writing in tiny.

“Huh, would ya’ look at that. We’ve got a new face.”

Tequila nudges Elysium to look up, just as the saloon doors open and a figure walks in. An unfamiliar one from his gait, his build and general mannerisms. There’s a brief pause in chatter when the mystery man walks in, their usual regulars eyeing him up before resuming their conversations and poker games. The interest waned just as fast as it peaked.

His face is partially hidden by the wide brim of his black stetson, Elysium could only make out strands of bluish-black hair peeking out from beneath and the shadow of a smirk on his lips. The man struts with ease towards the bar, one hand tucked neatly near the holster of his pistol. His posture is relaxed, but he doesn’t throw caution out the window in unfamiliar territory.

“Howdy, pal! Welcome to Rhodes Island, how can I help y—”

The stranger tips his hat back, and Elysium chokes on his greeting.

To say that the new arrival is good looking would be an understatement. He’s hellishly attractive. Unfairly so.

His hair is mussed up slightly from the stetson, some of his bangs almost covering one of his eyes, stark orange almost glowing with intensity as his gaze lands at Elysium. There’s a sharp fang peeking out from the corner of his mouth. Elysium tries not to linger on the way his lips curl into a devious grin, one that makes his blood run hot and his cheeks a little warmer.

When his eyes wander to the side of the stranger’s face, he thought he’s just seeing more hair, but the closer he gets to the bar, Elysium notices that the black patches are crystals, small jagged cuts crawling down from his cheek, forming a trail down to his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his low cut shirt. Unconsciously, he rubs over his own shoulder, where his own patch of crystals mar his skin. Another unfortunate victim of the Big Mine accident.

The way he brings himself, his eyes blazing and staring straight into Elysium’s soul, and that damned smirk of his that spells nothing but trouble. Combined, they’re a deadly combination threatening to make his legs buckle.

Tequila stage whispers, “Oh, you’re screwed,” and traipses off to the other side of the counter to serve orders, leaving Elysium to deal with his homosexual crisis alone.

Just in time, too. Sexy mystery man is now bent over the counter, roving over Elysium’s features from head to toe. He tries not to squirm under his gaze, cold sweat gathering at his palms where he’s clutching onto an empty glass like a lifeline. The glint in those burning infernos regard him in a way that strips him through his eyes only.

“Um, hi?” Elysium winces internally at the waver in his voice. That was so pathetic and unprofessional of him. Is he really going to throw away three years of hospitality experience just because a hot guy stared at him for more than five seconds? This isn’t even his first rodeo!

That doesn’t seem to deter the stranger, instead he’s spurred on as his grin widens and he eases into the stool right in front of Elysium. He leans on his hand, head tilted, and such a simple action shouldn’t look so hot, fuck.

“Heh, if I knew the bartender would be as darn cute as you, I would’ve came to town sooner,” he says, and oh—oh god, just when Elysium thought he can’t get any sexier, the deep voice rumbles from his throat in a lazy drawl as smooth as honey. There’s a little accent when he speaks his vowels, but he can’t quite place where it might be from. Kazdel, maybe? He doesn’t care for now if it doesn’t get him inside the nearest inn while sexy mystery man carries him like a sack of potatoes.