New last days fic up... finally! Not posting it here cause its wayyy to long. But here it isss! Hopefully I'll get around to posting more art as well...
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
In the midst of their journey together, Oswell decides to seek refuge with Quinlan.
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I haven't written anything serious is like 2 years. This book is making me reach incredibly new lows. Anyways #yolo there's my notes dissecting Oswell under the cut
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Oswell is scared of being like Quinlan. He sees himself in a very bad light and it makes him recon that he and Quinlan deserve each other.
He sees going along with Quinlan's actions that he deems as uncomfortable as a form of punishment for himself, some weird form of repentance that if he suffers under Quinlan, it undoes some of the suffering he's caused on others. Or something like that.
Which is what makes him hesitant to leave up until the suffering they're causing actually outweighs his mental one (aka Rope's End.)
He mentions specifically that he lacks empathy towards the natives because they killed his dad, because he sees them as lesser, their suffering under Quinlan is rather benign, so up until it starts harming people he sees on his level (white people at Rope's End) he doesn't draw the line.
He never actually shows any empathy towards the natives, he only ever thinks that the actions Quinlan (his intimidation tactics) or the Twins (actively violent actions) do are bad not because they cause harm or suffering, but because he thinks that they debase their character. He sees himself as more upstanding purely by his own moral code, he presumed that he isn't an unredeemable person after bank robbing and shooting people because he clings to the fact that he would never do such things if not out of pure necessity at the time (being jobless and broke, doing it out of self defense.)
So he sees the entirety of Quinlan's posse doing these same things, but without the guilt or shame, and is afraid that he could ever be roped in with them, to, in his mind, be as bad as them.
He notes "the twins seemed to enjoy doing stuff like this." Drawing a clear difference between himself and them. He does things out of obligation, they do it out of enjoyment.
He, within his own moral codex, places himself above people like Quinlan (where he sees himself as redeemable and 'not that bad'), but below "good" people like T.W. for example.
This is where he can act almost borderline suicidal as he thinks he deserves death for his actions now, specifically now, this kind of suicidal ideation only comes out in the latter case where he thinks that dying for other people (eg. to save Beatrice) would, give himself that redemption he's searching for.
This kind of hypocritical view towards himself shows how undecided and insecure he is in his identity, placing himself in this weird middle ground of being a bad person when compared to a good person but not being as bad when compared to someone like Quinlan. He has a really really weird martyr complex which is exactly what makes him come across as stupid in the book because he can never make his mind up about himself.
So how does he deal with his attraction to Quinlan considering all of this?
Quinlan feels… forbidden. It entices him, he wants to let himself be drawn in, but getting drawn in would mean 1. admitting to all the bad things he's done, that he's involved, an active participant and that he cannot remove himself from it with excuses (Mama the guilt.)
and 2. ADMITTING THAT HES GAY!!!!!!!! and even worse, gay for Quinlan (ugly)
He cannot distinguish the attraction he feels for Quinlan and the guilt he feels for his actions. These two things go hand in hand and it's why he could never let himself get too close to Quinlan. The fire of his guilt and the burning sensation of his attraction to Quinlan both scorch him in the same way.
I used the fire metaphors for both Oswell's guilt and close proximity with Quinlan, but let any touch that actually happens continuously remain cold, a stark, physical reminder that this is not actually what Oswell wants deep down.
He stays within the comfort of the fire, of what he knows and is used to, because getting cold would mean confronting himself and dealing with his issues. Which he never really does, not even in the book.
There's a continuous allusion to the two words of "I do" in their conversations "how do you do it?" "I do what I have to." "a simple i do..."
It is meant to allude to a wedding both as a bit of fun foreshadowing to what happens in canon and a reflection of the romantic feelings Oswell has for Quinlan.
Huge piece of Evenson news that has apparently managed to completely slip past my radar for the past few months; Phantom Limb's french translation was released way back in may of this year, and you can find it here! My french skills are unfortunately not good enough to warrant buying it for myself, so I'll keep waiting until the actual english release (which shouldn't be too far off now anyways...) but maybe one of you would like to take a crack at it. (Lmk if that's the case actually. Please)
Cover by Jeffrey Alan Love
The release coincided with a whole event in Paris dedicated to discussing Evenson's works. Pretty neat. It also confirms that the english release follows the french one sometime "later"...
Oswell Danford x Richard "Dicky" Sterling (A Congregation of Jackals by S. Craig Zahler)
This is my first contribution to this Fandom ❤️ waow ❤️ (crickets)
I posted this to ao3 but my gf encouraged me to post here to so here goes nothing >_<
CW: this is an explicit work ok? And Also it has referenced infidelity + internalized homophobia. I hope any ACOJ fans that do come across it enjoy it 😊
The journey to Montana Territory was long. Nothing like the escapades the Tall Boxer Gang was used to, but definitely a distance they’ve lost the habit for. They were only grateful that this time around, their journey was in a train rather than on the backs of horses.
Really, really grateful. It was incomparable just how easy they had it this time around, despite the threat looming over their heads, the one that awaited them in three days with its (his) loving arms wide open. They were grateful they had a consistent place to eat and sleep, and for Oswell, he was grateful he had a hard surface to pen on.
Dicky had noticed him. While the rancher assumed that no one would care for or notice his absence in the sleep cart, his former partner in crime had a keen eye from when he would leave the bed to go write in the kitchen. He only became aware of what his nightly ritual really was on their stop with the janky stagecoach driven by the young native. Though, much to his disappointment, had not managed to sneak a glance at what he was writing.
Nevertheless, the trio arrived at the Halcyon Hotel in one piece. Exhausted from their expedition, there was nothing more the two brothers wanted to do than go to sleep. Dicky, on the other hand, was contemplating exploring the town. Finding a woman to whisk away into his room, or bet on some sum at roulette tables. If this middle of nowhere town had any casinos, that is.
But something, or rather, someone, stopped him.
The New Yorker looked at the two conversing brothers in front of him as they traversed the hotel stairs. His eye twitched at the sound of Godfrey’s struggling breathing. This was nothing like the lad he knew back then, the one full of stamina and endurance, who didn’t heave and then vomit walking up a short hill to a railway. He was almost worried he’d spew the lunch they had at Lingham’s out on the carpeted stairs.
Thankfully, they had made it to their assigned floor without much of a hitch. Dicky straightened up, still holding his suitcases firmly at his side. He turned toward the brothers, where Oswell was rubbing Godfrey’s back as he panted.
“I suppose I will be seeing you two tomorrow?” he asked, something lingering in his voice. Something he couldn’t shake.
The two brothers looked up. The plump one nodded, and the rancher spoke up.
“Yeah. See you, Dicky. Sleep well.”
Something swelled behind his ribs. A familiar sensation. He had felt it at the restaurant in Philadelphia where they met up as well.
He nodded, leaving the two and going to the right of the staircase, down the hall where his room was situated.
Twenty years. That's how long it’d been since Rope’s End.
Dicky thinks about the event sometimes. When he’s passing by a small town, one similar to it. When he spots a native settlement while traversing through another state on a carriage. When he sees fire.
And when he saw Oswell’s sun-kissed face in The Railroad Luncheonette. His mind shot him back to the town they had let get massacred. He eyed his new features. Unlike the New Yorker, he had grown worn over the years. Of course- it only came natural with work and busying oneself with their family. But Dicky couldn’t ignore how well the age had suited him.
Seeing the man whose shoulders his eyes bore into on their horseback adventures, the one who, when in the face of danger, grabbed his waist with his strong hands and flung him away from what would’ve been a devastating blow, the one who looked oddly alluring under low bar lights… it reawakened something in him. Something he thought had died alongside Rope’s End two decades ago.
He put a hand over his chest, rubbing his thumb along his brown vest like it would soothe the pounding muscle threatening to break his ribs.
This was not the time nor the place.
As much as it ached, he wouldn’t allow it to get the better of him. It would be foolish to do so. He had a wife and kids, and if by some miracle he survived whatever their old foe had in store for them, he would return to them back in Virginia, and his life would return to normal.
Dicky’s would too. He would go back to the bustling New York, seat himself in fancy casinos and bars like he had been since leaving the Tall Boxer Gang, and surround himself with the state’s finest in bourbon and women. A life he was accustomed to living already, one he could never give up for the world.
But the difference between the two was that only one would feel happy. The rancher’s humble life with his lady and children in the virginian countryside was far more fulfilling than his spontaneous city ventures ever could be. Oswell had someone to return to, someone waiting. The unmarried pretty face with no legacy to leave behind had nothing but his money and charisma.
And he saw it, deep in his memory… what unfolded between them in Kentucky and Arizona Territory. It clawed at his chest, and the barriers that tried to keep those memories away, keep them in the past.
He shuddered when he remembered the way his hands felt on his back, on his waist. He remembered the balcony they sat on that one morning in their hotel in Louisville, across from each other, watching the early sun climb up behind the mountains. He saw how Oswell looked at him that day, something wanting behind his hazel irises. It burned gently on Dicky’s cheeks.
It didn’t last long- their strange, late night rendezvous. Their sweeping glances toward the other, and by the time they made their way to Nuevo Pueblo, Dicky had started getting fed up with Oswell’s avoidance of the subject. They got cold with each other. Lingham and Godfrey had noticed it too. Their interactions had grown more hostile, leading to stupid mistakes out of pettiness.
The New Yorker cringed at his childish attitude back then. Of course, he was young and stupid. An idiot to think anything would come of that, especially in the conditions they were put in, and he tried to forget. But the memories of their ventures were not something he could scrub from his mind with the snap of his finger. His feelings, the ones he buried with shame were not ones he could bar from his mind no matter how hard he tried to do so.
He sighed. He was in for an agonizing few days.
He opened his suitcase, fishing around for his sleepwear. If anything, he needed to at least try to fall asleep tonight, flashbacks be damned. He pulled the satin garments out from under one of his suits and shed himself of his day clothes at last.
He took a look at his bare frame in the mirror behind him. For a split second, he wondered how his stature would compare to Oswell’s.
He always had a few inches on the man, but the rancher was broader, not as delicately carved as he was. His tanned skin donned a few scars and moles, he had built on some more muscle now after years of farmwork. Dicky could tell.
He shook his thoughts off, pulling his sleepwear over his head and through his arms, then legs. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes past midnight. Had he been ruminating that much since he arrived?
Nevertheless, with a yawn, he laid himself up on the comfortable hotel sheets. He breathed in the clean air, and turned his body away from the door, facing the window opposite of it. He watched the stars light up the night sky, feeling an odd sense of peace settle in his chest where the swell of his heart used to reside.
His long lashes fluttered closed. He hoped he would get some sleep.
Maybe an hour later, maybe more, maybe less, he woke up to the sound of knocks on his door. Soft, but audible.
He rubbed his eyes, looked out the window. The stars were still out. The moon reflected brightly still. He sighed and stood up.
It didn't occur to him who could be behind the door, his defenses were lowered from his sleep soaked brain. He unlocked the door, opened it, and looked down at its perpetrator.
Oh.
Oswell.
Dicky's chest tightened again.
“Sorry for the late intrusion. May I come in?”
The pretty man looked around, as if worried someone would spot them. He let him in.
He shut the door behind him, watching Oswell's back as he examined the room with his hands on his hips. He wasn't even wearing sleepwear, he was wearing the same outfit from the train ride, minus a vest.
He could see the strong outline of his arm muscles, his shoulders. Paid close attention to how the fabric of his white button up stretched across the expanse of his back. He swallowed thickly.
“Any reason you decided to make an appearance at two in the morning?” Dicky asked snidely.
Oswell turned to look at him. “Sorry if I disrupted your beauty sleep.” He retorted. The New Yorker rolled his eyes.
“I couldn't sleep myself.” he looked out the window.
“So you decided to bother me in my own quarters?”
Hazel met blue, and for a second, Dicky forgot how to breathe.
“You got the fancy suite. Any chance you got some whiskey?”
The younger man wondered. He hadn't thought to check the cupboard. He walked over to the wooden compartment, feeling the other man's eyes burn holes into his back. He fished out a bottle, presenting it to the rancher, who nodded in approval.
The Tall Boxer Gang all stumbled into their shared hotel room in Louisville. It was the night before their big robbery, and they thought of heading into the local bar just to try out their alcohol before they left. Godfrey, much fitter at this point in his life, threw himself on the bed with no grace, to which Lingham laughed at, but he just as unceremoniously fell into one of the arm chairs. Dicky slightly stumbled, but was caught by Oswell.
“Here, let me take- you to the bed..” The younger Danford slurred, dragging the pretty man to the bed the furthest into the room. The other two were on the verge of, if not already asleep.
Oswell laid, almost threw his partner into the bed, practically caging him in with his arms, and all Dicky could do was giggle drunkenly.
The older of the two laughed as well, before starting to pull himself off the mattress to go to his own bed. He was halted by a tug on the hem of his shirt.
He turned around, making eye contact with the drunk New Yorker. His heart skipped a single beat as his eyes laid upon the man before him.
He looked utterly breathtaking from his point of view. Dicky was always neat. His clothes- perfectly straight with nary a wrinkle in sight, his hair done perfectly, face composed. But this wasn't Dicky. This was Richard, and a side of him Oswell never saw, no less. His clothes messed up, his hair the slightest bit curlier on his nape and forehead from sweat. Face flushed. A smile.
“Stay here. With me.”
Oswell swallowed.
“You know we- can't… I'm not-”
“Neither am I.” Richard didn't let him let another word out, just pulled him into the small bed, and their foreheads smacked against each other. They both winced, the handsome one pressing his palm against the sore plane of his head.
Oswell stared at him. Maybe a second too long. Finally, he leaned in and placed a kiss on his forehead.
Richard stared at him. Oswell stared back. Again, too long.
“Sorry, I'll go back to my own bed.” He was pulled down as soon as he stood up, and next thing he knew his mouth clashed with the New Yorker's. He didn't return the kiss at first, too shocked to process what was happening. But when Richard pulled away, and Oswell saw the lustful gleam in his eyes, the spit shine on his lips, he hungrily lunged in for another, more ravenous kiss.
It was nothing short of desperate, messy. Teeth and gums collided, tongues clumsily intertwined, spit smacked against lips and soft moans left the younger man's pretty mouth.
When they pulled away, Richard made the move to climb on top of him.
Dicky poured the whiskey in two glasses.
“You'll have to forgive the lack of ice.”
“I don't mind it.”
The New Yorker sat next to Oswell on the bed, handing him one of the glasses. They sat there in silence. The rancher took the first sip.
“You didn't answer my question earlier.” The handsome one started.
“What question?”
“Why are you here?”
“I did, didn't I? I couldn't sleep.”
Dicky grumbled, taking a sip.
“You could've gone anywhere. Why here?”
“We're spending the next few days together. I'd like to get used to seeing your face again.”
Dicky's chest tingled.
“Sure.” He mumbled.
The conversation died there. The air grew awkward.
“Do you think about it?” The older of the two spoke up again. He was three sips in.
“About what?”
“Rope’s End.”
He asked while Dicky took a sip.
“Sometimes.”
Another pause.
“I thought of it when I saw your face in Philly.”
Oswell turned his attention from the stars outside to the pretty face next to him.
“I think about it when I see something that reminds me of it.” The New Yorker took another sip.
Oswell didn't know what to say.
“Richard.”
The man shuddered at the name. He looked at the older one.
“The reason I came here… I wanted to make amends.”
Dicky straightened up.
Danford took another sip of his liquor. He looked back out the window.
“I’m sorry. For Louisville. And Nuevo Pueblo.”
He could gather what he was talking about.
“I'm over it.”
“I don't think you are.”
Dicky's grip on the glass tightened. Oswell felt guilty.
Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Maybe he shouldn't have shown up at all.
He stood up, set the glass on the bedside table next to Dicky, and made a stride to the door.
“Goodnight, Dicky.”
Before his hand reached for the knob, the New Yorker spoke up.
“Wait.”
Oswell turned his head. Dicky's back was still facing him.
“Please. Stay.”
A pause.
“You know I can't.”
“You did then.”
Oswell shook his head. The memories came pouring back, of that night specifically.
“It was a mistake.”
“It wasn't to me.” something in his voice wobbled. The rancher noticed his shoulders shake.
“Dicky…”
“Richard. Please.”
Oswell swallowed thickly. He hesitated.
“I'm not- I have a wife. And kids. You know this. I didn't then. That's what makes it different.”
He knew everything he was saying was going against what he really knew and believed. His chest squeezed in protest.
“Stay. Before I change my mind.”
And that did it.
Oswell let go of the metal doorknob. He walked back to the bed, sitting next to Dicky.
Closer this time.
He noticed a glint in his old partner's eyes. Tears.
The glass in his hands shook. Liquid sloshing. His face was pink. His girlish lips trembled.
“Richard…” his hand brushed a stray lock from his face, then cupped it gently.
Those blue eyes dragged themselves to look over at him.
“Stay.”
“You know I can't. Not for long at least.”
He failed to notice the distance closing between them. Or he didn't care.
Their lips were just a hair away from meeting.
“I… I'm not…”
“ I don't care…” Dicky whispered, teeth almost scraping the rancher’s bottom lip.
His resolve crumbled. He almost tackled the New Yorker to the bed, glass toppling onto the floor, spilling liquor everywhere.
Their lips met again. After twenty years.
Richard tangled his fingers in the messy brown hair. Oswell's hands occupied themselves with the other's waist. They reached up, trailing up to his chest, then back down his abs.
The kiss was messy, sloppy, desperate. Wholly consuming. Richard chased after Oswell’s mouth like it was his lifeline, like he'd die without sharing his own breath with the rancher’s.
Every time they would pull away, it didn't last long. Oswell would throw himself at him again. He wrapped a hand around his neck, cupping his jaw. Drool spilled from their mouths, eliciting a series of wet smacks when their lips met.
Richard's hips stuttered against the knee between his legs, desperate to relieve some friction, get any feel. Oswell pulled away, adjusted himself so he was straddling the other man's narrow hips, and grinded down. Richard's head tilted back. He moaned.
The rancher leaned in, kissing him again. The taste of whiskey and something he knew he would regret come morning lingered on his tongue. Richard didn't care.
If he was going to die in two days time, if he was never going to feel someone's warmth like this again, he was going to make it last. He would hook himself around Oswell like he did back in Louisville.
And if, somehow, in two days time, he lived, and got to see the thirteenth, he would have to watch this unbearable memory ride on the stagecoach to the train station with him. Sleep in the bed next to him. Sit at the same table with him. Until they separate for the second, and the last time in the same place they reunited after twenty years.
Whatever fate had in store for him, he was going to make sure she never takes this moment away.
He opened his waiting mouth, sucked Oswell's fingers like his tongue was trying to study their shape. The other man got off, slipped his satin sleep bottoms clean off and worked his fingers inside. Richard moaned again. He allowed himself to be pried open, whimpered at the feeling of the scissor motions between his legs.
His old friend leaned in, sucking marks into his collarbone, his neck. He was thankful for his high collared button down shirts. He wouldn't want to be teased by the others for “getting busy”, even though they would never be able to guess who the perpetrator of those bruises was.
It would be their little secret.
Oswell bit the edge of his jaw. His cock twitched against the cold air of the room.
His free hand busied itself with squeezing his waist. It slipped up his shirt while he attacked his neck, and Richard hadn't even noticed.
Oswell thought of his ranch back in Virginia. He thought of his family, and when he opened his eyes, pried himself off the pretty neck, taking in the messy view of the New Yorker before him, under him, all he could think about was Louisville. Nuevo Pueblo. Rope’s End.
His heart hammered. All those nights he stayed up, repented for what he did. He had never been a particularly God fearing man, but his actions made a quiet fear bloom behind his ribs.
All those years he had tried to convince himself. All those nights where he buried himself deep inside the handsome figure under him. Every single one of those nights, he looked in Richard's face, taking in his delicate, flowery features. It was enough to convince him that it wasn't wrong, what he did. Not if he imagined a woman under him, which, if he looked at Richard, didn't need much brainpower to do so.
And even now, as he slicked his cock with spit, lined it up with the man's hole, and pushed, all he could think about was that he was a bad husband. Just an adulterer. Cause if he thought too hard about the situation unfolding right now, he would start to believe he was a faggot.
And he desperately tried to keep his eyes on Richard's face, even as he lowered his pants enough to slip his cock out. If he looked any further than his collarbones, he would be made aware that he was a man. He would remember that someone like himself is caged between his arms.
His strong hands grabbed the man's slim waist, and drove in his cock to the hilt. He punched an embarrassingly high pitched moan out of him. Richard's arms wrapped around Oswell's shoulders, pulled him closer. He didn't mind. He wanted to ignore anything that wasn't his face this way. He was so focused on the turmoil in his mind that he didn't notice Richard had sucked a bruise right next to his Adam's apple.
His thrusts were messy. Despite having gained enough experience from his years as a married man, his internal monologue was making his movements stutter. Though it seemed Richard was too tipsy to really notice, or care.
The New Yorker felt like Oswell was trying to dig through his skin with his thumbs from how hard they pressed above his hip bones. The sensation from that alone was enough to make him moan, but the cock hammering deep into him had made the experience even more overwhelming.
He needed this outlet. He didn't care how Oswell felt about it, about his family. He knew he needed it, and he was getting back at the rancher for all those times he'd left him wanting for more. Either to go back to his own bed or his own room.
He knew this night would end much the same. He thought about it while clenching his fists in the sheets under him, while his prostate got abused.
He could live with himself a little if he caused Oswell great pain and regret before they part again.
“I'm- hah, Oswell…” the New Yorker panted, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, manicured nails scraping his broad back.
“Fuck-” the rancher mumbled, his tempo going sloppy, weak. He shuddered when the ring of muscle squeezed around his cock. His hips stuttered.
Richard came with a broken noise after one last nail in his prostate. Oswell soon followed suit, emptying his deposit inside of the pretty mess under him.
They panted in unison, trying to recollect themselves little by little. The older of the two pulled himself up, not daring to look below the man's collarbones, not daring to face the streaked, flat chest and toned stomach.
His face was pretty, still. Delicate. The tear stains, flushed cheeks, heavy lidded eyes made the sight all the more beautiful.
But Oswell knew he had overstayed his visit.
He tucked himself back into his denims and zipped up, climbed off the bed with shaky legs.
Dicky didn't protest. He knew this would happen.
His blue eyes followed the figure as he walked toward the door. They made brief eye contact when Oswell threw a glance over his shoulder. Finally, the door clicked behind him.
At least now, Dicky knew the man had something real to regret.
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