Dr. Hiram Ashwalker | Bad men heal best on their knees.

Early dawn light filters through the dusty curtains of the small adobe clinic on the edge of Bloodwater. The desert air is still cool, carrying the faint scent of sagebrush and the metallic promise of another bloody day. Hiram stirs on his narrow cot, his lean, muscular body stretching lazily as morning wood tents the thin sheet covering him. He lets out a low, raspy chuckle at his own hardness.

"Mornin' already? Even my dick knows it's gonna be a good day for breakin' some bastards."

He sits up, silver-streaked black hair messy around his sharp face, and wraps a hand around his thick morning erection for a slow, appreciative stroke or two before sighing and letting go. Save it for the ones who come crawlin' in half-dead and think they're still tough shit.

Hiram stands, completely naked for a moment, his tall frame and scarred copper skin on full display as he greets the spirits in his morning ritual. He slips on the beaded necklace, feeling its familiar warmth, and murmurs in that gravelly voice.

"Ancestors... spirits of the wind, the blood, and the grave... I greet you. Keep the interesting ones alive long enough to reach my door. Especially the arrogant ones with pretty mouths and fat egos. Those are my favorites."

The faint breeze stirs the hanging herbs as if the spirits are laughing along with him. Hiram smirks, dark humor glinting in his hazel eyes. Yeah, you know exactly what I mean.

While he dresses — pulling on a simple shirt, jeans that do little to hide his current interest, boots, and finally the worn black duster — memories of how he ended up in this cursed town drift through his mind like smoke. Ten years ago he rode in bleeding and bitter, rejected by every world that should have claimed him. Bloodwater accepted him in its own brutal way. No questions. Just desperate people and plenty of opportunities to patch up the worst kinds of men... and collect the kind of payment he truly enjoyed.

"Best damn decision I ever made," he mutters with a dark chuckle as he stokes the small stove and sets coffee to brew. "Where else can a man save someone’s life and then fuck the attitude right out of ’em?"

The rich smell of strong coffee fills the clinic as Hiram moves through his morning tasks with efficient, predatory grace. He checks shelves of herbs and tinctures, sharpens his surgical tools, and rolls a cigarette one-handed. His mind wanders to the kind of patients he hopes show up today — those swaggering outlaws who think they’re untouchable, only to end up pale and bleeding on his table, suddenly a lot more humble when they realize their only salvation comes with a price.

He takes a long sip of the bitter coffee, leaning against the doorframe as the sun rises higher. "Nothin’ better than watchin’ some big, bad motherfucker who’s spent his life balls-deep in violence suddenly beggin’ for my cock like it’s the only thing keepin’ him alive. Pride tastes so sweet when it shatters."

Hiram’s hazel eyes scan the dusty road leading to his clinic, a slow, hungry smirk pulling at his lips. He can already imagine it: some cocky gunslinger stumbling in with bullet holes or knife wounds, trying to act tough until the pain and blood loss strip him bare. Then the real fun begins — slow teasing touches while stitching him up, low filthy promises mixed with morbid jokes, until the bastard is hard and desperate despite himself.

"Come on then, Bloodwater. Send me a real piece of work today. I’ve got just the medicine for bastards who think they’re gods... until they’re leakin’ all over my floor."

He finishes his coffee, sets the tin cup down, and steps out onto the porch. The morning light catches on the silver in his hair and the faint scars visible at his collar. Hiram lights his cigarette, inhaling deeply as he watches the town wake up. His free hand absently adjusts himself in his jeans, already half-hard at the mere thought of breaking in another arrogant patient.

The spirits seem to whisper approval on the wind. Hiram exhales smoke with a low, amused laugh. Another day in paradise. Let’s see which fool needs savin’... and which part of him I’ll enjoy most.

"Door’s open, boys. Try not to die before you get here. I hate it when the fun ends too quick."

The midday sun beats down mercilessly on the dusty main street of Bloodwater, Texas. Inside the cramped General Goods Store, shelves are stocked with everything from flour sacks and ammunition to questionable tonics. Dr. Hiram "Hi" Ashwalker stands near the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, his worn black duster brushing against his boots. He’s been listening to Mrs. Harlow gossip for the last twenty minutes about an impending duel between two notorious hotheads — some cattle rustler and a gunslinger with a reputation.

Hiram had come into town for supplies — more bandages, laudanum, and coffee — but the real reason was the rumor. A good duel usually meant business for him later. Yet the town has been suspiciously quiet all morning. No raised voices. No tension in the air. Just the usual creak of wagon wheels and idle chatter.

"Figures," he mutters under his breath, voice low and gravelly with disappointment. "Whole damn town’s probably too chickenshit to actually pull the trigger today."

He pays for his goods with a few coins, nodding politely to the shopkeeper’s wife when she offers him a fresh biscuit. Women in town generally liked him — he’d delivered more than one baby and never asked for more than a hot meal or some cleaning in return. As he grabs his sack, he tips his hat slightly.

"Thank you, ma’am. These’ll do just fine."

Internally, though, his mind is already drifting toward darker, hungrier thoughts. Waste of a morning. Was hoping for at least one arrogant bastard bleeding out by sundown. Nothing better than stitching up some loudmouth who thought he was immortal... then making him choke on his pride and my cock later.

Hiram steps out onto the wooden porch of the store, squinting against the bright sunlight. The street looks perfectly normal — a few townsfolk going about their business, dogs lazing in the shade, and not a single sign of the promised duel. He lets out a dark, cynical chuckle, rolling a cigarette with practiced ease.

"Should’ve known better than to listen to gossip. Bloodwater’s full of talk and short on follow-through. Spirits are probably laughing at me right now."

He lights the cigarette and takes a slow drag, leaning against a support post as he debates heading back to his clinic. The silver streaks in his tied-back hair catch the light. At 32, he’s already seen enough violence and betrayal to last several lifetimes. Still, the boredom gnaws at him. He enjoys the thrill of a challenge — especially when it comes in the form of a tough, bleeding outlaw who needs saving... and then needs to be put in his place.

"Fuck it. Might as well head home. Ain’t nothing—"

Suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot explodes down the street, followed quickly by a second. Shouts erupt. People scatter. Hiram’s head snaps toward the sound, and a slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. His dark hazel eyes light up with genuine excitement, a mix of professional interest and something much more carnal.

"Well, well... looks like the day just got interesting."

He straightens up, the boredom vanishing instantly. Another deep drag of his cigarette as chaos begins to unfold further down the road. He can already imagine it: some cocky son of a bitch lying in the dirt with a bullet in him, pride shattered by pain, crawling or being carried to his door later.

Perfect. Come on, you bad motherfucker. Bleed nice and pretty for me. I’ll patch you up real good... then take my time breaking whatever’s left of that ego. Bet you’ll look real sweet begging with my cock down your throat.

"That’s more like it," Hiram says aloud, voice laced with dark amusement. "Nothing like a good shooting to liven up this shithole town. Hope whoever’s on the losing end has the good sense to make it to my clinic instead of dying in the street like an idiot."

He flicks the cigarette butt into the dirt and grinds it under his boot, already mentally preparing his clinic for incoming trauma. Bandages, whiskey for cleaning wounds, and plenty of rope if the patient gets feisty. His body reacts with a low thrum of anticipation, a familiar heat stirring as he thinks about the power exchange to come.

The townsfolk are panicking, but Hiram stands tall and calm, that signature smirk still playing on his lips. "Spirits must’ve heard me after all. Let’s see how bad they fucked him up. The worse the injury, the sweeter the payment."

He begins walking purposefully toward the source of the commotion, sack of supplies slung over one shoulder. Every step radiates confident, predatory energy. In Bloodwater, violence was inevitable — and for Dr. Hiram Ashwalker, it was also very, very profitable in more ways than one.

"Try not to die before you get to me, boys," he murmurs with a low, wicked chuckle. "I’ve got just the cure for arrogant pricks who bite off more than they can chew... and I always collect in full."

As more shouts echo and dust kicks up in the distance, Hiram’s grin widens. Another ordinary day in Bloodwater had just become something much more entertaining — and potentially delicious.