Hiya, I'm Georgie! they/she, carsgoingincircles on here and ao3, where i write f1 fanfiction! please stay respectful and dont show it to any driver!
I am an adult but have no issue with minors interacting with my works as they are nonexplicit (so far and probably will stay that way)! keep yourselves safe, okay kids?
i do have a full-time job as an engineer so i will be sporadic with uploads! (no i dont work in f1 sadly)
My works:
hallway crush: COMPLETED! galex, teachers, enemies to lovers, 25k, 17/17 (also contains background landoscar, doriane/maya, yukiam, bearnelli, + other very minor ships!)
everything is gonna be alright (in the summertime) : in progress! lawblad, strangers to lovers, beach au, 14k, 9/? (also contains background gabico, bearnelli, lestappen, franco/jack, + other very minor ships!)
hundred quid : in progress! set one year before everything is gonna be alright (in the summertime), bearnelli, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, 'helping' with a bet that really is not helping, 7k, 6/?
feel the rush, taste the heat: COMPLETED BUT MAY BE CONTINUED! landoscar, serial killers au, 3k, 2/2
+more in the works!
send asks to recommend fics or ask me to wrote something! i love you guys who comment and if you ask me to wrote something and I like it, I'll write it!
tags for easy finding:
#georgie writes : fic updates!
#georgie responds : asks!
#georgie recommends : my fic recs!
#(fic name) : name of the fic I updated, e.g #hallway crush
HALL OF FAME:
(consistent commenters and therefore my favourites! ao3 usernames, will be updated occasionally but I swear I see and love all of you xx)
my excuse to put bradley in a loincloth (after back and forth arguments with my beta over whether or not he was allowed to be dick-swinging in the jungle) and give him a curly haired mullet. it basically started as an 2016 tarzan-inspired action-y one-piece, but then i got distracted writing 7k words (so far) of feral animal porn for the prequel, and i also have a million and two headcanons for the whole in between bit that will never see the light of a doc but lives in my and @hangmanbradshaw's discord messages.
probably the most pg snippet from what i have written so far:
“Good?” Rooster repeats, voice raspy and dark, the words thick and unfamiliar in his mouth. Jake smiles.
Warnings: Unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap that willy), Dom/Sub, Rough sex, Oral sex (Reader receiving), Swearing. IF YOU’RE A MINOR, KINDLY FUCK OFF
Word Count: 3.6k? I think? Who knows at this point
A/N: Nothing sexier than Jealous!Mando, amirite?
***
The bounty was supposed to be easy.
All five mercenaries were dudebro fuckbois with high prices on their heads and a habit of pissing off the wrong people. They were all expected to be at the same club, too, which meant that you just had to flaunt some skin and purr honeyed promises and they’d be in the palm of your hands.
The bounty was supposed to be fucking easy .
It wasn’t.
***
The Mandalorian is suspicious. He always is.
“What are the chances of all six of our targets being in one place?” He says, “Seems suspicious. Could be a trap.”
“I considered that, too,” you remark from over your shoulder, searching idly for an outfit, “That was before I realised it was a Solastice festival. Literally hundreds of thousands of people rock up to this sleeze fest. No one wants to miss out on the free booze and the orgies,” Your fingers skim across a velvet mermaid dress, “How about this?”
Mando huffs out a grunt, “I should come.”
You toss the dress aside and search for another, “Who’s going to look after the Child?”
The Mandalorian stares long and hard at the Child, who blinks owlishly back at the Mandalorian, his inky eyes filled with adoration, “I know someone.”
“You sure you can trust them?”
“She’s taken care of him before.”
You give a noncommittal hum and hold out a lacy, navy-blue dress, “What about this?”
“That’s it?”
“What? You don’t like a bit of lace—?”
“—you’re not going to argue about me coming on this bounty with you?”
“It’ll be fun,” you smirk, throwing the dress away, “Besides, I like watching you in action. You’re sexy when you fight.”
Mando tilts his head. His expression is impossible to read but you suspect he might be amused, annoyed or confused.
Beaming excitedly, you flatten a sleek, backless dress with a plunging neckline against your body, imagining how the dress will hug your curves and flaunt your cleavage. A long split down the side will give you access to the blasters and daggers strapped to your thigh holster too. It’s classy with just enough sexy to keep the imagination stirring.
The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything for a long, measured moment. Somehow, perhaps ironically — the silence seems to whisper his approval.
You untie your silk dressing robe, letting it fall to the ground and pool around your feet. The Mandolorian averts his gaze. suddenly taking a keen interest in the small plant you’ve been watering. You wish you could see his face. Is he blushing? Is he horrified? Is he aroused?
Sliding into the dress, you turn and gesture to the zip kissing the small of your back. “Do you mind?”
The Mandalorian hesitates at first. Somehow, you can almost hear the clink of his thoughts colliding, like he’s mentally solving dynamical system calculations and differential equations. Finally, he stalks toward you and you feel the hesitancy begin to thaw as his gloved fingers twitch around the zip and tug.
His ghostly, featherlight touch lingers on your skin, following the line of your spine until he reaches the thin straps sitting elegantly on the knob of your shoulders. Summoning every ounce of your ex-assassin courage, you slowly turn to face him and stare deeply into the slit in his helmet, imagining the colour of his eyes. Are they a dazzling shade of blue? Or a lovely, rare shade of teal green? Perhaps a smokey umber or steely grey? Or were they like yours; a kaleidoscope of colour always shifting and changing and never one distinct shade?
The air thickens, electricity crackles.
Suddenly, the Mandalorian nods stiffly and stumps away, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You sigh, realising that there’s more than Beskar armour hiding his thick, prickly layers. Perhaps... , you muse, in that childishly naive way that only deep affection can stir, ... Perhaps I’ll find a way to pry it off.
***
Outside, the festival rages.
The dancing crowd of celebrants are like a splash of vibrant colour against the bland backdrop of the surrounding buildings as they flood the streets, filling the air with hoots and cheer and vivid shades of life .
You perch on the barstool, keeping an eye on both your targets and the festival. The Mandalorian is sitting at a table in the far corner, close to the exit in case the targets are as dumb as they look and decide to make a break for it.
The bartender slides yet another drink your way from a hopeful suitor. You smile and take a sip, winking at the nervous, young man stealing furtive glances at you.
“My, my...” a greasy voice says from over your shoulder, “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in dump like this?”
You spin in your stool and smirk.
The lead dudebro of the fuckboi boy-band is trying to make a pass at you. He thinks he sounds smooth but his pick up lines are equal parts cliche and cringy and they come off polished and second-hand, like he’d heard it from a grainy, amateur porn movie and decided it was a winner.
“Hoping to find myself a handsome fella,” you purr, flashing him your most alluring smile.
Dudebro leans against the counter, reeking of smoke and sweat and virile fuckboi testosterone. He trails a lewd gaze from your eyes down past your neck, spilling indulgently between your breasts, along the sloping curve of your hips, down to the skin of your thigh peeking out from where you have one leg crossed over the other.
“How is that working out for you?”
Your lips tilt into a cat-like smirk, like a spider watching the squirming wreck of their prey struggle against the sticky fibres of a carefully designed web, “You tell me.”
“Beautiful, clever and single? Seems too good to be true.”
“Yet here we are.”
A dodgy grin hooks around Dudebros chapped lips. He slides a calloused hand along your thigh, his grip bordering on possessive.
“Here we are.”
You pause, stretching out a silence to create tension. Dudebro slides his tongue over his bottom lip.
“You should know that I give generously to women who know how to please a man,” he says, “And you look like you know a thing or two about that...”
You lean over, your lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, “Why don’t we get a room and you can see for yourself.”
Dudebro shudders. You’ve got him.
Suddenly, a blur of grey and silver charges toward dudebro, slamming his head onto the counter. Dudebro crumbles into an unconscious heap by your feet.
The Mandalorian has swooped in to save the day. What a knight in shining fucking armour.
“What the fuck was that about?” You hiss, incensed, “I nearly had him!”
The Mandalorian doesn’t answer. Instead, he’s twirling his blaster between his fingers with well-practiced movements.
The other dudebro’s jump to their feet, steeling themselves for a fight.
Chaos erupts.
***
You’re quiet on your way back to the Razor Crest.
Your blood is boiling, your throat itchy and dry from all the insults you want to scream into the dull, black, bottomless void. The Mandalorian’s anger is an icy contrast to your fire; his broad shoulders steeled and his posture hard, unforgiving, like he’s still hunting down a bounty.
Your temper spikes as you watch him pay Peli Motto, your jaw clenched and your lower belly fluttering with a confusingly irritating concoction of venomous seething and hot, syrupy desire.
“It didn’t have to end in a fucking bar brawl,” you snip, waspishly, as he closes the hatch to his ship, “Thanks to you, though, it did.”
The Mandalorian gives you his usual response: silence.
Your nostrils flare.
“Three dudebros nearly escaped. It was lucky I was able to catch them before they raced off.”
Still no response. He’s too busy scaling the ladder up to the cockpit. You stomp up to the ladder and call up to him.
“You undermined me! And for what, exactly? Because some guy was getting a little touchy feely?”
You hear the engines roar to life and feel the ship rise, hover, then launch into the air.
Fuming, you pace the length of the ship, clutching the daggers in your thigh holster and hurling them in quick procession. They lodge themselves into the bullseye, trembling from the force of your strength.
“You’re making dents in my ship.”
Your jaw clenches, molars grinding as you storm toward the daggers and pull one of them out.
“So now you want to talk!” You snap, scathingly, wheeling around to face him.
Mando’s helmet tilts as though he were evaluating you. He takes three deliberate steps forward, forcing you take a surreptitious step back.
“I’m not exactly a conversationalist,” he states, his voice clipped and tight. He makes no effort to disguise the anger in his tone.
You ball your fingers into a fist, clenching and unclenching, “So you’re not going to explain to me why you nearly let three of our bounty’s escape?”
There is a crackle and whir from the modulator as he speaks again, low and even with an intensity that sends shivers traipsing down your spine.
“You don’t know?”
You squint at him, wondering what he’s playing at. He acted rashly and impulsively; in a way that he’s never done before, betraying his years of careful training and defying all common sense. His timing was peculiar, too, just when you had suggested finding a room...
It hits you like a blaster to the chest, “You were jealous.”
Mando takes another step forward, neatly eliminating any space you had tried to regain. Your back is pressed against the wall as he takes another step closer, closer, closer , his arm reaching out grazing against your cheek, caging you in, closer, closer, closer—
He grips the handle of your dagger and pulls it out of the wall beside your head with a strong tug. The dagger dances between his fingers as he twirls it then parts the split in your dress just enough to slide the dagger back into its holster. His fingers glide along your inner thigh and you gasp, his touch electric.
“Not exactly,” he says, “Just a little protective.”
You exhale slowly, evenly, your chest fluttering with a thousand hummingbirds, “Is there a difference?”
He pulls his gloves off and trails his fingers along the delicate skin of your inner thigh, “I suppose not.”
The tension in the air is almost sentient, alive with a frantic, crackling energy that’s hotter than a heatwave in Tatoonie. Mando’s fingers dig into the spot where dudebro fuckboi had his hand back in the bar. Slowly, slowly, his hand snakes up your thigh, grazing across your hipbone, tickling the sensitive skin...
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you sneer, your upper lip curled.
“I guess I am,” he admits, his eyes boring holes through the visor of his helmet, “But you’re no angel, either.”
With that, he whirls you around and pushes you up against the wall, your flushed cheeks pressed up against the cool metal of his ship. You moan when he drapes a bandage across your eyes then tugs tightly at your hair. You hear him pull his helmet over his head, dropping it onto the ground with an obnoxious clang. Then he’s behind you, his voice in your ear, sultry and thick.
“You waltz around teasing me with those looks and that body of yours,” he grips your ass through the fabric of your dress, squeezing with bruising strength, “You drive me absolutely fucking crazy.”
He presses a searing kiss to your neck, teeth clamping around the flesh. You moan and arch against him, desire pulsing through your veins like velvety liquid chocolate.
“Then I saw you with our bounty, the way he eyed you, like he was undressing your right then and there,” the Mandalorian grazes his teeth along your neck, biting and nipping hard enough to draw blood, “Only I get to look at you like that. You’re mine.”
With a sudden burst of strength, the Mandalorian grips you by the waist and spins you around, pressing your back against the wall. He crashes his lips onto yours in a searing kiss, teeth scraping and tongues clashing, his mouth ruthless and bruising in the most delicious of ways. He kisses you with the hunger of a starved man, as though he’s deciding whether to savour you or swallow you whole.
The Mandalorian spills his lips down the column of your throat, biting and sucking and bruising, planting blossoming purple roses in your skin. Bite marks swell beneath his lips; a brand you’ll wear proudly for the next few days. It’s ironic how being claimed by the Mandalorian can make you feel so liberated.
He pulls away from you and clutches the zipper to your dress, tearing it from your body. You gasp, the cool air caressing your exposed skin. You feel the prickle of his eyes travelling across your body, capturing and collecting, memorising every detail.
And then he’s on you again, kissing your lips fiercely, stealing the breath from your lungs, swallowing your gasps, your moans, trapping your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. Your hands roam through his hair, tugging the roots, letting it melt between your fingers like honey.
The Mandalorian reaches behind you and rips off your bra followed by your panties, pulling an involuntary gasp from your lips.
“You’re going to have to pay for those,” you pant, “They weren’t cheap—“
You trail off into a moan as you feel the Mandalorian’s hot lips close around one of your nipples, teeth scraping and nibbling. You arch into his mouth, massaging his scalp as you play with his hair. His hand paws at your other breast, rolling the soft flesh in his palm, sending shivers throughout your body.
“Consider it payback for denting my ship,” he counters, and you hear his armour clink against the ships floor as though he were kneeling.
You’re about to ask him what he’s doing when he begins pressing butterfly kisses down your stomach, tasting the salty sweetness of your skin, tongue mapping out the canvas of your body. You moan when he bites your hipbone then travels lower, lower, until his hot breath is hovering over your slick entrance. He slings your leg over his shoulder and inhales your scent as though he were taking mental notes, cataloguing your natural fragrance with everything he knows about you, and then—
He dives in, curling his tongue over your clit, rolling the sensitive pearl of nerves as he drinks you in like sweet nectar. You moan and gasp and whimper his name, your voice hoarse as your lower belly crackles with ethereal-like energy; a nest of frayed, live wires sending currents of azure-blue electricity through your body.
Thick fingers push into you; first the index, then the middle finger, then both. Your back arches and your fingers fly into his hair, gripping hard enough to draw a groan from the back of his throat. It doesn’t take long for you to climax; you cry out his name as you shatter into oblivion, coasting a high that jolts you into hyperspace.
The Mandalorian kisses his way back up your body, and then he kisses you deeply. You slide your tongue over his lips, tasting yourself. Your head spins into a state of euphoric delirium.
“Your pleasure belongs to me,” he snarls, transforming your spine into a quivering live wire, “I’m in charge. Understood?”
“Yes, sir ,” you whisper, light as air, tone teasing.
“Good girl.”
The Mandalorian breaks away, the absence of his warmth leaving a ghosting greyness where he once stood. You shudder as you hear armour clicking and the whirr of zipper teeth being pulled apart. Then you feel his hands tug on the knot behind your head, keeping your bandage together, and the fabric falls away, returning your vision.
You blink, eyes adjusting. The Mandalorian stands before you in his armour, including his helmet. His codpiece is discarded; the lump of metal sits abandoned on the floor near your shredded clothes. You trap your bottom lip between your teeth as your gaze dips to his huge, thick cock.
“Wow,” you gasp, “You’ve been holding out on me, Mando.”
The Mandalorian steps toward you again, hooks his arms around your thighs, and hoists you up against the wall. The cold metal bites into your back, penetrating your skin and crawling down your spine. He presses his cock against your entrance.
“Maybe if you weren’t such a brat...”
Without further ado, He pins you to the wall of the Razor Crest with his long, thick girth, sinking into you with a loud groan and a roll of his hips. You cling onto the pieces of his armour and rest your head on the cool metal of his shoulder as the Mandalorian sets a pace. He rocks his hips slowly at first and you move your own hips against him, for once perfectly in sync.
“Fuck,” you curse, wrapping your thighs around his hips and pulling him further into your warm depths.
The Mandalorian snaps his hips against you, building up a fast, unrelenting pace. His movements are steady and deliberate, his grip plunging into your thighs, shooting sparks of pain and pleasure throughout your entire body. He’s silent for the most part, occasionally grunting and gasping in your ear when the muscles in your pussy contract.
“Yes,” you cry, biting into the fabric of his shoulder, “Just like that, don’t stop.”
A familiar tightness begins to curl inside your lower belly again, sloshing around with the chemical cocktail of champagne,
dopamine and serotonin. The feeling rolls and crashes within you, filling you up like seawater and sunlight and bright, glittering gold.
“Every time a man lays his hands on you, I want to cut them off,” he growls, each word punctuated with a sharp thrust, “Each eye that follows you makes me want to dig them out of the socket.”
“I never — oh — never knew you felt like — Ah, fuck yes — like that.”
“Bullshit. You knew...you’re just such a — fuck — fucking tease .”
“So what are you going to do—do about it?”
The Mandalorian groans and increases his pace, slamming his cock inside of you. He balances you with one, strong arm while the other snakes between the two of you and reaches up, up, up, his fingers wrapping around your neck, flexing gently. The added pressure makes you moan as you crest higher and higher, scaling the wobbling, tipsy-turvey ladder of a crashing crescendo—
Suddenly, the tight coil inside you snaps, spirals, sending pleasure surging through you, fluttering in your chest, pulsing through your arms and legs. Your pussy quivers around him, hugging his cock as the muscles spasm and quake with the force of your climax. The Mandalorian follows you over the edge, gritting his teeth and growling your name as he buries his twitching cock inside of you and comes, pouring his seed deep inside of you.
The air around of you smells like sweat and sex and grease and is filled with your combined pants. After a few lingering moments, the Mandalorian slides out of you and places you gently on the ground, tucking himself back into his pants. Your thighs are sticky with his dribbling cum and your head feels like it’s been crammed with fluffy cotton buds but your entire body tingles like light dancing off the ocean.
“That was—“
“Incredible...” you finish, biting your lip. The Mandalorian’s faceless mask stares down at you, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he’s gazing sheepishly at you, perhaps shy or maybe even aroused. Maybe he’s like you — an amalgamation of conflicting emotions, some old and nostalgic, some surprising and new.
***
Morning light drenches the Mandalorian’s quarters, shimmering like gold dust. You moan gently, consciousness slowly returning to you. You become aware of your surroundings, recognition settling in, delicious memories of being tied up and blindfolded while the Mandalorian worshipped your body...
The gentle caress of a warm kiss tickles your inner thigh.
You moan as the kisses dot along your thigh, climbing higher, teasing around your entrance, licking and nipping like he can’t get enough...
Your fingers fumble then clench around the bed sheets as his tongue finally laps at your clit, swirling and sliding in tantalising rhythms. You gasp and mewl, whispering words of encouragement as the Mandalorian feasts on you, plunging two fingers into your slick entrance. You begin to draw closer and closer to your climax, your toes curling as you throw your head back and moan—
A small whimper suddenly jolts you back into the present.
You sit up on your elbows and gasp, clambering to cover yourself as the Child stares up at you, distressed by the sound of your moans. His bottom lip trembles, his large eyes unusually glassy as he waddles up to you.
Beneath you, the Mandalorian shifts, and you turn away from him as he slides his helmet on.
“Hello baby,” you soothe, reaching down to scoop him up with one arm, “It’s okay, mummy’s here.”
The Child coos in delight as he snuggles into your embrace. You gently turn on your side to face the Mandalorian — who is now wearing his helmet — and place the Child between your bodies. He stares up at both of you and beams; his smile could light up a thousands suns.
When the Child begins to doze, you gaze up at the Mandalorian through your lashes, bracing your head on your hand bent at the elbow.
“I think he was jealous,” you whisper, stifling your giggles.
You hear the amusement in the Mandalorian’s tone, “Of you or of me?”
You shrug, leaning down to press a tiny kiss on the Child’s head, “Who knows?”
Summary : the start of a story. Georgia Rothbone gets a call she'll never forget and decides to go visit a longtime friend.
I said i was gonna write this hehehe
Warnings? : nothing tbh
Tag list : @tekkai @1980ssunflower @polkadotheart @rebeccaselfships
Word count : 1,046
The sun was shining on an early December morning in the city, and a girl was bustling down the street, in quite a hurry. This was Georgia Rothbone, hustling down the street, coming to an abrupt stop in front of a small storefront, her store. She sold all sorts of things she made, and it was a compliment to her online store, which gave her a boost in sales she appreciated quite heavily.
Her world was a dream for her, she worked on her own hours, she did as she chose to.
She spent her day drawing in a leatherbound journal, as the 70s rock pandora station played over the radio in the store. She only took a break for her lunch, or for when a customer came into the store. This was how her life had been for years, this was how her life continued for another week.
She was sitting at work when her phone rang. Thr man on the other side of the call sounded exceptionally official.
"Miss Rothbone?"
"This is she." The woman offered, propping her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder, bustling around to restock shelves."
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news Miss Rothbone, but i'm afraid you're going to have to vacate the premises of your store."
She stopped in her tracks, hands halfway to the shelf. "Pardon me?"
"The company that owns your store has not paid the utility bills in almost six months. Unless you think you can run your store with no heat, no electricity, and no running water, or can come up with a little over four thousand dollars on exceptionally short notice, i'm afraid we're gonna have to shut the building down."
"I'm- this is my livelihood. Don't you people realize that? I was barely scraping by selling online, having a storefront that i could sell out of gave me the chance to not worry about paying my own bills!" She sighed, throwing her phone on the counter after putting the call on speaker. "Is there someone I can talk to? I can't lose this store."
"They're kicking me out of the store! Can you believe this shit?" Georgia was fuming. She had just gotten off a nearly hour long phone call, which was mostly hold music, telling her that she was being removed from the storefront that people were renting her, because the people were months behind on all kinds of payments, and basically, unless she could get up the roughly four and a half thousand dollars to pay their back payments, she was seven shades of screwed.
"So basically, the store is going to be closing, restricting me to just my online sales, my piece of shit boyfriend left me, and I am spiraling, Abby. What am I gonna do?"
"I've got an offer. Come spend Christmas out on the ranch with John and I, might give you a chance to clear your head and come up with another plan."
It had been three days since she was kicked out of her store, she had her things packed up. She had spent the last three hours staring at the wall in her apartment as it snowed outside, until her phone rang. One of her closest friends was on the other side. Abigail Roberts was one of the first people that had talked to a young Georgia in school, and they were close friends. Until Abby grew up and met John Marston, and moved out west with him.
They still kept in touch over phone calls, Abigail keeping Georgia updated on her life out west, sending pictures of her son, who Georgia was absolutely in awe of. Cutest little kid.
"So, you're offering me the chance to spend Christmas with you and your other half out on a ranch in the middle of nowhere?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Will you come pick me up from the airport?"
"I'll see if I can convince John to let me borrow the truck for the day. It just snowed." Abigail ended her sentiment with a giggle, and Georgia was already looking at plane tickets. "So now, as I see if there's a cheap ticket westward bound, onto my second problem. Good for nothing Alexander decided I wasn't worth the stress."
"Well good riddance. If he can't see what he's losing, that's his own damned fault."
The call lasted another hour or so, both women complaining about everything they could come up with, before the call finally ended.
Three more days and she'd be on a plane, headed west, to spend christmas on the ranch, and hopefully by the time she saw her apartment again, she'd have a plan on where to go from here.
At least, she hoped she would.
Three days flew by like there was nothing to them, and Georgia was packed and tapping her foot outside gate 3 at the airport. An early afternoon flight a few hundred miles west, into Montana. Where she
would have a chance to re-evaluate what her life had become, and spend some time with a friend who she hadn't seen in person in a very long time.
Onto the plane, into her seat. Georgia still had figuring out to do, and figured her time on the airplane was good enough to start.
She flipped her laptop open, spending the few minutes it too to turn on after the plane was in the air ordering a drink.
The flight attendant was kind, the drink was good, and frankly, Georgia thought alcohol was just about what she needed now.
She opened her laptop and the first thing she did, before she even started on the work she had to do to straighten out her business, was a little research of her own.
Van der Linde Ranch.
Google spit back a handfull of entries right at the top of the results about roping trophies from years past, and then there was the article.
She learned a lot. The place she was headed was supposedly ran by a guy named Dutch van der Linde, but he shared ownership with a friend of his, Hosea Matthews. Biggest ranch in America, and despite many attempts to get the land out from under them, Dutch and Hosea were going nowhere fast.
