under the open sky and the Whore wonders briefly if this Rider was like this, before she died.
“Your body is incredible.” She is rarely this earnest, isn’t sure what’s brought it out in her. Perhaps it’s the altered nature of their engagement, perhaps it's simply because it’s true. She bows, follows the path of the scars with her mouth down, to the sanctum of her snatch, and offers supplication to this temple that could not be burned. “Fucking incredible.”
The heat of her cunt is radiating, a natural hot spring of readiness that the Whore settles in to consume. Her tongue delves deep between fat, swollen folds, hungry and then hungrier with each gush of wetness that baptizes her tongue. In and up. In and up. In and up. She can feel the Rider beneath her winding with tense pleasure, her mouth’s ministrations getting louder, more enthusiastic as the Rider writhes to meet them.
“Your body is incredible.” She says again, barely muttering the words before strong thighs close in around her and draw her back into musky oblivion as she ushers the Rider toward climax. The Whore doesn’t see the way the Rider’s face changes when she comes, doesn’t need to see her lip curl into a moan, one she only half-hears around the muffling strength cinched tight around her ears. Instead, the Whore holds the Rider’s hips as tight as she can, letting her drag her twitching pussy over the contour of the Whore’s chin and mouth and nose.
The Whore is hauled up suddenly, the Rider sitting up to hold her roughly against her chest, the feel of it making them both moan. She sucks the taste of herself off the Whore’s face, lifting her easily with one arm while the other arranges their legs so the heat of their sexes can mingle into a slick convergence of wantonness.
It takes a moment to find the angle, the cunt-on-cunt delight that pulls not so soft cries from each of them as they rut into each other. Rhythm found, the rest of their bodies meld together, mouths and hands roaming anywhere they can reach, pulling and tugging with fingers and teeth as their desperation builds. One pinches at the other’s nipple, teeth sink into a shoulder, and they each come again with both sets of lips locked together in heated ecstasy.
Breathing slowed, fucking concluded, at least for now, the Rider holds the Whore against her, their legs sticky where they’re still entwined.
“Who came for the Demon?” Any formality or coarse bravado has seeped out of the Rider’s voice, now low and thick and lazy after their exchange. “Did they kill it? Is it dead?” She reaches for the pouch of rolling tobacco on the nightstand and begins to prepare two cigarettes. “I have gold.”
“They didn’t kill it, but it is dead.” The Whore bites the side of the Rider’s breast and sits up, accepting the first smoke and lighting it as it’s handed to her. “My friend did. Shot it, killed it, with that gun.” She takes a long drag and lets a thick white plume curl out of her mouth halfway before sucking it all back into her lungs. “Promptly rode off into the sunset to go tend some wasted farmland in Kansas, with the one the Demon came for.”
“Kansas?” The Rider strikes a match against the table, motions for the whore to fetch the whiskey from the sideboard. “Were they the same?” She asks, taking a pull from the bottle. “Who it came for, and the ones who came for it?”
“Demon only wanted one man, didn’t give a two-bit fuck about anything else.” She spits, curses, venom in both. “Wesson, he said his name was. Showed up alone, but his gang rode in later with his brother, Smith.”
“And their real names?” The Rider snorts and pulls again from the bottle, mumbling at the absurd monikers. “This Smith, and Wesson. What was the gang they rode with?”
“The Winchester Gang.” The Whore takes the bottle and swirls whiskey on her tongue. “Named for them, of course.”
“Naturally.” She clears her throat, feigning nonchalance, and takes a drag. “Winchester? You’re sure.”
“Mhm. Samuel, and Dean.” Ash clings to the end of the Rider’s smoke and the Whore moves her hand for her to tap it off onto the floor before it does so on its own, in the bed.
“Sam and Dean.” She speaks to herself more than the Whore, looks stunned, as if she’d been struck.
“You’ve heard of them, then.” She tuts, shakes her head, laughs bitterly. “I’d say more’s the fool, retiring to Kansas, but then Blackbird is hardly cosmopolitan.”
“Mhm.” The Rider is drifting, thoughts like tumbleweeds. “I’m inclined to agree, having doneso myself once.” She takes a drink, long enough for the Whore’s brow to lift.
“That bad.” The Whore mirrors the drink, long and deep.
“Hard to know which is worse.” The Rider muses, smiling wryly at the curious look that spreads across the Whore’s face. “Death, or Kansas.”
“Fuckin’ Kansas.” She chuckles around a drag. “I do love being right.”
“It's a woman’s purview.” The Rider leans in, kisses her temple, moves southwest to the Whore’s mouth, crooking a finger beneath her chin. They share a languid kiss, open mouthed and tasting of ash and alcohol. “And you are quite a woman.”
“I’d say the same, but that’s not quite true.” The Whore grins, bringing a hand to the Rider’s tit and squeezing. “Is it, Cowboy?”
The Rider just smirks, nips at the Whore’s lips, and tugs both of them back down into the tangle of sheets.
Later, dressed, road ready and assuming the trappings of a man once again, the Rider lingers by the saloon door, swinging lightly with it as she drags a knuckle over the Whore’s cheek. She produces a not so small chunk of ore, a thick gold vein in it catches the dim light, and folds it into the Whore’s hand, callused fingers wrapping around more delicate ones.
“For the gossip.” She says and kisses the Whore a final time. “And that’s for the cunt.”
“So, where to now, Cowboy?” She holds up the chunk of gold, inspects it, then slips it into one of the folds of her dress. She cradles the bottle to her chest and takes a drag of her smoke.
“Hm.” The Whore’s hand brushes the Rider’s mouth for a haul off the cigarette. “It was my purpose to hunt and kill that Demon, but if that task and satisfaction’s been claimed as you say, well.” She takes the bottle and drinks from it. “I reckon I’ll have to make my way back to Kansas, try to find my boys.”
A glass fumbles behind the bar, the hapless young man still tending it blushes deeply, trying to busy himself with something below the bartop.
"Andy." The Whore rolls her eyes, calls over her shoulder. “Tell Donna to ready a letter, let Jo know to expect company.”
“You can tell ‘em Mary’s comin’ home.” The Rider backs out into the late sun that glows across the thoroughfare.
“Mary?” The Whore steps out into the partial shade beneath the Cathouse awning.
“Mary.” She swings up into the saddle, draws her hat farther down over her eyes. “Campbell, but they’ll know me by my married name.” All that’s left to see is the knife of a smile that flashes from the shadow of her face. “Winchester.”
The sun dips toward the horizon, the shadow of the Rider stretches long across the thoroughfare. They are tall in the saddle, glance back once to touch the brim of her hat in parting and the Whore nods in return, watching the dust kick up as they break into a trot and then a gallop.
Strands of gold catch the amber light of late afternoon, the Rider’s unbound hair fluttering behind them on the wind, and then, the Rider is gone.
a/n (supplemental) : @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth a millions thank yous again for this wonderful western world, and for letting me muck about in your thoroughfare. i hope this passes muster <3
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