#fool!davey

[redactedgender]

fool!davey ea spoilers - 4/26

ok first of all. erik youre fucking cruel for adding that bit with gabe in the beginning. i hate the fact that hes canonically dead so much i want to hear him and angel rib david like true in-laws or whatever.

second of all

OH MY FUCKING GOD. DAVEY SHIFTING FROM BEING SCARED. SUB TOP DAVEY. "LET ME GIVE IT TO YOU." GRUMPY(?) & HORNY ANGEL. ANGEL ON TOP OF HIM. HOW HAPPY AND SOFT HE SOUNDS. WHAT TEH FUCK

I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE ILL OVER THIS AUDIO HELLO?????? IS ANGEL BASICALLY HONEY IN THIS AUDIO????

i might actually be torn between fool!gavin and fool!davey for next months bonus audio. this might be my second favorite david audio. oh i am so unwell.

[dog-teeth]

(text transcribed below & in alt text)

a woman i once loved

was always running away

so even when we held each other

as tight and close as flesh would allow

the look in her eye was already

halfway up the mountain

and i knew better than to ask her to stay

for even such gentle words would fall

like barbed wire around her

so I'd go down to the river

O great god of running—

and ask it for legs fast enough

to run beside her

and for her not to think me

a hunter

[dani-ya-dig]

fool!Angel calling Davey “David” to be obnoxious <3

[asmrrpaddict]

David AU reactions:

SPOILERS!!!

“Love you too, dad.” Ow my heart. Ow it hurts!

*whines and shifting at Angel scaring him: awwww my precious little cinnamon roll smol bean puppy.

“Kind of grumpy all the time.” Pot, kettle, have you met?

“Jumping from grumpy to horny and back again.” 😳 enter George Takei “Oh My!!!”

“I like you grumpy and horny.” 😳😳😳😳😳😳💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

*hearing Davey’s blush saying “It was loud enough, you heard me.” 🥰

“No, I didn’t eat yet.” 😠

“I wanted to wait for you.” 🥺

Second mention of Ash being alpha in this au: wishes we had an audio of Alpha Ash.

“You think I’m cute?” 🥰🥰🥰🥰 always Davey grumpy you or au you.

*flustered David: so precious!!!!!!!!!!

“I love the feeling of your arms around me.” 🫠

“We can’t both be cute.” Excuse me sir, I believe you are wrong.

“Most would find it intimidating.” Again sir, you are my smol bean.

Love how he kept the intimacy David feels about shifting in front of his mate.

Davey’s embarrassed giggles exist: 🤭🤭🤭

*those kisses* “Ok I’ll shut up.” 🫨🫨🫨🥵

“Hello.” *Enters General Kenobi, “Hello there.”

“You can be on top of me.” 😳🤯😶🫠☠️

“What do you have in mind?” 😏

19:04-21:27: 🪦🪦 🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

[mariocki]

The Island (1980)

"Are you wise enough to feel privileged? You and I are the only living men ever to see what you see now."

"A bunch of arseholes playing Long John fucking Silver?"

"Hardly, dear boy. Living history: an anthropologist's dream. You're witnessing the seventeenth century."

[aceofspades-sml]

A thing I love about 92sies is how they tried so hard to make us believe jack was straight™ by giving him an heterosexual romance story and meanwhile they had him being a cowboy and pulling Davey by his tie to slam him against the wall

[sparky-is-spiders]

Here he is!! My boy!!!! Meet the head of the Usher Foundation: Davey Grant (name subject to change if/when I find a better one). This man knows your browser history! Not sure of his exact age but he's on the younger side, possibly worked for a tech/security company, pooooosibly ex-NSA (I enjoy theories about the Usher Foundation having ties to the US govt.). Whatever the case, dude came from a well-to-do family. Good with technology, he studied cybersecurity and data science, and probably started drifting into becoming an Eye Avatar around that time. VERY good at tracking down personal information and with a special talent for collecting online data, he carefully maneuvered himself into a high-up position at the Usher Foundation through bribery, blackmail, and possibly a murder or two. He restructured the whole thing from the ground up, upgrading their computer systems, installing software to track everything employees do on their computers. If you do literally anything online at any point while in the Usher Foundation or while using your employee account, he Knows. He can also sniff down employee's personal accounts like a goddamn bloodhound, and can find deleted, hidden, or otherwise inaccessible posts with ease, and you WILL get in trouble with him when he does. He also encourages all employees to help out with the Usher Foundation's social media account, where they are encouraged to tell their personal stories in as much excruciating detail as possible.

Davey is spearheading efforts to "modernize" serving Beholding, mostly through computers and the internet (particularly through acquiring personal data). The UF has "generously" donated money and support to research and startups that he considers promising (read: likely to violate people's privacy and scoop up their data). While this is going well within the UF itself, his ideas haven't really picked up traction within the broader Eyevatar community, who find his inability to grasp the concept of personal space annoying. There's also the issue of him branching away from the statement collecting/researching path. While the UF does still collect and research statements, it's main goal seems to be to create an all-you-can-eat buffet for Davey (by driving his employees to fear for their privacy and feel constantly watched and monitored). There's also the fact that he talks like an over-enthusiastic training seminar and insists on doing the world's most annoying, invasive icebreakers at every conference he gets to host (there is an unspoken agreement between leaders of the other sister institutes that any and all meetings that absolutely require Davey's presence are to be held elsewhere, and that if they are made to go around a circle answering inane questions even one more time, nobody is to be held responsible for any actions which might follow).

Edit: Forgot to add but his security camera eyes only pop out when he's really straining his powers and/or in the middle of a particularly filling meal. They're normal otherwise (slit pupil and bulging aside).

[iiyarada]

Scene's that killed me point blank

bonus: liberty annoyed by davey crying in gratitude/relief over not being KILLED

everyone hates my son

[s0lairee]

"angel, please."

can my fool!angel make me the happiest woman in all of dahlia and choke me with her biceps PLEEEEEASE. davey get in LINE. i was here first.

[twola]

Two words: messy blowjob.

Teehee, let’s go. 

Also, s/o to @revolversandlace, who mentioned writing a possible 1k+ scene literally describing a blowjob, so obviously, I had to give it a try myself. 😉

Convalescence

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Feelings are realized as you nurse Arthur back to health after his run-in with the O’Driscolls. Actions, however, are a bit limited during his convalescence.

Everything hurts. From the searing pain in his shoulder to the overall ache of his muscles, this definitely ranks as one of the most painful experiences of his life.

Regards sent to Colm O’Driscoll, of course.

He opens his eyes and a shadowed figure slowly comes into focus, a small, feminine frame seated on a stool next to his cot.

It’s you, but your normally tressed hair hangs limply in a ponytail, your eyes bloodshot and puffy, and it was obvious that you’ve been crying as his vision clears up.

“Wh- why are you cryin’ there, sweetheart?” He hoarsely whispers, voice rough from disuse.

You rub at your eyes, but it is mostly in vain as you can’t stem the flow of tears tracking down your cheeks. “When y-you fell off your horse when you came back, I-I thought you were d-dyin’.”  

Your voice cracks on the last word.

Arthur frowns, “Sweet girl, I ain’t worth them tears. Save ‘em for a good man.”

“You - you’re such a fool,” You grit out, teeth clenching, “You - you are a good man. The best of them, Arthur Morgan.”

“C’mon now, darlin’. Stop your lyin’.”

“I’m not lying.” You move to sit on the side of the cot, hovering over him, “Why can’t you see what a good man you are? Why are you so blind to it?”

He remains silent. Silly girl. You haven’t seen what he can do - what he does - to other men. The blood on his hands. You’d be far less likely to be praising him, far less likely to be…

…leaning in closer to him.

A pang sears through Arthur’s chest, sharp as a whip, when he realizes you aren’t pulling away from him.

“You’re by far the best man I’ve ever known.”

“Reckon you haven’t known many men then, little miss.”

“Shut up.” You mumble, and in that moment, you lean completely over him and press your lips against his, a move he’s not completely surprised by.

His good arm, unburdened with the wound on his shoulder, winds around your shoulders as you press against his chest gently, still hovering so as not to put too much weight on him.

Arthur allows it all, from the first timid press of your lips on his to the far less timid pressing of your tongue, demanding entry into his mouth. He groans in response as he lets you in, and a mewl works its way up your throat.

It's only then, with you hovering inches above his chest, lips, and tongue working against his own, that he realizes that this is quickly turning into a predicament. Of course, it is, considering the view he’s gotten down the front of your blouse.

Someone, god, hopefully not you, stripped him of his bloody union suit, which probably did need to be burned, but failed to re-dress him. He was nude as the day he was born underneath the blankets, and it became increasingly clear as he felt his blood rushing toward his groin. 

Of all the times to act like a damn teenage boy-

He cannot help the groan that wells up in him as you shift, the curve of your waist at the flare of your hip pressing against his own - pressing against his hardening member.

He internally curses when you slowly pull away. 

But your eyes are lust-blown, a red blush settling on your cheeks. 

“Darl-”

“Let me take care of you.” You say, slowly sitting up and reaching for the edge of the blanket with your small, thin fingers. 

He wants to tell you to stop, that you don’t have to do this, that you don’t have to do anything, that he’s been smitten with you since you rode in half-starved and doe-eyed on the back of Davey’s horse all those months ago. 

But silent he remains as you slowly draw the blanket down his body. Your nose crinkles as your lips turn downwards as inch by inch of his chest is revealed to you - bruises and lash marks and signs of the torture he received at Colm’s hand.

“Oh, Arthur.” You sigh sadly, eyes watering over again.

“ ‘m gonna be fine, sweetheart. Just a little uglier than usual.” He tries to lighten the mood with self-depreciation, but the deepening of your frown tells him that’s not working. You blink the tears collecting away and continue to pull the blanket downward, revealing his navel and the trail of dark, wiry hair leading downwards.

He sucks in a breath as the collecting fabric brushes against his ramrod-hard cock.

Finally, finally, your hand slowly pulls the blanket over his hips, first over the curls at the bottom of his pelvis, to expose his cock, leaking from the tip and laying heavily over his thigh. 

You look back at him, and he’s wide-eyed, biting his lower lip, looking down at you hovering over his hips. You can see his chest expanding with his breathing, speeding up as he stares at you. 

You lean down and Arthur’s good arm swings over his head to block his vision, because if he sees this, he’s sure to make embarrassing noises loud enough for the whole damn camp to hear.

He feels your small hand wrap around his cock, and he bites his lip not to make a sound as you gently pull it upright.

But he is not able to stifle the noise he makes when his cock is enveloped in something wet and warm - his arm flies upward and he cranes his head to watch you take him into your mouth. An embarrassingly needy whine escapes his mouth, but that’s better than the shout he wants to let out as you suck gently at the head, your tongue pressing against the weeping slit of his cock.

“Jesus Christ.”

You let go of the head of his cock with a pop, and he bucks up slightly, as if to follow your warmth as you look up at him.

“You alright? Need me to stop?” You ask, one hand still wrapped around his length.

“Oh, darlin’, please, please don’t ask me that.” His forearm slides across his eyes again as his other hand.

“So you want me to keep goin’?”

“Jesus fuck, of course.” He replies incredulously, flabbergasted that you could doubt this felt amazing.

You smile for a moment before turning back to his length, enveloping him once again in the velvet warmth of your mouth. His head hits the pillow as he loudly sucks in a breath.

You slowly, deliberately, work your way down his length, bobbing up and down, sucking on his skin gently as you take more and more of him into your mouth.

It feels like years you’re doing this, inch by inch of velvety skin warmed by your wet cavern. 

Finally, you gag slightly as your nose touches the chestnut curls at the base of his cock, saliva dripping down from your lips and slowly running down toward his heavy, full testicles, and he has to actively clench the sides of the cot to stop himself from bucking upward. 

“Oh, oh god, woman.” He mutters as you slide back up, fingers once again grasping the base of his length as you suck in a breath, looking up at him with a hint of a smile, your lips and chin shimmering with your spittle. His cock shines against the oil lamp’s yellowed light, absolutely dripping wet from your mouth.

You lean back down again, but instead of taking his length into your mouth, you run your tongue down its side, all the way down where you nuzzle against the globes at the base of his cock, gently sucking one into your mouth. He whines, whines, this gunslinger, this outlaw, this hardened mountain of muscle beneath you. All being torn apart as you suckle on him.

After several moments, you pull back, and he’s panting, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat developing over his clavicles, and the bandages wrapped tightly across his pectorals and shoulder.

Your thumb presses gently on the underside of his cock, and he closes his eyes and lets out a low, long moan. You smile, rubbing at his hip affectionately.

“Christ alive, woman, you’re killin’ me.”

“Ain’t done yet, Arthur.”

And with that, you resume, leaning down and retaking him, sucking harder than you have before, leaving him squirming beneath you. 

You suck, and bob, you squeeze his balls and rub at his thighs. Lord almighty, he must have died at Colm’s hand - this had to be heaven.

The burning in his gut reaches a fever pitch, and he knows he’s not long to last.

He tries to sit up, but can’t with his shoulder bound, and finds that he just has to make enough noise to tell you to get off of him.

“Darl- darlin’, I’m gonna come- you- you need to move-”

His sentence goes unfinished as you look up at him, mouth full of his cock, and slowly, deliberately, slide all the way down, saliva dribbling out of your mouth again as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat.

Arthur’s eyes go as wide as saucers, and he audibly swallows before his head hits the pillow once again. You slide up and down, sucking, tongue working around his length, the gentle suction of your mouth causing him to whimper.

He grunts, hands clenched around the wooden sides of the cot, hips moving despite his attempts not to. He is completely at your mercy - each lick and suck of his cock sends him further down that road of unabashed pleasure.

“Sweet- oh god, oh - fuck - I’m -” Arthur cannot finish his sentence before he trails off into a groan, his hips bucking up as you press down, and he shoots his spend down your throat, you pull back, gagging slightly, and as you sit up, Arthur can barely believe his eyes as he watches a dribble of his white, milky spend drip from the corner of your mouth. Christ, it makes him want to come again.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, clearing your throat, and pull the blanket up to Arthur’s chest once again, where he just looks at you, stupefied.

You cock an eyebrow at him as you slide up the side of the cot, sitting next to his chest. “You alright? That wasn-” You frown, “God, I hope that wasn’t bad.”

Arthur’s good hand grabs the collar of your shirt and yanks you down, where he presses his mouth to yours desperately, not caring at all that he can taste the bitter tang of himself on your tongue. You draw away after a moment, and Arthur tucks a strand of your hair that escaped its braid behind your ear.

“Woman, you’re the only one takin’ care of me from now on.”

[bubblergoespop]

My Top Fool!Davey Quotes

this audio was everything i could’ve ever hoped for, thank you erik, you kind sir.

“I love you too, dad.”

“Angel, please.”

“Woah! [literally gets jumpscared into shifting]”

“Consider me ‘sat’.”

“I mean, you’ve been working late all week, and I wanted us to have dinner together tonight. It’s the end of the week. I-I’ve missed us eating together.”

“Hi there.”

“Ok, I’ll shut up.”

“ I literally turn into a big bad wolf. That’s a lot for somebody to see. If you can see that and still find me cute, that… aww. I don’t know, it’s just… that’s really… that means a lot, Angel. You mean a lot. So much.”

“What’s wrong with being called cute? You are! There’s nothing wrong with the word cute, you just called me cute. And we can’t both be cute?”

“You… you’re silly.”

“However you want it. However you want me.”

“Just tell me what you want. Tell me what to do.”

“I—really? You think I’m cute?”

“All this muscle. All this strength. All of it. However you want it. [hot whine omfg] That’s not supposed to mean you want me desperate…”

“I like you grumpy and horny.”

“Please, Angel? Please?”

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 23: Colter - The Winter Storm

Summary: After a major job goes seriously wrong, the gang is driven out of the area. 

*This beautiful image comes from @gem-likes-rdr

*Thank you to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - TBD, but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

Shouts and chaos reign through the Van der Linde camp as it is hastily packed up. The stale odor of fires being doused with water chokes the air as sooty particles bounce into the sky like summer fireflies. Wooden boxes and crates crack loudly as they get hastily slammed shut, and wagons creak as the gang’s few possessions get roughly tossed inside. Ms. Grimshaw’s sharp voice barks instructions at the members who stayed behind while groups went out on their respective jobs. Your head rings, throbbing from anxiety and fear. You have never seen the gang so disheveled and unhinged and it is most unsettling. You are still trying to piece together what happened as you tend to the bloody wounds of your friends who are laid out in front of you. 

Apparently this ferry boat heist that Dutch and Micah had been planning for weeks went horribly wrong. The delectable smell of a take worth $150,000 in bank revenue was too tantalizing to pass up, but it also came with high risks. Arthur had tried to steer the fools from it, even Hosea tried. But their collective reasoning fell on deaf and indignant ears. So wanting no part of it himself, Arthur left the camp in a huff with Hosea to work their own real estate job instead. 

Dutch and Micah had taken a collection of the remaining outlaw misfits up to the town of Blackwater, the new up-and-coming port city of West Elizabeth. The town proudly buzzes with new businesses and commerce, with citizens and visitors flocking to the growing community. It is a lucrative area, brimming with lumber, mining, and port travel businesses along the Flat Iron Lake and its tributaries. 

Details of what transpired on the ferry boat are still unclear, as there was little time to explain what happened. But afterwards, Dutch and the others came tearing into camp like the devil himself was chasing them, hollering to anyone within earshot to pack it in. No time for pleasantries, just throw the shit in a wagon right this minute and move. 

Like a cloud of mosquitoes that scatters off of calm water when a stone is thrown, everyone explodes into an almost rehearsed motion, hurriedly moving to their respective areas to toss whatever humble belongings they have into crates. 

Fortunately, because you and Arthur share a living space now, he is able to pack up the belongings for the both of you, trying his best to be careful with your things while you are occupied elsewhere, hovering over the wounded. Arthur dismantles the tent quickly with the help of Reverend Swanson before he moves to assist you with packing the medical tent next. 

You try to remain calm, balancing packing supplies with tending to your injured friends, when out of the corner of your eye you see little Jack, his eyes filled with fearful tears of confusion. His mother has him sitting on the end of one of the wagons where she can keep a watchful eye on him, making sure he doesn’t get trampled under someone’s hurried feet. 

He sits perfectly still, nervously nibbling his fingers, as a constant in a whirlwind of commotion all around him. A hard lump forms in your throat as your heart aches for the poor child who is scared and confused as to the swirling chaos which is dangerously close to swallowing him up whole. Amazingly, the boy never seems to have too many issues with living out in the open and on the run like this. But when he sees the people who are always protecting him with their own fear pooling in their eyes, it causes Jack’s little body to shake with a new kind of panic. 

Slowly turning your face away from Jack, your gaze falls back to your monumental task at hand. Davey and Jenny are laid out in front of you, both groaning and gasping in pain from the gunshot wounds they sustained in the Blackwater robbery. Your attention skips between the two of them, changing bandages and administering tinctures and tonics in an effort to ease their pain. Reverend Swanson even offers up some of his morphine to help. And they will certainly need it for the journey ahead. 

Both Davey and Jenny’s injuries are severe and they shouldn’t be moved at all, but that is simply not an option. A sharp pang of guilt washes over you that you can’t do more for them so you patch them up as best you can, trying to make them comfortable. You then proceed to pack what you can while still staying within arms length of both of them, watching over them like a hawk. Ms. Grimshaw would normally assist you, but she’s got her own hands full right now. The whole camp has been given the directive to be packed and in place to move out as soon as possible. 

You place the last of the medical supplies into a crate to be placed into Arthur’s wagon when Dutch stalks through the area, gauging the progress of the camp’s dismantling. 

“Come on, people, we got to move!” he hollers, urgently sweeping his arm towards the lot of nerve-wracked gang members. 

“What about supplies?” interjects Mr. Pearson from his station, his face red with exertion as he heaves the last crate into the chuck wagon. “Food stocks are low.”

“No time”, barks Dutch. “We’ll just have to see what we can pick up along the way.” 

“Along the way to where?” you ask incredulously, eyebrows raised in challenge, as there has been no mention of a plan or destination of any kind. But you forget yourself, and more importantly, who you are talking to.

Dutch quickly spins on you, his dark eyes flash in your direction, his shoulders taught, pulling him even taller and more menacing. 

“Nevermind about that.” The words are growled out slow and low in a warning that makes you instantly recoil. “It is not your concern. I’m handling it.” 

But your stubbornness gets the best of you, as that answer is simply not going to placate you, not when your family’s lives are in your hands. You shake your head, face twisting up in disbelief as you look down at Davey’s blood-soaked body. 

“But what about-”

“Not now, Y/N!” Dutch’s deep voice raises in volume to immediately end the conversation. ”Just look after those who need medical attention and let me handle the move.”

Your eyes skip over to Arthur for help, but his face is set in stone with a grim expression that you cannot place. 

“Just do as you're told, Y/N”, he says flatly. 

That is all that Arthur can mutter before heading over to finish packing your shared tent.

—----------------------------------

Following the shootout, Blackwater and the entirety of the great Plains and Tall Trees region are put on lock-down. Pinkertons are brought in to cover the area to patrol like a dog ravaged with fleas, looking for the elusive Van Der Linde Gang. The Pinkerton Agency is a private security guard and detective agency that is known for their ruthless and sometimes violent tactics. Prominent companies and rich businessmen began to hire these groups shortly after the Civil War as bounty hunters of sorts to protect their interests and to help put an end to the “lawlessness of the Wild West”. 

Upon hearing that these men have now joined local law enforcement in chasing you all down makes your blood run cold. Suddenly the gravity of what your gang does, Arthur in particular, hits you full on. This “Robinhood-esque” lifestyle is no longer as romantic a notion as you once believed. And you are not so naive to deduce that if Dutch Van Der Linde is their target, then Arthur’s neck is surely in danger of a hangman’s noose as well. 

The whole territory is left in chaos in the gang’s wake. The ferryboat was a hailstorm of gunfire, killing lawmen and civilians alike. The law is not able to confirm if the gang was able to escape with the ferryboat money, as the cache has yet to be recovered. And this leaves the locals in a flurry, digging in gardens and backyards to see if the money was stashed anywhere where strangers fitting the gang’s collective descriptions were rumored to be lurking. 

Truth be told, the gang could not escape with the stolen money and instead, stashed it in an undisclosed location in Blackwater known only to Dutch and Hosea. They will have to come back for it when it’s safe and who knows when that will be. Dutch knew this would not be an easy job, but his arrogance has left nothing but destruction behind. 

But it wasn’t just those poor souls on the ferryboat who suffered. The “Blackwater Massacre”, as it is being referred to in the newspapers, has resulted in casualties to your family as well. John took a hit to the arm during the heist and Charles suffered a badly burned hand. But they got off lucky. 

Davey Callander was hit in the gut. It’s bad, too. The bullet tore right through his belly. You try to dress the wound as best you can to quell the bleeding, but you know it’s not good. His brother Mac was also shot at the scene, but apparently was not able to escape with the others. Whether Mac has been caught or killed, no one knows for sure. 

And then there’s Jenny. Sweet Jenny Kirk. She took a bullet, too, the fragment ricocheted around in her chest like a ball kicked around a schoolyard. As you hold your hand over her wound, watching the viscous red liquid pool around your fingers, you know in your heart what’s coming. Her soft brown eyes look to you, seeking that confirmation of whether she’s dying. But gazing into her ever-paling face, you don’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

“Everything is going to be fine, Jenny.” Smiling softly, you gently run your fingers through her hair before cupping her cheek. “I need you to relax and take it easy. I know it hurts and I’ll do everything I can to make it stop.” A tear rolls down the side of her face as she whimpers and nods, placing all of her trust in you.

And then there's Sean. Sean is missing, as well. He was last seen tucked behind a building, about to be swarmed by Pinkertons. He’s another one that was left behind, no one knowing whether he is dead or alive. 

Having nowhere to escape to, Dutch pushes your lot up into the Grizzly Mountains of Ambarino. It is a hard path and the gang leader is convinced that the law will not bother with the chase up there. With the situation becoming dire, he decides that you all would have to flee the area completely until this mess blows over. The threat of the swarming law is oppressive as it chases your group, strangling you all from any resources or salvation. There are few options for respite and none of them are too pleasing to begin with. 

As the procession of wagons rumbles further north, a helacious storm settles in, swallowing the gang in bitter cold and ice. The persistent snow covers your tracks into the mountains but it is a hard and treacherous journey. You make the dangerous trek up the mountainside and fortunately manage to lose your pursuers in the process. But that seems to be the only bit of luck the gang has been granted. 

Sadly, the atmosphere inside your wagon grows even more grim as Jenny’s labored breathing starts to slow as her battered body begins the final stages of failure. You knew it was a lost cause before you even hit the foothills of the mountains, but watching her life ebb away before your eyes tears at your heart nonetheless. 

Her poor body shakes as the cold winds wrap around the wagon, the constant rocking of the hard wooden platform that she lays upon offering her little relief as you try desperately to make her as comfortable as possible. You take her hand into yours, squeezing it tightly, and sing softly to her as she creeps closer to permanent relief. The fear of death that shadows her tired eyes begins to waver as she focuses on the comforting melody of your voice, a lullaby that tenderly floats into the air. 

And then suddenly, Jenny’s sweet face goes slack and her torment has ended. It takes you but a moment of staring at her young freckled face to wrap your mind around the reality of it before you and Abigail share a tearful look. Not a word is spoken between the two of you. You simply nod in acknowledgement to your friend as you look down at Jenny again. You are not looking forward to the painful task of telling Lenny. You set your lips to Jenny’s cold forehead before your hand ghosts over her face, closing her eyes. 

With a deep sigh, you now turn your full attention to Davey. You don’t know the Callender brothers too well. They always seemed too rowdy for your taste. But Arthur likes them well enough, taking a drink with them on occasion. 

But Jenny is a different story. She came into the gang just after you did. Being younger than you, she tended to stay more with Tilly and Mary Beth. She was a bit of a tom-boy, as they say, but sharp as a tack and sweet as honey. And particularly sweet on one Mr. Lenny Summers. He loved reading and discussing books with her. And that common interest created a beautiful little budding romance between the youngsters. She already knew how to read, but Lenny was helping Jenny develop her skills at it. You’d often catch them sitting at the fires together, coyishly touching shoulders and exchanging sweet blushing glances.

And poor Sean. Your mind quickly skips to him as you readjust yourself to check Davey’s bandages. Whoever caught Sean may put a bullet in him just to stop his mouth running. Karen acts like his absence doesn’t affect her so deeply, as if they weren’t so close. But you’ve heard her crying softly at night and noticed his shirt tucked into her bedroll. 

As the caravan of lost souls trudges ever onward, the sun begins its descent for the day and Arthur rides out ahead to try to find shelter from the merciless storm. You have your hands full caring for Davey, but you can’t help but worry for his safety, as well. 

Arthur is strong and as resilient as ever. And Dutch is leaning on him heavily to get the gang out of this mess that he’s made. Dutch wears Arthur like a shield, using him to take the brunt of the poundings, sending him off to do dangerous work. But as much as you hate to admit it, Arthur is the gang’s best hope at surviving this latest miscalculation. You have hardly even seen him since the gang rolled out of the valley let alone spoken to him. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him to make sure he is okay, to give him the support he needs, and to have him comfort you in return. But that is not possible at the moment, and that lack of connection with your love leaves you feeling empty and hopeless. 

Tucked away in the wagon between the injured, you cannot even see the outside world, let alone Arthur. You have no idea where he even is. You can only hear the world around you, as the frigid wind howls next to your ear, causing the canvas over top to shake and snap loudly. Abigail reaches up to light the rusty lantern that sways from the roof of the wagon as the darkness of the end of the day settles upon you all. The flame is small and fragile within the glass globe, struggling to keep itself going, just like the hope in your heart. 

Reverend Swanson walks along the side of the lead wagon and up towards the front of it where Dutch and Hosea sit perched on the bench, driving the poor horses onward in the unrelenting weather. 

“We need to stop soon,” Reverend hollers up to them, his voice getting muffled in the wind. “Jenny’s dead. And Abigail says Davey’s not doing too well either. We’ll need to find a place, “ he adds with a knowing look.

“We’ll all be dead soon if we don’t get out of this storm,” grumbles Hosea. The old man tucks his chin into the collar of his coat, wrapping his arms around his thin frame even tighter to try to stay warm.

Dutch nods in an attempt at consolation. “It’ll be alright,” he affirms. “We’ll find shelter soon. Arthur is out there looking for a place.”

And just like that, as if called out of the darkness, a shadowy form emerges from the swirling snow. Arthur’s unmistakable blue coat and trusty horse come into view, a faint yellow glow from his lantern acting like a beacon. 

“I found a place,” the seasoned outlaw shouts over the howling wind. “Not too far up ahead.” Arthur’s face twists up against the frigid air, his mouth turning down into a frustrated and annoyed scowl, his eyes just as icy and angry as the weather. 

Arthur turns Buck around to head back the way they came, and eventually leads the gang to settle in an abandoned mining town known as Colter. 

*This fantastic images comes from @rosesrdr2photography

_________________________________________

It is early evening by the time the gang arrives at the small collection of broken-down buildings known as Colter. The sun’s absence has plunged the world into darkness, making it exponentially colder. Hosea climbs down from the wagon with stiff joints and hurries over as fast as the deep snow allows his old knees to move to inspect the nearest building that looks inhabitable. He heaves his shoulder into the door, thrusting his lantern inward to cast its fragile illumination upon the interior. The room is bleak and dreary, covered in cobwebs and dust from a time long forgotten by the last inhabitants. But, at least it has walls and a solid roof. And more importantly, it is empty. 

“Bring him in here!” Hosea calls out over his shoulder into the dark. Arthur and Bill carry Davey inside on a make-shift gurney with you and Abigail following closely behind. The rest of the group falls in as well, desperate to get out of the wagons and out of the elements.

Your red-stained fingers hover over Davey’s bandages again, noting with disappointment at how much more blood has been lost since you last checked. Out of the corner of your eyes, you catch Abigail fidgeting above his chest and mouth, looking for signs of life. 

“Davey’s dead”, she announces with a matter of fact tone laced with disappointment.

Abigail’s statement halts you in your tracks. Your eyes dart between Abigail’s wind-chapped face to Davey’s lifeless one, before your gaze falters back to the wound that your hands are currently buried in, the blood already coagulating and becoming cold. A defeated sigh drags your shoulders down even further, and with a heavy heart at having lost another, you slowly retract your hands, fixing the blanket around Davey’s body like a death shroud. 

The room sits heavy with sorrow. The expressions on everyone’s faces are a mixture of both sadness and exhaustion and one that is collectively shared by the entire group. 

To his credit, Dutch senses the need of his people, the need to be cared for and consoled. You all need that guiding light to focus on if you are to make it out of this hell alive. Dutch steps into the middle of the small gathering, and proceeds to address the gang with a speech, trying to rally you all together as morale is at an all-time low. Like the father figure that you all so desperately need and share, his deep voice carries softly, yet firmly in the dead air. It is this that is Dutch’s greatest gift:  the gift of charisma. 

He ends his impassioned speech with “Get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay with me.” And then Dutch immediately shifts into survival mode, as there is no time for sadness. He needs to get you all refocused on the hardship that still lies ahead.

“We’ll get some supplies. Mr. Pearson, Ms. Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp.” Both loyal gang members nod in unison at their understood roles. ”Arthur, come with me. Let’s head out and see what we can find.” 

“In this?” Arthur tosses his arm towards the storm that rages all around you, threatening to snow you all in and suffocate you. 

“Yes,” Dutch declares emphatically. “We should go now before it gets worse out there and then we can’t get out at all. Come on.” Dutch huffs and turns to head back out into the cold.

You silently watch as Arthur just rolls his eyes in annoyance before he obediently follows Dutch outside. A cold and unsettled feeling washes over you as Arthur shuffles out the door behind his mentor. You are still trying to piece together what happened back in Blackwater, but the whispers indicate that it was not good at all. The fact that your friends’ blood covers your hands and clothing is a bad enough indication. 

But you overheard Javier talking about how Dutch shot an innocent woman. Your mind scrambled upon hearing that. While you are well aware of how dangerous Dutch Van der Linde can be, you just couldn’t believe that he would kill an innocent bystander for no reason. 

Once outside, Arthur fixes his coat collar high around his cheeks to block the whipping winds. And finally having a moment alone with Dutch, he takes the opportunity to ask what has been plaguing his mind since you all left. 

“What happened back there on that boat?” Arthur’s skeptical blue eyes hold Dutch’s dark ones, waiting for an explanation that he feels he’s owed.

“We missed you, Arthur. That’s what happened.” Dutch’s curt answer doesn’t provide any sort of information other than deflection with a slight hint of blame. “Now come on. We got to see if we can come across Micah or John. They’re supposed to be out there lookin’ around.” 

He quickly stalks away to head towards the horses again, leaving Arthur standing disgruntled in the snow before he can even counter his point. Dutch throws his leg over the Count’s saddle, waiting impatiently for Arthur and Buck to pull up next him and then they head out into the frigid weather once more. 

He should probably be sitting inside, trying to get warm, but the swell of anger and annoyance is more than enough to keep Arthur warm at the moment. None of this would be happening if Dutch and Micah had listened to him. But no. And now, friends are dead and missing, the law and Pinkertons are hot on your heels, and the gang is chased up into the middle of nowhere, freezing and starving. 

The two men are not out too long before Micah meets them along the path. His body is covered in snow, Baylock’s mane crusted with ice. “I found a homestead with a fire lit a little ways back,” he informs the two riders. “Might be able to get some resources there.”

“Alright good, let’s take a look,” agrees Dutch. And the three of them plod along in the snow, back down to where Micah found the small ranch. 

Upon reaching the top of the hill, Micah points down towards the property he found. There is a main house with some smaller buildings scattered about. And there is, indeed, a fire illuminating out into the blue of the night. They make their way down to the house, maneuvering around fence posts and small paddocks. They dismount and stash the horses at the edge of the property to make their way on foot, careful not to be noticed

“Alright,” whispers Dutch, “You two stay hidden out of sight. I’ll knock on the door and see what we’re dealing with. We may get farther with one freezing man out in the cold than three of us wielding guns.” 

Arthur and Micah quietly nod in unison, a rare instance of camaraderie, and each find hiding spots crouching in the snow behind a chicken coop and a wagon, diligently watching Dutch as he approaches the dwelling and knocks on the door. 

He is greeted by a man who is naturally uneasy at seeing someone arrive at his door at this hour and in these weather conditions. Dutch puts on his best friendly face at the sight of the skeptically scowling host.

“Hello, friend!” Dutch smiles brightly with that trademark silver tongue and charm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you see, my people and I got lost in this storm.” He pointedly waves his arm behind him towards the swirling snow. “And we’re hoping you might be able to help us out a little.”

From where they are sitting in the ice-crusted snow, Arthur and Micah watch the exchange between Dutch and the man, but suddenly, something catches Micah’s attention, causing him to abruptly sit up.

“Arthur!” he hisses, causing Arthur’s cautious eyes to leave Dutch’s form and dart in his direction. “There’s a body in this wagon!” Micah flips over the canvas that is covering the wooden structure he is hiding behind to reveal a corpse, dead at least a day with a bullet hole in his chest. “Somethin’ ain’t right here!”

And before he knows what’s happening, Arthur’s ears are assaulted by the loud cracks of gunfire. The air explodes into gunshots and shouting from all directions of the property. Quickly looking to cover Dutch, Arthur sees the man that greeted Dutch is dead in front of him with two more coming out of the house. Dutch backpedals, but makes quick work of them, while more men swarm the house from all around. 

Now, say what you will about Micah Bell, but he is quite skilled with a gun, like it is an extension of himself. And being paired up with Arthur, the two easily take care of the collection of men that pour from the house and surrounding areas. Bullets mingled with wooden splinters from ill-aimed shots graze Arthur’s head, but he is a man ruled by instinct and reflexes, and the pounding of his heart gets pushed to the far reaches of his brain. Bodies quickly begin to fall, deep crimson blood staining the pristine white of the powdery snow. 

The commotion settles almost as quickly as it began, calming once more to a deafening silence before Arthur and Micah are able to safely approach the house to join Dutch on the small porch. Dutch looms over one of the men that lays in a heap in the doorway, nudging him with his black boot. 

“O’Driscolls” Dutch spits the name with disdain, his breath frosting like a halo above his head in the cold. “What the hell are they doing up here so far North?” He looks about again as if to find the answer in the room inside the house. “Well, whatever it is, nevermind right now. Check the place over, we got people waiting for us,” he nods in determination. “Grab whatever you can that would be useful, food, blankets, medicine.”

As the three men split up to comb the property, Arthur heads into the barn to see what he can find there. The scent of old, mildewing hay and unmucked stalls cascades into his nostrils as he crosses the threshold of the barn. His blue eyes scan the sparse area which is already looking thread-bare. A huff of disappointment escapes his chapped lips as he meanders listlessly, picking up random items such as a few oatcakes for his horse and a rope, but nothing too significant.  

A shadow catches Arthur’s eye, his head snapping to attention in one of the stalls. Before he can make heads or tails of things, a body darts out of the shadows and jumps him from behind. The person hurls their meager body into Arthur’s much larger one, throwing their arms around him in a feeble attempt to knock him to the ground. Apparently another O’Driscoll hiding in the shadows. 

However, the idiot has no idea who he is dealing with and Arthur quickly flips the man over his shoulder as if he were tossing nothing more than a bag of feed. The wind is knocked out of the man’s lungs as he slams flat onto his back, blinking the stars out of his eyes as Arthur is quick to grab ahold of his jacket and begins to land blow after blow to the intruder’s face. Arthur’s fists angrily pummel into skin and teeth, as the sound of bone crunching and blood spurting from a busted lip and nose quickly escalates to mix with pathetic whimpers and sings through the brisk air. 

The commotion draws Dutch’s attention from where he is combing the fallen bodies for clues as to why the rival gang is here on this property. From outside he hurries over to the barn to make sure that Arthur is not in need of assistance. But Dutch stops short at the sight, mildly amused to see his right-hand man not only just fine, but has caught one of the trespassers. 

The younger outlaw pauses, eyes intensely burning into the man beneath with his arm pulled back, threatening to deliver another blow.

“What are you all doin’ here?” Arthur shouts angrily.

The O’Driscoll cowers in fear as Arthur looms over him. “N..Nothin’! I swear!”

A sickening sound of blood squelching fills the air again with another punch to the teeth. 

“Now, I sure don’t believe that.” A wickedly sadistic grin crawls across Arthur’s face, his breath circling in the air like that of a fire breathing dragon. 

“I ain’t gonna ask again, what are you all doing out here?!” Arthur shouts, spittle flying into the man’s face. 

“It’s…It’s a train. A train is coming through. Colm has us getting ready for it.”

A heartless chuckle rumbles from Dutch’s chest from where he stands in the doorway watching the interrogation. “Well, alright, then.” He turns to head back to the house with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Arthur, I'll trust you to take care of this.” 

Arthur barely has time to process this information before he hears screaming coming from the main house. With his captor distracted, the O’Driscoll wrenches himself free from Arthur’s gloved hands and tries to flee, sprinting out from under Arthur’s grasp. 

Tripping on his own two feet, the O’Driscoll tries to make a break for it across the yard. But he only gets so far before Arthur smoothly pulls his gun from his holster and calmly puts a bullet in the man’s back, landing him facedown in the snow. With that matter taken care of without so much as an afterthought, Arthur turns his full attention towards the continued ruckus coming from the house. 

“What the hell is it now?” he mutters under his breath, and quickly stalks over to see what the next issue is that he has to deal with. 

Taking the porch steps two at a time, Arthur barrels into the house to see Micah chasing a frazzled woman around a table as she is screaming in terror, hurling objects at him in self defense. Micah’s hands are held up, trying to placate the woman, but one could tell that he’d pounce on her the second he got close enough. Whether he was trying to calm her, or torment her even more, who knows, but either way, Arthur is infuriated at the sight. Arthur quickly rushes forward, shoving Micah out of his way, and putting himself between the two. 

The poor woman is almost feral at this point, eyes wild, her hands desperately clutching any object she can get her hands on to try to defend herself.

“It’s alright, miss, we ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Arthur tells her, his voice low and soft, using the same tone he uses with Buck when he gets spooked. 

The woman slowly ceases her screaming, her chest heaving in exhaustion as she tries to catch her breath, panicked eyes darting all around the room. Dutch comes up behind Arthur, also trying to calm the poor woman who is shaking like a leaf. 

But the calm moment is all too brief as a fire quickly starts to spread across the floor from a lantern that was knocked over in the uproar. 

“Come on, we gotta get outta here,” mutters Dutch. “Time to go.”

Dutch is quick to grab a large blanket from the living room, wrapping it around the small woman before directing her out of the house. Orange and red flames quickly crawl up the side of the walls of the dwelling like a spider as the four of them duck out of the house. Arthur tucks the woman against him to protect her from the elements, escorting her outside as the house begins to catch fire, engulfed and smoldering behind her. 

“We ain’t good men,” he informs her, “but we’re better than those others, I guarantee.” 

The poor thing quietly submits as Arthur carefully lifts her small frame up onto Buck’s saddle before climbing up himself and settling in front of her.

“They….they killed my husband,” she whimpers.

“You’ll be safe with us, miss,” assures Dutch as they begin to move away from the house. “What’s your name?”

“Sadie. Sadie Adler,” she mumbles as she turns her chin over her shoulder to watch her home and everything she loved so dearly burn to the ground. 

*This fantastic images comes from @rosesrdr2photography

------------------------------------------

A/N: I decided to break this section into multiple chapters like I did with "Feelings Revealed." This is the setup chapter, more drama (and love) to come!

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4​ @bimbo-dollz​ @pine4pple-b0i​ @redwritr​ @kuri-chans-blog​ @queer-sadie-adler​ @joelmillerswifey​ @gimmethosedaddymilkers​ @pcotarelo​ @delilah-grimes​ @maemortem​ @wistfulwisteriawitch​ @lilacxxdreams​ @mentallyillfrogs​ @absolutegeek​ @spurz​ @sophiaj650​ @uniqueclodzinevoid​ @lookingformaurice​ @pawoui​ @randomidk-123​ @yyiikes​ @eddiemetalheadmunson​ @twola​ @kmartkiddieisle​ @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic​  @rhehr241​  @earwen-x​ @akariver75​ @djennty​ @nervousmumbling​ @xliliths​ @unbotheredbeeeee​ @onnetonprinsessa​ @kittiowolf210​ @ezrynn​ @suhiss @arthurmargon​​ @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler​​ @alice-vanderlinde​​ @sweetandstoned21​​ @j4llyf7sh @spooky631​​ @m0r4rx @ilovrxats​​ @i-69-urmom​​ @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo @lea-khena @brccklynbaby1 @foundynnel @readingcoco @carmelamontezlikr @ultraporcelainpig @sofiaa-xcx @namesaretomainstream @miphy @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @loveheartabby @daisybvck @julialoopeezz @a-court-of-valkyries

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

[angelfiedyaz]

ok now that my brain is no longer freaking out and I can breathe imma yap about fool!davey

ok so first of all this audio was just perfect I loved every little bit of it.

The fact that Gabe is alive is this warms my heart♡

Davey thinking he's too scary to be called cute 💔 like baby nooooo ur fucking adorableee

The little whines he let out when he got scared😫 he's so fucking sweet

The way that he offered to cook cause angel had a long day. He's so baby

Him offering to do anything cause he doesn't mind is so fucking sweet

Grumpy--> horny

The way he was begging like ERIK PLEASEEEE I love this davey so much

Just those last minutes of the audio in itself.

The way that he says I love you like every 5 minutes warms my heart

Daveys like "ok I'll shut up" had me in a fucking chokehold i swear

I love him so much in every universe I cant ahhhhh♡

[allzelemonz]

Annoying: John Marston X Male Reader

Fictober Prompt: Day 3, Hate Sex Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘man’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Hate sex, anal fingering, anal sex, prostate massage, dirty talk, teasing, mentions of John’s situation with Abigail and Jack, Reader is an asshole, pre-Blackwater, violence, punching Summary: You’ve been sent on a scouting excursion with John to find a good spot closer to Blackwater, John is annoying through the whole ride.

It has been two hours. Walking along a barren trail with your tired horse and listening to the endless and constant complaining of John Marston. The man is undoubtedly irritating, wholly annoying. But Dutch picked you for scouting, so you to try to tune out that stupid scratch in his voice and focus on looking for a new spot closer to Blackwater.

“I just don’t get what her deal is.” John continues.

You feel the distinct desire to bash your head against your saddle horn. Maybe that would end this insufferable ride. Why couldn’t Dutch have picked Javier or Charles or someone quiet? At least Micah talks about interesting things on occasion. Bill can crack a joke. None of them have this apparent need to vent whilst riding.

“She just doesn’t-”

“Marston.” You groan. “Shut up, for the love of life itself. Just be quiet for once.”

“Oh, are my problems annoying you?”

“Yes, jeez, just shut it.”

He huffs, looking away to pout like a child.

“No one wants to hear about you and Abigail, the whole camp already has to listen to you go on and on about how the kid isn’t yours. No one cares.”

“Fuck off.” He mutters.

“I wish I could.”

There is a blissful minute of silence before he opens his mouth again. “You think he’s mine?”

“Fuck, Marston.” You sigh. “I have no clue, just shut the hell up.”

“He ain’t.” He mumbles. “Can’t be.”

“You won’t have to worry about it if you keep talking, because I’ll shoot you.”

“Why’re you always so damn irritable?”

“Because you annoy me to no end, Marston.”

You pull on your reins to move towards a clearing that looks promising, only slightly visible from the narrow path between trees. Finally sliding off your horse, you stretch your legs a little and look over the spot.

“How do I annoy you exactly?”

You rub at your eyes, feeling the ache forming behind them from having to listen to his voice. “In every possible way you could ever imagine.”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“I’m not the one bothering other people with my problems.”

“At least I find the time to bring money in instead of lounging around camp all damn day!”

That, now that, brings a twinge of much more than annoyance to buzz around in your head. Not only have you been bringing in consistent money since you joined, you just pulled a job with Mac and Davey that scored the camp funds upwards of eight-hundred dollars. So, naturally, you punch John in the face for suggesting otherwise.

“Shit.” He mutters, recoiling and tackling you to the ground.

You roll for a while, exchanging punches and losing your hats along the way until you find yourself atop John. You sit across his thin torso, your fist curled into his shirt as the other stands ready to lay another blow. But, John, he goes still, as if he’s afraid to move. For all the scrapping and talk, you know you’re not scary enough to make him freeze like this so you lower your raised fist and look over your shoulder. You half expect to see lawmen or O’Driscolls or something, but it’s just the forest and the horses grazing by the trees.

“What’s your problem, Marston?” You ask, shifting slightly on him.

Then you feel it, barely brushing against the back of your thigh as you move. John Marston is hard in his pants from being beaten up by a man that hates him. His face flushes and he claws at your arm, but you just push him down harder into the grass. Your mind races for a moment, thinking of the roads you could take. You hate the man quite a bit, but you’d be a fool to deny he’s attractive and something in the back of your mind is begging you to find out what that raspy voice sounds like when it’s full of want.

“We tell no one.” You mutter, giving John a threatening look.

John’s chest moves slow as he processes, then he nods quickly. You lean down and connect your lips, catching the taste of tobacco and the scruff of his stubble. John’s hands find your hips, urging you down to grind against you but you resist.

“You’re not in charge here, Marston.” You murmur against his lips. “You just lay still and let me use you, understand?”

His eyes dart around yours quickly as his face gets redder by the second. “Y-Yeah.”

You move down to unfasten his pants and as he kicks them off, you fish a tube of gun oil from your pocket. It has always been a suspicion of yours that John gets around more than he lets on, and it is all but confirmed by the way he stuffs his pants under his hips and spreads his legs.

“You some kind of whore on the side, Marston?” You ask, fixing yourself between his open legs. “That why you got on with Abigail, a shared profession?”

“Shut up.” He mutters.

He intends to say more but you cut him off easily by inserting your slicked fingers without warning. His back arches, pressing into the feeling as he chokes on a bit of air that turns into a whimper. You’re not going to give him the time to rest or adjust, he doesn’t deserve it after talking all day. So you crook your fingers, running them along until his hips jolt from the contact. Then you focus and focus hard, pressing into that nice sensitive spot inside of him until he can’t even speak to warn you. He releases across his stomach, his softening dick untouched.

His head lulls to the side as he catches his breath and you slip your fingers out. You move as fast as you can, not wanting to hear any of his protests about being sensitive. He’d whine about it, you know he would, so you grip his hips and press inside in the midst of his recovery. John chokes on air again, muttering as he covers his red face with his arm. Only one eye peaks out at you as you start your pace and you ignore it, focusing on the act rather than the who. If you don’t think about it being John, the image of your dick disappearing inside such a nice ass and the feeling of gripping such a slim waist make you groan to yourself. If it were any other man, you’d praise him for feeling so good.

John, however, does not have that control. “God, you’re… fuck you’re good.”

It’s the moan that gets you, raspy just like you imagined, and completely wanton. You double your effort because that sound was so good for something that came from John of all people. And, to your delight, it happens again. As you slam into him, your balls bouncing enough to truly earn the nickname, John begins to pant. Your eyes are drawn to his dick as he reaches for it and stops it from slapping against his stomach. His hand wraps around and pumps in time with you.

You lean down a bit, enough to speak over John’s lewd noises. “You better get yourself off before me, Marston. I’m not helping you otherwise.”

He groans, seemingly all too happy to be treated like nothing but something to fuck in the grass of the gang’s next camp spot. You watch his hand, your eyes flicking down to watch your own fucking on occasion. Both are such a sight. John cums again, spilling a little on his hand this time. The sound he makes, such a shaky and raspy guttural moan, hits the right things for you and sends you right over. You slow your thrusts, milking yourself before burying deep inside of him.

It takes a few minutes before your muscles respond and you can pull out to rest back on your knees. John still has a haze in his eyes, his arms splayed out as his chest heaves. You let yourself relish the sight, forgetting only for a moment that you hate him, then you pick up the tube of gun oil from the grass and pull on your pants. A one time thing, albeit a great one, with such an annoying man.

[loving-jack-kelly]

thinking abt how jack's nice guy, friendly, charismatic, charming act is just that. an act. thinking abt how the fear and anger are always just below the surface and sometimes they bubble up and it catches people off guard bc that's not like him, that's not the jack I know. thinking abt jack hiding a clenched fist in his pocket and disguising the rage in his voice with a laugh so smooth and practiced it comes off as real to most people. thinking abt jack holding himself stiff and strong, trying so hard not to let people see the way his hands are shaking until he's alone and he can gasp for breath, until he can hug his knees to his chest until the panic fades.

thinking abt jack trying so hard to actually be the person he projects himself to be, trying to will the anger away and accept the lot life gave him, trying to control the emotions that well up at the most inconvenient time. thinking abt jack who has learned that the best way to get by in his world is by carefully controlling himself, every action purposeful and packed with intent, who has learned to make friends and play nice and use the kindness that is also innate to him as a weapon and a tool. thinking abt jack who has lost track of which parts of him are natural and which are constructed, who feels lost in his own head because he isn't sure if his first instinct is a lie or the person he really is. thinking abt jack who's scared of his anger but more scared that it isn't real and is just an excuse for the violence, jack who's uncomfortable with his kindness but more uncomfortable with the idea that maybe he's fooling people into thinking he's kind when maybe the anger is what's real.

and thinking abt jack who meets davey and is fooled, at first, by the same act that he himself puts on. davey is smart and articulate and reasonable, he's level-headed and kind, he speaks with intent and people listen because they can feel how earnest he is. thinking abt jack watching davey and wanting....something. wanting to be like him, and wanting to understand his life, wanting to be a part of whatever is happening in davey's head and wanting more than he knows how to explain even to himself. thinking abt jack not being sure what that all means but unable to stop wanting it, feeling himself watching davey and finding excuses to spend extra time with him, knowing and understanding the looks he's getting from crutchie and race but not quite understanding the difference between this and every other infatuation they've watched him go through.

and thinking abt the creeping realization that the things about davey that are so intriguing, that pull him in so hard, that draw to the something he can't explain, comes from the hints that all of it is just an act the same way jack is putting on a face. the sharp edge hidden under calm words, the bright flashes of anger that disappear as soon as they shine in his eyes, the hands that clench into fist but are forced to relax before anyone else notices. the way his eyes follow les everywhere and his breath catches before going smooth and regular in a way jack recognizes, the pattern of swallowing back panic.

and thinking abt the moment that realization finishes forming in jack's brain. a quiet moment. a day where the anger won and jack spends the quiet dusk alone, pressing snow to the cut on his lip and trying not to think about himself in the way that always happens after a fight. thinking abt davey coming to find him, and normally jack would chase somebody away but davey offers his handkerchief and sits down next to him, offers a few words that don't break quite through the haze, and then he joins the quiet. and that's the start of everything making sense, isn't it, because people can't just join jack's quiet, usually. crutchie can, but he joins the dawn quiet, the hopeful new start quiet, the daydreaming and memories. he's been here for jack in this kind of quiet, too, but when crutchie comes and finds him in the dusk quiet, he's there to pull jack out of his head and get him to rejoin the world, and usually jack needs it. and race doesn't join the quiet, either, he turns it into noise, convinces jack that he was right and everything will be fine because he was right, because his anger was justified and because they had it coming. race gets him revved up and moving on.

but davey just sits. he takes his handkerchief back but leans into jack's space and starts cleaning up the other cuts and bruises that jack hadn't paid attention to. he collects the clean, fresh snow from the windowsill and holds it against the back of jack's head where it hit a wall a little harder than he would have liked. normally, jack doesn't like it when people take care of him like this. that's supposed to be his job, he's the one who nurses the little ones back to health when they get sick or hurt, he's the one who goes hungry when somebody else can't sell that day. normally, he brushes everyone away when they try to help him in the same way he helps them, but this is different. davey does it the same way he doesn't everything else, calm and collected and matter-of-fact, casual but calculated, and he still doesn't say anything.

and when he does, it breaks the quiet in the strangest way jack has ever experienced. it isn't crutchie pulling him out of his head, or race reassuring him that he's okay, it's davey saying sometimes I wish I could fight like that, I wish I let myself learn. sometimes I wish I were more like you, more able to let myself feel the anger. sometimes it's hard to hold myself back, but it's harder to let myself go. sometimes I wonder how different things would be if I fought for myself the way you do. it's davey admiring something about jack that he hides so carefully so much of the time and spends the rest of the time being scared of. it's davey reaching for jack's hands and gently cleaning the dirt and somebody's else's blood from his bruised knuckles, pressing into the red marks where the fresh bruising hasn't had time to darken yet.

thinking abt the realization that's been creeping in so slowly burning up through his thoughts when davey says, sometimes I know it's right to start a fight, but I can't make myself do it. and you always do. you always let the anger out. I wish I could do that, I wish I didn't hide it instead. and jack suddenly connecting the dots that he's been paying so much attention to. the flexing hands that jack has drawn over and over without knowing what, exactly, he was trying to capture. the mean words so cleverly disguised as anxious rambling with a nervous laugh. the bite, the edge to davey that has never been anything but present but has never been anything but imperfectly hidden away, the same bits and pieces that jack knows stick out of himself just as jagged and sharp that he hates, the things about himself that scare him disguised under layers that must be just as constructed as his own facade. jack is kind and friendly and personable to cover himself, and davey is smart and articulate and purposeful. they are doing the same thing, achieving the same affect, and davey not only noticed but he likes it. he admires it. admires the way jack's act is just a little more unstable than his own. admires the way jack sometimes buckles under the pressure and lashes out despite himself.

thinking abt jack having the breath knocked out of him by this. by somebody who not only sees him, not only knows him, not only understands him, but likes what they see, what they know, what they understand. somebody who looks at him, holding his hand so tight it hurts, and says you're right to be angry, I wish I was as brave as you to show it. and jack doesn't feel brave, he feels lost and scared and alone, he feels lonely and angry and terrified of himself and frustrated with a world that won't let him catch a break, but when davey calls him brave he lets himself consider it, for a moment and for the first time. consider that what race says when he breaks the quiet isn't just a reassurance, that maybe his anger is good and real and right. maybe his fight is a good thing, maybe he is brave.

and thinking that his instinct is to act his way right out of it. to laugh and let go of davey's hand and break the quiet all the way, to move on and let the moment stop. but there's something fragile about it that makes it feel precious, the melted snow dripping down the back of his head, the sting of cleaned cuts on his face and the swelling in his lip, the tight pressure on his bruised knuckles, the fading light reflecting off the snow on the windowsill, and even as he catches his breath to say something, to laugh, to crack a joke, jack can't bring himself to be the one to break this new quiet.

so he doesn't. he squeezes davey's hand back so hard both their knuckles are turning white. he waits for something more, and it comes in the form of davey saying, I'm glad I know you, you know? and it comes in the form of jack pressing their foreheads together in a brand-new, delicate quiet that doesn't feel like dawn or like dusk, it feels like davey. and it feels good.

[loiteringandlurking]

davey jacobs keyed his ex's car. davey jacobs texts that ex begging for them to come back every once in a while. davey gets really drunk those nights. davey jacobs is unhealthy. don't let the proper academic shell fool you. davey jacobs is a mess. can davey jacobs understand complex nuances in literature? can he do university-level physics? yes. davey jacobs is smart, but he's certainly not much else, at least in his own eyes.