(he/they) this is my writing side-blog. my wattpad is SummerEXE, my Ao3 is SummerofthePhoenix, my main blog is summerofthephoenix, muses currently consists of Tom Hardy, RDR2, skyrim, and acotar enjoy your stay!
Considering I now have three side-blogs along side my main one, I figured it was time to explain some of the details
@summerofthephoenix *main*
This is basically a brain dump of anything and everything all of the time
@wolfesstims *second oldest*
Not a whole lot to say about this one, it's just stim boards and asmr things that my autistic brain finds pleasing
@thatonehartleykid *third oldest*
!!warning!! This is a vent blog, so enter at your own risk. Mostly filled with music, rants, pages from my journal and things that relate to my Casey Hartley (night in the woods) kintype
@inkdippedangelwings *newest*
This is snippets of one shots, WIPs from my wattpad and anything to do with writing ✍️ (also themed off my dark angel kintype)
Note: my name and pronouns preference for each blog is different, read my bios or ask what I want to be called
Hello, good people, I've prepared a tasty morsel for you all! A first look at a draft from a fic called "The Sun Prince", chapter one, "Sunlit roads ahead"
This time, the Steward had a plate, and on this plate was a pastry, or maybe it was a tart. Regardless of what manner of baked good was, it looked as though it were filled with a red jam, strawberry, perhaps raspberry, and topped with powdered sugar. A side of carrot sticks with a small tub of something creamy and herby to dip them in accompanied the pastry on the plate.
The steward carefully sat the plate on the bed next to him, "For the young Lord." He said with a bow, definitely to Lucien, and then turned to give a deep nod of respect to Helion before taking his leave.
Lucien stared at the plate, looked to Helion, then back. As though it were some sort of test, "You need to eat Hon," the healer said, "it's not good for your body to go without food for so long." Lucien worried his little lip between his teeth.
"It will be there when you're ready," Helion spoke, "you don't have to eat it all or right now unless you want to. If you want something later, the kitchens are open to requests."
Lucien gave him a small nod, still watching the plate like it would sprot teeth itself and may bite the hand its feeding, and opting to "feed" Foxy a carrot stick. Helion and the healer in tandem silently thought, "Well, at least he's touching it."
The healer then decided to shift focus, chatting easily about unimportant topics, occasionally to Helion, largely to Lucien. What he thought of the pegasi, if Foxy liked the carrot stick, how would one go about catching sunlight in a bottle if they could. Lucien smiled a little at the last one. Finally, curiosity won out. He poked at the dip with the carrot and sniffed it.
"What is it?" He asked carefully. "Sour cream, lemon juice, and dill." The healer answered conversationaly. Helion could've sworn Lucien took the most delicate nibble anyone had ever taken of a carrot. The boy studied it the way he'd once seen a crass noble study wine, like it was somehow an affront.
"If it's sour cream, then why isn't the cream sour?" He asked, making the corner of Helion's mouth twitch. The healer explained what fermentation was and how it affected the cream while Lucien continued to poke it with his carrot sticks. Helion allowed himself a silent sigh of relief. At least the boy was eating.
"He must get that from you, Moony." He said, flicking the corner of the Prophet Remus had picked up at the door.
"You were always nerding out on the bench while James and I chased each other on brooms." He grinned, lifting his own coffee, that was more sugar than caffeine, to his lips.
"And, if I recall, I hauled both of you to the medi-witch more times than even I care to mention." Remus mused with a touch of old fondness, idly sipping his tea without looking up from the crossword column. Sirius chuckled into his mug, and Phoenix's head tilted a tad bit further.
"You sound like Zabini's widowed mother," Phoenix let slip.
Harry's head about spun right off of his shoulders; Sirius choked. Remus only raised a polite eyebrow, asking, "How so?".
"Of the two times I've met her," Phoenix replied, because he was in too deep to back out now, "she wouldn't quit yapping about her proclivities toward young men.... like they're collectibles."
He covered the slip neatly with a sip of his perfectly unsweetened coffee. Adding, "she's perfectly polite otherwise," he added, "as long as you happen to fit her requirements of young and rich ."
The silence was palatable after that, until Harry Potter, wide-eyed and innocent Potter, turned his attention to Remus, "What's a proclivity?" The 12 year old asked. Remus' eyes flicked to Potter over the top of his teacup, while Sirius spat coffee into his hand.
All the while, Phoenix leaned back in his seat. Almost smugly, pleased with the disturbance he'd brought to this uncalled for early morning outing.
I'm impatient for my favorite time of year, so enjoy some cozy fall/Halloween vibes in the form of fictional characters that I'm completely normal about
The coffee machine whired to life. You sat two mugs down on the counter, glancing at the clock. Nearly seven, your boyfriend was a crazy person who got up at five in the morning to go out for a run. Another thing he'd done, however, was underestimate how determined you were to give him some payback. So, you had dragged yourself out of bed after he'd left, and now all you had to do was wait. The scent of pumpkin spice filled the kitchen. It's that time of year, Tommy says he doesn't get the hype, but he also asks for a second cup whenever you make it. You stirred creamer and milk into one of the mugs and sat down with your laptop. If giving Tommy his comeuppance was going to force you to get up at an ungodly hour, then you may as well make use of the time, articles don't edit themselves. When the trap was set, all a predator can do is lie in wait.
You got through three lengthy paragraphs when you heard the familiar sound of the front door shutting just a little too hard, and trainers being kicked off. "Oh, morning bebe." Tommy said as he appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Hey," you replied with an innocent smile, "I made coffee."
"Sweet," Tommy nodded, breaking his stoicism for one small moment to let a faint smile pull at his lips at the sight of the second mug waiting for him on the counter. Then, it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. He checked the time, "Since when do you get up this early?" He asked. You could've sworn you heard a hint of suspension, "Couldn't go back to sleep after somebody slammed the door on his way out." You answered with the slight edge of teasing. Tommy chuckled softly, "Sorry," he brought his arms up in the classic strong man pose for a cheeky flex, "These two guns don't know when quit." He deadpanned. You rolled your eyes, Tommy chuckled again and headed for the fridge. Now it was your turn to grin, or at least hide it behind your own coffee cup. A jack-o-lantern holding a ghost shaped trick or treat bag, Tommy was looking for milk to add into the other half of the set, a ghost holding the classic jack-o-lantern trick or treat bucket.
The fridge door swung open, and the head of an ugly hag swung forward with it. One of those rubber masks from the stereotypical witch costume. Big wart on the side of an even bigger crooked nose, slightly yellow teeth clenched together in what could be a growl, stringy black hair blinding in with the black string it was hung from. It actually smacked Tommy square in the chest. "Jesus, fucking-!" Tommy flinched back then glared at the piece of rubber. You cackled as he grabbed the hag's head and snapped the string with one sharp yank to chuck it in your direction. "Watch the coffee, you twerp!" You exclaimed between laughs, shielding your mug with your body. Tommy's gruff laugh joined your bright one soon enough.
"I suppose I deserved that." Tommy finally said with that little half smile that won your heart when you first met. "You definitely did!" You grinned happily. Mission accomplished, you got your payback. "If that's the trick, do I get a treat too?" Tommy joked, finally grabbing the milk bottle out of the fridge. "Then admit you like the pumpkin spice coffee." You answered. "Not a chance in hell." Tommy shook his head but proceeded to stir milk into his coffee regardless.
Chef Solomons.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the extravagant parlor added to the ambiance of the Solomons estate. It could be heard softly against the wind and rain of the storm outside and the creaking and scratching of tree branches sporting warm colored leaves brushing against the house. Your feet were curled under you, a book lay open in your lap, a glass of red wine in hand. It'd become a tradition of a sort, as your husband never let you do any of the work to prepare for your anniversary dinner, not that he ever let you make more than coffee anyway. "I vowed to take care of you in front of that minster, didn't i? So you best let me make good on it." He'd say when he would usher you out of the kitchen. Not that you were complaining, Alfie was an excellent cook, ignoring the time of day and how long he'd been at work for, he'd head straight to the pantry, "how's Cornish pasties sound, love?" Then pull all the ingredients out without waiting for an answer.
You could hear him, the occasional clang of a pot too close to another, the ting of a metal whisk tapping the side of its vessel. You could also hear him grumbling to himself and cursing at whatever cookbook he had on the counter, "Well, that don't make any fuckin' sense, why does it matter what size me fuckin' veggies are? Just chop'em and toss'em in a pot."
He went all out on nights like tonight, holiday meals and birthdays, and his own wedding anniversary was no exception. You'd accompanied him to the shops for fresh produce as he loudly voiced his plans for a proper roast dinner and whatever appetizer he wanted to make. To your amusement, some of the other shop goers seemed a bit caught off guard to see your grizzly bear of a man comparing russets to red potatoes and complaining about the price of onions that he bought anyway. "You should keep a hold on that one." The kindly lady at the till said when Alfie refused to let you carry the bags and then offered his arm like an escort. "Oi, that's my Mrs you're talking to." Alfie announced proudly. You felt yourself flush slightly at the attention. "Good for you then." The lady smiled at you.
You stood from your comfortable spot on the couch and headed for the kitchen, "I hope you're not here to insist on helping." Alfie said without turning away from brushing herb butter on the roast before putting it in the oven. "No," you smiled and shook your head fondly. "A wine refill." You sat your empty glass down on the counter and let out a light scoff in mock exasperation at how Alfie snatched the bottle from where your hand had been hovering over it and poured you another. "Honestly," you said, not hiding your smile. "You spoil me, Chef Solomons."
"And don't you fuckin' forget it." Alfie grinned.
Costume shopping.
"Remind me why I agreed to do this?" Eddie asked for the umpteenth time since this morning. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, however cute petulant Eddie was. "Because you love me," you answered, perusing a display rack of costumes. "And Phoenix and Angela invited us. It'd be rude not to go." You picked up a nurse costume and held it up against you, "what do you think?" You asked, turning fully toward him. "Where's the rest of it?!" Vemon yelled from where they were nestled around Eddie's brain stem, directing the eyes of his host to where the costume stopped around the mid-thigh area. "It's cute." Eddie said instead.
Vemon's input had mostly consisted of questions since they'd entered the store. "What's the point of buying something you are only going to wear once and then stuff in the back of the closet?" "is a "costume party" some form of human mating ritual?" That one made Eddie pause, "Sometimes." The reporter murmured, though considering who threw the party, it very likely would be filled with Harvard students who would likely talk about their biomedical and computer science papers, so it was unlikely this time. "Oh, is that the angry green guy that bartender told us about?" Vemon said excitedly, directing Eddie's head to a costume that read "The incredible Hulk" on its label. "Um...." Eddie mumbled, eyes flicking over the bright green muscle suit that actually appeared to be sized for a child the more he looked at it. Then, with no warning and far too much glee, Vemon chirped, "Somebody skinned him!"
"Well, now that's a mental image," Eddie began sarcastically, "now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and bleach my retinas."
Thankfully, you rescued him before too much longer. "So, what are you going to be, Ed?" You asked, now measuring a cat woman suit against yourself. "The lethal protector." Eddie and Vemon chorused in unison, though you could only hear Eddie out loud. It was the one thing that symbiote and host could agree on. "Lethal protector?" You asked with a look of slight confusion, "isn't that the thing I've heard you mumbling to yourself about?"
Eddie shrugged, "Obscure comic book reference."
Pocketwatch.
Rural Virginia was beautiful this time of year, trees topped with hues of red, orange, yellow, and the small amount of green still clinging on like the body-skimming dresses you'd seen on glamor girls in the catalogs. You were looking for a different kind of elegance after saving up your paycheck for the last few weeks. There weren't many who knew when Forrest's birthday was. In fact, you had to weedle it out of Howard after he'd had a few drinks. The brothers didn't really do much to acknowledge their own birthdays after their parents had passed, Howard used it as an excuse to drink more, Jack usually took off somewhere with Cricket, and on the even rarer occasion Forrest might pick up a book that had piqued his interest at the shops or take off of work early, which was hardly "early" by anyone's standards but his.
It had been like that for several years, for the last six, you'd been aiming to change that. You'd baked a pie for Howard, made a nice shirt for Jack, and now you were after the perfect gift for the middle brother, whom Howard playfully accused you of being biased towards. In all fairness, it was hard not to have a small bias for your silent, brooding boss. You'd known the brothers for six years and had been on Forrest's arm for five of those years. Forrest had a penchant for being orderly and stiff on punctuality, neither of which his brothers followed. So, when you spotted a fine sliver pocket watch on display during an errand run with Forrest, you'd filed the price away in your memory. Forrest wasn't exactly hard to buy for. As long as it had a practical use, he might grumble, but you would catch him using it.
The store clerk seemed to get the hint when he carefully wrapped the velvet lined box in brown packing paper and had another piece sticking out of the top of the bag to make it a proper wrapping job. Your grin was glued to your face the whole walk home, and you could tell you were approaching the station by the loud sound of Howard attempt at assisting Cricket. "Dagburn machines!" You heard him exclaim from beneath the hood of the brothers' shared truck, "You can't trust'em any more than a double crossin' so-and-so." He went on as Cricket scampered to grab some crucial part that Howard had haphazardly tossed to the ground. You giggled slightly at the sight.
Howard's annoyance quickly turned into a grin when he looked up and saw you had returned, "Where you been?" He asked, the grin edging into smirk territory when his gaze landed on the bag in your hands. "Oh, I see," he said teasingly, "trying to butter up ol' Forrest.... you gonna fry him too?"
"I'm not buttering him up," you replied, "it's his birthday... and smiling for once in his life won't kill the man."
Howard practically cackled at that, "Keep tellin' yourself that." He called after you as you headed in the front door of the station. The door to Forrest's office was ajar, and when you poked your head in, you saw Forrest at his desk. Teeth clenched around a cigar, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, pen in hand as he marked something off in his ledger. He glanced up as you entered, sliding the reading glasses off his face, folding them, and hanging them on the collar of his shirt. "What'd I say about knockin'?" He grumbled around his smoke before sitting it in an ashtray. You smiled innocently and sat the bag down in front of him. "Happy birthday." You said. His eyes moved between you and the bag, almost suspiciously so. "Which one of them knuckleheads put you up to this?" He questioned. "I did." You smiled wider, "it's a birthday gift, not an interrogation." He huffed a breathy sound at that, flicking his eyes between you and the bag a few more times before he opened it. He let the pocket watch swing on its chain a moment, turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. Then, he stood without a word, tucking the watch in his pocket, and clipped the chain onto his wool vest. His arm came around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You smiled against his lips when his met yours, knowingly.
"Well," Remus would say blandly later, "Let's just hope he's not as self-destructive as you are." As Sirius flopped dramatically onto the old couch like a faint Victorian in a dusty sitting room with a muttered "Oi! Who's side are you on, Moony?" While Remus dodged the pillow that was chucked at him with practiced ease of a werewolf who had been playing keeper to the curly haired wizard since they were teenagers. "Mm," he hummed, watching dust practically fog off the pillow from where it landed on the floor. He bent to pick it up and fluffed it, coughing slightly, "I think we're overdue a springs cleaning in autumn." Sirius groaned at that but still drug himself up from the couch and headed for the cleaning cupboard, throwing a cloth at Moony's head for one of many 'trained dog' comments with an exasperated "trained my ass!" That was probably heard three doors down.
A/N: if any of you tagged above are only interested in my tom hardy!character fics just tell me
It's a funny thing, really, how fast your life can change in a year.
A year ago, it was just him and Hosea getting by, living their life the way they wished free from the confines of society. In the privacy of their encampment and the wilderness, he could sit by the fire slumped against Hosea’s side with the older man's arm holding him securely in place as he drifted in and out of sleep with his head on his lover's shoulder. Hell, he'd been awoken with a kiss this morning, alongside a promise of his favorite hearty breakfast. A year ago, he and Hosea became parents of a sort to a wily, feral, almost animalistic boy who wouldn't tell them his name for the first three months. He was older than he looked, though severely stunted. There was a kind of unbridled fire in his blue eyes that had landed him on the bad end of a gun more than once.
When he finally told him his name, they had just made a hasty retreat from bounty hunters. "Shit! Where is he?" Hosea exclaimed, his voice uncharacteristically rising as they realized the boy was nowhere to be seen. The both of them threw worried looks in every direction. He was about to speak, form one of his signature plans, when he spotted a big bay thoroughbred walking toward them at a relaxed pace, his rider hiding his face behind the brim of a beat-up leather hat, his prized position that he rarely took off. "There." Was all he said as he spurred his own gray colored mustang into a canter to reach the boy, Hosea on his heels on his brown and white speckled hungarian half breed. The boy looked up at him, and those blue orbs stopped him dead in his tracks and pinned him in place, something had settled in them, but that wild streak still shone strongly. His powder blue shirt was a mess with red splotches, and the upper thighs of his jeans looked rusty. One half of the boy's face had a yellow tinge to it. It would turn purple and black before the day was over, and there was fresh blood dripping from a gash on his chin. His wrist rested on his saddle horn, holding the rains loosely. There was even a slight slouch in his posture, and the right corner of his mouth was upturned into a small smirk.
For the first time in his life, or at least the first he could remember, Dutch Van Der Linde found himself rendered speechless. Just glad he and Hosea were the only ones to witness the state of the boy. The boy straightened, and something pulled Hosea to his senses, "Where did you get that gun belt?" He asked, and the youngin looked down at his waist almost like he'd hadn't noticed he had it on. "Took it," he finally said after a moment. He moved up alongside the kid to get a better look at him, recognizing the gun as a cattlemen. "Kid, I.." he trailed off, his deep voice still largely evading him. "Arthur," the kid corrected him. He looked to Hosea and back to the bloody boy, "What are you talkin' about, son?" He asked. The kid sidestepped his horse into his, so their legs were pressed together, holding his hand out to Dutch. "Arthur Morgan."
A sigh left his lips at the memory. The boy, Arthur, hadn't settled down any, at least not in that way, but he had grown accustomed to him and Hosea enough so that he wasn't as overly cautious of them both as he was before, but he still kept mostly to himself. Reaching the younger man's tent, he heard a frustrated groan. The tent flaps were tied open to let fresh air in, also allowing a crumpled ball of paper to hit him square in the chest. He snorted a laugh that startled the boy at first, then he hid his eyes behind that hat that was at least a couple sizes too big for him. "Sorry.." he murmured. "It's alright, Arthur." He smiled, picking up the ball, adding, "Just make sure you aim for the head next time." That pulled an amused smirk out of the boy. He and Hosea were still attempting to teach him to read and write, so he assumed that was the source of the boy’s frustration, but the paper had abstract shapes and lines that came together in the vague shape of a person. "What are you tryin' to draw?" He asked curiously. His question was met with silence, looking up to see Arthur with his bottom lip between his teeth.
He crossed the threshold into the tent and mirrored Arthur, sitting crosslegged on the ground, still giving the boy room to easily get up and walk out if he wished. He didn't want to make him feel cornered. "Arthur," he said again. "I'm tryin' to draw you and 'Sea." The fifteen year old muttered. Dutch smiled, "Well, you're already doing better than whoever they put in charge of making the wanted posters." The boy snorted a laugh at the remark. Dutch looked over the paper in his hand once more. Most of the proportions were surprisingly accurate, except for one glaring detail. "My mustache ain't that.... cartoonish." He said, half amused, half teasing. On paper, it was twirled at the ends and took over the lower half of his face with no mouth in sight. This penciled version of himself looked straight out of the columns of the editorial cartoons in the Sunday paper. "Artistic liberties." Arthur claimed, though the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Artistic liberties my ass," Dutch chuckled, "it looks like you put a slug on my face!". "Maybe he did." Hosea's voice came dryly from near the fire. "Who's side are you on, old man?" Dutch called back in mock acquisition, then turned back to the boy he claimed as his and smoothed out his mustache in a theatrical fashion as he sat down by the kid. "I think what you need is a realistic reference." He smiled, Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Then I'll make sure to add the over compensation for you." Arthur quipped dryly and put his pencil to paper once more.
Colt called after him as he left at a brisk pace, but all the gloved fists colliding with the punching bags reminded his ears of shots, and suddenly, he was back there, where he didn't want to be. The planes, the bombs they brought with them, and all the death they left in their wake. All the brutal details were flooding back, and they may as well have grabbed him by the damn throat, throttled him even, he would've preferred that to the carnage currently replaying in his head. The only saving grace he could find was that Mad Dog hadn't been around to hound him with insults, taunts, and whatever other verbal garbage he could come up with. On good days, he ignored all of it, not giving the cocky bastard any satisfaction that what he said had any impact, and on bad days, a death glare seemed like it was permanently etched into his eyes, and he wouldn't notice the pain caused by his tightly clinched jaw until he left, he wasn't sure what he'd do if his rival saw him like this, probably give into the urge to punch him as soon as he opened his stupid mouth for once, like used he to when his older brother's friends pushed too far, as far as they were concerned he was a babysitting job despite being three years younger than Brendan. Those same violent urges only plagued him outside of the cage now, he knew he had his father's temper and it fucking terrified him.
Finally, after walking the route with stiff muscle memory, he reached home. He threw his gym bag down on the floor without much thought, getting to the living room with a stumble here and there. He had to strip his hoodie off as fast as he could to escape the growing feeling of suffocation, not at all registering where it and his tank top landed when he threw them. A shrill whine made him look up, Teddy was sitting in the doorway, and with another whine, he voiced his opinion on the lack of attention he was receiving rather loudly. "Sup, bro." Tommy croaked out, slowly processing the feeling of wettest running down his cheeks. The pudgy fawn and white colored bulldog snorted, stood up, and waddled his way to the couch. He gave Tommy a defeated look after his only attempt to climb up into the seat failed. "Spoiled..." Tommy murmured but still willed his limbs to corporate with his brain long enough to lift Teddy into his lap nonetheless. Teddy's pink tongue poked out as he licked the salty tears from Tommy's face. Tommy wrapped the bulldog in a hug, kissing the top of his head as Teddy's presence seemed to calm his heart rate. Teddy was happy to stay right where he was as Tommy pressed his face into his back and cuddled him. The sound of a bag dropping to the floor made Tommy lift his head, and you briefly ran a hand through his hair as you rounded the back of the couch. "Rough day?" You asked, and Tommy nodded meekly. Lady and the Tramp was playing on the TV almost as soon as you picked up the remote. You sat down next to Tommy and kissed his cheek before curling up to his side and laying your head on his shoulder, prompting him to lay his against yours. You and Teddy had every intent to say there for as long as Tommy needed you to be.
Meet the baker.
The flooring creaked under the heavy, uneven footsteps accompanied by a cane, hugging your knees tighter to your chest as the sounds approached the counter, excepting only terrible things to come. "Look at me." A gruff voice commanded. Slowly lifting your head made every nerve scream, blinking away blinding tears. The bearded man's eyes softened as he moved them over you, "Well, now look what you sods have gone and bloody done." He snapped, addressing the room with a wave of his hand. "Come on, love." He reached down, taking your hand gently in his, coaxing you to your feet and ushering you outside. "I greatly apologize for all this, I seem to have sorely underestimated the competence of my men." He said, raising his voice for the part about competence as he glanced at the door.
"I beg your pardon," you finally said, finally satisfied enough that you weren't going to be harmed, "but what the fuck is going on?". The man stared at you for a moment, before his features broke into a smile, "Fuckin' hell," he chuckled, "would you look at the mouth on this one." He said looking around as if there were others around you. "If you must know, love," He began, glancing up and down the streets with one side of his mouth quirked up in amusement, "You're speaking with one of the most wanted men in Camden." He said in a low gruff voice. You took a step back and looked him over, "You don't look very scary." You said now that you could get a better look at him under the streetlamp. "Ah, but looks can be quite deceiving," he mused, "my mum was a prime example. The most dangerous animal known to man is a woman, sitting quietly, with a smile on her face." He said with an extravagant gesture. "Or my... bakery." He added, almost like it came out before he could stop himself. "You're a baker?" You asked with a raised brow, trying to picture the man that just forced his way into the shop you worked at in an apron. "A baker that specializes in a very specific kind of bread." He smiled wolfishly, pausing for a moment as a thought danced across his mind, and he offered a hand to you.
"Care for some... samples?"
Don't leave me
"Is that yours?!" Eames exclaimed, rushing to pull out of the line of fire. Your tears fell onto the camouflage uniform that he had replaced his suit with, nodding as your hand found the growing patch of warm red liquid. "Ian," you began, then everything went dark. The ding of the elevator brought him back to his senses. Though the memory was still stuck on repeat in the back of his mind, the sensations still lingered on his skin. Arthur patted his shoulder in support, "Want me to wait in the hallway?" He asked as they approached the door. "Would you.." Eames started quietly. "I'm right here if you need anything." Eames was almost thankful when Arthur cut him off and made the decision for him. He took a deep breath to steal his resolve and entered the hospital room. "Ian?..." You murmured in a quiet voice. "Oh, Darling...." Eames quite quickly lost his resolve and rushed to kneel by your bedside and grip your hand like his life depended on it. "I'm alright..." You said softly, with a slightly painful smile as you reached up to wipe away a tear with your thumb that he didn't realize had fallen.
"You scared the life out of me...." he whispered, bringing your knuckles to his lips with a trembling hand. "I know..... I don't know where that bullet came from, it just.... it was like it appeared out of nowhere." You murmured, the end almost came out as a whimper, Eames moved to press his forehead to yours. "Please don't leave me...." he pleaded in a whisper that sounded almost painful for him. You pulled him into your arms, careful to avoid aggravating your injuries, and held your husband as tightly as you could.
You know those days where anything that can go wrong will go wrong? This was one of them. The mood in camp was actually decent, besides a hungover Bill Williamson, who was rarely in a good mood anyway, and Marston, who was the current target of Arthur's relentless teasing, resulting in John's yelling and Arthur's chuckling as he sidestepped a swing from the younger man, and Dutch, he was just suffering. The sun was too bright, and any noise was making the pounding behind his temples worse. A soft groan escaped his throat as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. The day had been full of inconveniences, so why not add a migraine to top it all off? "I'l give you a bad case of 'someone just shot me in the head' if you don't leave me alone!" He heard John snap, knowing Arthur was wearing that little smile he always got when he was being a pain in the ass on purpose. Usually, he'd march out there himself to reprimand his unruly sons for being a disturbance, but there wasn't much that could drive him to move from his spot on the edge of his cot right now.
Finally, the camp was silent, and the only sound he heard was the rustling of fabric as the tent was pushed back and the palate floor creaking underneath boots accompanied by the light jingle of spurs. Forcing his eyes open, he looked up to see Hosea, the slightly strained look on his old friend's face told him that he probably looked as pained as he felt. Hosea shook his head with a soft sigh, "Had a feeling you'd need a good drink, of the herbal verity, anyway." The older man said with a caring smile, a soft groan falling from his lips as he settled onto the cot next to his life partner. "You're a lifesaver." Dutch said softly, taking the offered tea. "No, just your fussy old wife, remember?" Hosea teased lightly with a warm expression, noticing the hesitant glance at the painkiller in his hand. "Take them, I'll keep an eye on things." He reassured. Dutch let out a resigned sigh but took them as he was told.
"Did Susan cut Arthur and John's tongues out yet?" Dutch asked, glancing out past the tent flaps, making the blonde chuckle. "I reminded them that I still have the same authority to send them to their tents that I did when they were kids." Hosea answered with a smile that borderlined a smirk, making Dutch snort a laugh despite himself. Hosea's amusement turned to his characteristic caring and parental demeanor as he noticed Dutch's eyes trying to close, only to be forced open again. He moved to coax the younger man into laying down on his cot, "Get some rest, darling, you'll feel better when you wake up." He said gently. "I'm fine, old girl." Dutch murmured, his words slightly slurred as his dark brown orbs fluttered shut of their own violation, and Hosea planted a soft kiss on his temple. "Always was a lightweight on painkillers." Hosea chuckled softly to himself.
The thunderous voice of confidence that Hosea had come to know at that time had been replaced by a more vulnerable one, one that sounded far too small in comparison to the wily character it belonged to, soft like the rain pitter-pattering on the canvas of the tent. "Well, I suppose everyone has at some point." Hosea answered, unsure what brought on this change in his friend. "I mean truly alone," Dutch reiterated, gaze never leaving the roof of their shelter, "not just in the sense that you have no one, but alone in who you are," another pause, and not the usual pauses for dramatic effect that Hosea had become used to but a thoughtful one, "when there's something just so fundamentally different about you that.... I don't know what I mean." Dutch said, sitting up in the mess of blankets and warmth, which was a stark contrast to the weather outside, and ran a hand through his raven black curls. Hosea's expression changed from uncertainty to concern, sensing the turbulent thoughts running rampant through the other man's head. "Is everything okay, Dutch?" He questioned, sitting up beside him and placing a comforting hand on his back. Dutch paused for a moment. It always amazed him how easily Hosea would touch him when a lot of folks wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole if they knew what he was. "Realizing what I was... had to mark the start of the loneliest years of my life." Dutch said lowly, making Hosea's expression change once more, this time into sympathy.
"Ah," Hosea sighed softly, realization dawning on him as well despite the middle of the night darkness that surrounded them outside. He scooted closer, the hand on the back shifting to an arm around the shoulders that held Dutch against his side. "Well, you're not alone now, are you?" Hosea asked, watching those beautifully dark honeyed brown eyes slowly move over his face. He offered Dutch a warm smile, which was returned after a few seconds of searching for whatever he was looking for with a nod. "I suppose not." Dutch said, tucking his head under Hosea's chin, and Hosea realized right then and there how much trust the man in his arms placed on him, to be this vulnerable in front of him and not fear some sort of repercussion for it, not that Hosea ever would. "Can I ask you something else?" Dutch asked, voice still somewhat small but lighter than it was earlier. "Of course," Hosea said without hesitation, his fingers disappearing into dark hair as gently scratched Dutch's scalp, smiling wider at how the younger man pressed his head into his hand like an overgrown cat. "What are we?" Dutch asked, a hint of wonder in his voice that Hosea often compared to that of an innocent child trying to figure out the world, though Dutch was far from innocent, quite literally the opposite. "Well, I'm beginning to think instead of you saving me, we saved each other.... so life partners." Hosea answered, and Dutch wanted to curl up in the warmth of his voice and stay there. Dutch pulled the conman, his conman, into a hug, breathing in the familiar woodsy scent that he'd come to associate with safety, acceptance, and love. He pulled back enough to look into those hazel eyes that held the same warmth for him as Hosea's voice did and said, "I like that."
A short scene I can't get out of my head (rdr2 oc content)
As the mountains grew taller behind the wagons, wheels no longer thudding over loose rocks but instead crunching against the dirt of the well-worn path through the pass, Emily van der Linde knew things were finally looking up.
No more ice and snow, which now was nothing more than the occasional mushy patch beneath the horses' hooves as they pressed on.
She sat beside Tilly and Karen in the middle of the pack, watching the country begin to open up, and with it, a world of possibilities. No more being cooped up in desolate cabins with the wind howling outside. Perhaps she could finally prove to be of use.
A shout from behind them, a gruff, annoyed voice she recognized as Arthur's. He'd dislodged one of his wagon's wheels.
Karen and Tilly tittered. "Typical," Karen said with an amused look over her shoulder.
"Someone ought to go and help, Hosea is far too old to be holdin' up a wagon like that," Tilly chimed in, brown eyes softening as she looked over as well.
No one was looking, and Emily whistled softly for her horse, an American Paint mare that she'd named Missy.
Ever-loyal, Missy was there in a flash from where she'd been following at the back of the wagon train, nickering. Emily had swung one foot out the back of the wagon, before:
"Emily van der Linde, what did your Pa say?" Miss Grimshaw asked, tapping her foot against the floorboards as she looked up from where she was driving.
"To stay in the wagon, but that was ages ago... just a few moments? Please?" Emily asked, blue eyes wide.
Miss Grimshaw sighed, waving her hand in slight dismissal. "Oh, alright. But you come straight back now, you hear?"
A grin. Emily had won, a rare victory. "I hear." She swung into the saddle and clicked her tongue, urging Missy towards where the shout had come from.
By the time she'd arrived, though, the wheel was back in place and the wagon back in motion.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at her from the driver's bench. "And jus' what are you doin', Scout? Dutch told ya to stay put."
"Well, I was coming to help you fellas out, but it seems you handled it yourselves," she replied. "And I was bored. Miss Grimshaw let me."
Hosea chuckled, shaking his head. "She is far too soft with you, Emily."
"You don't often hear the words 'soft' and 'Miss Grimshaw' in the same sentence," Emily quipped back, eliciting a bark of laughter from Arthur.
Emily rode alongside for a moment. "So what were you fellas talkin' about?"
"We saw some natives up on the ridge," Charles replied. "just discussin' the nasty business of them being driven off. I doubt you'd like to hear about it."
"She'll hear about it one way or another," Arthur cut in, leaning down to ruffle Emily's dark locks. "Scout is relentless."
"Ugh, Arthur!" Emily ducked away, Missy huffing and pinning her ears as a waving hand got in the mare's space.
"Ya ain't denyin' it, sister."
"I can't deny it," Emily replied, rolling her eyes. "As you know."
"You'll like where we're headed, Emily," Hosea said, ignoring their antics as they continued forward. "it's a beautiful bit of country, Horseshoe Overlook."
"Anything's a beautiful bit of country compared to that frozen hell we just left."
"Touche!" Hosea said, "But this one especially so. You'll see soon enough."
"I'm gonna go say hi to P- erm, Dutch."
Arthur raised an eyebrow at her. "Didn't he specifically tell ya to stay with the women? Yer pushin' it as is."
"And? We're free. Finally."
"I wouldn't be so certain of that yet, Emily. There's always a chance," Charles said.
"Tch. So pessimistic, Mister Smith," Emily said, though she knew he was right.
She bid them farewell and rode past the other wagons (to a bit of an indignant exclamation from Miss Grimshaw as she breezed right past where she was meant to return) to the front.
Dutch, driving the lead wagon, seemed unsurprised to see her pull up the reins and keeping at pace alongside. "Not even a direct order will keep you contained, will it, Emily?" he asked, slightly amused.
"I've had enough of bein' cooped up. But if you want me to go back, I will."
He glanced over at her with skeptical dark eyes. "Will you, though?"
"Well, if you were to insist, yes. Where's Micah and Lenny?" she asked, looking round.
"They've ridden ahead, to make sure there are no unwelcome surprises awaiting us."
Emily perked up. "Well, perhaps they ne-"
"No."
Emily scowled up at him. "I didn't even finish my sentence."
A low rumble of laughter emerged from Dutch's chest. "You didn't need to. I know you well enough. And my answer is no, you ain't ridin' ahead. Best stay where I can see you, or go back to where I told ya to be."
"yes, Pa."
"Oh, don't look so put out. It's for your own good, you know."
The thing about Johnny, he wasn't always bigger than the other guy in a fight, but he had always had this mean streak in him, unafraid to fight dirty and take the cheep shots when they presented themselves, anything that gave him an edge. That's why he liked Tony's place. He could angrily stalk off to the gents room unbothered after some nobody pushed buttons hardly anybody without a Vandals rocker on their back knew he had. The door undoubtedly added to the bruising after hitting the wall hard enough that it flung back into his shoulder, though he couldn't feel much apart from the unbridled tightness in his core. Once the door had slammed shut behind him, he leaned back and thudded his head against it hard enough that the sign probably fell off the other side. His fists clinched and quivered at his sides as he drew audible breaths into the tense muscles of his chest, forcing his stiff jaws to separate as the ache in his head spiked. He peeled himself off the door and moved to the sink to rinse his blooded knuckles. Water tinged pink swirled in the sink basin, disappearing down the drain, stray droplets, and a sheen only visible from the right angle were the only signs that it had ever been there at all. An angry flash of red in the mirror caught his eye. A crimson trail started at his temple and ran down over his cheek, well, that it explained the headache. A droplet fell from his jaw, landing in the basin, deluding when absorbed by a water drop and vanished into the drain pipe. A heavy sigh left Johnny's lips, pillowilng his head on his forearms, wanting nothing but to disassociate from everything.
He'd partially succeeded when the feeling of cloth being pressed against his head brought him back to himself. "Breathe, Johnny, Breathe." The light sound of Brucie's voice and the hand rubbing calming circles into his back melted whatever tension he had left in his body. He straightened up to meet his lieutenant, more importantly, his long-time friend, eye to eye. "Good god," Brucie's eyes darted all over his face, driving him to the conclusion that he looked as shity as he felt, "What the hell did they hit you with?" Brucie asked. "Couldn't tell ya." Johnny replied, matching the amused smile that appeared on the other man's face. An easy silence filled the space between them as Brucie continued to quell his bleeding wound, and they each simply enjoyed the company of the other. Brucie was the only Vandal Johnny confessed his turbulent home life to, and Johnny had been there, pulling Brucie back from drinking himself into the ground when his parents passed a week apart. Before the club was even thought of, they stuck together because it seemed that nobody else wanted them. "Come on," Brucie piped up, stuffing his now blood-stained bandana back in its pocket. "I'll buy you something to eat." Johnny shook his head, opening his mouth to protest, but Brucie wasn't having it. "I know you, you practically live off coffee and Rockets, and I'll force feed you if I have to." Johnny let his lips pull themselves into a smile. There, of course, was no real heat behind Brucie's words, but the intent spoke for itself. "Is that a threat or a promise?" Johnny asked, Brucie laughed and clapped his old friend on the shoulder as he herded him towards the door.
Worth fighting for
To say you were pissed off would be an understatement. Murderous was a better word for it. Paddy was sober and in a good mood to boot, Brendan and Tommy were even pleasant and civil with each other. How quickly things turned sour was almost impressive. Some things should've been left unsaid. You'd never seen your sister-in-law get that cross with her husband, planting herself in the middle of the yelling match going on between Paddy and Brendan as you slowly edged Tommy out of room, hoping neither of the older men turned their attention to him, more then happy to let Tess run damage control. Once the altercation was out of sight, there was the unmistakably sound of someone receiving a slap, then nothing except Tess letting loose a string of curses. And maybe it was bad of you to think this, but something in you hoped Paddy had been on the receiving end. This is why you refused to leave Tommy alone in the presence of his dad and brother. Once out on the sidewalk, Tommy gripped his short brown hair with both hands and exhaled sharply. You knew the slight pain of a hair pull was nothing compared to all the injuries Tommy had endured, but the stress response still shattered the soft spot you felt for him. "I haven't heard that since mom and I left." He murmured softly as you snaked your arms around his waist and backed him up the few steps it took for his broad back to hit the side of your jeep. "I know." What else were you supposed to say? Tommy may have been numb to the active war zone that he called his childhood home, but now he'd grown used to being away from it, to the domestic home life the two of you had built together with Arrow and Bowie, your twin huskys. The other thing you kept on hand at home, was your husband's comfort food, "Spicy ramen for dinner?" You asked softly. "Yes," Tommy answered, kissing your temple, grateful to have you in his life.
CW: Gender Neutral Reader, Dutch van der Linde getting denied for once
Ships: One-Sided Dutch van der Linde/Reader
“Hello, my dear.”
God.
Fucking.
Damn.
It.
Out of everyone in camp, it had to be Dutch. It just had to be him, didn’t it? If he wasn’t the gang’s leader— you would’ve shot him dead by now.
He reeked of expensive cologne— not the good kind— always spoke fancy words, and more often than not, gave you groomer vibes. Which was very evident by the way he kept flirting with women much younger than him.
But he welcomed you into this gang of misfits, so he was good for something.
That didn’t stop him from shooting his shot with you, though.
“Hello Dutch,” you forced out. “What can I do for you? Best make it quick. I’m about to take Mary-Beth out to town.”
Mary-Beth looked up from her book, confused, but went along with the lie nonetheless at the look you gave her and nodded in agreement.
“Aha...” Dutch’s lips curled upwards. “Can’t that wait? I was hoping to get to know you better.”
Son of a bitch.
“Sorry, Dutch,” you say as you take Mary-Beth’s hand to help her up. “She stole me first.”
He frowned. “Surely—”
Fuck it.
Nice approach wasn’t working.
“Kay, fuck this,” you groan. You stare him dead in the eyes. “I don’t even like being near you on a good day. Why the fuck would I choose you over a woman?”
Dutch’s cheeks colored as his eyes widened at the blunt rejection.
Thunder rumbled quietly outside as droplets raced each other down the window, the soft whirring of passing cars added to the ambience of the rain drumming on various different surfaces, ranging from the roads to the sidewalks to the rooftops. Well the weather made a dreary morning for those who had jobs to get to, safe to assume the weather reflected their mood, others took this morning as a sign that it was time to have a lie in. A well-deserved lie in, Tommy thought, sinking deeper into the pillow being held in place by his brawny arms. A dull ache settled around his right eye, the blow he took from his opponent's knee had caused some deep colored bruising, but any tension he'd held onto from last night was currently being massaged away by your hand wandering up and down his back. He released a satisfied sigh as you applied gentle pressure at the top of his spine with your thumb and ran it down the middle of his expansive muscle mass. Occasionally your mouth would make contact with the back of his neck, kissing and suckling, pulling away before you left any marks, neither of you were in the mood, let alone had the energy for that sort of thing. You nuzzled into him, slowly moving up from the base of his thick neck up to where his hair started and back down.
Tommy was vaguely aware of the sounds of the movie you put on coming from the laptop speakers, something about Virginia moonshiners waging war against twisted and corrupted law enforcement, truth be told he hadn't exactly followed most of the plot, his consciousness had been floating somewhere between sleep and barely awake at most due to the slow pace of your touch. Last he remembered was thinking about was how he related to the youngest of the three brothers, who were at the front line of all the fighting. He knew what it felt like to feel as though you were living in the shadow of your older sibling and often wished that could've been the only complaint he had from his childhood. At least in this moment, he felt as far removed from his past as he felt he could get. Your hand continued its path up and down, your mouth continued to caress his skin, and your warm breath and body against his in the bed remained one of his favorite sensations in the world. All the horrors he'd experienced, during his time as a US Marine and as a kid, were worth it in comparison, he found he was glad the initial internal kamikaze mission he'd entered the military with fell through.
He felt the skin of your cheek press against his shoulder, he heard you release a soft sigh of pleasure, and all his sleep drunk mind could think was that he couldn't be bothered to move. Your arm snaked its way around his bare torso and the muscles in one of your legs stretched lazily as it splayed across his, like it had the right to be there, truth be told, it did. On top of what he thought to be music playing over the credits, Tommy could hear your soft humming, could feel the vibration of your vocal chords in your throat against his skin. Between the soothing sound pulling him closer and closer to sleep, and the rain still plummeting down outside, straight and silvery, like a punishment of steel rods beating on the roof. That thing that grew inside of him as a boy, a seething rage that he tapped in the cage and when his dad went too far and Tommy used what the old man had taught him against his teacher, that thing that usually wreathed around in his chest had settled, still there, but settled.
The seaside.
The seaside was surprisingly sparse with people. The sun beating down had almost everyone who was there seeking refuge in the water, which remained cold as if it were intent on defying the sun. The soft white sand greedily soaked up the sun's rays as you hauled a pail of water across it, a mischievous grin playing on your lips. You had your sights set on your fiance, napping the afternoon away in the shade of a tree. He was in for a rather rude awakening. You almost felt a little bad as you approached him, the content expression of peacefulness on his face, the way his full pink lips were slightly parted in sleep, a part of you wanted to kiss them and another part wanted to see the shock on his face from receiving an ice cold shower of sea water. Both parts won out eventually. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, pulling back with a grin as he, even mostly in his sleep, instinctively tried to follow your lips. That grin widened as you lifted the pail up and turned it over, dumping the contents onto his head.
Farrier jolted awake, "Gah!" He sputtered in surprise, wiping water from his face with the back of his hand as you doubled over laughing. "You little..." Farrier exclaimed, and you took off down the shoreline as he got up to chase after you, laughing and dodging his first attempt to grab you. He caught up to you eventually, "You think you're clever?" He laughed as he slung you over his shoulder. "Tom!" You squealed amongst laughing fits, wriggling in his grip. "No, you're not getting away that easy." He grinned as he tightened his hold, hauling you into the sea and tossing you into the water to give you a taste of your own prank.
You surfaced with a loud gasp, the cold water feeling like it was seeping into your very being, you splashed him in the face once more for retaliation. Farrier laughed again, shaking the water from his head in a manner similar to that of his black and white border collie, Confetti, after she had just had a dip in the pond, pulling you into his arms and flush against his chest. "Think I was missing my alarm clock, did you?" He asked with a grin, nuzzling his face into your soaked hair. You pulled back slightly to stick your tongue out at him in a pout, "Cheeky." He murmured with an easy smile, guiding your head back to his chest.
Too crowded.
Fall harvest, celebrated with a barn dance, a ruckus rising hoedown. Forrest hated it, how ever good for business it was. He hated it. A whole horde of people, dancing, touching, socializing, most would be drunk off illegal liquor, his illegal liquor, before the night was half over. Call it what you will, but being in a crowded building made him feel like he was suffocating. So, he parked himself on a bail of straw by the entrance. The fresh night air felt blissful in his lungs, combined with the smoke of the smoldering cigar he held between calloused fingers. Several party goers greeted him as expected. He was well known for what he considered rather undesirable reasons. The idiots, he thought, were the ones who stopped and tried for conversation, only earning a grunt here and a measuring look here and there before being hauled back off into the crowd. Closing his eyes and exhaling a smoke cloud sharply as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him. A few deep breaths before his hazel orbs flickered open again, staring directly up at the harvest moon. He wondered for a moment if he was even needed here. If not for keeping his brothers in check, he wouldn't be. With all the alcohol involved, Jack couldn't handle Howard on his own, not that he could handle the man particularly well sober either. Then he began to wonder if his older brother was ever truly sober. He shook his head at himself, feeling kinda stupid for wondering that, of course he wasn't.
The crowd emerged from the barn just as it had disappeared inside. the only difference that occurred to Forrest was that they were headed in the opposite direction. The music was done, but the festivities were far from over. He stretched his legs out straight, grunting quietly in satisfaction, then standing with another low sound, this one coming out as a strained groan. He was used to feeling older than he was, this eventful life he'd gotten himself into, It'd be the death of him sooner or later. He reached a hand behind himself to brush off whatever straw was clinging to his brown corduroy pants and then straightened up the rest of the way. He took a few steps toward the crowd, stopping at the edge of it, scanning the flow of people for his brothers, and finding them within a few minutes. Spotting Howard above the crowd was fairly easy with his height, Jack was trailing along behind silently with his head down, glancing up at Forrest like a child who had just been caught mid-squirmish. There was still a part of Forrest that was tucked away somewhere far in the back that wished Jack didn't look at him as such, but someone had to step up, and he wasn't going to chance leaving that to Howard. The middle brother eyed the empty wooden crate in Jack's hands, "Go on." he waved him off with one hand, and the other reached for the crate. Jack looked up at him with wide questioning eyes, "Well, you wanna run around, don't ya?" Forrest asked, and he didn't have to ask twice.
Howard guffawed as he watched Jack scamper away, Forrest shook his head at both of them for the umpteen time. His eyes landed on a blonde, seemingly conversing with a friend. "Who's that?" He asked, inclining his head toward the pair. "Patricia Holliday, she's the mayor's daughter from a couple counties over," Howard answered, Forrest turned to him, how Howard always seemed to know everyone, and their mother was beyond him. not bringing the same warm body home twice probably had something to do with that he figured. "You're gonna need a crowbar if you wanna get inside her, baby brother." Howard smiled, Forrest roughly punched his shoulder for his rude comment. "I'm not looking at her, dumbass!" He barked, loud enough that his voice carried to someone never intended to hear. "Does that mean you're lookin' at my friend?" A voice asked sweetly, sounding particularly amused. Forrest turned to the voice and found himself face to face with a grinning Patricia Holliday. "Um..." Forrest grumbled, removing his hat and stiffly nodding a greeting to Patricia and then to her friend, mentally cursing Howard, who appeared to be enjoying his baby brother's increased awkwardness with a grin. "Hey Howard!" Patricia beamed up at the eldest happily. "Y/n... you don't mind if I leave you with Forrest, do you? I think Howard and I have some catching up to do." She said, tucking herself under Howard's arm, her head barely reaching his shoulder, and smirked up at him as she pulled him into her with an arm around his midsection. "Sure, why not? Besides, he's cute." You grinned, watching with satisfaction as Forrest flushed pink.
You linked your arm with his, feeling him tense against your side, managing to get a distance of what you thought to be out of earshot of Howard and Patricia before Forrest decided to stop dead in his tracks. "Where in, and I do beg your pardon, the hell are you so intent on dragging me off to?" He asked. "Anywhere away from Patricia and that brother of yours, if they're 'catching up' the way I think they are, I have no interest in being anywhere near them." You explained, noting how Forrest seemed to relax once you had let go of his arm. He merely shrugged in response, "Guess I've heard enough of Howard to not think about it." He murmured, and you cocked your head to the side as you narrowed your eyes. "Living together does that." He added because that deserved a little more eloquence. "Alright then," you said, silence taking hold as you wondered, 'what now?'. "Um.." Forrest started hesitantly, looking off in a direction you thought he seemed rather keen on. "Yes?" You asked, trying to gently ease him along. You knew enough from Patricia to understand he wasn't exactly a conversationalist. "Was just thinkin' we could head toward the pond, fewer people there than here I'd reckon." He uttered, refusing to meet your gaze head on. "Let's." You agreed, gesturing for him to lead the way and you became increasingly more intrigued as you watched people make a point of moving out of his way as he did. He did seem as quiet and awkward as Patricia had said he was, but she left out the part about how people would huddle and whisper amongst themselves as he passed by. However, catching glimpses of a jar tucked into the pocket of his sweater gave you a few ideas. Learning about the quaint character hidden under his shyness on a peaceful stroll away from the far too dense crowds sounded miles more interesting than what Patricia and Howard were doing.
Sturgis
His shipment went to Pierre, the capital, but he couldn't pass up stopping off in Sturgis on his way back, not knowing if he would get the chance again. The streets were lined with hordes of bikes, a few classic cars, and some hotrods. Johnny thought the best part to be the feeling swelling in his chest that he was home, though It wasn't the place that felt like home. It was the crowds attending bike week, the fact that nobody gave him anything other than a nod, a wave, a smile, no judgment to be found in their bright expressions. "Hey," a bearded biker called to get his attention, "catch!" He exclaimed, tossing a beer can into Johnny's hands. "Cheers." Johnny said, holding the can up in the air and smiling at the cardboard sign that read, 'Ask me for a beer!' with an arrow pointing at the man's cooler. He continued walking with a relaxed pace, and the smile stayed plastered to his face. He wasn't being othered, alienated, or ignored. He was getting to be 'just Johnny' for a couple of days. Something in that wild streak he never grew out of seemed to settle somewhat in a way, settling happily into the understanding atmosphere. Johnny was welcomed as he was, being who he was for once wasn't leaving him more alone. His smile widened as a couple on a trike waved to him. The man had a prosthetic leg, and the woman was missing an arm, but they couldn't care less because they were happy and enjoying themselves. Of course, everything had a price, and nothing in the world was free. The memory of overhearing his wife discouraging the kids from speaking about who their daddy is like it was something for them to be ashamed of felt like a large fist slamming into his chest. His marriage had been good once upon a time, great even. By the time his firstborn started going to school was when everything went to shit. Suddenly, his wife was more concerned with keeping up the image of a perfect little American family, but apparently, a tattooed biker Johnny didn't fit that image according to her. He pulled the beer out of his back pocket and clutched it to his chest, hopeful the kindness of the man who tossed it to him would seep into him through the aluminum can and bring back the happiness with it.
He forced his legs to move him forward, trying to find something to distract himself with. He noticed a wet T-shirt contest in full swing, which didn't exactly have much to do with bikes, although most that were gawking probably thought the skimpily clad bebes looked better straddling the hunks of metal between their legs, it wasn't hurting anyone, so why not?. He moved on to the burnout contest. That was more to his tastes, standing amongst the crowd watching contestants prepare as much as you could for something like this. The smoke and squealing tires were a welcome distraction, onlookers clapped and hollered, some lewd whistles were thrown around as one of the contestants entered the box with one girl on his bike in front of him and another behind him, Johnny rolled his eyes with a snort, concluding that he was the only one actually looking at the bike instead of the women.
As the sun sunk lower, he found himself sitting on the window ledge of some business, inhaling the tobacco of a freshly lit cigarette, glancing up at the 'no smoking' sign near the entrance with a light scoff, like that was gonna stop him. His coping mechanisms may be worse than his actual problems, but memory keeps tapping a gun against the inside of his skull, demanding the dead be brought back to life. Some dinky sheet of tin wasn't going to stop that either. The rally wasn't a place where rule-followers went, it was a place for people like him. Who really just had a craving to be understood.
Warnings: language, injury, mention of blood, domestic violence (not with Johnny), fighting
Read the prequel
It was past midnight when you limped into an unfamiliar bar, torn jacket, split lip and blood dripping from your hairline. The whole room seemed to come to a stand still as bikers and their ladies stopped to stare.
Kathy was the first to approach you, a warm smile radiating toward you as she gently asked, "Did ya take a spill, sweetheart?" She could tell from your trembling body and the sharp look of fear in your eye it was something more than that, but didn't want you to have to say it out loud.
You nodded numbly, wrapping your arms around your body to conceal the Renegades patch that now hung somewhere near your elbow. Brucie's keen eye had already spotted it though and he leaned in to advise Johnny. You were the girl who'd been here six months earlier on the arm of that rebellious kid wanting to join up, he was certain of it.
Dropping his cigarette into an empty beer bottle, Johnny narrowed his eyes at you, scanning your features carefully.
For a moment you worried he was considering throwing you out. However, before he could pass his judgement, Kathy extended a hand to you proclaiming, "We gotta get her cleaned up."
The words still lingered in the air as the roar of several bike engines rattled the windows by the pool table, your body jolting at the sight and sound of your ex boyfriend and half a dozen Renegades approaching like hungry lions.
Your reaction didn't go unnoticed by Johnny who turned to ask, "Friends of yours, darlin'?"
Fingertips tracing your throbbing, bloodied temple, you gritted your teeth as you spat, "Fuck, no."
As Kathy supported your elbow she whispered hoarsely, "That the guy who did it?" and you only nodded as your eyes fell to the floor.
Johnny pursed his lips as he nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, that's all I need to know." He motioned for Corky and Wahoo to follow as his boots thudded toward the exit, readying for a confrontation.
As expected, the kid was the first to meet him by the front door, an incredulous look on his face when he realized he was being denied entry.
"Take one more step toward that door and I'll knock your teeth out," Johnny informed him, Vandals forming a barrier behind him.
"M not here for a social visit, old man. Just here to get my girl," he persisted.
"Your girl?" Johnny asked, eyebrow cocked in challenge.
"You didn't notice the jacket?" the kid scoffed, turning to his friends with a laugh. "Dunno why the dumb bitch would run into a rival's bar," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Spose that's another lesson she's gotta learn the hard way," he said with a shake of his head, striding forward defiantly.
Johnny sprang forward to attack before the Renegades could react, fist connecting with the kid's jaw in quick succession until he heard a sickening crack. The boys behind him scattered in fear as the kid fell onto the pavement with a low groan.
Johnny circled him, rubbing his fist as he loomed overhead. "You know, I think you're the slow learner cause I made myself clear the first time you came around you ain't welcome here," he gritted out. Chest heaving in anger, he looked down at the boy writhing in agony, imagining what it must have been like for the girl inside. Leaning down to grasp at the collar of the denim Renegade's jacket, he hauled him to his feet, gaze scouring the fabric in disgust.
Shoving the kid into the side of the building hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs, Johnny's voice hovered at a threatening growl as he added, "And just so you know, these jackets don't make you my rival, cause you're just a fucking kid. But beatin' the shit out of a woman does." He tightened his hold until he could feel the kid's limbs twitching, mouth spluttering a bloody trail of saliva down his arm before he shoved him aside.
“Get the fuck outta here. What kind of piece of shit are you?,” he spat, wiping his arm on his shirt. He turned to Zipco and Corky instructing, “Clean him up and get him outta here."
When Johnny walked back inside, he found you pacing the floor nervously.
"He ain't gonna bother you no more," he declared resolutely. "We had a little chat and I uh...explained that to him."
You paused all movement and Johnny squinted at you in uncertainty until you threw your arms around his neck in gratitude. Raising his large hand to your back slowly, he patted between your shoulder blades cautiously until he spied Kathy giving him an encouraging nod.
"No one's ever done anything like that for me before," you cried into his shoulder.
"Well, then you deserve a helluva lot more," he assured you softly, pulling you in close to absorb the little sobs shaking your body. He wrapped you in his arms, placing one hand around your waist and lacing the other in your hair.
Comforted by his steady breathing, you inhaled a few deep breaths as well, observing his unique scent of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of motor oil.
As the juke box began to play a slow song, he swayed you gently to the music and you nearly fell asleep on your feet. It was a soothing moment of safety you never wanted to end. Luckily you didn't have to because you went home with Johnny that night and never left.
Tags: young VanDerMatthews, seduction but no smut, Dutch has a plan, canon-typical violence, smoking, power dynamics
Word Count: 4.2k
A/N: The fleeting idea of why Sheriff Carmichael might have been too embarrassed to comment on their escape from Kettering came to my mind. I realize I spell it both Carmichael and Carmicheal. This is because I don't care about him. I am sorry. (Not enough to fix it lel)
The only thing Dutch despises more than being confined is being well-behaved.
In the past, before Hosea's terrible voice of reason came to him, he would have been running his mouth where his feet could no longer run. Good behavior is a concept so foreign that, after a few whisper-arguments across the cell hall with Hosea in their first week locked up in Kettering, Dutch was forced to ask what exactly behaving behind bars... meant.
It didn't mean full honesty, no; to quell Hosea's nerves after a particularly heated discussion with one of their buyers, they'd agreed on a story to tell the police which made their scheme appear far more juvenile. Dutch could pass for twenty on a good day, Hosea for twenty-six or -seven — they have played to their youth before to slink off unscathed. Dutch still upholds that they jinxed themselves, that instead of discussing the thought whatsoever they should have turned on their heels and skittered off with the three-hundred bucks.
His own greed was part of the reason they continued, but his hindsight remains twenty-twenty.
Even if he cannot call the sheriff a lucky invert for locking up two handsome fellers as themselves — a choice slur for mutton-shunters, which he favored in his youth and finds ironically hilarious now — Dutch has used the time Hosea's been in fitful slumbers to think.
His personal wants are taken into account, because otherwise he has nowhere to stem an escape from. That old story about Benjamin Franklin asking a rival to lend him a book; small favors, big turnarounds.
First, a cigar. His fingers itched for one the whole first week, so badly that they began to twitch, too. Dutch finds himself pressing his fingers to his lips in that familiar grip-pattern now and then, holding his breath as if he's got a something to puff on while he stares out the barred window into the alleyway between the sheriff's office and a general store. (Sometimes a feller takes a piss near the boxes stacked in the back, but not much beyond the light changes out there.)
Second, to be with Hosea. It might have been easier, to be apart, if they were not able to see and speak to each other across the two sets of bars that separate them.
As it is, they talk all day and stare all night; Dutch feels the terrible limbo of their separation eating at his dignity each hour. Some days, he yearns to ask Hosea to speak filth to him so he might imagine they are holding one another like animals do — another day goes by, another inch of what recognized softness exists between them turns carnal, it seems.
It was fresh morning outside when he murmured this plan to Hosea. They've become used to the lawmen feeding their horses around nine or ten, heading to the general store to restock each other's smokes and drinks; they treat it like a damned university, really, and that only pisses Dutch off more.
If they want to be beacons of purity, why not act like ridding the world of Sin is their job? He feels like a child put into detention for throwing rocks at another.
Not that he would know from experience with the latter just how redundant every piece of it feels.
Hosea seems amused, but willing. Dutch had not thought of any jealousy or anger he might react with, not until Hosea's brows drew together at the end of his spun-thread and he feared he would be upset — it wasn't until that moment he realized, should Hosea have offered to be the sacrifical succubus, he'd've turned green — but the blond simply asked: "Everyone 'round here knows our looks, and we only got changes on the horses. How do we get out of the building?"
The solution to that is rather simple, they decide.
"Sheriff?"
A sigh, heavy and rough with smoke. The smell of burning tobacco drifting down the hall from the front desk makes his question sound more genuine.
"C'mere," Dutch calls. His rings clink against the cell bars as he wraps his hands around them. "Will ya?"
A Lord is muttered. "The Hell's it now, Landers?"
Dutch sees Hosea's mouth curl into a grin at the pseudonym, has to bite his cheek and clear his throat to stave off a smirk of his own. The blond curls into his bed as Carmichael's bootfalls near them, standing a respectable distance from Dutch's door.
He thinks I'll swing at him. Smart man.
"I asked you somethin' boy," the man says. His eyes are narrow and green, hooded by tired old lids. He must be a few years older than Hosea from how he carries himself, but his face is more unlined than Dutch's own.
Ancient princess of shit.
"I smelled your cigarette," Dutch starts, softening his voice as if he were pleading. "Y'see, I smoke cigars everyday myself. At least, 'fore I wound up here. So, now," — holding out his hand, tensing the muscles in his wrist to make his fingers twitch — "I got the shakes from quittin' 'em, like that." Carmichael nods, as if considering before Dutch even gets to the point: "What I'd like is to roll a cigar. Get this misery outta myself. I had a rolling case in my satchel."
His lips remain pursed beneath the undergrown mustache on his lip, smoke falling out of Carmichael's notrils as he takes the filter between his thumb and forefinger to point his middle finger towards him. "Nice sob story," he says. "What can you do for me, son?"
This wasn't expected.
The two outlaws believed they were on good enough behavior — if a little quiet, when the sheriff was around — to at least earn a smoke.
Inwardly, he berates himself for not considering that regardless of their behavior, they did scam enough money out of this man's town to get themselves a hundred barrels of flour.
Outwardly, Dutch wheels his plan forward and drags his eyes down Carmichael's body. He isn't an ugly man: he might be a princess degrading the title of lawman to businessman, but he clearly grew up working harder than this. A farmer's son, he would guess, or a farmhand in his last years of youth.
Some money or a good harvest came his way, and out of the sun he went. Yet he still worked, still kept himself built right. His shirt fits snugly over his arms and chest, hidden by the vest buttoned firmly down his torso; the trousers at his hips—
The man clears his throat before Dutch's eyes can laser through how the pant legs crease around his knees.
"What can you do for me?" Carmichael repeats, each word its own sentence.
Dutch looks towards his eyes, tries to find something to arouse genuine want along those smooth cheekbones.
"I'on know," he says, quirks the corner of his mouth up. "What'd'ya like from me, hoss?"
Panic flicks through Carmichael's eyes. It's nearly audible how the man reads deeper into things Dutch has said or done over the course of his hold here — things that had no such meanings, yet now sound suspiciously fond of the man in charge, suspiciously compliant. Hosea shifts in the cell across from his, and he hopes the mirth in his eyes reads suitably to the man between them.
Panic bleeds into something affirmative, yet unreadable to Dutch. The rosiness he can see along the sheriff's cheeks fills in the blanks.
"I'll get you your cigar," Carmichael says finally. As he's stalking towards the lockers, he hears him murmur: "Invert." He's tasting the word, not spitting it out, and Dutch will insist he was able to read his sexuality off his face if Hosea ever asks how he thought this plan would work.
He doesn't seem to be asking much from his cell. Hosea stands, comes to the bars to laugh silently, and scurries back to his cot as the sheriff walks towards them again. Again, Dutch feels immature — this prison thing is just one big child's game.
"I cannot give you your lighter," Carmichael says, as if reading a script off the back of his lids every time he blinks. He must give other prisoners their smokes more often; Dutch realizes these men must really dislike the two of them, neither having been offered a smoke break since the night they were thrown to rot. "I also cannot give you your razor blade. What's that for, anyways?"
"In the tin?"
"Aye."
Dutch raises his brows, genuine surprise. "Not a cigar smoker, are you? Don't roll your own smokes at all?"
"I ain't one for, ah," — Carmichael glancing around, tapping his fingers against the tin in his hands — "Working on pleasure. Always bought cigarettes. Pre-made."
Dutch must swallow the delight at it. Oh, he's bit the bait. "I find the work the most pleasurable part," he says, holding his hand out for the tin as if the words spoken are totally innocuous.
Carmichael flinches — flinches, by God, Dutch can hardly contain himself — before handing the tin through the slats. It is a few items lighter, and he sees the light of the noon glint off his lighter in the palm of Carmichael's hand.
"I gotta stand here," he says, once Dutch turns to sit on his cot and sort through the supplies in his tin.
Dutch is hardly paying him mind with the immediate promise of nicotine at his lap. No whiskey to moisten the tobacco with, he must have removed that, too. Deputy probably drank it, he thinks sourly.
"I gotta light it for you, since you ain't allowed to have this." He lifts his head, nods with a small smile.
"I understand. Can't give maniacs matches, can we?"
"You're far from a maniac," Carmichael says. "Bit too smart to be crazy, y'all are. That's why you're dangerous."
"You're complimentin' some criminals, sheriff?" Dutch asks.
"Naw." He can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, doesn't need to look up from pinching the tobacco into its wrapper. "Much less impressive to have arrested some lucky assholes."
He huffs a laugh.
If only he believed that, he thinks, he might have saved himself from his fate. As it stands, Dutch finishes rolling his cigar and stands, stretches his legs out one after another 'til the stiff knees crack. He can feel eyes on him as he watches the toes of his boots shift.
They hadn't given them the county stripes — honestly, Dutch was beginning to think the men up front forgot the men were even holed up in here. His clothes are soaked with dirt and sweat, though, which is a divine enough punishment for imitating men of luxury; he'll be glad when the strench of tobacco covers this reek back up.
"Care to trim it?" Dutch asks, holding the butt firmly between his fingers, the tip of the cigar through the bars. "That's what the razor is for."
He fights the urge to speak a sarcastic good boy when Carmichael follows his instructions.
The lighter flicks open and on, the sheriff steps closer; Dutch presses his nose uncomfortably between the cool steel bars to let the end light from between his lips. Slowly, he raises his hand to touch Carmichael's knuckles, dancing over his fingers as he gently pushes and pulls his hand back and forth. The back of his hand is hairy, thinly so; dark brown sunfreckles and a few small age spots spatter it and up onto his arm.
"Let me," — the cigar perched between his teeth makes it come across less sultry than intended — "Guide ya hand, sir."
Touching him becomes self-explanatory when the end lights more evenly after the change in tactic — Dutch will be damned if his first smoke in weeks is ruined by an unruly burn. The man still flushes, again, must feel hot as an ember.
He knows, because he's met his eyes again, feigning timidity at the proximity.
Dutch's gaze lingers as he withdraws, hollows his cheeks more than he needs to — although the cigar is a little too tight, his hands having fallen out of practice without the constant stream of leaves between them — and tongues the smoke around in his mouth. The rush is immediate and almost dizzying. He keeps the butt close to his face, draws it along his stubble as he does when he smokes deep in thought.
It helps to taste it, some; it also helps to spread that rouge down Carmichael's neck. He moves his jaw, shows the nicotine-stained teeth that line it as he sneers.
"I oughtta tack sodomy above your head, fool," Carmichael spits, then.
Dutch must not feign surprise for the second time. "Why?" He draws, sacrifices a short hit to exhale it quickly. "I ain't fucked no men yet."
Yet.
The sheriff looks like he would very much enjoy replying to that. And although the cigar could burn something, could catch his clothes on fire if he really wanted to try; although he, an inmate, has now provided the sheriff with a threat of sorts — Carmichael wordlessly motions for the rolling tin back and pivots to look at Hosea's hat-concealed face before returning to the front.
He tips his hat up once he's gone, and sees the humor on his face. "Wrapped around your finger," he mouths.
"Just like you," Dutch replies silently. The older man scoffs.
Night has fallen before Sheriff Carmichael makes his first supposed-to-be routine round of the next evening. Dutch was able to sleep a good few hours away while Hosea traced random bricks in the walls or woodgrains on the floor planks. Neither has had adequate, regular rest since those doors closed.
He and Hosea have been playing games they've forced up from their childhood memories to pass the time: the game of this hour is guess what number he's thinking of. Hosea keeps thinking of the number thirteen because they are so terribly unlucky, and Dutch keeps winning. Each time he does, Hosea stretches his curled back out and lets his boot soles press against the bars in a full-body stretch, spreading his legs nicely, before proclaiming: "Again."
If not for the boots that stepped between them, they'd have changed gears to guess what word he's thinking of.
Sat in front of their bars, Hosea cross-legged and Dutch with his haunches splayed beneath him, they must look like bored animals. Dutch has a feeling that this angle makes Carmichael nervous — he turns his head minimally, lets his eyes turn up instead.
The man sets his jaw. Before he can speak, he is slipped from the cavernous, almost disassociated mindset that had been guessing thirteen and back into that of the predator.
"You a righteous man, sheriff?" He asks, voice quiet. He focuses on his eyes; he has decided Carmichael's eyes are rather alright, a light green and very expressive.
In them, he sees the repression that's been radiating off the man since yesterday's morningtime.
His face flickers. "Why, son?"
He bites his cheek to stave off a grin, ends up looking more coyly amused than anything. "Ain't no righteous man ever looked at me like that."
Carmichael is still — he might harkon to call it hesitating — before slowly lowering onto a knee. "And what is like that?" He asks, tone low, eyes squinting as if to size Dutch up one last time.
He leans forward, swallows the joy of the man's fingers twitching where they rest of his bent knee, tips brushing against the folds of his khakis. "I'd say it's hungry," Dutch says. "Would I be right, sir?"
"I ain't no sodomite," Carmichael says, sticks a finger through the bars and into Dutch's forehead. His voice sounds as unconvinced as he looks of his own words. "I ain't."
"Eyes don't lie." Dutch smooths over his shirt, shifts where he sits on the hard floor as it begins to make his tailbone yell. He'll be glad when this game can be over and won; he's never had a man dare to put his damned, rotten finger between his eyes like it was a gun, like he ought to be scared of it.
Pathetic. Self-important. He will like to have been, in any capacity, the unsightly taker of this man's homosexual virginity, just as well as he will like to be on his horse and out of Kettering.
"'Mon," he goades, as the sheriff looms before him, fighting with himself in the quiet. "I ain't known you to back out of a," — licking his lips, feeling almost like a prostitute for how hard he has began trying to seduce him — "Tight spot."
Self-important, Carmichael is. He mutters insult after insult; Hosea must be an invert, too, I won't bother takin' you down the block 'cuz he pro'ly likes to watch. He lets them tumble out as if speaking them louder than the jingle of his keychain will change that those keys are unlocking the cell door, or that his words are constructed sloppily in the way that a man who is really self-depreciating insults another.
Dutch has risen to his knees, then pushed himself up to standing — only to be backed into a corner the moment the door clinks shut, key still in the lock. His head is pushed where the corner of the bars meets solid brick wall, hair and skin scraping the rough texture as his ears and shoulders are pinned uncomfortably, one clipped by grit and one chilled by metal spindles.
Carmichael is mad, and he thinks he's stronger.
Stronger than Dutch; stronger than his desires.
If only he knew how weak finally giving in can make a man of brawn. Dutch had discovered it when he laid with Hosea those months ago; his knees gave out on him as if he were the eldest there, his heart wanted to burst out of his chest and it made him dizzy, so dizzy — he fell into Hosea and thought no more about whether it was immoral for a sinner like himself to commit yet another crime.
Their mouths meeting is less of a kiss and more of a brawl, Carmichael already slipping through the cracks of decency. Dutch has fondled his way across his shoulders — broad, pleasantly, they must take the same shirt size — and into his hair, tipping his hat off his head to tumble down their side.
Fingers press hard into his throat, his clavicle. The button at his collar pops, tugging chest hair with it, before he realizes Carmichael is undressing him, not strangling him; the bloodrush of not knowing is intoxicating.
It may be business, but there's pleasure in doing such a menial task with the right man, as fleeting as it may be.
And it is pleasant, for a moment.
Carmichael allows Dutch to taste his teeth as long as groans fall out of his open mouth, a real ego-glutton; the man's stubble is prickly and if he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath to escape the scent of cologne and leather, he can almost pretend he's kissing Hosea. His darling smells more like horses and earth and metal.
It is irking him how he bites so callously at his jaw, and then his neck; Dutch winces as he sucks hard and fast at his jugular, worse than a damned vampire. It stings, and although the sharp pain down his chest lights him up—
The sheriff's hands are ripping at his belt — expensive leather, expensive buckle, the godforsaken rat — and he has suddenly had his fill of playing cooperative. Dutch grabs at his shoulders, his shirt; he grabs softly at first, then hard enough to bruise.
Carmichael does not notice nor care, not until he is twisted violently into the bars, and Dutch clings onto his biceps to throw the stunned man into the brick wall as hard as he can. The shout is cut off quickly. His nerves are strung tight and his muscles are weaker for it, but the pig is unconscious and bleeding from a long scrape on his sunburnt forehead when Dutch kneels beside his body to double-check.
Hosea's high whistle makes him near jump from his skin. He looks up and meets his eyes as he feels for a pulse on Carmichael's neck; there is one, and it's racing.
"My, Big Cat, you've still got it." He's grinning, broad as spread hands, hazel eyes sparkling as if he were one of them caught in all the action.
Dutch huffs a laugh as he drops the wrist and stands up. It's hoarse.
"Get ready to strip 'im before he comes to," he says, messes with the cluster of keys to open his cell. "I'll find somethin' to tie him up with."
He thumbs through them to find Hosea's — if mine's A3, he must be B3 — feels himself go near-crosseyed with the excitement of freedom, and humiliating the passed-out dope in his old room.
Hosea grazes a hand along his open collar when the bars are slung aside, but passes quickly by. There's no time to waste here; the deputy could pop in at any moment, maybe even a townsperson who'd witnessed another, devilish pair like Dutch and Hosea passing on through. While it is enticing to think of, the risk far outweighs the reward, now.
A hammer is striking in his chest, strikes against a fist there as he trots to the front of the police station. He rummages blindly through the desk and then passes into the deputy's office. From what Dutch had seen, he did seem like the outdoorsy type — just as well, he finds a lasso hanging by the door from a thin wooden peg.
Spare? Favorite? It will fit fine around Carmicharl's wrists and ankles either way, although he cannot think of which origin would add more flavor.
The humor gets to him, then, and when he comes down the corridor to see Hosea smacking a half-conscious sheriff's head back into peaceful emptiness by way of the hardwood, he barks a laugh.
His partner looks up at him, pale blond eyelashes catching the light of the moon. It draws deep shadows over his eyes and mouth, makes him look wild.
"What's so damn funny?" Hosea asks. He laughs, too.
Grins don't leave them, not even as they toss Carmichael every way to Sunday robbing him of his clothes. He is limp as a cadaver. Their mouths only waver having to look at his nudity in any exact detail; suddenly, Dutch is no longer able to convince himself of his physical alrightness, is more interested in worming his way into the pack of smokes that fell from his trousers and lighting two cigarettes for themselves.
"I don't reckon you'll need his underthings, will you?" Hosea asks. Dutch uses his turned, questioning face as an opportunity to stick a lit smoke between his lips.
He scoffs, brings his own to his mouth as he discards the matches on the ground. "Take 'em off anyways."
That— that is boisterously funny. Dutch doesn't believe he's ever heard Hosea giggle before, not even once in their years running together. The cigarette drops from his lips and burns into Carmichael's back, and Hosea plucks it up easily to take a drag.
He aches to kiss him. His throat hurts for his lips, their tender affection over his hate-bruised skin. Ever the gentleman, Hosea does brush a kiss along his cheek as he helps Dutch button the last of the stolen shirt's front — but not more, yet. He complains that kneeling on this tough ground makes his hips ache, and Dutch strokes his hair once, twice. It is wiry with dirt and sweat.
Carmichael's skin is warm enough beneath his palms that Dutch doesn't care to check his pulse again. He holds the arms and legs of the man steady, Hosea securing them together in a mean hogtie.
His prick should smart a storm when he's awoken, if the muscles twitching in his ass and thighs as they drag him towards the center of the wooden floor say anything.
Overkill? Certainly.
Delightful? Monstrously.
"All he's missin' is an apple in his mouth," Hosea says dryly, blows out a cloud.
Dutch almost hollers.
No one suspected anything of Sheriff Carmichael's shadow escorting a lone criminal out of town. Hosea kept his head down, hat pulled firmly over his brow; Dutch gripped his forearm, though no handcuffs bound his wrists behind him. The man carried Dutch's hat in his fists to hide their freeness.
How suspiciously obedient. What training does Carmichael put on his prisoners? Dutch thinks, bites back a fresh fit of laughter that would break their already imperfect, night-covered illusion.
He can hardly contain himself.
Their horses were kept in the sheriff's stables this whole time. At least the animals feed them, they agree, glancing over the other, tempting opportunities to snatch a pack-mule from the unfamiliar horses stalled up.
Hosea's Penny was the happiest of the two to see her man, jaw hanging loose as if to smile when her big brown eyes settled on Hosea's softened ones.
Dutch's horse was a fresh reign — he hadn't even named him before they were took up, and the animal started seeing the broad-brimmed police hat on his head.
That makes him angry. He wishes he'd put his cigarette out on Carmichael's shriveled up balls instead of his front-desk nameplate
First of all, thank you to @fritoley for tagging me!
This is Johnny and Brucie from the bikeriders movie, and my next round of Tom Hardy snippets, enjoy 😉
I'll throw on my usual list of writer friends: @thequeenofthewinter @inkwolvesandcoffee @liliac-dreamer @thedevilshardy @potter-solomons @hecatemoon87
He'd partially succeeded when the feeling of cloth being pressed against his head brought him back to himself. "Breathe, Johnny, Breathe." The light sound of Brucie's voice and the hand rubbing circles into his back melted whatever tension he had left in his body.
He straightened up to meet his lieutenant, more importantly, his best friend, eye to eye.
"Good god," Brucie's eyes darted all over his face, driving him to the conclusion that he looked as shity as he felt, "What the hell did they hit you with?" Brucie asked. "Couldn't tell ya." Johnny replied, matching the amused smile that appeared on the other man's face.
you've been riding with the van der linde gang for a few months now, pulling your weight and helping out when you can. you've earned the trust of nearly everyone there with your hard work and are starting to capture the interest of a certain someone...
pairing: arthur morgan x gn!artist!reader
summary: you show arthur your artwork by the fire. how will he react when he sees himself amongst your drawings?
tags: fluff, arthur has low self-esteem, high honor arthur
warnings: very brief mention of alcohol consumption
word count: 1,141
a/n: i can't tell if my writing style is too corny or not so feedback is encouraged. :)
☆ the trotting of your horses' hooves served as gentle ambience as you and arthur watched the van der linde camp come into view. an involuntary feeling of relief washed over you, knowing that you were safe here. the two of you were just arriving from a particularly difficult bounty hunt, but your combined skills proved to be efficient. "a job well done," as arthur had told you.
☆ you both approach the camp and hop off of your horses, hitching them to an available post. arthur gives boadicea a gentle, appreciative pat on the neck. "i'm gonna go tell dutch how much we made." he says, walking toward where the gang leader is standing. dutch is next to one of the posts holding up his tent and a fire had been made not too far away by some of the other gang members. karen, tilly, charles, javier, and lenny all sat around the flame, a couple with bottles in their hands.
☆ you wanted to stop at your tent for your sketchbook before heading over to sit with them. now would be a perfect time to keep practicing, you thought to yourself. after making the short trip to where your belongings were, you swiped the leather-bound book and the rest of your supplies off of your cot. as you walk towards the fire you glance at everyone sitting around it. no one had left yet, but another person had joined: arthur.
☆ scanning for a place to sit, you decide on an open spot next to the gunslinger. you had to admit, you've grown fond of arthur's presence since you first started traveling with the gang. it was something about his get-it-done attitude, his undying loyalty to those he cares about, and, of course, his rugged handsomeness. you kept your affection for him a secret, though, afraid of what might happen if anyone ever found out. you drew one of your knees up to your chest, propping your sketchbook up on your thigh in an attempt to dispel the thought.
☆ arthur's gaze couldn't help but wander to what you were doing beside him. as you opened your sketchbook, flipping through the pages to find where you last left off, arthur's eyes were able to steal a few glances at what was inside. from what he able to see, there were sketched pictures of people he could have sworn he recognized. was that... dutch? and sean? and mary beth? arthur gestured to the book in your hands and spoke in a hushed tone, as if afraid someone else would hear what he had to say. "you draw too?"
☆ you looked up at arthur with a smile already on your face. "it's been one of my passions since i was a child. i practically clung to my pencils when i fell on hard times." your eyes sparkled as you spoke to him, and you could have sworn you saw the same kind of shimmer in his eyes as he listened. "can i..." he started, "can i see 'em?" arthur had never met anyone else that shared his love of drawing and thought he never would, he had made peace with that. but this new discovery, this moment he was now sharing with you, it made him feel more alive and more connected to someone than he felt in a while.
☆ a flush threatened to creep onto your cheeks as you process arthur's request. you can't remember the last time someone asked to actually see what you were making. anxiety bubbled in your stomach as your mind raced through everything that could happen if you agreed. but, when you looked at arthur, his features were graced with a subtle glow, an expression of wonder and pure curiosity. how could you refuse?
☆ "of course." you gave him a sweet smile. "should i start from the beginning?" your hand prepares to move all of the pages on the left back to the right, but you look at arthur for approval anyway. "sure." he answered, nodding his head.
☆ and so you do. you show him everything, from your finished portraits of the gang members to sketches of your horse to quick scribbles of plants and animals you spot on your adventures. and arthur found it all so breathtaking. your art style, the way you chose to characterize your figures, your ability to make photo-realistic images from just pencil and charcoal, he never knew you had this in you.
☆ he watched as you flipped through the pages, admiring your work and pointing out ones he particularly liked. the person drawn on the last page had a dark cowboy hat on with rope tied around the base. he had a dark kerchief draped around his neck and a stubbly face. "recognize him?" you smooth your hand over the paper, remembering the unforgettable process that was drawing arthur for the first time. "this is one of my favorites." smiling at the page, you turn to look at his reaction.
☆ arthur was utterly dumbfounded. he couldn't believe what he was looking at. someone, especially someone like you, had deemed him worthy enough of being a muse for artwork. he thought he was so... ugly. he thought everyone found him that way. at a loss for words, the man felt tears prick his eyes. he didn't know why he was getting so emotional! he couldn't cry in front of anyone, so he cleared his throat and searched for what to say. "is that me?"
☆ you noticed that arthur's eyes looked glossier and that his expression shifted. you couldn't gauge how he was feeling from the look on his face, so you looked back down at the drawing. "it is," you said, fiddling with the corner of the book. "you are a joy to create." your smile was genuine, the apple of your cheeks shining in the firelight as you turned your head to face arthur again. his expression was still unreadable, his gaze tilted down towards his lap. after a few seconds of silence, arthur speaks softly. "ya really mean that?"
☆ arthur's eyes were still glassy, but softer this time around. he looked like the answer to his question would make or break him. he looked... vulnerable. even you knew that this was not a disposition you would typically, if ever, expect of him. you were careful with your response, knowing that you held the very livelihood of arthur morgan in your hands. "i do."
☆those two simple words sent a small swarm of butterflies through his gut. for him, nothing would be able to compare to the way you just made him feel. for him, this moment would be occupying his mind for longer than he cared to admit. for him, this gesture was just another piece of the stunning mosaic created in your image. after this, there's no more room for doubt. he's smitten.
