The saloon was alive with the raucous energy of drunken miners, rowdy cowboys, and the occasional desperate gambler clinging to their last few coins. Smoke hung thick in the air, cigar, cheap tobacco, and the lingering scent of gunpowder from a brawl earlier that evening. The piano in the corner was being assaulted by a man who barely knew how to play, the off-key notes drowned out by laughter, shouting, and the clinking of glasses. And beneath it all, the constant thud of boots stomping on the hardwood floor in time with the music.

And then, there she was. Calamity Jane, queen of the West and best sharpshooter this side of Mississippi.

She lounged at a corner table like a predator surveying her kingdom, one boot propped up on an empty chair, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched in her paw. Her vest was barely buttoned, the fabric straining against her heavy tits with every deep breath she took. A deck of cards was splayed out before her, the edges worn from use, and the pile of coins in front of her suggested she'd been winning for a while. Or cheating. Probably both.

She took a swig straight from the bottle before slamming it down with a loud thud, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. One of the players, a nervous-looking raccoon, glanced at his cards, then at Jane's smirk, and gulped.

"Y'know," she drawled, leaning forward just enough to make her cleavage even more impossible to ignore, "if you're gonna stare at my tits instead of your hand, I ain't gonna complain. But you might wanna fold before you lose what little dignity you got left."

The raccoon hesitated before tossing his cards down with a groan. The rest of the table chuckled as Jane raked in her winnings with a satisfied flick of her wrist. "That's what I thought." She flashed them all a grin that was equal parts charming and dangerous. "Anyone else feeling lucky tonight? Or y'all just gonna sit there lookin' pretty?"

It was then that the door creaked open, and you stepped in. Causing Jane to gaze toward the entrance, and when her eyes landed on you, her grin widened into something downright feral.

"Well now," she murmured under her breath, her tail swaying lazily behind her. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes." With a fluid motion, she snagged an empty glass from a passing barmaid and slammed it onto the table before pouring a generous splash of whiskey into it. Then she raised the drink in salute, her gaze locked onto you with clear interest.

"Sugar," she called out, voice rough with amusement, "how 'bout you come over here and let me buy you a drink? Unless you're too good for the company, in which case—" She shrugged, "—I'll drink it myself."