#maybe ill open rdr writing requests if i have the energy

[wackulart]

just some writing practice with Micah Bell bc i heard a song and it made me wanna write something with him also bc he's my favourite ever fr

cw; depictions of violence and mild gore [?] -------

He clicks the safety of his gun on and off rhythmically to the beat of the song that was being played. The keys of the piano, strum of the guitar, the stomp of their shoes and click on his gun putting together a small symphony. Though with how far Micah had decided to sit from the crowd, only he could hear his addition to it.

He watches the ladies spin, holding the hand of one of the gentlemen offering. Others simply swaying off to the side, yearning and desperate gazes searching over the crowd. They resemble dogs begging at a dinner table, hopping up in hopes of getting a glimpse of the food they were never born to eat.

Unless they're born to an owner that spoils them, coaxing them in to domesticity and ruining any natural instincts they might have left.

A dog no longer, now a simple house puppy.

Soft and content but in no position to protect itself from the outside. Completely dependent on its owner. That's the sort of thing that all this rich folk romanticize. The idea of not having to ever survive, to simply live in their plush homes and become plush themselves.

However, Micah refuses to fall for that trap. Not that the life was ever meant for him. His father knew better. He taught them to survive, to have their wits about them, to keep that instinct and to earn your seat at the table.

Micah stands from his spot, looming at one of the columns of the home. He slips around the corner, moving through the shadow of the entertainment. His dark coat doing him well to keep him hidden enough. Not that his presence command much attention regardless.

He was able to be loud and boisterous to gain eyes on him if he needed, but he was able to shut down and hide into himself just as quickly.

All the dancing and loud music overwhelms and shadows him easily enough as he sneaks into the backyard of the mansion. There he spots a drunk man, dressed in black and gold, his top hat slipping off his head. He sits slumped in his chair, mumbling words to no one but himself. Soft and content, full of food, drink and likely drugs.

Micah pulls an abandoned chair that was tossed across the floor, dragging it in place to sit himself next to the man.

His face is clean shaven, smooth and untouched. His eyes are glazed over in drunkenness, barely open yet Micah still spots the shade of green that blinks through his eyelashes. His hair is such a bright shade of blonde it looks like it could be woven gold.

The man or maybe even boy, tilts his head up to glance at Micah. He tries to form words but it all comes out as incoherent mumbles.

“Having a good time?” Micah asks, leaning his head on his fist.

The other chuckles, leaning over as he tries to form words again. The display makes Micah laugh before he lifts one of his pistols to his forehead and pulls the trigger. The blast is loud and the party begins to fall into silence before bursting into hysterics. Micah grabs whatever valuables he can off of the corpse before pushing it onto the ground.

He looks down at him, the blonde hair now soaked in red. His face frozen in a half smile that didn't have the chance to falter, eyes rolled up into his head.

Micah stomps his face until he can't see it anymore.

Guards begin to flood the area and he has no choice but to run. He abandons his boot, now covered in blood and gore. He runs until his lungs hurt, dodging and weaving through alleys. Once his eyes spot a forest, he takes a minute.

He hears the voices of panic, the tearful sounds of people mourning a friend.

Micah's nose scrunches while he pants, laying against a wall. What could be so worth morning over a man like that? Seemed like barely a man at all. If Micah didn't kill him, it would have been some other fella looking for a quick buck or an easy win.

As the attention shifts away, Micah takes his chance to fade into the forest. He crouches and moves quickly into the grass, the shadow of the trees welcoming him with open arms.

He looks over his collected loot and shrugs. It could probably get him at least one night in a hotel when he reaches the next town. That or enough to eat to get on his way again.

Micah sits down on the grass, looking at his missing shoe, bloodied coat and dirt covered fingers. Dirty blonde hair darkened further by grit and grime that collects on his body. His facial hair regrowing and itching his skin, reminding him to shave once again. His calloused hands, scarred and knowing the touch of the world, the feeling of true survival.

Micah stands, dusting his pants and shoving the gold in his pockets. He pulls a cloth from inside his coat, wiping the blood from his guns so they wouldn't rust.

Keep moving, keep moving.