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Miss Kitty and The Outlaws



 
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Jameson Orlav

Warmth.

Even before complete consciousness had returned, Jameson is able to register the feeling of warmth. It spreads across his face with ease and bleeds onto his neck and over his shoulders. What he realized just before his eyes fluttered open was that he'd been fully clothed. Hot. And when the lids of his eyes finally peeled back, the sun greeted him harshly; burning his irises with a profoundly unfamiliar neon brightness.

Once he realizes that he is in fact outside and blistering under the midday sun, he begins to panic. From his prone position on his back he starts backwards, kicking wildly at the dried dirt until a cloud of dust twists all around him. His pants are almost the same color as his skin, a pale bisque shade that nearly blends into the earth. The shoes on his feet are a stark contrast in all of their dark leather glory. Cowboy boots?

"F-ck's sake!" He bellows, finally on his feet as he desperately sought shelter under a rickety wooden balcony. The sun wouldn't be the death of him. Not today.

It's only once he's safe in a dome of shade that he realized that the sun hadn't affected him at all. There was no burn on his face. No burn across his face or neck. His eyes hadn't even began to bleed beneath it's harsh rays.

There were no repercussions- sans the dreadful overheat he felt from the thick layers of clothing draped over his body.

Jameson removes the stetson from atop his head, allowing it to idle at his side and tugs gently at the blue denim button down. He wills dry air from the space around him onto his sweat slicked skin, desperate for relief from the heat.

Then, his eyes tether from the blue sky above and curiously move to his pale fingers at his chest. Slowly, he reaches his arm out and watches as his hand moves from the safe comfort of the shade.

The suns rays wash over his skin; white enough that it's nearly reflective. The vampire lets out a heavy breath that had been trapped inside his chest. Breathing may not have been necessary, but old habits die hard.

And Jameson could be quite dramatic.

Once more, he takes a large step off of the porch and out fully into the sunlight. Again, the sun does little besides lap warmly at his delicate skin. A feat that Jameson hadn't experienced since Mackenzie had killed him.

But what in the actual f-ck is going on?

"Afternoon, sheriff." The voice was from a young man, though his voice came as an odd betrayal of his age.

Jameson looks around, but notices no other bodies besides himself. He doesn't get a chance to answer before the man moves past a suspended set of doors into a rowdy sounding saloon.

Sure enough. The spot over his chest was covered with a multi pointed badge and it was thick and heavy like the mold had been filled with silver. He didn't have to see the words to know that they were etched into the trinket pinned over his heart.

Sheriff.

His jaw may have slacked a bit before he swiveled slowly on his heel. Jameson is confused, and disoriented. As far as situations went...

This time he has no idea where to begin.
March 29, 2018 11:19 pm

Ella Donovan

The first thing that awakens her is the sensation of something hitting and clinking against the bare curve of her back. The second is the slight chill of air against the sweat on her back, where a mass of fiery curls are stuck to her flesh by perspiration. Ella was sometimes an exhibitionist, but as far as she could remember from the night before she was clothed. It doesn’t alarm her nearly as much as the voice that follows with a thick western accent.

“That there is the amount Miss Kitty agreed on.”

Who the fcck was Miss Kitty?

Ella certainly got around, especially among the married men, but last night had been the night she had stayed home. She pulls herself upright and tugs the sheets over her form as she finally turned around to the man leaving the room. It smelled like liquor and piss, causing her face to wrinkle in disapproval. Bright blue eyes flicker around the room and it only added to her bafflement.

The walls, ceiling, and floorboards were compromised of wood and what she thought were bullet holes. There’s a sliver of immense panic as she starts to comb through bed in search of something specific. Ella Donovan had a precise collection of wedding rings she stole off the men she had affairs with. All collected in one jar she normally hid under her bed. Feeling her fingers across the wood she instead hooks her fingers around something bulkier.

One fiery brow arched as she whispered to herself “what the fck”. At least her hundredth time upon waking up in this strange bed. She lips off the covers and stares at the black lace stockings bundled up at her knees. Pulling the material up she steps around the room getting irritated by the creaks of the wood underneath her.

She gritted her teeth trying to locate her cloths, but instead all she could find was a dress not her own. Ella stared at the lace and the frills, turning her gaze with disdain to the corset that was tossed with the dress near the door that was partially open. The redhead paused when she not only heard a gunshot, but felt it ping against the wood floors. As quickly as she could she placed on the black corset, lacing it up with surprise expertise. The dress with the bright of red that clung to her curves, and of course the dangerously low cut to show off her bosom.

The door she slams open with just a small push taking a glance below. She stands there and gawks at the scene. Two men with their pistols drawn with their Stetsons. There are other women that exit their flimsy rooms with her, and they are all partially clad. Ella’s eyes settle on a woman with blonde hair in a western pale ballgown that gets between the men.

“Not in my brothel. Take yar pists outside, payin’ clients only ‘round ‘ere.”

BROTHEL.

Ella licks her lips and looks again at the other women upstairs with her. Then to the mass amount of men below at the bottom in the saloon. She takes note of the girl that had paused at the staircase with a man’s hand practically up her crotch.

She pursed her lips and lifted both brows in contemplation. She wasn’t sure what the actual hell was actually going on, but she knew since she was a wh0re….

She was home.

The next gunshot tears her attention to the center as one of the cowboys fell to the ground. Crimson flooding from his head. Ella blinks when she notices the madame of the place pull a tiny pistol from between her breasts and fire it into the head of the other man standing.

The non paying clients, she assumes, runs out the saloon doors. One of them bellowing out for a sheriff. The other soiled doves return to their rooms and close their flimsy door. She steps out of sight of the madame, but leans in her doorway. Moving her hands behind her to loosen some of the laces from the corset, and then folded her arms across her chest.
June 06, 2018 03:29 pm

Jameson Orlav

Bang.

A shriek sounded from around the corner, but as Jameson listened closer he'd come to realize it was actually a high pitched scream. The sound was belonging to a woman of course, though they came in multiple waves around the corner within seconds. The atmosphere shifted around him in a way that threatened to knock him off of his feet. A stampede of petticoats and lace hairpins swarmed past him at an alarming rate, until one merrily plump woman stopped at his side and begged attention with a tug of his arm.

Bang. Another shot rang out from somewhere nearby.

'Oh, Sheriff!' She wailed, a fan and it's delicate weave waving stale air against her face, 'O'er there at Miss Kitty's! Whole towns all to pieces! Jeb Beckett's done gone and lost his mind!' The woman paused between gasps, her fan pausing over her face as she tried her best to squeeze out a sympathetic sob. It was likely she'd have started tugging Jameson towards the scene itself had he not peeled her off of his arm and made his own way.

"I, uh. Thank's... Miss..." His eyes narrowed briefly into slits, but he uses the guise of sunlight to cover his ongoing suspicions, somehow raising his hand up just high enough to 'block the sun' from his vision. Whatever the f-ck was going on here had to be some kind of magical byproduct. There was no way they'd actually gone.. Back in time.

Jameson didn't see the harm in playing along.

Especially since it was very f-cking apparent that the rules did not apply in whatever universe they'd been hurled into.

With a steady hand on his hip, the man made his way off of the shoddy wooden porch he'd been paused on and started off toward all of the commotion. He's not at all sure what he's going to find. Doesn't even have the slightest inclination about what to expect. The only thing he knows is that the gun on his holster is real, and if the sun couldn't hurt him he'd assume that everything else could.

Better safe than sorry. Especially where his life was concerned.

Jameson paused just before he pushed through the dirty old wooden doors set up high on their hinges, his spurs silencing as his boots came to a stop. This was a scene out of a terrible old western movie. One where the sheriff stepped inside of an old bar and was then obligated to participate in a round of shootouts until everyone was dead.

In some life he'd come to find out why all of this weird sh-t kept happening to home. Some-fvcking-day.

With a hard exhale, Jameson pushed through the doors, his voice heavy with authority when he stopped just short of the first table he'd come too, a pool of slow moving blood now gathering at the toe of his show.

"What's going on here, Miss Kitty?" Jameson's dark eyes lift slowly and his head follows his gaze while he tries his best to figure out which of the scantily clad women belongs to the namesake.

'You know the deal, Sher'f." A woman stepped forward, bosom positively protruding from the tightest girdle Jameson has ever seen in his life. 'Fellas in here start'n to argufy an' both of 'em pulled guns on each other. Ain't havin' none of that in my bar.'

Miss Kitty stood tall as she took another step forward, somehow daring Jameson to argue with her as one of her wild and bushy brows perked over the challenge of her stare. He holds her gaze for a second longer than he should have, because there is no universe where Jameson Orlav voluntarily stands down. So his tongue darts out over his lips, and he dampens them a moment, while clearly contemplating what in the hell he's supposed to do right now.

Fingers and thumbs on each of his hands find either of his hips as he relaxes into the stance. Jameson shook his head loosely, eyes moving from Miss Kitty to the balconies filled with terrified women.

"Any of your girls hurt?" He questioned, until his chestnut stare settled over a familiar head of wild auburn hair. "-Ella?!" Right away he swept towards the staircase, past Miss Kitty and the two girls at her side. He'd tracked his boots right through a puddle of warm blood, but it didn't bother him. "Ella, are you-"

But it did bother Miss Kitty.

'Sher'f God as my witness I'll tan yer hide 'you don't take them bloody boots out my 'house!'
June 11, 2018 09:08 pm
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