- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Daily for OOC/Lurking, RP schedule varies.
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- Angst
| Silas Hayes |
{ 'Buckshot' }
"Settle down, I won't hesitate
to hit the highway
before you lay me to waste.
Saddle up and I'll help you find
something to drive
before you drive me insane."
something to drive
before you drive me insane."
Active Stories:
"Buckshot's Bounty" Silas x Beau
"Nightriders" Silas x Cole
"Buckshot's Bounty" Silas x Beau
"Nightriders" Silas x Cole
Nickname(s): N/A
Codename(s): Buckshot
Age: 34
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Appearance
Height: 6ft, 3in
Build: Toned, lean, relatively muscular. 180lbs.
Hair Color: Black/Dark Brown
Eye Color: Black (Deep Brown)
Identifying traits: A face marred by scars.
Misc
Sexual Orientation: Straight/Questioning
Occupation: Bounty Hunting, Pelt Trading/Selling, Cowboy, Nomad, Survivalist.
Personality
He can come off as brooding and uninterested, but is really just caught up in his thoughts and desire to be alone. He keeps to himself in an effort to limit his social interactions. You could say his form of grieving is through silence and distraction.
He is stern, independent, integral with his work and his words. He minds his business, jaded when it comes to the affairs of others. If it didn't effect him, he wouldn't bother with it. That is, unless, it was worth bringing justice to.
He never hesitates to hold his own, and has a bit of an itch for the occasional adrenaline rush. His more complicated emotions and negative traits come out in his drunkenness or when stressed. On his bad days, you'll find him sobbing outside of the local saloon, or stumbling about with a handle of whiskey in an effort to drink himself to sleep. Sometimes, it's him being thrown out of a bar for getting in a tussle, or it's a knife fight in the dark hours of the night.
Past his drinking and avoidant behavior lies a tender-hearted man, who enjoys a good smile and a laugh. He's cruelly playful and kind, and often finds himself putting himself into danger in order to save those caught between a rock and a hard place. When close, you'll find a more gentle side to him, which is thoughtful and warm, though a bit bashful at times. He's more likely to show his affections in subtle ways and through thoughtful tasks rather than to word them.
If you find him to be your partner, expect a loyal, devoted and passionate man who although somewhat unhealed and still broken, would give his everything to get his lover to see another day. There's little hope at breaking past those defenses, though, as grief and sorrow have hardened him greatly over the years. His widowed status has left him struggling with the idea of connection with others, and still plagues him to this day.
History
(WIP)
Gallery
Ship / Dynamics
Writing Sample
Warnings: (Mature Language, Flashbacks)
"The more you talk about fuckin' me, the more inclined I am to start callin' you 'ass bandit'."
He grinned around the cigarette, too tired to take him seriously. Besides, the more he listened to his banter, the more he grew used to it. He knew he better find at least one thing he'd like about Smokes, as they'd be spending quite some time together on his death march.
Most of his catches were either begging for their life, silent, or cursing him out. Smokes was a nice change of pace. Almost made the justice bitter sweet. Almost.
Silas raised a hand up, taking his hat off and brushing his sweat away and his dark hair back while he listened to the hooting of an owl. Dealing with the Outlaw's wounds had left him with a little adrenaline rush of his own. It was starting to edge away now, though. The cigarette popped and cracked at the occasional tobacco stem as he chewed at it and exhaled puffs of smoke from his nose. Some good shit. It glowed hot like the dying fire beside him. He listened to the almost laboured breaths of his temporary companion, relaxing back in his spot with a sigh. He was gonna have to play baby-sitter tonight; he could tell from just a slow glance.
He looked like he'd seen better days, most certainly. Silas just had happened to meet him at his worst, nearly dying and fighting hard for survival. Sweat still glistened on his trembly skin, and those blue eyes were barely able to keep open. He was surprised at his ability to remain conscious, to crack a smile amongst the pain and fatigue. Even more surprised at the strength he seemed left to wield to ask who his captor was, finally. The bounty hunter snorted. A fighting spirit. Silas could never deny him that.
He guessed he deserved a little bit of information. He'd gotten through this much, after all. He pulled his cigarette from his mouth, only to take another swig of whiskey and put it right back. He didn't know if Smokes kept track of or ears out for bounty hunters, but Silas didn't have the nicest of reputations.
"It's Buckshot, your sweet, sweet angel of death." He charmed with a slight chuckle, dipping his head respectfully.
"You'll find out the rest on your court date."
He was seen as an arrogant, stoic man who was the son of an outsider. His inclination to only ride solo, no matter how big or bad the bounty was, as well as to bring back his finds alive, paired with his unwillingness to network, left a bad taste in many mouths at the lounge. Silas didn't care. He tuned out the voices. Got his jobs done and collected his cash.
There'd also been an incident where in Littlerock, the Sheriff's wife had gotten sweet with him, laying googly eyes and raunchy remarks his way. Silas was nothing but a gentleman, but kindness was always mistaken as something else when it came to gatherings like those. It was then, in one night, with just a few chats, that half the town saw Silas as a dog who fucked the Sheriff's wife. Long story short, he didn't cash bounties in that town anymore, and steered clear of the neighboring ones. Word of mouth was deadly.
He hummed out low to himself as he stood on heavy boots, making his way back to Bourbon who had been patiently eyeballing the two here and there. He smirked at him, giving him a soft brush over his neck with his strong hand, before he grabbed some hides and a woven blanket. He tossed the latter over Smokes, taking the hides for himself. Had to resell em, after all. Didn't need bandit blood all over it.
"Gonna have to sweat it out. No avoiding that." He hummed, seeing him shaking cold. He knew he'd be burning up side.
He unhooked the saddle bag, laying one out for himself along with the animal skin. He'd use it as a pillow. Needed something to rest his head on if he were to keep watch. He was a bit paranoid about the Cheyenne backtracking as well. He knew sleep would be a challenge, even as it ate at his weary eyes and tired spirit.
It was going to be a busy morning as well, clearing out of here with Smokes in tow, knowing he'd need to go straight for the river. Another body meant he needed more water. He'd have to be doing most of the labor, and yield double what he was used to. It wasn't the first time he'd stumbled upon a lowly soul like Smokes on his long, endless travels. Silas had been on the move for nearly, if not more than, a decade, now. Sure, he'd shack up somewhere for a few months here and there, but he didn't idle for long. He couldn't have still hands.
Or a still mind.
It made him think and yearn for things that would never be again. So, he always had a goal in sight. A treacherous journey to take. Survival, and the concentration it took to live the lifestyle he did during these times, were enough to consume him and all his troubles. They only ever slipped when he was drunk, choking back tears. Or near dying, delirious and cold during a blizzard, huddling the dead, but still warm body of his former mare Sunkiss. Maybe when he was underneath the heavy, crushing claws of a brown bear, howling out in pain as they flayed his then, younger, face, not heeding his father's many warnings. Surely while kneeling in front of the many graves of his loved ones. That's when the regret, the shame, and all the other shit he buried came to surface. Wishing he could change something somehow, be a better man. Maybe then...
Another reason to ride solo. That way, no one would ever see the occasional crack in his carefully crafted armor.
He grinned around the cigarette, too tired to take him seriously. Besides, the more he listened to his banter, the more he grew used to it. He knew he better find at least one thing he'd like about Smokes, as they'd be spending quite some time together on his death march.
Most of his catches were either begging for their life, silent, or cursing him out. Smokes was a nice change of pace. Almost made the justice bitter sweet. Almost.
Silas raised a hand up, taking his hat off and brushing his sweat away and his dark hair back while he listened to the hooting of an owl. Dealing with the Outlaw's wounds had left him with a little adrenaline rush of his own. It was starting to edge away now, though. The cigarette popped and cracked at the occasional tobacco stem as he chewed at it and exhaled puffs of smoke from his nose. Some good shit. It glowed hot like the dying fire beside him. He listened to the almost laboured breaths of his temporary companion, relaxing back in his spot with a sigh. He was gonna have to play baby-sitter tonight; he could tell from just a slow glance.
He looked like he'd seen better days, most certainly. Silas just had happened to meet him at his worst, nearly dying and fighting hard for survival. Sweat still glistened on his trembly skin, and those blue eyes were barely able to keep open. He was surprised at his ability to remain conscious, to crack a smile amongst the pain and fatigue. Even more surprised at the strength he seemed left to wield to ask who his captor was, finally. The bounty hunter snorted. A fighting spirit. Silas could never deny him that.
He guessed he deserved a little bit of information. He'd gotten through this much, after all. He pulled his cigarette from his mouth, only to take another swig of whiskey and put it right back. He didn't know if Smokes kept track of or ears out for bounty hunters, but Silas didn't have the nicest of reputations.
"It's Buckshot, your sweet, sweet angel of death." He charmed with a slight chuckle, dipping his head respectfully.
"You'll find out the rest on your court date."
He was seen as an arrogant, stoic man who was the son of an outsider. His inclination to only ride solo, no matter how big or bad the bounty was, as well as to bring back his finds alive, paired with his unwillingness to network, left a bad taste in many mouths at the lounge. Silas didn't care. He tuned out the voices. Got his jobs done and collected his cash.
There'd also been an incident where in Littlerock, the Sheriff's wife had gotten sweet with him, laying googly eyes and raunchy remarks his way. Silas was nothing but a gentleman, but kindness was always mistaken as something else when it came to gatherings like those. It was then, in one night, with just a few chats, that half the town saw Silas as a dog who fucked the Sheriff's wife. Long story short, he didn't cash bounties in that town anymore, and steered clear of the neighboring ones. Word of mouth was deadly.
He hummed out low to himself as he stood on heavy boots, making his way back to Bourbon who had been patiently eyeballing the two here and there. He smirked at him, giving him a soft brush over his neck with his strong hand, before he grabbed some hides and a woven blanket. He tossed the latter over Smokes, taking the hides for himself. Had to resell em, after all. Didn't need bandit blood all over it.
"Gonna have to sweat it out. No avoiding that." He hummed, seeing him shaking cold. He knew he'd be burning up side.
He unhooked the saddle bag, laying one out for himself along with the animal skin. He'd use it as a pillow. Needed something to rest his head on if he were to keep watch. He was a bit paranoid about the Cheyenne backtracking as well. He knew sleep would be a challenge, even as it ate at his weary eyes and tired spirit.
It was going to be a busy morning as well, clearing out of here with Smokes in tow, knowing he'd need to go straight for the river. Another body meant he needed more water. He'd have to be doing most of the labor, and yield double what he was used to. It wasn't the first time he'd stumbled upon a lowly soul like Smokes on his long, endless travels. Silas had been on the move for nearly, if not more than, a decade, now. Sure, he'd shack up somewhere for a few months here and there, but he didn't idle for long. He couldn't have still hands.
Or a still mind.
It made him think and yearn for things that would never be again. So, he always had a goal in sight. A treacherous journey to take. Survival, and the concentration it took to live the lifestyle he did during these times, were enough to consume him and all his troubles. They only ever slipped when he was drunk, choking back tears. Or near dying, delirious and cold during a blizzard, huddling the dead, but still warm body of his former mare Sunkiss. Maybe when he was underneath the heavy, crushing claws of a brown bear, howling out in pain as they flayed his then, younger, face, not heeding his father's many warnings. Surely while kneeling in front of the many graves of his loved ones. That's when the regret, the shame, and all the other shit he buried came to surface. Wishing he could change something somehow, be a better man. Maybe then...
Another reason to ride solo. That way, no one would ever see the occasional crack in his carefully crafted armor.
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