Daydreams | Harry Styles One Shots

The Gunslinger's Girl

HOWDY YALL

Sorry for being MIA. I yearn for death.

This Daydream has taken me far far faaaaar too long to complete, but know that you have Arthur Morgan to thank because that manuhhhhh???? Please tell me you know my boy Arthur???

Life has been insane, and my body and mind are hellscapes, and oh my god I need a lobotomy. Anyways. Here's the daydream. Honestly, this one isn't my favorite, and I wish I could spend more time world-building and adding in old western bits etc, but I have been fighting myself trying to get a Daydream out for you, so here it is! I apoligise for the wait and any typos you will most definitely find. I'm working on wanting to be alive and finding the capacity to enjoy this precious little hobby again. If you're still here, thank you, and I love you!!

Warnings: Classic Wild West bs i.e, guns, men, smoking, men, swearing, lack of proper bathing facilities. Men.

Sexual content warnings: oral f receiving (just realising this man doesn't get any head and kinda love that) angst and longing ugh, rough, cowgirl duhhh, spanking, rope play obviously because lassos bahaha, virgin mc, i think that's everything???

Word count : 12.3k little snack

Sorry for any and all typos! I really hope you enjoy this, I'm actually really nervous to post it so GOODBYE OKAY LOVE U

Enjoy x

***

Sand. The sharp wind carries it within its strong currents, kicked up by the stampede of horses that ride ahead of you, the ground thundering beneath the powerful weight. Your own steed powers on, the wind whipping your hair back from your face, gradually undoing the careful and articulate braided updo you had done just this morning. The sun is unrelenting, a fiery force looming in the early afternoon, atop your every move as if to remind you of nothing but blistering, sweltering pain.

Occasional splattering of sun-leached green vegetation sprinkles the landscape before you, allowing a soft tug on a string of hope, one that had died, limp and withering inside of you. If you wouldn't earn with a mouth full of sand, you could smile.

Softening to a trot as the foliage appears, then gains density, you and the gang allow a moment of reprieve, the shade is lush and forgiving. It offers a moment's breath from the constant fiery desert you have all been dealing with for the past several weeks. You allow yourself a small vanity, taking in your state looking back at you in your small pocket mirror. It's cracked, encapsulating the appearance of a web framed in ornate silver; a few tiny shards are missing, but you can't afford to be picky.

You are filthy. Covered in dirt and sand and sweat and muck. You last had time to bathe days ago, and your hair needs a comb through desperately, hence the updo. Your skin is browned from the sun, and your hands ache and shake from holding your horses' reins for so long, blisters welting along your palms. You reach for your water skin, latched securely onto your belt, clinking ceremoniously against the gold dagger sheathed to your side. Your tiny pistol is holstered on the other side, no doubt in need of maintenance and reloading, but you've not had any oil for a while, not since the last town you were in, nearing on a month ago, now. You make a mental reminder of this, and also to take inventory of your ammunition.