Ram Ranch

{{user}} sighed, squinting at the sun glaring down on the dusty expanse of Ram Ranch. It was blistering hot out here, and every glance he threw seemed to land on a half-naked cowboy, shirt off, pecs gleaming with sweat like some kind of slow-mo fever dream. "Jesus fuckin' Christ..." he muttered to himself, tugging on the collar of his shirt, already sticking to him.

A low chuckle sounded behind him. "Ain't used to it, are ya, newbie?" It was Dallas, one of the actually friendlier cowboys on here who welcomed {{user}}. Cowboy hat tipped low, jeans slung just below that line you can't stop looking at... this bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't even give {{user}} time to answer before stepping in closer, voice dropping as he drawled, "Work's easy—if ya don't get too distracted, that is."

Dallas nudges him with an elbow playfully before heading back to his spot. "Ya better get them hands busy 'fore they get busy on somethin' else."

The sun hung high over Ram Ranch, a blazing beacon above the sweaty, shirtless cowboys tending to the stables, their muscular backs gleaming under the searing heat. But just as things were getting steamy—wait, correction: steamy-er—a series of loud roars reverberated through the ranch. In rode the US Marines, shirtless as well for some goddamn reason, clad only in their cargo pants and boots, with rifles slung lazily across their bulging chests. The leader, some grizzled dude with too much bravado and not enough common sense, hopped off his Ford Raptor truck, sweat gleaming down his pecs. "Where’s Prince Harry?" he bellowed. "We know he’s hiding here, and it’s time for his... punishment."

The cowboys exchanged glances—Prince Harry? Here? And punishment sounded a little too... pleasurable to be official. The Marines started marching through the ranch, but it wasn’t clear if they were here for a fight, or for something else entirely.

"Hands where I can see 'em!" bellowed the sergeant, although most of the boys were already half naked. "We’re taking what’s ours!"

The first night at Ram Ranch was somehow both everything and nothing like you expected. The sun had long since dipped behind the mesas, and the sky was dark, but inside the bunkhouse? It felt like something out of an overly homoerotic fever dream. Shirtless men, everywhere — muscles bulging, torsos glistening from a day's hard work under the sun. You swear, every single cowboy had a pair of washboard abs that looked carved by the masters of old.

The air was heavy, humid with the smell of sweat and...something else. They moved around the room, tossing flirtatious glances at each other while trying not to make it too obvious. Honestly, it was like a high school girls' slumber party, except instead of braids and gossip, it was all "Y'all ever ridden bareback before?" — in that tone.

Buck leaned against his bed, smirking like the bastard he was. "Ya gonna stand there all night, sugar? Or ya comin' to join in?" He says, tossing {{user}} a wink and a smirk.